Border Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  "It ain't easy, 'specially if you want to move the blade around. I done it a few times. I'm no expert, but a little experience is better'n none, I figure."

  "You sure you want to?"

  "Hell, yes. I didn't come all the way down here to sit on the sidelines."

  "Okay, then. Hang on while I tell Randy what to do."

  "Tell Milt to ride up there with Randy, will you? No point in taking the van. If we can't do it with what we got here, we ain't gonna do it at all."

  Bolan stepped to the front of the trailer and leaned around the side of the cab to explain what he wanted. He waved Milt to the passenger side and waited until the deputy was in the cab. When he turned back, Conlan was already waiting for him in the dozer's cab.

  The Executioner climbed in and grabbed the RPG-7, loaded the first grenade and rolled down the window. Randy looked back through his rear window. On the high sign from Ray Conlan, he started the Mack's engine. Ray cranked up the diesel on the bulldozer, and the noise in the cab was deafening. The whole thing shimmied, and Bolan had to clench his teeth to keep them from rattling together.

  The truck's engine raced, and thick black smoke belched from its twin stacks. As the tractor strained forward under its heavy load, the dozer shifted uncertainly, rocking back and forth on the slack of its steel treads.

  Conlan turned to Bolan and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hold on to your hat, son," he shouted. "I want to try the controls."

  He jerked one of the three joysticks, and the dozer started to shift toward the edge of the trailer. He jerked it back the other way, and it straightened. "Wrong one, I reckon." Conlan grinned. Bolan could barely hear him over the roar of the two big diesels. He tried another joystick, and the blade began to rise in the air. "There, that's the one I'm lookin' for." He brought the blade a little higher until it hovered right in front of the windshield of the dozer's cab. They could just see the top of the hill over the upper edge of the blade.

  The old man leaned toward Bolan. "I think I'll leave her there until we get up close. A little extra cover never hurt nobody." The truck strained, and the dozer, unbalanced by the elevated blade, rocked unsteadily on the flatbed. Bolan brought his legs up and placed one foot on either corner of the windshield. He shoved, his thigh muscles bulging with the strain. The rubber seal around the glass began to move, and Bolan shoved harder. The glass started to come free and Bolan drew his feet back then kicked hard at both corners. The glass popped free and tilted outward at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Kicking down with the heels of his boots, he knocked the glass loose and it fell onto the flatbed with a tormented screech as the rubber seal tried to hold it back.

  In the tractor cab Randy Carlton wrestled with the wheel, swinging the truck into a tight arc at the foot of the hill. He hit the pedal hard, and the air brakes squealed like a stuck pig. On top of the estate wall, two men opened fire with automatic rifles. Carlton and Milt jumped from the tractor cab as the sheriff revved up the dozer. They dived under the trailer and scrambled away from the autofire chewing at their heels. The heavy rumble of the dozer made the trailer shudder, and sand sifted down from between the planks, covering their backs and shoulders with a fine grit.

  When the dozer was on the ground, Conlan worked the hydraulics with jerky precision, and the huge machine swiveled on its tracks. It started up the slope, and Bolan took aim with the first RPG round. "Drop the blade a little," he shouted over the roaring diesel, and Conlan lowered their shield enough for the warrior to fire the grenade. It slammed into the base of the wall, sending slivers of rock in every direction and a geyser of sand high into the air. The impact site was obscured by a cloud of dust as Bolan took aim with the second grenade, sending the high explosive screaming home a little higher through the heart of the cloud.

  The second blast blew the dust away for a moment, and before its own veil of smoky grit descended, the Executioner could see he'd been a little high. A ragged figure eight, tilted slightly to the right, had been blasted into the barrier. On top of the wall itself, Bolan saw several men running toward the dozer, firing their weapons wildly. The 7.62 mm hail rattled on the thick steel blade of the big Caterpillar and whined off the roof of the dozer's cab.

  Two automatic weapons began chattering behind the dozer as Milt and Randy opened up with two of the captured Uzis. The men on the parapet scrambled for cover, bobbing up and down like ducks in a shooting gallery. Bolan slammed a third grenade into the heart of the figure eight, and a sliver of daylight appeared for an instant before swirling dust wrapped the wall in another cloud.

  "Keep bangin' away at her, Mike. We'll get through. How many you got left?"

  "Three."

  Conlan didn't respond right away, gunning the dozer's engine instead and driving toward the wall with a voracious churning of its thick treads. "Bang it again, son…"

  Bolan fired the fourth grenade, and the loud crump of its impact slammed into his chest where the concussion slipped past the huge blade. Quickly taking the fifth RPG round, he aimed to the right and launched. When the last grenade was ready, he waited for the dust to settle a bit. A hole, not wide enough for the dozer, but real enough, gaped in the wall. He aimed at the right edge and shot the last grenade. It blew a huge slab off the right edge of the hole, and the top of the shattered wall collapsed and tumbled into the gap.

  "I don't know if it is wide enough, but we're gonna find out," Conlan yelled. "Hold on!"

  The dozer reached the break in the wall, and the old man lowered the blades. Carlton and Milt banged away from beneath the trailer, keeping the guards on the wall off balance. An occasional burst of 7.62 mm slugs chewed at the dozer's cab roof, but the defenders were firing blind.

  Conlan gunned the Caterpillar's big diesel, and the treads gouged the earth, throwing twin cascades of loose sand down the slope behind them. The wall creaked, but it wouldn't give. Working the controls with more confidence, the sheriff backed down the slope and swung the dozer in parallel to the base of the wall. He dug in and shoved a curling wave of earth ahead of them, stripping the soil away five feet on either side of the break. Backing up, he stripped away another layer.

  While the sheriff worked, Bolan watched the top of the wall. One guard had crept to the very edge of the break, and the warrior nailed him as he was leaning out to swing his assault rifle into position. The Skorpion clawed at flesh and snapped bone as it ripped through the guard, and he fell into the breach.

  Conlan backed up again and pivoted the bulldozer, slipping one end of the blade into the gap. He gunned the engine and reversed, hauling huge chunks of concrete and raw stone out of the ragged hole. The debris tumbled down the slope, raising a cloud of dust.

  Hooking the blade on one side just above the foundation, Conlan opened the diesel all the way. The engine groaned and the dozer started to slip sideways. As the blade was about to pull free of the wall, he backed off the gas, pivoted again, sliding the blade deeper into the gash, then slammed backward. The impact shattered a long, vertical chunk of stone free, and the blade folded it back along the wall like a huge garden gate opening on invisible hinges. With no support under it, the slab toppled over on its long edge.

  "That got it," Conlan whooped. "Let's go get 'em, boys." He swiveled the Caterpillar on its treads and charged down the slope toward the trailer. He stopped alongside the flatbed, while Randy and Milt climbed onto the engine housing.

  "Hold on to your hats," Conlan shouted, and swung the dozer around toward the break in the wall.

  Raising the blade like a giant shield, Conlan charged the cumbersome vehicle up the slope. Bolan leaned out of the cab and sprayed random fire over the top edge of the blade, but the defenders knew the autofire was wild. They raced along the wall toward the gap, gathering in two bands on either side.

  Bolan knew what they were up to, and he grasped the sheriff's shoulder. "Hold it a minute." He slipped a new clip into the Skorpion while Conlan slowed his charge. "Okay, when I tell you, drop the blade a couple
of feet for about thirty seconds."

  "Gotcha." He juiced the big diesel and suddenly jerked the hydraulic controls. The blade quivered an instant, then plunged. Bolan had a wide open field.

  As he anticipated, the hardmen weren't expecting the sudden opening. He sprayed a pair of figure eights, one to the left and one to the right, emptying the clip just as the blade began to rise again.

  "Got a few of the bastards, anyway, son," Conlan shouted. "Want me to do it again?"

  "No, they'll be expecting it now. Just go through."

  "These creep's be behind us, then."

  "Not for long," Bolan said, ramming a fresh magazine into the Skorpion.

  Turning to the rear of the cab, he rapped on the glass to get Carlton's attention. When Randy leaned down, Bolan mouthed the words "We're going in." The border patrolman nodded and shifted his grip to relay the message to Milt. As the slope under the wall flattened out, the dozer's angle flattened with it, and the two men at the rear of the cab began to fire short bursts toward the top of the wall. With the blade still elevated, Bolan didn't have a clear shot.

  Three or four bodies lay in a heap at the base of the gap, but this was no time for courtesy. The Caterpillar forged straight ahead, its blade just clearing the ragged edges on either side. Milt and Randy sprayed fire in alternating bursts, scattering the gunners.

  Clanking and rattling, the treads ripped over the broken stone, then roared through the opening. Once inside, Conlan switched controls and began to raise the blade high overhead, swinging it up until it hovered over the cab like a steel umbrella, then letting it fall toward the rear.

  Bolan jumped down from the cab, Milt joining him on the ground.

  Gesturing with one arm, the warrior explained what he wanted. On the count of three the two men charged into the open. The surprised guards on the wall were defenseless now — there was nothing for them to hide behind. Their mouths gaped in astonishment as they fell to the ground, their bodies stitched by a ragged red line.

  Two more men leaped over the wail and down to the sandy slope on the far side. They would have to wait. Bolan didn't want a war with two fronts.

  The four invaders scrambled in the dense green jungle of a garden. On the far side stood a cluster of buildings, their glass faces reflecting a hundred blankly staring suns. Bolan felt at home for the first time in days. He could understand jungle. He took the point. Carlton and both Conlan's fanned out behind him.

  31

  "Ramón, I want you to take charge. They are already inside the walls. If they get into the buildings, I will hold you personally responsible."

  "But, Don Carlos, I…"

  "No argument. I got rid of Tomás, I can get rid of you. You think no one out there can do what you do, maybe even better?"

  The man said nothing. He glared at Alfredo, who had turned away from the confrontation and made himself busy with the console.

  Ramón shook his head. He was beaten for the moment. Right now he had more to worry about than becoming indispensable. Staying alive was going to be difficult enough. But Alfredo would pay, that was for sure.

  One way or the other.

  "Where are they?" Calderone demanded.

  "In the compressor room, Don Carlos."

  "How many?"

  "I can't tell." Alfredo looked past Calderone, and for a moment Ramón thought he was going to apologize. The uncertainty passed, and Alfredo's features seemed to age. His face a mask of impassivity, he turned back to the console.

  "All right, go ahead, Ramón. We'll wait here."

  * * *

  The firefight at the wall had cut the odds, but there was a long way to go, and Bolan wasn't kidding himself. Now that the initial surprise was behind them, the advantage was definitely Calderone's. As he reached the far side of the garden, he held up a hand and examined the buildings one by one. There was little but size to distinguish one from another. Most of the structures were arranged in a rectangular U, with a single large building occupying the center.

  This was a cold read. They had no inside information, no idea of the interior layout, not only of the main building, but of the smaller ones, as well. They didn't know whether there were underground connections, but Bolan had a sneaking suspicion there might be. He noticed the dull gleam of polished aluminum at two or three places around the compound, like metal mushrooms jutting out of the sand. Two of the three were on a direct line from the open end of the U to a spot just to his left.

  As near as he could tell, there could be as many as thirty-odd men inside the compound. Between the dark gray tint of the glass and the intense glare of the reflected sun, it was impossible to see anyone behind the facades. Chances were that they'd be seen long before they made it across the courtyard.

  On a hunch, Bolan slipped back into the greenery and huddled with the other three. "Spread out and look for one of those aluminum vents. There's a chance we might be able to slip inside if we can get into the air-conditioning ducts."

  The small group broke up without a sound, slipping in broad circles through the tangled foliage. Bolan concentrated on the area roughly extending the imaginary line he had drawn through two of the three ducts.

  Beating the thick fleshy leaves of some dense ground cover, he swung one foot back and forth. Moving away from the buildings, back toward the wall, he searched carefully for a couple of minutes.

  He was about to reconsider, when he found it. A three-foot disk, slightly conical in cross section, raised just a few inches above the ground and wrapped in dark green leaves. "Here it is," Bolan called in a harsh whisper. He examined the joint, trying to determine how the ventilator hood was held in place. Running his fingers over the joint, he felt for rivets or bolts, but the surface was perfectly smooth except for a vertical seam where the sleeve was welded into its cylindrical shape.

  Bolan grabbed the disk at opposite sides and tugged. At first it wouldn't move. He rotated the lid and it turned freely. Getting to his feet, he leaned over the lid and pulled straight up. With a grinding protest, the sleeve slid free.

  He leaned down into the opening but could see nothing in the section running toward the wall. The opposite direction, though, a softly glowing rectangle marked the end closest to the buildings. Bolan dropped through the opening and angled his body to slide into the duct. He was in a rectangular channel, nearly three feet by four feet.

  He had barely enough room to get to his knees, and he stuck his head back out just as Ray Conlan stepped through some undergrowth. "Looks like you got us a way in, son." Carlton and Milt emerged from the shrubbery a moment later.

  "Let's go." Bolan dropped onto his stomach and crawled into the duct to make room for the others. He could feel a draft on his face as the air flowed around him on its way toward the house. The duct was large enough for him to crawl unhampered, and he made good time, glancing around as he drew near the opening into the house.

  He held up a hand to signal for silence, and left the others behind to crawl the last thirty feet or so on his own. A heavy wire screen blocked the opening, and behind it, a fine mesh that felt like plastic kept smaller animals and insects from slipping into the house.

  Bolan pressed his face flush against the screen, but was unable to see anything other than an empty room. Two smaller ducts led off at right angles, but he couldn't see more than a few inches into either one. Directly opposite, the duct seemed to continue on. Sticking his fingers through the heavy mesh, Bolan pressed hard to dislodge the screen, but it wouldn't budge.

  Groping along the edge, he found the flat head of four studs almost flush with the flanged edge of the ductwork. Leaning close to the screen, he spotted four wing nuts on the far side. He yanked a combat knife from a scabbard on his hip and cut a six-inch square out of the center, slashing the plastic screen and thrusting one hand in to feel for the nearest wing nut. It turned easily, and he backed it all the way off and brought it into the duct. When all four had been removed, he was able to push the screen free.

  Somethi
ng below caught his eye, and he called for a light. Instead of the concrete floor he expected, he was looking at a gigantic fan, its huge blades turning so fast they were little more than a blur. The turbo powering the fan was virtually silent.

  Two metal bars, like the cross hairs on a sight, intersected at the center. The footing was less than ideal, but there was no other way in. Bolan swung around and lowered himself gingerly to one of the bars, boot soles smooth and slippery on the rounded metal. One foot slipped free, and he started to fall, catching himself at the last moment on the edge of the duct. Rough metal sawed at his fingers, but he hung on until he was able to regain his balance.

  To the right, another screen, this one much larger, blocked the way. The sterile concrete of the room beyond looked inviting, but the last thing he could afford was haste. Bracing himself with one hand, he pressed on the screen, and it popped open almost immediately, with a snap of retaining clips. Bolan swung his way out over the floor and dropped to the concrete.

  He checked the room, but it was deserted. One corner contained a folding table, which he lugged over to the fan and hoisted. It was large enough to cover half of the whirling blades, and he snagged it up against the wall.

  One by one, the other men dropped through, landing on the table and hopping down to the floor.

  The room was low-ceilinged, and empty, except for the air-conditioning unit against the far wall. As Bolan tiptoed to a metal door set in one wall, the compressor clicked on, filling the room with a deep hum. He could feel its vibration through the soles of his shoes.

  Bolan went to the door and pressed his ear against its surface, listening for sound that might indicate what lay beyond. A distant sound, possibly metallic, echoed through the solid panel of the door. Sound traveled great distances through solid material, and Bolan remembered putting his ear to a railroad track when he was a kid, then waiting nearly fifteen minutes for the train to come. The principle was the same, but this time he didn't have fifteen minutes.