Warrior's Edge Read online

  He and Molembe double-timed it downhill, zigzagging all the way before taking refuge behind another ridge of baked sand and stone.

  The rest of Molembe's trackers converged from left and right onto the site, inching toward the riverbed behind whatever scarce cover they could find, firing staccato bursts at the Desert Knights.

  Bolan alternated the 40 mm loads, firing heat, smoke and fragmentation grenades at the meres' position.

  The enemy force spread out, extending their firing line and sending steady streams of return fire at the Africans. But there weren't as many weapons firing this time.

  Bolan guessed there were about a dozen or more left standing by now.

  Though the trackers had fewer men for now, the tide had turned. The riverbed was a death trap. Enemy blood was flowing like water, and reinforcements were on the way.

  The mercenaries couldn't attack the scattered forces of the trackers, nor could they abandon their position without getting picked off.

  "We've got them," Bolan stated.

  The security chief nodded. "Just have to pick up the pieces." He loaded another magazine into the hotbarreled Colt. He'd already run through several clips.

  Now that they were within killing range, he'd fired with brutal effect, cutting down the defenders as they peered over the edge of their trenches. It was like tearing off the tops of picket fences, but the splinters were bone and blood.

  Two of Molembe's trackers caught the scent of victory and let it carry them away. They raced straight toward the riverbed, firing full bore, not trying to evade enemy guns as they opened up on the meres.

  But the fight wasn't over yet.

  At least not for the enemy forces, who concentrated their fire on the luckless duo.

  The first volley ripped the lead man from head to toe and side to side, kicking him flat on his back, a lead-laden crucifix taking bloody shape on his desert camouflage uniform.

  The second man realised his error and tried to dive for cover. But the snipers had his mark.

  He leaped right into a burst that riddled his face and punched him into the sand.

  A tragic waste of life, Bolan thought. Some of the men were competent trackers but inexperienced warriors. Though the battle was almost over, the other side hadn't panicked, hadn't given up the fight.

  They were hard-core, well picked by Fowler.

  But the tide of battle had turned and would soon sweep the meres away. It was only a question of time.

  As the echoes of gunfire faded away and both sides paused to assess the damage, the sound of heavy rotors drummed the air.

  The noise grew louder, closer, then the Lynx gunship appeared on the horizon. Painted with streaks of cloudy blue camouflage on the sides of the cabin, the utility war-horse hovered above a jagged ridge for a moment before dropping straight down out of sight.

  The men on the ground looked toward the ridge, the trackers with enthusiasm, the defenders with dread.

  "I hope that's our taxi," Bolan called to Molembe, who'd dropped behind a sandy promontory to establish contact with the choppers.

  "It's Serpentine Force," the man replied, the handset dwarfed in his hand as he talked to the pilot.

  "A force of one?" Molembe shook his head and raised two fingers while he continued to talk with the pilot.

  He gestured to his left toward the ridge, where the chopper had disappeared, then the right, indicating a companion chopper en route.

  The Zandesian nodded a few times as he spoke, shielding his eyes as he looked toward the ridge.

  "He wants smoke," Molembe stated.

  "He's got it." The Executioner inched forward and to the right of the cover he'd chosen on the run.

  It was a clump of rock and clay about a foot and a half tall, capping a slight incline.

  Tall enough for a tombstone, the Executioner thought, if he showed too much silhouette. But the choppers needed to know where to concentrate their fire to finish off the resistance.

  He pumped the M-203 to lock in the 40 mm load, then hugged the scorching sand and rock as he propped his elbow into the ground and fired a smoke grenade.

  Seconds later smoke billowed from the riverbed trench, provoking a barrage of automatic fire that ripped into the sand and clay round Bolan's position. But it was a short-lived volley.

  The chopper was making its move.

  The Lynx came in from the left, firing two HE rockets. The first detonated in the bottom of the riverbed and sent a wall of flame and debris tearing into the defenders.

  The second rocket exploded into the ground several feet to the left of the trench, bombarding the defenders with rocks and sheets of flame.

  While smoke and flame shrouded the Desert Knights, the chopper came in for its strafing run, opening up with its 7.62 mm minigun. The solid line of lead cut down a quartet of the stunned meres before they could even think about evasive maneuvers.

  The sturdy Lynx followed the course of the riverbed, sustaining several hits that clanged into its armor-plating but caused little damage.

  It was a one-sided war, with the chopper returning fire a thousandfold.

  Lead fell like sheets of rain until the Lynx finished its run and veered to the right to make way for the second chopper's attack.

  It was hell times two.

  A battery of 68 mm SNEB rockets flashed from the launcher of the second Lynx, bursting overhead as they neared the riverbed and unleashing a metal storm of antipersonnel steel darts over the survivors.

  The chopper's machine guns opened up as it roared over the riverbed.

  Bolan and the Zandesian trackers watched the pounding in silence. In a way it seemed like overkill, but this was war to the max. The meres had shown no mercy for the legionnaire they'd used for target practice, and in turn they expected no mercy from Molembe's men.

  Just the same, the Zandesian made the attempt, his basso voice sweeping over the gulf between them and calling for their surrender.

  Several shots rang out, the few survivors firing in desperation. They wouldn't quit.

  Molembe hand-signaled two of his men who carried drum-loaded automatic shotguns Armsel Strikers, veritable cannons.

  The Zandesian shotgunners split up as they approached the jagged riverbed and dropped in from both sides, the remaining trackers providing covering fire into the entrenched meres.

  A few moments later the Armsel Strikers roared, the 12-round drums of thunder emptying in less than three seconds.

  The rest of the trackers swarmed toward the trench, jumping down into the dust, dirt and blood.

  Crammed into a thin crevice, a bullet-riddled mercenary was screaming in his death throes.

  The first tracker to reach him fired one shot and freed him from his agony.

  Two other shots echoed down the line as the Zandesians instinctively delivered coup shots to the dying meres.

  Then it was over.

  Molembe called in the choppers while the rest of his men secured the landing zone, spreading out in case any more meres were in the area, hiding.

  But the rest of the Desert Knights were long gone.

  In a stinging whirlpool of dirt and sand kicked up by the rotors, the helicopters landed.

  While the first chopper ferried a handful of Molembe's men across the sand pan where they'd left their vehicles, Bolan stepped to the edge of the riverbed and looked down at the men who were sprawled out on the bottom.

  The Zandesians methodically combed through the meres' gear for weapons, ID, money, anything that might reveal how Fowler had recruited his troops.

  About half of the men were native Zandesians, the other half imports Fowler had brought in from Europe.

  Bolan looked toward the mountains, where the main body of the meres had fled. Then he looked down at the rearguard who'd stayed behind forever.

  "Fowler chose well," Bolan commented. "If the rest of his men are like this, we're in for one hell of a battle."

  Molembe nodded. "Some are better, some are worse. But he can alwa
ys buy more. Even though we've shut down his bank accounts, he's got supporters in the city, hidden funds and a lot of people who owe him. They'll provide more hired guns." The tall Zandesian looked hard at Bolan. "This will go on until we take him out."

  "That's why I'm here."

  "That's what we've been told. I'll want to know more about that soon." The man's gaze slid to the bodies of his own men who'd fallen, then to the bodies of his countrymen sprawled out on the riverbed. "But civil wars and revolutions don't always go according to schedule."

  "I'm here until the end," the Executioner promised.

  "We'll see."

  Bolan understood his skepticism. The fight had taken its toll and its time, holding up the pursuit long enough for the rest of the meres to get away and dig themselves into the mountain fortresses.

  "Let's see it up close," the Executioner suggested, heading for the second chopper.

  2

  Night fell quickly, bringing with it a sudden chill and wind that shrieked and tugged at the flickering camp fires set up by the Zandesian trackers. The men were spread out on a plateau that looked down on the surrounding cliffs, caves and passes that sliced through Mont Bataille.

  The Zandesian Intelligence chief had selected the higher elevation as the base for the operation against the Desert Knights.

  Serpentine Force helicopters had brought in fresh supplies and reinforcements, many of whom were now scanning the notches and ridges of the mountain through the thermal-imager scopes mounted on their sniper rifles.

  Now and then one of them fired at the ghostly images that whisked across their night-vision screens for a brief instant before retreating into the shadows.

  The Desert Knights returned the favor at odd intervals, their own lookouts firing rounds that whined off the cliff wall.

  The shooting had no effect on either side, and most likely wouldn't produce any casualties during the night. It was just routine, designed to keep the other side on edge.

  Between the psychological barrages many of the Zandesians snatched a couple of hours' sleep in their tents, knowing that at sunup they could be scaling down the mountainsides, digging out the meres.

  Bolan sat with his back against a contoured wall of rock, sipping a cup of harsh black coffee and looking up at the cloudy sky.

  Around him spires of weathered rock stood like steeples from the majestic church of a long-ago Earth.

  This was hallowed ground the land of Zandesian prophets, the land of exodus. For thousands of years it had changed hands as the Zandesians warred against invaders, as well as their own tribesmen. But one thing remained constant: the gods were always in residence in the mountains. Chased here over the centuries as new religions came with the French, English and German, some of the old gods still prevailed.

  And their names weren't forgotten by many Zandesians who called upon them from time to time.

  Like Martin Molembe, Bolan thought.

  Sitting less than ten feet away from him, the Zandesian had been quiet since the troops had settled in. Quiet but attentive, almost as if he were seeking counsel from the old tribal rulers of Zandesi.

  Why not? Bolan thought. It was an eerie setting out here in the mountains. The night air seemed to carry with it the promise of death, imminent rainstorms of war that would soon sweep across the country. Unless he and Molembe contained Heinrich Fowler's Desert Knights, perhaps those storms would wash away the seeds of freedom so recently planted.

  In such a deadly atmosphere a man could use all the help he got, whether it came from the old tribal gods or from a man called the Executioner.

  Bolan found himself drifting into a state of half sleep, resting his body, relaxing his mind, but still aware of the sounds around him.

  Now and then the scrabbling of running footsteps echoed from a distant ridge, followed by the shuffling of falling rock cascading over the steep edges. Then there'd be a long moment of silence until the rock clattered below, followed by the sudden volleys of rifle fire that slashed through the silence like a whip.

  Molembe clapped his hands suddenly, focusing his attention on Bolan. "And now you, eh?"

  "Now me?"

  "There are things I must know if we're to fight this war to the finish."

  Bolan set his tin cup beside him in the dirt and said, "Anything I can tell you, I will."

  "I see." Molembe frowned. "And who decides what you can reveal?"

  "Me. It depends on what you want to know."

  "To start with, I want to know why you're here. From what I've heard of you and what I witnessed myself, you're a dangerous man to have around."

  "Could be."

  "Dangerous to whom, I wonder."

  The Byzantine maneuverings of Heinrich Fowler had left their mark throughout the military and Intelligence agencies of Zandesi. An accomplished player, Fowler had them all worried about spies and traitors.

  "I'll tell you one thing," Bolan said. "If I was after you, you'd be dead and gone, and I'd be on my way home."

  "Then why have you come here?" Molembe asked. He paused for a moment and looked around him as if he could pluck the answer from thin air. "To fight for people you don't even know out of some crazy sense of honor? No, I don't think so." The tall African shook his head for emphasis. "That can't be the answer."

  Bolan shrugged, leaned back and braced himself against the rocky perch. "If you want to do the asking and the answering, that's fine with me," he said. "Let me know when you're finished."

  "I accord," Molembe replied, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. He nodded his head slowly, as if revelation was dawning up on him. "Tell me, Mr. Belasko. What's your price? And just as important, how much more would the other side have to pay to buy your loyalty?"

  "I've got no price. I'd need a lot of money and little sense to jump into this situation."

  "What is it, then?" the African demanded. "Excuse me if I don't sound convinced, but I understand you aren't quite attached to the U.S. government. Not officially. You're here because some of our American friends buy your services from time to time…"

  "No one buys me," Bolan interrupted him. "It's more of a symbiotic relationship. Sometimes we fight the same fight, sometimes we go our own way."

  "All the way to Zandesi."

  "I'm here because a friend asked me to come. He thinks I should be here, and now that I see what's going on, I think so, too."

  The Executioner thought back to the offshore briefing he'd had with Hal Brognola aboard one of four U.S. amphibious assault ships patrolling the Atlantic. Each vessel carried a Marine battalion and an assault helicopter squadron.

  Carrying them was one thing. Using them was another.

  The situation in Zandesi was a political minefield. If the U.S. went in with full strength, Fowler's people could brand them as imperialist warmongers and pull out all the stops in their guerrilla war, blaming the escalating violence on the U.S. presence.

  Considering what had already happened, it would be a good propaganda ploy.

  But at the moment the American warships were simply cruising offshore in international waters, making a show of potential force.

  The real force was the Executioner.

  Brognola's below-decks briefing had made it clear that for now Bolan could count on precious little overt support.

  "What else is new?" Bolan had asked.

  "For starters," the head Fed said, "my head's on the chopping block this time." He clasped his hands together and reflexively cracked his knuckles. Then, as if he could ward off the invisible, inevitable fall of a guillotine blade, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  The man was under a lot of pressure this time, sweating both bullets and blood.

  The personal threat to Hal Brognola caught Bolan's full attention. Aside from their years of friendship, the Justice man was an arm of Bolan's personal operations. A long arm. The big Fed was still a field man at heart, despite his rise in the covert bureaucracy. It was Brognola who kept the lions at bay so Bolan could have free
rein, and who maintained the uneasy alliance between the Executioner and the U.S. government.

  Their relationship was rock solid whether he was working for the Justice Department or not.

  Sometimes on his own missions Bolan needed to tap into Uncle Sam's covert apparatus.

  Brognola came through whenever he could, with few questions asked just enough to know what to expect so he could prepare for the fallout.

  Bolan paid back that trust time and again.

  Few questions asked.

  This time was no different.

  Brognola had stuck his neck out in Zandesi when the people had seized their chance to throw off the yoke of behind-the-scenes dictator Heinrich Fowler and his Zandesian front man, Emil Nashonge.

  Representatives of the Free Election Party FEP had turned to the U.S. ambassador for guidance and for assistance. Among their leaders were several pro-American Zandesian officers who'd trained in the United States and were decidedly pro-Western. Chief among them was a military Intelligence officer named Martin Molembe.

  Many of the officers had been sponsored by Hal Brognola a decade ago when the U.S. was in need of a friendly West African ally.

  Contacts were made, careers were pushed and the groundwork was laid.

  But that was yesterday.

  Times changed, perceptions changed.

  With many Soviet operations winding down in Africa as much due to bankruptcy as ideology it no longer seemed so important to prop up a floundering West African nation. So when the FEP finally made its move to topple Nashonge's corrupt regime, the U.S. had to choose between lending a hand or turning its back.

  The decision went against helping Zandesi.

  The President's military and Intelligence advisers counseled against getting the United States mired in a long and bloody African conflict. In effect, they wanted the U.S. presence to melt, to pretend that Zandesi never existed.

  But Brognola pulled every string he could. It wasn't in his nature to abandon friends. He called in favors from just about everyone he'd ever dealt with. And the tide turned when his circle of insiders went to bat for him.

  The U.S. made a sudden about-face.