Читать книгу Appointment In Baghdad - Don Pendleton - Страница 16

The Stony Man team readied its gear and climbed into the Ford SUV. Bolan drove the Excursion now and he navigated through the outskirts of Zagreb, dropping James and Encizo at predetermined locations before heading directly toward Mirjana’s estate.

Headlights stabbed through the pitch darkness as Bolan rolled to a stop and switched them off for the first insertion. Calvin James, dressed in a sniper’s ghillie suit and armed with a Croatian-made APS-95 assault rifle, rolled out of the back of the vehicle and into the woods. The forest ran unbroken up into the southern foothills that formed the northern perimeter of the arms dealer’s remote estate and private hunting preserve.

Bolan pulled the SUV away from the spot and sped toward a secluded section of highway that ran next to the Sava River.

Outfitted in a neoprene drysuit, Encizo quickly disappeared into the low hedges along the riverbank, equipped with combat swimmer fins and a rebreather as well as an oilskin shoulder bag containing his long weapon and a silenced machine pistol. A double-edged dive knife was secured to the knotted muscle of Encizo’s calf and ankle.

Bolan was gone long before the Cuban-born commando had entered the water. With the members of his team deployed for their assault, the soldier guided the Ford Excursion back toward Karl Mirjana’s estate.

Bolan had dressed in upscale casual for his meet with the Croat. He wore sturdy but stylish khaki pants in black. Under his jacket he wore a crew-necked black pullover of expensive material and weave. He wore his Rolex Submariner watch and a pair of low-cut loafers with thick tread. The loafers were steel-toed and he hoped this would go unnoticed. Except for those steel caps he would be unarmed going into the death merchant’s lair.

After several minutes Bolan pulled off the main highway and took an unmarked paved private road. The long drive wound through several gentle curves cut through a dense copse. After nearly a full mile Bolan caught sight of the gate complex set across the road like a military checkpoint.

The fence was constructed of deeply red brick, ten feet high, and ran into the forest on either side. The heavy wrought-iron gate was electronically controlled, and heavy enough to resist ramming by even a semi-truck.

Bolan slowed as he approached the cinder-block gatehouse. Through the window he saw a tall man in blue coveralls rise from behind a desk. The black nylon pistol belt secured around his waist held a Glock handgun secured in the holster.

As the soldier stopped the SUV beside the gatehouse and powered down his window, the sentry came out, a telescoping metal pole with a mirror fitted on the end in his left hand.

“Mike Cooper, North American International,” Bolan said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Mirjana.” He wondered if the man spoke English, though the names should get the message across if he were expected.

The man nodded. “ Ja, moment.” His English was broken and accented but passable. “I check the vehicle. If you have weapons, I request you turn them me, now.”

Bolan grinned. “I’m clean.”

The sentry seemed to accept his word and focused on playing the mirror across the vehicle’s undercarriage. As he went about his security check, Bolan was able to get a better look at the pistol in the man’s holster.

Calvin James had been correct during his earlier briefing to Bolan. The Glock was a specialized model only available to military and police units. The Glock 18 fired 9 mm Parabellum ammunition and, like Bolan’s Beretta 93-R, could operate in either semiautomatic or 3-round bursts. The pistol had a 31-round extended magazine and a theoretical rate of fire in burst mode of 1200 rounds per minute.

Karl Mirjana was a serious man, which suited Bolan just fine. The Executioner was serious himself.

The sentry stepped back from the vehicle. “Follow road past the main house to left, ja? You drive all the way through the property to lodge where Mr. Mirjana meets clients. Do not get out of car. Security meet you at lodge. Go.”

The man stepped back inside the gatehouse and worked a button on his console. With the hum of powerful electric motors the gate unlatched and began to swing open. Bolan waited until the gate was fully open before driving through.

He did not wave at the man as he drove past.

W HILE B OLAN DROVE into the estate Calvin James circumvented the property and approached it from the rear. The going was tough. The woods were thick and the terrain steep. A former Navy SEAL, James had been in uncompromising physical condition before coming to Stony Man and still followed a grueling fitness program.

Despite his level of fitness, James sweated freely in the commercial camouflage suit. He scrambled up hillsides thick with brush and weeds, making his way around Mirjana’s estate toward the rear. He swept up the incline, sticking to patches of deep woods and using game trails so that as he made his final approach he was coming downhill toward Mirjana’s property.

As he neared the back of the estate James was forced to slow his approach. From his earlier reconnaissance he knew that a line of wild brambles and blackberry shrubs marked the beginning of Mirjana’s property line, set well before the wall that encircled the estate. The ex-Navy SEAL made his approach toward the brambles with trepidation.

Just beyond the brambles Mirjana’s security consisted of an array of spike microphones. Anyone thrashing through the brambles would be picked up on the hidden mikes and trigger an alarm response. Because of that James knew he would have to leave behind the relative invisibility offered by the ghillie suit.

James sank to the forest floor and quietly removed the camouflage. The loose patches and swathes of fabric that were so effective in breaking up the outline of a human body would only serve to snag and catch on the brambles and thorny blackberry branches.

Moving carefully, he crawled into the thicket on his elbows and knees, picking up thick vines and sliding under them, carefully dragging his weapon with the stock folded down behind him. He pulled a pair of garden clippers from a cargo pocket and carefully began to cut out a path.

Though he had purposefully chosen a section of bramble thicket that was in his opinion less dense than some other areas, it was still painstaking work. Every movement he made had the potential to be detected by the electronic sensors positioned on the other side.

Sweat rolled down his face. He pressed down slowly and steadily with the clippers to avoid the snipping sound common to his activity. Beyond the thicket and across a strip of tall grass Mirjana’s wall rose in an imposing barrier.

One thing at a time, James told himself. One thing at a time.

R AFAEL Encizo PURGED his regulator and slipped into the Sava river without disturbing the surface. The closed-system rebreather eliminated the telltale exhaust noise and bubble trail left by conventional Scuba gear and provided for a more silent diving experience.

Encizo felt the current of the deep river catch him up and sweep him along toward his target as he descended into the chilly darkness. His load-bearing harness was front-loaded, and the Phoenix Force commando compensated by adjusting buoyancy for that and the gear attached in oilskin to his back. He settled slowly down through the murky water and began to check his analog and digital displays. He would use the bottom to ensure depth consistency and a built-in pace counter to indicate the distance he swam.

Encizo kicked out gently with his swim fins, using the current to push him along and conserve energy. His breath echoed slightly behind his mask and visibility was less than an arm’s length in the polluted river water.