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Desperate Passage
Don Pendleton
Corruption in the Indonesian government reaches new heights when a top-level official sanctions a thriving piracy ring in the region. The profits are helping to fund a new bioterrorism weapon that will ultimately be used against America.When the U.S. State Department officials who unearthed evidence of the whole scheme disappear, Mack Bolan is sent to find them.But Bolan is ambushed by a group of commandos at his drop zone in the mountains outside Jakarta. Protecting a covert jungle stronghold, the mercenaries are desperate to keep the true extent of their activities hidden. A team of assassins is lying in wait and the Executioner must stop them with a hit of his own.
“We’re in a damn tight spot!”
The woman struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield down the road from where they had fled.
“I only want to see my little girl again. Please, you have to help me see her again.”
Her voice was too raw with emotion for it to be a lie, and Bolan couldn’t help but respond with the same honesty.
“I will, I promise you, I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”
“Here they come!” she cried.
The Executioner whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed. He snarled and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the brutal beating it was taking on the rough road. The woman fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place as Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Then the grenades began to rain down.
Desperate Passage
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nathan Meyer for his contribution to this work.
Between two groups that want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy except force.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
1841–1935
When there is no option but force, I will be that force.
—Mack Bolan
THE
MACK BOLAN
LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
1
Mack Bolan stood on the runway at Diego Garcia.
The thirty-seven-mile long atoll sat in the Indian Ocean just over one thousand miles south of the southern coast of India. It formed a sort of geographical aircraft carrier for U.S. military forces, with a runway long enough to accommodate the heaviest planes in the Air Force.
Bolan closed his eyes to the warmth of the sun and turned his face toward the sea breeze coming through the lush tropical vegetation. He wore a flight suit devoid of identification and rank. It was splattered with blood.
Diego Garcia curved around a twelve-mile-long lagoon nearly five miles across. The atoll was a joint British and American venture and had become increasingly pivotal to U.S. strategic interests since its inception as a military base in 1971.
It had served as the launching pad for Marine Prepositioning Squadron Two and similar units designated as logistical support of naval and army units. It had also been rumored to be a clandestine location site in the government’s controversial Extraordinary Rendition program for terror detainees.
The base commanding officer hadn’t batted an eye when presented with paperwork originating from the director of National Intelligence, instructing him to give the unidentified man before him every operational courtesy while maintaining complete indifference as to his purpose.
Bolan put a foot on the heavy pack at his feet. A slim wireless ear jack was set into his right ear, and it chirped. Bolan pressed a finger to the device.
“Go ahead,” he said quietly, the sensitive microphone picking up his speech vibrations through the hard, prominent angle of his cheekbone.
“We’re coming in now,” Jack Grimaldi said.
“Copy, Jack,” Bolan replied.
He turned his head toward the horizon and was able to immediately pick out the quickly growing shape of the C-12 Huron, the military version of the twin-engine Beechcraft King Air model airplane.
Grimaldi touched the aircraft down gently and braked along the runway, following instructions from military air traffic controllers. Bolan reached down and shouldered the heavy pack at his feet. An M-4 carbine was strapped to the outside. While waiting, he had spent some time disassembling and cleaning the weapon.
As Grimaldi taxied the plane toward him, the Executioner turned and threw a salute at the two officers of the British Indian Ocean Territory Police who had served as his escorts. They waved back as the rear door of the Huron was opened by Charlie Mott and Bolan headed for the lowered stairs.
Bolan nodded to Mott as he ducked inside the stripped-down cabin of the plane and threw his heavy bag on a seat.
“How’d Somalia go?” Mott asked. He buttoned up the aircraft hatch.
“About as well as could be expected,” Bolan allowed. “Where did you guys fly out of?”
“SOCOM base in Djibouti. Were you aware the French Foreign Legion travels with its own brothel?” Mott asked.
“I had heard that,” Bolan said.
“Go figure,” Mott said, incredulous. “Anyway, let’s get off the ground, then we’ll hook you up with what Stony Man has cooking.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Bolan secured himself as Mott made his way back up the center aisle to join Grimaldi in the cockpit. He heard the engines rise as Grimaldi turned the nose of the Huron around he looked out the window beside his seat to watch the tarmac go sailing by.
He felt the thrust of the turboprops push him back into his seat, and he knew Grimaldi had put the nose of the plane in the air. He watched the serpentine twist of Diego Garcia disappear beneath him as they made a run toward open ocean.
With grim finality Mack Bolan put the bloody horrors of Somalia behind him.
AFTER GRIMALDI HAD REACHED his cruising altitude and engaged the autopilot, he left the cockpit and opened a safe set into the front wall of the passenger compartment. He removed a laptop Bolan knew would be outfitted with encrypted sat-com upgrades and brought it over to where Bolan was seated, absently picking through a spaghetti dinner MRE he had pulled from his bag.
Grimaldi grinned as he handed over the computer. “We’re on course for Jakarta. It’s about two thousand miles, so it’ll take a few hours, plus the in-flight refueling operation. We’ll have you over the LZ on time though.”
“No rest for the weary,” the Executioner said.
The pilot shook his head. “No, there’s always some bushfire that needs pissing on. This one is more last minute than most. Charlie and I have been in air the whole way from the Farm, refueling in flight as needed except for the touchdown in Djibouti. They want you in Indonesia yesterday.”
“Barb wants everything yesterday. It’s why she’s the best.”
Grimaldi nodded. “True enough. I’ll leave you to it.” he stood and tapped an overhead compartment. “You’ll find a cooler in there of a little microbrew lager I stumbled across. Help you wash some of the Somalia taste out of your mouth. I’ll radio home and tell them you’re booting up.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said and opened up the laptop.
The videoconferencing software fired up with a smooth hum. The LEDs blinked into life, and the digital camera rapidly focused its lens. Bolan saw Barbara Price, Hal Brognola and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman. He knew from long experience that his own face was being projected onto the big screen TV wall mounted in the Stony Man War Room. He greeted his old friends and close comrades.
“Hey, Striker,” Brognola greeted. “You feeling okay?”
“I could use a nap, but I’ll get one soon enough.”
“You up for a jump?” Price asked from beside Brognola.
Bolan narrowed his eyes. “Sure. What’s the LZ?”
“An old landing strip in the mountains outside of Jakarta,” Kurtzman said. “Used to be part of a heroin smuggling operation the DEA shut down about a decade ago with the help of the Indonesian government. Too overgrown to land a plane, but should serve just fine to parachute onto.”
“From how far up?” Bolan asked.
“Well, the Indonesian government has got army patrols all through there so, Jack’s going to feign engine trouble on the approach into Jakarta and dip down to five hundred feet,” Kurtzman answered.
“I take it the Man didn’t run this one past our allies?” Bolan said.
“I think I’d better let Hal start from the beginning,” Kurtzman replied.
“DEA has been very busy throughout the region—Malaysia, the Philippines, Indonesia, all of the South China Sea countries, really. Attacking those operations where there’s cross connection between terrorist activities and narcotic traffickers,” Brognola began.
“Plenty of that in Indochina,” Bolan stated. “I thought the government was part of the problem.”
“Typical Third World split personality. Some elements are working with us, taking our financing and aid while smiling to our faces. Then corrupt elements of the same regime climb into bed with the bad guys. Indonesia is especially bad when it comes to piracy through the Strait of Malacca, but they have opium problems as well.”
“If you click on the tab to the left of your screen,” Kurtzman interrupted, “you’ll see a photo.”
“That’s Zamira Loebis,” Price informed him.
Bolan clicked on the link and looked at the unsmiling image of a middle-aged Indonesian man in a military uniform. He was very thin.
“He’s a particular thorn in our side.” The Stony Man mission controller continued. “He’s the assistant minister of defense. We have him tied into piracy and heroin smuggling, often using Muslim extremist groups as cutouts while keeping a death squad of government commandos as personal muscle and bodyguards.”
“We also have him pegged as a traitor working as a stringer for both Chinese and Vietnamese intelligence agencies,” Brognola added. “He’s very well connected with a lot of resources and a strong network of criminal activity funding his villa in the Swiss Alps and plantations in Kenya.”
“The DEA has a crucial informant in a safehouse in Jakarta,” Price said. “We’ve arranged a flight back to the U.S. where the man will testify about Indonesian corruption and several worldwide networks linking Jemaah Islamiyah and Abu Sayyef with ex-Taliban opium growers in Afghanistan. It’s a real intelligence coup, and it’s just what we need to bring more political pressure to bear on some of the countries who’ve been dragging their feet on antiterror measures.”
Bolan knew Jemaah Islamiyah, sometimes referred to as JI, had burst onto the world stage in 2002 with the Bali car-bombing incident that had claimed the lives of over two hundred innocent people on the second anniversary of the bombing of the USS Cole in Yemen. The group itself had been around since the 1970s in one incarnation or another. It was closely linked to Abu Sayyef in the Philippines and al Qaeda.
“What’s the catch?” the Executioner asked.
“The usual,” Brognola growled. “According to our intel, our very well connected defense minister doesn’t want the informant to make it to trial. A Kopassus hit team has been assembled.”
Bolan knew of the special forces unit by reputation. Kopassus had earned a grim reputation for its special operations in East Timor and against rebel separatists in the Achen province as well as covert activities in Jakarta itself.
“We didn’t tell the good guys in the government?” he asked.
“The Man would like to use the opportunity to send those corrupt government elements a very pointed message about spilling American blood under the guise of being our ally. The Military Liaison Element in Jakarta has the location where the hit team is held up waiting for our guys to move the witness. The Oval Office holds the opinion that if that hit team goes belly up, it might just shake some sense into those rogue elements.”
“Should be doable if the intelligence on the hit team is right,” Bolan said.
“It is,” Price said. “I’ll give you the rundown on the specifics. We don’t want a hint of your arrival or identity so you’ll need to go in black. That’s why the night jump instead of civilian cover insertion.”
“I understand,” Bolan said.
“We have a stringer ready to facilitate your actions,” Price continued. “Arti Sukarnoputri. She is a midlevel clerk with the interior ministry. She began working with the DEA when her brother, a Jakarta police officer, was killed by corrupt government agents on a heroin investigation. She’s what we were able to put together on short notice, but stay sharp around her for now. I know this is a little haphazard, Striker, but that hit squad is primed to go and something has to be done, immediately. “
“We’ll get that government witness out safely,” Bolan promised.
Quickly Price began to run down the fine points of the logistical factors.
Ten minutes later Bolan shut the laptop and put it back in the cabin safe. Grimaldi gave him a thumbs-up through the cockpit door and Bolan made his way back to his seat. He eased himself into his seat and settled back to fall asleep.
Outside the vast indigo waters of the Indian Ocean sped by.
2
Bolan came awake instantly as Charlie Mott touched his shoulder.
“We’re fifteen minutes out,” Mott informed him. “Jack’s already reported engine difficulty to the control tower. We’ll dip down to five hundred feet, equalize things back here and put you out the door.”
“I’ll be ready,” Bolan said.
Mott handed him a thick envelope. “I just counted it out of the safe. That’s for the stringer once you link up. The stringer knows nothing about what you’re doing, or why. She’s there to provide transportation and navigate the locals.”
“That’s what Barb said,” Bolan replied, nodding.
“You want me to help you suit up?”
Bolan shook his head. “No. I’ll do it. Give me a couple minutes, and then you can double-check my hook-up before you kick me out the door.”
Mott laughed, then retreated up the center aisle.
Bolan slid the envelope into his blacksuit, then pulled his parachute from under a seat and began checking the harness and adjusting the straps for a good fit based on long experience.
He worked methodically, with diligent attention as he slid into his harness and readjusted the straps. He double-checked that his weapons were secure and pulled on a nondescript helmet that he buckled under his chin. He decided he was better off without it and took it back off again and tossed it under a seat.
He stood and manhandled his backpack toward the rear door of the plane where he started attaching his guidelines. His ears began to pop, and he knew Grimaldi was bringing the plane down toward jump altitude. At five hundred feet the drop would be over in an instant. He’d be out the door and on the ground so fast there’d be no room for miscalculation of any kind.
Mott began making his way toward Bolan. The Executioner felt the plane tilt sharply as Grimaldi began his circle over the landing zone. Bolan could see a dark mass of thick tropical foliage below the plane.
“Jack’s told the tower in Jakarta he’s compensating for a bad turboprop,” Mott told Bolan as he checked the fittings on the parachute harness. “The weather’s clear with a half moon. The old landing strip is easy to spot in the vegetation. There’s about a five mile per hour wind out of the southeast.”
Bolan nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”
Mott moved to the door and grasped the handle. Bolan fitted a pair of goggles into place. After two long minutes during which Bolan could see the ground growing closer through the plane’s windows, Grimaldi killed the lights in the rear compartment and Mott jerked the door open.
Bolan felt the pull of the open door. He saw the nude scar of the old, overgrown airfield and orientated himself toward it. The sound of the plane’s engines was deafening. He shuffled forward, and Mott slapped him on the back as he went through the doorway into space.
The slipstream took him and he was buffeted away from the cruising aircraft. He pulled his rip cord almost immediately. The chute unfurled behind him then popped and his free fall was over. He plummeted toward the earth, the parachute hardly seeming to slow his rate of descent. His eyes quickly adjusted to the low light, and treetops sped toward him beneath his dangling boots.
He twisted hard and let the backpack dangle. The pack struck the ground and he overshot it. He hit with both feet and felt the impact slam all the way up his body, immediately rolling and absorbing the landing.
Bolan quickly popped up and stripped away the harness connecting him to the parachute. He tore off his goggles and drew his Beretta machine pistol from its sling under his arm. He turned in a slow circle, looking for danger. Seeing nothing, he quickly began gathering in his parachute and shouldering his bag.
He marked the position of the low hanging, half moon and headed to the east of the abandoned airfield. The old landing strip was made of hard-packed dirt dotted with patches of shrubs and jungle grass. Just on the edge of the field the Indonesian jungle encroached aggressively. At the end of the landing strip was an ancient, dilapidated Quonset hut hangar where his stringer had been told to meet him.
In order to increase operational security the stringer hadn’t been informed of how Bolan was making his approach to the meet, only the location. Skirting the tree line, Bolan made his approach toward the abandoned structure.
He slipped into the shadows of the trees and bushes before putting away the Beretta and concealing his parachute gear in the undergrowth. He took his M-4 carbine from his pack when he was finished.
A rickety chain-link fence encircled the hangar, and the windows set into the structure were all broken. Nothing moved.
As Bolan drew closer to the building, his instincts alerted him to trouble. He then saw the earth in front of the fence gate was freshly turned up in semicircular patches, revealing darker earth and, once he was close enough, tire treads.
Bolan adjusted the grip on his M-4 and moved out of the nominal safety of the tree line. He stopped at the fence. One of the gates hung from only a single hinge. The frame was bent near the center, and rested, old metal had been scraped clean. A medium strength steel chain hung limp from the fence links. Bolan picked it up and inspected it. The chain had been broken cleanly through on one of its individual links.
Bolan saw something in the turned up earth and bent to retrieve it. It was an old key-operated lock. A bit of the broken chain fell away as he plucked it from the mud where it lay in the middle of a wide tire track.
Bolan looked up, scanning the silent hangar.
He moved through the gate and put himself at an angle to the door, then jogged forward and put his back to the wall next to the slightly open sliding door.
He paused for a moment, listening, but heard only the silence. Steeling himself, he flipped around the corner and penetrated the dilapidated hangar, M-4 up and leading the way. He moved out of the light of the opening quickly and took up a defensive position on one knee beside the sliding door. He felt the hard cylinders of spent brass under his knee and detected the aroma of cordite.
He flicked his muzzle around the cavernous hangar and found nothing.
The meet location was deserted.
The Executioner left the building and hurried across the short stretch of yard between hangar and ramshackle fence. As he searched the environment, he saw a black pool that had been hidden in shadow. He knelt beside it and reached out his hand, his fingers coming away sticky and damp. He took in the copper-tang smell, confirming his obvious suspicions. The pool was blood, and whoever had been wounded had either made his or her escape or the body had been taken away to hide evidence.
Bolan rose and made for the shelter of the jungle.
THE EXECUTIONER his GPS unit and noted the time on his watch. He was early, as the plan had called for, giving him time to recon the area around the contingency rendezvous zone. He let his sniper’s eye take in his surroundings, cataloging them with terse efficiency, discounting shadow, penetrating dark while his ears strained to catch even the slightest and most innocuous of sounds.
The stringer, Arti Sukarnoputri, had been told to meet him at a given coordinate should the initial contact not be made, but not how Bolan had made his insertion. That had been a deliberate precaution to avoid his being captured should Sukarnoputri prove duplicitous. But Bolan knew the fact that he had not been immediately ambushed was in no way a guarantee that the Indonesian stringer was legitimate.
A she watched the old logging road, his finger rested on the smooth metal curve of the M-4 carbine’s trigger. Gnats, thirsty for the salty flow of his sweat, descended on him in a cloud and he could feel them batting against his face. He made no move to shoo them away.
The minute hand on his watch moved and on cue headlights appeared in the curve on the road from the north. Bolan frowned and grasped the stock of the carbine tightly. The car was moving too quickly for the road conditions.
The vehicle was unidentifiable in the deep gloom. He remained motionless as the car skidded to a stop on the dirt road precisely at the spot he had noted with GPS readings. The driver’s door was thrown open and Bolan saw a slim figure hop out, leaving the engine running and breaking the protocol for the meet.
“You are a long way from home! You are a long way from home!” a feminine voice hissed in a frantic tone.
Bolan rose and was forced into making a decision. The stringer had been instructed to stop her car, kill the engine and lights before getting out and moving to the rear of the vehicle. There Bolan would approach her. Upon seeing him she was to say “You are a long way from home.” His reply would be “Home is where you hang your hat.”
It was simple, direct and slightly clichГ© in the way most tried and true methods often were. Anything other than the proper protocol and Bolan was supposed to avoid the contact. This was an extreme deviation Bolan readjusted his grip on his M-4.
Suddenly, from the direction the stringer’s car had driven, a second and then a third set of headlights appeared. Bolan saw the women turn her head toward the light.
Once again she called out, and Bolan was able to hear the racing of the other two car engines as the vehicles sped toward the rendezvous site. He gritted his teeth then committed himself to his course.
“Home is where you hang your hat,” he snapped and rose from the shadow of the bushes.
“Thank God!” the woman said in heavily accented English. “Hurry! Those are Laskar Jihad!”
Bolan sprang forward as the woman ducked back behind the wheel of her vehicle. Bolan snatched open the rear door and threw his pack inside before slamming the door and jumping into the front passenger seat.
He had barely touched the leather seat before his contact floored the gas pedal of the SUV. The vehicle shot forward down the rough and potted secondary road, bouncing hard and rattling Bolan’s teeth. He fought his way around in the seat to look out the rear hatch window. The chase vehicles had closed a little bit of the distance.
“Laskar Jihad,” he said. “They aren’t supposed to be active in this area.”
“Your intelligence is wrong. They entered into an operational alliance with Jemaah Islamiyah. They undertake activities in the highlands around Jakarta, drawing resources while JI conducts attack in the city. Besides, I’m almost positive Zamira Loebis is running them through bribes,” the woman said.
Bolan didn’t know whether to believe her. It seemed too coincidental that his contact should arrive under fire, potentially killing his own mission before it had even begun. Still, the situation on the ground in Indonesia was extremely fluid, and half-a-dozen terror groups operated in the poverty stricken country. But it would have been easier to simply ambush him.
“Pop the hatch,” he ordered.
He crawled between the front two seats and into the back of the SUV, folding one of the seats down to sprawl out in the back.
“What are you doing?” The woman shrieked.
“Shut up!” Bolan snapped. “Do what I say and pop the hatch!”
The woman swore, then reached down and yanked on the plastic lever controlling the catch release. The rear hatch popped open and swung up, revealing the racing road just beyond the bumper. The two vehicles were following close behind.
Bolan was tossed to one side as the SUV dipped into a rut and bounced out on the other side. He grunted under the impact but maneuvered his M-4 into position. The hydraulic support struts caught, locking the hatch door open.
From the darkness next to the windshield of the first chase vehicle a sudden brilliant star-pattern burst erupted. Bolan heard the unmistakable sound of 9 mm rounds being burned off. The SUV lurched hard to the side as Sukarnoputri wrestled it around a corner.
Bolan used his thumb to click the fire selector switch on his carbine to the 3-round burst position. He spread his legs wide in the rear compartment to equalize his balance and dug in with his elbows to steady his weapon. The buttstock slapped into his cheek and opened a cut as the SUV drove over a jutting rock shuddering the vehicle on its frame.
Bolan ignored the stinging wound and crammed the stock back into the pocket of his shoulder. The headlights of the first vehicle appeared around the tree-choked turn of the road, and Bolan caught a brief flash of a human figure hanging outside the passenger window of a battered white truck.
Bolan squeezed his trigger and saw the left headlight on the truck wink out as one of the 5.56 mm rounds struck home.
The submachine gunner on the truck’s passenger side returned fire, burst for burst, but the effect of speed and road conditions on the two men’s aim made the duel nearly futile for several exchanges.
The Executioner rode out another jarring pothole and adjusted his fire. Suddenly the SUV hit a patch of gravel. He felt the rocking lurches of the road give way to an almost even vibration as the SUV slide across the gravel, and he squeezed the trigger on his M-4.
He put two 3-round bursts into the front windshield of the pickup, shattering it. The pickup swerved hard to the right and the front tire rolled up an embankment. It rolled onto its side as it half climbed the embankment, then slammed into the gnarled and twisted trunk of a squat jungle tree. The hood crumpled under the impact, then the truck flipped. It struck the broken road hard, the cab smashing flat with a crunch followed immediately by the thunderclap of metal on metal as the second chase vehicle slammed into the first. The overturned truck spun away from the contact like a child’s top while the second vehicle lost control and careened off into the heavy underbrush beside the road.
Bolan scrambled up and grabbed hold of the open rear hatch from the inside and yanked it closed.
“You killed them all!” Sukarnoputri shouted as Bolan shoved himself back into the front seat.
“I doubt it,” Bolan muttered. “And stop shouting.”
“Whatever you say!”
“How did you know that was Laskar Jihad?” Bolan asked, buckling his seat belt. He placed his still smoking M-4 carbine muzzle down between his legs.
“I know because I know. They tried to stop me at a roadblock where this access road starts off the main regional highway. Your people gave me very good car. I drove into the ditch and around them, no slowing down. But they caught up with me at the hangar. I got away.”
“Good job,” Bolan said.
“I want more money. This was a stupid place to pick you up.”
“I’m not the company accountant. And I needed to get to Jakarta in a hurry.”
“Why? What do you have to do?”
“You’re not getting paid to ask questions,” Bolan pointed out. “And slow down. No one’s chasing us anymore. You’re going to shake my teeth out of my head if you don’t wreck us first.”
“First I do good driving then you’re worried I’ll wreck you?”
Bolan turned to look at his driver. She was slim and pretty with raven hair. When she took her eyes off the road to meet his he saw a calculating intelligence.
Bolan turned his attention toward the road. A thick wall of tropical forest formed a shadowy corridor along the logging road. Vines, branches and rotted logs had fallen across the single lane, forcing Sukarnoputri to swerve the vehicle around the obstacles while navigating potholes, rain-wash trenches and protruding rocks.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Offroad, back down to the regional highway, then the road into Jakarta. Forty-five minutes, maybe one hour.”
“Patrols? Roadblocks? More Laskar gunmen?” Bolan asked.
“Possible. There are Indonesian marines in the area to combat Laskar’s influence. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.”
They rounded the corner fast and Sukarnoputri screamed. Headlights filled the windshield as another car raced up the narrow road toward them. Sukarnoputri yanked the wheel hard to one side, swerving to avoid the onrushing vehicle. The SUV lurched to the left, and there was a horrendous screech as the two vehicles skidded off each other. A shower of sparks formed a rooster tail in the driver’s window, and Bolan had an impression of a battered jeep filled with figures.
Immediately behind the first vehicle was a second, and Bolan caught a glimpse of a third set of headlights beyond. Then the front of the SUV bucked up hard and came down, leaving the windshield filled with the leaves and branches of jungle foliage.
Sukarnoputri tried to turn the SUV back out of the jungle, but suddenly the massive trunk of a tree appeared in front of the out of control SUV. Bolan threw his arms up instinctively.
The impact was followed by the violent reversal of momentum. As the hood crumpled and the fender was bent inward, Bolan was thrown hard against his seat belt. He felt something smack his face, then heard the air bags deploying.
He was blinded by the emergency cushion and could see nothing of what was happening but felt the car begin to roll. His world suddenly inverted, and he was thrown against his door. Then just as suddenly he slid up in his restraint to bang his head on the roof as the SUV completed its roll and landed on its blown-out tires. The air bags settled, quickly deflated and Bolan sprang into action.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He snapped the release on his seat belt and reached for his door handle, but the door refused to budge. There was no answer from Sukarnoputri.
“Are you all right!” Bolan repeated, shouting.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.
The Executioner threw his shoulder against the inside of the passenger door.
“Can you get out?” he asked.
“No, my door is jammed!” Sukarnoputri’s voice sounded panicky.
Bolan leaned back and kicked. With a screech the stubborn door finally opened. Bolan snatched his M-4 and scrambled out.
“Come on!” he snapped.
He looked over the caved in hood and saw a short convoy of three vehicles stopped in the middle of the logging road on the other side of the thick brush from his wreck.
Two Indonesian men dressed in grungy civilian clothes and packing AKM assault rifles appeared. Bolan moved toward the rear of his vehicle as one of the men raised his assault rifle to fire. The Executioner drew a snap-bead and put the man down.
Bullets struck the ruined SUV, and Bolan sensed Sukarnoputri crawling out of the wreck behind him. He pivoted his barrel across the collapsed roof and fired a second time, putting the other man down as well.
Angry shouts came from the road and weapons up and down the length of the convoy erupted into action. A hailstorm of lead cut through the jungle, ripping the flora apart, shredding bark and leaves and riddling the SUV.
Pinned down, Bolan struggled to act.
3
The Executioner threw himself over the screaming woman.
“Crawl for that tree!” he ordered.
Twelve yards ahead of them an old jungle giant had been battered down in some monsoon gale years before. Its trunk would form a bulwark against the withering gunfire tearing up the topography around them.
He shifted his weight off her body and immediately she started scrambling forward, her belly tightly to the ground and her head down. Bolan let her crawl a body length ahead of him, then began to follow.
Sukarnoputri reached the log and made to slither over it but another burst tore splinters of wood from the dead tree and she froze.
Bolan charged forward, coming up to his hands and knees, and rammed his shoulder into her, sending her tumbling over the top. He landed atop her in a tangle of limbs. She whimpered at the treatment, but he ignored her protests and scrambled into position.
“Stay down!” he barked.
He levered his rifle barrel over the edge of the tree trunk and tore loose with a long burst of answering fire. He then rolled took a position at the end of the log where a tangled mess of old roots had been torn from the earth. He used the broken cover to quickly survey the scene.
The militia gunmen from the convoy had advanced and fallen against the road bank, using it like a berm to gain cover as they fired at their adversaries. On the left side two of the braver men had begun to creep forward under the covering fire of their teammates.
Bolan swung his carbine, spraying the wreck of the SUV. Three times he poured tight bursts into the vehicle until he managed to ignite the gas tank. The already ruined vehicle exploded into flame. Black smoke rolled off the bonfire of gas, rubber and oil. It began to choke the thick forest.
He rolled around and crawled across the ground next to the cowering Sukarnoputri. Bolan realized that necessity had put him in the company of a person completely unsuited for the situation.
“We have to move,” he urged the frightened woman.
She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and Bolan was able to coax and into a crawl. He pushed her forward to speed their flight into the jungle. As he turned to cover their retreat, he saw a gunman race forward, weapon at the ready. The man’s eyes squinted hard against the choking smoke, and Bolan used the advantage to put a single 5.56 mm round through his throat.
The man tumbled forward and sprawled on the ground. A second gunman leaped over the body, weapon chattering in his fists as he fired from the hip. Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that put the man down two steps from the corpse of his militia brother.
“Move!” Bolan urged.
Sukarnoputri lurched to her feet and stumbled behind the cover of a thick tree, swatting away low-hanging branches as Bolan burned off the rest of his magazine in covering fire.
The bolt on his M-4 locked open as he fired his last round, and he dumped the empty magazine as he turned and sprinted for cover. More gun-fire answered his, and bullets tore through the jungle all round him.
Bolan slid around the cover of a tree and slammed a fresh magazine home. He went to one knee and twisted around the trunk of the tree. He saw figures moving in the smoke and foliage and triggered snap bursts in their direction without striking a target. He heard an all-too-familiar shrieking sound and instinctively ducked behind the tree.
A second later the 84 mm warhead of a RPG-7 struck off to his left and exploded with savage, devastating force. Bolan felt the shock waves roll over him even through the sturdy protection of the massive tree trunk. Shrapnel burst through the jungle and Bolan heard Sukarnoputri scream.
He rose and whirled, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and sprinted away from the battle. He stormed through the undergrowth searching. He saw the huddled woman on the ground and went to her.
He rolled her over and saw her blouse was splattered with blood and a long gash had opened across her forehead, turning her beautiful face into a mask of blood. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her eyes flickered beneath her lids. She moaned in pain as Bolan lifted her and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
He rose, lifting her slight form easily, and began to run.
Sukarnoputri’s blood poured over him in a hot, sticky rush. His shirt clung to his skin as if glued there, and each bouncing step he took forced another agonized moan from the woman. Behind him gunshots rang out but the bullets flew wider and wider as the Executioner ducked around and through trees, heavy brush and bamboo stands.
He knew from the reconnaissance maps he had looked over prior to his jump that a Malwi river tributary down out of the mountains near his location. He was unsure how far they had driven in their chaotic ride, but he estimated the bridge for the river should be no more than a few miles from their present position.
He began to make his way back toward the road. Roots and vines tugged at his feet, threatening to trip him up at every step. Branches slapped at his face and angry shouts chased him. He had no time to check Sukarnoputri’s wounds and the slip of a woman had ceased to groan. He feared she had fallen into shock.
Bolan gritted his teeth against the strain and ran on.
He cut out of the brush minutes later and hit the road well below the initial contact site. He jogged onto the road. It was simply too hard to break a trail through the jungle with the woman on his back. For his plan to work he needed to make it to the bridge quickly and as fresh as possible.
He crossed the road and began making his way back toward the stalled convoy that had transported the men now hunting him.
When he caught sight of the convoy, he slowed his approach and took to the trees, choosing his steps carefully. The burning SUV caused light and shadow to flicker and dance across the vehicles.
Bolan paused and scanned the scene. All the vehicles, two battered Nissan Pathfinders and an even older jeep, had been left with their engines running to facilitate movement under fire. Two armed men in black and olive drab civilian clothes and headbands had been left behind to secure the vehicles.
The men stood at either end of the convoy in the middle of the road. The hectic action in the jungle kept drawing their attention away from their posts and toward the still burning hulk of Bolan’s vehicle. The soldier gauged the distance and frowned. When he moved there would be no time for hesitation. Other members of the militia were calling out from the trees, close at hand.
The Executioner made his decision.
He looped the end of his rifle sling over his right shoulder. Grabbing the M-4 carbine by its pistol grip, he was able to steady his muzzle one-handed by thrusting his weapon against the pull of the sling braced against his shoulder. At this range it would be enough.
Bolan gritted his teeth and shifted the limp form of Sukarnoputri into a more comfortable position. He jogged forward out of the brush and onto the road about five yards from the tailgate of the last vehicle in the line.
He shuffled forward four steps before the sentry closest to him turned. Bolan flexed the muscles of his forearm and triggered his weapon. The M-4 bucked in his hand with the recoil of his 3-round burst. The 5.56 mm rounds caught the spinning militiaman high in the chest.
The man staggered backward at each impact before he went down. Bolan brought the M-4 to bear as the second sentry turned in alarm at the ambush. He saw the man snarl in fear and outrage as he lifted his Kalashnikov, and a burning cigarette tumbled from his mouth as he fought to bring the AKM around in time.
Bolan stopped him with a 3-round burst to the gut. The AKM tumbled to the ground and bounced before the slack corpse of the gunman pinned it to the dirt. Almost immediately a questioning cry was raised by the trailing members of the hunter-killer team deployed near the crashed vehicle.
Bolan wasted no time. Letting the M-4 dangle from its sling, he opened the door on the jeep and ducked inside. He thrust the unconscious Sukarnoputri across the seat and up against the front passenger door.
The glass in the window of the driver’s door shattered as bullets slammed through it. Bolan dropped and spun, swinging the M-4 up by its pistol grip. He saw a figure at the top of the berm above the roadside.
He triggered a blast from the hip across the fifty yards and punched the man back into the underbrush. Wasting no time, he jumped behind the wheel of the jeep and slammed the door shut. Leaving his carbine across his lap, he threw the vehicle into reverse and gunned it, twisting in the seat to look out the back window.
He heard Sukarnoputri moan on the seat beside him, but he couldn’t risk looking down. Still driving in reverse he navigated the primitive road as more bullets began to strike the vehicle frame and punch holes through the windows.
There was no time or space to perform a bootlegger maneuver on the narrow track, so Bolan simply drove in reverse. The windshield caught a round and spiderwebbed, but the intensity of fire coming from the jungle had begun to slacken and he knew the members of the Indonesian crew were making for their own remaining vehicles.
Suddenly a screaming gunman raced into the middle of the road and took up a position in the jeep’s path. Kalashnikov rounds punched through the rear windshield and burned through the space around Bolan’s head. The soldier floored the gas pedal on the already erratically bouncing jeep and hurtled toward the gunman.
Green tracer fire arced through the cab of the jeep and rounds thudded into the seats. Sukarnoputri screamed at his side as the plastic screen over the gas gauge and speedometer shattered. A 7.62 mm round struck the steering wheel, and for a wild second Bolan thought it was going to come apart in his hands.
Then the speeding jeep struck the gunman. As metal made contact with flesh and pulverized it. Blood splashed into the back of the jeep, painting the seat and a battered old jerri can of gasoline.
Bolan felt the vehicle shudder as he rolled over the man. Then he was past the corpse and around a bend in the logging road.
He continued to drive in reverse, hunting for a place where the road widened sufficiently to turn the jeep around.
Driving in reverse, he was unable to use his headlights and so was unable to circumnavigate some of the more egregious ruts and potholes. The jeep was taking a brutal beating, and both he and the wounded woman were being knocked around mercilessly. She was moaning softly but when Bolan risked a glance to look at her he was surprised by how alert she appeared.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I feel awful, dizzy and my arm and back hurt badly. But I don’t think I was hurt, you know, inside,” she said.
“Good, because we’re in a damn tight spot.”
Sukarnoputri struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield back down the road from where they had fled.
“I only want to see my little girl again. Please you have to help me see her again,” she cried.
Bolan knew her voice was too raw with emotion to be a lie, he respond with the same honesty.
“I will, I promise you. I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”
“Here they come!” she cried.
Bolan whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed.
He snarled something Sukarnoputri didn’t catch and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the beating it was taking on the rough road. Sukarnoputri fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place. Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor of the jeep.
Then the grenades began to rain down.
4
Sudden flashes of light and the deafening sound of explosions hammered into the Executioner. Suddenly the steering wheel was wrenched from his grip and he felt the jeep fly into the air and tilt. He rolled, weightless, for a long moment then the vehicle crashed back to the ground and he was jarred hard against his seat harness.
He heard metal shriek in protest as the roof of the car crumpled inward and felt the frame slam into his head. He hung upside from his seat belt and his M-4 flew up from his lap and smashed his nose.
He felt the inverted jeep sliding forward, hurtling across the broken road. Dirt flew up through the shattered windshield to spray him. Fumbling with the release on his seat belt, he found it and released himself, dropping onto the crumpled hood. The jeep pitched abruptly and he was thrown against Sukarnoputri.
The vehicle slammed hard into something, and Bolan was catapulted forward again. He buckled around the steering wheel and dropped against his seat in a heap.
His head was spinning from the blasts and the crash. He could feel a sticky mask of blood on his face and he gasped for breath. He reached for his assault rifle but couldn’t find it. Pulling the Beretta clear of the sling beneath his arm, he struggled to get orientated properly.
Machine-gun fire raked the bottom of the vehicle. Bullets burned through the frame and tore the covers off the seats, stuffing exploding into the air. Bolan was clipped above the elbow and felt a hammer blow on the heel of his boot. Sukarnoputri screamed, and Bolan twisted to look as she shoved herself forward through the blown-out windshield of the car.
He waited until she was clear then followed.
“Go!” he shouted.
He reached out a hand to give her support and the jeep exploded behind him.
They were tossed through the air, everything went black.
THE ROOM WAS STARK AND BARE, devoid of furniture other than a heavy metal table shoved up against the far wall. There was a panel of lights above Bolan and a bright, hot lamp on the table pointed toward his face. A drain was set in the concrete floor at his feet. He noticed the dark stains on the metal fixtures.
His eyes slowly focused on the man standing before him, an Indonesian in BDU fatigues devoid of rank, unit insignia or national affiliation. The man was bearded with bright, black eyes.
“Wake up sleepyhead.”
Bolan looked at him.
The man leaned in close, mock concern on his face. “How do you feel? You were pretty banged up there in the accident.”
Bolan said nothing.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
Bolan closed one swollen eye against the blinding glare of the table lamp. “Where’s the girl?” he croaked.
The man lifted his gaze from Bolan’s and nodded to another man standing nearby. Bolan had a sense of someone large moving out from around him in his limited peripheral vision.
The punch caught him flush along the jaw and rocked his head to the side. He slowly turned his head and spit blood on the floor. The thug who had hit him lifted one big fist to strike again.
The interviewer held up a hand to stop his muscle from delivering another blow.
“I ask the questions,” the man said softly.
“Suli.” He nodded toward the thug.
Bolan tensed, waiting for another blow but it didn’t come. Instead the thickset man walked leisurely over to the metal table set against the wall. Now that Bolan’s vision was clearing, he could make out items on the table. He saw various tools and implements, including pliers and knives that would be useful for torture.
He watched as Suli rummaged around on the table before picking up a clasp knife with a four-inch blade. The edge of the knife was as rusty as the drain screen on the floor at Bolan’s feet.
The man turned and stalked closer to the tightly bound Bolan. The Executioner set his jaw and tensed his arms against the restraints binding his wrists behind the chair. He felt the ropes pull and shift, perhaps even give a little but only in an insignificant way. He wasn’t going anywhere. He forced himself to relax as Suli stepped in front of the lead interrogator, blocking the smaller man from view.
“What is it you wanted to know?” Bolan asked. “Tell Zamira Loebis that if he wants something from me he can ask himself.”
Suli looked over at the chief interrogator, but the man didn’t respond.
Suli reached out and yanked Bolan’s shirt by the ruined collar, then used the clasp knife to cut the garment. In an almost bored fashion Suli let the ruined shirt hang open, exposing Bolan’s bruised and blood-caked torso. Behind him the interrogator looked on with glittering eyes.
“My name is Matt Cooper,” Bolan said as he worked at loosening his bonds.
The interrogator came forward. “Have I impressed upon you who is in charge?”
Bolan looked away and sagged against the back of the chair as his thumb popped free of the rope coils binding his wrist. He turned his face like a defeated man and nodded dumbly. In the eyes of Indonesian he was broken, helpless.
“Good. So, Mr. Cooper, why have you invaded the sovereign lands of the Laskar Jihad, destroyed my property and killed my people?”
Bolan let his head loll on his neck. He swallowed loudly and muttered something inaudible. He had gauged the character of the two men he faced very carefully. If he were to attack Suli and reveal he’d escaped his bonds, then the interrogator would simply call for help. Suli was a thug. A sadist and a bully, but a fighter. If his boss was attacked, Suli’s first instinct would be to charge forward, not to call for help.
The Executioner had established a long and bloody career exploiting the weaknesses of those who had chosen to become his enemy.
The interrogator leaned in. “What?” he snapped.
He reached out and grabbed Bolan’s hair. The big American gave him a cold stare, and the sneer melted off the Indonesian’s face.
Bolan slipped his arm out of the loosened ropes. His hand slapped up like the strike of a coiled snake onto the back of the interrogator’s neck in a headlock.
The interrogator squawked in sudden surprise and tried to pull away. The muscles in Bolan’s arm bunched as he locked the man into immobility. Bolan snapped his head brutally into the interrogator’s face. He felt the man’s nose pop under the jarring impact.
The interrogator’s knees buckled and he dropped to the floor at Bolan’s feet, dazed. Suli roared in surprised outrage at the sudden action and charged forward. Still bound to the chair Bolan could only tense in preparation.
The thickset terrorist still held the clasp knife, and it gleamed dully in the stark light of the cell as he rushed forward. Bolan made no move to slide away or dodge as Suli came down upon him.
Bolan timed his strike as precisely as he could. His free hand clutched Suli’s at the wrist and he lowered his head as the Indonesian charged in.
Suli crashed into Bolan hard, like a lineman laying into a quarterback. The Executioner felt the impact flow through him. He felt the weight and momentum of Suli drive him backward, then the squeal of protest as the chains holding the chair to the floor were payed out to their length. Then the chair shattered under the force and both of the big men crashed to the floor.
Bolan felt blood hot and sticky flow across his grip and knew he had twisted Suli’s knife into him, but the big man was far from dead.
Suli began to shriek in protest as the two men rolled.
Suddenly the thug was down and Bolan was up. He slammed his forehead into Suli’s face twice. The Indonesian released his grip on the knife stuck in his belly, and Bolan grasped it and twisted hard.
The soldier sensed movement from behind him and whirled. He saw the interrogator pushing himself up off the floor. Bolan yanked the blade from Suli’s gut and lunged. The interrogator yelped in terror and tried to dive away, but Bolan caught him in the leg just above the knee. Blood stained the man’s pants as Bolan pulled the knife down with deadly force.
The man’s hands went to his wounds as he fell on his back, but Bolan jerked the knife out of his reach.
“Where is the girl?” Bolan demanded.
The interrogator didn’t answer or even struggle.
Bolan rose on one knee and used the blood-smeared blade of his clasp knife to cut the fragments of chair and get clear.
He stuck the knife, blade still open, in his waistband, where it was easily accessible. He realized he had minutes, possibly seconds before he was discovered. He had to seize the initiative and maintain it. He had no idea where Sukarnoputri was being kept, but time was running out. He had come to Indonesia for a reason, and he needed his contact.
It was time to get moving.
The Executioner picked up his Beretta checked the feed, the magazine and the sound suppressor. He quickly secured the rest of his equipment, getting himself ready for his run.
He crossed the blood-splattered room and headed for the heavy door. Beretta in hand, he reached out and turned the door handle slowly before gently pushing the door open a crack and looking out.
He saw a long hallway, windowless, poorly lit and grimy. From the direction Bolan was looking it ran for about thirty yards before ending at a solid door. A guard stood with a slung FN P-90 submachine gun, smoking a cigarette and knocking the ashes straight onto the floor. Bolan was sure the man was long used to hearing screams coming from the interrogation room.
Bolan moved through the doorway room in one fluid motion. He lifted the Beretta 93-R in both hands and squeezed the trigger. The pistol coughed twice and 9 mm Parabellum rounds slapped into the startled sentry. The man went down, his rifle sliding off his shoulder and his burning cigarette tumbling from limp fingers.
Bolan spun to cover the opposite end of the hall, but saw no other targets.
There were three doors in the short corridor. He quickly tried the handles on each. One was a broom closet, long disused. The other two opened into empty rooms.
There was no clue as to Sukarnoputri’s whereabouts.
5
Mack Bolan was a shadow among shadows.
Crouched in a small stand of bamboo, he watched the sentry patrol using his night-night vision goggles. Around him the pungent aroma of the mangrove swamp was cloying. Above his head a sliver of yellow moon cast a soft illumination too weak to penetrate the darkness of the tropical swamp.
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