Ballistic Read online

  DESCENT INTO FREE-FALL

  Crisis erupts in the South China Sea when Triad pirates seize two of China’s new DF-21 “carrier-killer” missiles. In desperation, the Oval Office turns to Stony Man Farm for a rapid, strategic response to halt the immediate threat to U.S. warships. Mack Bolan’s mission in Jakarta becomes twofold: neutralize the pirate base and stop the sale of the missiles to the highest bidders.

  The threat escalates when the U.S. rejects the pirates’ demands and the Triad proves only too willing to give the U.S. a demonstration of the missiles’ lethal power. As violence spreads throughout Indonesia, Bolan and a rescued Chinese spy push on through mounting assaults to the final showdown deep within the terrorists’ jungle stronghold. But can they defeat a determined enemy that’s got everything to lose?

  The photo depicted the hulk of a fire-ravaged vessel at sea.

  “What happened?” Bolan asked.

  “Langley says they were lured off course by a false distress signal,” Brognola replied, “then smacked with some kind of fuel-air bomb most likely delivered by an aircraft. The ship was dead in the water within seconds.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “The China Sea’s crawling with pirates. They’ll rip off anything that moves on water, then ransom the ships and cargo to the highest bidder.”

  “Beijing’s got the case to buy its missiles back.”

  “Not an option, I’m afraid.” Brognola shook his head slowly. “Seems this deal was commissioned by another party, with an eye toward private use of the cruiser-killers.” He hesitated. “And if Langley has it straight this time, our Navy is the sole target.”

  Other titles available in this series:

  Breakaway

  Blood and Sand

  Caged

  Sleepers

  Strike and Retrieve

  Age of War

  Line of Control

  Breached

  Retaliation

  Pressure Point

  Silent Running

  Stolen Arrows

  Zero Option

  Predator Paradise

  Circle of Deception

  Devil’s Bargain

  False Front

  Lethal Tribute

  Season of Slaughter

  Point of Betrayal

  Ballistic Force

  Renegade

  Survival Reflex

  Path to War

  Blood Dynasty

  Ultimate Stakes

  State of Evil

  Force Lines

  Contagion Option

  Hellfire Code

  War Drums

  Ripple Effect

  Devil’s Playground

  The Killing Rule

  Patriot Play

  Appointment in Baghdad

  Havana Five

  The Judas Project

  Plains of Fire

  Colony of Evil

  Hard Passage

  Interception

  Cold War Reprise

  Mission: Apocalypse

  Altered State

  Killing Game

  Diplomacy Directive

  Betrayed

  Sabotage

  Conflict Zone

  Blood Play

  Desert Fallout

  Extraordinary Rendition

  Devil’s Mark

  Savage Rule

  Infiltration

  Resurgence

  Kill Shot

  Stealth Sweep

  Grave Mercy

  Treason Play

  Assassin’s Code

  Shadow Strike

  Decision Point

  Road of Bones

  Radical Edge

  Fireburst

  Oblivion Pact

  Enemy Arsenal

  State of War

  Don Pendleton

  Ballistic

  Against naked force the only possible defense is naked force. The aggressor makes the rules for such a war; the defenders have no alternative but matching destruction with more destruction, slaughter with greater slaughter.

  —Franklin Delano Roosevelt

  Aug. 21, 1941

  Our enemies made the rules for this fight. Now they have to live—and die—by them.

  —Mack Bolan,

  “The Executioner”

  For Sergeant Christopher Abeyta, 1st Battalion,

  178th Infantry Regiment, 33rd Infantry Brigade

  R.I.P. March 15, 2009

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  East China Sea: 3:14 a.m.

  Still hours short of sunrise, the Shenyang—a Type 051B Luhai-class guided-missile destroyer of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy—cruised at a comfortable nineteen knots across smooth water toward its destination in the vast Pacific Ocean. At the helm, Commander Han Shushin wondered, as always, why he couldn’t sleep his first night out from port.

  It couldn’t be a by-product of inexperience, since Han had spent twenty-two of his forty years in naval service, rising to his present rank of Hai Jun Zhong Xiao aboard one of his homeland’s twenty-six active destroyers. The PLAN was his life, and he felt more at home on the sea than he did on dry land with his wife and children. He knew every bolt and rivet of the Shenyang, and he could recite its vital statistics from memory upon command.

  As practice, silently, he did so. The ship was 153 meters long, 16.5 meters across the beam and displaced 6,100 tonnes. Its two steam engines could drive the vessel at a maximum speed of thirty-one knots. The Shenyang’s crew of 250, including 40 officers, serviced its ZKJ-6 combat data system, its Type 381 Radar 3D search radar—dubbed Rice Shield—Type 360 air-surface search radar and Type 344 multifunctional fire-control radar. If those systems detected hostile targets, the Shenyang was ready to strike with sixteen antiship missiles, sixteen surface-to-air missiles, two antisubmarine rocket systems, six torpedo tubes, one dual 100 mm gun and four dual 37 mm guns.

  Also, on this trip, something new.

  Lieutenant Commander Gido Tingjian joined Han on the destroyer’s bridge. He was accustomed to Han’s first-night insomnia and didn’t question it, making his silent rounds to check the various radar displays. He was approaching the Type 360 station when a blip appeared on its screen and the operator called out, “Contact with a vessel, sir! Eight degrees to port, at ten kilometers.”

  Han joined Gido to stand over the radar operator, peering at his screen. The ship was definitely there, still unidentified, but on their present course they stood to miss it by ten kilometers or more.

  “Its speed?” Gido inquired.

  The operator tapped his keyboard and replied, “At present,
it is stationary, sir.”

  “Lying at anchor?”

  “I can’t tell, sir. But it isn’t moving.”

  Suddenly, as if on cue, the Shenyang’s radioman chimed in. “I have a distress call, sir. From the Sleeping Dragon.”

  “The Sleeping Dragon?” Gido said. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “What’s the emergency?” Han asked his radioman.

  “Taking on water, sir. Their operator says they’re in danger of sinking.”

  Han muttered a curse. Maritime law required him to assist a vessel in distress, regardless of its nationality or any inconvenience that the Shenyang might experience as a result. That meant off-loading crew and any passengers the Sleeping Dragon had on board and delivering them to the nearest port before Han could proceed with his assignment. No small problem, when his mission had been classified Top Secret by his masters in Beijing.

  “Shall we respond, sir?” Gido asked, giving Han the option to refuse.

  “We have no choice,” Han said regretfully. “Acknowledge the distress call. Alter course to intercept the vessel. Full speed ahead. Stand by to take on passengers.”

  At top speed, the Shenyang should be within visual range of the Sleeping Dragon in approximately fifteen minutes. Whatever happened next would depend upon the damaged ship’s condition at the time—or whether it was even still afloat.

  At least it was a calm night for a rescue. If the Sleeping Dragon was afloat and wasn’t on fire, the transfer should be relatively simple. Officers would be assigned to keep the rescued crew in line, see to whatever injuries they had sustained, and make sure none of them went wandering around the Shenyang unaccompanied, peering at things they weren’t meant to see. As far as putting them ashore, since ships from the People’s Republic of China were unwelcome at Taiwan, the nearest port of call would be Kuchinoshima, in the Japanese-controlled Ryukyu Islands. Call it nine hours off-course, plus whatever time was wasted in port, obtaining permission to dock and explaining the problem to Japanese customs officials.

  First things first, Han thought. They had to find the Sleeping Dragon before anything transpired. If she went down before they reached her, all Han’s problems would be solved. It felt perverse, secretly hoping the disaster might unfold that way, but Han didn’t believe in wishes coming true, and thus experienced no guilt.

  At 3:33 a.m., he heard the lookout’s call reporting the lights of a vessel on the horizon, a kilometer ahead. Seconds later, Han’s own message to the night watch brought men to the forward railing, ready with the lines and other gear they would require to transfer passengers to their ship. No sign of fire was visible so far, though it could be ablaze belowdecks without Han observing any flames from where he stood.

  “Sir,” one of his observers on the bridge called out, “there seems to be a helicopter on the rear deck, and...yes sir, it’s lifting off!”

  “A helicopter?” Han frowned at the news, uncertain what it meant. If men aboard the Sleeping Dragon needed to be rescued, why would any of them waste time launching aircraft that would never be permitted to touch down on the Shenyang?

  A trap?

  “All hands to battle stations!” Han commanded, wincing at the instant blare of the alarm his order had initiated. Now he saw the helicopter, rising from the dark hulk of what seemed to be a freighter, lights extinguished except for dim ones on the bridge, where human figures scuttled, barely visible. The small aircraft rose swiftly, soaring toward the Shenyang, and was over them in seconds flat.

  “Sir!” came the warning shout. “They’re dropping something toward our deck!”

  Han observed the object falling, judged it to be roughly the size of an oil drum. His eyes were tracking it when it exploded, thirty feet above the forward deck. Its thunderclap blew out the bridge’s windows, forcing Han to squint against a storm of flying glass, but he still saw the roiling cloud of flame advancing toward him, gaining ground so swiftly that he didn’t have a chance to scream.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tioman Island, Malaysia: Midnight

  Tioman Island was located twenty-one miles off the eastern coast of Peninsular Malaysia, in the South China Sea. It was twenty-six miles long and eight miles wide at its broadest point, densely forested and sparsely populated by humans. In 1958 its pristine beaches served as stand-ins for Bali Hai in the film South Pacific. Two decades later, Time magazine called it one of the world’s most beautiful islands.

  Tioman was all that—and more.

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, killed the outboard motor on his Zodiac inflatable boat as he cleared a gap in one of Tioman’s coral reefs, beloved by scuba divers on vacation but deadly to small craft after dark. From that point on he would be paddling, hoping that the cloud cover remained in place until he reached the island’s shoreline.

  If the full moon caught him on the water, and a lookout happened to be watching, he was dead.

  Bolan would happily have waited for another night with no moon overhead, but he was on the clock and heard the numbers running down relentlessly toward doomsday. Stalling for a better night wasn’t an option.

  It was now or never, and the cost of failure was unthinkable.

  Beyond the reef, two hundred yards of glass-calm water separated Bolan from the spot he’d chosen as a landing site. It wasn’t Tioman’s most scenic beach, which half explained his choice. A mangrove marsh met the sea to his left, home of soft-shelled turtles and walking catfish, with ample places to conceal the raft while Bolan worked his way inland on foot.

  The other half of his choice was based on proximity to his target: a village of sorts, occupied by thirty to forty armed men he was coming to kill. Among them, possibly, one who could shed some new light on his mission, point him toward bigger, better targets.

  And if not, at least the forces of his enemy would be reduced in number.

  Call it a win-win scenario—if he survived.

  Bolan reached the mangroves without incident and rolled out of the raft. As he dragged the jet-black rubber boat under cover, warm water lapped at his thighs. He hoped the island’s king cobras weren’t swimming around the mangroves at this moment. As quickly as possible he tied off the boat and carried his gear to dry land.

  Bolan was dressed in midnight black from head to foot, his face and hands darkened with combat cosmetics. He carried a Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle, issued as standard equipment to Malaysia’s PASKAL—navy—and PASKAU—air force—Special Operation Forces, chambered for 5.56 mm NATO ammunition. His sidearm was another standard-issue item, the Heckler & Koch USP autoloader with 9 mm Parabellum ammo, carried by members of the Royal Malaysian Police PGF counterterrorism group. Fragmentation grenades were clipped to his web gear, and a classic Mark I trench knife completed the deadly ensemble.

  Moving inland, the Executioner was dressed to kill.

  Now, all he needed were targets.

  * * *

  SYARIF HAIRUMAN WAS running out of patience. It wasn’t a quality that he possessed in great abundance at the best of times, and his frustration with the prisoner’s persistent stubbornness now verged on homicidal rage. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to kill her yet, or his head might be next to roll.

  He needed information, but had nothing to report so far. When Khoo Kay Sundaram demanded answers, in a few short hours from now, failure to offer him substantive information might prove fatal. So, he drank another double shot of black spiced rum, set down the glass and turned back toward the hut that served his captive as a prison cell.

  Clearly, he’d gone too easy on the woman until now. No matter how she squealed at anything Hairuman did to her, she still defied him. Her affrontery insulted him, both as a man and as a field commander of the pirates feared by every merchant sailor working the South China Sea.

  This day he vowed to get results.


  Before it was too late.

  The guard outside the prison hut saw Hairuman approaching and rose from his slouching stance into a rough approximation of military bearing. It was the best Hairuman could expect from the riffraff available to him. Piracy wasn’t a gentleman’s trade, and there were more important points to discipline than standing at attention.

  Guarding a prisoner, for instance.

  If the rifleman allowed her to escape, or if he interfered with her in any way while standing guard over her cage, Hairuman would be pleased to beat him senseless, then set him afire as an example to his other men. Nothing impressed them quite so much as shrieks of agony, accompanied by the pervasive stench of burning flesh.

  Outside the hut, Hairuman told the guard, “I need a generator. One that cranks by hand.”

  Reading his mind, the pirate muttered, “Yes, sir” and hurried off to fetch the torture instrument. Hairuman let himself into the hut and found the woman as he’d left her, bound with rough hemp to a simple chair with legs set wide apart, preventing her from tipping it by any rocking motion of her body, side to side.

  “I’m glad you waited for me,” Hairuman remarked, taunting his prisoner. “All rested now, and ready for another game?”

  “Prick!” she spit at him. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Such language from a lady,” Hairuman replied, smirking. “You shock me. In return, I think I must shock you.”

  His man returned then, entering the hut with both hands full, the generator in his right, a coil of cable in his left, dangling a pair of copper alligator clips.

  “You see?” Hairuman said. “It’s come to this.”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth between the equipment and Hairuman’s face. He smiled at her and said, “You leave me little choice, unless...you care to speak now? No? So be it. Let us see if this can loosen your tongue.”

  * * *

  BOLAN COULDN’T TELL whether the first target he met was standing watch, or simply answering a call of nature. Either way, he didn’t pull it off. The soldier came up behind him, clamped a hand over his mouth and drove the Mark I’s seven-inch double-edged blade through the gunman’s foramen magnum into his brain. The guy died on his feet, and Bolan eased him silently to the earth.