by Jon Land
He fired the rocket and the jet exploded in a roar of flames. The eyes of the men in the machine-gun nests were drawn to it long enough for Dogan to rise with the pins already pulled from two grenades. He was stripping the pin from a third while the first two were still airborne, not direct hits but good enough. The machine guns were neutralized, and his third grenade took out the troops rushing to defend the runway from another position. Men were fleeing the airstrip now, both troops and pilots.
The battle behind him was still raging, Mandala’s men having regrouped somehow, as Dogan sprinted for the runway. He was in the open, but if anyone was there to take a shot at him, confusion prevented it. Here was a lone man sprinting toward the jets without a gas mask. He could be rushing in to provide reinforcement as easily as anything else.
Dogan slid behind one of the jets and checked the area. He hoped he could stay out of the Rangers’ approaching fire and not get himself shot by his own side. The thick gas was blowing over the runway now, but he forced himself to concentrate on setting the detonators in place as quickly as possible.
Dogan rested his pack on the hardened dirt and extracted four small yet deadly bombs. Since his Laws rocket had disabled the first of the jets, he would need to set only eleven charges. He turned the timers to the four-minute mark and stuck the first one against a Lear’s tail. The second and third charges wedged in tightly but the fourth wouldn’t stick. Dogan checked the adhesive strip and had bent over to wet it when he felt the blow to the back of his skull.
Only the fact that he had been leaning over saved him from a direct hit and certain death. He turned to face Shang.
The Mac-10 was back with his pack, leaving him only the Heckler and Koch. He drew it quickly. It would have to be a head or neck shot, Dogan knew. Nothing else would have any effect on the Chinese giant protected by thin, bulletproof steel. He got off one shot with the world still spinning before him and missed. Shang was rushing him now and a second shot grazed the side of the giant’s head, tearing his ear off but barely slowing him down. He was upon Dogan too fast for the pistol to be adjusted, and Grendel’s next three shots hit the stomach, accomplishing nothing. Then the pistol was ripped from his hand and tossed into the gray smoke.
Shang went for him with a vicious swipe at the head. Dogan ducked and the giant’s hand slammed into a jet’s steel side, denting it. Shang went for another blow and Dogan ducked again. He backed away from the giant and they faced off. Shang smiled, almond eyes narrowing, as he beckoned to the man he thought he had killed in Rome.
Dogan charged, going for a leg sweep. But Shang anticipated the move perfectly and tripped Dogan up, then kicked at his head as he lay on the ground.
Dogan caught the foot and yanked, then thrust one of his own feet up for the giant’s groin. He felt the thud of impact, but the steel had saved the giant from the effect of the blow and Shang was able to grab Dogan’s foot with both hands and twist violently. Grendel felt his knee go and spun quickly onto his stomach, kicking free.
Another of Shang’s feet caught him in the stomach and lifted him into the air, pitching him sideways. The pain was incredible but Dogan swallowed it down. Another foot leveled at him and he managed to grab it and yank hard. Shang lost his balance and staggered backward.
Dogan struggled to his feet and, pain exploding in his stomach and knee, faced off against the giant again. His pack rested ten yards to Shang’s right. If he could get to it …
Shang rushed him. Dogan couldn’t believe a man his size could move so fast. The giant was on him in no time and Dogan felt the massive arms closing around him. Shang thrust him back till his shoulders smashed into one of the jet’s wings. Shang pounded him again. A knifelike pain surged through the area between Dogan’s shoulder blades and he realized the giant had lifted him off the ground. He pounded the giant’s head, especially the wounded side where the ear was torn off.
The giant grimaced and released his grip. Dogan slipped to the ground as Shang stumbled slightly, a fresh flow of scarlet pouring down onto his white suit from the hole where his ear had been. Enraged, he went for Dogan, but Grendel easily ducked under his attack and pounded the back of his head with an elbow. Shang slammed up against the side of a jet face first. Dogan threw all his weight forward into the monstrous frame and Shang’s face mashed forward again.
The giant, blood painting his face, turned quickly with a wild swing. Dogan deflected it as it passed Shang’s center and weakened, then followed in with a set of rigid knuckles into the giant’s exposed throat. Shang gasped. His eyes bulged. Dogan went for another blow, a killing one this time, but the giant snatched his fingers out of midair with a massive hand and jammed them backward, sending Dogan to the ground howling in agony.
That could have been it, would have been if Dogan had given in to the pain instead of rising suddenly as the giant leaned over to finish him. He came up fast and hard, neck tensed as his head drove upward and slammed under the giant’s chin. Shang’s head snapped horribly backward, crunching his vertebrae together. Shaken, he lashed out wildly but Dogan was already under the strike, hitting him square in the gut with his shoulder and feeling his entire body tremble from impact against the steel. But the giant was forced backward, the back of his skull driven hard against a wing. Dazed, he could do nothing to thwart Dogan’s outstretched fingers from rising for his eyes.
Shang managed to close them but Grendel’s fingers still dug deep. The giant screeched in agony, clawing and striking blindly.
Dogan limped away, making for his pack as fast as he could.
Shang staggered forward, one hand still swiping at his eyes as he swayed from side to side. He righted himself and his free hand produced a massive, shiny knife from inside his jacket.
Dogan reached into his pack and came out with his second Laws rocket. He popped the safety off, extended the stock, and fought to steady the weapon in his trembling hands.
Shang mounted his final rush, the long blade glistening overhead.
Dogan fired the Laws rocket.
It blasted into the giant’s midsection, through the steel body armor, and blew him apart, showering the immediate area with pieces of his flesh. Particles of metal fluttered in the air as well, no match for a rocket.
Dogan caught his breath but couldn’t let himself relax. In the rising noxious mist he could see Mandala’s men had succeeded in moving their line back against the Rangers, holding them off to provide the pilots with time to reach their Learjets. There would be no dispersing the fungus from these, Dogan realized. They were merely courier aircraft assigned to transport canisters to other areas across South America.
Dogan struggled back to his feet. He grabbed his machine pistol in his good hand and his pack in the twisted one. He had to finish the job of taking these planes out, even as a number of Mandala’s troops were rushing toward them, hoping to clear the way for the pilots. Dogan fired a burst at them and darted from one plane to the next as bullets richocheted off steel around him.
The detonators he had already set had ticked down to the one-minute mark, so each explosive he jammed on the jets’ frames as he ran would be set for only fifty seconds. He wedged two home, then a third, was handling a fourth when a bullet grazed his side and spun him around, bringing him face to face with three of Mandala’s troops rushing from the end of the runway.
Dogan dove to the side away from their fire and he felt another bullet pound his shoulder. The warm soak of blood was spreading now and it felt almost relaxing. The three men rushed at him, and he turned onto his stomach and finished them with a single burst from the Mac-10.
Mandala’s troops were being forced back by the Rangers into a narrower and narrower field. They were almost upon the runway when Dogan rose on his weakening legs and wedged another detonator into place, leaving him only three jets to go. He realized with terror that the explosions would begin in little more than thirty seconds, so he skipped the next two planes and jammed the three detonators set for thirty seconds onto the first
plane in line.
The Rangers fired another burst of the thick, gray gas as Mandala’s troops converged on the runway.
Dogan’s wounds and desperation made him look enough like one of them for Mandala’s men to ignore his passage off the runway and into the fields. His eyes darted back to the sight of several pilots working frantically in their cockpits to get their jets ready for rapid takeoff. The explosions would send steel rocketing everywhere. He had to get clear, had to—
The first four explosions sounded virtually together, swallowing the sounds of gunfire and sending all those still alive, including Dogan, to the ground. The next explosions, five in all, were separated by a few seconds but spread quickly to all the jets until the individual fires merged into a single bloody graveyard for men, planes, and canisters. Numerous secondary explosions erupted as fuel tanks ignited, helping the flames claw out and upward, stretching for the sky.
The explosions had carried most of the debris straight up, sparing Dogan and, he hoped, the Rangers as well. Mandala’s troops who had retreated to the runway, though, had been almost totally wiped out. The battle was over.
But what of Mandala?
Dogan limped toward the approaching Rangers with arms clasped behind his head.
“Dogan, CIA,” he announced breathlessly. “I’m with you.”
Three of them moved near him suspiciously as the rest fanned out to continue herding prisoners together. One of the Rangers looked at him and nodded.
“I jumped from the plane just after you,” he said. “Helluva job back there on the runway. I assume it was your work.”
Dogan nodded.
“You spooks got all the tricks.”
The Rangers’ commander was moving among the wounded with Dogan limping at his side.
“He’s not here,” Grendel reported.
“We haven’t checked the corpses yet,” the commander said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dogan told him. “He’s not among the prisoners or the bodies. I can feel it.”
“Then where the fuck is he?”
Dogan sat down against a jeep in the center of what had once been the town of San Sebastian and considered the question. The Rangers still had the entire area surrounded. No one had tried to get out and all stragglers had been captured and were being processed now, which meant Mandala must yet be in the vicinity waiting. Waiting for what?
If he could remain under cover until the Rangers left, he could mount his escape. But how? What was his plan?
A passing Ranger handed Dogan his canteen and Grendel gulped its contents gratefully. He had already been to the makeshift infirmary and the doctors were not at all pleased about letting him leave. The wound on his side was nothing but his shoulder would cause him problems for some time. The doctors had insisted on putting it in a sling, which Dogan promptly slipped out of, after making sure to get a large shot of Novocaine. None of the fingers on his left hand were broken but two were badly sprained and the swelling made holding objects virtually impossible. His knee, though, was the worst of all. The cartilage was torn and surgery would be necessary as soon as he returned to the States. Sudden motions, Dogan was warned, could result in further damage to the joint, and he should definitely stay off the leg altogether. Grendel shrugged and listened politely. There would be no staying off it until he had finished with Mandala.
What was his plan for escape?
The question hammered at Dogan’s mind. He grabbed a set of binoculars from the jeep and scanned the perimeter of the town, moving from hillside to hillside, scanning all levels. He passed the area where the children’s shack had been, where the direction of the wind had spared most of the flora from the flames weeks before, and froze on a plateau to the right of and above it.
He pulled his eyes from the lenses and wiped them. He had to be sure they weren’t playing tricks on him. He refocused the binoculars, feeling his mouth go dry as the sight was confirmed.
Then he was back on his feet, forgetting about his pain as he searched for the bearded commander of the Rangers. He found him in the area reserved for the infirmary.
“I need four of your best men,” he said.
“Care to tell me why?”
“A hunch.”
The commander, a career combat soldier who had led the first unit into Grenada, had played many himself. He had orders from Washington to cooperate fully with this man, but even without those orders, Dogan’s resolve impressed him and he would have done so anyway.
“You’ve got them. I’ll need to know what you’ll be doing, though.”
“Hunting,” Dogan replied.
“You’re not in the best of condition, my friend.”
“We’re not going very far.”
Dogan’s battered body made him suffer all the way up the hillside. He was shot so full of painkillers that he could feel his motions were slow. Any fast ones that were required he would leave for the Rangers. Mandala he would leave for himself.
It would have been far simpler to have just told the Ranger commander what he had seen and turned the operation over to him. But Mandala had to be his. Otherwise he could take nothing out of all this personally. Too many people had died, too many lives had been ruined or marred. Mandala had to pay. Dogan had to make him pay.
The Novocaine had worn off by the time they reached the plateau and Dogan dry-swallowed two more painkillers. The Rangers’ hands were tight on their rifles as the men watched out for a possible ambush. Dogan moved ahead of them.
The plateau looked different up close from what he had seen through the binoculars. He couldn’t get his bearings. Might he have imagined the sight that had brought him here in the first place? The fatigue and throbbing pain made him question himself. It could have been an illusion, a trick of weary eyes. He tried to picture the plateau as the binoculars had shown it to him. Perhaps it had been a different one, a little higher up perhaps.
The wind picked up and a sudden brightness forced Dogan to squint. But the sun was behind him. Why, then, the glare? The sun must have bounced off something, something metallic.
Dogan moved slowly forward, the picture from the binoculars all at once clear again. There was a whole nest of thick bushes and branches concentrated right before him. He reached up into it and his hand touched steel. He yanked some of the bushes and vines away, revealing part of a helicopter’s propeller—the metal the sun had reflected off and the sight he had glimpsed through the binoculars.
He stripped more of the camouflage away and the helicopter gained shape. It would have been hidden up there for Mandala’s escape, weeks ago perhaps.
“Help me with this, will you?” he called back to the Rangers.
They had slung their rifles over their shoulders and started to approach when the rapid series of soft spits cut them down. Dogan was reaching for his machine gun.
“Don’t, Grendel. I’ll kill you just as I killed them. Turn slowly with your hands in the air and move to the side, out of sight from your friends below.”
Dogan moved as instructed and then faced Mandala. The madman was holding a silenced Uzi aimed straight for his stomach. Ten yards separated them. Dogan flirted briefly with the notion of launching into a quick dive and finding his trigger, but Mandala’s advantage was too great to overcome, especially considering his own weakened condition.
“Very good, Grendel,” Mandala said, stepping closer. “Now drop the gun to the ground holding the barrel with both hands.”
His machine pistol clicked against the dirt.
“Now kick it aside.”
Dogan complied.
“Turnaround again, Grendel, and keep your hands in the air.”
Again Dogan did as he was told and felt Mandala creeping up behind him. The madman slammed him in the lower back with his rifle. Dogan went down like a felled tree, pain exploding over his kidneys and intensifying in his already wounded areas. Somehow he ended up on his back. Mandala hovered over him.
“Someone must have seen you from below,” Dog
an squeezed through his grimace of pain. “You’re finished.”
Mandala kicked him hard in the same side the bullet had grazed an hour before. The agony squeezed his features into a wrinkled mask. He felt sick.
“No, Grendel, it’s you who’s finished. You’re going to die, and I’m going to escape.”
“They’ll shoot you down before you get a mile.”
Mandala kicked him again. “Not under the cover of darkness they won’t.” He stalked around Dogan, like a hawk ready to strike. “You really think my failure in Keysar Flats would have remained a secret from me? Hah! Calls had to be made from every checkpoint. When they didn’t come I altered my strategy a bit.” Mandala’s finger thrust viciously toward San Sebastian. “Those jets you destroyed down there would have carried their canisters back to the U.S. with only a few left to unleash here in South America. When I learned of Shang’s error in Rome, I feared you’d be coming, prepared for it even, but I still hoped I’d be able to get the jets off before your arrival. If not”—Mandala turned his eyes toward the camouflaged helicopter—“I had another plan arranged. I still have five hundred canisters of the fungus gas well hidden, along with the formula to produce as much more as I want.” Mandala smiled. “And the research done at Sanii was not totally lost. When the time is right I will finish that part of the Committee’s plan, but on my own terms, of course.”
Dogan’s unfocused eyes caught a shape emerging from the area behind the helicopter. The figure moved lightly forward, a pair of knives gripped in its hands. Kukhri knives. It was Nikki! Dogan had to keep Mandala distracted long enough for Nikki to draw close. Tossing the sharply curved blades was too chancy, especially in this wind.
Dogan stared into Mandala’s eyes. “You’re full of shit,” he managed, the pain racking him with each syllable.
