Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  Another of the Javanese stood with a pistol in his hand. His arm and shoulder were in a sling, badly torn from grenade fragments. He glared down at the body. “He has killed my brother.”

  Islamov fingered his rifle. Another Javanese lay dead a few feet away. Those he could buy by the bushel. But Rachid Atrache lay dead next to him. Shrapnel had ripped out his throat and eyes. Foreign legion deep reconnaissance commandos were not so easily replaced.

  No one had laid eyes on the American, and he was already down three men.

  Islamov calculated the situation and thought about what he would do in the same situation. “I believe our friend’s best option will be to kill all of us as quickly as possible before he succumbs to exhaustion.”

  Neither the legionnaires nor the Javanese were particularly pleased with the announcement.

  “Don’t you see? He will stalk us like a ghost. Even now he has retreated to his next ambush point. What he must do is kill all of us, or just enough of us so that he can take one of our radios and send out a message. That is his mission. His ultimate survival will be secondary to making contact with the outside and stopping the launch.”

  Cigarette cradled his sniper rifle uncertainly. “And so?”

  “And so we deny him this option. Our survival is secondary to that.” Islamov opened his hand. “Radios. Everyone.” He pointed at the ground in front of him. “Here. Quickly.”

  Knock-Knock and Cigarette took off their tactical radios and dropped them at Islamov’s feet. Islamov took out his own broadband radio and cell phone and dropped them. “Babar?”

  Babar shrugged and dropped his radio and cell phone, as well. The Javanese had not been issued radios. They were assigned as two-man teams to each legionnaire. Cigarette gathered up Atrache’s radio and phone and dropped them in, as well. Islamov smiled at the pile of communications gear on the jungle floor. He took out his pistol and flicked off the safety.

  “Hey, asshole!” Islamov’s voice boomed through the jungle in English. “Do you know what this sound is?”

  The pistol barked in his hand and a tactical radio jumped and shattered apart against the toes of his boots.

  “That’s a dead radio!” The pistol cracked seven more times in rapid succession. Bits of plastic flew and battery packs burst apart. Islamov flicked the safety back on his pistol and holstered it.

  Islamov threw back his head. “It is just us, mon ami! Just us and the jungle! The way it should be!” He glanced at his watch. His smile became hideous as he called out again. “Fifty-nine hours until the launch, my friend! And one hundred kilometers between you and the Jungle Warfare camp! You had better start running!”

  BOLAN BOUND his side. The legion knapsack contained a medical kit with field dressings. The wound was deep and wide, and would require dozens of stitches. Bolan had used half the tube of disinfectant and bound it tightly but he had no illusions. In the jungles of French Guiana the wound would go septic within hours. He winced as he pulled the shredded remnants of his body armor back over his torso and smoothed the Velcro tabs shut. His stomach growled. Bolan took hunger as a good sign that he wasn’t bleeding internally. He ripped open the stolen ration pack. His hands shook as he tore into the food.

  The soldier took long swallows from the canteen until he was no longer thirsty.

  Water was a concern. Bolan did not doubt that Islamov had destroyed the radios his team carried. He suspected Islamov had another radio somewhere. He would have to capture the Russian to get that information out of him. Bolan wasn’t counting on that opportunity coming along any time soon. He sloshed his canteen. There was about a third left. Water was the key.

  He had to get to the river.

  Knock-Knock was turning out to be superlative jungle tracker. He followed Bolan’s trail despite his best efforts at concealing it. The Vietnamese seemed to have an almost telepathic ability to read Bolan’s trail and then examine the ground ahead to predict which way he would go. Bolan had been forced to choose random paths through the jungle rather than the smartest to try to throw off Knock-Knock. The sprint-and-sneak routine was quickly sapping his strength.

  Only the fear of ambush slowed the legionnaires, and their skirmish line inexorably drove Bolan before it and away from the river. He needed to make a hole in that line and slip through it. Bolan considered one of the four rifle grenades in the legion pack. It would definitely make a hole, but the moment he fired he would announce his position to the entire hunting party, and the salvo of grenades that would come hurtling back in answer would be the end of the show.

  Bolan could hear the enemy coming closer. He dearly wanted to stop Knock-Knock. He wanted Cigarette’s sniper rifle even more. With that in his hands, he could start forcing the issue. But to get close enough to take either one of them in this jungle would mean getting within spitting distance of the entire squad.

  Islamov was begging him to try it.

  The cat-and-mouse game would just have to go on a little longer.

  Bolan glanced at his empty ration tin and his field-dressing wrapper. He drew the FAMAS assault weapon’s bayonet and began prying at the safety ring of one of the rifle grenades.

  KNOCK-KNOCK FROZE.

  He raised his fist and the skirmish line halted. Sahin knelt a few feet away. The wiry Turk had his bayonet out. He carefully thrust it beneath some leaves and came up with the green plastic wrapper of a field dressing. The Javanese next to him pointed excitedly and thrust his own bayonet into a shrub.

  Sahin’s voice rose to a shout. “No!”

  The Javanese froze. He held an empty ration tin on the end of the bayonet. Bits of leaf and dirt fell away from it. A sliver of vine fiber that stretched back to the shrub pulled away as he dropped the tin.

  In the split second delay, Knock-Knock clearly heard the flat click of the tripped contact fuse.

  Yellow fire puffed around the Javanese with a crack, and he shuddered as he took the full fragmentation effect at point-blank range. Sahin fell back twisting and kicking and clutching his face.

  Knock-Knock dropped flat as the unmistakable thump of a rifle-grenade launch sounded in the jungle ahead. The grenade detonated and more screams filled the jungle. Cigarette sagged back against a tree, his face and chest covered with blood. His sniper rifle sagged in his hands.

  A filthy, bloodstained ghost emerged from the jungle. The FAMAS rifle the ghost held snarled into life. Cigarette jerked and flapped against the tree as the burst tore through his chest.

  The ghost ran past the Bosnian sniper and ripped his weapon out of his hands without stopping. Knock-Knock rose to one knee and leveled his rifle, but the ghost had already disappeared in the trees. Knock-Knock roared with rage. He burned a magazine into the waving undergrowth the ghost had left in its wake. Two of the Javanese fired rifle grenades, and yellow fire lit the jungle ahead. Knock-Knock burst into a run. The two Javanese leaped up and followed him. He ran a few dozen meters into the jungle and stopped. His knuckles whitened around the grip and forestock of his rifle.

  The blast and fragmentation of the grenades had ripped the under brush and torn the leaf duff covering the jungle floor.

  Knock-Knock smothered his rage as he got down on his hands and knees and began crawling in an ever-widening circle around the grenade effects to the find where the trail of the American resumed.

  Islamov trotted up and waved him away from his tracking. “Forget it. We know he is heading for the river. We beat him there, and then let him come to us.”

  EXHAUSTION FORCED Bolan to stop. Cramps walked up and down his ribs, and he continued to reopen his wound. The legionnaires had passed him unknowingly in their sprint for the river, but obviously they did not care. He was in a legion jungle warfare training area. His opponents knew the lay of the land. All they had to do was head him off. The clock was ticking, and it was a countdown.

  Bolan drank the last of his water and examined his prize.

  Grenade shrapnel scored the FR-F1 rifle, but the telescopic sight appeared
to be intact. He had ten rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber. Bolan locked a rifle grenade onto the launching ring of his FAMAS and slung it. He hefted the FR-F1 and started walking.

  It was time to go force the issue.

  The legionnaires had made no effort to conceal their trail as they had passed him. Bolan followed the boot prints on the jungle floor. He walked a few hundred yards and stopped. He lay down in the dirt and clicked out the rifle’s bipod. He peered through the scope with his good eye. The massive hardwoods of the rain forest formed a cathedral ahead.

  It was a natural fire lane.

  He could hear the river somewhere ahead.

  Bolan unslung his assault rifle and clicked out its bipod. He placed the rifle in a bush facing the lane of trees and began unwrapping his remaining field dressing. After carefully tying one end of the bandage around the assault rifle’s trigger, he crept a few yards off to one side and put some of the bandage’s slack around a sapling. He reeled out the gauze until he could drop behind a fallen tree to put cover between himself and his weapon. Bolan hunkered down with his sniper rifle and opened its bipod. He eased himself into his firing position and began to take up slack on the bandage. The Executioner pulled until it was taut. He peered above the rim of his telescopic sight.

  Bolan yanked the dressing.

  On the other side of the fallen tree the rifle grenade boomed off its launcher and sailed through the cathedral of trees. Before the grenade detonated, automatic rifles ripped into response. Swarms of bullets chewed the underbrush around the abandoned rifle. Bolan put the crosshairs of his sight onto the stuttering yellow flame of muzzle-blast and fired. The sniper rifle went silent as Bolan flicked the bolt and chambered a fresh round. He yanked the dressing again and the FAMAS snarled off a short burst.

  Fire poured into the position. Bolan flinched as rifle grenades detonated only a few feet away and the fallen log he was using for cover was stripped and shuddered by shell fragments. Tracers drew smoking lines through the trees.

  Bolan chose the muzzle-blast of another enemy rifleman and fired. A Javanese rose, shouting and pointing at Bolan’s hide. Dust flew from the front of his camouflage shirt as Bolan put a bullet into his chest. An answering burst shot over Bolan’s head. The Executioner could see the man’s head and shoulders through the shaking bushes as he fired. The FR-F1 bucked against Bolan’s shoulder, and his opponent sagged on top of his weapon.

  Bolan flicked his bolt again but crawled quickly back through the underbrush as bullets began streaming into his true position. He got behind a rock and reeled in the FAMAS rifle by the field dressing. He grabbed it by the carrying handle and ran. His heels hammered into the dirt without grace or skill as he willfully stretched out his leaden limbs for speed. He ran backward and began making a long arc through the jungle.

  Bolan ran for the river.

  ISLAMOV WAS DOWN to six men, including himself.

  The Javanese had been fanatical and dedicated volunteers to the cause. They were suicide troopers, ready to martyr themselves without a second thought. This did not make them particularly good soldiers, much less jungle stalkers.

  There were only three of them left.

  Within seconds of the cease-fire, Islamov’s instincts told him the American was long out of rifle shot and on the move. The American would be out of water, running out of grenades and ammunition. He was likely running out of blood and stamina, as well. He still had a vast distance to cross.

  He was running out of time.

  Islamov rose from his hide. “Babar.”

  The giant Senegalese seemed to magically grow up out of his concealment like a dark tree. “Yes, Commander.”

  “He is running now. He is going wide, flanking us, flat out for the river.”

  “Yes.” The big man’s voice was an angry rumble. He smiled as he read Islamov’s mind. “But I do not think he can outrun me.”

  Islamov nodded. “Take the remaining Javanese. Go. Run him down.”

  Babar exposed his teeth. “You and Knock-Knock will be waiting for him at the river shore?”

  “We will be waiting for you, Babar.” Islamov smiled in kind. “Bring us this American’s head.”

  Babar slapped his sheathed machete and smiled. He shucked his pack and gestured at the remaining Javanese. They shucked their packs as Babar broke into a run.

  Islamov drank from his canteen and watched Babar plunge into the jungle. The Javanese were already struggling just to keep him in sight.

  The giant African’s stride was a thing of terrifying beauty.

  Islamov jerked his head at Knock-Knock and the two deep reconnaissance commandos faded back toward the river.

  THE EXECUTIONER skidded to a halt and put his back to a tree.

  He could hear his opponents crashing through the underbrush behind him. They had swiftly found his trail.

  Bolan had made no attempt to conceal his headlong flight, and they had made no attempt to conceal their pursuit. The only thing they weren’t doing was baying like hounds. If they were smart, they would have a flanking team down by the river by now. Bolan raised the FAMAS rifle, clicked his last rifle grenade over the muzzle and stepped out from behind the tree.

  The men in camouflage shouted as they spotted him. The FAMAS rammed back into Bolan’s shoulder with the recoil of the rifle grenade. The three men did not dive for the dirt. Their weapons snarled on full-auto as they charged, screaming with suicidal fury.

  The grenade detonated among them. The man in the rear lost his rifle and flailed as metal fragments ripped him apart. The other two came on. Bolan fired quick bursts from his weapon. The remaining two Javanese staggered forward, taking hit after hit. One finally went down bleeding from a dozen wounds. The other screamed incoherently before finally dropping.

  Bolan’s rifle clacked open on a smoking, empty chamber. He ejected the spent magazine and reached for a fresh one.

  Babar came charging out of the trees.

  The giant African loped forward. He held his rifle low and smiled at Bolan over the point of his fixed bayonet.

  The Executioner swung his rifle down to block, but exhaustion had robbed him of his speed. The plastic furniture of their weapons clacked, but Bolan barely managed a deflection. The blade slid away from his centerline and rammed into his side. Bolan’s breath exploded from his lungs as he was slammed backward and pinned against the tree trunk.

  Babar grunted with effort as the bayonet point caught in the woven fibers of Bolan’s battered armor. The Executioner’s left hand wrapped around Babar’s throat, but his broken fingers could exert no leverage to choke him and he did not have the strength to hold off the giant Senegalese. Babar put all of his weight behind his rifle and drove the bayonet home. The point punched through Bolan’s armor and steel burned into his side. The knife’s edge skidded along one of his ribs and the point punched out the back of his vest. Babar grinned in savage triumph and ripped the bloody blade free for the killing thrust.

  Bolan’s right hand came up with the silenced Beretta pistol from his belt, and he shot Babar three times in the face.

  The giant slowly toppled to the floor of the jungle with a thud. Bolan sagged forward and nearly fell on top of him. He pushed himself to his knees and painfully stripped off his defeated body armor. The wound along his ribs was long and ragged, but shallow. But it was one more wound about to go septic, and in the killing heat of the jungle Bolan just couldn’t spare any more of his blood.

  He grabbed Babar’s canteen and drank it dry.

  Slightly refreshed, he took Babar’s medical kit and bound and rebound his wounds. His entire rib cage was wrapped like a mummy. Bolan pulled on the ragged remnants of his shirt and stripped the dead legionnaire of his undamaged rifle, spare magazines and rifle grenades. He wolfed down the Swiss chocolate from Babar’s ration pack for quick energy and stood with a groan. He went and took the canteens from the fallen Javanese. Two were perforated and leaking, and he drank their contents before the floor of the jung
le could. One was intact and half full, and he clipped it to his belt.

  Bolan turned toward the river and wearily began walking.

  Islamov and Knock-Knock remained. They would be waiting for him by the river.

  Bolan dropped low and crept through the jungle. He ignored the wounds in his sides as he slithered from cover to cover. He inched forward toward the sound of the river and stopped when he could smell it.

  Bolan strained his senses for signs of the enemy. Only the burbling of the river against its banks came back. He moved forward until he could see the brown water moving swiftly. It was about forty yards across. The jungle made a solid wall on either side of it. Bolan moved to the water’s edge and waited. He glanced at his watch and drank a little more water from his canteen. Waiting went to the enemy’s advantage. Time was running out. The river was his only option.

  The enemy was waiting for him to do it.

  Bolan emptied his pack of all nonessentials. Swimming the river with two rifles was an ugly enough proposition. He grabbed the exposed roots of a tree and slowly lowered himself into the water. He waited among the reeds with his eyes and nose barely above the water. A few stray thoughts of open wounds and piranhas entered his mind, but he didn’t have the time to entertain them. He took long, slow breaths to oxygenate his lungs.

  Bolan sank beneath the surface and kicked off.

  The brown water was opaque except for the top two feet where the sun shone down directly upon the surface. Bolan stayed down in the deeper, darker water and let the current take him. He frog-kicked lazily, letting the river do his work for him. He ignored his lungs as they began to revolt against the lack of oxygen in his blood. He kicked on calmly until his vision began to darken and color, and then smoothly broke for the surface.

  Bolan sucked air even as he heard the shout behind him and the thump of the grenade launcher. He sank to the bottom. A moment later the surface of the river pulsed orange. The shock wave pressed Bolan’s eardrums like stabbing screwdrivers. He pushed back up and broached the surface, kicking his legs to stay afloat and firing his FAMAS back at the figure of Islamov a hundred yards away by the bank.