Fireburst

by Don Pendleton

  “Then the ball is in the air,” Kirkland said, turning off the XM-214 to save battery power. “How soon do you think it’ll be before they hit?”

  “Immediately, if not sooner,” Bolan said, removing the magazine from the Black Arrow to start thumbing in fresh rounds. “So we better get ready. A hard rain is coming.”

  “It’s not the rain that worries me,” Montenegro said, looking upward.

  Past the lacy canopy of tree branches, the blue sky was clear of any clouds. But in the distance, thunder softly rumbled, and everybody redoubled their efforts to get ready for the coming maelstrom.

  * * *

  MAJOR ARMANJANI STOOD AT THE railing staring at the Sea of Japan. He felt a presence at his side.

  “What is it?” the major demanded.

  “The White Tigers have claimed responsibility for our attack on Mossad,” Lieutenant Nasser replied.

  “Who did you say?” he demanded in confusion.

  “The White Tigers, sir. A small terrorist unit that operates in Sri Lanka.”

  “And for this you bother me?” the major snarled in annoyance. “Broadcast a denial, then kill them.”

  “Sir…I… That is… Sir, the Yakuza believe them and have canceled the deal,” Nasser replied quickly. “They warn us never to contact them again, or else.”

  “They dare to warn me?” Inhaling sharply, Armanjani did nothing for a long moment.

  “Meet me in Control in five minutes!” he snarled. “Bring me everything we have on these people, and get the satellites ready!”

  “Which ones, sir?”

  “All of them!” Armanjani bellowed, starting up the metal stairs. “Every fucking one we have!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  White Tiger Base, Sri Lanka

  Going back to the Saracen APC, Bolan and the others drove a safe distance from the terrorist campsite then parked on the sloping side of a grassy hill.

  “We should have a grand view of the lightning strikes,” Montenegro said, turning off the engine. “After which all we have to do is… Shit!”

  “Now, I’d do that first, if I was you,” Kirkland quipped, then the smile left his face as he caught a distant movement. “Aw, fuck me running, Matt! Friendlies, seven o-clock!”

  Grabbing a set of binoculars, Bolan stepped to a gunport and looked in that direction. Following the path of crushed plants left behind by the Saracen was the platoon of Sri Lankan soldiers, closely followed by a big 4x6 BMW truck. Obviously, they had heard the gunfight and were coming to investigate. They were heading straight for the terrorist camp and right into oblivion. It was pure bad luck, and there was nothing they could really do about that. Except…maybe…

  “Okay, we have no choice,” Bolan growled, turning on his transceiver. “We have to lure them away from the terrorist camp!”

  “That BMW can move a lot faster than this Saracen,” Montenegro stated, tucking an earbud into place. “We’re going to have to use the bikes!”

  “They’re trained in jungle warfare,” Kirkland said, stuffing grenades into his pockets. “No way we’re going to outfox them without speed!”

  “Okay, use the bikes!” Bolan declared. “We have to get them far away from here, or they’re all going into the ground.”

  “Three against fifty,” Kirkland muttered, sliding on a throat mike and transceiver. “Time to see just how good we are!”

  “See you in hell, handsome!” Montenegro said, awkwardly rolling a BMW motorcycle out of the APC.

  “You, too, babe,” Kirkland answered in unaccustomed frankness. He started to add something more, but the woman was already disappearing into the bushes.

  “Now, what makes you think she was talking to you?” Bolan asked, leaving by the side door.

  “Bite me, Matt.” Kirkland chuckled under his breath. Pushing a BMW out of the APC, he kicked the machine alive. The engine started with a soft purr barely discernable above the murmur of the nearby river. He drove across the hillside before switching on the microgun.

  As the six barrels spun into operational speed, Kirkland braced himself on the bike to help steady his aim, then squeezed the firing handle and unleashed a whining stream of high-velocity rounds.

  Barely visible in the mixture of shadows and sunlight, the fusillade of 5.56 bullets chewed a path of destruction across the jungle to eat a deep hole in a thick teak tree, bark and wood chips flying everywhere.

  Even before the soldiers had a chance to respond, the colossal tree began to tilt and groan. Creaking loudly, it toppled over and crashed directly down on the hood of the BMW truck. The windshield and headlights shattered as both front tires blew. Nosing into the dirt, the truck rammed to a halt, the driver slamming into the steering wheel and rebounding, her lips bloody and several teeth missing.

  “Better than dying,” Bolan muttered, marking his targets through the powerful scope on the sniper rifle. This next part was going to be tricky… .

  The vehicle was still rocking when a dozen men and women armed with American-made M-16 assault rifles poured out of the back. They hit the ground running, and separated, preventing their unseen enemy the opportunity to fire on a group target.

  “Damn, they’re good,” Montenegro said over the earbuds.

  “Be better,” Bolan commanded sternly, then added, “Best of luck.”

  “You, too, Matt!” Montenegro muttered, lurching into motion even as she fired several bursts from the Neostead straight up into the air.

  Moving low and fast, the soldiers assumed a combat formation and quickly secured anchor points behind a pair of trees, while the rest surged forward. But nobody fired a weapon.

  Kneeling behind a giant fern, Bolan grunted. They weren’t frightened or firing blind. These were combat veterans, and that just made the situation ten times more difficult.

  With no choice, Bolan set the crosshairs on the biggest person he could find in the platoon, a burly woman wearing the chevrons of a sergeant. Aiming carefully, he squeezed off a round and saw blood spray from her shoulder. The soldier staggered and fell, then rose again, a Beretta firing in her undamaged hand.

  It was only a flesh wound, but that should be enough to make the others nervous. Moving slowly and cautiously, the soldiers were a serious threat. Angry and charging, they were more dangerous, but could be directed where to go. Hopefully.

  “Good shooting there, Tex,” Kirkland said, into his throat mike. “Don’t think I could have made that shot.”

  “Not unless you were aiming for her head,” Montenegro retorted, stopping the purring bike in a stand of ferns before thumbing fresh cartridges into the Neostead. She then aimed and fired in a single motion. The 12-gauge shell slammed into a tree and violently exploded, sending out a halo of sizzling flames. Rapidly, she added five more rounds, creating a crude firewall off to the side.

  Instantly, the Sri Lankan soldiers swept around the barrier and charged into the jungle in the wrong direction.

  “Heather, you’re a genius!” Kirkland laughed.

  “She told you that years ago,” Bolan whispered, stroking the trigger of the Black Arrow.

  The first 700-grain round slammed through a burning tree, but the next hit the hood of the BMW truck. The metal crumpled like a used tissue. He fired again at an angle, and the side of the truck dented deep as thick oil pumped onto the ground like greasy blood.

  “That’s not going anywhere soon,” Kirkland stated, as the Sri Lankan soldiers cut loose with their
assault rifles in the wrong direction.

  Dividing into teams of three, the men and women swarmed through the thick plant life, using every possible bit of cover as they raced deeper into the jungle and soon vanished from sight.

  However, the soldiers continued to fire their weapons as if carrying an unlimited supply of ammunition. Birds and monkeys voiced their strong disapproval of the actions.

  “Anybody in the truck?” Bolan asked, moving to a new position.

  “Can’t tell for sure,” Montenegro said, then she cursed and the Neostead fired.

  “Report!” Kirkland barked.

  “There…was a…’gator…in the river,” Montenegro panted breathlessly.

  “Was?”

  “Deader than disco, brother.”

  “Groovy.”

  “Unfortunately, our new friends heard your handiwork,” Bolan said, watching some of the soldiers heading that way. “Okay, both of you join up near the river, then separate again. Lead them as far away from here as possible! Keep them moving at all costs! If you get captured, go peacefully and I’ll bust you out of jail at midnight!”

  “Sounds like fun.” Kirkland sighed. “Okay, sweet pea, let’s dance for the man!”

  “Never call me that again!” Montenegro snarled, the bike lurching into action as the Neostead ripped off a fast series of shots into the air.

  As tattered leaves rained down from a tree, the Sri Lankan soldiers charged in that direction, then Bolan heard the XM-214 whine into operation, and a tree was cut in two to come crashing down directly in their path. Scrambling out of the way, the soldiers took cover and responded with a flurry of gunfire.

  Moving away from the camp of the White Tigers, Montenegro and Kirkland zigzagged through the jungle, driving like madmen, only pausing to maintain the sham battle. Carefully aimed grenades rained down to decimate whole sections of the jungle. The Sri Lankan soldiers arched around the explosions, and accelerated their running advance.

  As the sounds of combat faded into the distance, Bolan hid his BMW inside a copse of trees and took refuge in the bushes. He knew that the tree offered no protection from a lightning strike, but he felt sure that Kirkland and Montenegro would continue the mission if he didn’t make it. The bikes had been a last-minute addition, but without them it would be impossible to get the job done.

  Thunder rumbled in the clear sky, and Bolan snapped up his head just in time to see a bright flash as a lightning bolt arched down from the clear sky to hit the terrorist camp. The radio shack exploded into splinters, flaming debris flying away hundreds of yards.

  Using his cell phone, Bolan took some pictures, then a solid bar of lightning slammed into the camp. The bolt of crackling electricity moved through the camp, annihilating everything in its path. The ground melted into bubbling lava, trees exploding as the sap inside boiled, and mounds of green vegetation burst into smoky flames.

  Still taking pictures, Bolan had to admit that he had never seen anything like it, and suddenly knew just how powerful a weapon their unknown enemy possessed. Was there anything, any fortress, military base, or warship in existence that could survive such an attack? He tried not to imagine what it could do to a civilian target, such as New York, London or Paris. The death toll would be staggering. Even worse, there was no limit to their supply. These people could burn down major cities across the planet until civilization fell into savagery. Then they could come out of hiding and claim the world as their own, still armed with their doomsday weapon.

  As the lightning zigzagged along the camp, dozens of hidden land mines detonated, then a tarpaulin was blown aside to reveal a buried cache of fuel drums. They ignited simultaneously, the fireball expanding across the campsite to reach into the jungle and across the river.

  Instantly dropping the cell phone, Bolan opened his mouth and slapped both hands over his vulnerable ears to try to ride out the concussion. Half a heartbeat later, the shock wave arrived. The wall of compressed air painfully crushed his chest and threw Bolan backward into a tangle of vines. He became disoriented for a brief span, then jerked awake to the sound of land mines and other munitions cooking off like holiday firecrackers. The hammering series of violent explosions only serving to weakly counterpoint the triphammer strike of the lightning bolts.

  For an unknown length of time, Bolan’s universe was filled with deafening chaos, every hair on his body standing stiff, the fillings in his teeth growing uncomfortably hot. That was when he realized that the magnetic field of lightning had to be creating eddy currents in anything made of metal.

  Quickly, Bolan tossed away his guns, throat mike, transceiver, computerized monocular, spare ammunition and knives. Yanking a grenade out of a pocket, he could feel how warm it was, and desperately whipped the sphere as far away as possible. Then he tossed the rest, but the last one detonated before reaching the ground. The blast pounded the man hard, ripping apart his clothing, hot shrapnel peppering his ceramic body armor… .

  CHAPTER NINE

  Indian Ocean

  Deliberately leaving the bathroom door open, Lieutenant Fahada Nasser stood washing her face in the sink. Her khaki shirt and sports bra were hung from the inside doorknob. When she finished, the woman started washing her stomach, breasts and underarms. The soap was plain and unscented and lathered nicely in the spring water from the reserve tanks. The massive ship had a desalination plant that made sea water drinkable, but soap still wouldn’t lather properly in the stuff. As always, the difference between potable and drinkable was small, but significant.

  A canvas gun belt circled her trim waist, and a 9 mm Tariq pistol was holstered at her hip. Her skin was marked with numerous scars, the classic “railroad” pattern of a poorly stitched knife slash, the irregular glassy patches of old bullet holes, and the long slashes of a military caning.

  “How is it going, Kazim?” Nasser asked, drying her face on a terry cloth towel.

  “Almost there, Fahada,” Dr. Khandis replied, hunched over the control board and typing steadily on a keyboard. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and nearby was a plate of crumbs that only minutes ago had been a stack of sandwiches.

  Mounted in an arc around him, a series of submonitors scrolled binary commands while another showed his slow but steady progress. Creating a virtual-reality room was easy enough, and there had to be a backdoor for the customers to enter. It was the satellites that were tricky. He needed to switch the combined signals halfway across the globe, leaving behind false trails, doppelgänger signals and ghost echoes to outfox some of the smartest hackers alive. Now that was a challenge!

  Slinging the bra over a shoulder, Nasser strolled into the view, allowing her breasts to move freely. When the man didn’t seem to notice, she leaned over his shoulder, brushing one across his cheek. She was pleased when his ardent typing paused, and he had to backspace to clear a mistake.

  “My dear, please,” Khandis muttered glancing sideways.

  “Sorry.” Nasser chuckled, tousling his hair.

  “Apology accepted,” he said.

  “Do we have enough time…?” she asked, not finishing the question.

  “Let’s find out,” he growled eagerly.

  Just then, the intercom crackled. “Any responses yet, Doctor?” Major Armanjani asked brusquely.

  For a long moment, there was no reply.

  “Doctor, do you copy? Have there been any responses yet about the auction?” Armanjani demanded.

  “Getting in
the first results,” Khandis replied, pulling away from his lover. “The Red Star said no, but the Sicilian Mafia says yes.”

  “Excellent! Never did trust the damn Chinese anyway,” Armanjani snarled. “What about the Fifteen Families?”

  With a sigh Nasser went back to the bathroom to finish drying and get dressed.

  “The Fifteen Families say yes,” Khandis reported. “As do the Russian mob, a Colombian cartel and Hezbollah.”

  “Hezbollah?” Armanjani laughed. “Those poor bastards barely have enough funds to buy bullets. How could they possibly afford the Scimitar?”

  “They say there is enough.”

  “They lie! Ignore them. The leaders of Hezbollah are so accustomed to lying they do not know when to stop.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Is Lieutenant Nasser there by any chance?”

  “Here, sir!” she reported crisply.

  “Have you found a location for the auction yet?”

  “Yes, sir, I have,” Nasser reported, buttoning closed her shirt. “But I must again state in the strongest possible terms my objection to a physical auction. The danger is too great to risk. This should be done safely over the internet.”

  “I see,” the major said. “And what do you think, Doctor?”

  “No matter how heavily coded and hidden, any internet auction can be traced,” Khandis said, spreading his hands in an apology to the frowning woman. “It must be done in person, using the Scimitar itself to guard us from enemy action.”

  “Sir, I disagree,” Nasser declared, walking out of the bathroom. “It is much too dangerous. Remember what al Qaeda tried, and that was on our homeland!”

  “A freak occurrence of bravery,” Khandis scoffed. “After the loss of their leader, they’ve been running amuck like dogs in the gutter!”

  “Your concern touches me deeply,” Armanjani said over the speaker. “However, I agree with the good doctor. The auction will be done in person at a suitable location chosen by the lieutenant. I want the two of you working closely on the matter of security. This is your only concern. All other duties have been suspended until there is a successful climax.”