Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner ducked back as the rebels poured a wall of lead at the ledge. He could feel the rounds hammering into the rock under him, hear the bullets and bits of stone flying past. The rebels were taking positions underneath him, and the M-16 was too long to be brought into play. He laid it aside and drew the Skorpion. Shielding his face, he saw one man break away from the group, running toward the technical.

  Easy target.

  The rest continued to pour fire at Bolan’s position. It wouldn’t be too long before one of them figured that they would have a better angle if they climbed up onto the trucks. Bolan was about to fire on the running man when the target collapsed to the ground and Douglas was running past, making for the technical.

  The gunfire lessened as several rebels stopped to reload. To remind them that he was still alive, Bolan stuck the Skorpion over the side and gave them a quick burst of retaliatory fire without seeing where the rounds went. The rebels opened up again, filling the air with metal hornets. Douglas was on the technical, swinging the barrel around. It looked to Bolan like an old, Soviet Cold War–era, heavy-caliber machine gun. Then Douglas opened fire.

  The thunder lasted several seconds. There were screams that abruptly ended and the sound of bullets bouncing off the rock face and hitting the trucks. Then silence, which was suddenly filled by Douglas’s hysterical laughter. Bolan slung his weapons and climbed down. Several limbs had been ripped away from their owners by the metal storm. Grimacing, Bolan stepped over the body parts. He gave a wave to Douglas, who was still laughing. Bolan knew that this was a form of adrenaline release, relief at being alive and out of a life-threatening situation. Douglas would come to his senses in a moment.

  But first he had to find Nancy Clayton. He jogged over to where he had left her. She was still there, clinging to the side of the rock face, looking up, glaring in a mix of anger and terror. She started as Bolan suddenly appeared, her expression of surprise instantly giving way to a look of relief. Bolan crouched and offered her his hand, helping her to climb up to the road.

  Once there she looked around, likely expecting to see something. From her vantage point she could not view any of the dead bodies.

  “Are you all right?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes, yes. What happened?” she answered, rubbing her hands on her sides.

  “Bandits. But they’ve gone now.”

  She looked at him sharply, then looked away. “Did you shoot them?”

  “Some of them. I had help. If we hadn’t, then they would have shot everybody here.”

  She looked at him again, the anger replaced by concern. “Is anybody hurt?”

  “A few of the workers have been killed or injured. I’m not sure how many.”

  “Oh, God. Because I brought them up here.”

  “It’s not your fault. It would have happened anyway, if not to them, then to somebody else. Now come with me.” Bolan led her over to her truck and all but lifted her inside. “Stay here. We have to clean the place up and assess the damage. When we leave, I want you to look out of the passenger window. Don’t look out of the driver’s window.”

  “I have seen dead bodies before, you know.”

  “Not like this you haven’t.”

  Bolan left Clayton and returned to the technical. Douglas had climbed down and was on his hands and knees, vomiting into the dust. Bolan helped him to his feet and handed him a warm bottle of water, which he gratefully drank. The bandages on the CIA agent’s hands were filthy. Blood appeared to be leaking through.

  Bolan glanced around while Douglas downed the water. The convoy drivers and other workers appeared to be recovering their nerve. Some of them had begun to scavenge the corpses, pulling boots off dead feet and going through pockets. Bolan turned his attention back to the CIA agent.

  “Shit, Blanski,” Douglas gasped, “I thought I was a goner. Then you took out that guy—thanks for that—and I opened up with the machine gun and, well, those guys just came apart. I mean they just came apart. I have never done anything like that before. Shit.”

  “Killing doesn’t get any easier,” Bolan said.

  “And those cops in the car. Some escort. They didn’t stand a chance. Hey, and there’s something else. The guy you popped. He questioned me about being in the CIA, wanted to know where my buddy was hiding. And he didn’t seem too concerned about questioning me for too long.”

  That brought Bolan to a halt for a moment. If the FRUD rebels knew about him and Douglas, then it meant the enemy knew they were coming. Somebody in the police or the government had passed on the information, possibly the official who had shown up to see them off. Then, the target of rice and water had to have been secondary to the actual contract of killing him and Douglas. It meant they had to separate themselves from the convoy.

  “Get your things out of your truck and put them in the technical. We’re taking their wheels and pushing on. I’m going to get my stuff. Have somebody call the cops or the army, and say our goodbyes to Nancy.”

  Douglas nodded. “Won’t the technical be too obvious? Big machine gun on it and all?”

  “We’ll do our best to stay off road and get a new ride as soon as possible.”

  Bolan left Douglas and went to grab his own stuff while quickly checking for victims of the aid convoy. It seemed miraculous, but nobody had been killed, not even Douglas’s own truck driver, who had passed out from fright when he had been shot at, the bullets going through his truck door and the rebel likely too excited to confirm his kill. Bolan found Clayton still in the cab, sitting still, staring blankly into nothingness.

  “We’re leaving,” Bolan said. “Douglas and I are, anyway. You need to stay here and have somebody call the police or the army for help.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “First those pirates wanted to kill us, now these bandits. I just can’t go on, not anymore.”

  “I understand. When the police get here, have them escort you back to the city. Go to the embassy and have them take you to Lemonnier. You can get out that way.”

  “I think that the translator was calling somebody. I’m not going anywhere. What are you going to do?”

  “Track down and find out who is responsible for this and see what’s going on.”

  Clayton gave him a faint smile. “It’s what you do, isn’t it? What should I say to the police about you? I can’t exactly say you and your friend were not here.”

  “Tell them the truth as far as you know it. That we claimed that we were journalists and hitched a ride with your convoy. Then all hell broke loose and we hightailed it out of here. They’ll look for us, but so are the bad guys, so it makes no difference.

  “So, Nancy, goodbye. I doubt we’ll meet again.” Clayton nodded sadly, and Bolan turned and walked away.

  He placed his bag in the back of the technical and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Douglas rode shotgun. He had already assembled his M-16 and looked at Bolan expectantly.

  “Use the Skorpion machine pistol,” the soldier advised. “It’s more maneuverable if you have to hang out the window and fire.” He pulled out the map that Abdourahman had given them, as Douglas turned slightly red and replaced the rifle with the machine pistol.

  “We are roughly here,” Bolan said, pointing to a spot on the map, “and we have to go here, where the Trenchard men were. Where was your contact meeting us?”

  Douglas pointed to a spot on the map, just north of Obcock.

  “Then, that is where we are going.” Bolan started the engine, checked the fuel gauge and drove away, leaving the aid convoy surrounded by shattered, broken bodies.

  * * *

  NOT LONG AFTER going cross-country, they heard the sound of sirens in the distance as police cars raced toward the ambushed convoy.

  “Too fast,” Bolan had called out over the din of the struggling engine. “Their response time is too fast. Somebody must have called them the moment the ambush started.”

  They pushed on, making thirty to forty miles per hour over the
rough terrain. Bolan worried about Douglas. The man was an investigator, an analyst, not somebody who was cut out to be in such a situation. Sure the guy had been in three firefights so far, but he was showing signs of cracking under the stress. Bolan considered leaving him in Obcock and striking out on his own. Douglas wouldn’t be any use in the desert. He would become a liability. On the other hand, the moment his white face showed in Obcock, he would be picked up, either by the police or the army or some other faction that was after them. Either option didn’t bode well for the CIA man, and Bolan didn’t want another friendly ghost to join the others who sometimes frequented his dreams.

  The pickup hit a ridge of rock. There was a loud snap and the vehicle fell forward, burying its nose into the sand. Both Bolan and Douglas were thrown forward, Douglas striking his head on the windshield. The engine died. Bolan eased himself out and inspected the damage. Both front wheels pointed in different directions.

  “What happened?” Douglas groaned.

  “Snapped axel. From here on, we walk.”

  Douglas groaned again. “How far?”

  “About an hour or so to your rendezvous. That’s an hour at my pace or three hours at yours. So we’ll do it at my pace. Drink some water and change into the army suit that I gave you. Move it, or stay here.”

  Douglas heaved himself out of the technical and located his bag in the bed of the pickup. He copied his partner in his actions: first water, then change into the military camouflage suit, then put on the weapons. He put his arms through the straps of his sports bag so that the bag sat uncomfortably on his back, all the spare food and ammunition piled together at the bottom. He noted that Blanski didn’t sling the M-16 across his shoulder but carried it strapless in his hands. Douglas had heard that the British army’s SAS—Special Air Service—carried it that way and wondered if Blanski had picked it up from them. Douglas elected not to carry his similarly; his hands wouldn’t take it and his arms would probably fall off long before they reached the rendezvous.

  Bolan headed out, setting the pace. He could hear Douglas behind him, struggling to keep up, muttering to himself. Several times the CIA man slipped and stumbled, but Bolan didn’t let up, knowing that they had to put as much distance between themselves and the wrecked technical as possible. As it was, the way Douglas was scuffing his feet, even an inexperienced tracker would be able to follow their trail.

  Bolan made the decision to leave Douglas somewhere soon, give him something else to do. He had a feeling that the situation would soon escalate. The attacks so far had been rushed and amateurish. Whatever was taking place was so far unclear. There was no confirmation that there were American oilmen in the country, no confirmation of mercenaries. Only the word of a retired French spy who had been assassinated and the numerous attempts on his and Douglas’s life by third-party hit men. Something was going on, but Bolan didn’t know what.

  The hour drew on, the hot sun burning down. Douglas dropped farther and farther behind. Bolan was aware of the situation but didn’t let up. So long as the man was still standing, then he could catch up. He stopped for several minutes, taking sips of warm water from a plastic bottle, watching as Douglas struggled over, listening for sounds of pursuit. His ear caught the faint sound of metal banging off metal, somewhere over the next dune. He instantly dropped to a crouch, waving to Douglas that he should do the same. It took the CIA man several seconds to realize what Bolan wanted, but he caught the meaning of the soldier’s gestures. Bolan put his water away, slipped the safety off his M-16 and crawled up the dune to the top of the ridge. It took a minute of scrabbling on the loose sand and gravel, but at the top he lay prone, observing the situation.

  Below was a thin strip of tarmac road that stretched northward. Parked on the side of the road were two Renault panel vans, facing each other. One van had its hood open. It had either broken down or the two men sitting in the van’s shadow were feigning a breakdown. One man was significantly older than the other, the latter being in his early twenties, Bolan thought. The older man’s age was impossible to guess. Both Africans wore taqiyah caps and neither, as far as Bolan could see, was armed.

  He scanned the area, looking for an indication that this was a trap. He saw nothing. The only movement was a small lizard that was approaching his arm. He ignored it. Men could be hiding in the two vans, but nothing else stirred. Bolan heard and felt Douglas puffing up beside him, making as much noise as a herd of elephants.

  “What…whatcha got?” huffed the out-of-shape CIA agent.

  Bolan indicated the scene with a nod. “And be quiet. You’re making as much noise as a pregnant whale.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Douglas took in the situation. “Okay, the old guy is Samar. No idea who his friend is. Could be a son. I hear he has dozens.”

  “What do you know about Samar?”

  “Black-market smuggler. Somali. I was introduced to him once by Saint-Verran. Samar is a smuggler but not a bad guy. He speaks excellent English, French and several other languages. According to all my sources, he sticks to alcohol, tobacco, car parts and things that the government would like you to pay tax on. He doesn’t do drugs or arms. That’s all I know. When I contacted him…when was that? Yesterday? Sheesh, only yesterday! When I contacted him, I asked him to lay on transport and any information he might have. He was one of Saint-Verran’s main sources here in the north.”

  “What’s in it for him?”

  “Money. Have to give him an IOU. The goodwill of the CIA.”

  Bolan kept his gun sights focused on the two men. Still he saw nothing suspicious, and that made him suspicious in itself. “Did you give Samar an ETA?”

  “Not really, no. I said late afternoon.”

  “So a smuggler, a bit of a rogue and a rascal, has nothing better to do than sit around in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a man he only met once?”

  “Yeah, I see your point. You think he’s up to something?”

  “I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. Let’s see if there is a trap to spring. I want you to go down there.”

  “Me?”

  “Talk to Samar. I’ll cover you. If there is anything suspicious, fall to the ground. If I see anything suspicious, then the shooting will start. Again, fall to the ground. Preferably without bullet holes in you. Leave your pack and weapons—no, take the Beretta with you, to have nothing would be unusual—and go and say hi.”

  “What am I, a tethered goat?”

  “Yeah. Big career change. One for the better. Walk slowly down there. Let them see you coming.”

  “All the more time to shoot me,” Douglas muttered as he laid his rifle and sports bag aside. He tucked the Beretta pistol into the front of his waistband, knowing that it went against all good gun-safety rules and not giving a rat’s ass.

  Bolan watched him stand, take a quick drink of water, then begin his slow trek down to the vans.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Executioner moved.

  Quickly and silently he ran halfway down the dune, then turned left, moving as rapidly as possible. He wanted to circle the two vans, coming up in Samar’s blind spot while the two Djiboutian men were being distracted by Douglas. He turned again to the left, fifty yards from his last position. Reaching the top of the rise, he observed Douglas with his hands held out at his sides, slowly approaching the two Africans. Both men were on their feet, displaying their empty hands. Samar appeared to be smiling, but Bolan couldn’t be sure. What was certain was that both parties were distracted by each other.

  He hurried down the side of the dune toward the road, keeping an eye on the vans. Still nothing suspicious. Maybe they were who Douglas said they were. Still the three men hadn’t seen him. Then he was on the tarmac. He moved to a position where he couldn’t be observed and ran toward the back of the closer van, the one with its hood up. Once by the rear bumper he crouch-walked forward, listening all the time for activity inside the van or close by. He reached the front wheel, still out of sight, listening to the conversation Douglas
was having with Samar, ready for anything.

  * * *

  DOUGLAS FELT THE SWEAT run down his face, his back—in fact he was sweating everywhere. He cursed Blanski for making him do this, felt sure that a dozen rifles were pointing at him from unseen gunmen. He pretended to stagger sideways, well away from Blanski’s line of fire. Below he observed Samar and the other man getting to their feet. Could Blanski shoot them before they shot him? Probably, but the man could also miss. Douglas slipped on loose stones, almost falling. His arms windmilling, he cursed Blanski again. The two Africans watched, a faint smile on the younger man’s face. Douglas reached the bottom of the dune. He self-consciously brushed the sand from his clothes as he approached the men. He put a big grin on his face and held out his hand to Samar.

  “Mr. Samar, how wonderful to see you again.”

  Samar ignored the proffered, sweaty, dirty hand and merely bowed. Douglas, realizing his faux pas, lowered his arm and bowed likewise.

  “Mr. Douglas, it is indeed an honor to be in your presence again.” Samar’s voice was high-pitched, something Douglas had forgotten. He did note that the youth was slowly moving his hand toward his robe. His Beretta pistol felt a million miles away. Was Blanski seeing this? He hoped so. He wished that he had brought his water bottle, not only for himself but to pass around, keep the other guys’ hands busy.

  “This is my son, Omar,” Samar continued. “As you can see, we have brought you transport, something you can use on your journey. It will not cost you much. I do it as a favor to poor Mr. Saint-Verran, who, as you know, died very recently. He was a very nice man, always kind, always with interesting information for my business.”

  “I am grateful for your kindness, Samar,” Douglas said.

  The African nodded. “Then, Mr. Douglas, tell me, are you alone?”

  Douglas didn’t want to give away Blanski’s position nor did he want to lie to Samar before the game had been played out.

  “Maybe.”

  The two Africans scanned the ridge from where they had seen Douglas appear. There was nothing to see, and clearly unsatisfied, they turned back to Douglas, the young man’s hand now inside his robes. Douglas began to inch his hand toward the Beretta pistol.