Ground Zero Read online

  * * *

  BOLAN DROVE BACK to the base. He would have to run security at the entry point with two bags of illegal weapons and contraband explosives stowed in the rear. He hoped that the guys on the gate would be slack for once and not conduct a full search.

  It was an interesting dichotomy that he was hoping for exactly the kind of lapse he would otherwise condemn. If they did let him through, he’d be grateful and then make sure that the lapse was reported so no other U.S. soldier or airman would be at risk.

  His smartphone went off as he approached. Cursing, he slowed a fraction to give himself time to answer before he reached the gate.

  “Striker, not an inopportune moment, I hope.”

  “Could be better, Bear. Unless it can wait, it’ll need to be quick.”

  Kurtzman chuckled. “I’ve downloaded all you asked for, and if Jack could be bothered to make his own calls and not use me as some kind of message service, then I wouldn’t detain you. He’s on his way and has an ETA of twenty-three minutes and counting. Apparently he has clearance to land, though I’d take that with a pinch of salt.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him to make his own calls in the future,” Bolan replied before disconnecting. He was now approaching the gates, and he slowed for the barriers.

  Two guards approached. One kept his distance while the other directly approached the window. They had been on duty when he’d left and obviously recognized him.

  “You’re back quick, Cooper,” the guard said good-humoredly, using the alias that Bolan currently used. “Not much to see around here really, is there?”

  “Sure isn’t,” Bolan replied.

  “Got your papers? Just a formality.” The guard held out his hand, and Bolan handed over the documents that covered his arrival, exit and entry and departure from the base. The guard gave them a perfunctory scan.

  “When are you shipping out to join your detachment?” the guard asked.

  “A flight’s been laid on. That’s why I’m back so soon. It would help if this could be as quick as possible,” Bolan said in as noncommittal a tone as he could muster.

  The guard grinned. “Can’t wait, eh? Man, you haven’t been on a tour for a while, have you?” He stepped back and ushered Bolan through; the barrier opened at his gesture.

  Bolan drove though with mixed emotions. It had been the passage he had wanted, but by the same token there could have been anyone or anything concealed in the vehicle. He would have to get Hal Brognola to follow up on this. But for now, there were other matters to attend to.

  He parked and headed for his barracks. His kit bag was there, stowed in a locker, and he would need it along with the two that he now had on his shoulder. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped and the contents examined, but he didn’t have the time to do anything other than carry them with him.

  He entered the barracks and headed for the lockers, exchanging brief greetings with a couple of the men who had been on the transport and were in a similar situation to him—except they were genuinely awaiting dispatch to their units. One of them made a feeble joke about him cleaning out the town of tourist gifts, made allegedly funnier by the base being located off the beaten tourist track. Bolan responded but still hurried as he took out his kit bag.

  Bolan’s face was set hard as he made his way across the airfield. Checking his watch, he saw that Grimaldi’s ETA was now eight minutes. He expected to hear Dragonslayer’s approach shortly. Hell, it was hard enough to miss. He would need to be in place, and they would need to move immediately to forestall too many questions.

  He approached the control tower, which looked archaic and showed the age of the base the United States had leased. It would be an easy target in this day and age, but with no real foothold in the region, what other option had there been? It was also easy to approach on foot, although the way in which he was greeted when he’d showed his ID to the guard there suggested that Brognola had dropped words into the right ears, and he was expected. Maybe he had misjudged the guys on the gate, too.

  The Executioner ascended to the main room, where he was greeted by the officer in charge.

  “Cooper, I don’t know who you are, but when the commander in chief says jump, I’m already in the air. I know you can’t tell me your mission, but if you have a flight path, then we can sure as hell do our best to keep it clear and clean for you.”

  “Appreciate it,” Bolan acknowledged. “My pilot will be able to tell you that. He should be here in—” a quick check of the watch “—three minutes now. In fact, that’s him you can hear.”

  They looked out of the conning tower and saw the sleek chopper approach. On the ground, Bolan could see personnel look up and wonder at the craft that came in to land. It was recognizable as U.S. military issue, but only just. Grimaldi had customized the chopper so that it was suited for heavy-duty warfare as well as swift movement, and the 30 mm mounted ordnance was far beyond that carried by most comparable birds.

  “That, my friend, is not standard issue,” the officer in charge murmured with a low whistle. “You could do some damage with that.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping,” Bolan answered softly.

  Grimaldi’s voice crackled over the comms, requesting permission to land. It was granted, and he was given space away from the main cluster of buildings. The officer in charge obtained Grimaldi’s flight plan and guaranteed a clear path and eyes on any outsiders. Then he turned to Bolan.

  “You don’t want prying eyes, and I’ll get you a jeep to take you out there quickly, soldier.” After a barked order into the comms, he indicated that one would be waiting. Bolan acknowledged that and hurried down to the base of the tower, where a vehicle and driver were waiting. He was amused as the guard, not quite knowing what to do, saluted him as he threw his bags into the jeep.

  The driver took off for where the chopper waited, its rotors still moving. Bolan liked the way that the driver concentrated on the job at hand, saying nothing and asking no questions. When he did speak, as Bolan alighted, all he said was, “Good luck, sir, whatever it is,” before throwing the vehicle into Drive and heading back to the tower.

  “What kept you, Sarge?” Grimaldi quipped as Bolan settled next to him.

  “Yeah, funny, Jack. Let’s just get airborne. We’ve got a location but we need to get on it before the trail goes cold.”

  Grimaldi nodded, his face grim as he remembered the hostages. He took the chopper into the air, circled the field and headed out over the Gulf of Aden toward the coast of Somalia.

  “Relax, Sarge, we’ve got a couple of hours before I reach the map reference Bear gave me. I bet he’s given you some homework, too.”

  Bolan grinned as he settled in to study the intel downloaded to his smartphone. One thing for sure: there would be no time for this once they landed. He needed to be fully prepped as soon as he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The back of the truck was pulled down, and the guards poked the captives into life with the muzzles of their weapons. George and Carla were slow to respond. The woman got the butt of a rifle in her stomach for her tardiness and was unceremoniously shoved into a heap on the desert floor as she tumbled from the flatbed. Marina glanced at Frank. He knew she wanted to protest, but he signaled her to stay quiet. She would only be punished herself, and it would change nothing. George was treated less harshly. He was grabbed by the arms and hauled out, but there was some deference shown for his injured state.

  Once down, Frank Foster took the opportunity to scope out their new camp. It looked much like the last one: tents, shacks built of corrugated metal sheeting, with jeeps and flatbeds scattered about. Again, there were few women, and those that were resident were covered in the traditional Muslim manner. Unlike the last camp, however, there was less variation in the way the men dressed. Those he could see were more traditionally Islamic
in their dress.

  A group of five men were gathered by the largest tent. They were deep in discussion, shooting glances at the new arrivals. With a nod, one of the men detached himself from the group and approached them. He cast an appraising eye over them as though they were cattle. He was over six feet tall, heavily built and didn’t look purebred Somali; there was something more Arabic about his mien. His full beard was flecked with gray, and one eye was milky and blind.

  “So this is what they bring us, eh?” he began. “Worthless and pointless, except for one thing. You, Foster—” he pointed a gnarled finger accusingly “—you work for the government that would seek to oppress us and impose your will upon us, denying us the right to live as a spiritual people...”

  Frank’s gut twisted with anger and a desire to bite back; the hypocrisy was making his gorge rise. There was some grain of truth in his words when applied to some places in the world, maybe, but that was small compared to the holy war declared by 9/11. He wanted to say that but knew it would probably sign all their death warrants immediately. Better to stay alive as long as possible.

  “But they do not reckon on landing us with a perfect weapon. You have information to add to our store of knowledge. We can also sell you back to them and get money to buy more weapons, possibly from the very places that you can tell us about.” He threw back his head and gave a throaty laugh. “That would be good. That would be just. But first we must find out what you know.” His face split in a vulpine and predatory grin. “That will be enjoyable.”

  * * *

  “LOOKS EMPTY TO me down there, Sarge,” Grimaldi commented as they approached the location given them by the GPS readings downloaded from Stony Man.

  “Jack, the whole country looks empty,” Bolan said as he surveyed the land from horizon to horizon. Stony, sandy semidesert with a little scrub and some small oases of water scattered across the landscape. Most of the land was low-level, split here and there by long, desolate plateaus. It was hard to see how anyone could live off the land. It had been the same from Djibouti and over the unmarked border between the two countries.

  Below them was the encampment where the GPS reading had come from. In a land like this, it would be impossible for them to approach with any kind of stealth. The only way was to go in hard and direct. They would be seen in the late-afternoon sky, which was cloudless, with the sun beginning to fade. Even that wouldn’t provide them with much cover. The Stony Man pilot maneuvered so that he would be coming into target with the sun at his back.

  Bolan went back and suited up: concussion and flash grenades hung from the web harness on the blacksuit, with extra ordnance for the guns he would use. The chopper was unmarked; his blacksuit was not identifiable in the same way the weapons he used were untraceable in case it became an issue. He’d chosen to buy a couple of BXP10 SMGs. They were simple and serviceable weapons, knockoffs of MAC-10s. He also carried a Chilean SAF machine pistol. It was a good weapon in close quarters, and a compromise between carrying a handgun that might just be deadweight and another SMG that may be too clumsy.

  “Want me to lay down some cover?” Grimaldi asked over the comm system as Bolan prepared to fast-rope to the ground.

  “Too risky with your ordnance,” Bolan answered. “We don’t know where they are down there, and we can’t risk taking them out.”

  “Okay, Sarge, but you’re making it hard for yourself.”

  “I can live with that, Jack. Just take her in and hover, and then pull up when I tell you,” Bolan replied as he adjusted his headset.

  Grimaldi looked down at the settlement as he approached at speed. The key was to get in position quickly, before anyone could fire at him. There was no sign of any heavy ordnance down there, but no way of being certain. Below, he could see that his approach had been spotted and men were running around, raising the alarm.

  Grimaldi leveled the helicopter and hovered about eight yards above the surface of the desert floor. The backwash of air from Dragonslayer raised clouds of dust that obscured the vision of the men now spilling into view. It was the best he could do in providing cover, and it wouldn’t last long, so...

  “Go, Sarge!” he yelled into his comm unit.

  Bolan, waiting for the word, adjusted the goggles he had chosen almost entirely for protection and opened the hatch, dropping the rope down so that it hung straight in the eye of the dust storm.

  With a BXP10 cradled in one arm, he wrapped himself around the rope and pushed out, descending rapidly and hitting the ground in a running crouch. He signaled for Grimaldi to pull away, and, as the chopper rose, the soldier was able to see through the settling dust more clearly than the enemy, whose eyes were still gritted by the choking clouds.

  He sprayed an arc and took out six men with one burst, reducing the odds immediately.

  In a running crouch, Bolan headed for the largest group of tents and shacks. The sand at his feet was chopped up by AK-47 fire from behind him. He dived into a shoulder roll, dropping the BXP10 in his grasp as his wrist rapped against a rock, and came up in the shelter of a flatbed truck. Cursing to himself and ignoring the pain in his wrist, he pulled the second BXP10 machine pistol from its nestling place and returned the fire. He saw another man go down.

  Four women came running and screaming from one of the tents. They were unarmed, and he held fire, wondering if this was just panic or something else. His question was answered when a grenade sailed over them, landing just in front and detonating with a crump. The soldier ducked behind the vehicle and felt the impact of the shrapnel on the other side of the truck; window glass shattered above and over him.

  After pulling a concussion grenade from his web harness, he armed the bomb and lobbed it over the top of the truck toward the tent, rising cautiously to check the action. His injured wrist was his right, and a spasm of agony made him grind his teeth as the grenade soared straight and true, landing at the tent flap.

  The concussion grenade detonated. Bolan counted to five and moved out of cover. He kept the BXP10 in his grip, scanning the camp for any signs of movement, unable to rely on his hearing until the effects of the detonation had worn off.

  There was no sign of any life. It appeared that the inhabitants of the camp were dead, unconscious or playing possum. The last was a possibility he kept in mind as he scoured the tents and shacks.

  Empty. All of them. Anyone inside had come out, and there was no sign of the hostages.

  Bolan cursed softly to himself and reconned the rest of the camp. It was light on manpower for the amount of tents, and it was obvious that when the hostages had been moved, there had been a heavy guard on them. The question was: Where did they go?

  There was very little paperwork in any of the tents, especially the most luxurious, which he could safely assume was the camp leader’s. Luxurious was a relative term: the camp was poor. The only thing he could find, under bedding and blankets in this tent, was a smartphone. It was incongruous to find one on its own in this place.

  “Jack, can you read me?” Bolan snapped into his headset.

  “Sarge, do you want a pickup?”

  “Yeah, you can do that. The target’s gone, but we might be able to trace them. I’ve got a phone, and I’ll lay you odds it’s the GPS we were given.”

  “Then how do we follow them?”

  “You come in and land, Jack. We might have to use some more old-fashioned methods.”

  * * *

  “IT’S VERY SIMPLE, Foster. You tell us all you know, and we don’t hurt you.”

  “It wouldn’t be worth your effort,” Frank replied with a nonchalance he really didn’t feel. In truth, his best efforts still betrayed a quaver in his voice.

  “It would,” the bearded man said simply. “We would reward you with life. You have nothing to look forward to in death except oblivion. There are no martyrs beyond the true faith.”

&nb
sp; “I’ve read your book. I work with people who have your faith. You’re talking crap. It says that life is sacred and only in cases of defense should any force be used. I’m not scared of oblivion, but you should be for betraying the words of the Prophet.”

  The bearded man’s face twisted into a smile. “Very clever. You seek to undermine me by using the words of my own faith against me. I can see why you are such an asset to your people. But your words are empty, for this is a war of defense. Defense of the holy word against the nonbeliever. You seek to oppress us, and so we will fight back. It is that simple.”

  “Nothing’s that simple,” Foster said with resignation. He knew that any amount of stalling for time, trying to reason or anything that would delay the inevitable was doomed to failure.

  “It is if you wish it. Life is a simple thing, and it is we foolish people who seek to complicate it. But I have no time for philosophical conversation. It is pointless. There is much to do,” he added with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Frank Foster was tied to a cane chair. The seat had no padding, and he was naked. He felt uncomfortable, and despite his better judgment tried to shift his weight. The discomfort changed to pain as his body weight bore down on his scrotum, pushing it into and through the cane fretwork. He winced and bit back on the cry that rose in his throat.

  The bearded man smiled.

  “You understand what will happen? Eventually, you will emasculate yourself. It will be extremely slow and painful. You will beg for us to untie you and tell us anything we wish. Of course, you can forestall this....”

  He left the rest unsaid, but unwittingly he had steeled Foster’s resolve. The longer he could hold out, the greater chance... Did he really believe that the cavalry would be on the way? Was he fooling himself? The doubts must have played across his face, for the bearded man laughed shortly.

  “You have the makings of a strong man for someone who has been bred in such a weak land. You seek to last as long as possible. I wonder if I have the time to waste on you? Perhaps we should expedite matters in some way.”