Читать книгу Orange Alert - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The furious fusillade ended abruptly, and Bolan heard the distinctive metallic rattling of empty magazines being ejected, followed by the slide and click of new ones being rammed home. In the sudden silence, rendered more profound by its extreme contrast to the deafening uproar from the AK-47s that still echoed in his brain, a wide beam of blinding light painted the trees and thick bushes with broad strokes, sweeping back and forth through the stretch of woods like a prison spotlight.

From his prone position in a tiny depression behind a stout hickory, Bolan flexed his legs in preparation for his departure. He peered through the lush foliage, inches above ground level, to where the SUV stood like an alien being, its modern technology seeming anachronistic against the barren landscape.

Accompanied by the racing sound of its powerful engine, the vehicle spun in a cloud of dust, casting its lights onto the ambush site littered with three bodies. As Bolan moved in a crouch through the woods to put distance between himself and the new arrivals, he heard the opening of a door followed by loud cursing in a thick brogue. A quick burst of automatic fire sliced through the trees at least fifty yards to his left. It was an obvious gesture of anger and frustration, and it reinforced Bolan’s earlier opinion that his opponents were deficient in both their training and discipline. This lack of professionalism would be a factor he’d leverage to his advantage when they finally clashed again, which was bound to happen sooner or later.

The SUV wasn’t able to follow him through the trees, but Bolan knew that the stand would eventually end and he’d find himself at the edge of a sheep pasture somewhere with no available cover. If the men in the vehicle were locals, they’d know the place where the woods ended, and that’s where they’d be waiting.

Crouching behind a thick tree, Bolan checked his watch for the time: 2:30 a.m. The summer equinox had occurred a scant two weeks earlier, which meant that, at this time of year, sunrise came quickly to the regions up around the fifty-fifth parallel. The area was at about the same latitude as Glasgow, where dawn would break around four-thirty. Bolan didn’t know how long it would take him to reach the tracks where he’d heard the trains rumbling, but he thought it would be to his advantage to get there before daybreak.

As he made his way through the woods, Bolan recalled the information contained in the second communiqué that had been delivered to the local CIA office and forwarded to the President. The Apprentices, a rogue splinter group claiming to be sponsored by the Orange Order, was demanding immediate disarmament of the IRA, and international recognition for the legitimacy of home rule in Belfast. Once and for all, they wanted the world—and especially the United States—to endorse the existence of two nations in Ireland and to formally declare that there was no chance the two would ever be united. Once and for all, they wanted to end the Irish conflict, and they were prepared to use terrorism to force the result.

They further said they were about to release a list of prominent Catholics, whose assassinations were being scheduled to occur until the process of IRA disarmament was complete. And, finally, they were threatening the United States with a domestic terrorist attack if their demands were not met by the end of July. That gave the CIA less than a month to find and destroy the people behind the plot.

It was an insane scenario, made viable by the global terrorism that had spread like a runaway cancer since the fateful assault on New York’s World Trade Center.

As Bolan pushed forward toward the sounds of distant trains, one thing was clear in his mind—any mission that prevented another terrorist attack on the United States was worth his involvement.

The Executioner had been deployed, and he was prepared to give as good as he got.

BOLAN ARRIVED AT THE TRAIN tracks as the first suggestions of predawn light were touching the eastern sky. He estimated he was eight or nine miles away from where he had left his car, but, luckily, the tracks were configured north to south. As long as he jumped a train going the right way, it would bring him closer to his transportation.

He paused at the edge of the woods and, while remaining concealed by the mulberry bushes that populated a narrow gully extending from the trees to the tracks, he reached into the pouch containing his night-vision goggles. With the coming dawn, ambient light was greatly increased and, with it, came maximum visibility.

The SUV that had attacked him at the ambush site was nowhere to be seen and a quick glance around the area explained why. This section of track was as inaccessible to wheeled vehicles as the woods had been. A rushing mountain stream cut through the hilly area to the north and rough outcroppings littered the terrain on the other side of the tracks for as far as Bolan could see.

He heard the sound of a slow freight train coming his way, the steady clack of wheels on the rails indicating a speed that could probably be jumped. Placing the goggles back into their pouch, he headed down the gully to a concealed spot close to the tracks.

The train came around a curve and into sight, going faster than Bolan had originally judged. He remained motionless as the double locomotives reached his position and sailed past at about thirty miles per hour—a little too quick for him to attempt a clean jump.

Remaining hidden under the cover of bushes that grew along the tracks to heights of more than six feet, Bolan opened the pouch on his web belt, which held a grappling hook and a length of special cord developed for its strength. Thin and waxy, the lightweight fiber looked like braided strands of dental floss and, although it had a texture so fine a twenty-foot length could be folded to fit into a shirt pocket, it was stronger than the nylon rope used by mountaineers.

Bolan knotted his titanium grappling hook to the cord, and, while judging the feel of the hook’s weight by letting it swing slightly on a few feet of slack, he eyed the passing freight cars for the right opportunity.

More than two dozen boxcars had already passed. A series of double-length flatbeds holding tarp-shrouded cargo came into view. As the cars drew closer, Bolan’s eyes searched for possible catching points on the heavy ropes that were lashed across the gray canvas tarps and fastened to metal cleats running along the outside edge of the flatbeds.

Bolan gave the knot a final tug, stepped out from behind the bush and began to run alongside the train. When the first of the flatbeds with the covered freight passed, he increased his speed while whirling the hook over his head like a rodeo cowboy. As he reached a full sprint, he zeroed in on one of the tarp’s restraining ropes and let it fly. The grappling hook caught at the very top of the tarp on his first attempt, yanking him up and onward as he tightened his hold on the cord. With the muscles in his shoulders and forearms straining, he jumped and pulled with all his strength, his feet clearing the edge of the moving car with inches to spare. Drawing himself forward on the line, he quickly reeled in the slack and freed the hook, putting it back into its pouch on his web belt.

The tracks were level and in good shape, giving the train a smooth, steady ride. Holding on to the slick surface of the canvas tarp, Bolan moved to the front of the flatbed where there was space for him to sit and rest. He reached a clear spot and settled onto the pitted deck with his back resting against the covered cargo as dawn painted the Irish countryside in crisp morning light.

The terrain was changing, morphing from the barren hostility of the moors to pastures that stretched green and fertile under the rising sun. A rust-flaked trestle came into view up ahead, its blistered surface glowing fiery red in the early light. The structure was a remnant from previous years when trains on this run were used for more than simply transporting freight, but its presence made Bolan consider the safety of his position. As he passed under the trestle’s crossbeam, he reasoned that with pastures there would be crossroads, and with the crossroads there would be bridges above the tracks. Unlike the rusting trestle he had just passed under, a bridge could hold an SUV.

Bolan thought his pursuers not only would have known where his escape route from the ambush site would take him, they also would have considered what his options would be once he reached the tracks. As he checked to make sure that both his Desert Eagle and the Beretta were ready for action, he wondered if hopping the train was too obvious.

He calculated he had about fifteen minutes until the tracks began ascending into the mountains along the coast. At that point, he’d get off and walk the rest of the way to his car.

THE SUV’S HIGH PROFILE made it visible from afar. It was sitting on a narrow bridge spanning the tracks, illuminated by the angled rays of the morning sun as if it was on stage. The four men armed with Uzi machine pistols standing in pairs on each side of the vehicle were facing into the sun, putting them at a distinct disadvantage.

Bolan inched to the forward edge of the flatbed and looked around the corner of the cargo loaded onto the car in front of him. Next to the tracks below the SUV, men stood on each side of the passing train, both armed with AK-47s. At the current speed, Bolan estimated he’d be next to them in about three minutes and he’d be exposed for a clean shot from above as well as from both sides.

His eyes darted around the flatbed for a place for him to hide. Even if he got under the tarp, he didn’t know if there would be something he could get behind to afford cover from gunfire, but he certainly couldn’t stay where he was.

Pulling his combat knife from its sheath, he sliced the closest restraining rope. The freed corner of the tarp flapped up, exposing the bottom half of wooden crates stacked so tightly and neatly against one another there wasn’t room for a mouse to crawl between.

As he put the knife away, the Executioner leaned back and looked down, viewing the heavy coupling mechanism linking his car with the one in front. There was a wide space between the clamp and the beginning of his flatbed. With less than a minute and a half remaining before he’d pass under the bridge, Bolan decided the coupler was his only chance for getting past the SUV.

He lowered himself onto the rod between cars, held on tightly to the greasy coupler and slid himself under the flatbed. At first, he thought he’d have to hold his legs up to keep his heels from dragging on the tracks, but once he got under the cargo deck, he discovered there was a beam running across the car about a foot below the flatbed’s underside. Bolan slid his legs into the space and found he could balance himself faceup, mere inches below the flatbed’s deck. And, although he felt pinned in this position, the supporting beam allowed him free use of both hands.

As the train neared the bridge, he wiped his greasy hands on the front of his shirt before drawing his Beretta from its shoulder leather. With his other hand, he pulled the Desert Eagle from his hip holster.

The flapping tarp caught the attention of the men on both sides of the track. Thinking that Bolan was hiding under the canvas, they began spraying the cargo with gunfire, the cracking of 7.62 mm rounds masked by the sound of the train. With their eyes focused on their target, they stitched holes across the tarp in a crisscrossing pattern from corner to corner, never seeing the man suspended in the dark shadows beneath the railroad car.

As he passed between them, Bolan fired with both hands, his weapons spitting death. The rifleman on the right side was hit inches above his belt with three of the Beretta’s 9 mm parabellum rounds. They shoved him backward, his rifle sending a spray of bullets wildly into the air as his finger froze in a death grip on the AK-47’s trigger until the magazine was spent and the bolt clicked onto an open chamber. As he stumbled under weak knees into a sitting position, he dropped his weapon, never knowing the origin of the rounds that were ending his life. With a short low scream that turned quickly into a hard grunt, the gunner fell onto his back while clutching his guts in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood that surged warm and steaming into his hands.

The man on the left was dispatched by two heavy rounds that roared within a millisecond of each other from the mouth of Bolan’s Desert Eagle. The steel-jacketed rounds caught the guy midchest, tossing him like a rag doll into the brush alongside the tracks where he landed on his back, arms outstretched.

On the bridge above, the men standing next to the SUV searched for the source of gunfire but, before they could locate it, Bolan’s flatbed passed under their position and he became shielded from their weapons by the cargo strapped to the car behind him. Cursing, they scrambled to the other side of the bridge and watched the cars passing underneath. Two of the four opened fire with their Uzis, hosing the flatbeds with a steady stream of 9 mm rounds that sparked and whined as they ricocheted off the metal couplings and tracks.

Once he was beyond their position, Bolan quickly holstered his weapons and pulled himself out from under the railroad car. He peered around the edge of the bullet-riddled canvas in time to see four men dropping from the bridge onto the cargo-laden flatbed three down the line from his. The fixed wooden stocks on their Uzis told Bolan they were carrying older models, but even the earliest versions were formidable killing machines.

The men were obviously planning to work their way forward until they came to Bolan’s position. As he visualized his attackers working as a team, covering one another with a forward wall of lead while advancing up both sides of the cargo on each flatbed, Bolan knew there was a strong possibility they’d successfully reach him.

He scrambled to the other side of his car and peered around the corner. A hail of bullets ripped the canvas directly in front of his face, causing him to pull back out of their line of fire. But in the short seconds before he ducked behind cover, he had seen enough to know his pursuers were employing the exact tactic he suspected. One of them had already begun inching along the outside of their cargo load.

A trestle passed overhead, and Bolan began counting. Switching the fire selector on his Beretta to the 3-round burst mode, he reached around the side of the shredded tarp and pressed the trigger, exposing no more than his hand for a few seconds. The triburst forced the gunners to duck, giving him the seconds he needed to sneak another quick look. The man halfway up the side of the flatbed directly behind Bolan’s had been hit in the upper chest and was holding on for dear life to a rope laced across the cargo. Bolan fired another 3-round burst, and the man’s head exploded in a crimson bloom of brain matter and bone splinters that splashed onto the canvas tarp. As the man’s lifeless body slid to the ground, his legs fell at an angle onto the tracks where they were severed by the train’s heavy steel wheels as cleanly as if by a guillotine.

A return volley made Bolan pull back behind the cargo, but not before he saw the trestle pass over the end of their car. He had counted to thirty-two from the time the trestle passed over his head until he saw it clear the car where his attackers crouched. He lunged to the other side of his car and fired a few bursts down the left side of the train, reloaded, then jumped back to the right side and repeated the action. For the time being, his opponents were remaining behind the cover of their cargo.

Bolan leaped to his full standing position, grabbing a quick look across the top of the tarps. As he had expected, his movement was met with a blizzard of lead that forced him back down, but not before registering the angle at which one of the men was climbing onto the top of the cargo. With the same technique he had used for the assailant trying to rush the side of the flatbed, Bolan fired above the tarps without looking, thereby giving his foes the smallest target possible by only exposing his hand for the few seconds it took to press the Beretta’s trigger. The howls and shrieks of fury immediately reaching his ears told him he had found his mark. Stealing a quick glance over the tarp, he saw his opponent fall from the top of the cargo before the remaining two forced Bolan down with a spray of bullets.

Bolan fingered the remaining magazines in his combat belt while considering his options. By randomly firing quick bursts along the sides and over the top of the cargo loads without giving his enemies more than a second to return fire, Bolan knew he could keep them pinned down, preventing them from rushing his position. It was a classic Mexican standoff, but they had all the time in the world to wait until he ran out of ammo.

Holstering the Beretta, he unhooked an M-68 fragmentation grenade from his web belt and reached into the pouch containing the grappling hook he had used to jump the train. The thin cord was still knotted in place, cinched tight onto the hook by the strain of pulling him on board. While keeping a lookout for the next trestle that the train would pass under, Bolan tied the apple-shaped grenade to the cord’s free end, sliding the knot so the hook hung about three feet from the explosive. He set the fuse for slightly longer than thirty seconds, pulled the pin and held the grenade in his right hand while he drew the Beretta with his left.

Scrambling from side to side, he fired 3-round volleys first from the right side, then from the left, keeping his attackers crouched behind the canvas-covered freight loaded onto their flatbed. When the next trestle was passing over him, Bolan tossed the grappling hook above the rusted crossbeam. The grenade’s safety lever fell free as the hook looped around the trestle, leaving the M-68 dangling on the thin cord like a tiny piñata a few inches above the flatbed’s cargo.

Bolan continued firing on each side of the railroad car to keep his opponents in place while he counted the seconds. When he reached twenty-eight, he looked above the top edge of his tarp and saw that his timing was perfect. The dangling grenade exploded at the exact moment it fell between cars, its thunderous percussion blowing his two enemies from the train.

As the bridge holding the SUV faded into the distance, the Executioner leaned against the boxes of freight and reloaded his Beretta before holstering the weapon. The tracks were beginning to ascend, which meant they were approaching the mountains where he had left his car.

The twin locomotives slowed considerably to cope with the rising grade, giving Bolan ample opportunity to pick an ideal spot to disembark. He hit the ground running, his momentum quickly propelling him away from the train toward a heavily wooded ridge that rose steeply on both sides of the tracks. Having studied topographical maps of the surrounding area before coming in, he knew exactly where he was. Beyond the ridge he now faced, a treacherous coastal road wound up and over the mountains, eventually leading inland to Derry. His car was about a mile up that road.

Bolan leaned into the hillside, rapidly putting distance between himself and the train. As he ran through the woods, he pondered the threat posed by the men in the SUV. He had killed nine of their number, but, judging from their inferiority when engaged in combat, he doubted if they were actual members of the new splinter group threatening the United States. These men were most likely local hoodlums, hired by the Apprentices for the sole purpose of killing whomever came for Oxford’s remains.

Whether or not the survivors would try to find him to avenge their losses was an open question. If they feared they might be killed for failing, or, if payment was contingent on success, they could very well be scouring the roads at this moment, looking for their quarry.

When he came to the edge of the woods where the road began, Bolan dropped to one knee to get his bearings. Rather than proceed on the asphalt where he could be surprised by a vehicle coming around one of numerous blind corners, he decided he would remain about ten yards into the woods. Out of habit, he did a quick touch-check of his weapons before heading off.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the spot where his Land Rover sat, pulled safely off the road in one of the deep cutouts into the cliff. The vehicle was as Bolan had left it the evening before, a red dashboard light blinking a pattern that told him the car had remained untouched.

As he put the car into gear and pulled out of the cutout onto the road, he glanced at his watch. 6:00 a.m., and the sun was high in the sky.

The tires of the Land Rover gripped the weathered blacktop, propelling him upward on the twisty mountain road. Even with the surface dry and clean, going was dangerous. The asphalt hugged the side of the mountain like a ribbon pulled taut, with turns so tight that no more than a hundred feet of road was visible at any given time. To make matters worse, the grade was getting steeper, affording heart-stopping views over the side of the mountain where hundreds of feet below, surf crashed in a bluish green foam against the rocks.

It was during one of the jackknife turns that hung out over the water, giving Bolan a view of the road winding along the mountainside below him, that he saw the SUV. It was about a quarter of the way down the mountain, coming fast on a straight stretch before it turned out of sight to twist and meander before it would emerge on the road a little higher.

Not knowing if they had spotted him, Bolan increased his pressure on the gas pedal. The vehicle surged forward, spitting loose gravel off to the side. He was about five miles from the spot where the road turned inland. Once he got there, he’d be able to open up and leave his pursuers in the dust.

He rounded a curve, his back tires sliding into a fishtail. Bolan tapped lightly on the brakes to control the skid as a 90 mm rocket whizzed by ten feet in front of him. The projectile slammed into the hillside, sending an explosion of small boulders and dirt into the road. Bolan swerved to avoid the rockfall, his tires screaming as they lay heavy rubber tracks onto the tar while grabbing for traction.

The SUV was on a flat vista higher up the mountain than Bolan thought it would be, making him realize his enemies were in a faster vehicle than his. His original plan to speed away once the trail became level needed serious revision. Finding himself out on a flat track in front of a faster vehicle armed with rockets was not a scenario Bolan could allow to develop.

The road twisted out over the water, and Bolan touched the gas pedal to race around the exposed curve. As he did, he glanced to the cutout vista on the mountainside below. A man knelt next to the SUV, a 90 mm recoilless rifle resting on his shoulder. He fired, and a fireball flashed from the end of the tube. The sound reached Bolan’s ears a second later, only to be immediately swallowed by the eardrum-throbbing explosion occurring three feet behind his vehicle as his quick burst of speed whipped the Land Rover around the corner and out of sight.

With a faster vehicle and heavy armament, Bolan’s enemies held the upper hand. His mind racing, he hugged the edge of the mountain as he sped into a straightaway leading to another curve extending out over the water.

Bolan came through the curve, immediately after which the road turned sharply upward next to a large grotto. It was almost as deep as the one where he’d left the Land Rover the night before, and, as soon as he passed, Bolan stomped on the brakes. The vehicle skidded and shimmied to a spot just past the cutout. Bolan dumped the transmission into Reverse and pealed backward into the grotto, the hood of his vehicle extending a few feet onto the blacktop. If he went straight forward, he’d cross the road and go over the cliff.

Bolan put the car into Park, got out and slammed his shoulder into the side mirror, snapping it off. Using his combat knife, he cut the wires protruding from the mirror assembly and pulled it free.

The sound of the ocean crashing into the rocky shore hundreds of feet below could be heard when he ran into the middle of the road where he positioned the mirror. He sprinted back behind the curve and crouched next to the Land Rover and looked into the mirror’s reflection. It was placed correctly to give him a view around the corner of the road approaching the bend.

Bolan opened the driver’s door and, while kneeling next to the car and leaning in, wedged his combat knife between the accelerator and seat so that the gas pedal was pushed to the floor. As the engine raced, he pressed down on the brake with all his strength and shifted into Drive, holding the car’s horsepower in check with one arm. Keeping his eyes riveted to the reflection in the mirror he had placed in the middle of the road, he held steady while beads of sweat broke out across his brow.

The kill would be quick, one way or the other. The SUV would come tearing around the corner. If Bolan was fast enough, he’d release the Land Rover’s brake, allowing his vehicle to bolt from the cutout and crash into his pursuers as they came abreast, knocking them over the side. It was a desperate plan that required perfect timing.

The Land Rover lurched forward an inch, and Bolan pressed harder on the brake pedal, his muscles cramping under the strain. Drops of stinging sweat trickled into his eyes as he waited patiently for his enemies. Despite the agony that screamed from within his arm and shoulder, he willed himself to push harder, controlling the car that surged under his hands like an energy-charged Thoroughbred at the starting gate.

The SUV suddenly appeared in the mirror, coming fast around the curve. A split second later, it was in front of the grotto, its engine racing against the elevation. Bolan released the brake and fell backward as his vehicle surged forward, smashing into the SUV’s passenger side.

Shrieks of twisting metal and screaming tires filled the air. The Land Rover roared forward, pushing the SUV sideways. The vehicle’s driver reacted to the surprise crash by hitting his brakes, which had the effect of giving the Land Rover better leverage as it thrust forward, back tires spinning and smoking, propelling the vehicle toward the edge of the cliff.

When the entwined cars reached the brink, they balanced precariously above the void, as if deciding whether to go over the side. In the SUV’s backseat, two men, their faces reflecting the terror of their situation, began scrambling over each other in an attempt to find the door handle on the side not smashed by the Land Rover. But, before they could grasp it, the laws of physics intervened and the two vehicles plunged over the side, falling through the air for three or four long seconds before crashing onto the rocks below. There was a brief silence before both cars exploded, generating sound waves that merged and echoed as one across the Irish countryside.

Bolan rose from his position and peered over the edge. He was sweaty and breathing hard, but he had bested the enemy. Sliding his hand into his shirt pocket, he fingered Oxford’s molar and the three medals he had taken from the men at the ambush site.

He had won this particular battle, but the Executioner had no doubt that this war was just beginning.