Point Position

by Don Pendleton

  It was situated in one room at the end of the corridor, facing the front of the building. Bolan indicated to Ross to cover him, then pitched himself across the closed doorway so that they now stood one on each side.

  They paused, unsure of what was happening. Unable to hear any sounds from behind the closed and—presumably—barricaded door, it was impossible to know how to tackle to situation.

  Bolan took a grenade from his combat harness, but was stopped by Ross’s frantic gesturing. Bolan gave him a quizzical look, and Ross indicated his ears.

  Bolan put the grenade back in his webbing and mouthed “What?” at the mercenary. Ross returned with a gesture that he would kick the door in if Bolan covered him.

  The Executioner was appalled. Ross was taking a hugely unnecessary risk to recover the sonic chip. He shook his head, but the man was insistent. Bolan shrugged. What could he do to stop Ross?

  Ross stepped back and lifted a foot before crashing it against the door.

  It was the last thing he ever did. When the Chilean’s guards had barred the door to the electronics lab, they had booby-trapped it. As Ross’s foot crashed against the wood, it triggered a small, armed explosive device that exploded, throwing Ross backward against the wall, his leg missing at the calf, blood pouring from the wound and from contusions and cuts caused by large splinters of wood. One had gouged a hole in his throat, and his life blood was pumping out in time with his leg wound.

  Bolan had flung himself away from the explosion, and was spared all except a few lights before the eyes from the flash of the blast. He scrambled to his feet and, taking one look at Ross and realizing that there was nothing he could do to help the merc, he took a grenade and pulled the pin, releasing the spoon as he threw it into the room.

  The upper floor of the château shook, part of the corridor wall collapsing as the blast tore through the enclosed space. Bolan waited for the dust to settle and stepped into the room, assault rifle at the ready.

  Inside was carnage. The electronics lab had been well-insulated, and the insulation had allowed little of the fragmentation to escape. The walls and the shattered equipment were covered with shards of metal. All the working equipment was burned out, and there was little left of the people who had been sheltering within. Bolan recognized what was left of Hector Chavez-Smith, and figured on seven other people whose remains were scattered.

  The white noise in his ears had stopped. Bolan took off the headset and listened to the almost deafening silence. If there was anyone else left standing in the château, they were staying quiet.

  The Executioner walked slowly across the room, listening to the creaking floorboards, and the moaning of a structure that was almost shattered beyond repair. He’d better get out as soon as possible. But first…

  It took only a few moments to find what he was looking for. The transmission device. The computer itself was broken, but the chip, attached externally, was still intact. In a small box next to it sat another. The original and the copy.

  Bolan took them both, dropped them on the floor and crushed them beneath his heel. For this, more than fifty people had died in the past few days. A product of a black project culture in the U.S. military that stood contrary to everything Bolan believed about America. Maybe the man in the Oval Office would have liked these. Oh well. The black project also had the plans for the chip and would no doubt make it again.

  Bolan had managed to delay them for at least a little while.

  He checked that the chips were beyond repair, then pondered his next problem. If Grimaldi had switched off the blacksuit mike transmitter, then how was he going to contact him? Suddenly he turned to the corpse of Hector Chavez-Smith, a fragment of steel embedded in the center of his forehead, his eyes still surprised. Bolan searched him and found a cell phone. It was still working. Bolan tapped in a number and waited.

  “Hello?” Grimaldi said tentatively.

  “It’s me, Jack,” Bolan replied. “Come and get me out. Ross is dead, so is Goldman, I think. That Chilean scumbag certainly is. So’s everyone else as far as I can tell. I’ve destroyed the chip.”

  “I figure it’s mission accomplished. I’ll be with you in five.”

  Epilogue

  Bolan left the château and walked across the vineyards to where the decommissioned M-16/M-203 combo and the combat bag lay waiting for him. Although he was pretty sure he was the only one left standing after the assault, he still cradled the AKSU, ready to fire if the need arose. He looked back at the crumbling remains of the outbuildings and the Château Soleil, which was looking pretty much of a wreck itself.

  Another round in the War Everlasting was over. This time the good guys had won. He took a look around before starting to dismantle the combo. He would have to put down the AKSU while he packed the heavier gun away, and there was something nagging at him, something that wasn’t quite right. All the while he dismantled the large assault rifle, he kept looking around. But there was no movement or sound that would justify his nagging doubt.

  With the combat bag packed, Bolan picked it up, then shouldered the AKSU and began to walk into the middle of the land between the wilderness and the vines.

  “Come on, Jack, or else the French military will be asking me some damned awkward questions,” he said softly, watching the skies and listening for Grimaldi’s approach. They would have to go back in and get Ross’s corpse before they could leave. A man in a blacksuit would take a little too much explaining, and Hal Brognola wouldn’t be happy about it.

  It was while he was looking up that he became aware of something in the corner of his eye—a figure, staggering out from the vines away to the eastern side. Bolan dropped the bag and drew the Beretta. The figure seemed too unsteady to be any threat, but nonetheless…

  As Bolan settled his gaze on the figure, he was astounded to see that it was Goldman. Bolan holstered the Beretta and moved slowly toward the staggering man. He halted when the dazed mercenary lifted his MP-5 and directed it at him.

  “Hold it! Don’t move,” Goldman commanded, his voice was slurred and as unsteady as his gait. He seemed to be carrying no obvious injuries, and Bolan could only surmise for some reason that he had failed to use his headset in time.

  “Goldman, Jimmy Goldman,” Bolan called in a firm, clear voice. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

  Even at this distance, he could see the frown cross Goldman’s face. Bolan held his hands up above his head to signal his intent, and his lack of hardware to hand.

  “I remember a lot of things, but not why I’m here. And not you,” Goldman said threateningly.

  “Look at yourself,” Bolan continued, ignoring the implied hostility. “You’re wearing a blacksuit, like me. Like your partner. And you came here with me. You’ve sustained a psychological injury in the course of combat.”

  “Where’s Errol?” Goldman cut across Bolan’s attempted explanation.

  Bolan hesitated. How the hell could he tell Goldman that Ross was dead without the hotheaded mercenary losing it?

  “Ross has sustained something far worse,” he said awkwardly.

  Goldman let the MP-5 fall. “Worse? If he’s not with you…” Suddenly he pulled the SMG upright again, and his voice took on a harder tone. “If he’s dead, then you’re going to have to explain yourself a bit better than you have.”

  “He’s dead,” the Executioner stated. “I wish I could tell you otherwise. He died in the line of duty.”

  “Duty? What does that mean?” Goldman spit. “We don’t work for any army. We—”

  “You’re mercenaries, and you were employed to carry out this operation with myself and my colleague, who’s flying in to pick us up now,” Bolan interjected hurriedly. “We have to get the hell out of here. We were successful, but the French military will be down on us soon, and I don’t think we want to be answering any awkward questions they may care to put to us,” he continued. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it would serve until he had the time to debrief the confused merc.
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br />   “Why would the French military want us?” Goldman asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because we’re in France,” Bolan answered flatly, not knowing what else to say. It occurred to him that the black ops people who had employed Goldman and Ross would have a field day studying the surviving merc if they got their hands on him. If he remembered as much as the locals who had previously been affected, then he’d lost a year of his life. Bolan resolved that he would enlist the help of Stony Man and Brognola to insure that Goldman was helped.

  Goldman had stayed silent on hearing this, looking even more confused, as though trying to work it out in his head, which was already scrambled enough.

  But then he looked up. Like Bolan, he had heard the approach of Grimaldi’s chopper. The big black bird was closing in on them fast.

  “That’s our ticket out,” Bolan yelled. “You want to come back to the house and help me get Ross’s body? The least he deserves is a proper burial.”

  Somehow, this idea snapped Goldman out of his confused reverie. He looked blankly at Bolan and nodded, putting away the MP-5 and following the Executioner back to the château.

  Mounting the dangerously damaged staircase, they picked their way among the debris and the bodies in the house until they came to the spot where Errol Ross lay in a pool of his own blood, his leg severed at the calf and the splinter still stuck in his throat.

  For a moment, Bolan thought that Goldman was going to vomit, but instead the redhead pulled the splinter free and tossed it away. He bent down and gently picked up the body of his dead partner.

  “You need a hand?” Bolan asked.

  Goldman shot him a glance underscored with menace. “No, I’ll do it,” he said in a monotone.

  Bolan allowed him to carry the corpse down the staircase and out of the château. They took the front entrance, where the double doors were blast-damaged but still secure, and walked around the perimeter of the vineyard to where Grimaldi had set down the chopper. The pilot appeared in the hatch, and although Goldman tried to shrug off the pilot’s attempts to assist him, he eventually had to let the pilot help him up into the chopper. Bolan watched, then picked up the combat bag and jumped up into the belly of the aircraft.

  “What’s with him?” Grimaldi whispered as Bolan joined him. “He didn’t seem to know who I was.”

  “He doesn’t know, Jack. He doesn’t know anything about the mission. He wasn’t wearing a headset. I don’t know why. But I do know that he’s grieving for his partner, and someone is going to have to do a lot of explaining to him before he can work out just what he’s been through.”

  “Yeah, but at least he’s still alive,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan gave a single shake of his head. “You know, I’m not sure he’s so pleased about that right now. Come on, Jack, we need to get out of here. Can Walters cover the air traces before the French move in?”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “He’s a bright boy, Sarge. He’ll manage. The question is, how are you going to explain this to Hal? He’s going to have to account for this to the man in the Oval Office. It was only supposed to be a quiet little covert operation.”

  “Hal’s the least of our problems. And he’ll square things with the Man. He always does,” he added wearily, then he settled himself into his seat as Grimaldi lifted the bird off the ground, heading for home.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-7401-6

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Andy Boot for his contribution to this work.

  POINT POSITION

  Copyright © 2004 by Worldwide Library.

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