Super Bolan - 001 - Stony Man Doctrine

by Don Pendleton

  Blancanales pushed himself up the stairs, out of view from the floor. He keyed his hand-radio.

  "Wizard. We're watching from the roof door. Todo es bueno, this far. We have three of them coming out the front door. In a Mercedes. They're the leaders. Ask the liaison to have them followed. They just gave a farewell speech to the local help and the other foreign crazies. The leaders are on their way home."

  "What do these three look like?" Gadgets asked. "I'll get the descriptions back to Stony Man immediately."

  Getting a hand signal from Lyons, Blancanales paused. Lyons hissed to him, "They're sending out a kid with a walkie-talkie."

  Blancanales passed on the warning to Gadgets and the FBI teams, then quickly described the three leaders. He re-joined Lyons.

  They watched the leaders. One European and the Arab waited in the luxury car. The other European set his briefcase on the hood and snapped it open. Stacks of U.S. dollars filled the interior of the case. He took out two bundles and put them in his pockets. He closed the briefcase, then got in the car.

  The earphones that Lyons and Blancanales wore buzzed. "This is the Wiz. The kid saw something. Give you even odds it's hot time. Over."

  Blancanales lifted his hand-radio to his lips to whisper. "Acknowledged. Watching and waiting. Over."

  A Chicano tough closed and barred a door behind him. He rushed to the three leaders, leaning into the Mercedes. One of the three leaders called the other terrorists over. All work stopped.

  Lyons slipped out his silenced Colt. Blancanales grabbed Lyons's wrist and cautioned him, "We can't have a fire fight. Not with all the binary gas down there."

  They saw the terrorists and Chicanos run for their Kalashnikov rifles. One terrorist called up to the roof door. Lyons and Blancanales froze. The terrorist called out again in Spanish.

  "He wants to know if the ones on the roof have seen any police," Blancanales whispered to Lyons.

  When the terrorist received no answers, he rushed up the stairs. Like silent shadows in their combat suits, Lyons and Blancanales crept back up the stairs, then pressed themselves into the blackness of the corners of the access housing. As the terrorist passed between them, they took him, Lyons jamming his Colt to the back of the terrorist's head.

  The single .45 hollow point ripped away the top of his skull. Blancanales shouldered the corpse through the roof door and dumped it.

  The Mercedes' engine revved. Flat on the stairs again, Lyons and Blancanales watched the three terrorist leaders in the German luxury car race from the garage. AK muzzles in the car's windows flashed flame.

  Auto fire from the police and FBI punched into the car. Slugs whined through the interior of the garage, bouncing off the roof girders, hitting the line of trucks and vans.

  The Mercedes screamed backward, tires smoking, into the inner regions of the garage. Its brakes screeched.

  Blancanales hissed into his hand-radio. "Stop the shooting! There's at least a thousand gallons of nerve gas in there!"

  "Ah... we got a problem, Pol," Gadget's voice announced. "There's been a breakdown in fire discipline."

  "Get them to stop!"

  Lyons shoved his older partner. "Let's go. Now's our chance."

  Below them, the terrorists and Chicanos lined the front of the garage. They sprayed fire in long un-aimed bursts, expending magazine after magazine of cartridges.

  Lyons went first, cat-footing swiftly down the stairs. He watched the backs of the terrorists. None turned to him. He stopped eight feet from the floor. From his position, he looked over the vans and trucks to the terrorists. He pointed his Colt with both hands, bracing his wrists on the safety railing. He glanced up to Blancanales and gave him a nod.

  Blancanales raced down. He passed Lyons to take cover behind a truck. He aimed his Beretta, then gave Lyons a three-finger signal.

  Lyons aimed at the back of a terrorist's head. He counted to three. On three, terrorists dropped.

  Lyons and Blancanales had snapped shots into the backs of the terrorists' heads, ignoring the Chicano gang punks. Lyons killed three of the nearest terrorists, then aimed a shot at the head of one of the leaders.

  The European moved as Lyons squeezed off the shot, the .45 hollow point gouging the back of his head. He jerked around, stunned. He saw Lyons and raised his Kalashnikov.

  A hollow point slammed into the European's chest. He died as he fell. But the other two leaders spotted Lyons and dived for cover. Shouts directed the gang to fire at the commando on the stairs. Lyons snapped the last rounds from the pistol into the scrambling terrorists. He saw two fall as he dived down the stairs, AK slugs punching the concrete wall behind him.

  A Chicano with a goatee and tattooed arms rushed across the garage, searching for Lyons. He found Blancanales and took a three-shot burst in the face.

  "They're between the trucks!" Blancanales shouted to Lyons. "If you hit the binary gas, everybody dies!"

  Lyons jammed a magazine into his Colt. He held the pistol in both hands and crouch-walked between the vehicles. He heard boots running on the concrete. He went flat. He looked under a truck and saw high-heeled boots. He waited until the Chicano stopped, then put a single slug into one of the boots.

  The Chicano girl fell to the concrete, clutching the stump of her ankle. She saw Lyons pointing the Colt at her head. She opened her mouth to scream. A hollow point punched through her right eye. She died with her mouth open.

  On his feet again, Lyons went around the truck and passed between tailgate and the workbenches. In the clutter of tools, he saw a long-handled roofer's hatchet. A loop of leather passed through the end of the handle. Lyons grabbed the hatchet and jammed it under his belt.

  Blancanales dodged between trucks and vans. The terrorists now divided their fire between the SWAT teams outside and the two commandos in their midst. High-velocity AK slugs punched through the sheet metal of the vehicles.

  Blancanales saw Lyons and sprinted to him. "We have to get out of here! They don't care where they shoot. As long as we're in here, they'll keep shooting. And they'll hit the nerve gas. It'll take out most of downtown L.A."

  "Don't sweat it, it's liquid," Lyons told him. "Look at those sprayers. Unless they turn on the sprayers, it'll stay liquid. No gas, no dispersal, no problem."

  To prove his point, Lyons pointed to a fifty-five-gallon drum in the back of a van less than three feet from where they crouched. A bullet had drilled through the steel. A pale green liquid trickled to a puddle on the floor of the van.

  "But no matter what," Lyons said, "we stop them here."

  Jerking the hatchet from his belt, Lyons jumped into the back of the van and hacked the wires from the pump unit. As he returned to the garage floor, he motioned Blancanales to follow him. Lyons peeked out from behind the van, then crept over to the next truck.

  One step behind him, Blancanales covered Lyons while he climbed into the back of the truck. A chop of the hatchet severed the power line. Blancanales darted from the truck's tailgate to its cab, to check out the remaining terrorists and Chicanos at the other end of the garage.

  AK fire shattered the windshield beside Blancanales. He ducked back. In seconds he stepped up onto the next truck's diesel tank, jumping up from it for a quick look through the windows.

  At the end of the line of vehicles, he saw terrorists working on the largest flatbed truck that carried a total of ten drums. Blancanales saw one Chicano with a wrench. Three others struggled to pull on plastic suits and gas masks. The two surviving terrorist leaders—the Arab and the European who carried the briefcase full of cash--directed the desperate efforts. The others held Kalashnikov rifles, watching for a commando or SWAT team attack.

  He saw a Chicano swing his AK around. Blancanales dropped as a burst ripped past. He went to Lyons.

  "They're making a break for it in the biggest truck."

  Lyons took a flash/ concussion grenade from his battle suit. The grenade would produce a brilliant flash and an overwhelming shock of noise, but without sh
rapnel. Blancanales took a concussion grenade from his rig.

  "One behind, one in front," Blancanales said, pointing out the target zones. "Then we rush them."

  "Ready to go," Lyons told him. He jerked the cotter pin from the grenade.

  They heard the truck's engine start up.

  "So are they! On three, one—" Blancanales counted as he went to the cab of the truck to chance a look out. Shots zipped past his head.

  He looked back at Lyons, who was at the rear of the truck with his arm back for a throw. "Three!"

  The truck lurched into motion as the grenades arced across the garage. The concussion grenades bounced on the concrete and rolled. The Mercedes' engine roared. A terrorist in a plastic suit and gas mask, a wrench in one hand, Kalashnikov rifle in the other, stepped onto the back of the revving truck. Another terrorist in a plastic suit jumped on too, struggling to fit her gas mask over her long hair.

  Swinging wide to avoid the slow truck, the Mercedes accelerated for the open door. It passed over Blancanales's grenade.

  Two explosions rocked the cavernous garage. The first grenade jarred the Mercedes, but did not stop it. The luxury car continued out the door. The second blast stunned the two protective-clothed terrorists on the back of the truck. They fell among the steel drums of binary agents.

  The truck did not stop. Lyons sprinted across the oily concrete, hurdling a corpse. He gained on the truck.

  The hatchet dangled by its loop of leather around Lyons's arm. A last lunging stride and he grabbed the stake truck's vertical sidebars, threw a foot to the steel of the flatbed. Lyons hung on as the six-wheel diesel rattled and bounced into the street.

  Sprawled on the flatbed, a plastic-clothed terrorist gazed at Lyons. His rubber-gloved hand groped for a Soviet Kalashnikov.

  On the industrial street outside, Gadgets crouched behind a bullet-pocked taxicab. He had heard the grenade blasts and seen first the Mercedes, then the flatbed truck hurtle from the auto-shop doors.

  Bullets sparked from the pavement as LAPD and FBI riflemen sprayed the vehicles. They had very poor sight of their targets, the dusk a blue half-darkness that dimmed outlines. Above the gray corridor of warehouses and machine shops, the mercury-arc streetlights flickered with low-power greenish light. It would be five minutes before the lights came up to full brilliance.

  The Mercedes took several slugs through the wind-shield. The car failed to hold its tire-screeching hard right turn. The luxury sedan sped out of control at Gadgets. He stepped back as the car missed his taxi cab to sideswipe an FBI van. The Mercedes shuddered to a stop in a crunch of metal and sparkling glass.

  Gasoline stink choked Gadgets. He saw two FBI agents, in business suits and holding Uzis, run back from the wreck.

  "Clear out!" one agent shouted. "There's gas all over the place."

  An Arab terrorist staggered from the Mercedes, auto pistol in one hand, briefcase in the other. Gadgets raised his M-16 / M-203.

  The flatbed truck roared past. The Arab terrorist with the briefcase raised his gun hand to try and grab the truck's side rails. Gadget touched the trigger of the M-16. He saw Lyons. He could not risk firing.

  Now the Arab terrorist saw Lyons. And Lyons saw the terrorist raising his pistol.

  Gadgets watched Lyons produce the hatchet. Lyons's right arm swept out in a hard backhand as the terrorist in the street pointed the auto pistol.

  A hand and pistol flew into the air, the ax head continuing past the blood-spurting stump to cut into the terrorist's face. Lyons jerked the ax head free, then threw himself back onto the speeding flatbed.

  Flames rose in a wave; the gasoline glistening on the streets had ignited. Gadgets sprinted for the maimed terrorist leader and dragged him to safety. An LAPD officer gave the prisoner first aid. Beyond the flames, Gadgets saw the truck speed away. Blancanales ran up to Gadgets.

  "That truck's loaded with binary," he said.

  The engine of an LAPD black-and-white roared. The uniformed officer behind the wheel threw it in reverse to save it from the fire. Gadgets ran to the officer driving and pointed past the flames.

  "That's the nerve gas. We have to stop it." Blancanales ran to the passenger side of the police car and jumped in. "Go, man. Straight ahead." "Oh, Jesus and Mary," the officer intoned in sincere prayer.

  Gadgets scrambled into the back seat. "If you don't want to risk it, get out."

  "Did I say no?" The officer punched the gear lever into drive and stood on the accelerator. They were slammed back in their seats as the squad car roared through the wall of flame.

  In the back of the truck, Lyons kicked at the barrel of the AK automatic rifle. He missed, found himself sprawling between the fifty-five-gallon drums of nerve-gas agent. He was involved in a one-on-one combat. As the truck swayed, then screeched around another corner, Lyons tried to get to his feet. The terrorist in protective plastic clothing swung the rifle. Lyons kicked again.

  The rifle flashed. Slugs screamed into the evening sky. Lyons lunged up. He brought the hatchet down on the terrorist's arm. Blood sprayed over the slick white plastic of the guy's protective coveralls.

  Lyons threw himself on the terrorist. With one hand he shoved the Kalashnikov rifle aside, with the other he brought the ax head down to bury its steel deep in the terrorist's helmeted forehead. Behind the glass of the eye lenses, the gas mask filled with blood.

  Clawing over the dying terrorist, Lyons searched for the other protective-clothed terrorist. He found her unconscious between two barrels. He let the hatchet hang by its strap as he reached for his silenced Colt.

  Sirens and flashing red, blue and orange lights gained on the truck. Lyons saw the black-and-white squad car. With backup so close, he now had the luxury of taking prisoners.

  He grabbed the woman's auto rifle and threw it from the truck, then searched her quickly for other weapons. Plastic handcuffs on her wrists and ankles immobilized her.

  Hands held a Kalashnikov from the cab's passenger-side window. Slugs sprayed the pursuing black-and-white one bullet shattering the windshield. The patrol car swerved. Other police squad cars and FBI sedans followed the truck, crowding the avenue behind them.

  Crawling behind a drum, Lyons heard wild shots from the passenger window smash a barrel on the flatbed. Greenish fluid sprayed. If a next shot hit the other barrels of nerve-gas agent..

  Lyons grabbed the AK from the dead terrorist and jumped up. He slashed the cab with a line of high-velocity slugs. He emptied the magazine.

  Out of control, the heavy truck leaped onto the curb. It snapped off a light pole, then another. The impacts knocked Lyons against the drums. The load shifted. Fifty-five-gallon drums banged into one another. Glass exploded.

  The squad car smoked to a stop as the truck crashed deep into a furniture showroom. Throwing tables and chairs and couches aside, the truck slammed into the back wall of the huge room. The cab was crushed.

  Gadgets and Blancanales ran through the shattered plate-glass windows, their weapons held ready.

  "Get back!" Lyons shouted. "Call for decontam!"

  "You all right?" Blancanales called out.

  "I'm great." Lyons climbed off the truck, the unconscious girl in the plastic coveralls and gas mask over his shoulder. "I even got a prisoner."

  They jogged over the sheets of glass. Lyons threw the handcuffed terrorist onto the sidewalk. "I tell you, guys, these terrorists can't cut it in a straight fight."

  Gadgets and Blancanales stared at Lyons. Blood covered him. The hatchet swung from his right elbow, the blade crusted with clotted blood.

  Business-suited FBI agents and SWAT officers ran from the arriving cars to peer into the showroom.

  They saw Lyons, and they winced. They watched him as they spoke quietly to each other.

  Lyons looked around at the agents and officers.

  "Hey, why are all these people staring at me?" Gadgets laughed. "Because, man. . . you are five different kinds of scary, scary dude."

  Blancanales turned a
way. He knew how Carl Lyons felt in this condition, perhaps even better than Lyons knew himself. The warrior has no taste for bloodshed; unlike the jackal, who thinks his power increases when he takes human lives, the warrior feels no power when he ends lives.

  Only sadness that it must be so.

  29

  Virginia

  Sunday

  1:30 p.m.

  (1830 Greenwich mean time)

  APRIL ROSE LAY NAKED on the bed. The night breeze from the open window played over her sweat-glistening limbs.

  Inhaling deeply, she drew in the cool pine-scented air. She smelled the sweat of the man beside her. His hand rested on her thigh.

  Absently her fingers smoothed his dark brow. His eyes were closed. He slept fitfully. But April's eyes were open. She watched his face, savouring the last few minutes with Mack Bolan.

  He had arrived at the Farm only hours earlier , from his personal assault on the freighter. It had almost terrified her to see him so distraught, as he leaned over a computer console in Kurtzman's ground-floor office, his shoulders stooped with fatigue, grunting through a question-and-answer routine with The Bear. And Aaron did not like Mack's condition either.

  As soon as April entered the room, Kurtzman said to her, "This man needs time out."

  Bolan snapped back, "I don't need time out. I need to crash. Two hours."

  "Can you? Can you sleep?" she said.

  He spoke, but not in answer to her question. He did not look at either of them. His voice had the throatiness that comes from the tight edge of tragedy.

  "Too much young blood wasted," he said.

  She took his hands in hers. "Come on, Stony Man. Let's see if you can."

  He freed his hands to keypunch coordinates into the computer, then called back to Aaron as he left, "The Air Force and Coast Guard are screening all the ship and air routes. They may come up with something on the San Francisco attack any minute. Call me."

  April and Bolan walked down the hall to the wide carpeted staircase. Together they climbed to the second floor.