Rebel Blast

by Don Pendleton

“Your tongue will get you into trouble more than it will get you out,” Vishniev murmured as they reached the first room. “Concentrate or it will kill you,” he said tersely as he made to kick the door, gesturing the Chechen to one side.

  Suddenly serious, Basayev flattened himself to one side of the door then nodded. Vishniev kicked the door savagely just below the lock, and the cheap wood splintered along the lock and jamb, the door swinging open. Basayev turned and moved in at a crouch, keeping low and sweeping across the room. The Russian followed him, covering their rear. There was only one door off this room, and at a sign from the Russian, Basayev took it: an en suite bathroom, and empty.

  “One down, twenty-three left...” Vishniev grumbled.

  “Then the sooner you stop moaning and we do it, the sooner we get out,” Basayev returned.

  Shrugging, the Russian followed the little Chechen out of the room, and they repeated the procedure on the next room. And they continued until they had cleared the floor.

  It felt like a thankless task. They were making enough noise to attract the attention of any rebels that may be in the building, but none had come to engage them, and there was no noise to indicate anyone else moving above them. It was so quiet in the building that it would have been hard to disguise any sounds of movement.

  They started on the third floor with a sense of resignation. It was as though they were going through the motions, but with little prospect of any result.

  They swept through the rooms quickly. At least half of them looked as though they had been empty, with those that had been in use showing signs of a quick—and unwilling—departure. Belongings were strewed around, but these had been left for some time, untended. It was obvious that the survey party had been living here, but had been shifted elsewhere.

  While the third floor passed without note, when they reached the fourth, it was apparent that something was going on here. In the silence that filled the rest of the hotel, the muffled noises that came from the largest suite were amplified out of proportion. The two mercenaries exchanged puzzled glances. The squeals and muffled voices did not sound to them like either soldiers or, come to that, hostages.

  Vishniev indicated to his compatriot that they take the other rooms first, and with more caution. This time, they did not kick the doors in, but tried them first. Most were unlocked, the only one that had been yielded to a piece of celluloid that Basayev had taken from another room, thief’s instinct telling him it may be of use. Inside this room they found weapons and half-finished meals, with bottles of vodka and brandy beneath the bed. Vishniev’s look confirmed Basayev’s thoughts: this had been a rebel fighter’s room. So who had the suite next door? The one from which the noises came?

  Who knew? Maybe they could catch the leader in a compromising position.

  Signaling to Basayev to be ready, Vishniev kicked in the door and sprayed a short burst of fire into the ceiling. Plaster dust rained down on the couple who occupied the bed. A woman, seated naked astride a man who was also naked but hidden from them, screamed and fell off both the man and the bed. Now exposed, he sat up and looked at the two mercenaries.

  “I can explain this,” he began. “I am Aslan Bargishev, the mayor. She is my wife, even though your boss has her. Come now, can’t a man have some fun with his wife?”

  The mayor was obviously an opportunist who, when chaos descended, had taken the opportunity to fool around with his wife. He seemed certain he could talk his way out of this, although even his incredible confidence wavered as Vishniev and Basayev looked at him blankly.

  Mistaken for Orlov’s men by their dress, they hesitated and looked at each other, puzzled. So this was where the rebel leader slept, but this man was not him. Who the hell was he, then?

  They didn’t have a chance to secure an explanation.

  Bargishev’s wife, apparently embarrassed and also wary that what she perceived as rebel fighters could lead to her own demise took action. She groped frantically under the bed.

  She had a Glock halfway out when Vishniev, acting on instinct at the glint of gunmetal, tapped a 3-shot burst that ripped into her torso. Her scream of pain was cut short by blood flooding her lungs, and she fell forward.

  Bargishev’s mouth opened in shock, uttering a wordless cry. Without thought, he hurled himself forward at the gunman, with no consideration for his own well-being or even how he hoped to avenge his wife’s murder.

  He hadn’t even made it off the bed before Basayev tapped a burst that ended his resistance before it had even begun.

  As the deceased mayor fell onto his wife’s corpse, the Chechen turned angrily to the Russian.

  “What did you do that for? You want us to announce we’re here?”

  “Rather I do that than the bitch shoots me,” Vishniev snapped back. “Anyway, they’re not who we’re after.”

  “No...” Basayev looked at the dead couple, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Call Cooper, tell him we drew a blank and are heading back to rendezvous.”

  The Chechen, out the door before the Russian, paused to look back and shake his head, and took out his radio.

  * * *

  AT THAT MOMENT Bolan would not have particularly welcomed a call coming through. He and Bulgarin had made their way toward the location of the town jail, but had found their progress impeded by the mass of the population, milling aimless and confused. While that also worked for them in that they could lose themselves, it became a trickier proposition when they could see men dressed similarly to themselves starting to move through the crowd, breaking them up and pushing them back toward their homes. In the melee it was possible for them to pass with no one realizing that they had never seen these particular rebels before. As the real rebel fighters came close, it was almost inevitable that they would see Bolan and Bulgarin and recognize them as impostors.

  Bolan indicated to the Russian that they needed to move into cover until the rebels had passed them. Bulgarin nodded, and the two men sought refuge inside a shop that had been left unlocked during the panic. Once inside, with the door shut, Bolan looked out the front window, over the display, at the passing crowds.

  The shop was warm, and seemed oddly quiet after the noise outside, which was muffled by the thick brickwork. The atmosphere was warm and smelled of spices and smoked meats, some of which were hanging in hocks from the ceiling across the breadth of the store, and over the window display. The latter formed a useful piece of cover for the soldier as he watched the crowds pass by.

  “What if the owner returns before we can leave?” the Russian asked.

  “We bluff. If not, we put whoever it is out of action—not dead, just incommunicado,” he added, eyeing the way Bulgarin held his SMG.

  “Are you going soft, Cooper?” the Russian said with humor.

  “No need to kill unless we have to. Noise and attention are not on my agenda,” Bolan answered flatly.

  “Have it your way.” The Russian shrugged. “You really think we can pass as rebels? Me, maybe... You? You don’t even look Russian, let alone Georgian or Chechen.”

  “The way I look is the least of our problems. Have you seen many rebels out there? It seems to me that somehow they’ve taken over with very few men, and persuaded the townspeople to go along with them. They probably know every rebel by sight. Anyone gets a good look at us, we’re screwed.”

  Even as he spoke, he knew that the moment of truth was approaching. An old man and an old woman who clung to him for support were walking toward the shop front with the air of those about to enter. The old man was bowlegged and unsteady, but the grip he had on an AK-47 seemed strong enough. Bolan indicated to Bulgarin to move back farther into the shadows as he withdrew from the window.

  As the old man and his wife entered, Bolan was aware both of their sudden stiffening and of the rustle of movement behind him. The old man started to raise the AK-47, squintin
g into the shadows.

  “Do not do that, old man, and I will not have to act first,” Bulgarin said calmly in Russian.

  “You are inside the town? Your tanks are a diversion?” the old woman said sharply.

  “We’re not with the army, we have another job,” Bolan said slowly in his accented Russian. “It doesn’t involve you, and it doesn’t involve them. But we can’t allow you to raise an alarm.”

  “You’ll have to go through me first,” the old man said. “You look like the National Socialists, but you are not them.”

  “Very perceptive,” Bulgarin said softly. “Don’t think I wouldn’t go through you, and with pleasure. But we don’t have the time for diversions. So drop it unless you want your wife to end her days a widow.”

  Bolan stepped forward. He did not want the old man to die needlessly; perhaps more pertinently, he did not want a firefight to raise an alarm.

  “He’ll do it. Don’t give him the excuse.”

  There was something in his tone that made the old man waver. As the AK-47’s barrel dipped, Bolan stepped forward smartly and grabbed it, jerking it out of the old man’s hands, breathing a sigh of relief that there had been no need for gunfire. Without the rifle, the old couple seemed to wilt. Bolan tossed the gun to one side and grabbed them, pushing them toward the rear of the shop. While Bulgarin covered him, he searched out rope and cloth to bind and gag them, while taking the shop keys from the old man’s pocket.

  Leaving them, he moved to the front of the store, looking out on the street beyond. It had now emptied significantly, and there were no rebel fighters in sight. They were three streets away from where the jail was situated and, looking at his watch, he could see that they had little time left. He covered his face as best as possible with the headdress on his Muslim clothing, gesturing to Bulgarin to do the same. Leading the way, he slipped out into the street, securing the door behind them. The old couple would be found by morning, but by then their mission here would be over, one way or another.

  The night was still lit up by the fires—though they were now beginning to die down where they were being put out by groups of rebels and citizens—and by the lights in the houses and stores. These would remain, as the tension of events made it impossible to sleep. As long as the people remained behind closed doors, and those outside were occupied by the collateral damage, that would suit Bolan fine. Bulgarin, he was not so sure about. The Russian seemed to be looking for an excuse to kill.

  The streets leading to the jail were deserted, and Bolan hoped that their luck would continue as far as finding their target. The entrance to the police building was unguarded, and the two mercenaries slipped inside with ease.

  Inside, the building was deserted. Bolan cursed to himself. If the survey team was here, then surely there would be a guard of some kind?

  “You want to check upstairs?” Bulgarin murmured. “Hang on—keep point.” The Russian moved behind the counter and into the rooms behind while Bolan uneasily kept watch—uneasy both for possible rebels and for the Russian, a decided loose cannon.

  Bulgarin came back, shaking his head and, without waiting, took the stairs to scout the upper floor, returning quickly.

  “Cells will be down... If they’re here, then that’s where they will be. I’ll take guard—they’ll be more amenable to an American voice,” the Russian said.

  Bolan agreed, and took the stairs down to the basement cells.

  Argun-Martan was not a big town, so did not have a large jail. Even as he hit the floor in the basement, the Executioner knew he had drawn a blank. It felt empty, with no sign of life. There were four cells, two on each side of the narrow corridor, each with a shuttered metal door that was rusting. The shutters in each squealed as he slid them open, the darkened cells beyond cold, dank and empty.

  Bolan’s radio crackled to life. He snatched it and answered quickly, not wanting to make too much sound. Vishniev outlined briefly their lack of luck at the hotel, omitting to mention about the dead mayor and his wife. Bolan replied that he and Bulgarin had also drawn a blank.

  “We’ll head for the rendezvous. You do that, too. I just hope Dostoyevsky and Krilov are having better luck.”

  But what about Vassilev? Their point man had been oddly silent, even though he’d have to know they would now be close to the front line.

  * * *

  FOR THE TWO remaining mercenaries, the progress toward the old theater had been as simple as that of the men headed for the hotel. Like them, Krilov and Dostoyevsky were moving away from the focus of panic, and found the relatively deserted streets easy to negotiate. Anyone who did appear was moving toward them, was easily seen, and as a result easy to avoid. It was only a matter of minutes before they were outside the theater.

  “No guard outside? Interesting,” Krilov murmured.

  “Indeed, a conundrum,” Dostoyevsky said dryly. “Could it be that there is one stationed inside?”

  Krilov sighed. “Of course that is a possibility, but it would be stupid to allow any enemy to enter into the building before engagement.”

  “You assume they want to keep people out. Surely they are more likely to be wanting to keep them in?”

  Krilov shrugged. “Still stupid...”

  “Then easier for us,” Dostoyevsky murmured, moving forward. “Come...”

  They moved across the road in a crouch, despite the seeming lack of any enemy. Reaching the front of the theater, they found that the doors were unlocked. Inside, the lobby was lighted and seemingly clear. There was one piece of cover: a desk and switchboard to the left-hand side. Krilov motioned that he would head to it; the Russian covered him as he went. From there, he could see that the rest of the lobby was empty. Beyond were the double doors into the auditorium. Washrooms and cloakrooms led off the lobby, and while the Russian moved inside and kept cover, Krilov scouted them and found them empty. Coming out of the last room, he gestured to the Russian to follow him.

  They found the doors to the auditorium locked. There seemed to be no noise from within, but then the doors were large, padded fire doors and would insulate well. The two mercenaries looked at each other. This was a deserted area. The theater seemed deserted, as well, and so making noise was not such a problem as it may otherwise have been.

  Krilov raised his SMG and tapped a burst into the lock. Dostoyevsky followed up with a kick that swung the doors heavily open. Both men were through and fanning out, seeking cover, before they had fully opened.

  And both men were pulled up short by the sight that greeted them.

  The auditorium was empty apart from the belongings and bedding of the survey team, and one other thing: the corpse of a man in rebel’s clothing, lay in the middle of the floor with his neck at an unnatural angle.

  “Well, they were here,” Krilov said slowly, “but who the fuck got here first?”

  The Russian shook his head. Reaching for the radio, he said slowly, “I have no idea. But I tell you, this really screws up Cooper’s plans.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As soon as Orlov and the giant had departed, Leonard had watched the guard left behind with a shrewd eye. It had been a long time since he had been called on to take any kind of combat action—his gig as security man for the corporation was a cakewalk compared to his previous life—but although he might be a little ring rusty he still kept himself in shape, training regularly.

  He would have hoped that the U.S. government would take action, either diplomatic or some kind of extraction: in which case his job was to keep the group together and calm enough for the moment to come. The trouble was, it just didn’t seem as though they were in any kind of hurry: even if they had plans, then circumstance had overtaken them.

  Leonard knew that their options were limited. The best he could do was to try to get them out of town before all hell broke loose and get them into the foot
hills where they could shelter until the fighting died down. The Russians would need to appease the U.S., and home pressures would see some kind of U.S.-sponsored search. He was relying on that for the final stage.

  This part of it was up to him, though. Looking at the group, he knew he could rely on Freeman and Acquero—who had showed depths he had not imagined, while the younger man was full of guts—and he figured that of the remaining team members, at least half would have the cool to respond. The question was, could they afford to carry Winters, Slaughter and Simmons, who he had fingered as the weak links? There was no real choice. He had to carry them somehow, the question was really about the logistics.

  That could wait. There would be no point worrying about that if they didn’t actually get out of the theater. Right now, they had one jumpy guard standing between them and the chaos outside in which they could get killed, but which might just offer them the chance of escape.

  Leonard moved over to Acquero, and outlined his plan to her in low tones, aiding her in folding bedding as he spoke. Her expression showed her doubt, but she knew that this was their only chance, and as he moved toward Freeman she called Obeyo and Winters over to her, ostensibly to prepare rations. As he moved, Leonard could see the guard eyeing them nervously, as though suspicious but unsure about who to keep under closer observation. He was rattled, which might be dangerous if it made him trigger happy.

  Freeman listened with a poker face as Leonard muttered his rough game plan. Even when he told the older man how relieved he was to be doing something, he still kept his expression stony. Leonard was glad to have him on his side, especially when he saw how the young man encouraged the downcast Slaughter, who seemed unsure when he first heard the plan, but soon headed across the floor to try to talk to Simmons. The young analyst was still almost catatonic. Slaughter was joined by Winters, who seemed to be indicating that they should take care of the young man between them.

  Meantime, Obeyo had approached Steffans and Dierks, the two engineers responding almost too eagerly to what he said, forcing him to quiet them. Acquero went to join Rattenbury and Avallone, speaking to them in hushed tones under guise of handing them food. They stayed calm, but their body language was itchy, ready to act.