Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

  "What happened?" Daniel muttered. "The paint pellets." The kids stood immobile staring at the carnage.

  "Move!" Bolan hollered. Immediately they snapped out of it and started tending to the bodies.

  Bolan found Denise facedown in a pile of leaves. He rolled her over. She had a wound in her side, but she was still breathing. Her eyes fluttered open.

  "Guess what?" she said weakly.

  "Real bullets," Bolan said.

  "Yup." She winced from a sudden stab of pain. "How are the others?"

  "Report!" Bolan said to his team.

  "Two dead," Barney said. "Three alive."

  "Who's the medic?" Bolan asked.

  Daniel raised his hand.

  "Then get to it. Break out the first-aid kit. Let's do something for these people."

  Bolan realized he didn't have time to spend on fancy medical treatment. His only hope was a quick patch job to stop the bleeding and stabilize the injured as much as possible. After that, Major Forsythe's team could take over. Bolan had to get moving, stop those kids before they met up with Captains Hammond and Martin's teams and slaughtered them, too.

  "Okay," Bolan said after tending the last patient. "You all are going to wait here for Major Forsythe. Tell him what happened, that the Red Team is armed with live ammo."

  "I don't understand," Barney said. "Why would they shoot their friends like this?"

  Bolan grimaced. "They don't know what they're doing. They've been drugged."

  They all started to ask questions at once. Bolan held up his hands to quiet them down. "It's a complicated story. Just wait here for the major."

  "I want to go with you," Barney said.

  "Me, too," Laura added.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  "Not this time. You've got wounded to tend to. They come first." Bolan bent over Denise. Her eyes were closed; she'd slipped back out of consciousness. His hand reached out and smoothed her hair away from her forehead. She opened her eyes and smiled.

  "Nice bedside manner."

  "More like roadside manner. I've got to go. You're going to have to fill in the major. On everything."

  She nodded.

  Bolan reached inside his heavy jacket and pulled out his knife and Beretta.

  "You're not going to kill them?" Denise asked, alarmed.

  "I'm going to stop them," Bolan said and disappeared into the woods.

  23

  They were easy to follow.

  Bolan jogged through the woods at an easy lope, careful to maintain a steady rhythm of breathing, avoiding inhaling through his mouth as he tracked the snapped branches, broken leaves and trampled brush. He realized the drug would allow them to run farther than usual because it temporarily overrode their nervous system, blocking the signals to the brain that indicated pain and exhaustion. But sooner or later their bodies would give out and they would have to rest. They'd already gone seven miles. There were, at least five more to the San Onofre Power Plant.

  Then he heard them, their movement carrying to him on a downwind breeze.

  He figured they were about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  Now what?

  He couldn't just charge in with his Beretta and kill them. He could try wounding them, but in the trancelike state they were in they wouldn't feel it. Besides, there were six of them, all armed with semiautomatic rifles.

  Okay, Bolan, you talked a good game about survival to those kids. Now let's see you show your stuff. Bolan sighed.

  He pulled out his knife and went to work. It took fifteen minutes of skilled work, but afterward he had a small arsenal more suited for the occasion. He stuffed the objects inside his jacket and took off again toward the Red Team.

  When he could hear their voices, he shifted from his jog into a stalking crouch. The movements were simple, but required exceptional balance. Arms were tucked against his sides to avoid brushing against anything; hands were braced on his knees for support. Each foot was lifted high so as not to become entangled in any vegetation.

  In stalking like this, balance becomes critical. You must be able to freeze at any point in the process, even with one leg high off the ground. The foot is then brought down slowly, touching the ground first with the outside ball of the foot, then rolling to the inside, finally lowering heel and toes. This allows the stalker to feel what's under the foot before applying the rest of his body weight, thereby avoiding snapping twigs or dried leaves and alerting his prey.

  Bolan approached using this method until he was standing behind a large pine tree less than ten yards from the exhausted Red Team.

  "We have 4.7 miles to go," Jennifer Bodine said. She had that same distracted look that Leonard Harwood had had when he'd burst into Denise's apartment spraying bullets. They all had that slightly foggy look. But why wouldn't they, Bolan thought. The basis of the drug was still PCP, an animal tranquilizer.

  Bolan could smell the bitter scent of vomit. A couple of the kids had thrown up from the accelerated pace, but they didn't seem to mind.

  "Let's go," Jennifer said.

  The four boys and the other girl stood up and slung their guns over their shoulders. They started to run.

  Bolan followed them, waiting. Finally one boy lagged a little behind the others. His body was wobbly and his legs rubbery. If it wasn't for the drug, he'd be doubled over.

  When the boy had dropped far enough behind, Bolan reached into his jacket and pulled out a stick about two feet long. He had three more in his jacket, plus a couple of makeshift bolas. The throwing sticks were favorites of the Neanderthals, who used them as hammers, crowbars, shovels and clubs, as well as hunting weapons. With the right spin, the clubs had a far greater killing range than a thrown rock.

  There were two ways of throwing the stick, overhand and sidearm. The overhand was more effective for squirrels on tree trunks or rabbits hiding in tall grass. The sidearm was for open spaces.

  The trees and brush prevented an accurate sidearm throw, so Bolan brought the stick back over his shoulder and snapped his wrist, putting extra action into the spin. It rotored through the woods with a whispering sound before striking the trailing boy at the back of the neck. He pitched forward to the ground, unconscious.

  The others didn't notice and kept running, single-minded in their purpose and haze.

  Bolan followed, managing to pick off two more with throwing sticks, tossing them just hard enough to knock their targets unconscious.

  That left Jennifer and two boys still dashing through the woods. They were the strongest of the lot, keeping abreast of each other. The boy on Jennifer's left carried the LAW 80. Bolan realized that no matter which one he might hit, the others would notice and turn their weapons on him.

  The Executioner reached into his jacket as he ran and pulled out the bolas: each consisted of five small rocks wrapped in a long thong of rawhide he'd sliced from his belt, its ends knotted together. Thrown the same way as a throwing stick, the twirling rocks could tangle legs or, if aimed higher, could wrap around the head and stun the prey.

  Bolan jogged behind the three kids, twirling the bola over his head as he ran. Everything was timing now. The smallest mistake would add a few more scars to his carcass, perhaps fatal ones.

  When the bola was spinning fast enough to whistle, Bolan threw it. It flew in an awkward jangle, hit Jennifer's calves, wrapped around them twice and tripped her. She stumbled into the boy on her left and both tumbled to the ground.

  Bolan had another bola out and was spinning it overhead when the third boy turned and opened fire. The kid's Colt Commando flashed brightly as the bullets chopped into the tree next to Bolan. The Executioner dived into the brush and kept rolling as he heard another gun join in, then another. Now all three young people were blindly raking the brush with bullets.

  Pressed flat into the dirt, Bolan considered pulling out his Beretta, trying to wound them. But that was too tricky. Out here, with bodies constantly moving, it was too easy to aim at the leg and hit something vital.
/>   He thought of Denise for a moment, lying back there with a hole through her side. Which one had shot her? Maybe Jennifer. It didn't matter. They didn't know what they were doing. To them it was all some kind of dream they were in, with no control over their actions. All they knew was that when they fired the LAW 80, they would have completed their mission and could wake up.

  Yes, of course! Bolan realized. He pulled out the Beretta from its holster. Bullets were shredding leaves and bushes five yards to his left and were moving away. He waited until they were ten yards away, then he popped up.

  All three children stood together, their Colt Commando assault rifles flaring and smoking as bullets chewed up the trees. Their teeth were clenched, their faces grim and dirty as they continued firing. In the fraction of a second Bolan had before they would turn their guns on him, he located the LAW 80 lying behind them, aimed carefully and pumped three rounds into the disposable tube, twisting and shredding the metal, making the weapon useless.

  Realizing that they could not now complete their mission, the three kids seemed stunned, bludgeoned. They stopped shooting, staring at the destroyed rocket launcher. Now they would not be able to finish their mission, there would be no way of waking up.

  Bolan knew what would come next. Just as Leonard Harwood had been, they'd probably been programmed to self-destruct in the event of failure. To turn their weapons on each other.

  And that was what they did.

  Jennifer slowly raised her gun to the boy next to her. One boy aimed at her, the second boy aimed at the first boy.

  Bolan did something they didn't teach in any survival course, but on the football field. At a full run, he launched himself in the air, flying toward them horizontally, knocking into two of them at once. The third boy was too far away to knock down, but Bolan managed to grab his gun and yank it away as he hurtled past.

  A foot to the temple sent one boy to sleep. A roundhouse to the jaw knocked the other boy out. Jennifer was scrambling for one of the rifles when Bolan snapped the edge of his hand against the base of her skull. She sagged into unconsciousness.

  He grabbed one of the Colt Commandos, removed the ammo clips from the others and shoved them in his pockets. Then he smashed the remaining guns.

  Major Forsythe would have to clean up this mess.

  Bolan had an appointment to keep.

  With some gravediggers.

  24

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  Bolan turned at the voice, his Colt Commando locked on target, his finger tense at the trigger.

  Major Forsythe stepped out from behind a tree. He waved, and seven kids also appeared, five boys and two girls. Theo Bernstein, Laura Menlow and Barney Childress were among them. They had all abandoned their useless weapons.

  The major gave Bolan a stern look and nodded for him to follow. The two men walked off out of earshot of the others.

  "Just what the hell is going on here, Cummings, or whatever the blazes your name is."

  "What did Denise tell you?"

  "Nothing. She passed out, or pretended to. We made a few stretchers and I sent most of the kids back with the wounded. Now tell me what's going on or I swear, you and I are going to have it out right here."

  Bolan told him. About the drugs, the deaths, Godunov. Almost everything.

  "What have you got to do with all this?" the major asked. "Federal?"

  "Not exactly."

  Major Forsythe looked Bolan over, pursing his lips as if making up his mind. "I figured you as tough but honest from the first time I saw you. But I'm not infallible. I've misjudged people before." He sighed. "But I'm going to take a chance on you. What do you need?"

  "Where might Fowley and Dysert have gone for a meeting? Probably nearby, isolated with either a harbor or an airstrip adjacent."

  Major Forsythe tugged at his tiny mustache. "There's a whole damn coast for a boat to pull up."

  "But not a big boat. One big enough to go to Mexico and outrun the Coast Guard."

  "Nothing very close like that."

  "An airstrip then. Private."

  "There are a couple of small airports within fifty miles of here, but none very isolated. Except maybe Ridgemont's old strip."

  Bolan's eyes widened. "Where?"

  "Up on the hill." The major pointed. "Not much of a runway, though. All dirt and pretty bumpy. Probably completely overgrown by now."

  "How do I get there?"

  "There's a dirt road."

  "They'll be watching that. What other way?"

  "None. Just up the hill, through the brush, on foot."

  Bolan walked away.

  The major ran up beside him. "You're going?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Major Forsythe clapped his hands. The kids gathered quickly. "All right, troops. You know already that things have gone bad. Half a mile ahead are the Red Team, all unconscious. I want you to find them, tie them up and bring them back to the school."

  "Yeah," one of the boys said angrily.

  The major glared at him, then at the others. "Listen, people, not one hair is to be harmed. Those kids were drugged and didn't know what they were doing. It could have happened to any one of you. Try to imagine how they're going to feel when they come out of it and realize what they've done."

  The kids looked at each other and nodded.

  "Mr. Cummings and I are going back to find the men responsible. Your duty is to take care of the injured, including the Red Team. Questions?"

  There were none.

  Bolan wasn't surprised that the major would insist on going along. He was the kind of man who took his duties seriously. His main duty was looking out for these kids, and in that he felt he had failed.

  "Any objections?" the major asked, but his tone said it didn't matter if there were.

  "None," Bolan said. Actually, he was glad to have the help. Five Soviet assassins, plus Dysert and Fowley, as well as Godunov and probably his bodyguard, Mikhail Petrov. That made nine men, no doubt all armed. Bolan described the opposition to the major.

  He nodded. "We'll stop by the school first, grab some real guns. We have some all-terrain three-wheelers that can take us part of the way up the hill."

  "Let's do it," Bolan said.

  The major turned to the seven kids who were still waiting. "What's the holdup, soldiers? Move out. Come on, hustle."

  They didn't move.

  Barney Childress approached, his mouth a grim line of determination. "We wanna go with you."

  "Negative!" the major snapped. "You have your orders."

  "Yes, sir. Only we figure there are seven of us and two of you and we're going along or nobody goes."

  The major looked at Bolan.

  Barney continued. "We figure that three of us could go with you, the other four go on and tie the others up." His voice cracked with emotion. "See, they were students to you, responsibilities. To us they were friends."

  "You could die," Bolan said. "Not make-believe. Real, awful, agonizing death."

  "We know," Laura Menlow said. "Barn and I are eighteen, Theo will be in two months. We're old enough to be drafted. Only we're volunteering. Our choice."

  Bolan looked at them. Beneath their angry expressions were the smooth skin, the bland faces of inexperience. But in their eyes was a need, a commitment. Bolan had seen it in some of the kids in Nam. Most had just looked scared or condemned. But some had believed that what they were doing was right, good. Right or wrong, those soldiers could not be denied.

  "Double time," Bolan said, launching into a run.

  The major fell in beside him. Laura, Theo and Barney followed.

  * * *

  "Here they come," Dysert said, peering through the binoculars.

  "How many?" Fowley asked nervously.

  "Just the two of them. As agreed."

  "I don't trust them."

  Dysert lowered the binoculars and smiled at Fowley. "Faith in your fellow man, Ed, that's what separates us from animals."

  "Cash, that'
s what separates us from animals."

  "And we are about to experience one and a half million dollars' worth of separation."

  Fowley picked a shred of tobacco from between his teeth and took another drag on his unfiltered cigarette. "Too bad we won't be able to hear the blast from San Onofre. I understand those LAWs make a hell of a splash."

  "As long as it serves its function of tying up all the cops and roads. This place will be closed down tight. And we'll be flying above the whole mess."

  "Maybe they'll blame the whole thing on Forsythe," Fowley said, chuckling out puffs of smoke.

  The jeep climbed the steep road with wings of dust fanning out from the tires. It stopped twenty feet from the small cabin where Dysert and Fowley were watching.

  "Godunov," Dysert said, his charm cranked up on high wattage. His eyes, however, were flickering over the jeep, looking for the satchel big enough to hold a million and a half dollars.

  Godunov shook Dysert's hand. "Hot day, my friend. Indian summer I believe you call it."

  "You're late," Fowley said. He flicked his cigarette into the dirt.

  Petrov walked over and ground it out with his large heavy shoes. "Very dangerous. Brush fires."

  Godunov laughed. "Mikhail loves to watch your news shows. Your newscasters seem to enjoy themselves so much between disasters."

  Fowley snorted. "The kind of bucks they make, why shouldn't they be happy?"

  "Now you can be just as happy," Godunov said. He gestured to Petrov, who walked to the jeep and lifted out a black trash bag bulging at all angles.

  Dysert untied the rope at the bag's neck and looked inside. He turned to Fowley and smiled. "Give it to them."

  Fowley opened the cabin door and grabbed a lunch pail. He handed it to Petrov. "The formula is inside, a sample is in the thermos bottle."

  Petrov opened the lunch pail. Inside was the typed formula and a small thermos bottle. Petrov shook the thermos. A liquid splashed inside. He started to uncap the thermos.