Читать книгу Armed Response - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

CHAPTER SIX

It was destined to be another scorching day in Yemen. The sun was already high, the sky bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Nelson Thompson pushed his shades back up his sweaty nose and took a sip of warm water from the plastic bottle. The contact was late. Thompson would give him a few more minutes before relocating to another position a couple of miles away and waiting there for a short while. If the contact still didn’t show up, then it was time to report in and retreat back to Aden.

Thompson tried to ignore the large column of thick smoke behind him to the east, searching instead to the west where another column of black smoke, this one much thinner, was attracting the attention of several Yemeni army helicopters.

Thompson shifted uncomfortably. He had been born in Phoenix, Arizona, so the desert heat didn’t really bother him. He grimaced as the familiar ache shot through his right leg, a leg he no longer had. He shifted his weight to his left, cursing the phantom pains in his artificial limb.

His official profession was that of freelance journalist, keeping tabs on the political situation in Yemen for several big newspapers back home. Unofficially he was to keep an eye out for terrorist activity and feed the information back to a contact in the Justice Department.

Several years ago he had been a Ranger and loved every minute of it. The training, the assignments, the various wars in foreign countries—it all fulfilled him in a way that life back home in Arizona could not. Then it all changed. He had been at Fort Benning when orders had come in specifically for him. A new assignment, a special job, nobody had known what it was or where he was being sent. The only thing he’d discovered was that an unknown somebody had recommended him.

A week later he’d been standing in a field in the Blue Ridge Mountains, dressed in civilian clothes and armed with a submachine gun and instructed by his new CO, one Buck Greene, to guard a farmhouse with his life. He had been rotated into a team of professional guards known only as blacksuits. Welcome to Stony Man Farm.

He threw himself into his six-month assignment, knowing that the oath he’d sworn would not allow him to discuss the six months with his fellow Rangers back at Benning.

Three months into his rotation he and a small team of blacksuits had accompanied a five-man team on a mission to Central America. Thompson had stepped on a Claymore and lost most of his right leg. That had ended his stint with both the blacksuits and the Rangers.

While in the hospital, a government type had visited him and told him that the blacksuits looked after their own and offered to cover all expenses for any retraining Thompson needed.

Thompson had recovered, accepted the offer and had become a journalist. With a helping hand from his Justice Department contact, he was employed by a national newspaper. Due to his combat experience, he was often sent to war zones. In exchange for the assistance, Thompson had agreed to keep an eye out for anything that might be of interest, particularly terrorist activities in whatever country he was visiting. Never once had he queried why his contact was from Justice and not State.

The previous day he had been leaving Aden International Airport after covering a story about international aid when he had spotted a known terrorist. After sending a text message over his phone using a special number, he’d followed the man at a discreet distance. Once in the desert, when he could no longer follow his quarry, he’d texted that, as well. A reply had come through a few minutes later. The target was being tracked. Meet a man at specific coordinates in the morning and assist him with exfiltration. Nothing more.

Thompson took another sip of water. Still waiting. The game of spies was deadly dull. Apart from the helicopters, apart from the distant long-gone sounds of a car, there had been nothing. No sign of life anywhere. He turned his attention to the larger column of smoke coming from Aden.

As he did so, he felt the cold muzzle of a pistol being pressed behind his left ear. Thompson knew in that dreadful moment that either his skills had deteriorated so much that he deserved to be shot or the guy holding the pistol was the stealthiest bastard he would ever come across. He tensed, waiting for the bullet.

“Six Alpha Green.” It was the sound of a chilling graveyard whisper.

“Alpha Deep Six” was his response. The gun was lowered and Thompson breathed out. He raised his hands cautiously into the air. “May I turn around now?”

“Yeah. But do it slowly and put your hands down.”

Thompson did as instructed and turned to face an apparition from hell. The man was covered in dried blood, sand and combat cosmetics—his face, his hands, as well as the all-too-familiar blacksuit. The man stared back, his ice-blue eyes penetrating deep, inadvertently causing Thompson to flinch. It took the African-American several seconds to find his voice, during which the man holstered his Beretta.

“Shit! You sure know how to make a guy turn white. I must be slipping to have allowed you to sneak up on me like that.” Thompson caught himself babbling and reddened, feeling unprofessional. He tried again. “Hey, um, I recognize you. You used to train with us sometimes. Buck called you Striker. Damn, you were good.”

“You’re making me blush. Where’s your car?”

“Just down the slope, on the other side of the road. I brought some water so you can wash, and a change of clothes. When you’re finished, we can head out to the safehouse. But I have no idea how to get you out of the country quickly. And what should I call you?”

“Cooper. What’s the problem with the evac?”

“See for yourself.” Thompson pointed in the direction of Aden, to the thick column of black smoke, which was now spreading across the sky.

* * *

MACK BOLAN HAD already seen the pillar of smoke. He turned to Thompson for an explanation.

“It’s the airport. A passenger flight from Turkey crashed about an hour ago. From what I heard on the radio, it appears that there was a Mayday, a fire on board, and an emergency landing was attempted. Other than that…” He shrugged. “The city will be bogged down in traffic. The airport is more or less right in the middle of Aden. It will be closed for a quite a while. I’m missing one hell of a story.”

Bolan gazed at him, wondering if Thompson was missing the point of the tragedy. People had died. People who had lives, dreams. It was more than just “a story.”

“If it’s a story you want, then I’ll give you one,” he said coldly, “but for now you have an unexpected guest who needs an alternative method of extraction. Return to your car. I’ll join you in a few minutes with my vehicle. I need to transfer a few things over.”

Thompson nodded and hobbled away, his artificial foot making scuff prints in the sand. Bolan watched him for a few moments before turning his attention to the distant, burning village on the far horizon. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out the two helicopters buzzing around, searching for survivors. The army troops would find the tracks of his UAZ once they got over the initial shock of finding so many bullet-riddled bodies. Time was of the essence.

He started to jog toward the dunes where the UAZ was hidden. The sun was searing.

It took him several minutes to reach the vehicle, start it and drive to where Thompson was waiting, the trunk of his white Peugeot car open. Bolan hopped out, opened the rear and prepared to transfer his equipment.

Thompson spoke up. “You do know that we have to pass through several checkpoints before we can enter the city, don’t you?”

Bolan closed his eyes, disappointed with himself. Of course he knew that. Lack of sleep had made him lax. He had been on the go for almost thirty-six hours. The catnap in the Hercules had done nothing to ease his weariness. He nodded. “We’ll have to bury the equipment and burn the vehicle. My fingerprints are all over it. Just in case.” He sighed, knowing that he had wasted precious time. He pulled an entrenching tool out of the UAZ and proceeded to dig a shallow hole at the side of the road. He chucked the ruined gear bag in along with the remains of his sniper rifle, several grenades and various other items for which he no longer had a use. He noticed that the sat phone was missing. He thought it had fallen into the back of the UAZ when Kurtzman had yelled at him, but now realized that it had been left behind in the village. Another mistake.

Kurtzman would be able to remotely erase any electronic footprints, but it was still careless to have left it behind. Too much was going wrong with this mission. He refilled the hole and scattered the remaining sand. “I’ll drive your vehicle over the hill and burn it,” Thompson said. “You really need to get yourself cleaned up. There’s a small compartment under the passenger seat. You can stash the hardware there. It’s also where your papers are hidden. They were rushed over to me during the night. You’re now a freelance journalist like me. Water is in the trunk. Once the UAZ is burning, we’ll have to move. Another smoke column will attract the choppers.”

Bolan opened the hidden compartment as Thompson drove away. Inside he found a passport along with forged Yemeni travel documents. The name inside the passport was Mike Blanski. He smiled. That was one name he thought had been put to rest long ago. The passport looked a little tatty, and Bolan wondered where it had come from, where it had been stashed. A picture of his younger self stared back. How many miles had he traveled since he’d last held this?

He removed and reloaded his weapons before placing them in the compartment. The blue notebook of Qutaiba’s joined the two guns. If anybody did a thorough search, then they would be quickly discovered. In the trunk he found a bowl to be used as a basin and a gallon of water in a large plastic bottle. A bar of soap had also been provided. A white shirt, a pair of jeans and a pair of casual training shoes, all cheap imitations of famous American makes, lay neatly inside.

Bolan stripped off his ripped bloodstained blacksuit and proceeded to wash himself all over. Within minutes he felt human again. He dressed, the clothes a perfect fit, then buried the blacksuit and his combat boots in the sand. Somewhere over the dune there was a muffled whump, the familiar sound of a gasoline explosion. A few moments later he saw Thompson working his way down to the car. Bolan poured the bowl of soapy water into the sand, slammed the trunk shut and waited.

Thompson grinned when he got close to Bolan.

“Wow, you sure look pretty enough to ask to the prom.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Let’s go before they see that.” A column of smoke was working its way into the air.

“Yeah.” Thompson got into the vehicle and turned the engine over. The old car belched black exhaust fumes, coughed, then caught. Thompson grinned again at Bolan, who was climbing into the passenger seat. “Well, she ain’t pretty, that’s for sure, but I keep the engine fine-tuned, and she won’t attract any undue attention. There are hundreds of them in Aden.” He put the automatic transmission into Drive and accelerated away.

“Why haven’t we seen any traffic on this road?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a road that goes nowhere. I have no idea why it was built. But we’ll be joining the main highway in a moment, and it’ll get a little busier.”

It did get busier on the main highway. As they traveled toward Aden, they encountered several troop trucks heading in the opposite direction.

“They’re probably going to see where you were playing.”

Bolan didn’t reply.

“There’s a camera on the backseat. Hang it around your neck. You’ll look the part of a journalist to them.”

Bolan leaned back and grabbed an old Nikon digital camera. “Does it work?”

“Sure does. I’ve even taken a few photos of the desert if they care to inspect it. They’ll stop us at the checkpoints and ask us what we’re up to. We’ll say something about following the troop trucks for a story, got turned back and now we’re on our way to the airport to cover that story. I have some money to slip into the passports, for administration purposes you understand. Say, are you going to tell me what happened back there? What happened to Qutaiba? It was Qutaiba, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, I knew it. Oh, this is going to be on the front page of the New York Times.” Thompson glanced at Bolan. “I can report this, can’t I?”

“As long as all credit goes to the brave Yemeni army who tracked and engaged Qutaiba in a gun battle, killing all of his terrorist team while sustaining no casualties themselves. Something like that.”

“Damn. And they won’t even give you a medal for what you did.”

“That’s the way it goes.” Bolan leaned back and closed his eyes. “I found a notebook of Qutaiba’s. I haven’t had time to look at it yet. We’ll need to decipher it when we get to your place. How much farther is it?”

“Depends. Without checkpoints and disasters, about an hour. But this one wasn’t here this morning, and it looks like they’re checking all cars.”

Bolan’s eyes snapped open as Thompson brought the car to a halt behind a truck full of bleating goats. There were at least another four cars in front. The barricade was no more than a couple of military-style jeeps parked on either side of the road and two wooden barriers, which could be raised and lowered. Half a dozen soldiers milled around.

The Executioner closed his eyes again. There was no point in looking nervous. It was just another day for a freelance journalist with a job to do. Just another checkpoint. Thompson didn’t seem nervous, either. The man had to pass through roadblocks every time he left the city. Three cars, then two, then one. It was the truck’s turn. The driver chatted with the soldiers a few minutes before being waved through.

Thompson drove the car to the makeshift barrier, smiling at the soldiers. They didn’t seem impressed, especially after spotting a white man in the passenger seat. Thompson was instructed to turn off his engine. A young soldier held his hand out for papers, never taking his eyes off Bolan or Thompson. The others stood back, hands on their AK-47s. The young soldier scanned the documents for a few seconds, discovered a small pile of US dollars hidden within and slid the money into his top pocket. He looked down at Thompson.

“Who this?” he asked in heavily accented English, indicating Bolan with his chin.

“Why, my new colleague!” Thompson said. “We came out looking for a story for our newspaper.”

“How you find story in desert?”

“Well—” Thompson lowered his voice conspiratorially “—I have a friend in the glorious Yemeni army, quite high up, a colonel, and he told me that you guys had a big gunfight out here somewhere in the desert. So my friend and I, well, we came looking. But then some soldiers turned us back, saying they would shoot us if we didn’t go away. So now we’re going to the airport to see what story is there.”

How much the soldier understood wasn’t clear, but he seemed to get the gist of it. He continued to stare suspiciously at Bolan and Thompson before finally waving them through. Whether it was the bribe that convinced the soldier, the mention of knowing a colonel or a combination of both, Bolan didn’t know. Thompson let out a breath, muttered something about good luck and drove away from the checkpoint at a cautious speed, apparently not wanting to raise further suspicion.

“The first of many,” he said.

Bolan closed his eyes again. The sun beat down. Thompson turned his inefficient car cooling system to full. Warm air blasted into Bolan’s face. He adjusted the vents so that they pointed toward his feet, then he dozed off.

They passed through another army checkpoint on the outskirts of the city. The situation was no different from the first: some money in one of the passports, answer a few questions about journalism, mention a nonexistent colonel and be waved through.

The city appeared in the distance. They passed the outlying buildings, billboards advertising cola, jeans, cars. Bolan asked for the cell phone, and Thompson passed it over. There was a strong signal. The soldier typed in a long number and waited for it to ring. The number was good for one call. Once used, the number would be reassigned by one of the phone companies, becoming a launderette or pizza parlor. The signal would pass through many cell phone providers and bounce off several satellites before being answered. The entire electronic journey took two seconds.

“Yes,” a disembodied voice answered.

“Six Alpha Green,” Bolan replied.

The phone clicked a few times, then Barbara Price came on the line.

“Striker?”

“Affirmative. The line is unsecure.”

“Understood.”

Bolan reached for the dashboard and turned the car’s roaring air system down in order to hear what was being said.

“Our friend was at the location, but had to depart quickly to meet his maker.”

“Understood.” There was slight relief in Price’s voice at the confirmation that Qutaiba was confirmed dead.

“I’m now heading back I’ll check in again at our other friend’s house.”

“Understood. Be advised that the boys in green have found a burning car in the desert. The local police have been informed.”

“Roger that.” Bolan broke the call and handed the cell phone back to Thompson.

“They found the burning UAZ,” he said, “and have informed police.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that. The police won’t be as easy to please.”

“I could bail out and make my own way in.”

“What would that achieve? If you get caught, then you’ll have even more explaining to do. Stick together and we can give them the old dumb-Yankee-journalist routine.”

Thompson had a point, and Bolan decided to go with it. The concealed weapons were the only problem. The Executioner spotted an industrial building with several large garbage containers outside. There wasn’t much activity around the place.

“Pull over here.”

Thompson complied, driving the car up to the containers. Bolan reached behind the seat, to the compartment, and removed the two weapons and the blue notebook. Working quickly he stripped the two pistols to their component parts, emptied the magazines of bullets, then spent several moments spreading the contents among the garbage, ensuring that no two pieces could be found together. The ammunition was similarly dealt with. Bolan climbed back into the car, and they left the scene without anybody taking any notice.

Bolan flicked through the pages of the notebook. Some of it was in English, but the car bounced too much for him to be able to read anything clearly. He looked up from the book when Thompson began to slow the car. A police checkpoint loomed ahead, consisting of several police cars and an armored vehicle. The police were stopping and searching every vehicle entering the city. They watched as an officer mounted the tailgate of a truck before clambering in among the goats and sheep. The animals could clearly be heard bleating in protest. The policeman jumped out, the truck was waved on and the procedure began again with the next car. And the next. After ten minutes it was finally Bolan and Thompson’s turn.

The police officer who leaned into the vehicle was instantly suspicious. He held out his hand for their papers, while several armed colleagues moved up close. One began to check under the car. Bolan knew that if they had the equipment to check for traces of cordite, he would light up like a Christmas tree. The officer instructed them to get out. Bolan and Thompson complied. Bolan had tucked the blue notebook into his shirt’s top pocket, where it was clearly visible, hiding in plain sight. They were ushered away from their car as several policemen began the search, popping the trunk, the hood and clambering inside. They found the empty compartment easily. The first officer finished examining the two men’s papers and looked at them, staring coldly. Bolan knew he could easily stare back but didn’t, knowing that the challenge could be construed the wrong way. Instead he wore the air of someone slightly cowed and intimidated. Thompson remained cool, smiling at the official.

“No problems?” Thompson asked.

The man continued to stare. Eventually he broke his silence. “Where have you been?” he asked. The question sounded like an accusation.

“Well,” Thompson began, but the officer silenced him.

“I ask him,” he said, pointing at Bolan. “Mr… B-lan-ski.”

Bolan gave the man a weak smile. “We were looking for a story. We were told that there was shooting in the desert. We followed the army out, but they turned us back at the checkpoint. They told us there was nothing to see. So now we are going to the airport to cover that story.”

“Airport closed. Who told you about shooting?”

“Colonel Nissal,” Thompson said. “He’s a friend.”

The policeman was unimpressed with the reference to an army colonel. He looked at one of his approaching officers, a black eyebrow raised in question. The other man shook his head, muttered something and then stared at Bolan and Thompson, obviously hoping to intimidate them more. The official in charge turned back to the two Americans.

“Why compartment under seat? You hide drugs?”

“No, no,” Bolan protested. “No drugs. It is for this.” He held up the camera hanging around his neck. “We hide it in the car—we don’t want it stolen.”

The officer seemed to find this answer acceptable. He examined the papers again, hoping to discover a discrepancy in the passport stamps, the work permits. Finding none, he reluctantly handed them back.

“You go now. Leave.”

Bolan and Thompson thanked him and climbed back into the car. They left the checkpoint, the police still staring after them. Thompson let out a gasp of pent-up relief.

“That was tense. I’m sure glad I didn’t slip in the customary bribe. I don’t think that guy would have appreciated it.”

“No, he was dedicated, I’ll give him that. Colonel Nissal?”

“Guy in the army who I have tried to interview a few times. I think that he’s on the take. Keeps turning me down. Maybe the police will check him out. Revenge is sweet.”

Bolan chuckled. The city became more and more modern. Low houses gave way to towering apartment buildings, extremely white, and shining in the sun. The road was black and smooth, the cars driving on it far more modern than those outside the city. More billboards lined the road and hung on the sides of buildings. It barely seemed like the Middle East. Almost ringing the city was a long, unbroken chain of stone hills. Thompson caught him taking in the sights.

“You ever been here before?” he asked.

“I’ve passed through once or twice.” Bolan said.

The buildings to his right vanished, offering a fantastic view of the bay and the sea beyond. Bolan could see all manner of oil tankers and freighters docked in the harbor, entering, leaving, all floating on a perfect blue surface. The whole vista was simply stunning. Thompson broke the spell by reminding him that the USS Cole