Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  But the Executioner was here now, and given the opportunity, he would cut away that poison and administer his own unique cure for what ailed the Brethren.

  BOLAN LAY IN DEEP SHADOW on a ridge overlooking the Brethren’s mountain base. It lay in a shallow basin, protected by jagged outcroppings. There were no fences or barriers around the hard-packed earth where four long timber barracks stood apart from an L-shaped administration building. An open-sided structure with a basic kitchen at one end and long trestle tables and benches said mess hall. Smoke was starting to rise from the cast-iron cook stoves set at the kitchen end and he could see three men working there.

  On its own, standing well clear of all other structures, was a hut with an armed guard posted in front. Bolan tagged that as most likely where ordnance was kept. The armory.

  To his left, clear of the buildings, were a number of heavy-wheeled 4x4s, tough, rugged vehicles for the mountainous terrain. A faint dirt trail led away from the base, angling to the southwest, which by Bolan’s calculations would work its way down the slopes to the comparative flatland below. Some distance away was a camouflage net draped over what Bolan figured would be a helicopter.

  He checked his watch, figuring he had at least an hour before the main body of Brethren hardmen were roused. That would allow him time to work his way into the compound and lay his charges. He had already worked out his approach, checked the couple of guards who had pulled the last detail. They were almost motionless now, listless as they lounged at their posts, wishing away the final stretch of duty. There was a faint, predatory smile on Bolan’s lips as he eased from cover and began to make his silent approach.

  THE ROCKS AND DUSTY BRUSH provided ample cover for Bolan as he covered the final stretch, bringing himself within the perimeter of the compound. Behind him the first of the two guards lay motionless in a spreading patch of his spilled blood. He had known nothing of Bolan’s closeness until a hand closed over his mouth and the chill caress of the combat knife had cut into his throat. Bolan had dragged the corpse deep into a tangled mass of thorny brush, pushing the man’s dropped weapon out of sight. Now he was within yards of the second guard, watching and waiting for his moment. This man was a little more alert, but only to the finger skills required to roll himself a cigarette. He had leaned his assault rifle against a rock where he himself lounged, intent on forming the tobacco and paper into a solid tube so he could have a final smoke before being relieved. The smoke failed to reach his lips. It fell from his fingers as Mack Bolan’s knife made its second kill of the day, the razor edge of honed steel drawn from left to right, cutting so deeply the breadth of the blade sank into the wound before emerging close to the right ear. Blood rushed from the cut. Rich and hot, it coursed freely down the shuddering form, soaking jacket and pants. Bolan hauled the deadweight back out of sight, repeating the action with the guard’s rifle.

  He sheathed the combat knife and brought his M-16 into play, a 30-round magazine in place, cocked and ready. Bolan replayed his visual image of the compound’s layout. He would need to work his way around the ends of the barracks to reach the armory. All the structures were raised from the ground on solid concrete blocks at each comer and at intervals along the length of each building. That design provided Bolan with a two-foot crawl space and he utilized that as he worked his way toward the armory. From the last of the barracks he had a thirty-foot gap to cover. Open ground.

  He waited, watching the armory guard pace out his patrol. It took him around the building, then reversing and walking back the other way. Bolan studied the guy’s beat. Slow and steady, his rifle held loosely, shoulders down. The difference between a Brethren soldier and a military trained guard. Easing out, using the block support for cover, Bolan watched the guard pace out his slow walk until he rounded the corner of the building and around the end. Bolan could still see his legs moving below the raised base of the hut.

  He moved then, pushing to his feet and sprinting the thirty feet until he was able to drop to his chest and slide beneath the raised floor. Bolan felt sweat forming on his face. The day was starting to warm up. He needed to speed up his penetration and get out as soon as possible. Turning, the Executioner crawled to the far corner of the armory, away from the barracks and mess hall. He waited for the steady pace of the guard to bring him to this area, lay down his M-16 and reached out to grab the guy around his ankles. He yanked hard, pitching the guard facedown on the hard ground. The guy grunted as his face was slammed into the dirt. Bolan dragged him into the floor space and slipped the steel blade of the combat knife into his body, seeking his heart.

  Crawling out from under the armory, the Executioner headed for the front of the building and the heavy wood doors blocking his way in. The doors were held shut by iron draw bolts. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He went up the concrete steps and slid the upper and lower bolts, hauled the doors open and entered the building. He had not been wrong. The building contained a substantial amount of ordnance that covered the range from assault rifles and handguns, rocket launchers, fragmentation grenades, assorted canisters of ammunition, cartons containing plastic explosives. There was enough weaponry to equip a few hundred men.

  Bolan didn’t let himself become dazzled by the ordnance. He was not here to admire it; he was here to destroy it. He slipped the pack from his back and placed it on a wooden crate. Opening it, he removed the C-4 prepared for him at Stony Man and placed half a dozen blocks throughout the armory. He attached the detonators that would be activated by the cell-powered pack he carried. It would detonate them simultaneously via a direct signal to the receivers built into the detonators. As he placed each detonator, he switched on each power cell, seeing a red indicator light blink into life. With his charges set Bolan picked up his pack, slipped back out of the hut and bolted the doors again. He slipped beneath the armory and placed a couple more explosive packs as added insurance.

  Sweat soaked Bolan’s blacksuit as he placed the final charge and worked his way from beneath the arsenal. He stopped at the rear, hidden in the shadow cast by one of the concrete support blocks. This would be the risky part of his infiltration—removing himself from the compound and trying to avoid being seen by any Brethren personnel.

  He felt a trickle of sweat slide down his forehead and find its way into his left eye, stinging briefly. In the narrow confines of the space the heat was already being trapped, cloying, the air heavy and dusty. Across the compound coils of pale dust drifted between the buildings, pushed by the breeze coming down off the slopes that surrounded the compound. Bolan turned onto his stomach, searching in the direction of the vehicles he had observed during his entry into the compound. None of them had moved.

  That collection of 4x4 all-terrain vehicles was his way out. He needed to commandeer one to get himself away from the Brethren and down the mountain trail to the flatlands.

  Once he had decided on his action Bolan put it into operation. There was no point in hanging back. He checked his weapons, made sure the power pack for the planted charges was still operational. His final check was his M-16. He took an HE grenade and snugged it into the M-203 underslung launcher. He was going to need a diversion for his initial breakout. An exploding charge from the launcher, fired across the compound, would be certain to attract some attention while he went in the opposite direction.

  He checked that his immediate space was clear, easing out from under the armory and standing upright. Angling the M-16 toward the far side of the compound, he fired off the HE canister. It sailed in a clear arc, reaching its zenith, then dropped. The moment it struck the hard-packed earth and exploded, Bolan turned and cut off in the direction of the motor pool. Even as he was running he loaded a second grenade and fired in another direction. He heard the blast and caught sight of smoke and dust rising beyond one of the buildings off to his right. He hit the timber side of the building immediately in front of the vehicle park, checking his surroundings. Behind him he could hear raised voices as the Brethren hardmen started to leave their barracks
. He picked up the pounding of boots on the hard ground. A third grenade went into the launcher. This time he fired it over to his left. The canister cleared the low roof of one of the huts, dropped on the far side and exploded. Bolan heard glass shatter and picked up the crash of falling timber as the blast tore into the side of the hut.

  He turned to make his final dash for the motor pool and almost ran head-on into one of the Brethren’s gunners. The guy was half-dressed in camou fatigues, carrying his assault rifle. He hauled himself to a dead stop, recognized Bolan as not being part of the unit and made to raise his weapon. He got it to hip height before Bolan arced his M-16 around and clouted him across the side of his head with its stock. The blow was hard, snapping the guy’s head to one side, and dazed him long enough for Bolan to strike again, the stock of the M-16 slamming in under the guy’s chin with unrelenting fierceness. The shock of the impact broke the jaw, shattered teeth, and raised the guy on his toes before he dropped, blood spewing from his mouth. Bolan had moved long before the stricken soldier hit the dirt.

  The chatter of autofire filled the air. Wildly fired slugs dug into the dirt behind Bolan. Without breaking his stride the Executioner fed a grenade into the launcher, turned and tracked in on the group of gunners on his back, between two of the huts. He triggered the grenade and it dropped in their midst. The blast threw them off their feet, bodies shredded and bleeding, the sound of the explosion echoing across the compound. Bolan caught a glimpse of more hardmen emerging from behind the closest building, pausing as they viewed the effects of Bolan’s work. He took the pause to slip another grenade in the launcher, triggering it at the corner of the building. The blast ripped open the flimsy hut, filling the air with shredded wood that became keen-edged splinters ripping into flesh. As the soldiers reeled from the burst, clawing at the spearing effects of the wood, Bolan triggered 3-round bursts into them, dropping two and sending the others retreating behind the smoke billowing from the blast-scorched hut.

  Bolan sprinted to the motor pool. He mentally crossed fingers as he approached the first vehicle, hoping that the Brethren had become so comfortable and secure in their mountain stronghold they felt no need to lock their vehicles. If he found otherwise, it would delay him only for seconds to break a window. That task turned out to be unnecessary. So did his earlier expectation to need to hot-wire the vehicle. The key dangled from the ignition. In the regular military all vehicles were fitted with keyless starters. In a frantic combat situation it would have proved a disaster to have to hunt around for vehicle keys. So, whoever had organized the Brethren’s military regime, would have pointed this out. Their vehicles were on standby, and Bolan thanked whoever had instilled that into the Brethren.

  He opened the door, tossing his backpack ahead of him and laying his M-16 close by, and slid behind the wheel. The big engine burst into life at the first try. Bolan dropped into gear and turned the 4x4 in the direction of the west exit from the compound. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw smoke rising in the aftermath of his grenade attacks. He also saw more armed men moving in his direction, though moving with caution after viewing what he had done to the first wave. There was some desultory fire, but the Brethren gunners were shooting wild. Bolan pushed hard on the gas pedal, feeling the 4x4 surge forward. As he reached the edge of the compound, he slowed. Powering down the window, he extended his right hand, holding the detonator. The power light was steady. Bolan pushed the button.

  Though the armory was hidden from his sight by the other buildings Bolan saw the rising fire of the explosion as the charges detonated, blowing the building apart and setting off additional blasts as stored ammunition and ordnance went with it. A storm of debris, some burning, rained down across the compound. The sound of the explosion reverberated around the slopes circling the base. The huge ball of flame and smoke was rising fast, the shock waves extending outward as well as skyward. The concussion reached as far as Bolan. He felt the 4x4 rock and, certain he had achieved his purpose, he stamped on the pedal and took the vehicle away from the chaos that had engulfed the Brethren’s mountain compound.

  As he cleared the perimeter he saw the dusty trail that led downslope, away from the base and, hopefully, away from the Brethren.

  It was a hope, but it became a forlorn one. Bolan had driven less than a half mile when he caught sight of movement in the rearview mirror. He counted three identical 4x4s following him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Locking the seat belt, Bolan jammed his foot down hard and the big 4x4 lunged forward, the tires gripping the hard-packed surface of the road. He could feel the power of the engine surging as the vehicle hurtled into the dusty morning. A glance in the rearview mirror showed his pursuers still close behind. The people driving the three chase vehicles were good. They held the 4x4s behind Bolan with ease.

  Just before he took his eyes off the lead vehicle, Bolan saw a head and shoulders lean out the passenger side of the car, a stubby SMG gripped in one hand. The shooter opened fire but missed his target, the bullets flying wide. The fact they were shooting at him made Bolan realize this was going to be a hard ride. He checked the way ahead. The dusty trail stretched out in front of him, disappearing on the horizon, with little between the two points showing much in the way of cover. He was committed, with no apparent avenue of escape, so all he could do was make the best of the situation.

  The soldier’s attention was concentrated as the 4x4 hit a shallow dip in the trail, sinking briefly, then clearing the far side and almost leaving the ground. The vehicle swayed on its shocks, bouncing Bolan in his seat, and he gripped the wheel tightly to keep the vehicle on a straight course. Behind him the lead 4x4 took a severe shock itself as it encountered the depression and, for a fleeting moment, the driver almost lost control, the vehicle lurching, then front-dipping as the brakes were hit. The second chase 4x4 had to swerve and slow itself to avoid a collision. The momentary hesitation allowed Bolan to surge ahead and, seeing that space, he pushed down on the gas pedal again, feeling the 4x4 gather itself and then leap forward.

  He heard the tinny sound as bullets struck the 4x4’s bodywork. The shooter was ranging in. Taking his time to make his shots count. Given enough time and allowed to choose his moment, the shooter might lay down an even closer volley. Bolan peered through the dusty windshield, hoping he might spot somewhere he could at least make a stand. He didn’t hold out much hope of seeing anything. The landscape offered little in the way of cover and whichever way he took he would be in sight of his pursuers.

  A couple of minutes later he saw that the relatively flat terrain ahead was starting to fall away on his left side. The way ahead started to rise, with the shallow slope becoming steeper. Bolan kept his eyes on the changing landscape as he pushed the speed of his vehicle ever higher, feeling the ground beneath the tires changing from loose dust to uneven, broken slabs of rock. Within a quarter mile the slope falling away from the trail had become a steeply angled drop-off.

  The sporadic bursts of gunfire from the lead vehicle had ceased. Bolan didn’t question why. He just concentrated on staying free and clear of his pursuers. As he drove, a sliver of a thought made itself known and Bolan allowed it to grow, forming into a notion that maybe he could do something to persuade his pursuers to back off. It was a wildly conceived idea, and he had no way of knowing if it would even work, but the way it revealed itself it would do him no harm. Driving with his left hand, he reached across and dragged the backpack close to his side, pulling the flap open and reaching inside. His fingers closed over one of the fragmentation grenades. He braced his hands on the rim of the wheel, held the grenade in his left hand and pulled the pin. Powering down the door window, he stretched out his left arm, let the lever go and tossed grenade toward the rear of his vehicle.

  Bolan put on a burst of speed, distancing himself from the lead pursuit vehicle. Seconds later the grenade detonated, a cloud of dust and stones filling the void between the two SUVs. Debris rattled the rear of his 4x4. He glanced in his rearview mirror a
s the dust cleared and saw the following vehicle swerve violently. Whatever result he might have imagined didn’t relate to actuality as the vehicle fishtailed, then lurched off the edge of the trail and vanished from sight. As Bolan pulled farther away, he heard a dull explosion and caught the swelling burst of flame and smoke as the 4x4 slammed to the bottom of the drop.

  The effect of the removal of one of their vehicles brought a burst of speed from the two surviving SUVs. Bolan saw them closing fast, their speed rising to match his own, and there was a sudden eruption of autofire from the windows of the two vehicles. He felt the jarring impact as bullets struck his own vehicle. Bolan had his foot to the floor and he couldn’t coax more speed from the engine.

  And then the vehicle rocked as bullets struck the left rear tire. He felt the rim of the wheel strike the rocky ground, heard the altered tone from his engine as the vehicle slewed and pulled him off track. Bolan knew from experience that he wasn’t going to get far with a wheel running on its rim. He could feel the steering drag against his grip. The moment his speed dropped far enough, the pair of pursuing vehicles would be on him.

  He searched the way ahead. Directly ahead the terrain was still relatively flat with no cover to be seen. To his left the drop-off presented him with a steep incline layered with loose shale and rocks before it hit level ground again. Bolan made his choice the moment he saw the only possible escape route. He swung the wheel and took the vehicle over the lip of the slope, letting gravity work for him while he hung on.