Super Bolan - 001 - Stony Man Doctrine Read online

  "Grenade!" Encizo shouted.

  They all ducked down. The grenade bounced over the Cadillac. Her head below the dashboard, Flor heard the explosion. She straightened up, saw only a crystal network of shattered windshield. She drove blind, then heard a smash.

  A bloody face flopped against the shattered glass. Hands clawing at the windshield, the Cuban screamed. Encizo fired a point-blank burst from his hybrid assault rifle. He next used the butt to smash out glass until he had cleared a hole for Flor to see through.

  She peered through the hole, had to swerve to avoid the corner of a barracks, skidded sideways, overcorrected, smashed through a wall. As the Cadillac rocked on its springs, boards and plaster and filth falling on them, Flor shifted into reverse. The Cadillac did not move. Eyes wild, Flor jammed the transmission into drive, snapped the car forward, shifted to reverse again. Frantic, she stood on the accelerator, the turbocharger whining, the tires spinning. Burning rubber smoke choked them. But the Cadillac did not move from the cave of broken walls and flooring.

  Encizo grabbed her arm, shook her. "Joyride's over! Out!"

  AKM slugs punched through the wood walls around them and hammered the trunk of the Cadillac. Bolan slung the last Armburst over his shoulder and gripped the M-16 /M-203. He kicked open the door and saw the camp street outside. Slugs ripped through the doorway. Encizo shoved aside the boards that covered him in the back of the Cadillac and stepped out over the hood.

  "Where's Flor?"

  A burst of Uzi fire came from behind the Cadillac. A Cuban staggered back. Flor emerged from the confrontation, pushing aside a ceiling panel. She walked across the El Dorado's hood to join them. They saw the muzzle-flashes of three AKMs facing them.

  "Out the back." Bolan rushed to a door, kicked it open, and sprayed a burst of 5.56mm slugs into the night. Encizo leaned past him and fired a 40mm grenade.

  In the gray, flickering light of flaming white phosphorous, they ran toward the offices, two rows of barracks away. The fire from the parade grounds had spread. Flames and black smoke rose into the night.

  They came to a camp street lit by orange glow. Bolan crouched in a shadow and motioned for Flor to take cover as Encizo checked a doorway. Then Bolan sprinted forward. He went flat in the airspace beneath the barracks. He motioned the others forward.

  A form moved against the wall of flames. Bolan sighted on its legs, sprayed a burst. An AKM flew from the gunner's hands. Waiting until Encizo gained cover, Bolan ran for the wounded Cuban. A pretty young woman writhed on the gravel, her shattered legs twisted under her.

  The Cubana saw Bolan approaching, screamed, not with fear but with hatred and fanatical rage, and pulled a revolver from her belt. Bolan fired a three-round burst into the snarling face, then took cover beside a flight of steps.

  Boots stomped across the floorboards. Glass shattered above him as hands jammed a Kalashnikov through a window. Another pair of boots ran across the gravel behind Bolan. Spinning, his auto rifle on line, Bolan held his fire as Encizo tossed an Italian controlled-effect grenade through the window.

  For a second, the boots inside the barracks scrambled, the rifle clattering to the floorboards. The sharp crack of the RDX stopped all movement inside.

  An engine roared, gears clashed. Careering through the flames and corpses, a pickup truck raced at them. Simultaneously, Bolan and Encizo snapped their assault rifles to their shoulders, but flinched as they looked directly into the flashing muzzle of an AKM, and at the demon grin of a Japanese face behind the Kalashnikov.

  Slugs ripped over them. Bolan felt a shock to his shoulder, rolled aside, lifted his M-16 / M-203 to spray high-velocity 5.56mm slugs at the taillights of the swerving truck. Twenty yards down the camp street, an Uzi fired wild, Flor holding down the trigger until the magazine went empty.

  "That was him!" Bolan shouted. "The Japanese leader!"

  Encizo snapped a 40mm grenade at the pickup truck as it skidded around a corner. He fired the last burst of his M-16's magazine as the barracks corner exploded. But the barracks’ wood caught the steel wire shrapnel of the fragmentation round, and the 5.56mm steel-cored, hollow pointed slugs scored only the tailgate and bumper.

  Breaking cover, Bolan sprinted after the pickup, the weight of his battle armor and weapons slowing him. A last AKM sent a slug past his ear. Bolan did not break stride as a cross fire from Flor and Encizo eliminated the terrorist gunner behind him.

  At the corner of the barracks, Bolan raised his rifle as he saw the taillights disappear around another corner.

  "Flor!" he shouted back. "Grab an AK. Watch the road out. Encizo, I think he's going to the airfield."

  Already in motion, the Cuban exile ran through the street of death, spraying quick bursts of high-velocity 5.56mm hollow points into his dead and dying enemies.

  A crawling terrorist pointed a pistol. Encizo fired the last round of his rifle's magazine and saw flesh spray from the wounded Cuban terrorist's shoulder. Changing mags, Encizo kicked an automatic from the terrorist's grip. The young man raised a bloody hand for mercy. Encizo put the M-16's muzzle to the Cuban's forehead.

  "Leave him alive!" Bolan shouted. "We need prisoners."

  Encizo fired a single shot through the terrorist's unwounded arm. He kicked him over on his back. He grabbed the three-time wounded boy's collar, tore his shirt back and down over his shattered arms, and left him screaming in the mud.

  Running after Bolan, Encizo saw the black form of the Stony Man commander running toward the airfield, and he followed him.

  Straining against the weight of his armor and weapons, Bolan kept his stride. At the barracks where the truck had turned, he stopped short and ran up a parallel street. He slowed to a silent walk as he came to the end of the barracks. Behind him, at the far side of the camp, flames leaped high into the sky, but all firing had ended.

  Bolan crept around the corner, staying in the shadows. He snapped a glance into the next street. No truck. He had thought they might have waited in ambush for him. But they had gone. Encizo's foot-steps approached. Bolan signalled him. Together, they ran toward the airstrip.

  Rotor throb beat the night's silence. Bolan stopped to scan the night. His mind raging, he saw the silhouette of a helicopter rise against the stars.

  Sighting his grenade launcher, Encizo fired, but missed as the form banked. Light flashed on the underside of the helicopter as the grenade exploded in the air. Encizo fired aimed bursts.

  Bolan tore the last Armburst launcher from his shoulder, aimed ahead of the silhouette and fired. But the rocket arced over the helicopter as the pilot dropped down to treetop height. A half mile away, the blast tore cypress branches.

  The rotor throb faded into the distance.

  17

  Virginia

  Saturday

  3:30 a.m.

  (0830 Greenwich mean time)

  WHEELING A CART OF MAPS and satellite photos from a Stony Man Center storage room, April heard Mack Bolan's voice. She whirled her head around, her eyes searching for her man. But the words—stripped of warmth and personality by electronic encoding—came from Kurtzman's radio monitor. She ran the length of the corridor to the com-room.

  "Is Mack all right?"

  Kurtzman nodded, scribbled on a pad. He read back a description. "Japanese, looked older than thirty, between five eleven and six feet tall . . . Wide-shouldered, moon face. . . What else?"

  "We heard him speak Spanish to the Cubans," said Bolan's voice. "Encizo said it was basic Spanish punctuated with revolutionary clichés. We think we heard him speaking Arabic with one of them who looked like a Palestinian. . ."

  "What about mannerisms? His clothes? Did he have an unusual weapon?"

  "Negative. Standard AK. Wore a light-blue summer suit, sport shirt."

  "That's a good detail right there. Maybe he's traveling in the United States under a legitimate cover."

  "Follow it up. We passed two prisoners on to the Agency. We're hoping to get a name out of them. But they're bot
h low-ranking terrorists. One of them isn't expected to live."

  Kurtzman looked at his notes. "Anything else on the Palestinian? Anything that might link him to a group or country? If we can spot an association—"

  "Nothing that we saw or heard. The Feds said they'll sift through what's left of the camp at dawn. Langley get anything out of that Mujica?"

  "Not yet. He's a tough nut, they said. They're putting him through drug interrogation, but we won't have any details on that until midday. They said it could be weeks before he broke down and—"

  "We don't have weeks. The crazies in this conspiracy are out of control. What's the word from Phoenix and Able?"

  "Good news. Phoenix is batting one thousand. Three prisoners plus taped communications and captured documents. One prisoner started talking before they could get him on the shuttle jet to Langley. He said they had just received instructions to move into the East River and wait for the right wind conditions—"

  "—to spray New York... . " Bolan completed the statement.

  "Not the ones on the ship. They were to pick up a squad trained to use the chemicals. The squad would work the machines."

  "Bear, Phoenix monitored all their communications, right?"

  "For the past twenty-four hours—"

  "Get a dupe of that tape, have Ohara listen to it. I want to know if any of the messages—"

  "Right, if any of the radio messages came from a Japanese. Will do."

  "Apparently the Japanese one is launching the attack," Bolan continued. "The Cuban leader wouldn't issue the order to his soldiers until he got confirmation from 'the Russian.' That's when the Japanese and the Palestinian killed him. I want to know if the order to the freighter came from the Russian or the Japanese. What about Able?"

  "They're down. Grimaldi's waiting for their signal in Honduras. He's got a plane ready."

  April could not wait any longer. She took the microphone from Kurtzman. "Mack, are you okay?"

  "Tired, that's all. How're things at the Center?"

  "Busy. But we'll be ready tomorrow to brief the other law-enforcement agencies."

  "Don't bother to analyse or summarize the information. This is happening too fast. Just have the information ready."

  Another radio buzzed. Kurtzman flipped a switch. An electronically neutralized voice spoke. "Air Force Liaison calling."

  "Stony Man Center. Proceed."

  "We have a report from the Texas coast. We are tracking a low-flying aircraft. We believe the flight originated from the northern shore of Cuba...."

  "April, start the tape recorder!" Kurtzman grabbed the microphone from her. "Sorry to interrupt, Mack. They think there's a low flyer from Cuba heading for Texas."

  "Brief me when you have the details. Over." And the frequency to Miami went silent.

  " . . . the aircraft has not responded to requests for identification."

  "You have planes in the air?"

  "Affirmative. The aircraft has employed electronic countermeasures but we continue tracking—" "Do you have armed interceptors in the air?"

  Kurtzman stressed.

  "We have alerted our interceptors, but—"

  "But nothing! Stop that plane!" Kurtzman clicked off the microphone. He turned to April. "Buzz Phoenix Force. Tell them to stand by."

  "For Texas?" she asked.

  Kurtzman nodded.

  18

  Nicaragua

  Saturday

  5:00 a.m.

  (1100 Greenwich mean time)

  THE RED LIGHT OF DAWN colored the far mountains, the peaks eight miles to the west catching the first rays of daylight, the mountainsides and valleys still in darkness. Electric light spilled from the windows of the camp buildings. White fluorescent smears illuminated the fences.

  Carl Lyons watched the line of daylight descend the mountain. He looked back at the ridge crest and saw a blue sky above the shadowed pines and oaks. Dew beaded the ferns and wild grasses around him.

  He lay in a shallow trench behind his M-249. The Parkerized gray weapon stood on its bipod, its black titanium suppressor aimed down at the camp. During the night, Lyons had filled several plastic bags with soil. Bags braced the bipod to steady the weapon. Other bags stacked around the trench gave Lyons more protection.

  Looking down at the terrorist camp, he considered the simplicity of the attack strategy. Genius. Bolan's plan, but our execution, Lyons thought. We all made our contributions. Grimaldi, the nightblack jet; Konzaki, the customized M-249; Gadgets the radio-triggered Vipers; and I'll pull the trigger.

  The girl padded silently through the trees. Red-eyed and squinting with fatigue, she crouched at the side of Lyons's ditch.

  "You ready, mister?"

  Lyons keyed his hand-radio. "Wizard. Politician. You guys awake?"

  "The Wiz here. Thanks for the wake-up call."

  Blancanales's deep voice came on. "We'll hear a bugle before they assemble. But you're the one who gives the word."

  "When I've got my targets, I'll give you a buzz. Over." Lyons turned to the teenager. "We're ready."

  "And David? How is David? We novios ."

  "Engaged?" He handed her the radio. "Buzz them. Press here, talk."

  After a delay, Blancanales gave his hand-radio to David. The teenagers chatted in rapid Spanish. Maria concluded the conversation with a smack of her lips into the mouthpiece. She saw Lyons laughing again, and she glared at him.

  "You ready now, senorita?"

  "Yes, I ready all the time. I wait for—"

  The loudspeakers of the camp blared reveille. The morning light touched the parade grounds. Uniformed terrorists formed ranks in front of a reviewing stage.

  "'Waiting's over," Lyons told her. "Watch my back."

  He put his right eye to the scope.

  PETER KRANTZ STOOD IN FRONT of his full-length mirror, turning from side to side to admire his commandant's uniform. As the last notes of the recorded bugle died away, Krantz's aide-lover, Miguel, brushed the last tiny flecks of lint from the tailored uniform. Krantz peered outside. In the gray morning light, his soldiers assembled in ranks on the parade ground.

  Today, another platoon of front-line fighters left for the United States. Yesterday, Krantz had embraced each member of the group that would take terror to Los Angeles, California. They would be there soon, perhaps tonight.

  Posing in front of the mirror, he closed his eyes, saw the horror of their operation there: the mass death, the announcement, the panic sweeping the United States.

  That one strike against the Empire of the United States would crown his career. But there would be more. Today, a platoon left for New York. Tomorrow, Detroit. The next day, Chicago.

  He felt dizzy with excitement. His fighters would make the cities of the United States mausoleums to the Decline of Empire, peopled with millions of corpses frozen where the gas killed them. These achievements would make Krantz one of the new masters of the world.

  The son of a prosperous German couple—his father a technician and designer with a manufacturer of luxury German autos, his mother a professor of English in a university—he had learned the philosophy of terror from his National Socialist parents. His father and mother and their neo-Nazi friends lectured the boy endlessly on the duty of the next generation to destroy America.

  As a teenager, he joined the embryonic terrorist movement in Berlin. The gangs bombed nightclubs serving American soldiers. Once, in a daring attack that filled his comrades with admiration for Krantz, he kidnapped a young American soldier too drunk to defend himself, then tortured the soldier to death. That act admitted him to the ranks of the Terrorist International.

  In the ten years since then, he rose from recruit to leader. He received basic training from the PLO in Lebanon and Syria. He went on to advanced training by Soviet and Cuban instructors in South Yemen. After proving himself on missions of atrocity in Israel, England and Ireland, he gained the attention of Fedorenko.

  Under the leadership of the troika, Krantz hoped to fulf
il the dreams of his Nazi parents.

  The voices of the instructors outside halted his daydreaming. He gave his lover a kiss, but pushed away the teenager's groping hand.

  Striding from his office door, Krantz heard the instructors call the ranks to attention. Krantz thought of his idols, the martyred leaders and commanders who he worshiped and served. He adored them as if they still lived. He felt sometimes as if he knew them, he had heard so many stories and records, seen so many films. He modelled his life after them. To please the spirits of Hitler, Hess, Goebbels, Goering, he would murder millions of Americans.

  A hundred twenty-three faces turned to him. Young men and women of many nations, of all races, born to injustice and suffering, hardened by years of training: fanatics. Foremost stood the ten members of the New York attack force.

  Krantz ascended the three steps of the parade stand. At the back of the concrete platform, the two senior instructors, a Pole and a Cuban, stood at attention. The political officer, a Palestinian, adjusted the microphone and then went to the back of the platform, where he snapped to attention.

  Krantz went to the lectern.

  "Comrades! Front-line fighters in the war against the American Imperialists! Today—"

  Blood exploded from his mouth and eyes. His forehead burst open as slugs slammed into the back of his head. Even as the impacts threw him face forward, more slugs punched him. His arm flailed wildly, his chest and gut spewed gore. A second burst cut down the officers behind him.

  For a long moment, the lines of terrorists stared. In the milliseconds before they reacted, they watched their leaders twitch like spastic marionettes, first in the air, then on the slab of the stand, as high-velocity slugs shrieking from the rising sun raked the dead men, their arms, legs and torsos jerking in a supine death-dance.

  Even as the ranks of terrorists threw themselves - into motion—some diving, others crouching, many running—the slugs found the first row. The front-line fighters died.