Pressure Point

As they made their way past the Bio-Tain truck, Bolan sized up the remains. He doubted the vehicle would yield any useful information, at least any time soon. The cab had been all but obliterated, and the cargo hold was clearly contaminated by ruptured tanks. Any evidence that hadn’t been destroyed by the explosion would likely be ruined once a CBR crew arrived and doused the vehicle with chemical retardant. If they wanted any answers as to where the herbicides were headed, they were going to have to take one of the snipers alive and wring the truth out of him. So far Bolan had counted at least twelve of them up in the mountains, and only three had been killed that he knew of. Judging from the steady flow of gunfire still raining down on the asphalt, Bolan figured they were going to have their hands full.

When they reached Salim, the commando leader was unconscious. Like Latek and the other soldier huddled next to him, he was still wearing his full HAZMAT suit. Mochtar spoke quickly to the others, then checked over Salim while Bolan took up position near the railing and fired into the mountains, covering Kissinger’s approach.

Once he’d finished inspecting Salim, Mochtar raided his fanny pack for a gauze pad.

Bolan asked him, “What’s the verdict?”

“He took a bullet in the neck, just above his vest,” Mochtar reported, reaching inside the major’s HAZMAT suit and pressing the gauze against the wound. “It missed the artery, but he’s losing a lot of blood. Weak pulse, too. We need to evacuate him back to Samarinda ASAP.”

“What about poisoning?” Bolan asked. “That cloud rolled right over him before it came down on me.”

“He’ll need to be tested,” Mochtar said, “but the entry hole was small, and these suits are bulky enough that a fold might’ve kept out any contaminants. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Once Kissinger caught up with them, Bolan relayed the information, then grabbed Salim under the arms and signaled for Mochtar to take his legs so they could transfer him onto the stretcher once Kissinger unfolded it.

“We’ll carry him,” he told Mochtar. “Follow alongside so you can keep a hand on that wound.”

Latek spoke up in halting English. “We will cover you.”

“That would help,” Bolan said.

Latek spoke briefly to the other commando, then moved ahead of the group, leaving his colleague to guard the rear.

Bolan grabbed one end of the stretcher, Kissinger took the other and together they raised Salim off the ground.

“Okay, let’s move,” Bolan said.

They headed out, with Latek and the other commando firing into the mountains. Halfway back to the chopper, another commando caught up with them, providing additional protection. It wasn’t enough, however. The group had just made it past the Bio-Tain truck when they fell under cross fire from two different snipers. The commando closest to the railing was hit in the skull and pitched sharply to his right, disappearing over the barrier before anyone could get to him. Another few rounds hammered the stretcher, puncturing the fabric and thudding into Salim’s legs. The same strafing line of fire found Mochtar, and he let out a howl as several rounds plowed into his chest. He staggered but remained on his feet, wincing in pain. His armored vest had deflected the bullets, but it still felt as if he’d been struck by a jackhammer.

“Rock?” Bolan called out.

“I’m okay,” he replied hoarsely, repositioning his hand over Salim’s neck wound. “Keep going!”

They made it the rest of the way to the chopper without encountering further fire. Grimaldi left the controls and crouched before the cabin doorway. With help from the others, he pulled Salim into the cabin. Bolan and Mochtar bounded up afterward. The Executioner yanked off his mask, then switched places with Mochtar, tending to the major’s neck while the younger man inspected the gunshot wounds Salim had just taken to the legs.

“He’s in bad shape,” Mochtar said. “We need to get him to surgery, quick!”

“Anyone besides him we need to evacuate?” Grimaldi asked.

“Not that we know of,” Bolan reported. “Then I’m outta here.”

“I’ll stay,” Kissinger called up from the road. “We’ll mop up and then wait for you or hitch a ride with the other Hawk.”

“I’m staying, too,” Bolan said. “Rock, can you manage?”

“No,” the younger man said. “I need you to keep pressure on that neck wound while I work on his legs. If he bleeds out much more, we’re going to lose him!”

Though reluctant to leave any battlefield before the last shot was fired, Bolan nodded to Mochtar and stayed at Salim’s side. Kissinger closed the cabin door on them, then stepped back, joining Latek and the other remaining commando.

The Black Hawk rose and angled away from the mountain. Grimaldi was making radio contact with the other chopper when he spotted the thin contrail of a projectile jetting out from the mountainside.

“Shit!” Grimaldi cursed. “Those bastards have Stingers!”

Without leaving Salim’s side, Bolan leaned toward the cabin window and stared out just as the missile slammed into the other chopper, turning it into a fireball. The shock waves were so strong that the men could feel them reverberate through their own craft.

“Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls,” Grimaldi shouted, “’cause there’s another on the way and it’s got our name on it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Chaff jam!” Bolan shouted to Grimaldi.

“Already on it,” the pilot shouted back. Groping the console in front of him, Grimaldi thumbed a row of toggle switches, releasing a half-dozen high-yield flares from the underside of the chopper. Igniting within seconds after release, the flares gave off scattered blasts of heat intense enough to rival the thermal signature of the copter’s turboshafts.

The ploy worked.

As Grimaldi banked sharply to the right, the heat sensors on the second Stinger missile were unable to distinguish between the intended target and the fiery chaff. Drawn off course, the warhead hurtled past the Black Hawk’s framework, detonating beyond the range from which it could do any damage. The chopper rode out another shock wave, this one weaker than the one that had taken out the other gunship. Back in the rear cabin, Bolan and Mochtar rocked in place, doing their best to keep Salim stable on the stretcher.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take over,” Bolan told Mochtar, rising to his feet. “If I don’t get up front and lend a hand, we’re all dead.”

Mochtar shifted position, transferring one hand to the major’s neck while continuing to apply pressure to the worst of the man’s leg wounds. “I’ll do the best I can,” he told Bolan.

By the time Bolan reached the cockpit, Grimaldi had banked the chopper again and changed course, heading back toward the mountain.

“Our turn!” he snarled. “Find me a target, Striker!”

Bolan grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the mountains. The sniper who’d just fired at them had dropped from sight, but Bolan could see four others positioned at intervals along a slight trough in the mountain. Peering higher, he spotted a promontory jutting directly above their positions. Pointing, he told Grimaldi, “There. Aim high with the rockets and see if we can get a little help from the mountains.”

“Gotcha.” Grimaldi locked in on where Bolan had pointed and readied the Black Hawk’s 2.75-inch sub-mounted rockets for firing. “One avalanche coming up.”

The gunship shuddered faintly as the first four rockets spewed from their launch tubes and streaked toward the mountains. In quick succession, they struck the rock facing, stitch-blasting a crude line ten yards above the source of the last Stinger.

Weakened from underneath, the promontory collapsed, slamming down hard on another, larger outcropping directly below it. The second shelf gave way as well, splintering into sections and sliding into the trough. As they began to tumble down the side of the mountain, the monstrous stone slabs dislodged still more loose rock, quickly widening the slide’s path. As Bolan and Grimaldi watched, three of the snipers were swallowed up by the avalanche. Several others, hoping to avoid a similar fate, scrambled out into the open and found themselves easy targets for Kissinger and the surviving KOPASSUS troops on the ground. The tide of the battle was quickly turning.

“Nice shot,” Bolan told Grimaldi.

Grimaldi shrugged. “I just wish we’d pulled it off before we lost the other bird.”

Bolan stared at the ravine, where smoke and flames issued from the charred remains of the second Black Hawk. It had landed a little over fifty yards upstream from the fallen bus, which also continued to smolder. There was no way anyone could have survived.

Grimaldi kept his eyes on the enemy and fired a steady stream of .50-caliber rounds from the Black Hawk’s front-mounted machine gun, bringing down yet another of the snipers. He then banked the chopper, changing course so that he was flying parallel to the mountain instead of toward it.

“I want to help Cowboy with a few quick flybys,” he told Bolan. “Go ahead and check on the major.”

Bolan returned to the rear cabin. “How are we doing?” he asked Raki Mochtar.

“Better than expected,” Mochtar reported. “I’ve got the bleeding in his legs under control. The neck’s still a problem, but he’s got a chance.”

“Good. How’s the chest?”

“Smarts a little,” Mochtar said with a grimace as he tapped the area where he’d been hit. “I can live with it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bolan said, grinning.

The Executioner was pulling off his HAZMAT gloves when there was a sudden drumming against the side of the chopper. He cursed and grabbed the nearest carbine, then lurched to the doorway and yanked the door open.

Down below, he saw a sniper firing at the chopper from a rock ledge twenty yards to the right of the avalanche. Bolan quickly returned fire, even as a stream of rounds zipped past his head, thunking into the cabin’s interior. The sniper reeled to one side, dropping his weapon. He clawed at the mountainside for support but lost his balance and was soon tumbling down the steep incline.

Down on the ground, meanwhile, Kissinger and the others had taken up positions and stayed put rather than advancing within range of the rock slide. It had been a smart decision. By the time the slide reached the roadway, its swath was nearly a hundred yards wide, and its forceful momentum was strong enough to sweep the delivery truck off the tarmac and carry it sideways to within a few inches of the guardrail. The railing creaked and listed under the slide’s weight, but held up and managed to keep the truck from going over the side with its deadly cargo.

The jostling, however, unleashed yet another cloud of poisonous gas. Kissinger, Latek and the others quickly moved out, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the truck. As they moved, they kept their eyes on the mountainside and fired at the last few remaining snipers.

Soon, for the first time since the ambush had begun, there was no enemy gunfire to contend with.

Up in the Black Hawk, Grimaldi made two more quick passes as Bolan surveyed the mountainside, spotting three bodies but no sign of movement.

“I think that’s it,” he told Grimaldi. “Let’s get the major back to the base.”

“Let me just check in with Cowboy,” Grimaldi said. He was trying to reach Kissinger on his headset when he detected movement amid the rubble high up the mountainside. “I think we got a stray up at around two o’clock,” he told Bolan.

“Swing by and see if we can take him alive,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi changed course and drifted the Black Hawk closer to the mountain. Bolan spotted the figure in the debris and raised his rifle. Once he got a better look at his target, however, he slowly lowered the weapon and shook his head with disbelief.

“I don’t believe it,” he murmured.

“What?”

“It’s a woman,” Bolan said, grabbing for the binoculars. “A tourist, from the looks of it.”

“She must have wandered over from that textile place when the fireworks started going off,” Grimaldi speculated.

“Or maybe not,” Bolan said once he got a look at the woman through the binoculars. “She might not be a tourist after all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I thought it was a camera she was carrying, but it’s not,” Bolan replied. “It’s a gun.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Grimaldi was setting the Black Hawk on the road as Bolan finished fastening the seals on his gas mask and leaped down to the tarmac. Kissinger was leading Latek and the other surviving KOPASSUS commandos to the chopper. Two more soldiers had been wounded in the last few exchanges of gunfire. One was well enough to walk but the other was unconscious and had to be carried. They were upwind from the Bio-Tain truck. The cloud leaking from its cargo bay had dissipated, but the ground forces still wore their masks. Latek and another commando stood back from the others, assault rifles trained on the woman slowly making her way down the mountain. She’d tucked her gun back in the web holster strapped under her left arm.

“She keeps yelling that she’s an American,” Kissinger told Bolan.

“We’ll see,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi left the chopper idling and came over to help hoist the unconscious soldier into the cabin.

“He got caught up in that last billow of gas from the truck,” Kissinger explained. “I’m guessing the seals on his mask didn’t hold up.”

“I’ll get him back to the base so they can look him over,” Grimaldi stated.

Bolan looked past Kissinger at the battleground. “I think we should keep a couple men down here and make a sweep back to the compound.”

“I was going to suggest the same thing,” Kissinger said. “So far we’ve counted nineteen bushwhackers. None of them are in any shape to talk.”

“I was afraid of that,” Bolan said. From where he was standing he could see a few bodies scattered along the road and amid the piled debris from the landslide.

Further uphill, the woman continued to make her way down the steep slope. She’d lost her footing several times and was covered with dust, but she wasn’t wearing any HAZMAT gear and Bolan could see that she was in her early forties, lean and athletic, with dark, medium-length hair. She wore dark khaki cargo pants and a matching T-shirt under her holstered pistol. Staring down at the commandos covering her every move, she shouted angrily, “Point those popguns someplace else, would you? You’re making me nervous!”

Bolan frowned. “I know that voice from somewhere,” he said.

“You think so?” Kissinger replied.

When the soldiers ignored her command, the woman shouted again, “I keep telling you, I’m on your side! Doesn’t anybody here understand English?”

“I’ll be damned,” Bolan muttered, finally recognizing the voice.

He turned back to the chopper and called out to Sergeant Latek, “Go ahead and lower your rifles.”

Latek glanced at Bolan, then back at the woman. Slowly, he lowered his rifle while advising the other commando to do the same.

“Finally,” the woman called out cynically. “Thank you so much.”

Kissinger turned to Bolan. “So, who is she?”

“Take a good look,” Bolan told him. “It’s that bounty hunter we crossed paths with in Africa when we were going up against Khaddafi and the Interahamwe.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kissinger said. “Jayne Bahn?”

“That’s the one.”

“Great,” Kissinger muttered, “just what we need. It figures she’d show up. I mean, what’s the reward on Jahf-Al up to now? Twenty million?”

“Thirty, I think.”

“Hell, and here us poor chumps are tracking him down for free.” Kissinger shook his head. “What’s wrong with…Holy shit!”

Up on the hillside, a bloodied jihad warrior had suddenly materialized out of the debris and was charging Jayne Bahn, brandishing a long-bladed knife.

Bolan spotted the man, too, and started to call out a warning, but Bahn was already in motion, lurching to one side as the blade swept past, missing her by inches. Loose debris shifted under her feet, throwing her off balance. As she fell, she managed to grab hold of her attacker’s wrist. Together, they tumbled down the slope, fighting over the knife.

Bahn finally managed to knock the weapon from the man’s hand and, once they reached the level ground of the roadway, she fended off a right cross from her would-be assailant and countered with a fierce pair of karate blows. Both connected, one knocking the wind from the man’s lungs, the other striking him behind the ear with enough force to knock him unconscious.

Staggering to her feet, Bahn drew her pistol and trained it on the man’s face. When she heard Bolan and Kissinger jogging toward her, she turned to them. At first she didn’t recognize them, but once they were close enough for her to see past their masks, she smiled faintly.

“You guys,” she said. “Small world, eh?”

Kissinger yanked off his mask and stared hard at the woman. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Crashing the party,” she wisecracked. Nudging the fallen terrorist, she added, “I brought you a little something, but I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

CHAPTER NINE

“No wonder I put him out of commission so fast,” Jayne Bahn said, crouching over the Lashkar Jihad warrior she’d felled. The man, it turned out, had been shot twice prior to being caught up in the landslide, which had broken his right leg in at least two places. “I can’t believe he was able to get up and take a swipe at me with that knife of his.”

“Adrenaline,” Kissinger surmised.

“I say we put the squeeze on him till he coughs up Jahf-Al,” Bahn said.

“He’s in no shape to talk right now,” Bolan said, inspecting the man’s wounds. “With the blood he’s lost, even if he comes to, he’s going to be in shock.”

“Well, excuse me for sounding like a hard-ass,” Bahn countered, “but we’re more likely to get something useful out of him if he’s in shock than when he’s thinking straight.”

“We won’t get anything out of him if he dies on us,” Bolan stated. “We need to patch him up and get him to a hospital.”

“Let me know which one so I can send flowers,” Bahn replied sarcastically. “Maybe I’ll come by and fluff his pillows, too.”

“Listen, sweetheart,” Kissinger interrupted. “When the time’s right, we’ll get him to talk, don’t worry. And you can bet your ass we won’t do it by pampering him. Got that?”

“Temper, temper,” Bahn replied with a shrug. “Fine, have it your way.”

Kissinger glowered at the woman, then jogged over to the chopper for a stretcher and Mochtar’s med-kit. By the time they returned, Bolan had managed to staunch the flow of blood from the prisoner’s wounds. Kissinger daubed the wounds with antiseptic, then quickly dressed them and kept pressure on the bandages as Bolan helped the soldiers load the man onto the stretcher. Grimaldi was waiting to help haul him up into the chopper.

“Go ahead and get these people to the base,” Bolan told him. “We’ll finish up here.”

Grimaldi nodded. “I’ll swing back later with reinforcements and some kind of morgue unit for all the bodies.”

“Before you go, hand me a couple two-ways,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi reached into a bin near the door and pulled out two high-powered two-way radios. “Good luck,” he said, handing them to Bolan.

The soldier nodded, then called past Grimaldi to Raki Mochtar. “You did good work, Rock.”

“Thanks,” the younger man replied gratefully.

“We’ll see you back in Samarinda.” Bolan saluted the medic, then stepped back from the chopper.

Grimaldi got back behind the controls and lifted off, then drifted back out over the valley. Bolan turned back to the roadway and sized up the situation.

“The truck’s not going anywhere,” he said, eyeing the bombed-out vehicle. “I say we leave it for now and spread out.” He handed Kissinger one of the radios, telling him, “I want to check out the compound. Why don’t you and Latek secure the area, then check around for more survivors.”

“Done,” Kissinger said, taking the two-way Bolan held out to him. “What about our friend here?”

“I’ll take Ms. Bahn with me,” Bolan said.

“Not so fast,” Bahn said. “No offense, but I didn’t sign up for a tour of duty here, okay? I call my own shots.”

Bolan sighed. “Fair enough.” He grabbed a stray assault rifle lying on the ground and held it out to the woman. “I could use your help, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s more like it,” Bahn said, taking the weapon.

Bolan exchanged a quick glance with Kissinger, who rolled his eyes, then gestured to Latek and the other commandos. They began to fan out in separate directions, giving a wide berth to the Bio-Tain truck, which continued to leak faintly visible clouds of toxic gas. Bolan, meanwhile, led Bahn the other way, up the road leading to the agricultural compound.

By now the Black Hawk was beyond earshot and the road was eerily quiet. For the first time since the firefight had begun, Bolan noticed a few signs of wildlife: birds, a few small gray squirrels, and a thin black monkey scrambling back and forth along the guardrail.

“I think you can take off that mask now,” Bahn told Bolan. “It’s not like we’re trapped in some kind of enclosed space.”

Bolan took off his mask. There was a faint odor of cordite in the air and he could smell smoke from the fires across the valley, but there was nothing that smelled like the chemical stench of the cloud that had nearly enveloped him a short time ago. Bolan also realized his cough had left him, as had the stinging sensation in his eyes. He’d gotten off lucky, he figured.

They walked silently for a short distance, then Bolan asked, “Are you here on your own or still working for Inter-Trieve?”

“I-T,” she replied.

Inter-Trieve was a Washington, D.C.-based bounty agency specializing in high-profile cases involving international fugitives. Bahn had joined them five years ago after stints with the Army Rangers and CIA.

“We’re on retainer with the insurance company representing that cruise liner Jahf-Al deep-sixed last spring,” she explained. “They figure the reward money’ll help offset the claims they’re paying out.”

“Provided you bring him in,” Bolan said.

“I’ll bring him in, all right.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“Gotta be in this line of work,” Bahn responded calmly.

“I take it you’re aware that half the free world’s tried tracking down Jahf-Al with no luck.”

“Well, maybe they didn’t try hard enough,” Bahn suggested.

Bolan wasn’t about to waste his breath arguing with her. Instead, he asked the woman how she knew about the raid. Bahn shrugged, swatting away a cloud of gnats that had appeared on the roadway.

“I have my sources,” she said.

“You think you could you be a little more specific?” Bolan asked.

“Sorry,” Bahn said. “A girl needs her secrets.”

“I’m just trying to figure out who tipped off these guys that we were coming.”

“Don’t look at me,” Bahn replied icily.

“I’m not accusing you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Once Bolan and Bahn had hiked around the next bend, the road came to a sudden end and they found themselves at the entrance to the seventy-acre IMA facility. The grounds were enclosed by an eight-foot-high cyclone fence, and the entrance gate was guarded by two uniformed men in their early twenties. The men had their carbines aimed at the new arrivals, and the guns quivered slightly in their hands. They’d obviously heard the earlier assault and seemed fearful of being dragged into the bloodshed. One of them shouted a warning in his native tongue.

“I seem to remember you speak a few languages,” Bolan murmured.

“So that’s why you wanted me to tag along, you little weasel,” Bahn taunted. “And here I thought you were after my body.”

Bolan suppressed a smile. “Business before pleasure,” he responded evenly.

Bahn called out to the guards in Bahasa Indonesian, then quickly explained what had happened back on the roadway. Once she’d finished, the men conferred briefly, then one of them raised the security bar while the other waved them past.