Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  Ten long seconds passed before the shuffling man appeared before her, on the second-story landing. Maia hesitated long enough to see his shoulder-slung Kalashnikov, then stitched a silent 3-round burst across his chest and spilled him headfirst down the stairwell. As he tumbled past her, Maia rushed the landing, let her companion dodge the falling body in his own good time and had the next hallway covered by the time he joined her.

  No one was there to greet them, with the first lookout eliminated. Six closed doors, three on a side, and nothing to suggest that any of the rooms were occupied. She could be wrong, of course. It was a risk to move ahead without clearing the rooms, but Maia felt time bearing down like an oppressive weight across her shoulders.

  “One more flight,” she whispered, and received a nod in answer.

  He let Maia take the lead, whether impressed by her performance with the first guard or preferring silence if the need to kill arose again, she couldn’t say. So far, the strike reminded Maia of her training with the Beijing Military Region Special Forces Unit, which was mandatory for field agents of her ministry. It might have been a graduation exercise inside the “killing house,” except that there was real blood on the stairs, and more yet to be spilled.

  Should she feel something for the man whom she had slain?

  Maia remembered the indignity and pain she’d suffered in captivity, letting the chill of hatred guide her toward the final flight of stairs.

  * * *

  KHOO KAY SUNDARAM was halfway through another cup of coffee and felt his stomach simmering in protest. This would be his last. Enough caffeine was coursing through his system now to keep him wide-awake for several hours, he supposed, and there was nothing to be gained from artificially inducing nausea.

  He rose to pace the smallish office, checked the view with dawn’s pale light advancing eastward, gradually turning off the lights of Singapore across the water, and decided that it might help if he went to check in with his men. Aside from exercise to keep him on alert, there was an outside chance that he might catch one of them dozing and amuse himself by chastising the sluggard.

  Not that he really expected to find any of them sleeping on the job. They knew what had befallen their comrades on Tioman Island and would be fearful of an enemy who could surprise and slaughter thirty men. Granted, the odds of that same enemy appearing on their doorstep in Johor Bahru seemed slight, but while the threat existed, Sundaram’s defenders would be on their toes.

  And so should he.

  To set the proper tone, he drew a pistol from his belt. It was a 9 mm Vektor SP1 from South Africa, one of the several handguns issued to Malaysian troops as standard sidearms. Sundaram checked the magazine, confirming a full load of fifteen rounds, and eased back the slide to see one in the chamber.

  All set.

  Returning the piece to his waistband, he gulped the last of his coffee and stifled a belch, then crossed to the exit and stepped from his office. As the door closed behind him, Sundaram thought that he heard a muffled ripping sound from somewhere to his left, in the direction of the staircase.

  Someone sneezing? No, that wasn’t right. Nor had it been a shuffling footstep.

  Possibly a rat at large, prowling for scraps before full daylight drove it into hiding.

  Why not ask his men? With that in mind, Sundaram set off toward the stairs, lamenting once again that he had rented quarters in a building with no elevator.

  Never mind. At least the climbing up and down was beneficial exercise.

  Sundaram was halfway to the staircase when a sound of whispered voices reached his ears. He paused in midstride, frowning, tried to think of any reason why his men should have to whisper, when they had the whole damned building to themselves. Perhaps complaining of their duty overnight? If he could catch them at it, there would be another chance to rail at them, venting his anger and frustration on convenient targets.

  He moved, more cautiously this time, in the direction of the stairs. It would be nice to take them by surprise, loom over them, glaring, demanding that they voice their grievances directly to his face. And watch them wither in the face of his disgust at men who couldn’t do the simplest job without stopping to whine about it.

  Sundaram was almost at the landing, had his first line framed in mind, when he heard footsteps coming up to meet him.

  He was reaching for his pistol when two strangers, male and female, suddenly rose into view.

  Each held an automatic weapon pointed at his face.

  * * *

  IT SEEMED to be a toss-up in the pirate’s mind, whether to go down blazing or surrender. Bolan watched him with the HK416 rock-steady on his center of mass, his index finger on the rifle’s trigger fresh out of slack. If Sundaram twitched, he was dead. And he had to have known it.

  When they hadn’t killed him after six or seven seconds, he asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  English. No great surprise, since Malaysia had been a British colony through the late 1950s, and English remained the country’s second official language. Sundaram had obviously sized them up, processed the fact that neither one of them was Malay and took his best shot.

  “First thing,” Bolan replied, “you need to lose the gun and any other weapons that you’re carrying.”

  “You will not shoot me?”

  “If that’s what we wanted, you’d be dead right now,” Bolan assured him.

  Cautiously, like an arthritic man reaching for an object he’d dropped, Sundaram set his submachine gun on the floor, then nudged it away with his foot. A wicked-looking switchblade followed, snapping open as it hit the floor. That done, Sundaram stood erect and raised his empty hands.

  Bolan let Maia search him, covering the pirate chief while she lifted the loose tail of his baggy shirt, turned his pockets inside out and lifted the cuffs of his trousers. Done with that, she took his SMG and knife, retreating to the sidelines.

  “Where’s your office?” Bolan asked.

  As if afraid to point, Sundaram cocked his head to the left and behind him. “Back there.”

  “We’ll talk in there,” Bolan said. “Lead the way as if your life depended on it.”

  Which, in fact, it did.

  Sundaram played it straight, no bolting for the open office doorway, waiting on the threshold until both of them caught up with him, then entering with measured steps, keeping his hands in view. Bolan went next and scanned the room for weapons, seeing none. Desk drawers could hide a multitude of sins, though, and he motioned Sundaram to take a chair standing alone, off to their right, beside a coat rack.

  When their prisoner had settled in his seat, Bolan informed him, “We don’t have much time, so here’s the rule. We ask, you answer. If it feels like you’re evading, playing games or stringing us along, you die. Got it?”

  “I understand,” Sundaram said. Bolan supposed he’d played this game before, as the inquisitor, with someone else stuck in the hot seat.

  Maia spoke up, saying, “Your men attacked the Shenyang and removed two missiles from the ship.”

  No question there, but Sundaram read Maia’s face and answered with a nod.

  “Where are they?” Maia asked him.

  “Presently in transit,” he replied. “Delivery is scheduled to occur—” he checked a flashy watch “—in four hours.”

  “Delivery to whom?” Bolan inquired.

  “The buyers,” Sundaram replied. “To members of the Flying Ax Triad.”

  “They are the second strongest triad,” Maia told Bolan, “after 14K. An estimated twenty thousand members. Their godfather—the ‘mountain master’—is Wu Guchan. He has headquarters in Beijing.”

  “I’ve never spoken to the top man,” Sundaram advised them. “All my dealings were with Jin Au-Yo.”

  “The triad’s ‘vanguard,’” Maia said. “He is t
he operations officer, equivalent to a vice president—or underboss, if we were speaking of the Mafia.”

  “Four hours,” Bolan said. “And where does the delivery take place?”

  “At sea,” Sundaram replied. “One of our ships proceeds from Kuala Terengganu toward the Spratly Islands. While en route, the other vessel radios the rendezvous coordinates. The chances of a trap are minimal.”

  And Bolan couldn’t call ahead for anyone to intercept the missiles. They were screwed, unless...

  “Ballistic missiles have no value to the triads,” he told Sundaram. “We need an ID for the end users.”

  “I asked that question,” Sundaram replied. “Jin told me that the less I know, the more he trusts me.”

  Need to know. The bottom line.

  “So, you have no idea who plans to take delivery and use the FH3s?”

  A shrug from Sundaram. “It could be anyone,” he said. “I’d tell you if I knew, but—”

  Maia’s weapon coughed a nearly silent round, and Sundaram spilled from his chair, a crimson keyhole gaping in the middle of his forehead.

  “Useless,” Maia said.

  “At least we have another target,” Bolan stated.

  “The Flying Ax Triad.”

  “We’re out of time,” he said. “Let’s hit the road. I need to make some calls.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  Hal Brognola almost made it. He was at his office door, hand on the knob, pulling it open, when his private phone line warbled at him, pleading for attention.

  “Every time I think I’m out,” he muttered in his best Pacino, “they pull me back in.”

  He shut the door, retreated and picked up the phone on its third ring. “Hello?”

  “How’s yesterday going for you,” Bolan asked him, calling from half a world away, on the far side of the International Date Line.

  “Could be worse,” Brognola granted. “How’s tomorrow?”

  “Could be better,” Bolan said.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve dealt with Sundaram,” Bolan said, knowing that the big Fed’s private line was scrambled and secure, swept time and time again for taps throughout the day.

  “Who’s we?”

  “At my first stop,” Bolan said, “I found his people torturing a woman. Turns out she’s an agent from the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

  “After the cargo for her own side,” Brognola surmised.

  “That’s it. We’re trying to collaborate, so far.”

  “And how’s that working for you?”

  “We have the same goal, more or less. Retrieval or elimination.”

  “I suspect she’s got a different take on the retrieval part,” Brognola said.

  “We’ll talk about it if we get that far,” Bolan replied.

  “Okay. What did you learn from Sundaram?”

  “His people definitely bagged the items, on commission for one of the triads. Flying Ax, specifically. They have a buyer, but they didn’t share details with Sundaram. Delivery is set for—” Bolan paused, as if to check his watch “—three hours and change. They’re handing off at sea.”

  “Which sea?” Brognola asked.

  “South China,” Bolan said. “No prearranged coordinates. They sail east, waiting for radio contact, then head for the meet.”

  The big Fed swore eloquently, then said, “So, we’re too late. Nothing we’ve got’s close enough to intercept them, even if we had the right coordinates.” Another curse, with feeling.

  “But we’re not too late,” Bolan advised him. “That’s a hand-off to the Flying Ax, not to the end users. With a little luck, I should be able to extract more information from the triads.”

  “Just a little luck?” Brognola asked, sounding skeptical.

  “I’ll be persuasive,” Bolan answered. “Maia—that’s Beijing player Maia Lee, or so she says—tells me the nearest captain for the Flying Ax does business from Jakarta, so we’re heading over there ASAP.”

  “We don’t have anybody in Jakarta,” Hal told Bolan. Meaning Stony Man had no one. “I could ask the Company.”

  “Let’s not rush into that,” Bolan requested. “Right now, I’m just touching base. If we need anything, you’ll hear from me.”

  “Nothing against the lady, sight unseen,” Brognola answered, “but I’d watch that we if I were you.”

  “I’m watching everything,” Bolan assured him. “Later.”

  And the line went dead.

  Jakarta and the goddamned triads. The big Fed knew Bolan’s capabilities—and frankly hadn’t seen his limits yet, regardless of the odds arrayed against him—but the latest setup worried him. It couldn’t hurt to contact Stony Man and see what Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber-heads could dig up on the Indonesian triad scene.

  He cursed again, directed at himself this time. He hadn’t thought to ask if Bolan knew the local triad leader’s name, Jakarta address, anything about him. For the hundredth time that week, Brognola asked himself if he was slipping, then dismissed the thought.

  Some miles left on me yet, he told himself. I’ll know when I’ve run out of gas.

  And hoped Bolan would be around for his retirement party, when the time came.

  Not buried halfway around the planet in a shallow grave.

  Changi International Airport, Singapore

  FLYING SOUTH to Jakarta meant ditching the guns, ammunition, grenades and the rest of their gear. Bolan and Maia had discussed hiring a boat to keep their arsenal intact, but flight time was one hour and eight minutes, versus fifteen hours on the water, even if they found a boat that could maintain a constant speed of thirty knots.

  No contest.

  They would use some of the time they saved in flight to find new hardware in Jakarta. Maia mentioned having contacts there, and Bolan took her at her word.

  They’d driven across the Johor Causeway into Singapore, since Johor Bahru’s Senai International Airport was international in name only, its flights, in fact, restricted to southern and western Malaysia. The drive didn’t cost them much time, and bookings were easily obtained with Batavia Air, a Jakarta-based airline flying out of Terminal 2 at Changi International.

  An hour in the air wasn’t much time for planning a life-or-death campaign, but they’d talked on the drive into Singapore and continued at the airport, sitting behind magazines they didn’t read—couldn’t, in Bolan’s case—and speaking at whisper level.

  The scheme they finally devised was relatively simple, if everything went according to plan. Of course, as Bolan knew from grim experience, that was the huge if that began every venture in life. Once plans moved into action, though, a thousand different things were likely to go wrong, whether the target was a simple Sunday drive or launching an amphibious invasion of a hostile shore.

  The plan that he had hatched with Maia fell somewhere between the two extremes, closer to D-Day than a picnic in the countryside. They had no reason to believe that anybody would be watching for them at Jakarta’s international airport, but they would still exercise the appropriate caution. Once on the ground and on wheels—Bolan had a car booked in advance—they would touch base with Maia’s contact and rearm themselves on Bolan’s dime.

  Which posed the first great risk of the Jakarta blitz, in Bolan’s mind. Hal Brognola was suspicious of Maia sight unseen, reacting from a lifetime of distrust for Red China that lingered, with good reason, to the present day. Bolan, for his part, couldn’t see why she would go to the trouble of setting him up for a hit in Jakarta, when she could have simply phoned the Chinese embassy in Kuala Lumpur for reinforcements.

  There were two other risks while buying black-market weapons in a foreign country: the police and local gangsters. Maia could be leading them into a trap without k
nowing it, either exposing them to police surveillance and capture, or tipping some local syndicate—even the triads—that strangers were in town buying heavy-duty implements of destruction. From there, it was a short step to pursuit and trouble Bolan didn’t need while he was trying to retrieve a pair of stolen missiles.

  Tough it out, he thought, as a disembodied voice called boarding for their flight.

  There seemed to be no other choice.

  Pondok Indah, South Jakarta

  ONCE AGAIN, the news from Johor Bahru was bad. Jin Au-Yo listened silently, letting the caller impart all the information that he possessed, then asked two questions. Both were answered in the negative. Jin cut the link without goodbyes, which he regarded as a waste of breath and energy.

  So Khoo Kay Sundaram was dead, along with three more of his men. The flunkies didn’t interest Jin. And, in fact, since his business with Sundaram would be completed with collection of the Chinese missiles in another hour and forty-odd minutes, Jin hardly cared about the pirate captain’s death. He had no further use for Sundaram, and there were always other thieves.

  It was the nature of the world.

  Two things, however, had bothered Jin Au-Yo about the trouble in Malaysia. Since he had no faith in coincidence, he took for granted that the incidents were both connected—and, in turn, that they involved his business deal with Sundaram. First, the appearance of a Chinese agent in Johor Bahru, which Sundaram supposedly had resolved with her detention and interrogation. Next, the agent’s getaway, assisted by an unknown soldier who had sliced his way through Sundaram’s “elite” force like a heated blade through butter. Now, finally, there was the death of Sundaram himself.

  But was it final?

  That was Jin’s next, and by far the most important, concern. He didn’t really care if all the pirates in Malaysia were assassinated overnight. More would arise to take their place before a day had passed. His true concern was that the killers—and the Chinese agent he assumed had to be directing them—wouldn’t be satisfied with the annihilation in Johor. Beijing would seek retrieval of the stolen missiles, which in turn would lead the hunters back to Jin Au-Yo.