Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “We have listened to stories, Mr. Douglas. Stories that say two American white men were with an aid convoy when it was hijacked by the FRUD.” Samar spit into the dust, the young man doing likewise. “The police and the army are very interested in these two Americans. They left after killing all of the rebels. They say that the Americans need protection from retaliation. They need help. There is talk of a reward. Now you stand before me, all alone. I ask you again, where is your friend?”

  “I’m sure he’s somewhere close by. Let’s talk instead about what information you have for me.”

  “No. I do not like standing so close to you when the army and police want to talk to you. I think that we should turn you in. I have already called my friend, the army chief of Obcock. He is waiting for me to call back. I am sure that the reward will be most favorable.”

  The young man sniggered and began to draw what looked like a revolver from the folds of his robes. Douglas felt a shiver run down his spine.

  “Where is your friend, Mr. Douglas?”

  “Right here.”

  All three men jumped and spun. Bolan was down on one knee behind the broken-down Renault, his M-16 pointing straight at the younger man’s head. Douglas had no idea how Blanski had managed to get into position so silently, without being seen. The young man seemed equally stunned but not stunned enough to do something stupid. He allowed the vintage Webley revolver to fall from his fingers and slowly raised his hands. Bolan indicated with his rifle barrel that Samar should do likewise.

  Samar glowered first at Bolan, then at Douglas. He spit again. “American treachery. We came here in good faith and now you threaten to kill us and steal our vans. You Americans think that you can do as you please.”

  “Hey,” Douglas said. “You’re the one who wanted to turn us over to the army.”

  “Ha! You are as big an idiot as Saint-Verran said. Could be led around like a blind dog. You think that I talk to the army? That I would communicate with someone like General Bouh? He would have me shot. You think I come out here alone, with only one son to greet you, if I was to turn you over to army? You are big fool. Saint-Verran was right about you. Big foolish American.”

  Douglas visibly reddened at the insults and innuendos from Samar. But Bolan wasn’t interested in what the Frenchman had said in the past. He lowered the rifle muzzle.

  “Put your hands down. All we need to know is what’s going on. The trail leads us here. We need to know what you know, and we need your vehicle. I assure you that you will be compensated.”

  Samar eyed Bolan. “I am not interested in your money, American. That’s right, not interested. What I know is that General Bouh has shut down the border between here and Eritrea. Nothing gets in or out. One of my sons was shot at last week for straying too close to the border. Now everything has to go by sea or through Somalia. More dangerous, more bribes to pay.”

  “And reports of mercenaries? Or other Americans?”

  Samar shrugged. “I know very little more. Saint-Verran sent some people up north before Bouh stepped in. I know nothing more.”

  “So what do you want?” Douglas asked.

  “Open the border, foolish one.”

  “We can’t do that,” Bolan replied. “We aren’t here to fight the army. We’re here to find out what happened to the two Americans. Nothing more.”

  Samar spit yet again. “Then you are truly useless. I will expect a generous payment for the van. Otherwise do not contact me again.” Samar made a move to walk away. His son started to bend over to retrieve the revolver.

  “We can’t let you go, either,” Bolan said.

  Samar stopped moving; his son froze. “You would kill us, American? Shoot us in cold blood? I hear stories from Iraq about your brutality, are they all true? Then shoot us, cowardly American.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you, just detain you for a short while. I don’t want you running to the authorities just yet.”

  Samar laughed. “Foolish American. There are only two directions out here, north or south. South leads to Obcock, and the army and police are already looking for you there. The only direction you can go is north, and they will look for you there, as well. You need to go now if you do not want to be caught too soon. As for me, I never talk to the army unless they want to buy something, and I never sell them information.”

  “So why were you waiting for us?”

  “To see what your friend looked like. Why else? I have heard the stories, stories of big shoot-outs in the city, of two white men causing death, killing people on trains. Taking weapons from my friends in the city. Yes, Mr. Douglas, your stories reach far and wide. I knew where your safehouse was. My friends were watching it for a long time. Then your friend goes and ‘buys’ things from them.” Samar eyed Bolan. “So this is why we wait. To see who has been so busy in the city, in my country. Now I know. So, are you going to detain us? We showed up in good faith. We brought transport. We came alone. We could have brought army or others. We did not. And you dishonor us by making us prisoners?”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said, “but it is for your own good.”

  “Ha!”

  “If the army learns that you supplied us with a vehicle, something we call aiding and abetting, then they will come after you. If it looks like we stole from you, then they should leave you alone.”

  Samar stopped to consider that. His eyes narrowed. “You lock us in van with water? So that we not die?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Very well, then lock us in. I tell whoever finds us that we were robbed.”

  The Executioner escorted the two Afars into the back of the broken van, removing a cell phone and two sets of vehicle keys from Samar and a knife from his son. Once the two men were secure in the back of the van, he made a quick inspection of the second Renault, checking it for tracking devices or explosives. Douglas, meanwhile, trudged up the side of the dune to recover their equipment. When he returned with the bags, he found his partner already sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him.

  “Leave me to do all the legwork,” Douglas complained.

  “The exercise was good for you,” Bolan murmured. “Quit bellyaching and climb in.”

  Douglas, muttering under his breath, got into the van and started the engine. He was about to drive away when Blanski spoke up.

  “I’m concerned,” the Executioner stated.

  “About?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “You make more noise than a bull in a china shop. You find it difficult to keep up. You can’t shoot straight. One of these things may cost you your life. That’s why I want to part ways. You take the other van with Samar and his son back to Obcock town and wait for me there. I’ll go on alone, check back with you once I find something.”

  Douglas was silent, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Bolan could see the CIA man grinding his teeth. Douglas turned to face Bolan, a scowl deeply etched across his face.

  “Fuck you, Blanski. Why is it everybody, no matter what I do, thinks I’m a screwup? The Agency thinks I’m a screwup, so they stick me here. My ex-wife thinks I’m a screwup, so she leaves me. And now I learn even Saint-Verran was laughing at me, telling stories to his smuggler friends. The French think I’m a screwup. And now you? Fuck you and everyone else!”

  “Finished?”

  “Yes. No. I’m in this till the end. No matter what. Even if it means I’m full of bullet holes. At least there’ll be no alimony anymore. You are not kicking me out of this. I want to find out what’s going on around here.”

  Bolan considered him and changed his mind.

  “All right, you can stay. Just follow my lead, and keep your head down. There’s also something you should know.”

  “And that is?”

  “I haven’t been to this region before, but I have been to nearby Somalia and Eritrea many times. It is one of the most dangerous places in the world. I go into every situation knowing that I may not survive. I have gone up against the best. I
have almost died more times than I can count. You have to be willing to risk your life, even in a situation like now, where we don’t understand what’s going on. You have to be ready to die for something you believe in, and that is doing the right thing. Somebody wrote something along the lines of ‘the greatest sin is to stand by and do nothing.’ Are you prepared for that?”

  “I’m still sitting here, aren’t I? I’m not doing this for the Agency or to find out who killed Saint-Verran. I’m doing this to find out who tried to kill me. I’m doing this because, for once in my career, in my life, I want to do the right thing. To achieve something. So, should I drive this thing or not?”

  Bolan smiled. “Yeah, we’d better start putting some distance between us and them. There’s one other thing you should consider.”

  Douglas fired the ignition and drove the van away, heading north. “What?”

  “Samar was probably lying about Saint-Verran. Or Saint-Verran lied to him about you. If the Frenchman really thought you were an idiot, then he would never have imparted the information to you back in the hotel. He wouldn’t have ever passed anything on.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Maybe. And I’ll try to be quieter than a pregnant whale next time, okay?”

  Bolan nodded, then sat back, watching the horizon, the road, the rocks, looking for any sign of danger.

  * * *

  THE HELICOPTER BUZZED them half an hour later. It was an old sand-colored French Aérospatiale 350 Ecureuil, capable of carrying two pilots and four passengers. Although designed originally as a Navy utility helicopter, it was more than capable of being used as a gunship. Bolan observed that it was armed with a 7.62 mm gun pod. He also saw the bright blue, green and white concentric circles with a red star at the center, which meant that the chopper belonged to the military.

  “Shit!” Douglas yelled over the roar of the rotors as the chopper flew directly overhead, whipping up a sandstorm. “Shit! Aren’t you going to shoot them?”

  Bolan wound down the passenger window and leaned out, getting a better look at the markings on the helicopter. “No. Our argument is with FRUD and maybe the mercenaries. Not the military. Besides, their guns are bigger than ours.” Bolan wondered if the military had found Samar first or they had just been spotted from high above. They hadn’t made much progress in the past hour. The road had turned into a stone track, making it difficult to drive very fast. Either way it didn’t matter. Discovered was discovered.

  “I didn’t think they had any more of those choppers,” Douglas shouted. “They switched over to Russian equipment years ago.”

  It didn’t matter to Bolan what make the helicopter was. He watched it as it spun a hundred yards ahead of them. The way the helicopter lowered its nose gave Bolan an advance warning of what was about to happen.

  “Get down!” he roared and ducked in his own seat, even as Douglas was struggling to do the same. The van slid on the stones, the engine stalling as Douglas squeezed behind the steering wheel.

  The helicopter opened fire.

  Heavy-caliber bullets churned up the ground twenty yards in front of the van, throwing rocks and dirt high into the air. Stones and gravel peppered and shook the Renault like buckshot, the sound of the machine gun reverberating like a thunder roll. Bolan had his hand on the door ready to open and jump out, yet he held back. Not one bullet came close to the van. It was all for show, a demonstration of power. If the people in the helicopter wanted them dead, then they would have opened fire in a strafing run and not bothered with a flyby.

  The military performance lasted all of three seconds. Bolan raised his head to witness the helicopter land on its skis, disgorging four men in army uniform, all equipped with what appeared to be FAMAS F1 assault rifles. Once the soldiers were clear, the helicopter lifted off, keeping its minigun trained on the van. The soldiers fanned out, all rifles up and ready to fire, cautiously moving toward their target.

  “What now?” Douglas raised his head above the dashboard. He sounded nervous to Bolan.

  “Play it by ear. Other than leaving the scene of a gunfight, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “We left a pile of bodies back in the city, as well.”

  “Yeah, there’s that. Maybe they won’t take it into consideration.”

  “You think?”

  The two men exited the van, their hands held high. The soldiers gestured to the Americans, indicating that they should move to the side of the track. The helicopter continued circling, its gun trained on the van. One of the soldiers barked an order at Bolan and Douglas, but neither man understood it. The soldier looked angrily at them, resenting the fact that he would have to speak English.

  “On knee. Hand on head.”

  The Americans moved slowly over to the side of the track, getting down onto their knees and placing their hands on top of their heads.

  “Shit, they’re going to shoot us in the back,” Douglas muttered.

  “No talk!” the soldier snapped as he began patting them down, removing the Beretta pistols and magazines. Bolan didn’t believe that they were going to be executed. The helicopter could have done that easily enough. No, they were wanted for interrogation. He listened as two soldiers split off and began searching the van. In no time the bags were found and hauled out for inspection, the contents tipped onto the ground. The soldiers spoke among themselves. Another thought popped into Bolan’s head: it would be getting dark soon. The other two soldiers, including the one who had snapped orders at them, kept their French bullpup rifles trained on Bolan and Douglas the whole time. Not a word was spoken to the prisoners. Eventually Douglas could stand it no longer.

  “What do you want with us?”

  “No talk!”

  Douglas shut his mouth, and they waited. And waited. They knelt for more than half an hour before they detected the thunder of a heavy engine in the distance. As it drew closer, Bolan believed it to be that of a tank or an armored personnel carrier. At the same time the helicopter landed and began powering down its rotors. The roar of the engine peaked, then decreased as the vehicle came to a halt, the driver putting the unseen machine into Neutral. The soldiers snapped to attention as a door was opened and somebody jumped out onto the track. The gravel crunched as that person approached the soldiers.

  Bolan listened intently, trying to decipher what was happening. Obviously somebody in authority had shown up in an APC. It wasn’t a tank because he had not heard the sound of tank tracks. The soldiers were reporting; Bolan didn’t understand a word. He made out the soldiers picking up the weapons out of the bags, holding them out for inspection. There was the familiar sound of bolts being drawn back on the M-16 and Skorpion machine pistols. Beside him Douglas tensed, expecting the worst. Then the newcomer approached.

  “Get up,” the newcomer whispered. “Turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands on your heads.”

  They got shakily to their knees and turned. Standing in front of them was the most scarred man the Executioner had ever seen. The guy’s face was a crisscross of knife wounds, the most prominent one across the throat. Somebody had taken a real dislike to the guy sometime in the past and had to have left him for dead. The man was also completely bald, the crown of his head equally scarred. Bolan briefly wondered what had happened to him, then decided he didn’t care. He focused on what the man was holding: in one hand a Skorpion, in the other a large machete. Behind the man idled a six-wheeled Ratel APC, its turret gun trained on Douglas and Bolan. But Bolan knew that it couldn’t fire so long as Scarface was standing in the way.

  Scarface leaned in close to Bolan, staring him right in the eye. Bolan returned the gaze, his eyes chips of ice that gave nothing away. Scarface sneered, the remains of his top lip twisted upward. He then turned his attention to Douglas, who was far easier to intimidate and began to wilt under the intense hate that emanated from the man. Scarface sneered again.

  “So, little CIA spy man, what brings you so far from home?” the man rasped. Bolan suspected that Scarface was unable to speak any louder.
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br />   “I, er, we were out for a drive in the country…” Douglas got no further with his halfhearted quip. Scar-face’s right hand shot out, slamming the barrel of the machine pistol hard into Douglas’s stomach. Douglas made a whooshing sound, taken completely by surprise, and dropped to his knees, his hands automatically clutching his abdomen. Bolan tensed but didn’t move. The four soldiers all had their rifles trained on him, their fingers on the triggers.

  Scarface looked over to Bolan, his eyebrow raised as if in invitation to act. Bolan refused to be baited, so Scarface turned his attention back to the groaning Douglas. Scarface bent his knees slightly and placed the razor-sharp edge of the machete under the American’s chin. Douglas stopped groaning, knowing that he was in mortal danger. Moving only his eyes, he looked up into the leering face of his captor.

  “Tell one more lie, and I will open you up. Again, what are you doing so far from home? And you will address me as Captain Xiblinti, since you are dressed like soldiers.”

  Douglas spoke through clenched teeth. “I…we…were looking for the FRUD insurgents. We’d learned that they were behind the attacks on aid convoys. We…I needed to spy on them. That’s all. Captain.”

  “That’s all? Really, Mr. Spy, is that all? And what about your friend here? No, you be quiet,” he snapped at Bolan. “Mr. Spy here is going to tell me everything.”

  “He’s, he’s a journalist. We teamed up. I thought I could use him, use his contacts to help me find the FRUD.”

  “A journalist? A journalist who can shoot as well as he can? A journalist who, according to witnesses, can leap from a truck onto a fast train, then fight on the roof? I do not believe you. I told you what would happen if you lied.”

  Bolan felt the situation slipping out of control. This Xiblinti was clearly unstable. It would take only a moment for him to slice off Douglas’s head.

  “I used to be in the Army before I became a journalist,” Bolan said quickly.