Nuclear Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  From there, they’d had to climb and scramble, Bolan weighted with the duffel bag of hardware, sometimes sliding in their haste, scraping the flesh from palms and knees. They’d found their places, one on each side of the road, just as the convoy rolled out of the dusk, dark toy-sized vehicles expanding by the heartbeat into the approach.

  Then the battle began. The first two shots from Bolan’s AKMS scored solid hits, albeit failing to achieve his goal. He compensated, put the lead jeep out of mind as it began a climb to nowhere on his left. The second jeep was slowing, the driver and his shotgun rider following the point vehicle with their eyes, while in the back a short machine gunner manned his weapon.

  Bolan shot the gunner, a double tap that slammed him backward, away from his gun, and ended with a tumbling backward somersault out of the jeep. The shotgun rider produced an automatic rifle from the shadowed space between his feet and started firing toward the nearest hills. He didn’t have a target yet, but he was trying, and the Executioner would give him points for that.

  Points, and a quick, clean death.

  Bolan squeezed off a burst that raked the soldier’s chest and tore the rifle from his grasp. The impact of those bullets slammed his target hard into the driver, setting off a chain reaction as the jeep swerved. The driver tried to save it, working the pedals and gearshift, but Bolan drilled his cheek beneath the right rim of his helmet, already tracking toward another target as the jeep began a lazy roll, disgorging bodies left and right.

  Both trucks stopped dead in the road, with soldiers spilling from the beds and cabs. Some of them had a rough fix on their enemy’s position, firing toward the point where Bolan crouched behind a boulder, partly hidden in a gully. Their bullets whined and whistled in the air around him, none yet close enough to make him worry, but it wouldn’t be much longer until some of them, at least, found their mark and range.

  So far, he hadn’t glimpsed the prisoner they were hoping to rescue, didn’t have a clue what he would look like beyond being out of uniform. Pahlavi knew the man, but they were separated by distance, swarming soldiers and the roaring sound of automatic weapons. The best Bolan could do was watch out for civilians and try not to spray the trucks so indiscriminately that he hit a captive left inside.

  But it was tough covering a force of forty-odd hostiles, even when he had disposed of four or five in the first seconds of the skirmish. All of the men were trained, to some degree, and even if their standard action consisted of rousting unarmed villagers, some of them had to have dealt with bandits and guerrillas on the firing line. They didn’t have the look of green recruits, and they were more at home than the Executioner on the present battleground.

  He palmed a frag grenade, and then thought better of it. Explosives and shrapnel were both indiscriminate killers. He couldn’t lob grenades downrange without taking a risk that he might kill or wound the man they’d come to rescue. A civilian, yet, who wasn’t part of the resistance, and who hadn’t signed a pledge to risk his life in combat for the cause. He might not recognize Pahlavi if they passed each other on the street, and by Pahlavi’s own admission had no knowledge of the do-or-die campaign to frustrate Project X.

  Pulling the hostage out would be a show of good faith to Pahlavi’s village, nothing more or less. It wouldn’t help their mission in the least, but could do it a world of harm if one or both of them were nailed by soldiers fighting for their lives.

  Determined not to let that happen, Bolan risked a look around the boulder, tracking with his AKMS as he sought another target on the killing field.

  PAHLAVI SPUTTERED as a bullet hit the ground in front of him, kicking a burst of sand into his face. He tasted grit, resisted the urge to spit it out, and focused rather on the action that unfolded right in front of him.

  His first shot had gone wild after he jerked the pistol’s trigger, missed the soldier he was aiming for and struck the left-rear fender of the second truck in line. It was a wonder anyone had even noticed, in the riotous confusion of the moment, but one of the troopers saw or heard it strike, projected its flight path to calculate a point of origin, and fired a burst in answer that had come uncomfortably close.

  Pahlavi had to stop that soldier before he made a better shot or rallied his companions for a charge across the roadway. Blinking back tears from sand-stung eyes, Pahlavi steadied his Beretta in both hands and squeezed the trigger once again, with all the grim deliberation he could muster.

  It worked.

  His bullet caught the soldier roughly in the solar plexus, stole his wind and left him doubled over as if he was suffering a sudden bout of nausea. Instead of vomit, though, the wounded soldier spit a stream of blood across his own boots, then collapsed, twitching through the final moments of his life.

  Pahlavi barely thought about it as he swept the field, seeking other targets. He was also watching for Jalil Yamuna, taken from the village by these soldiers, but as yet there’d been no sign of him.

  Assuming he was bound for transport to the nearest army base, Pahlavi guessed they wouldn’t drag Yamuna from the truck while they were fighting for their lives. He was, at best, a piece of excess baggage who would slow them down when speed was paramount. They’d figure it was better to leave him in the truck—whichever one it was—and if a bullet found him in the meantime, it was no great loss.

  Survival was the soldiers’ first priority, as it was for Pahlavi himself. He lacked their training but had already survived a battle against odds he would have previously labeled hopeless. Pahlavi hoped he might outlast another troop of enemies.

  With Cooper firing from the far side of the trucks, most of the soldiers hurried to take cover on Pahlavi’s side. It gave him an impressive field of targets—more than he could handle with the only weapon he possessed, in fact—but if they focused most of their attention on the sniper who appeared to threaten them the most, Pahlavi knew he had a chance to take them by surprise.

  He wormed along the ditch that sheltered him, shifting positions from his former firing nest. When he had covered forty feet or so, Pahlavi stopped and chose another target, sighting down the barrel of his handgun, a man he’d never seen before fixed in the stark white outline of his sights.

  Pahlavi waited for a blaze of firing from the soldiers, saw his target start to rise and squeezed his trigger gently. The pistol recoiled, buffeting against his palm, and Pahlavi’s target stiffened, spine bowed by the bullet’s impact. The man collapsed to one knee, groping backward with both hands to reach the wound he couldn’t find, too late to stop the spout of crimson pouring from his back into the dust.

  Pahlavi could’ve fired again and guaranteed the kill, but he was short on ammunition as it was and had too many targets still unscathed before him to be wasting mercy shots on anyone. He pivoted, his elbows braced on sand and gravel, sighting on the next soldier in line.

  The man in olive drab was gaping at his stricken comrade, bending to shake the dying soldier, maybe asking what was wrong. Pahlavi took advantage of the momentary lapse and shot him through the left side of his chest.

  The soldier slumped backward, a stunned expression on his face, and glanced down at the wet stain spreading across his shirt. Pahlavi didn’t wait to see what happened next, already scuttling back along the ditch in the direction he had come from, looking for another vantage point, another chance to kill.

  CAPTAIN AMBIKA ROLLED out of his jeep and spent a moment belly-down in sand before he moved again. Better to let the snipers think he might be dead or wounded than to leap up instantly and draw more fire. He reached down for his pistol, then thought better of it and moved slowly, cautiously, to fetch his driver’s CETME rifle from the jeep without alerting any enemies that he was still alive.

  It seemed to take forever, with the gunfire ringing out around him, but Ambika reached the weapon and withdrew it from the vehicle. If any hostiles had noticed him, they held their fire, reserving it for better targets near the trucks.

  A glance downrange told Ambika his soldiers
were dying. He saw four or five on the ground, either dead or unconscious. The others were firing at shadows, seemingly without direction, anything to stop the plunging fire that raked the trucks and second jeep.

  Where was it coming from?

  As if in answer to his silent question, the captain heard a short burst of automatic fire rattle away from the hillside directly opposite his position. Carefully, he wormed his way around the jeep and scanned the hill as best he could while lying half beneath it, peering out from below the rear bumper.

  He saw a large man lean out from behind a boulder, aiming for perhaps a second, then unleashing several rounds from a Kalashnikov. The Russian rifle’s sound was unmistakable to Ambika at such close range.

  The captain wished his jeep had been the one outfitted with the heavy gun, but he could see the other, where it had crashed and stalled across the road. He knew he’d never get there if he tried running in the open toward the sniper’s nest.

  But he would do his best with what he had.

  Ambika squirmed around, maintaining cover, while he sighted down the CETME’s barrel toward the gunman’s perch. It wasn’t far away—less than a hundred feet, he guessed—but it would still require all of his skill and then some for a killing shot.

  Don’t try to kill him, then, Ambika thought. Just wound the man, or even pin him down until the others spot him and attack.

  He could do that much, surely, even though he’d never shot a man before. Training had to count for something, or the army wouldn’t bother with it, after all.

  Ambika waited, peering through his rifle’s sights with one eye closed, the other blinking in an effort to stay clear of salty, stinging sweat. His eye burned, fading in and out of focus, but the captain dared not wipe it, fearing he would miss his shot or rub sand into his eye from filthy hands. Instead, he mouthed a string of muttered curses, then bit hard upon his lower lip.

  Come on, you bastard. Show yourself!

  A blur of movement filled his sights, and he was firing, pouring half a magazine across the roadway toward the boulder and its rift where death lay waiting for his men. His rifle spewed out shiny cartridges, each one rebounding from the undercarriage of the jeep and piling up around him in the dirt.

  When he released the trigger, staring hard across the road with both eyes open, Ambika saw nothing to indicate that he had struck his target. Had it merely been a shadow, or had he been lucky, taking down the sniper with a burst that slammed his body out of sight?

  A worm of panic wriggled in his stomach, as he realized that there was only one way to find out. His soldiers seemed oblivious, still firing willy-nilly at the hillsides all around them, and he couldn’t call them without standing up and waving.

  If he had to be a target, Ambika decided, he would rather be a target on the move, attacking, carrying the battle to his foe.

  But were there others? Could a single sniper have inflicted so much damage in so little time?

  Ambika craned his neck, risking a head shot, and saw no one moving on the hills or in the roadside gullies. With so many of his soldiers firing, he could not pick out the sounds of any other weapons at the moment. It was down to him, a choice of risking everything or staying where he was.

  Ambika lunged from cover, running hard across the road. He clutched the CETME rifle to his chest, ready to fire, praying with every step that he would find his enemy already dead.

  12

  Bolan waited for the rush he knew was coming, without being certain of how long he’d have to wait. One of the soldiers from the first jeep had survived and spotted him, tried nailing him and missed, but it had been a near-miss, with a couple of the bullets passing close enough for him to feel their hot breath on his skin.

  Waiting was dangerous. His other enemies downrange regrouped and huddled to decide what they should do. If they got up the nerve to charge him all at once, behind a full screen of suppressing fire, Bolan knew it was doubtful that he would survive.

  And so he waited, sweating, with the numbers running in his mind. The random firing from below meant that he wouldn’t hear the enemy advancing, but would have to keep a watch. Another risk, but unavoidable.

  He shifted slightly, eyeballing the gap beside the granite boulder. Seconds later, a lone soldier burst from cover near the jeep, charging across the road toward Bolan’s roost. He held an automatic rifle, but he wasn’t firing yet, and none of the collected soldiers near the two stalled trucks were offering support.

  It could be now or never taking him, the Executioner decided, rolling even as the thought took shape to find his mark and make the shot. The running soldier saw enough of Bolan to guess at what was coming. He leveled his autorifle from the hip, firing as he ran, without a break in stride.

  Too late.

  Bolan had target acquisition by that time, squeezed off a burst, ignored the swarm of angry hornets buzzing overhead. He saw his bullets strike the runner, jolt him like a carpet beaten on a clothesline. Bolan watched him stagger backward, going down, still firing as he fell.

  And it was done.

  He turned back toward the soldiers huddled by the trucks, in time to see one of them fall, shot in the back. That had to be Pahlavi, chipping in as best he could with nothing but a side arm. Bolan regretted that he hadn’t snagged a rifle for his guide after their last engagement with the enemy, and vowed to remedy that failure.

  If they both came out of it alive.

  He shifted toward the trucks, drawing some concentrated fire this time. The one-man banzai charge had served a purpose for the enemy, giving the soldiers focus on Bolan’s roost, and as more riflemen joined in the fusillade, he knew that a second rush would not be long in coming.

  Thinking fast, he emptied his magazine to let them know exactly where he was, then swapped it for a fresh one as he moved, backtracking down the roadside to a secondary roost he’d picked out on arrival at the scene. The new nest didn’t offer quite as much security, but if he played his cards right, by the time his adversaries knew that he had moved, it would already be too late.

  The warrior crouched and waited, using the time that remained to unclip three Russian frag grenades and line them up for easy pitching when he needed them. There’d be no time for fumbling while his enemies advanced, and Bolan knew his life was hanging in the balance if he dropped the ball—or a grenade.

  There was no time for him to spot Pahlavi, no way to communicate with his companion. That would also need a remedy, if they emerged victorious and he could find some kind of walkie-talkies on the battlefield. But for the moment, Bolan wasn’t thinking much beyond the charge and how he would survive it, if he could.

  The rush came suddenly, as suicidal charges had to, with the participants all screwing up their nerve at once and howling on the run, firing without much hope of hitting anything or anyone, a gesture and a vain attempt to sweep the field without incurring losses.

  Bolan risked a glance onto the field and gauged his distance, primed and pitched the first grenade. While it was in the air, he pulled the second’s pin and launched the bomb on a subtly different arc, to fall a few yards farther than the first. The third was armed and he was ready for the pitch when number one exploded, shattering the dusk with heavy-metal thunder and a swarm of anguished screams.

  He made the final pitch, lay back in cover while the last two frag grenades went off, then came up firing from the gully. Bolan didn’t try to count the soldiers who were down, already dead or dying on the field. Some of them might be stunned, without real injuries, but he would deal with that problem in time, as he was able.

  Those still on their feet seemed dazed, disoriented, ducking in and out of drifting smoke clouds from the triple blasts, some firing off toward their original objective, while a number of the others hesitated, looking for another mark and wondering if they had been deceived. The answer to that question came as Bolan’s bullets found them, short bursts reaching out to drop them, and from somewhere in their rear, the stubborn yapping of a Model 92 Beret
ta challenging the stragglers.

  It was butchery, but Bolan didn’t flinch from it, reloading when he’d used another magazine and fighting on, ducking the few rounds fired in his direction, answering with shots that silenced first one shooter, then another and another.

  And somewhere in the midst of it, he knew that he would live to fight another day.

  “DON’T SHOOT!” Pahlavi called out from the far side of the smoky killing ground. “It’s only me!”

  “Come on ahead,” Bolan replied. “Pick up a rifle and some extra ammunition, while you’re at it.”

  “From the dead?” Pahlavi asked nervously.

  “Unless you find a stockpile in the trucks,” Bolan replied, “I’d say it’s your best bet.”

  “All right,” the young man answered. “Yes, I’ll find another weapon. You are right.”

  Moving among his fallen enemies, dispensing mercy here and there, Bolan called out, “I haven’t seen the hostage from your village yet.”

  Pahlavi, with a captured CETME rifle slung across his shoulder, hesitated in the act of tugging at a dead man’s bandolier. “He isn’t on the field,” he said. “I’ll check the trucks.”

  “Be careful, just in case,” Bolan advised.

  Pahlavi walked around behind the first truck, leading with his liberated rifle as he peered across the tailgate, then stepped back and shook his head.

  “No one,” he said.

  That still left one, and Bolan hoped they hadn’t killed the prisoner they’d come to rescue—or provoked his captors into killing him at the beginning of their skirmish. It had always been a risk, but Bolan felt there’d been enough death for one afternoon, without another human sacrifice.

  Pahlavi crept up to the second truck and repeated his technique of lunging for a look inside. This time, he scrambled higher up and waved to Bolan, shouting, “Here! I’ve found him. It’s Jalil Yamuna.”