Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “I can?” Douglas queried.

  “—and arrange something pretty quick. If we do that, can we ride with you?”

  Nancy Clayton thought for a moment. “Fine. Arrange some trucks. Only don’t think you’re riding in the same one as me. How long will it all take to arrange?”

  “Let’s say an hour,” Bolan replied, oblivious to the look Douglas gave him.

  “An hour? That fast? Who on earth do you know?”

  “Lots of people in extremely low places.”

  “Then I better get some organizing done. Shift some of those lazy butts outside. An hour? I can hold you to that?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Bolan said, now looking at Douglas, who just shrugged.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Wow, she’s a handful,” Douglas stated the moment Nancy Clayton had left the office.

  “You weren’t cooped up on a small ship with her. Now, phone’s there. Make good on my promise.”

  Douglas picked up the receiver and got to work.

  * * *

  PETER DOUGLAS WISHED that he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere but sitting in the stifling cab of an ancient Mercedes-Benz truck during the middle of the day, with the sun burning down and no air-conditioning for a hundred miles. The foam that had been in the passenger seat when the truck had left the factory had worn away years ago, leaving Douglas sitting on springs and a metal frame. He had placed a towel on the seat for extra comfort, but it didn’t help. The truck bounced, rattled and shook over every pothole in the road, and there were many. He felt every single one of them. Painfully. He groaned as the truck hit another rut. The African driver seemed as impervious to the discomfort as he was to the heat.

  Douglas took another sip of his rapidly dwindling bottled water. The vents were blowing a gale of heated air and bits of grit around the cab. He had fiddled with the dial, vainly hoping that the truck would be able to dispense cool air, as well. He quickly came to the miserable conclusion that the thing had only one setting—hot. All others were broken. And the window wouldn’t wind down, either. Sweat poured off him. He wondered how Blanski was faring in the rear truck. Or that Clayton woman, sitting in the fourth truck, one of the two water tankers. The driver whistled tunelessly, adding to Douglas’s discomfort.

  Earlier that day he had phoned an acquaintance, who had put him through to somebody else, who had put him through to another person, who had diverted the call to another department in the Djiboutian Ministry for Transportation, which had passed him on to yet another person. This time a woman had tried to help without being helpful. Douglas had lost patience by then and threatened to phone the US Embassy and CNN to tell them that not only were the Djiboutian people stealing rice but they didn’t want to help deliver what was left. He was quickly passed to a minor official who promised to do what he could. Half an hour later the man phoned back, apologizing profusely, promising that three trucks were on the way, that he would come and supervise the loading personally to make sure nothing else was stolen, that a police escort would stay with them all the way to Obcock.

  The official showed up as vowed, along with three trucks that looked as if they had just been rescued from the scrap yard, and a solitary police car. The man assured Nancy Clayton that the rice would be safe now, nobody would attack a police car, that the government was grateful for all she was doing and the owner of the original truck-hire company would receive firm words from the government. And with that, the convoy left the docks, the police car leading the way. The three Americans decided to ride with the trucks that had the most tread on the tires; one water tanker and one rice carrier looked decidedly dangerous. Bolan took the last truck in the convoy, wanting to keep an eye on the rear in case anybody was following.

  Douglas peered out of the grimy side window. They were heading up a steep hill, the edge of the road a mere two yards away. The drop to the ravine floor below looked terrifying. On the opposite side was a rock face, the road barely wide enough to accept two vehicles. The engine labored heavily, the driver shifting and grinding gears to try to keep the momentum going. The vehicles in front were not faring much better, the water-carrying tanker suffering the worst. Douglas moaned softly and hoped that the ride would be over soon.

  Bam!

  “What the…?”

  Douglas shot forward in his seat as the driver slammed on the brakes, the truck lurching to a halt, the tanker in front doing likewise. From somewhere up ahead, a heavy-caliber machine gun opened up, followed by the excited chatter of other, smaller weapons. He watched as a man jumped out of the cab of the tanker and took two steps before disintegrating as the bullets tore him apart.

  “Shit!”

  Douglas had his Beretta pistol in his hand but didn’t yet know what to do. Beside him his driver was squealing in terror at the sight of the bloody remains as what was left of the man collapsed to the ground. Douglas cursed his folly at not assembling his M-16. It was still in his sports bag. He reached for the door handle, only to have it yanked away. Douglas started, then stared into the business end of a rusty AK-47. The African holding it was screaming at him, but Douglas had no idea what the words were. Another man joined the rifle man. He reached up and grabbed the pistol out of Douglas’s hand, throwing it to the floor.

  The CIA agent snapped out of his trance, realizing too late that he could have shot the rifle-wielding thug and his friend instead of sitting there staring down the barrel of the Kalashnikov. The man reached for Douglas again, hauling him out of the cab. The American started to comply, stepping out and down, but he missed the foot plate and fell to his hands and knees, gravel cutting through his bandages. Cursing he started to rise, only to be kicked back down again, a heavy workman’s boot crashing painfully into his side.

  Douglas groaned. He could hear one of the two men shouting and the truck driver shrieking. Both men started yelling as the noise continued. The Kalash nikov opened up and the shrieking cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of broken glass and the sensation of hot cartridges dropping on Douglas’s head.

  Another kick and Douglas rolled over onto his back, eyes shut tight against the men. Now the Africans were screaming at him. There was more rifle fire somewhere close by. Douglas was seized by the scruff of his neck and dragged farther up the road to be dumped next to several other men. The African with the rifle suddenly cut off his tirade, and all at once it was quiet. Douglas opened his eyes, seeing that the men next to him were the remaining drivers and various workers who had been squeezed into the cabs and the leading trucks. They were all kneeling with their hands on their heads. The man closest hissed something at him, indicating that he should get into the same position.

  Douglas struggled to his knees, wincing from the pain in his side and hand. Only when he was in position did he manage to take stock of what was happing. The hostages all had their backs to the empty space behind them, the toes of their shoes right on the edge of the near-vertical drop. The remains of the police car were at the front of the convoy, burning, acrid flames rising into the air. Douglas knew there wouldn’t be anything left of the two officers. In front of the wreck was a technical, a pickup truck with a large machine gun fixed in its bed. The gun was pointing in his general direction, the gunner just waiting for an excuse to let rip.

  Douglas shifted his gaze to what was happening in front of him. The soldiers or bandits or whatever they were had formed a rough semicircle, all of them pointing weapons at their prisoners. He wondered if he would have a chance to escape. There appeared to be only two possibilities, and neither was acceptable. One was to run past the eleven or so bandits, but that would be suicidal. The other option would be to jump off the cliff. The drop was not sheer, but chances of surviving it without injury would be impossible.

  Where was Blanski? Douglas risked a quick look around. His was the only white face in the lineup; Nancy Clayton was also missing. Douglas felt a glimmer of hope. Blanski had to be somewhere close by. Unless he was already dead. The g
limmer faded. There had been a lot of shooting when the ambushers stuck. Perhaps Blanski had been killed in the skirmish; it would take only one bullet. If Blanski was gone, then there would be no way out. Unless the bandits wanted hostages. Douglas eyed them. Their demeanor discouraged him. The men had formed a loose firing squad. They were just waiting for the command to open up, and the corpses would fall backward into the ravine, never to be seen again.

  The man beside him, the translator if Douglas remembered correctly, began whimpering in terror. Douglas resisted the temptation to join him.

  A young African stepped out of the semicircle and approached Douglas, who recognized him as the one who had pulled him from the cab. In the man’s hand was the Beretta pistol that Douglas had lost. The man crouched in front of the American, grinning. His eyes shone wildly as he held the pistol in front of his face. He admired it for a moment before giving Douglas his undivided attention. Reaching out, he plucked Douglas’s sunglasses from his face and placed them on his own, smiling all the while. Douglas blinked furiously in the bright sunshine. The man spoke with a deep voice that belied his youth.

  “It is a mighty fine pistol. Mighty fine. Thank you for such a wonderful gift. And your sunglasses. Perfect fit. I like it. And now, my friend, who are you? Hmm? To be out here with such a mighty fine pistol as this. You are American? CIA? Hmm? Sent out here to spy on us? To spy on me? Hmm? Where is your friend? Well? No answer? Well, Mr. Spy, I shall tell you this. We are the Front for Restoration of Unity and Democracy, and it pleases me to tell you that you will die by your own pistol. Your own pistol that you were sent here to kill me with. Still nothing to say? Hmm? Then thank you for your pistol and for all the food and water that you have brought us. My men are mighty pleased. Mighty pleased. They will feast in your honor tonight. And now you will take a message of death back to your President, to all your American people.”

  The man rose to his feet and pointed the Beretta pistol directly at Douglas’s skull. The American squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for existence to end. Beside him the hostages began to whimper louder.

  Bang!

  Something warm and wet splattered across the top of his head.

  Something heavy hit the ground hard, right in front of him.

  Pandemonium broke out.

  Douglas opened his eyes to find his would-be killer lying in the dust in front of him, the top of his skull missing, the sunglasses gone. The firing squad broke apart, looking around wildly, yelling, firing in random directions. They had no idea where the shot had come from. The rest of the hostages were in the dirt, hands over their heads, hoping that the FRUD soldiers would ignore them.

  The Beretta pistol was only inches away. Douglas grabbed it and was getting to his feet when one of the FRUD revolutionaries saw him and ran over, his AK-47 pointing at Douglas. The CIA agent didn’t hesitate. In an instant he drew target acquisition and fired, putting two hot rounds into the screaming man’s face. The insurgent collapsed as if his strings had been cut, falling onto his back. Douglas kept the pistol raised, ready to fire at another target. He didn’t have time to dwell on the fact that he had just shot a man for the first time. He crouched again as several wild bullets passed too close for comfort.

  He looked around for cover. The ground was littered with corpses. It could only be Blanski! He darted to one of the trucks, hunkering down behind the front wheel. All of the so-called FRUD gunners were now firing up the cliff. Obviously they had located Blanski. How many were left, and how could he assist his comrade in arms with only a pistol?

  He was reaching for a discarded AK-47 when his eyes fell upon the technical. The gunner had already been neutralized, his body draped over the vehicle’s cab. Blanski had to have killed him an instant after shooting the leader.

  How hard would it be to fire a heavy machine gun?

  His heart was pounding in his ears as he made the charge toward the vehicle. Gunfire surrounded him as the rebels engaged Blanski. Another rebel had the smart idea of using the technical, as well, and he was making a break for it when he and Douglas locked eyes. The CIA agent skidded to a stop and adopted the Weaver stance that he had learned during firearms training ages ago. His two shots were lost in the cacophony as the rebel tumbled and fell. Douglas continued his charge, reaching the vehicle unharmed.

  Shoving the pistol into his rear pocket, he clambered onto the technical, trying his best to ignore the corpse, the blood and smears of what he presumed was brain matter. Douglas quickly examined the heavy-caliber machine gun. He didn’t know the make, but it looked old and appeared to be of Russian origin. It seemed simple enough. Point, squeeze, shoot.

  He swung the machine gun around so that it was pointing at the back of the closest FRUD rebel. He quickly counted six others, who were all crouched along the side of the cliff, firing upward at where they presumed their enemy to be. Several of their friends lay dead beside them, testament to Blanski’s killing skills. Douglas squeezed the trigger. The old Soviet weapon roared to life, sending a stream of 7.62 mm death toward the first rebel. The man came apart like a rotten tomato. The others quickly realized their predicament but were unable to do anything about it. Screaming incoherently, Douglas walked the barrel along the line of figures. Some of the bandits managed to get to their feet in time to be ripped in two; others never felt their heads exploding off their shoulders. Within seconds it was over.

  Douglas ceased firing and ceased screaming as the remains of the last rebel fell. He was shaking, his bandaged hand hurt like hell, but he had done it. He had saved Blanski and taken out eight bad guys in less than a minute.

  He began to laugh hysterically as the shock of what he had done set it.

  Could Blanski rely on him?

  Hell, yeah!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mack Bolan had already assembled his M-16, ignoring the nervous glances of the driver. Both his Beretta pistol and Skorpion had been cleaned and readied for use. The pistol was tucked into the waistband of his trousers, poking him whenever the truck hit a rut. The Skorpion hung on a sling, under his right arm. Like Douglas, he found the journey uncomfortable. Unlike Douglas, he was experienced enough to ignore the jolts of the truck and the heat of the day.

  He was in motion the moment he heard the initial gunfire and explosion. He threw the passenger door open before the truck had come to a halt and jumped out. The truck was a mere two feet from the edge of the precipice. Glancing down, he noted a wedge of rock sticking out of the ridge face, maybe six feet down. It would be perfect for what he had in mind. He ran to the next truck in line, reached up and threw open the passenger door. Nancy Clayton looked down at him, her face white with horror.

  “What is happening?”

  “Out. Now. Right now.”

  He reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the cab. She almost fell, but he kept her stable until her feet touched the ground.

  “With me. Now.”

  He pulled her along by the arm, his M-16 in one hand, up and ready for action.

  “Where are we… What’s happening?” she gasped.

  “Down there. Quickly.” Bolan pointed to the ledge of rock.

  “I…I can’t. I’ll fall.”

  “If you don’t, then you’ll be killed. Move.”

  Bolan manhandled her down the cliff’s side until she stood firmly on the exposed rock.

  “Whatever happens, stay here. Don’t make a sound. If they find you, you’ll die.”

  With that Bolan was gone, the doomsday clock ticking in his head. He could hear another vehicle approaching from the rear. Moving as fast as he could, the soldier climbed up the side of the cab until he was on the roof and lying prone on the searing canvas top. He could hear the vehicle to the rear disgorging men. Up front, thick black smoke and flames were rising into the air, probably from the police car after it had taken hits from the heavy-caliber machine gun that he had heard.

  He turned his head slightly so that he could observe the aggressors. He saw instantly that the a
ttackers were not army. They were dressed in ragtag clothes and carried an assortment of weaponry. Bolan had encountered their type too many times before. Rebels, deserters, looters. Vermin that always preyed on those in need. The bandits proceeded along the convoy, dragging out terrified drivers and passengers. He could hear a similar maneuver taking place at the front of the convoy.

  As soon as the last bandit had passed, Bolan looked around for a vantage point. The only thing he could find was a ledge of rock that jutted ten feet above the cab of the second truck. It wasn’t ideal, there would be no retreat from the position and it would be risky. He couldn’t afford to be seen. Shots were fired from somewhere in front of the convoy. Bolan moved; the numbers had ticked down to zero.

  He leaped off the roof of the truck, hitting the ground hard, falling automatically into a parachute roll. Then he was on his feet again, running for the cover of the second truck. Slinging his rifle, he began to climb until he reached the ledge. Nobody was paying him any attention.

  Once on the ledge he lay on the hot stone and took in the situation as he pulled the rifle off his shoulder. The police car was burning, a technical was covering the crowd and the truck drivers were gathered at the cliff’s edge with the bandits. The machine gunner would have to die first. Bolan switched the selector to single shot, released the safety and took aim. He was about to fire when he saw a man step out of the rebel group and approach something. As the man squatted, Bolan spied Douglas. After a few seconds the man rose and pointed a pistol at the CIA agent’s head. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He shifted his aim, found target acquisition and fired. The top of man’s head flew off in a bloody cloud.

  The Executioner shifted his aim, bringing the machine gunner back into focus. Another single shot, and another head disintegrated. Bolan didn’t bother to see how the man fell. He switched the selector back to three-round burst and opened fire the moment the scrambling rebels came into view. Two fell, but the others had overcome their shock and returned fire, having quickly located Bolan’s position.