Point Position

by Don Pendleton

  “We’re going in by road, while Jack takes the chopper and waits just outside the dead zone—”

  “The what?” Goldman interrupted.

  “The dead zone,” Bolan explained patiently. “The area surrounding the village of Santon. The dead area seems to extend in a circle for a couple kilometers in radius. Walters is pinpointing where it ends as accurately as possible. I want Jack outside with the chopper for immediate evac, and also for air backup if we have trouble. It’s fully equipped with a cannon, right, Jack?”

  “Yes,” Grimaldi replied. “I’d have their hide if they’d given me anything else.” There was something in the way the veteran flier said this that suggested he relished the chance to get away from the cinder-block bunker and out into the field.

  “How are we going to deal with this if that dead zone is still in operation?”

  “That’s a difficult one. If this weapon works on frequency, then there must be headsets or earpieces that transmit a jamming frequency, so soldiers can use the weapon. The problem is that we don’t know what that frequency is, so it’s going to be impossible for us to protect ourselves until such time as we can capture a headset or earpiece from the enemy. In view of this, if the dead zone is still in effect, then we’re going to have to keep watch on the border, and play the waiting game. If we have good recon, then we’ll know if anyone’s coming out, so the chances of Attaturk or Chavez-Smith escaping with the goods are reduced.”

  “I dunno if my nerves can take a long wait,” Goldman mused. “I just want to get this sorted.”

  “We all want to get it sorted,” Bolan snapped. “But if we have to wait, then we have to wait.”

  Leaving no room for any further argument, Bolan ended the briefing. The four men, now armed and ready for the upcoming battle, returned to base where Walters was waiting for them. The sun was beginning to rise as they walked across the dew-laden grass of the landing field. They had been there twenty-four hours—at least twenty longer than any of them could have hoped. In that time, Chavez-Smith could have off-loaded the weapon to Attaturk—the presumed buyer, although there may well be other bidders—several times over. But the Chilean’s greed, and his desire to take the chip apart and copy it, had bought them some time. Bolan, for his part, felt fresh and ready for the battle ahead.

  He hoped the same could be said of Ross and Goldman. Like it or not, he was relying on them to keep their end of the unspoken agreement, and act like soldiers.

  When they entered the bunker and saw the look on Walters’s face, Bolan knew it was all systems go.

  “First details coming through from the village at 05:32. The gendarmerie contacted their regional command center. They were confused and after some kind of assistance. A small group from the local police has been detached to investigate. Apparently they know that they have been out of touch since yesterday around midday, but they can’t remember a thing about what has happened in that time.”

  “Is it just the local police?”

  Walters shook his head. “It’s moving up. Everyone is coming around and realizing that people have been trying to get in touch.”

  “What’s the situation like with the local police and the French army? Are there any emergency procedures to cover civil events like this?”

  Walters nodded. “Yes, but none of the plans have ever been put into operation. There seems to be a lot of confusion at local level, and a distinct reluctance to go national, as it would expose some inadequacies. I’d say you’ve got a six-hour window before it blows up, Colonel.”

  “Thank God for bureaucracy.”

  14

  Despite the increasing communication with the village of Santon, and the growing awareness of the strange events that had occurred over the previous twenty-four hours, there were no roadblocks yet established, and no increase in traffic toward the village. The roads remained virtually deserted, and Walters kept all four of the war party up to speed with events as he monitored them from the airfield.

  “Chavez-Smith is no fool, and however arrogant he’s become, he’s going to realize that he has a limited time frame before his base is tracked down as the source of these events,” Bolan said as he negotiated the narrow roads and hairpin turns that characterized the mostly rural area. The sun had risen on a landscape that could make a man realize why it had become a retreat. Given time to stop and consider, it would be bizarre that a place so beautiful could mask such evil intent.

  But there was no time.

  “If his buyer is Attaturk, then they will have done the majority of their business a couple of nights ago on the yacht, and maybe he’s even there now to observe the tests, which could give us a problem,” Bolan continued, before explaining all that the Countess D’Orsini had told him.

  “You sly old dog, so that’s what you were up to when it went quiet,” Grimaldi said over the com link. The pilot had been wondering for some time about that sudden silence during operations, and had made the obvious deduction.

  “All in the line of business,” Bolan replied with a grin. “Thing is, the last scenario we want is to be running into another assault team that’s basically on the same side. They won’t be after the same thing, but they want to put Attaturk and Chavez-Smith out of business.”

  “We’ve been monitoring Attaturk’s movements,” came Walters’s voice from base. “He’s still in Marseilles.”

  “That’s good news,” Bolan stated. “That means we’re on our own against Hector.”

  “I hope so,” Ross said from the back seat. “This is going to be enough of a fight as it is without another team interfering.”

  “Not getting scared are you, Errol?” Goldman asked.

  “Damn right I am,” Ross growled. “I’d be a fool if I wasn’t.”

  “Right,” Bolan affirmed. “The odds are heavily stacked against us. But I figure we can do it if we get the area secured then hit them hard.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Goldman said softly.

  That was what worried Bolan. The last thing he wanted was Goldman charging in like a rogue elephant when strategy was the key. The redhead was now heavily armed, and was aware of the amount of hardware carried in the combat bag that sat in the back of the car.

  Why, the soldier asked himself, did he get the idea that Goldman could prove to be more of a problem that Chavez-Smith and Destiny’s Spear combined?

  But there was no time to think about it now. The car cornered another hairpin, dipping into a hollow that saw them surrounded by grassed banks covered in wildflowers, before emerging onto a straightaway that faced a small village. The road ran through the main street, which they could see clearly, revealing a few shops and stone houses, with a church and hotel, and some streets that led off this main thoroughfare. It was quiet, and there were very few people visible on the streets, despite the fact that life was usually in full swing early in such rural areas.

  As they approached a signpost, Bolan stepped on the brake so that the sign would be more than just a passing blur.

  They were entering Santon.

  LEADING OFF THE NARROW main street was a small, enclosed village square, with a statue in the middle of some local dignitary, a bar that was closed, the town hall and the local gendarmerie. The street and sidewalk were deserted. Bolan pulled the car to halt and spoke into his mike.

  “We’ve arrived in Santon. It’s quiet here like they’ve been hit by the plague. Hopefully, the local police will still be too confused to ask too many questions, but before we hit the Chilean, I want to find out a little more about the effects of this weapon.”

  “Copy that,” came Grimaldi’s voice. “I’ll be listening in. I’ve settled on the outskirts of the dead zone, about ten minutes’ flying time from target location. I’ll keep things ticking over here and wait for the word.”

  “Copy,” Bolan replied. “What about you, Walters?”

  “If you had time, I’d put some of what I’m getting on the line. These guys are in complete confusion, all trying to
pass the buck to get in and investigate. I’d also figure that Chavez-Smith has some heavy money going into the pockets of some bureaucrats, as there’s a distinct reticence to rubber-stamp an army operation.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Bolan answered. “But I guess we can’t knock it if it buys us some time. If we get this right, then those corrupt officials will be going on cheaper vacations next year.”

  The Executioner got out of the car and headed toward the gendarmerie, with Ross and Goldman hot on his heels.

  The small station was covered with posters concerned more with agricultural and social notices than police business. The worn wooden counter hadn’t been replaced, and it was only the presence of a battered computer terminal and a modern phone that dragged the room, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.

  The front desk was empty as the three men entered. Bolan looked around, but there was no sign of activity. An old bell stood on the battered counter, and he banged it hard. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the room. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then they heard the sounds of movement from a room beyond. A gendarme emerged.

  “Yes?” he asked, a little blankly. Then, as he took in the blacksuits and the hardware adorning the three men in front of him, his hand snaked to the holster at his hip.

  “No,” Bolan said, holding up both hands. “You’re expecting us. You’ve been trying to get someone here for hours, right?”

  Looking at the young man’s blank expression, eyes staring and pupils dilated, even in the bright light of the room, Bolan had been immediately able to define that the young gendarme was still in a state of shock. His delayed reactions, and the slowness with which he had reacted to their presence, only served to reinforce that. Bolan had no wish to engage the man in pointless combat. He wasn’t their enemy, but he was dazed enough to be fooled into thinking they were from a government agency, perhaps dazed enough to not ask for identification.

  The gendarme’s hand stopped on the way to the holster. He blinked once, then said in a voice that sounded as though he had awakened from a long sleep, “It’s about time. Why don’t you people want to help us?”

  “We do. It’s just taken us a little time to get here. Bureaucracy, you know?” Bolan said as he shrugged.

  The young gendarme gave him a lopsided smile. “Oh yeah,” he replied slowly, “I know all about that, if only from this morning. But then, I don’t blame them. It all sounds so weird, even to me.”

  There was a wondering tone about the last sentence that alerted Bolan’s combat sense. There was an added complication on the way, he was sure.

  “Why, exactly, does it sound so strange?” he asked carefully.

  The young gendarme seemed to take forever to frame an answer. He looked at the three men in turn and then down at himself. Finally, he looked up again, straight at Bolan.

  “It’s like this. I woke up this morning and I found that I am a gendarme, and I have been for some time according to the papers I found. Yet all I can remember is yesterday. And yesterday I was a farmhand, working out the summer in the hope of getting a place to train for this job. I can’t remember a single thing that has taken place in the past year.”

  Bolan tried to control his amazement, but could tell that, behind him, Ross and Goldman had exchanged sharp glances.

  “Are you the only one who feels this?” he asked, focusing intently on the gendarme. The young man was trying to cooperate, but it was obvious that he was still feeling the aftereffects of whatever had occurred in the village. He was struggling to think faster, react with more speed and intelligence. Seeing this, Bolan added, “Don’t try too hard. We think we know what is responsible for what has happened. It uses sound and has a powerful posthypnotic effect. It may take you some time to return to normal. Your mind has had a terrible shock. Don’t try to force it, just take your time.”

  Time was the one thing they didn’t have, but to try to make the young gendarme respond too quickly could actually cause more delay in the long term. The young man gave a slow, relieved smile at the soldier’s words.

  “It may sound ridiculous to you, but I’m actually pleased you’ve told me that. It maybe goes toward explaining things. I shall try to tell you, as concisely as I can, what has happened since awakening this morning.

  “It was still the early hours. Dawn had not quite broken. I was confused and could not get any orientation for a while. I remember wondering why I was here, and why the uniform. It made no sense to me. I am not the only man to work here—my colleague Jean-Paul is out checking the outlying farms to see what has happened there. Maybe I can raise him—”

  “In a moment,” Bolan interjected. “First, your story.”

  The young gendarme nodded. “Very good. I awoke very confused, and the first thing I did was to check if anyone else was in the building. It was empty. There is little crime out here, and I discovered from the roster pinned to the wall that Jean-Paul was at home. It was my turn to sit through the night shift. I also discovered that I have been here some months, and that it is not the year that I thought it to be. When Jean-Paul came in, he was surprised to see me naturally, and almost drew his pistol on me before I had a chance to explain.

  “Neither of us knew what had happened, but one thing was for sure—it was odd, and that it would worry and confuse the people when they were roused. And if we were awake, then they soon would be. It was then that we decided that Jean-Paul must make the rounds of all the outlying farms, and before that check around Santon. I would stay here and try to raise the authorities and get some action. People would not be expecting to see me—to them I was still a farmhand barely out of being a teenager. They would expect Jean-Paul or Jacques.”

  “Jacques is another gendarme, I take it. Where is he right now?” Bolan asked.

  The young gendarme paused, pursed his lips as though composing himself. “That is the tragedy. Jacques was well-liked around here, and there must have been much grieving at the time. You see, the reason that I am now a gendarme here is because Jacques was killed ten months ago in a car accident.”

  Bolan knew the grief following death, and felt a pang for those who would have to grieve all over again—particularly the man’s family, if they were still resident.

  “I know this must be incredibly difficult for you to take in right now,” the soldier began, “but coming from the outside we know the total area affected. I’ll give you the map references, and you can contact your colleague so he knows the radius. I also need to talk to him to check if everyone he has come across so far has suffered in the same way. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” the young gendarme agreed. “He should be out at the Château Soleil about now. That’s been rented out by an Englishman—”

  Bolan stopped the young gendarme with a raised. “What? Get him, now. Find out if he’s there, and don’t say a word about us until you know.”

  “What—” began the confused young man.

  “We think the problem may originate from there, and it’s vital that the inhabitants know nothing about our presence in the area.”

  “But if you know what is going on, then why are there only three of you, and—”

  Bolan cut him short. “We’re an advance party, scouting the ground. There’ll be others after us.” And he was not lying to the gendarme. However, the others wouldn’t be pleased if they ran into the soldier and his two companions, and with luck Bolan would have called in Grimaldi and completed evac before the French army rolled into town.

  The gendarme took them at face value, nodding shortly and beckoning them into the back room of the small gendarmerie, where a shortwave set stood waiting. The three men waited restlessly while he attempted to raise his colleague. The first two attempts yielded no result, and the men exchanged glances loaded with meaning. If this Jean-Paul had stumbled into the lair of the Chilean, then the terrorists acting as a private army would be on red alert, and Bolan’s task would be that much more difficult.

 
The third time, the set crackled into life, and Jean-Paul answered. The young gendarme’s name was Phillipe, and he exchanged a brief and garbled explanation with his older colleague when it was revealed that the Château Soleil was the next port of call on Jean-Paul’s list. It took some convincing from the younger man before Jean-Paul was forced to drop his wild idea of scouting the ground for the advance team.

  Eventually, Jean-Paul settled for speaking to Bolan, filling him in on what he had discovered on his rounds. It would appear that the effects of the weapon had been uniform, so it didn’t diminish in strength over distance. This meant that the cutoff point hadn’t been arbitrary, it had been carefully planned. The weapon was far more accurate and powerful than the soldier had imagined—and far more dangerous. They would have to move immediately.

  Bolan gave the gendarme map references for the points where the dead zone had been known to have ended. This would help Jean-Paul plan his route more efficiently, and it would also keep him away from the three-man team as they mounted their assault.

  The older gendarme signed off, and Phillipe turned to the men.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. “I resent these bastards taking a year from my life.”

  Bolan shook his head. “This has been a major piece of psychological warfare. You’ve been subjected to an immense strain, and you must realize yourself that your reflexes aren’t running at a hundred percent.” The gendarme nodded, and Bolan continued, “This operation will demand complete concentration and fast reflexes. The people we suspect to be behind this are a highly skilled terrorist operation. It’s imperative that we hit them hard and fast. You would be a danger to yourself as much as to us right now, but don’t think that I don’t appreciate your courage and determination. A good soldier knows when to step back.”

  The gendarme nodded. “Yes, I do still feel…I don’t know, like I’m not myself, yet. Yeah, you’re right. Is there anything I can do?”