Point Position

by Don Pendleton

  Fortunately, the surrounding area was still empty.

  Taking a moment to compose himself, he heard Ross’s voice in his earpiece. Ross had a headset and was warning them about the blacksuit mikes. He also heard Cooper’s brief reply. Should he say anything? No, wait until he had something to report. He’d have to move fast, though.

  For Goldman, this summed up how he felt about the way this mission had turned out. How stupid was it that he’d spent this long avoiding a security patrol, and now he desperately needed one?

  Only one way to do that, as far as he could see. Part of his armory was an MP-5, and he unslung it and checked the clip. Full. He made sure it was seated. The hardware was ready, he was hyped up.

  Time to go hunting.

  Goldman moved along the outside edge of the vine, traveling north and looking for a gap in the maze through which to enter. He found a hole, and he took it with the MP-5 raised and ready.

  Both directions were clear. He stopped and listened.

  Nothing. So which direction should he head in search of a patrol? Did they move clockwise or counterclockwise?

  Mentally, he flipped a coin and got counterclockwise. Shrugging, he moved off quickly, keeping an ear open for approaching security.

  He didn’t have to wait too long. He’d only gone a couple of hundred yards before he heard them approach. Two voices, one male and one female. Heavy, ponderous footsteps. Goldman’s French was even more limited than that of his partner, but he could tell by the dragging feet and the bored tones that these were two guards whose attention was anything but focused on their task.

  Good. That should make his task easier.

  They were about to round a bend in a path running between the vines, heading straight toward him. Goldman pulled himself into the nearside of the bend, so that their angle of vision wouldn’t catch him until the last minute, and then raised the MP-5, ready to fire. There was no suppresser on the SMG, and he knew that in this silence the noise would carry back to the château with a cover-shattering ease, but right then he didn’t care. He just wanted the headset before the next trial began.

  The woman was in her early twenties, thickset with heavy breasts and splaying hips barely contained by her jeans. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and an angry expression that was frozen into surprise as she caught sight of Goldman waiting for her. The man by her side was slightly older, taller and much thinner. He had an arm around her shoulders as he talked. Both of them had their SMGs at a downward angle, and were completely unprepared for what was about to greet them. In fact, the man didn’t even get a chance to look up before he died.

  Goldman squeezed the trigger of the MP-5 and seven shots rang out so closely that they could have been one. They drilled the two guards from the top of the man’s shoulder to the woman’s hip, running in a ragged diagonal line. The heavy shells ripped flesh, bone and soft internal tissue as they drove through the two bodies. The momentum threw the two bodies backward, and before they had even hit the dirt, Goldman was on them. He took a headset from the girl and placed it on his head. He could hear the echo of his shots dying away on the air, and was damned sure that they could hear them in the château. Pausing to listen, he could hear nothing reach him by way of response or disturbance, but knew that it was only a matter of time.

  “Goldman. I’ve got a headset and eliminated two guards,” he said briefly.

  “Yeah, I kind of gathered that,” came Ross’s sardonic tones. “Why not let them know we’re here, Jimmy?”

  Cooper’s voice broke in. He was trying to hold his temper, but the anger was apparent in his voice, which only served to make Goldman grin.

  “Dammit, Goldman, we were supposed to be in position before letting them know we were here. We’ll have to move fast. Wait to hear from me. Out.”

  BOLAN’S OWN JOURNEY had been harder. Although the mercs hadn’t been in the château grounds before, they had the intel from the soldier’s recon to guide them. But the western side of the estate was the one that Bolan hadn’t been able to scan before having to make for the outside. And so it was that much harder for him to make rapid progress, especially as he was carrying the combat bag containing the M-16/M-203 combo.

  The territory over this sector was much the same as before. The wilderness that had been allowed to develop around the walls provided him with good cover as he moved around the perimeter, allowing him to remain hidden. He kept a close watch on the maze of vines but saw little activity. The security patrols were obviously there, but they saw no reason to cover the area beyond the maze of vines, perhaps figuring that the expanse of bare land between wilderness and vine would act as its own security.

  Wrong.

  The wilderness was a little more dense there, with gorse and bramble added to the grasses and bracken. The bramble roots made the ground uneven and perilous, and that slowed Bolan even more. He hadn’t even reached a spot where he could make it across to the vines when he heard Ross’s voice in his earpiece.

  He’d really have to move it.

  Stopping to take a full bearing, Bolan could see that he was roughly halfway around the perimeter of the estate. Looking across, he could see the roofs of both the outbuildings and the château.

  Time to get across to the vines. A hundred yards or so, to be done toting the heavy combat bag. That would slow him, and even if he checked thoroughly before starting the run, this fact alone would make him more vulnerable to being spotted by any guard that may appear.

  Bolan took the Beretta from its holster. It still had the sound suppressor attached. He weighted it in his palm, loosening his muscles so that he would be able to bring it up and direct a burst of fire in a fraction of a second.

  He drew a breath and took one last look around. It was clear as far as he could see, and there was no sound to indicate anyone within range.

  Feet pounding across the dry, barren stretch of earth, breathing deep and regular, Bolan took the empty space at a brisk pace, the Beretta ready to fire at the slightest hint of trouble. But there was none. He reached the vines without breaking a sweat.

  Now to find a security patrol and take it out. He’d figured the teams were regular, but wasn’t sure of their rotation. Given time, he would wait and then take them out when they passed by on their rounds, but time was the one thing he didn’t have.

  He’d have to flush them out. Then the burst of MP-5 fire from the far side of the estate obviated the need for that. He heard Goldman report, heard Ross retort and bit down hard on his own anger. The loud fire would attract attention, maybe spur the Chilean to use the sonic weapon to immobilize them quickly—and he still had no headset.

  But if Bolan was concerned and thinking rationally about what to do and how to act, the guards were reacting rather than acting. A wry smile crossed the soldier’s face as he heard some approach from the far side of the vines. He dropped the combat bag and moved stealthily toward the nearest gap in the vines. The guards were acting and thinking as though the intruders were only where the fire had sounded. They made no attempt to scout their own territory.

  Bolan waited by the gap for the two guards to approach. They were almost on him when he stepped out and tapped the Beretta’s trigger, the short burst of fire stopping them in their tracks and killing them before they realized they were dead. Their internal organs were pulped by the combined force of the shells, the shock trauma and the bone splinters as their chest and ribs were shattered by the blast.

  Wasting no time, Bolan took a headset from one of the guards and put it on. He jumped back behind the vine and grabbed the combat bag before heading toward the château, the Beretta ready for any further intrusions.

  He looked at his watch and barked into the blacksuit mike, “Attack begins in three minutes. They’re rattled, so watch for them. Now lose the earpieces and get the headsets on.”

  He heard both Ross and Goldman acknowledge the order as he pulled out his own earpiece, letting it dangle onto his chest from its wire attachment as he pulled the headset in
to place.

  Two minutes to get a location, set up the M-16/M-203 combo and start firing. So far there had been no other guards near him. Maybe his luck would hold.

  At one minute forty-five he found his spot, a gap in the maze that would allow him a direct line at the outbuildings and the château. He dropped and opened the combat bag, taking out the pieces of the M-16 and methodically slotting them together, all the while keeping a lookout for any guards.

  He had the M-203 grenade launcher in place when two guards came into view. They raised their SMGs and fired. From their faces, Bolan could see that they were panicked, and he felt splashes of earth where they were firing wide. He calmly picked up the Beretta and tapped two bursts that cut them down.

  Twenty-five seconds. He loaded the M-16/M-203 combo and sighted the target.

  Eight seconds. He counted until his watch hit zero, then he fired the first grenade and began to pour 5.56 mm fire at the buildings.

  The attack had begun.

  17

  Hector Chavez-Smith was a happy man. Whatever problems had been occurring in Marseilles, he had managed to shake them off, and there had been no sign that they had been followed. Holed up in an anonymous château, there was no chance they could have been easily traced. Of course, they now had one successful test behind them, and it was a ticking clock on how long it would be before they would have the military descend on them in an attempt to find out just what had been happening, but that was unimportant.

  His scientific staff of three had managed to crack the program and design of the chip much quicker than he had expected, and the test had been a success. All he needed to do now was pack up and get out, as soon as the blueprint and the first copy were complete. Attaturk—his first buyer—had stayed in Marseilles, muttering about the U.S. government being on his tail. To Chavez-Smith’s cocaine paranoia, it was obvious that Attaturk was the target for the troubles. Attaturk was a barbarian, and soon Chavez-Smith would be dealing with smoother men, and with greater nations. This was the coup that would make him the greatest arms dealer in the world.

  “Top of the world, Ma, top of the world,” he whispered to himself as he sat in the château’s study, looking out the windows onto the vineyards beyond. He sipped at the snifter of brandy in one hand, regardless of the fact that it was a time of day when brandy was not usually drunk. He looked at his watch. There would be another brief test in less than half an hour, and he had to make sure that he had the protective headset in place. It would never do for him to be caught out by his own tests. Loss of face meant more than anything.

  But he didn’t get the chance to make a note of the time. He was jolted from his chair by the sudden explosion on the far side of the château. It sounded like one of the outbuildings, and he’d been dealing armament long enough to know a grenade blast when he heard one. The intense chattering of an M-16 following on to the blast was all-too-familiar.

  Cursing, the Chilean pulled himself out of his chair and reached the door as it was opened by one of his bodyguards.

  “If you say we’re under attack, then I’ll fucking kill you myself,” he yelled as the man opened his mouth. “You think I don’t know a grenade when I hear it?”

  Without another word, he moved through the corridors to the room that had been turned into an electronics lab. Opening the door, he yelled at the three people within. “Sound the preliminary. Thirty seconds and then hit the button.”

  It was earlier than he had hoped, but if they were under attack from the French military, then what better way to run the second weapons test but in a full combat situation?

  ROSS HEARD THE FIRST explosion, then the sound of M-16 fire, and began his own advance. He moved through the maze of vines at a crouch toward the house and outbuildings. He figured that the untrained terrorists would panic. He knew from the briefing that the terrorists had been on paramilitary training in the States, but he also knew from the ease with which all three men had obtained headsets that the terrorists were slack and were not expecting trouble. Therefore, anything that happened would put them into shock for a couple of minutes. And that would be all—in theory—that they should need. Already, they had taken out six of the opposition, bringing the odds down from about ten-to-one to eight, still high, but getting better all the time.

  From the direction of the buildings, he could hear shouting and confusion. Chances were, if they were to react rather than act, the terrorists would head for the direction of the fire and leave gaps for both himself and Goldman to exploit. He had grenades on his combat harness, and these would be useful for flushing the enemy from the outbuildings.

  He froze as he heard voices and footsteps coming his way. They were arriving from behind him, and had to belong to an outlying security patrol that was tracking back to the château. Ross felt the sweat bead on his forehead and the small of his back. This was it.

  Pivoting, he made sure that the Beretta was holstered and it was the MP-5 he was holding. In this kind of firefight, it had to be an SMG for maximum firepower.

  Ross located the source of the noise. They were on the side of the vines farthest from the house, and they were heading for the nearest gap, which was about fifty yards away. Two men, a standard patrol. He had to hit them as they came through, and as they would be ready for trouble he would have to hit immediately. There would be no second chance or element of shock this time.

  Ross flattened himself to the vine, trying to blot out the noise around him and concentrate only on the approaching footsteps. The guards were running and calling to each other. Calling, not speaking. One had to be a much faster runner, and had some distance on his partner. So Ross wouldn’t be able to hit them both as they came through. Damn.

  There was only one thing he could do. He began to move toward the gap in the vines and readied himself to fire on sight. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged forward at the moment he judged the first guard to be near. Stepping through the gap, he tapped the trigger of the MP-5 and took out the first guard. A line of rounds tore holes in his torso from shoulder to groin, and he jerked back, his Uzi flying from his hand.

  Before the body had even hit the ground, Ross ducked to his left, cannoning into the vine to avoid return fire from the other guard. The higher pitched chatter of the guard’s Uzi cut through the noise that seemed to fill the previously silent vineyard, deaf-eningly loud in the merc’s ears. The leaves on the vine deadened some of the sound, and wrapped themselves around his face as he sank into them, making it hard to get a clear sight of the man firing at him. Panic welled up as he realized he may get himself killed before he had a chance to return fire, and his finger tightened on the MP-5’s trigger, squeezing off another burst. He heard a scream as the body hit the ground.

  The second guard had dropped his Uzi. The wild shots from the blinded Ross had chopped into the guard’s legs, leaving his kneecaps and shins shattered, and he had sunk down, unable to support his own weight. Trying desperately to stand, or at least to scramble for where his SMG had landed, the man was temporarily out of the action. He saw Ross come back out of the vines, MP-5 raised. There was a desperate, imploring look in his eyes as Ross caught sight of them, but there was no time to show mercy. Ross tapped the trigger and sent the guard backward in an awkward, spastic motion as the momentum of the bullets propelled him.

  It was then that Ross heard the siren, cutting through the noise of battle. His brow furrowed for a fraction of a second before it hit him. A warning that the sonic weapon was about to be deployed. It made sense to use it, as Chavez-Smith would figure they had no defense against this weapon, and however many of them there were could then be easily mopped up by his forces.

  Oh, how wrong you are, Ross thought as pulled the protective headset into place. Immediately, the noise of battle was replaced by a soothing white noise that was at a moderate volume. This had to be the frequency blocker. It did give him one problem. How could he hear the enemy approach with this in his ears?

  Then he smiled. If he had this p
roblem, then so did Chavez-Smith’s private army. The odds were leveled on that score, at least.

  Grinning to himself, and moving forward with much more caution now that he had to rely solely on his eyes, Ross turned back and moved through the vines, heading for the château.

  GOLDMAN HAD ALLOWED himself to grin. The sound of the detonated grenades followed by the chatter of 5.56 mm ammo being unleashed had stirred his blood. He began to move toward the château through the cover of the vineyards. His teeth were still bared in a grin, but of a more vulpine nature, when he sighted the two guards coming at him. One had an Uzi, but the other was carrying an AKSU assault rifle. Goldman, with his MP-5, was on the lookout for the terrorists, whereas they were still confused about what was going on and not fully alert.

  That was the last error either of them would make. A woman was holding the Uzi, and before she had time to take a bead on Goldman he had drilled a line across her chest and abdomen with one swift tap on the MP-5’s trigger. As she was thrown backward, she let loose a useless burst of Uzi fire into the air. She crashed to the ground, dead.

  Goldman threw himself down and to his left as he fired, making it hard for the left-handed man with the AKSU to bring the weapon around and down in order to take aim. This was exactly what Goldman had intended, as it bought him the time to resight the MP-5 and tap the trigger once more. Another short, controlled burst took out the struggling terrorist with a line that zipped straight from his crotch to his throat. He dropped the AKSU as he hit the ground without even firing it.

  Goldman sprang to his feet. Certainly, he felt confidant that if this was the best that Destiny’s Spear and Hector Chavez-Smith could do, then the element of surprise should give them enough of an edge to beat the odds and take the terrorists out.

  He began to move forward rapidly, keeping an eye out for movement. It was then that he heard the alarm. He furrowed his brow, momentarily puzzled, before realizing that it had to signal the beginning of the test. He grinned again. That stupid Chilean hadn’t thought that they might have taken some headsets already, he thought.