Colorado Kill-Zone

by Don Pendleton

Parker returned from the all-night liquor store and put the bag of booze in the front seat, then walked around to climb in behind the wheel of the official limousine. He cranked the engine and swiveled his head to regard the two somber men occupying the rear seat.

  He inquired, “You want to open it here or …?”

  “Or,” Brognola growled.

  Parker put the car in gear and eased away from the curb.

  “It’s wrong,” the top cop muttered, a moment later. “We need to be doing something more constructive than toasting the dead.”

  “You tell me what,” Turrin replied, “and I’ll do it.”

  “We have a pentagon problem. We could start there.”

  “How high is the problem?”

  “Two stars high,” Brognola grumped. “That much for sure. It could go higher, though, and that’s why I want to talk to the president before I flex a muscle.”

  Turrin was saying, “So why don’t you fly?” when the mobile telephone beeped an incoming call.

  Turrin conceded the floor with a gnash at his cigar and settled into the corner of the seat as Brognola sighed and took the call. “Juno Two,” he announced.

  An instant later, he stiffened and grabbed Turrin’s leg in a hard squeeze. “Yeah, it’s a safe phone. More so, probably, than any I’ve got.” He flipped the call onto a speaker in the roof as he continued, “Where’ve you been, Striker? We’ve had you on the death rolls for hours.”

  Leo Turrin’s heart was pounding as the tired, familiar voice clipped down from the ceiling. “I’ve been pinned down since just past noon. I may be on short time, so let’s cover the business first. I’m at Snow Trails. It’s the forward base for this paramilitary operation. But it’s not the only base. I just learned that it’s only one of three frontline commands taking part in the move. I’m inside Snow Trails and I think maybe I can neutralize this one. But you’ll have to get some military up here—and I mean damn quick—to begin a sweep of these hills. Meanwhile, keep the president in Washington and put him in a bunker if he still has one. I have to—”

  “What’s that mean?” Brognola interrupted. “The president isn’t even in Washington. He should be landing at Lowry Field most any minute, now.”

  “That’s the air force base near Denver?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What’s the itinerary from there?”

  “What’s this all about, Striker?”

  “The hit is on the president, Hal.”

  “Oh my God! Are you certain of that?”

  “As certain as death itself. I’m sitting in the enemy’s war room at this very moment. They’re going to hit the president, unless you can find a way to stop it.”

  Turrin fidgeted, sighed, and made a hand signal to his companion.

  “Sticker is here with me,” Brognola told the incredible guy at the far end of that conversation. “He’s glad you’re alive.”

  “Me, too. Tell Sticker his guts were running true. This is the damnedest operation I ever fell into. Do you believe you can get a reaction going quick enough from that end?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it. I’m smelling a conspiracy to end them all, Striker, and I don’t really know who to trust with this information. I have to—”

  “Hell, just push all the buttons and let nature take its course. And I’ll cover all I can from this end. What about that itinerary?”

  “He’ll be taking a chopper into the mountains from Lowry. Maybe I can catch him there.”

  “You should be able to catch him anywhere, Hal. He’s never out of communications, is he?”

  “Supposedly, no. In this case, I really couldn’t say for sure. What’s the plot? How are they turning it?”

  “With three full scale combat units, including armor, ski troops, helicopters. Something is, uh, off key though, Hal. It’s all too much for much too little. I don’t believe they’re going for a simple assassination.”

  “What are they going for, then?”

  “It reads more like a snatch.”

  Brognola turned stunned eyes to his companion.

  Turrin hissed, “The king’s ransom!”

  “Not just the president,” Bolan was continuing, “but I think maybe the entire first family. Are they with him, Hal?”

  “They sure are,” the top cop growled.

  “I don’t read politics in anything I’ve seen,” Bolan went on. “It’s purely a money matter. How much do you suppose the traffic would yield? How much would the U.S. government be willing to pay for the safe return of the president and his family?”

  “Try a billion bucks in gold,” Turrin said quietly.

  “We, uh, may have some input on that,” Brognola told the soldier. “Sticker says the old men are already counting a billion in gold. Read that with a B—one billion in gold, Striker.”

  “Okay, that reads. It’s the only thing that does. There’s your conspiracy, Hal. How much is in a billion? My mind doesn’t travel that far.”

  “A thousand millions,” Brognola grunted. “And my mind doesn’t either. But the boys over on Capitol Hill toss around multibillion figures as casually as ordering lunch.”

  “Turn the man around,” Bolan said quietly. “If you can, send someone in his place. Let’s smoke these people and end it, here and now. My time is up. Ringing off.”

  The overhead speaker clicked then buzzed with a dial tone.

  Brognola pulled a card from the base of the telephone and immediately placed another call.

  Parker’s eyes were connecting with Leo Turrin’s, in the rearview. Something flashed there, and the marshal said, “I told you about dancing on unmarked graves.”

  Turrin smiled wanly and replied, “Yeah. Well, this one has got to be the top of the order. Better save those bottles, guy. We may need them yet.”

  Leo Turrin’s guts simply would not be still. The whole crazy caper was just too stunning to the senses. Imagine … a kidnap plot against the President of the United States. Nothing was sacred, anymore.

  Brognola was tensely drumming his fingers on the console, awaiting a priority connection.

  “Civilizations have crumbled over less,” he muttered with a sidewise glance at the little capo mafioso. “We can’t let this happen, Leo. For God’s sake, we just can’t—” He broke off suddenly and cupped his mouth at the transmitter, speaking urgently in a hushed whisper.

  Sure, it had gone to Brognola’s guts, too.

  And how, Leo Turrin wondered, about the iron man, himself? Would Mack Bolan run out of guts at the top of the order?

  Guts, no. Heart, though—maybe so. And life. Yeah. The guy could very easily run out of life.

  And if he did on this one, then an entire nation, and maybe the whole civilized world, would bitterly taste the severity of that loss.

  Brognola was fuming with frustration, having a hard go at the telephone.

  Turrin turned away from that agony—and turned within, to his own. The little underboss from Pittsfield who enjoyed ear at the councils of kings would be not a whit surprised if all communications to the president should turn up missing. Somehow Leo Turrin already knew that the die was cast and the wheel of fate was turning under its own power. The dons did not dance without good cause.

  Brognola was not going to get through to the president.

  A billion-dollar gold dance so proclaimed.

  The only thing standing between the life and possible death of a nation was one lone soldier, an incredible guy whom the entire nation was trying to eat.

  And what if that lone soldier should fail in his self-appointed task? The presidential family would be subjected to the uncertain mercies of a pirate band as well as the well-established viciousness of the Council of Kings.

  And what if the government should refuse to meet the ransom demands. For God’s sake, who would make that decision? And what if it came down on a hard line, no pay, no deal, no concession to terrorist blackmail? What would become of a nation which refused to bail out its o
wn first family?

  Looking at Hal Brognola’s worried face, Leo Turrin had the answer to that. Yeah. Civilizations had crumbled over much less.

  20: KILL ZONE: EVERYWHERE

  The grimness of the situation was simply appalling.

  It was almost time to change the guard. Seventy-five cold and edgy men were patroling that plateau on skis—fierce, professional soldiers with much at stake and apparently very little to lose. These men had tasted the hell that was Vietnam; if all were like the samples he had directly encountered, then they were a bitterly cynical bunch, who felt cheated at the game of life and shortchanged in the final accounting … and they were going to collect in a hell game of their own making, this time, with a reward more befitting the sacrifices of the ordinary soldier at war. Yeah, a tough bag of cookies, and they would not crumble when the going became tough. And there were seventy-five more, just like them, who would be arising within the next few minutes and preparing to take their places in the night’s grim watch.

  Patroling above the plateau were the other half of the “Blue Force.” Bravo Blue was the wheeled counterpart of Alpha Blue. One hundred and fifty strong, they were foot soldiers, mostly, heavy weapons men and civil containment teams in jeeps and personnel carriers. They also manned the three half-tracks, with the firepower of a light tank on each.

  Bravo Blue’s mission was to capture a town, a whole damned town. They would disrupt communications, neutralize the local police establishment, seal off all transportation routes, and hold the town securely until the completion of the overall mission.

  Alpha Blue consisted of ten attack teams on skis and in snow buggies. They were the crunch force, the men up front. All carried light automatic weapons and side arms. Their mission was to neutralize the presidential security forces and to take physical custody of the president and his family.

  Red Force and White Force were smaller peripheral units, already deployed, each a scaled down version of the larger Blue Force. If necessary, in a pinch, either of these could relieve or augment the primary units.

  Each outfit in the operation carried both primary and secondary mission assignments—and there was even a fall-back “scramble” contingency plan in case everything fell to hell.

  They’d thought of everything—and, yeah, these people knew the games of war.

  Blue Force would be jumping off at four hundred hours. Which left Bolan two hours at best to try his own grim game of counterwar. And even if he could stop or disorganize this primary group, there were all those secondaries and contingencies to think about.

  Appalling, yeah.

  Even more appalling, though, was the thought of the President of the United States, his wife and children, prisoners or perhaps even casualties of such contemptible greed.

  And casualties there might well be.

  Bolan could not read it all in the sketches and diagrams of their war room, but what he could not read could be easily surmised. The overall plan, apparently, was to seize the small mountain town which had risen around the Berthoud Pass Winter Sports Area. It was there the presidential family were weekending. They would be taken into custody and held under house arrest, pending ransom negotiations. If all went well, the entire strike force would withdraw by air and with full assurances of safe conduct out of the country. One of the president’s children would be taken along as a hostage to guarantee the withdrawal. There were contingencies, however, in the event that negotiations failed—in the event that there were “no surviving hostages,” or in the event that the entire thing fizzled from the beginning.

  There were, however, no contingencies for Mack Bolan. They had not reckoned with a one-man guerrilla army on the counteroffensive, and he was going to make them pay for that.

  He had made a thorough study of their communications plan. It was displayed on typewritten cards taped to the field radio, even to authentication tables and coded emergency commands.

  Now, with but two hours to blast-off, Bolan donned the headset and punched in the armor channel.

  “Bravo Blue, this is Blue Command. Situation One.”

  The powerful carrier from the scout car which had been deployed in the slot all night bounced an immediate reply in clipped tones: “Bravo Blue, aye. Go.”

  “Blue Command, Situation One.” Bolan’s finger traveled along the hours/minutes authentication chart. “Authentication, Zebra Alpha. Request immediate Apple Mary support.”

  “Roger, Blue Command. Bravo Blue is rolling with Apple Mary.”

  So okay, that would bring the scout car down out of the slot.

  With a silent apology to Undy Sanderson’s dreams, he threw a fire stick to the rear of the house, then quickly slipped into his parka, grabbed a chattergun from a rack at the door, and went out front to meet them.

  Flames were licking along the sloped roof to the rear when the armored vehicle arrived. The gunner’s hatch popped open and a bare head popped out. The scout commander called up to Bolan, “What have you got here?”

  “We’re under attack. I think that guy Bolan has come back. Take me aboard.”

  “Where is your Bravo duty officer?”

  “He’s a casualty. Take me aboard, dammit!”

  The fire was drawing excited attention from around the compound. The dedicated Bravo sentry at the side of the house slid around the corner and yelled, “Sirs! I got two tracks parked back here!”

  “Well move ’em out of there!” the scout commander bawled.

  The cab door opened and another man jumped out to assist the sentry. Both men disappeared around the corner as Bolan ran down the stairs and stepped into the scout car.

  He popped the two remaining men in there with a pair of quiet chugs from the Beretta and dumped the bodies into the snow at the front of the house, then took the conn and moved that prize quickly away from there.

  The first booby trap detonated when he was about twenty feet out, a double explosion accompanied by immediate daylight and roaring flames. The other came a heartbeat later, with identical results, and both the vehicles were enveloped in flames.

  Bolan saw one guy jump clear with his clothing aflame. A skier appeared from somewhere to grab the guy and throw him into the snow. Bolan thought of the sentry who dreamed of warmth and two lazy years under the sun, and fleetingly wondered if that was the one—but there were more pressing things to occupy his mind, and already he was putting that scene behind him.

  He punched in the public address system and bawled the command: “All skiers to the slope! We are under attack! Skiers to the slope!”

  He was aware of flitting figures gliding from all directions across that plateau, grim in their determination to repulse any invaders. He found himself admiring that reaction, respecting those men for what they’d once been regardless of what they had become, and an almost overpowering revulsion for the job ahead rose up in him.

  He was in the position required now, though, and it was no time for a softening of the combat spirit. He knew what he had to do—and by God he was going to do it.

  He arced the steel-clad monster into pointblank range at the center of the cabin area and quickly went back to man the 37 millimeter cannon.

  Those cabin doors were banging open and half-clad troopers were crowding onto the small porches for a gawking appraisal of the situation out there. One guy without shoes was floundering through the snow along that line, shouting something to the troopers on the porches.

  The ammunition in the burning vehicles was starting to go and the fireworks were becoming really spectacular when Bolan rose up in the gun pit, struck the magazine, and commenced firing into that line of cabins.

  Death walked the night watch on that frozen plateau, bringing unseasonal heat, searing flesh, flowing blood, the mad scramble for survival amidst flying bodies, screams and yells and choked-off commands, flames from a dozen burning buildings—and utter, unimaginable madness.

  And then he shoved in another magazine, rotated the firing line to the western slope, and started a
ll over again.

  A guy came gliding in with an anti-tank rocket tube across the shoulder. Bolan took him with the .44 and went on with the kill.

  And, no, there was no contingency plan to cover this.

  The chattering of automatic weapons in return fire from the darkness grew less frequent and more isolated—and soon there was none. Some, probably, had decided to write contingencies on the spur of the moment and had taken the only sane course: down the slope. Those, Bolan would not worry about. The entire plateau was now a flame-leapt disaster area.

  He secured the gun and returned to the conn, wheeled around, and headed out.

  The radio was going crazy.

  He picked up the mike and reported in.

  “Bravo Blue, this is Apple Mary One. Recommend contingency situation three, repeat, contingency three. Alpha Blue is in full retreat. Blue Base has fallen. All Apple Marys are disabled or destroyed. Suggest total radio silence, contingency three. Apple Mary One is signing off.”

  There was no response whatever to the report.

  Contingency Three was the total scratch plan.

  Bolan sent the scout on up the drive and into the slot.

  Bravo Blue, also, was in full retreat. He remained clear and watched them go, then followed the line of vehicles to the highway. The line turned north at that point. They were running for Mt. Audubon, and that was good. Bolan turned south, running for Berthoud Pass.

  And that was good, too.

  The snow plows had been busy. The highway was clear and fully navigable—although, at this hour, there was no traffic whatever but for that “military” convoy running smoothly north.

  Bolan found the VHF command net on the scout’s radio, and punched in. A carrier with helicopter background noises was just completing a cryptic instruction on that channel. Bolan barged into there with a contingency of his own.

  “Force Command from Apple Mary One. Do you read? Over.”

  And, yeah, the cornpone colonel was there. In the chopper.

  “Forget it, Sergeant. I’m reading you loud and clear.”

  “It’s a busted play, Captain. Tuck it in and take it home.”

  “Way ahead of you, Superhawg. You better grow eyes in the back of your head, dude. That’s where you’re going to need them for the rest of your life.”