Читать книгу Desert Fallout - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Bullets slammed into the stone column Bolan crouched behind. The mystery commandos surrounded the veteran warrior. Alone and outnumbered, he scanned for an angle where the enemy’s rifles hadn’t filled the air with blazing-hot steel-cored slugs.

During his career, the Executioner had found himself backed into many corners by overwhelming enemy forces, so much so that one part of his mind always sought escape routes from any location or situation. Countless hours of practical experience had ingrained a situational awareness that would give him the means of evasion once an emergency presented itself.

The eruption of bullets against the face of one stone showed Bolan that there was a two-foot gap, close to the ground. Thought was action for the lone soldier, and he tucked his rifle flat to his chest. In another heartbeat, his long, muscular legs propelled him into that gap, his tattered cloak flapping behind him and jerking as rifle rounds tore through its fabric. Nothing struck Bolan’s back or lower limbs, and with serpentine agility and speed, he slithered along the ground and out of the path of enemy gunfire. He could hear shouts of communication among his Arabic-speaking opponents. They knew he’d moved out of the pocket they’d tried to sew him into with full-auto fire as their needle and thread.

Bolan didn’t spare their consternation another thought, seeing another furrow in the earth that would allow him to run while maintaining cover. He somersaulted into the crease and got his feet beneath him. After two long strides, he felt the air shake as a hand grenade detonated behind him. His improvised camouflage cape shuddered as it absorbed a wave of shrapnel that would have been deadly had Bolan not gotten enough distance between himself and the explosion. It was an uncomfortable set of factors that spared the soldier’s life for a few moments more, but he charged on, unhooking one of his own explosive eggs from his harness.

With a deft turn and a hard throw, Bolan sailed his grenade at the torso of an enemy gunman who scrambled into view. The baseball-size knot of steel and RDX crunched against the man’s goggles, cracking them and knocking him onto his back. Moments later, the fuse ticked down to zero and detonated. Arms and legs were thrown into the air in a grisly display of carnage. Shreds of human tissue vomited upward in a column of debris that would rain down once gravity overcame their initial acceleration.

Bolan knew he’d taken down one more of the enemy, but given the skills of the group, he wasn’t going to take that as a major victory. They were simply too good to take for granted. He skidded to a halt and dropped prone while facing the direction he’d just come from. The collapse to the dirt was swift, and his tattered blanket settled over his flat form. The crunch of racing boots sounded in the distance, and Bolan swung the barrel of his AK toward the noise. He had his weapon aimed, and one eye on the front sight, but his ears were open and his peripheral vision was peeled in order to keep from being flanked. He was still outnumbered and outgunned.

A crunch off to Bolan’s left spurred him to roll onto his side, transitioning from the rifle to one of his sidearms. Aside from the AK and the Beretta, Bolan liked to have a handgun with considerable penetration and power. Normally, that was the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, but the rapid trip to the Sinai had left him needing a locally acquired alternative. His substitute was a Smith & Wesson .45 Military and Police with a 10-shot magazine. A hooded, goggle-wearing commando head appeared where Bolan had aimed the hand cannon, and he pulled the trigger, spearing a 230-grain round-nosed slug through his pursuer’s face. The goggles vaporized, along with the man’s eyes, and he flopped backward out of sight.

The bellow of the polymer handgun’s discharge slowed the approaching boot stomps. Unfortunately for the pair of mercenaries, their forward advance hadn’t halted soon enough to save both of them. Bolan had kept his AK trained on the spot he’d expected them to appear, and now that the enemy was in sight, he held down the trigger on the Kalashnikov. A snarl of full-auto fire raked across the upper thighs and groin of one of the mystery gunmen. Heavy, steel-cored slugs shattered the rifleman’s femurs and pelvis while other rounds tore through femoral arteries. The sputtering roar of the AK was a death sentence for the gunner, and he toppled into a thrashing heap.

The second of the killers managed to throw himself back toward cover. His reflexes had helped him to avoid the relentless, merciless slash of bullets that had taken down his partner. Bolan would have been tempted to go after the escaping gunman, but a hand grenade clanked on the stone furrow he was in, thrown by a third mercenary who hadn’t jolted out into the open. With his own reactions honed by countless battles, the Executioner hurled himself out of the gully, rolling on the flat ground as the fragger went off. In his tumble to escape the shrapnel and shock wave, the AK was torn from his grasp.

Bolan didn’t bother to retrieve the assault rifle, both hands clasping around the grip of the Smith & Wesson .45. He rolled to one knee, maintaining a low profile out in the open. Two more grenades sailed from the crack, and Bolan scrambled to the cover of a low mount of stone. Thunderous booms resounded from the double blast, jarring the soldier’s ears, but the concussive energy wasn’t strong enough to do more than momentarily disorient him. With practiced wisdom, Bolan lay still behind the mound, allowing the plumes of dust and smoke from the explosions to obscure his presence.

He heard the enemy conversing, wishing he had enough of a grasp of Arabic to pinpoint the style of speech. They could have been emissaries of any of a half-dozen governments, from Syria to Pakistan, and only their cold-blooded execution of hostages had dispelled any qualms Bolan would have had for gunning them down. Even if they were a “friendly” government’s death squad, Egypt or Saudi Arabia, they were heartless murderers, and as such had earned the cleansing flames of his wrath.

Bolan noticed the man he’d shot in the face, sprawled on the ground not far from him. To replace his fallen rifle, he made a crablike scurry on all fours toward the fallen assault weapon. With a quick scoop, he retrieved it, a Steyr AUG A-3. He tore the pouch holder off the dead man’s thigh. It felt half-empty, but it was still more ammunition than none at all. With the straps clattering on the stone, he made enough noise to draw the attention of the enemy riflemen, but by the time they focused on the sound, Bolan had reached the cover of the outcropping he’d initially hidden behind. Bullets speared into the ground where he’d been only seconds earlier.

The Executioner shouldered the rifle and tapped the trigger lightly. Unfortunately, the assault rifle he’d acquired had no selector switch; only the position of his finger on the trigger shifted the cyclic rate from semi-auto to full-auto. His tap on the trigger was to release a 5.56 mm round on a single shot. He needed to conserve ammunition, and at this close range, he was able to kill an opponent with a single shot, though he wasn’t going to stick around for long. He popped a round toward a standing figure, causing him to retreat. Another pair of quick taps induced a salvo of enemy rifles to erupt, spraying the area where they had seen his muzzle-flash.

Bolan faked an agonized cry. It was a convincing ploy, and the warrior slithered along the ground. The enemy commandos had unintentionally kicked up new, thicker clouds of debris and dust that concealed Bolan as he slithered back into the gully. The sun had descended lower in the sky, and the long shadows cast by the ridge to the west had given the battleground between the Executioner and his enemy plenty of places for Bolan to conceal himself. The patches of darkness and the obfuscating clouds worked both ways, unfortunately. He needed to keep his senses sharp in order to continue his retreat.

Bolan needed some information, which meant one more retrieval. He stayed low and rushed toward where he’d seen a specific part of a grenade-blasted corpse drop. While the enemy was busy making certain that the Executioner was down for the count, Bolan decided to give himself a hand. Specifically, he grabbed up the severed forearm of the commando he’d taken out with a high-explosive blast. The tattered remnant would give him some fingerprints in order to identify at least the origins of this enemy force. He didn’t need the whole limb, but for now, he’d carry it.

It was time to get back to Kamau and Metit, before the Somali giant’s sense of duty brought him back to pitch in on this fight. Bolan wasn’t a moment too soon as he spotted the tall, powerful form of Kamau crouched in the shadows, AK at the ready. The two men made eye contact, and Bolan hand-signaled his colleague to remain concealed. Kamau nodded.

Behind him, Bolan could hear the commandos as they conversed with one another. They had halted their advance on Bolan’s former position. The clouds had dissipated, and he could see them clearly, despite his presence in the shadows providing his own concealment. It wouldn’t last long.

Kamau looked anxious, but he held his ground. This was going to be a stealth extraction. Rotors thumped in the distance, indicating that the mystery commandos were about to extract. They had to make a choice between finishing off Bolan, or grabbing the weapon they had killed dozens for.

The enemy began an orderly retreat back to the camp, making their decision quickly apparent. From the shape of the helicopters in the sky, Bolan could tell that there was at least a transport as well as a smaller, more agile craft with lethal armament providing escort. The presence of the escort bird or birds would mean trouble for Bolan and Kamau if they had infrared optics on board, but it wasn’t an insurmountable problem.

Bolan rushed to Kamau’s side, holding his grisly prize. “Where’s Metit?”

“I dropped her off in a cave fifty yards that way,” Kamau said. “Those helicopters convinced me that I made the right choice.”

“Is it big enough for the three of us?” Bolan asked.

“And then some,” Kamau answered.

“Then let’s get out of sight of any eyes in the sky,” Bolan offered.

The two men didn’t have to debate it further. Already, both Bolan and Kamau could see the dark, bug-like forms of the enemy helicopters in the distance. The Executioner had been tempted to pull out his binoculars to get a better glimpse of the three aircraft, but to do so would be to court death. Even without advanced optics, the helicopters would be able to see him once they advanced, getting closer to the two men on the ground. Right now, their only saving grace was that they were out of naked eyesight range and in the shadows of the swift-flying specks in the sky.

What he did see, however, was disheartening. There was one transport helicopter and two smaller escorts. The smaller craft were undoubtedly armed or packing more commandos to replace the several that Bolan had eliminated. If they were of the same caliber as the ones the Executioner had battled, then there was no doubt that he would be pushed harder, especially with eyes in the sky assisting in tracking down the warrior and those he’d sworn to protect.

The difficulty of dealing with enemy aircraft was just too much to surmount with the firepower and numbers he had on his side. Right now, all he could do was hide, and hope that he could catch up with the opposition later. He had the hand and the fingerprints, which hopefully would give him an indication of who the enemy was.

Bolan and Kamau scurried into the cave, Metit watching them wide-eyed in shock as the two were in full retreat. She bit her upper lip and looked at Bolan.

“I hear helicopters,” she whispered.

“We’re staying out of sight,” Bolan said. “It doesn’t look as if we’ve got to worry about too much trouble sticking around.”

“The gunfight?” Metit asked.

“It was touch-and-go for a while. I did enough to convince them to evacuate as soon as possible,” Bolan explained.

Outside, the unmistakable thunder of a heavy machine-gun salvo slashed down from the sky. A storm of lead tore at the ground, eventually a line of bullets clawing up the ground in front of their cave. Bolan and Kamau shielded Metit from the flying debris kicked up by the bursts of heavy slugs striking the earth. Bolan gritted his teeth as rocks and pebbles bounced off his back, pelting him relentlessly. Kamau grimaced as the leaden rain ceased. “Fifties.”

“Something in that range,” Bolan agreed. He looked at the roof of the cave, and gave a silent thank-you to the cliff that had shielded them. “If they swing around and go on a second strafing run, we don’t have enough cave to get out of its way.”

Metit’s lips had drawn tight into a bloodless line. She was getting close to the breaking point. This was going to be too much for the young woman, so close on the heels of her torturous captivity and the murders of so many of her friends. Bolan reached out and squeezed her hand, giving her an emotional anchor. Her smoldering, beautiful eyes glinted in the shadows of the cave, and he nodded to her. He’d shield her against the nightmares swarming outside on the plateau.

He allowed the young woman to bury her face in the crook of his neck, his strong, muscular arm wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, providing warmth and comfort against the maelstrom of horror that plucked at her nerves. The rumbling thud of helicopter rotors made the shadows vibrate, and he could feel Metit whimper.

Though it was just an arm, muscle stretched tautly over bone, sheathed in tough, rip-proof nylon, Bolan’s embrace was a spiritual fortress for Metit. The shudder of her sobs had disappeared, and even the clawlike grasp she had dug into Bolan’s sides had loosened.

It was several long, nerve-racking minutes that finally faded with the retreat of the helicopters’ rotors.

Kamau looked toward Bolan. “Stay with her. I’ll take a look outside.”

Bolan made a face at the suggestion, but the big Ethiopian held up his hand. “She’s practically glued to you, Cooper. I’ll be careful.”

“All right,” Bolan replied. His jaw set as he waited. Metit finally pried her face from where she’d buried it against his chest.

“You can go if you want to,” she whispered.

Bolan shook his head. “Too many scouts can betray our presence here. I’ll let Kamau do his recon.”

“I’m sorry,” Metit offered.

“For what?” Bolan asked. “You did fine.”

“I’m a wreck,” she explained.

“You’re human,” Bolan told her, cupping her chin gently. “It’s normal to be scared, especially with all of that racket going on.”

Metit’s teary eyes glistened as she looked at Bolan.

Kamau returned, kneeling at the mouth of the cave. “The helicopters are gone, but they shot up our wheels.”

Bolan sighed. “How badly?”

“They saw through the little bit of concealment we tossed over the vehicle,” Kamau explained. “We’ll have to hike it, because I’m sure they didn’t leave any of the archaeological crew’s vehicles in any condition to use.”

“I’ll double-check,” Bolan said. “Look for supplies just in case we do have to go. We leave as soon as the sun sets, regardless of how we have to leave.”

“One more thing, Cooper. While the one helicopter was hosing down the area around our cave, the other one fired rockets into the opening of the tomb that Metit’s people had discovered,” Kamau added.

“Totally caved in?” Bolan asked.

“There’s no way the two of us could dig into there to see what’s left,” Kamau replied.

Bolan frowned. “Meanwhile, if they did need more of their ricin, they could bring in digging equipment by helicopter.”

“And enough men to make the job worthwhile,” Kamau said. “That is if they’d left anything behind.”

“It’s unlikely they could have taken all that’d been stored in there,” Bolan replied.

“Very,” Metit spoke up, her voice brittle. “We found an entire cavern lined with pots like the ones they removed, loaded with an unusual-looking form of castor bean. We had only just begun to catalog the contents when the terrorists attacked. Ricin?”

“Yes,” Bolan answered.

“That’s a deadly poison, isn’t it?” Metit asked numbly.

“It can be, but it takes a lot of processing,” Bolan explained. “Even the best military minds of the twentieth century couldn’t weaponize it.”

Metit’s brow wrinkled. “The ancient Egyptians had over a thousand years to think of something. And there are indications that they did use poisons as defenses of their tombs.”

“That kind of chemistry would have been lost to antiquity,” Kamau interjected.

“Maybe,” Bolan said, cutting off the conversation. “Kamau, we don’t have time to talk now. We’ll discuss this later.”

Kamau noted that the American’s attention was focused on the sky where the helicopters had originally approached from. The implication of his urgency was unmistakable. As soon as the transport helicopter had returned to base with its precious payload, the escort craft would race back to the camp and scour the desert in order to hunt down the lone stranger who had somehow stumbled onto their operation.

Three humans, hiking in the desert at night, would be like beacons to eyes in the sky equipped with night-vision goggles. That, plus the firepower mounted on the small, swift gunships, would outmatch even a warrior of Bolan’s skill.

Kamau realized that he’d have to work quickly in gathering gear while Cooper sought to salvage whatever transportation that they could find. Flight across the desert would have to be taken as fast as conceivably possible.

“Rashida, what kind of transportation did you have?” Bolan asked her.

“We had two large military surplus trucks to haul gear out here and whatever we found back to the university,” she answered. “The rest of us traveled by SUV.”

“All one style?” Bolan asked as Kamau busied himself searching through the camp for leftover water. Hydration was just as important as speed of escape. In the desert, especially with the kind of stress Metit had endured, the human body couldn’t maintain its performance without a fresh drink every few hours. Food wouldn’t be an issue for over a week, and Bolan and Kamau didn’t intend to take that long to get back to Alexandria.

While Kamau filled canteens for the upcoming journey, Bolan had Metit lead him toward the SUVs and the truck. The vehicles had been stored at the bottom of a cliff, but the stench of burning fuel and metal assaulted Bolan’s nostrils. The commandos had crippled the vehicles at the back of the canyon, saving their ammunition. A two-and-a-half-ton truck blocked most of the passage, nearly impossible to squeeze past. The other vehicles were in running condition, but nearly three tons of slag formed an impassable dam for them to pass. Bolan sighed and looked through the pouches in his gear.

He had several grenades, but they wouldn’t be enough to move the deuce and a half. It would take at least twenty-five pounds of C-4 to shove the truck, or at least break it down into small enough pieces to drive around. Just to be certain, Bolan examined the other two-and-a-half-ton, grimacing as his flashlight revealed damage to the truck’s electrical system. It wouldn’t start, and it was the only thing strong enough to plow past the wrecked hulk blocking their swift exit.

Kamau came down to join them, laden with three rucksacks. “We’ve got five gallons of potable water.”

Bolan nodded. “We don’t have a way out of this canyon with this junk blocking the way.”

“How about we drive over it?” Metit asked. “We’ve got wood and planks back at the camp. Just make an improvised ramp.”

Bolan and Kamau shared a grin at the simplicity of the woman’s suggestion. “We don’t have time to tell you that you’re brilliant, Rashida. Just know that you are.”

The two big men ran back to the camp after they made certain that there was at least one well-fueled vehicle that could start. Secure in the knowledge that they had a working set of replacement wheels, Bolan and his partner checked the two trucks. They managed to find four sturdy planks of wood used as loading and unloading ramps for the transports. Kamau tested one of them with his weight, knowing that if it flexed under only three hundred pounds of human, it’d be useless for the Peugeot jeep they’d chosen as their escape vehicle.

“Did it bend?” Kamau asked.

“Just a shade,” Bolan said. “But we can brace it if we move quickly. We’ll also lash two of the planks together for one wheel.”

“Good idea,” Kamau replied. “How long do you think we have before the helicopters return?”

Bolan frowned. “Judging by the rigor of the victims, the commandos struck about three hours before the other craft showed up, but we could simply be dealing with perhaps a two-hour lead time so that they could do their job.”

“They may have been dropped off by the same helicopters. Call it twenty minutes to a staging area?” Kamau asked.

“Most likely,” Bolan said. He tipped over a drum, then placed one plank atop it. Kamau immediately set to work wrapping cable around it and a second plank sandwiched to it. Bolan walked up the ramp, feeling how solid it was beneath his feet. “Looks solid enough.”

“A forty-minute round trip, and we’ve burned about twelve minutes so far,” Kamau replied. “Give us another eight to work up the next ramp?”

“Add in refueling time,” Bolan said. “No way the escort birds are going out on a sortie to gun us down without enough fuel for a wide-ranging patrol. We may have more than a half hour to get moving.”

“And out of range, but this isn’t a paved road,” Kamau mentioned.

Bolan and Kamau planted a second drum, taking two minutes to brace it in place with dirt before they struggled their other ramp into position. “Whatever the case, we’ll have wheels. I’ll drive.”

“You’ll drive, but what could I shoot at a helicopter on our tail?” Kamau asked.

“If it gets to shooting, we’re as good as dead, but I’ve got the captured Steyr and you have your AK,” Bolan offered. “It’ll be nothing compared to the range of the helicopters’ guns, so we need to get far away.”

“So you drive like a madman,” Kamau returned.

Bolan frowned. The Somali didn’t seem convinced. He didn’t want to risk Metit’s life, even if he were callous enough to be cavalier with Kamau’s safety. “Think these will last for three SUVs over them?”

“What are you thinking?” Kamau asked.

“The aircraft will be flying the same route back to this camp, so they’ll be coming from the north,” Bolan explained. “You get a head start, and I’ll lag behind, playing lame duck.”

“You’ll be bait,” Kamau stated.

“You need to get Rashida to safety. I’ll meet with you in Alexandria.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Metit asked, walking up on their conversation.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Bolan told her.

“I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to change his mind,” Kamau told the woman. “We don’t have time to debate this.”

Metit looked to Bolan, then threw her arms around his neck, hugging him. “Be careful.”

“You too, kiddo,” Bolan answered. “Godspeed, Kamau.”

He turned to prepare his SUV for the coming trial.