Читать книгу Carnage Code - Don Pendleton - Страница 6

Mack Bolan had just stepped out of the plane onto the tarmac in Khartoum when the first shot exploded to his right. The bullet missed the Executioner’s head by half an inch as it drilled a hole through the window of the still-open cockpit door.

“Take off, Jack!” Bolan yelled as he rolled to the ground away from the plane and drew the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

“Like hell I’ll take off!” Jack Grimaldi shouted back through the doorway. The pilot reached behind him, grabbed a German-made Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun and tossed it to Bolan.

The Executioner reholstered the Desert Eagle as he caught the subgun with his left hand. Twirling it in his hands to grab the pistol grip and fore end, he turned it in the direction from which the shot had come.

As he did, a barrage of rifle fire came from his left.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw that Grimaldi had pulled another MP-5 from behind his seat in the cockpit and was deplaning on the other side of the aircraft.

Flipping the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, Bolan cut loose with a trio of 9 mm soft-point RBCD “total fragmentation” rounds. The bullets in the brass casings looked like simple soft-points, but were hardly simple in the way they worked. While the RBCDs would penetrate most substances—like glass, thin wood or plaster—they literally exploded in any water-based material.

Such as a human body.

As he held back the trigger, the Executioner saw three men dressed in olive-drab BDUs racing his way. They continued to fire as they ran, but their rounds flew wide of Bolan’s.

The Executioner’s return fire did not.

The first set of rounds from the big man’s MP-5 caught a dark-skinned, bearded man within a two-inch group—all in the heart. He dropped like a cow hit over the head with a sledgehammer as it walked through the slaughter gate.

Shifting the German weapon slightly to the side, the Executioner fired a 3-round burst into the throat of the next man in green. A geyser of blood erupted from the man’s carotid arteries as he staggered backward, dropping his AK and holding his neck with both hands. A split second later he, too, was on the tarmac, dead.

On the other side of the Learjet that had brought him to Khartoum, Bolan heard Jack Grimaldi firing at the men who approached from the other end of the runway. But he didn’t have time to look that way. The third man in green was still running forward, an Uzi gripped in his fists.

The Uzi fired 9 mm rounds just like Bolan’s MP-5, and had been created for the same reason—to serve as a midrange submachine gun and lay down a lot of fire, fast. But it had one distinct disadvantage from the H&K. It fired from an open bolt, meaning that the bolt didn’t slam shut until the trigger was pulled and the weapon fired. This often threw off the first round.

And now was no exception.

The man with the Uzi had been smarter than his friends—he had waited until he got closer to begin shooting. But now, as he neared, Bolan saw his index finger move rearward. The jar of the bolt sent the first 9 mm hardball round to Bolan’s left, but before the full-auto weapon could fire again the big American had swung the MP-5 on target. Another trio of RBCD rounds struck the man with the Uzi squarely in the face, practically decapitating him.

Bolan turned his back to the three men he had just killed and spotted six more running toward the Learjet from the other side. Behind them, on the tarmac, he could see that Grimaldi had already downed two of the men. But the remaining six still sprinted toward the plane, firing on the run.

More fire from the Learjet’s pilot dropped another man in green as the Executioner dumped two more of their assailants. Bolan’s soft-point bullets caught the first gunner in the chest, and a pink mist burst forth as if someone had just sprayed it from a bottle of window cleaner. He opened his eyes wide in awe, not knowing what had happened, then fell forward onto his face.

Bolan’s second target was trying to run and fire another of the AK-47s. He, too, wore a sidearm, as well as carrying the assault rifle, but his short gun of choice appeared to be a revolver of some kind.

Bolan directed a trio of RBCDs at the running target. The first round caught the attacker in the pelvis, the second in the gut and the third in the heart.

In the meantime, Grimaldi downed yet another of the yet-to-be-identified assailants with a triburst into the chest.

Only two men remained now, but they showed no signs of giving up peacefully. Bolan shifted his front sight toward a slightly overweight man who looked to be of mixed African and Arabic descent. Holding the MP-5s trigger back again, the Executioner sent three more soft-point slugs into the man’s rib cage. When they exploded, sharp white slivers of bone came shooting out along with the same pink mist Bolan had created a second earlier.

Almost simultaneously, Grimaldi downed the final man approaching the tail of the Learjet with three more 9 mm bullets.

For a moment, it appeared the unexpected attack was over.

It wasn’t.

Suddenly, the tarmac around the Executioner’s sides was torn to flying pieces of tar. Bolan turned to his left and saw that more men in green were approaching from the area of the terminal itself.

He briefly wondered again who these men were and how they had known he was arriving. None of their attackers’ OD green fatigues bore any markings.

But this was still not the time to worry about such things. First he had to stay alive. And make sure that Grimaldi did, too.

“Jack!” Bolan cried out. “You okay?”

The pilot’s voice came back to him. “If you don’t count these guys who just popped their heads up behind that berm to the side of the runway!”

Bolan nodded as he watched three more rounds take out another man in fatigues. So, a second wave was mounting on Grimaldi’s side of the Learjet, too.

A 7.62 mm round ripped across the top of the Executioner’s shoulder, ruining his sport coat and shirt. Beneath the shredded material, the Executioner felt the heat. It was much like a bad sunburn.

Bolan didn’t let the close call slow him. Rolling to his side, he came up on his belly with the MP-5 gripped in his right hand. Using his left to raise his chest off the ground and give the 30-round magazine room for clearance, he fired again.

Three more RBCD slugs took out another dark man with a beard.

Bolan rolled again as more AK rounds struck the tarmac where he had been a second earlier. These new attackers were better shots. He’d have to keep moving.

Squeezing the trigger once more, the Executioner dropped yet another shooter. This time, the Executioner rolled back the other way, to the spot where he’d fired first toward the terminal. Using the same one-handed grip, he downed another pair of gunners before the MP-5 bolt locked back, empty.

Dropping the dry subgun, Bolan drew his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The roar of the big handgun was thunderous.

Bolan watched the force of the huge hollowpoint round knock an oncoming attacker back two steps, then throw him to the ground on his back. Another squeeze of the trigger blew off the top half of another man’s head. Then, suddenly, gunfire sounded from behind the men running toward him.

And the attackers started falling to the ground without the Executioner even pulling the trigger.

Bolan looked past the men in green and saw that finally the airport police had intervened. He downed the final man coming from the terminal with another .44 Magnum slug, then rose to his feet, sprinting toward the Learjet.

If his MP-5 had run dry, Grimaldi’s was bound to have done the same by now. And the pilot—whose primary job was to fly airplanes rather than get into gunfights—usually carried only a Smith & Wesson Model 66 with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel.

And six .357 Magnum bullets weren’t going to last long in a fight like this one.

Dropping to the ground as soon as he reached the Learjet, Bolan rolled under the plane in time to see Grimaldi swing the cylinder out of his wheelgun, reach into the pocket of his faded leather bomber jacket and produce a speedloader. Bolan fired at a man not ten yards away as the pilot calmly and steadily refreshed his revolver with another six rounds.

The Executioner’s .44 Magnum round caught the man in the chest, just left of center, and squarely in the heart. He twirled a full circle, then dropped his AK-47 and fell to the ground.

Only three men were left now, but they were close. Swinging the Desert Eagle to the side, Bolan pulled back on the trigger and sent another 240-grain .44 Magnum slug into the skull of the nearest man.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw a deadly grin on the face of his pilot as Grimaldi shot the next man in the gut with his S&W. The knees of the man in green buckled, and the attacker knelt on the tarmac, one hand pushing against his lower abdomen in an attempt to keep his intestines inside.

Grimaldi fired again, and this time his Magnum hollowpoint round struck higher. The kneeling man flew backward as the 125-grain bullet expanded inside him.

Only one gunner remained, and Bolan watched him drop his rifle and throw up his hands as he realized he was alone. Fear fell across his face like a suddenly raging rainstorm.

Bolan was pleased. It would be good to have at least one man still alive to question. He wanted to know who these men were.

Just as importantly, he wanted to know how they knew he was coming. And when.

But it was not to be.

The fear on their adversary’s face suddenly disappeared. He reached behind his back and seized a Russian Tokarev pistol. He raised the weapon, aiming it at the Executioner.

Bolan and Grimaldi fired simultaneously.

Both rounds struck within an inch of each other, destroying the man’s heart, as well as their chances of finding out who he was. And who he represented.

By now, several airport security officers had arrived at the plane, and one had squirmed under the Learjet’s belly to join them.

Bolan turned his head and looked at the man with contempt. What had taken them so long to enter the foray? Cowardliness? Laziness? A lack of discipline, perhaps?

Whatever the reason, the airport cops had been of little help. Bolan and Grimaldi had taken out ninety percent of the attackers themselves. But there was another possibility. Could the Khartoum airport cops have been in league with these men, whoever they were? It would help explain how all of the men had gotten their AK-47s, Uzis, pistols and other weapons through the metal detectors and other security controls around the airport’s perimeter.

The Executioner made a mental note not to trust the police—at least not the ones at the airport. Maybe none of the Sudanese National Police, for that matter.

Now, with the battle finally over for real, Bolan, Grimaldi and the security cop all rose to their feet.

“I am Captain Makkah,” the man in the blue uniform said. “You are the American we were told was coming?”

Bolan nodded.

“Then please accept my apology for the way you were welcomed. As well as my apology for the fact that these men somehow got onto the premises. And the tardiness of my men in coming to your aid.”

“Who are they?” the Executioner asked.

Makkah shrugged. “My guess is that they are Ethiopians. Either regular army or CUD rebels. Both wear these unmarked fatigues when they illegally enter our country.”

Bolan frowned. “But we’re in Khartoum,” he said. “I was told the civil war in Ethiopia had crossed into Sudan. But this far away from the border?”

Makkah shrugged again. “With these greenies, which is what we call both sides since they remain unmarked, you never know.” He coughed into a closed fist, then said, “Please, then.” He turned back toward the Learjet. “I think your craft will need some repair work.”

The Executioner took a step back and looked at the plane. The wild shots of the attacking greenies had left holes up and down the plane. He looked at Grimaldi.

The pilot nodded sadly.

Makkah leaned down, yelling under the plane. “Sergeant Hara!” he shouted. “Come forward!”

A chubby black man with sergeant’s stripes on the upper arms of his blue uniform blouse crawled awkwardly under the plane, then rose to his feet. “Yes, sir!” he said, offering a stiff salute.

“See to it that this plane is checked out completely.” Makkah turned toward Grimaldi. “You are the pilot, I assume.”

Grimaldi had already started walking the length of the plane, checking the damage. He nodded.

“Please feel free to accompany the sergeant and assist our mechanics in evaluating and repairing the damage,” the captain said. “And, of course, all work will be paid for by the airport.”

Bolan studied the man closely. He still didn’t trust him. “What’s CUD stand for?” he asked.

Makkah looked his way. “The Coalition for Unity and Democracy. But do not let the democracy part fool you. They are everything but democratic in their thinking. As you seem to already know, both they and the Ethiopian government troops themselves commit atrocities such as this unwarranted assassination attempt on you and your pilot. But as you said, it is usually closer to the border. In any case, both wear unmarked clothing when they operate in our country.” He shook his head in disgust. “But come with me, please, if you would. We must talk, and then I am to take you to the main station downtown.”

Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle, then followed the captain toward the terminal.

No, he decided, he wouldn’t trust this man as far as he could throw the damaged Learjet.

B OLAN DID HIS BEST to keep his face turned away from the passenger’s window as Makkah drove him from the airport toward Khartoum’s downtown area. While he had never planned to enter Sudan undercover, he had not counted on the gunfight at the airport to announce his arrival with such fanfare.

Then again, he reminded himself, this was Khartoum. This was Sudan. The country might be experiencing a brief period of relative peace at the moment, but it had a history of violence that would relegate his and Jack Grimaldi’s shootout beside the Learjet to the back pages of the local newspapers.

Still on the outskirts of the city, the Executioner could readily see why Khartoum had been given the nickname “City of Ten Thousand Trees.” They grew everywhere around this oasis on the edge of the Baiyuda Desert, and here and there he saw high chain-link fences where exotic cats and other animals roamed within the confines of outdoor zoos. The city was famous for creating habitats for such animals that were as close to natural as could be made by human hands.

As they grew closer to the center of town, both pedestrian and auto traffic thickened to an almost maddening density. Not to mention the many camels, donkeys, horses and other animals pulling carts and wagons mixed in with the more modern means of transportation. The Executioner sat back against the front seat of the airport police car and tried to remember all he could about both the city of Khartoum and Sudan in general.

Sudan’s ivory, ebony, gold and myrrh had been sought by men from other regions of Africa and the Middle East for more than four thousand years. Indeed, some Bible scholars suspected that the wise men from the east who had followed the star in the sky to visit the baby Jesus had picked up their incenses and sweet-smelling gums in the Sudan.

Here and there, Bolan saw stalls along the sidewalks selling panther and other animal skins. Sudan was home to more than sixty different exotic high jungle and plains animals, as well as the exotic herbs and fragrances, and the hides of giant elands, bushbucks, yellow-backed duikers and hippopotami could be purchased on almost any block of any commercial street.

Sudan was composed of wide-ranging deserts and steppes north of Khartoum, and tropical jungle just below the twelfth parallel to the south. Its coastline ran along the Red Sea, with Saudi Arabia just across the water. Northern Sudan was rumored to be one of he hottest areas in the world during the summer, with temperatures rising to 125 degrees and higher.

At least two-thirds of Sudan’s eighteen million inhabitants were of mixed Arab and African blood, which had been superimposed over more ancient ancestors who were Hamitic. Such racial mixing was to be expected considering Sudan’s geographic location, especially from Khartoum northward. The southern three provinces of the country were inhabited by true Africans, mostly of the Dinka tribe.

Bolan opened his eyes as soon as Makkah said, “We are here.” He saw that the man was trying to turn down an alleyway behind a more modern building. Leaning on the horn, the airport police captain waved his other hand wildly through the open window to his side, trying to coax the pedestrians crossing the alley on the sidewalk to break up and let him through. When this didn’t work, Makkah let out a long string of what the Executioner had to believe were curses in some Arabic dialect he didn’t understand. When hitting the red lights and siren proved no more effective, the captain drew his .357 Magnum Taurus revolver from his shiny Sam Browne belt, transferred it to his left hand, then stuck it out the window and fired two shots into the air.

This demonstration of firepower produced the desired break in the crowd, and Makkah turned into the alley. Bolan did his best to lower himself farther in his seat and reached up, ostensibly rubbing his forehead with both hands but in reality trying to shield his face.

The Executioner had already had far more exposure to the public than he felt comfortable with. And he made a snap decision to make some major changes to his appearance as soon as he was finished inside this building.

Makkah pulled the car into a parking spot that read Police Only. “You are ready?” the captain asked as he pulled the keys from the ignition.

Bolan nodded and opened the door to his side. What he was about to do was simple. At least simple in theory.

A Washington Post journalist named Ronnie Cassetti had somehow gotten between a CIA informant and his U.S. handler. The two men who had murdered the informant in Cassetti’s presence—and tried to kill the American writer—had been taken into custody by Sudanese police. Fearful for his own life, Cassetti had turned a white envelope over to a CIA officer stationed at the American Embassy. The envelope contained some kind of mysterious limerick, which the CIA operative suspected contained important encrypted information.

Unfortunately, the snitch’s handler had been an older man, about to retire. Since his last encounter with the informant, he had suddenly keeled over with a heart attack and died.

And the limerick code was not known by anyone else in Khartoum, Washington or anywhere else in the world.

The CIA had opened a case. The President had caught wind of the details and ordered the Agency to take its cues from a man named Brandon Stone who would be taking charge of the investigation.

Bolan closed the car door and followed Makkah through a back door into the building. It seemed to him sometimes that he had more names than a heavyweight boxing champion. Mack Bolan, the Executioner, Matt Cooper and Brandon Stone were only a few of the appellations under which he sometimes went.

This time he would be Special Agent Brandon Stone.

T HE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Khartoum office of the Sudan National Police might have been of more recent structure than many of the ancient wood-and-clay edifices the Executioner had seen on his drive with Captain Makkah. But the inside was every bit as dirty and unkempt as downtown Khartoum itself. Trash littered the hallway down which Makkah now led Bolan. And the walls were a dingy, begrimed gray from cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke. And from somewhere in the building, Bolan’s well-trained nostrils picked up the faint scent of burning marijuana.

Someone, somewhere behind one of the closed doors, was smoking dope, maybe on duty.

The Executioner didn’t let that bother him. He hadn’t come to Khartoum to make piddling little arrests of marijuana users, even if they were cops. He had far bigger fish to fry, and he was about to begin cooking by stepping right into the middle of the pan.

Makkah led him through several turns before stopping at a paint-chipped door at the end of a short side hall. The airport captain seemed to hesitate for a moment as he raised his fist, the collar of his uniform blouse suddenly becoming too tight. Pulling it away from his throat with his other hand, he finally rapped lightly on the wood.

Words in Arabic came from the other side of the door, and Makkah reached out and tried to twist the knob. When it wouldn’t budge, he knocked again, speaking in Arabic himself this time.

A second later a click sounded, then the door swung wildly open, and a burly man with coffee-colored skin and wearing a uniform similar to Makkah’s glared out at the captain. Though the man was bald on the top of his head, a thick matt of black hair grew over his ears and on the back of his head.

Makkah visibly shrank, and the Executioner noted that instead of captain’s bars on the collar of the burly man’s shirt, he wore the markings of a colonel.

The bald-pated colonel glowered at Makkah for another second, then turned his attention to Bolan. Immediately his composure changed. He smiled widely, his lips seeming to stretch across his entire face. “So,” he said with the formal English indicative of a British public-school education, “may I assume that you are Special Agent Stone?” He stuck out his hand.

Bolan felt the firmness in the man’s handshake and, for reasons as mysterious at this juncture as those behind his dislike of Makkah, suddenly felt as if he was finally meeting a man who could be trusted. While he couldn’t always explain his own instincts—even to himself—he had learned to trust them over the years.

The Executioner couldn’t discount one other fact that probably played a role in his instant trust. The colonel obviously shared Bolan’s contempt for Makkah.

“I’m Stone,” the Executioner said as he dropped the strong hand. “But there’s no need for formalities here. Just call me Brandon.”

This seemed to please the colonel. “Then I will be known to you as Abdul,” he said. “Although for future reference, should you need this information, my official title is Colonel Urgoma.”

Bolan nodded.

Urgoma stepped back and waved for Bolan to enter. But when Makkah tried to cross the threshold, a stocky forearm shot out and a big palm rammed against the captain’s chest. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Makkah,” the colonel said, “but your services are no longer required. You may return to the airport.”

Makkah’s caramel-colored skin took on a slight tinge of gray. He saluted, turned on his heel and walked off without saying another word.

Urgoma closed the door and the Executioner found that they were in some kind of outer office. One desk and one desk chair was all he could see in the room. There was probably a presently absent secretary who worked there.

“Did you speak much with the captain?” Urgoma asked in a low voice.

Makkah was long gone by now, so the Executioner had to assume there were other men in adjacent offices whom Urgoma didn’t want to hear the question.

“No,” Bolan said in the same low voice. “Not a lot. We were too busy shooting men wearing unmarked green fatigues to grow real close.”

Urgoma nodded. “Ah, yes, the greenies,” he said. “So I heard. Please accept my sincere apology. Bullets are hardly the way to welcome a guest into the country. Particularly a guest who has come, at our request, to help us.”

Bolan stared deeply into the man’s eyes. Unlike the phoniness that Makkah generated, Urgoma appeared sincerely sorry for what had happened at the airport. “Well,” he said in response, “even without the distraction of all the firepower whizzing past us, I wouldn’t have gotten to know Makkah very well.” He paused, taking in a breath as he watched Urgoma’s forehead furrow into a frown. “He and his men didn’t even show up until most of the fight was over.”

Now Urgoma’s frown became one of disgust. “I am not surprised,” he said. “The man is assigned to be in charge of the airport. But he must spend much time here, as well. He is a coward. Nor do I trust him. He is what you Americans call—” the burly colonel frowned once more, this time looking up at the ceiling for the right word before he brought his eyes back down “—a slumbag?”

Bolan smiled at the man’s attempt. “You’re close,” he said. “The term’s actually scumbag. ”

“Ah, yes,” the colonel said, clasping his hands together. “I have heard that many times in your American movies.

“Now, if you would please, Brandon, we have captured the two men who killed your government’s informant by shooting him in the back.”

The Executioner stiffened for a moment. Such open discussion of one government working clandestinely within the borders of another country was all but unheard-of.

Urgoma was, indeed, honest. Maybe too honest for his own good.

“The two men are being interrogated even as we speak,” Urgoma went on. “One of your CIA officers is also here.” The smile he gave Bolan held both mirth and a tinge of sadism. “He is observing.”

Bolan started to speak but Urgoma cut him off. “Please,” the colonel said, holding up a hand. “I have always been a good judge of character, and my intuition about you tells me you are a realist like myself. And between men like us, there is no reason to play games. So let us lay our cards on the table, so to speak. Everyone knows that CIA agents work out of your American Embassy. It is that way all over the world. We accept that fact.” He paused and laughed. “And as I am sure you are aware yourself, we have our men who do the same spy-work using the Sudanese Embassy in Washington.”

Bolan smiled. Yes, Captain Abdul Urgoma was a realist, and obviously didn’t like wasting time any more than the Executioner did.

Bolan was liking this stocky man more and more as he got to know him.

‘So,” Urgoma said, “let us go see if my men have learned anything new since I left the room to answer this door.” He nodded toward the splintered wood where Makkah had exited, then turned and started down another short hallway.

Bolan followed. “That last statement,” he said as they walked. “It implies that you’ve already learned something. Care to share it with me?”

Urgoma continued to walk but twisted his head as he did. “I am afraid we have not learned a great deal,” he said. “And my men have been extremely…well, shall we say, persuasive? ”

The Executioner knew exactly what that meant. Beatings. Or other torture. Or both.

When Bolan didn’t respond, Urgoma went on. “But what we have learned, I sincerely believe, is of the most extreme importance.”

“And that would be…?” Bolan asked, letting the sentence trail off to become a question.

Colonel Abdul Urgoma stopped in his tracks. He was several inches shorter than Bolan, so to look him in the eye he had to tilt his chin upward. He did so now. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, “We have learned that someone is about to ship a large amount of plutonium into Sudan.”

The Executioner stared back down into the dark brown eyes. So that was why he’d been sent by the President to Sudan.

Urgoma had been right.

Suddenly, the investigation had taken on a whole new level of importance and urgency.