Triangle of Terror Page 14

  “I want you and your people to storm the front door, move inside! There is a small group of shooters on the way in and they need to be stopped before we can fly on!”

  “And where will you go?” Zhabat shouted, as another peal of thunder raked the air.

  “That’s not your concern, asshole! I’m heading off a threat to the east! Just get your asses inside and help me to outflank them! Go—!”

  WHATEVER HELL HAD descended at the deep end of the corridor, Nahab suspected it was not boding well for Braden and his people. In fact, as he looked back, peering into the roiling smoke, he made out the twisted heaps of bodies, a tattered black beret actually fluttering out of the cloud, the wall awash in dribbling blood and gore. Score a fat one, he thought, for the mystery invasion force, or maybe it was a Marine or two, holding on, fighting back against their betrayers.

  There was a mauled groaner, maybe two down there, attempting to rise, he saw, bringing guns to bear on the invisible fighting force when two brief but concentrated bursts to their chests pinned them to the wall in a splash of crimson.

  Braden and his troops, six in all, were now in their faces, shouting for greater speed, but keeping grim vigilance, just the same, on the unseen source of devastation at the far end. He was about to face front, Braden screaming for them to turn left, when a tall dark figure emerged from the pall and cut loose with autofire. Had it not been for Dbouri, absorbing a round or two in the onslaught, blood and brain matter splattering him in the face, Nahab knew he would have been on his way to Allah.

  There was a chance he still might not make it out of there.

  His limbs were, however, now well-oiled from a fresh burst of fear and adrenaline. Bulling ahead, he flung himself around the corner, falling into the stampede with his fellow jihadists, Braden and his men going berserk, pounding out return fire from behind.

  “Get to the goddamn plane!” he heard Braden roar. “Run!”

  WHETHER OR NOT THERE WERE any Marines left standing was moot, as far as beefing up for his own assault. The TFT frag barrage had wiped out another four, maybe five in his wake, though with chewed and amputated limbs scattered here and there, and with thick waves of smoke smothering the carnage, the body count could have climbed another two or three.

  The Executioner was on his own.

  They were beating a hard flight east by north, which meant they were heading for the transport. Braden and his thugs were winging back the gunfire, the last of the orange jumpsuits vanishing around the edge but not before Bolan tagged one with a lightning jag of 5.56 mm tumblers up the spine. Bolan knew another set of lethal problems, was breaching the facility, sliding, one by one, through the north door. He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected they were the Arab militant gang hired on as Braden’s butchers.

  Bolan sprayed an M-16 burst at the retreating mob, rounds snapping over his head, but not before he managed to bag one more TFT thug, the commando whirling across the corridor, falling, down and apparently forgotten by Braden. Unless he wanted to fall back himself, then cut a long, circuitous route south and attempt to outflank them…

  He decided it was not the best idea, considering a new threat had already cropped up on his flank.

  A black beret popped into view at the tail end of the pack, the HK 33 stuttering out a long stream that drove Bolan back into the smoke.

  His only option was to remove the cannibals heading his way. The Executioner bolted across an adjacent corridor, fell into the cover of an open cage, then lined them up for the grinding touch of a 40 mm greeting.

  ZHABAT DECIDED to disobey Turkle and abort the attack. There was no way of telling who or how many were waiting inside the door, he thought, watching as two of his comrades slid through the opening.

  They were promptly mowed down by autofire that scythed holes through the drifting smoke, blowing them back out the door, all flailing limbs and jetting blood. The others were howling, in panic or rage it was impossible to say, retracing their ventured steps. A sort of slapstick comedy was underway next, he saw, as arms flapped and tangled together, Jarid and Mohammed slamming, bouncing off each other, scowling and cursing as they stumbled on. Two of his men were pitching to earth, crying out in alarm, when Zhabat glimpsed the blur streaking their way. He knew what was coming. He flung himself to the ground, glimpsed two more figures racing through the doorway when the blast pealed, launching at least one of them overhead, sticky raindrops pattering his face.

  He felt the terror turn to nausea, threatening to stake him where he lay, but his fighters left standing reeled into the boiling smoke, hitting firepoints on either side of the jagged maw, unloading assault rifles but at who only knew what. He figured he’d better do something that looked remotely heroic, and fast, or he might lose more than just face. After all, he had called them to arms here, thrust them into the unknown. At the time, it had seemed a wise—or at worst ambitious—decision, but this was more than he chose to tackle. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected they had been duped to play some losing hand in a plot the infidels had concocted to cover their planned escape.

  And to go in hunt of the mystery weapon to snap up in their own greedy, murderous hands.

  A hard search of the no-man’s land fanning east, and Zhabat saw Turkle and a companion moving in an easy stroll that left him wondering just how serious was the threat hitting the facility. Or was it something else entirely?

  Looking out to the hangar, noting the ramp on the transport was down, he figured whoever was slated to fly on would soon emerge from inside the prison walls.

  Zhabat scraped himself off the ground and hollered for his men to follow.

  THE EXECUTIONER HIT the wounded TFT man in the chest with a triburst of 5.56 mm tumblers and moved on. Between the electric charge of combat senses, adrenaline and righteous anger, Bolan was tuned in to the slightest movement or noise, twelve and six. And he didn’t need to see them to know they were more than just gallivanting beyond the north wall.

  Sensing full retreat, that there was nothing under the prison roof but the dead, the Executioner hit the next corner low, M-16 ready to drop the next shooter.

  Clear.

  He made the decision on the march, cutting down another bisecting corridor, heading east. Braden, so far, had what he wanted. Having played out his treacherous hand, the load of prisoners was meant to serve his ultimate purpose once they landed in Turkey, the contacts, rendezvous points and such in tow with the extremist passengers. Factor in that Braden had a better idea than he did where the WMD was stashed, and Bolan figured to let him fly, leave the tracking to the Farm.

  He had a plan, though, to give Braden a taste of what he could expect in Turkey. And if it brought down the ship, so be it.

  His M-16 leading the final turn toward the northern door, the Executioner listened to the night beyond and threw himself against the wall as he saw four armed shadows sweep past. Apparently more than just the TFT brigands were looking to bail Camp Triangle, but if they were looking for a quick and pain-free bon voyage…

  Slow and cautious, the Executioner made the opening, crouched and took in the exodus. They were streaming through the northeast gate at the edge of the motor pool, orange jumpsuits lagging behind Braden and his men. The foursome was picked up the far rear, gaining ground, when two more TFT black berets materialized from the motor pool. They were engaged in an argument that looked poised to turn murderous when Bolan gauged the range, all set to dump yet more grief on the enemy.

  This was not a night, the Executioner knew, slipping a finger around the M-203’s trigger, for any negotiating.

  “JUST WHAT THE HELL do you think you’re doing?”

  Zhabat was an eye blink away from bringing up the HK 33 and gunning down Turkle and his sidekick when the motor pool, or part of it, vanished before his eyes in fire and smoke. Turkle and the other black beret were sailing from the mushroom cap, close enough to ground zero they appeared to catch and ride a slab of wreckage like some hideous surf board. Zhabat
turned away from the rush of searing heat, nosediving and burying his face in the earth, riding out the storm. The sky pelted trash, but Zhabat was on his feet, indifferent to whether the black berets or his own men were alive, thinking he needed to reach the transport before it was airborne, leaving him to perhaps confront Brazilian authorities who would surely come swarming the grounds.

  The only refuge lay in the waiting arms of his brothers in jihad. Hadn’t he attempted to do what Turkle wanted? And whoever was really in charge would already be boarding the transport, he believed, never knowing he hadn’t fired a single shot in anger. And if it was intelligence the infidels wanted on the WMD in Turkey he had a few facts squirreled away in his head he could present as a bargaining chip.

  He needed salvation from this hell first.

  Zhabat spotted the first batch hitting the ramp, several of his imprisoned comrades stumbling onto the runway. As he surged out of the gate, both amazed and annoyed to find his surviving brothers on his heels, Zhabat began thinking they weren’t falling from exhaustion out there.

  And yet another horror slowly dawned on him that they were being sniped from some point behind. Looking back, he saw his brothers pointing, followed their flapping arms and bugged out eyes to the source of their fear. He was searching the stretch of ground, dreading, praying to Allah an invisible bullet did not drop him, then made out the tall shadow just as Mohammed cried out and slammed to the earth. He clutched his leg, a thick jet of dark crimson spurting between his fingers, screaming for someone to help. Bless al-Habrak, he thought, as his cousin began to haul the wounded man to his feet, sparing him the task of having to explain himself later for having abandoned him to bleed to death. That, of course, assumed any of them even made the plane.

  Zhabat next found himself transfixed by the sight, the incredible thought dancing through his mind whether or not one lone gunman could have possibly been responsible for the death and destruction he’d witnessed up to then. His imagination was inflamed with visions of scores of bodies strewed all over the facility. One gunman was chasing all of them to the plane?

  He urged greater speed from his legs, saw then heard two, maybe three of his cousins in orange jumpsuits calling for help, sprawled on the turf, clutching bloodied limbs. For whatever reason, the transport plane was gaining speed, the scream locked in his throat, the ramp kicking up a trail of sparks as the mammoth bird began rumbling down the runway.

  Suddenly, lungs heaving, fearing his heart would explode out his chest from exertion, he found it strange no more bodies were dropping at the grim touch of the lone gunman. The temptation to look back overpowering him. It was only a whirling glance, from the shadow with the massive rocket launcher in hand to the tanker trucks and fuel bins, before the first explosion set the world on fire.

  As the tidal wave of flames reached out, Zhabat screamed and braced himself to be incinerated.

  THE BELLOW OF PURE RAGE sounded a minuscule bleating in his ears, all but squashed by the roaring of the conflagration. Wincing, Braden was forced to turn away for a moment as the blinding mountain of fire kept on growing, surging outward. Glancing back, it was gathering what he could only imagine was supernova might with each tanker and bin that blew in turn, all thunder and white brilliance. He had no clue how much fuel was being ignited to eat up everything in the onrushing billows. He slammed a fist into the wall panel, saw the ramp shudder up the first foot or so, but feared he was too late.

  The shock waves rolled over the fuselage next. Braden tumbled into the wall against the vicious invisible jolt. The terrorists were crying out behind him, a wail of the damned, to be sure, hitting the deck, with his troops holding on but throwing their faces away as superheated wind rushed in, a belch from the bowels of hell.

  He hit the intercom, as thunderbolts drummed over the roof, yet more meteors pounding the walls. Braden feared shock waves alone would lift the bird off its wheels, flip them, end over end, in flying acrobatics of smashed skulls and broken bones. “More speed, damn it! Get us up and out of here before we’re all charred meat!” he screamed at the pilot.

  Braden heard the shrieking of men being burned alive. He shuffled to the opening, found himself both enthralled and horrified by the dam burst of fire, as dragon spray funnels appeared to fuse and sweep over those hapless few who survived the blasts. Flaming human comets went thrashing across the runway, flailing on the ground in vain attempts to extinguish devouring shrouds of fire. Braden squinting as the fire wind gusted in his face. It occurred to him that if Stone had wanted to blow the bird off the runway he would have done so. And he gathered a good suspicion why the SOB had chosen to let them fly on.

  The ramp was closing, not fast enough for his liking, but Braden spotted a lone figure clear the mushroom heads, hurling his assault rifle away as he pumped his arms and legs and lunged for the ramp. One guy, he thought, had managed to save his bacon from getting fried. Reaching down and fisting a hand full of hair, Braden hauled him through the space with a foot to spare and shouted in the face of terror, “And just who might you be?”

  CHOICES.

  Every bend in the road of life had them, and Bolan was never of the mind to question one once it was made. Running the table by blasting the transport to scrap would have been a fitting coup de grâce under different choices, but Braden had just become his own hunk of chum.

  Bigger man-eaters were on the loose somewhere. Sometimes, the enemy stole another day or so by default and circumstance.

  It happened.

  It was raining pure hell on the runway, and the Executioner spared a mercy burst each from his M-16 for two devils. He felt the scorching heat, mindful of how quickly he had fallen back when the first tanker of super high-test fuel was touched off. Two more sixty-ones, an HE and incendiary missile kept the vision of hell on earth marching.

  Bolan took in the utter devastation. The hangar was reduced to smoking hills of rubble. All birds vaporized to molten scrap or blown halfway back to Ciudad del Este. Dozens of yards of east fencing had been blown down or irradiated to flowing silver creeks by the fiery tornados. The sky was still crashing around the armory and motor pool, the larger slabs pounding through the roofs of two Humvees, when Bolan spied a mad dog in black beret shuddering to his feet, HK subgun up and swinging his way.

  The Executioner hit Turkle full in the chest with a 3-round send-off.

  Bolan gave the runway a thorough search, as the transport lifted off, barely clearing the fence line.

  Gone, in search of their hallowed WMD.

  He didn’t give the bird another look as he dialed up Michaels on his com link. Littered for a good hundred yards west with wreckage, if the runway couldn’t accommodate the Gulfstream, which was in a holding pattern to the east, then Bolan would have his men find a suitable stretch of grassland.

  As he told Michaels to pick him up, the Executioner gave the hell of Camp Triangle a last look. What had happened here, he suspected, was simply a prelude to something far darker and more insidious.

  So be it.

  Bolan knew the final outcome, the sum total of any war was only as good as the next battle. Braden was in the wind, but the Executioner determined his number on the wheel of misfortune was coming up.

  The enemy could expect final rough justice when he tracked them down and snatched away the dreams of savages.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  21

  The truth was gaining on Murat Ghirgulz the hard way. As he searched the Turk military unit through the Russian field glasses, attempting to get a fix on enemy numbers, he began to believe he was finally getting somewhere in his quest. That the Turk wild dogs were presently combing through the smoking rubble of their latest campaign of genocide against his people in what they called the province of Agri told Ghirgulz they were getting close. The only question remaining to be answered was which side would get to the cache first.

  For what felt like endless months now, he and his clan of fighters, aligned albeit loosely with the Kurdist
an Workers Party, had been both hunters and hunted as they wandered the mountainous nowhere along the Iranian border. They forged north as the carnage mounted on both sides, the hit-and-run guerrilla warfare pushing them deep into the frontier near the Russian border, as the information leaked to him from tongues screaming in agony.

  So much death, so much blood on his hands. If he thought about it, there was truly nothing left but pain, suffering, and death, though he intended to be on the giving end until he drew his last breath in the struggle for Kurdish autonomy.

  Nothing left but to keep going. Keep fighting. Keep killing.

  Like many of his cousins, squeezed beside him in the boulder-studded pocket, Ghirgulz had no family, no village in Kurdistan to return to, if and when the battles ever ended. The Turks had recently launched new attacks against villages, from Hakkari near the Iraqi border to roughly their present position a day’s walk northeast of Dogubeyazit. They had one downed Black Hawk gunship to their credit, some Turk blood along with a few Kurd informants on their hands as the result of torture, but not even a million enemy dead would ease in his mind the pain of losing his wife and four children to the Turk butchers. With each enemy body, though, Ghirgulz learned what the Turks and their Iraqi bootlickers were after, why they were killing people in one of the most vicious and bloody campaigns he could ever recall.

  Ghirgulz looked up. They were in the foothills on the south face of Agri Dagi. He guessed their altitude at somewhere around six or seven hundred feet. Even at this relatively low height the icy air was difficult to breathe, forcing them to cover their mouths and noses with bandannas cut from wool, lest running mucus freeze in their nostrils. How high they needed to climb he couldn’t say, but figured the Turks or their Iraqi minions knew. The morning mist would thicken, the snow would deepen as they climbed the treacherous face. The summit, he believed, was some five thousand feet plus, but without oxygen and more to cover them than wool trousers and coats, he couldn’t imagine they could ascend much higher than two thousand feet.