Missile Intercept Read online

  It took Grimaldi a few seconds to reply. “Roger. Looks like a twin-engine craft coming in from the east. I’d better drop back and down for a bit.”

  Bolan knew that Grimaldi was blacked out and now positioning his helicopter to minimize the chance of being spotted by anyone in the plane. It was a reasonable assumption that the aircraft was going to land on the airstrip located on the other side of the building.

  Bolan clicked his mic in reply just as Sergeant Jesus Martinez, the team leader of the Mexican marines, tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What does your friend in the helicopter say?” he asked. The dark camo paint on his face was shiny with sweat.

  “An aircraft is coming. Un...avión, ah, viene,” Bolan said in broken Spanish, for the benefit of Captain Ruiz, who was next to Martinez and had a limited knowledge of English.

  The two men could not have appeared more different physically. Ruiz was handsome and lean, while the bulky Martinez looked like an aging heavyweight past his prime and gone to seed. The two bent close and whispered together, their words too soft for Bolan to discern, even though he had deliberately kept his fluency in Spanish to himself.

  Martinez smiled and nodded. “Bueno.” He whispered again to Ruiz, then turned back to Bolan. “Perhaps we will catch some fish this time, eh, my friend?”

  Bolan assessed the most prudent move, considering the unexpected development of the approaching plane. He and Grimaldi had been assigned as “civilian assistants” to the Mexican marines for this raid. US government personnel had been regularly assisting the Mexican authorities with raids on the cartel locations, but an FBI agent had been wounded during the last one, sending up a red flag in Washington. US participation was supposed to be covert, their agents not directly involved in hazardous situations without official sanction, but things were moving at such a fast pace that clandestine ops had been ordered to cut through the miles of red tape. Now, while the various agencies braced for a full and transparent hearing and investigation on the Hill, the President had contacted Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, to assist in this latest interdiction effort.

  So here they were, Grimaldi dropping off the assault team in the vicinity and playing guardian angel in an old beat-up Huey, without armament, and Bolan on the ground with an unfamiliar group of Mexican marines.

  “Looks like they’re lighting up for a landing,” Grimaldi’s voice said in Bolan’s ear mic. “A van just exited the front gate, heading toward the strip.”

  The Executioner turned to Martinez and suggested they move into the old ruins and send two men to cut a hole in the fence during the distraction of the plane landing. Martinez agreed and dispatched the men. It took them less than five minutes to accomplish the task, and in the interim Bolan heard the sound of the plane’s tires touching down.

  Grimaldi confirmed the landing and said he was still blacked out, but ascending to a better vantage point.

  “Jack, stay far enough out so they don’t hear you,” Bolan said, keying his mic.

  “Roger.”

  Bolan and Martinez took cover by a dilapidated wall that had long ago been the front of the church as the rest of the twelve-man team filtered through the ruins, taking up their positions. Bolan flipped down his night-vision goggles and surveyed the scene. Everything looked clear at the rear of the compound. He knew at least one man was stationed at the guard post by the front gate, and two others in watchtowers strategically placed at the far corners.

  “The plane’s on the ground,” Grimaldi said over the radio. “Several subjects getting out. The van’s picking them up... I’m counting five total.”

  “We move now,” Bolan said.

  Martinez keyed his mic and issued the order. After pausing to cross himself, he pulled his mask up to cover the lower portion of his face, then moved to the door.

  Ruiz nodded to both of them. His mask hung loosely around his neck, and he had declined camo paint, indicating that he was not going to be an active participant in the raid.

  Bolan ducked through the opening, then sprinted toward the gaping hole in the fence. The two cutters had done an excellent job. The Executioner veered left, as was their plan. He knew Martinez would go right, each man alternating until they were at the corners of the prefab building, Bolan crouched and took a quick look around the corner.

  Two guards kicked a soccer ball back and forth. Their rifles, AR-15s from the look of them, were slung casually across their bodies.

  Hopefully, these guys were into their game, Bolan thought. The prospect of facing automatic-rifle fire made the situation a bit more problematic.

  At least the watchtower on this side appeared empty. Bolan sent two men to verify. After checking the location of the soccer-playing guards, the two marines raced across the expanse to the bottom of the guard tower. One man climbed its ladder as the other one covered him. Moments later, the one at the top signaled that it was clear.

  Mistake number one for the bad guys, Bolan thought. He relayed the information to Martinez.

  “Looks like the van’s heading away from the airstrip and back toward the main gate,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

  Bolan acknowledged and relayed that information to Martinez, as well. The original plan called for covert infiltration and possibly taking prisoners for interrogation, but Bolan wasn’t hopeful on that count. They were going into the belly of the beast. Resistance and gunplay were almost always a given. These weren’t the kind of men who surrendered without a fight. If they did, they’d surely face the wrath of the cartel bosses afterward.

  “The tower on this side looks deserted,” Martinez said.

  That seemed exceptionally lax, which was great news for the marines, if their good fortune was to be believed.

  “I am sending two men to check the front tower and secure the corner,” Martinez whispered over the radio.

  “Roger,” Bolan answered.

  With the watchtower positions neutralized, and two men positioned at the front of the building, the rest of the raid should go like clockwork, Bolan thought. He tested the fit of the sound suppressor on his MP-5 and got ready to round the corner and take out the two sentries on his side.

  Grimaldi’s voice was a whisper in Bolan’s ear mic. “The van’s coming in the gate. The overhead door’s going up in front.”

  The Executioner informed Martinez.

  Almost time, Bolan thought. Let them start to disembark from the vehicle and then we can hit them hard.

  “The van’s inside,” Grimaldi’s voice said over the radio. “The big door’s closing.”

  Bolan keyed his mic. “Is everybody in position?” After hearing the affirmative clicks, he said, “Get ready to move.”

  The soccer ball suddenly bounced past him, and the labored breathing of a man running became audible.

  As the guard ran past, chasing the errant ball, Bolan reached out in the darkness and grabbed him, slamming him to the ground. He grunted and started to yell, but the Executioner brought down two hammer-fist blows on the fallen man’s temple. Satisfied he was out cold, Bolan told one of the marines to secure him, and stood, just as a voice from the other side of the building called out in Spanish, “The marines are here! The marines are here!”

  Seconds later a siren began to wail, followed by staccato bursts of gunfire. It had to be the cartel guards firing, as Bolan and all the marines had sound suppressors attached to their weapons. Floodlights positioned along the fence blazed on, illuminating the night.

  Bolan closed his eyes briefly and ripped off his night-vision goggles to avoid being temporarily blinded. He took another quick look around the corner. The fallen guard’s soccer partner, his rifle at the ready, was running toward Bolan’s position. The Executioner brought up the barrel of the MP-5, poked it around the building and squeezed off a three-round burs
t. The running guard jerked spasmodically, then crumpled to the ground.

  The Executioner raced forward, shooting out the closest floodlight. The marine under the guard tower joined him, and Bolan knew Martinez and his three men were advancing on the other side. They had to get to the front of the building and take control of the situation.

  The second floodlight along the fence line exploded and went dark. Bolan figured the marine in the tower was taking them out to cover the advance of his teammates. He had an M-16, which gave him greater range.

  Ahead, two more cartel guards appeared around the corner, the red flashes of their firing weapons bright blossoms in the darkness. Bolan veered left as several rounds zipped by him. One of the marines fell.

  Bolan brought the MP-5 to his shoulder and fired two three-round bursts at the cartel guards. Both men danced and twisted, silhouetted by the final set of floodlights as they dropped to the ground.

  “Front gate and tower secure,” Martinez said over the radio.

  Intel had estimated the number of hostiles to be between ten and fifteen, more if one of the cartel bosses was on-site. One could be aboard the incoming plane, in which case Bolan’s team could momentarily be facing a more substantial force. He slowed as they closed in on the front of the building. It was time to take out the remaining floodlights.

  The Executioner took aim and shot the last two lights. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a mechanical squeal and knew that the big overhead door was rising.

  Keying his mic, he checked with Martinez. “You might have trouble coming out the front end.”

  “We have the front secured,” Martinez said over the radio, sounding breathless. “The van went inside. We are— Mierda!”

  Bolan glanced around the corner and heard the sound of a metal-on-metal ripping crash as the van barreled through the opening, scraping the bottom of the rising door and sideswiping the door frame.

  Martinez’s crew began firing at the vehicle. Bolan ducked back, avoiding a cross fire. The blasts of loud automatic fire emanated from the van, which continued toward the front gate. Bolan fired off a burst at it, then realized the futility and ceased.

  “Send two of your men after it,” Bolan said into his mic. “The rest of us need to secure the warehouse. Perimeter containment, hold your positions.”

  Two marines from Martinez’s team broke off toward the airstrip. Bolan motioned the man next to him to follow, then slipped through the open overhead door and headed to the right. The warehouse was fully lit and he could see three cartel guards running forward, sweeping the area in front of them with autofire.

  Bolan stopped behind a section of rooms jutting from the wall. Several rounds pierced the wood and plasterboard. Bolan knew that his position offered only a modicum of cover and little concealment. His adversaries obviously knew where he was. Martinez surged forward, his MP-5 spitting out rounds. The cartel guards switched their aim, giving Bolan the momentary respite he needed to zero in on them with a pair of short bursts of fire. Two fell almost simultaneously, and as the third cartel guard switched his rifle back toward Bolan, Martinez popped up and shot the man.

  Aside from the crudely constructed rooms along the eastern wall, the warehouse was basically free of obstructions. Some packaged items were stacked on the opposite side, and four box trucks were parked in the center aisle. Another cartel guard leaned around the corner of one of the trucks and brought up his weapon, but before he could fire, the Executioner sent a zipping stitch of rounds across the man’s chest. He tumbled forward. Across the room, Martinez and his team brought down two more hostiles.

  An eerie silence descended over the room. Bolan, Martinez and the rest of the marines continued to clear the warehouse, encountering no apparent resistance.

  Grimaldi’s voice sounded in Bolan’s ear mic. “There’s a firefight going on at the airstrip. Looks like that plane is turning around for a takeoff.”

  Bolan glanced at Martinez. “There’s trouble at the airstrip.”

  “Go! We’ve got this one covered.”

  The Executioner nodded and worked his way outside, moving with caution and deliberation toward the airstrip as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. Ahead, he could see flashes of gunfire. The twin propellers of the plane were spinning with increasing power as the aircraft started to move.

  “Want me to do a flyover to try to keep them on the ground?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Go for it,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, flying directly in the path of the accelerating plane.

  The craft jerked to the left, slowing appreciably. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red fire zoomed upward.

  Tracer rounds, Bolan figured.

  The bodies of two marines lay in the field before him. No time to check them now, he thought. He was almost to the airfield.

  “Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “he can shoot. I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close.”

  Bolan paused, acquired a sight picture of the hostile and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in his direction, and the Executioner saw that he was Asian. Bolan fired again, and his target jerked slightly.

  He was hit. The question was, how badly?

  Seconds later the Executioner had his answer as red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He acquired a sight picture and saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.

  Grenade, Bolan thought, and didn’t hesitate. He shot the man, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.

  Bolan keyed his mic and asked Martinez for a sitrep.

  “We are secure inside,” the sergeant replied. “One prisoner.”

  “Casualties?” Bolan asked.

  “One of my men wounded. One KIA.” Martinez’s voice cracked when he said the last part. “Captain Ruiz has called for a medevac, and reinforcements to take control.”

  Bolan frowned. Too many casualties. This had been a debacle.

  He radioed Grimaldi, saying they had a wounded marine, and asking if he could set the chopper on the airstrip.

  “No problem,” the pilot said. “You just get that marine over to me and I’ll fly him out.”

  Bolan radioed the information to Martinez, who offered his thanks for Grimaldi’s assistance.

  After the wounded man had been loaded into the chopper, with another of his comrades to direct the flight, Grimaldi lifted off.

  Bolan tagged up with Martinez, who was standing near the rest of the team. A man in a bright orange short-sleeved shirt sat in the middle, his hands fastened behind his back, a briefcase on the floor in front of him. He was whistling softly, and when Martinez told him to shut up, he kept on whistling. Enraged, the sergeant walked over and slapped him across the face.

  “Is that the best you can do?” the seated man asked in Spanish, then spit on the floor. “You are the dirt beneath my feet.”

  Martinez cocked his hand back to deliver another blow.

  “Sounds like he’s trying to get to you,” Bolan said. “He’s trying to bait you.”

  “You are American?” the prisoner asked in English, looking at Bolan. “Yeah, you must be. You don’t have a mask on, like these cowards.”

  Martinez kept his arm cocked for a few moments more, the expression of fury locked on his face, then he slowly lowered his hand and joined Bolan.

  He leaned close and said in English, “I think he’s Cuban, from the sound of him.”

  Bolan had the same thought, noticing the Cuban inflection.

  “Yeah, you’re right, chief,” the prisoner said. “I am Cuban. And now let me ta
lk to the man in charge.”

  “I am in charge here,” Martinez said, turning toward him. “What do you want?”

  “Not you,” the Cuban said. “The American. I’ve got information to trade. No way you can give me what I want.”

  “And what might that be?” Bolan asked.

  The Cuban leaned back and smirked. “A condo in Miami for starters.” He laughed. “You’re gonna be interested in what I’ve got to say.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  The Cuban smirked again. “American, you’re not gonna believe what I’ve got. No way. But it’s big. Real big.”

  Bolan watched the man sitting there smiling, a look of total confidence on his face.

  This could be interesting, he thought.

  NIISA Headquarters

  Adobe Flats, New Mexico

  JAMES HUDSON WATCHED from the back of the auditorium. Dr. Phillip McGreagor, as he liked to be called, stood on the stage holding the microphone like a rock star, gesturing toward the ceiling-to-floor screen behind him as it depicted the white, streamlined rocket on the launchpad, braced by the accompanying assemblage. McGreagor had used every means at his disposal, from liposuction to Botox, to maintain his lean-and-mean, youthful appearance, and now he strode around shaking the dark crown of his expertly woven hairpiece.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said, extending his hand toward the image, “is the future.”

  Hudson thought it looked like an insignificant Roman candle waiting to blow, in contrast to the bleak mesquite-covered hills and distant mountains. He continued to watch as his boss spoke about the upcoming planned launch to his movie star friends, rich investors and a small, select group of reporters. Several professional photographers scurried around unobtrusively, snapping pictures, while others panned back and forth with cameras mounted on tripods. It was McGreagor’s show, and Hudson wondered which turned the rich son of a bitch on more, the spectacle or the actual thought of space travel.

  “This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor continued, “to be part of the future. To make what we see in the movies a reality.” He paused and milked the silence for all it was worth before adding, “You can get tickets for the first civilian, commercial trip into outer space, and have a time share in our fully inhabited station on the moon by the end of the decade.”