Collision Course Read online

"More important for us than his code-cracking ability is his code-writing ability," Price continued. "Lerekhov could be the Rosetta stone of Vietnamese intelligence, which Washington believes has the most extensive files in the world, including names and account numbers for terrorist groups operating from the Pacific Rim to the Horn of Africa. Such information could turn the tide of the war against terror well into our favor in Asia."

  "Why does a man who is such a devout Communist that he ran from an open Russia to a hard-line Vietnam suddenly want to defect?" Bolan asked. "And why put it out on the open market with an influence peddler like Taterczynski instead of coming directly to a sponsor agency like us or the French or Germans?"

  "I think we may have a clue to the first part of your question, Mack," Brognola spoke up. "Carmen managed to dig something up out of the ether from our binary traps on the Vietnamese embassy in D.C." "Carmen" was Carmen Delahunt, former FBI agent recruited by Brognola to work with the Farm's cyber-team.

  "Mr. Lerekhov put in a request to the senior official here to make contact with our State Department about arranging health care," Price explained. "It seems Andrei has cancer of the colon and intestines. And cancer of the blood. That request was denied."

  "This was before we realized he had traded security codes for the software to Iran's nuclear program using Taterczynski as a middleman?"

  "Yes, that was why he went back to Taterczynski," Price answered.

  "So I go in, make contact and exfiltrate with the Russian," Bolan summed up.

  "You get the Russian, we get the Iranian security software, hack and crash the system, avoid an Israeli-sponsored strike. Of course security will be tight. Beyond the official security about a dozen intelligence agencies from a handful of paranoid governments will be fielding bodyguards, security operatives and conducting surveillance taskings," the mission controller stated.

  "That whole resort is going to be a rat's nest of bugs, counterbugs and so wired it'll seem like You Tube," Brognola added.

  "Movement is going to be a nightmare," Bolan said.

  "More than a nightmare," Price corrected. "Virtually impossible. Your only chance is going to be to fight fire with fire and, of course, as the President just pointed out, the NSA's field operatives are being run pretty ragged right now."

  "Solution?" Bolan countered.

  "There are other American assets in the region," Brognola said.

  "We're going to set up a forward operating base in the resort to provide communications and electronic-warfare capabilities for your snatch," Price continued. "We'll be able to hack, to interdict and initiate systems security operations of hostile observers and give you the best overwatch and aggressive tech ability in that place. Our assets will deploy to the resort ahead of you and set up an on-site activities cell that will link Stony Man mainframes and sat feeds to your area of operations. They'll be responsible for getting the gear to Myanmar, through customs and into the hotel. They will stay in the background as tech support while you operate through the environment. When the snatch happens, they will disengage and leave the country by a different route than yourself and the target."

  "Is this necessary?" Bolan asked. "You know I prefer to work alone."

  "This time guns won't be enough, Mack," Brognola said. "You'll need the extra help to avoid being compromised—there are just too many observers in that location. Without someone to give you additional eyes and provide a smoke screen, you have no chance."

  "What's their cover?"

  "They will have press credentials. Cowboy and Bear have managed to camouflage a great deal of their gear as video cameras and recording equipment," Brognola answered.

  "We'll need to take a look at the kind of assets, networks and stringers the U.S. has in play in Myanmar," Price interjected. "Ever since the military crackdown of 1988 they've been on our Human Rights Violation watch. They have massive corruption, a brutal regime and an ineffectual insurgency operating along the border with Thailand the CIA's been encouraging for two decades now."

  "Let's start there," Bolan said.

  Brognola nodded, then leaned forward and stabbed at the intercom button on the phone.

  "Bear, can you join us in the War Room? We need to go over background data."

  10

  Bolan scanned the inaccessible mountain terrain of the Thai-Myanmar border. Inside the cockpit of the OH-6 Little Bird helicopter, Jack Grimaldi surveyed the night jungle below them through the heads-up display of his Forward Looking Infrared—FLIR—sensors.

  The experienced pilot concentrated on his task while Mack Bolan sat beside him in the copilot's seat. Cloud cover was a low ceiling above them and the jungle formed an unbroken carpet beneath them.

  "We're on-site according to GPS," Grimaldi said.

  Bolan gave him a thumbs-up as the pilot slowed the Little Bird into a hover. They had taken off from a joint Thai military and U.S. DEA operation center serving as a base for monitoring opium activity in the Golden Triangle.

  The Little Bird hovered and then, showing deft skill, Grimaldi slowly spun the light helicopter in a slow circle. As if by magic, the scar of an ancient road was visible through the jungle canopy.

  "There," Bolan said.

  The ace Stony Man pilot began to navigate the airspace above the almost completely overgrown road. Less than a minute later the ruins resolved from the darkness on the FLIR screen. Without hesitation Grimaldi lowered the helicopter into position.

  Using a bottom-mounted camera and a laser range finder, Grimaldi gently eased his cargo down and released the rope connected to the pallet that dangled under the belly of the Little Bird. He lowered the nose of the helicopter and skimmed it forward.

  "Good luck!" Grimaldi said as Bolan leaped from the helicopter and rappelled to the ground.

  The old Buddhist temple was made from dark stone blocks more than a thousand years old. The rock walls surrounding the main building had crumbled, and creepers had grown up to choke the structure like the tentacles of some giant squid.

  Above him Grimaldi climbed the OH-6 up to an observation overwatch height and backed off the area as Bolan walked toward a crumbling archway. On the cargo pallet behind him was a square of stacked wooden boxes.

  Inside the boxes were Bolan's bribe.

  The U.S. military had replaced the M-72 Light Antiarmor Weapon, or LAW rocket, with the M-136AT4 antitank weapon. The result was that huge stockpiles of the 66 mm shoulder-fired, collapsible LAW remained warehoused around the world.

  It required very little creative requisitioning on Hal Brognola's part to scrounge up a shipment of the older but still highly effective weapons to serve as both arming agent and bribe for Bolan's Myanmar alliance.

  The Karen National Liberation Army, or the KNLA, was the military wing of the Karen National Union, a resistance group that had been fighting for independence from Myanmar's military junta since 1948.

  After the "8888" popular uprising on August 8, 1988 ended in failure, the ruling body of Myanmar's junta, the State Peace and Development Council, or SPDC, had turned to China for help. In exchange for economic concessions, China had provided a massive influx of weapons and training that had led to the near annihilation of the KNLA.

  The insurgent group had continued to maintain a toehold along the Myanmar-Thai border, but its operations had become more a matter of survival while the world largely ignored the longest ongoing struggle for independence in modern history.

  Bolan was here to play ball.

  In exchange for the militants' help, he would provide them with much needed direction and materiel, starting with the several hundred disposable LAW rocket launchers on the pallet behind him.

  "Heads up," Grimaldi said over Bolan's earpiece. "I've got hot silhouettes on my FLIR. They're moving out of the wood line to your four o'clock. I'm picking up long weapons on every figure."

  "Copy that," Bolan acknowledged.

  He made no move to unlimber his weapons though he was suitably armed. If trouble came, Grimaldi wi
th his minigun and rockets would make the difference. In the meantime Bolan's focus had to be on negotiating a favorable outcome if his plan was going to work.

  He turned to face the direction Grimaldi had indicated, and after a moment caught sight of ghostly figures emerging from the deep shadows of the jungle. He assumed a nonaggressive posture and put his hands on his hips. The group of armed men in a motley collection of camouflage uniforms and tribal gear began to fan out and take up defensive positions along the perimeter of the ruins.

  A comparatively tall figure emerged from the center of the deploying unit and walked toward Bolan. A stocky man armed with a saw and wearing a bloodred bandanna around his broad forehead followed the first figure.

  Bolan blinked in surprise as the tall KNLA fighter drew closer. The man's hair was gray under a pristine Red Sox baseball hat. He wore upward of a dozen solid gold chains over a Red Sox jersey. His black jeans were tucked into U.S. Army issue jungle boots, and he carried an M-16/M-203 combination assault rifle and grenade launcher. As he approached, Bolan was able to see the man wore a gold earring with the Red Sox logo on it and had what looked to be either an exceptional knockoff or an authentic World Series ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

  "You a Red Sox fan?" the man demanded in flawless clipped English. He reached out the hand with the jeweled ring on it and Bolan shook it. The man's grip was firm but not in an attempt to intimidate.

  "I've always liked the Pirates," Bolan answered, nodding toward the man's baseball paraphernalia. "But I was as glad as anyone when they took the Series."

  The guerrilla leader held Bolan's hand clasped in his own. He leaned in close and his other hand found Bolan's elbow so that he held the American in a sort of embrace. The man's eyes shone with the light of a zealot, even in the dimness of the jungle night.

  "We have been fighting the bastards of the SPDC since 1948," he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. "When the Red Sox won the Series after eighty-six years I knew. I knew it was a sign that if we just endeavored to persevere we would triumph as well."

  Gently Bolan extricated himself from the insurgent leader's enthusiastic grasp. He could feel the sincerity of the man's beliefs rolling off him in almost tangible waves. Bolan patted the man on his shoulder.

  "I have brought you a gift that will help with that. Together, my friend, we will bloody the nose of the SPDC and embarrass them before the world."

  "My name is Smith Dun," the man said. "I am a great warrior and a brilliant leader. In my youth I was a heroic pitcher with a very good fastball. If those are the weapons you promised, then we will do as you say and strike out against the junta that has imprisoned my country!"

  Well, Bolan thought as he shook the man's hand again, he gets an A for enthusiasm.

  Smith Dun moved toward the pallet and Bolan followed him. The night was muggy, and Bolan could feel sweat gathering under his armpits and at the small of his back. Mosquitoes buzzed in an annoying cloud around his face, and the smell of rotting vegetation was strong in his nose.

  Out in the jungle a monkey screamed in primal outrage. Bolan could see more KNLA fighters emerging from the shadows of the jungle frees and taking up positions among the mounds of temple rubble.

  Smith Dun stopped in front of the pallet of rectangular crates. He drew a long, flat-bladed fighting knife from his belt beneath the Red Sox jersey and used it like a pry bar. The nails in the pine wood that housed the LAW rockets released their purchase without a struggle in the heavy humidity.

  Dun threw the top of the first crate down and pushed the packing aside. He reached in and snatched up the OD-green collapsible tube launcher. He hefted it in his hands and Bolan could clearly see him smile.

  "They are all here, friend?" the man asked.

  "Every one," Bolan answered.

  "You and I have made a bargain, then."

  Dun turned back toward his platoon of men and whistled once sharply. His whistle was repeated from somewhere inside the wood line. Men began moving forward, hanging their weapons from the slings as they approached the heavily laden pallet.

  "You got the heat signature of a deuce-and-a-half truck just came to life, about six hundred yards from your position," Grimaldi spoke into Bolan's earpiece.

  Bolan reached up with a single finger and broke squelch by way of acknowledgment. Seconds later the throaty rumble of a truck's big engine emerged from the jungle. Within a minute Bolan saw the vehicle crawling up the deeply rutted road, lights off.

  The surplus U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled into the open courtyard of the ancient temple, and the KNLA men opened the rear and began loading crates from the pallet into the truck bed with well-coordinated efficiency. Within minutes three-quarters of the pallet had been loaded into the truck, the men working only with ambient light the whole time.

  "Heads up," Grimaldi suddenly said.

  Of course, Bolan thought, his chest growing tight with apprehension. Nothing goes smoothly.

  "Ask your man there if he's supposed to have two more trucks," Grimaldi continued.

  Already knowing the answer, Bolan asked Smith Dun anyway. "My overwatch says we got two more vehicles rolling our way. That your people?"

  Instantly Dun had his assault rifle off his shoulder. "No, it must be the Tatmadaw," he answered, using the Burmese word for their army.

  "We've got problems," Grimaldi cut in again. "I just picked up a helicopter coming in—outline makes it look like a Huey!"

  "Copy!" Bolan answered. "Do you think the bird has made you?"

  "I don't think so. My FLIR is probably head-and-shoulders above anything the Myanmar might have purchased secondhand from the Chinese. If I drop down behind the temple now, I could catch an angle."

  "Copy. We'll handle the trucks," Bolan replied. "Dun, keep most of the men loading the truck. Pull seven and have them follow us."

  Dun looked at him for a moment, sizing up the American stranger, then nodded once. He barked orders out in rapid dialect and instantly seven wiry jungle fighters leaped to obey. Bolan jogged over toward pallet and began breaking a crate open.

  "Have them arm themselves. Follow me," Bolan snapped.

  Dun nodded once toward his fighters, and the eight Myanmar insurgents began mimicking the American's actions and opening the crates filled with the LAW rockets. He could hear the grumble and growl of the new trucks now, their engines different from the American-built power plant in the deuce-and-a-half.

  He held up the LAW in his hand as the rhythmic beating of the new helicopter broke over the treetops and the Tatmadaw gunship came flying in. A searchlight hanging from its nose clicked on with blinding effect. Gunfire broke out along the periphery of the jungle clearing.

  Working quickly, Bolan jerked the pin loose from the end caps on the rocket launcher. He turned the tube sideways, grasped it in both hands, snapped it open, then put it on his shoulder and armed it by pulling down the pin lever set on the top. The fingers of his right hand encircled the tube, steadying it on his shoulder so that they rode along the ridge of the trigger.

  All around him the squad of KNLA fighters mimicked his actions with impressive efficiency. Within thirty seconds nine 66 mm rockets were primed and readied for use. Bolan turned and began to sprint toward the crumbled wall lining the courtyard of the temple.

  Above him the Myanmar Tatmadaw gunship hooked hard around the courtyard, the searchlight playing across the scrambling KNLA fighters. A loudspeaker burst to life, and a man began to scream orders in Burmese. Bolan looked up and saw the door gunner swing his machine gun around. Men on the ground began to fire at the hovering gunship, their weapons spitting yellow-orange bursts of flame.

  Bolan sensed something behind him as he went to one knee with LAW rocket on his shoulder. He saw Grimaldi suddenly rise up out of the shadows of the ancient, ruined temple and shift the nose of the bird toward the larger Tatmadaw helicopter.

  There was a flash from the Little Bird as the rocket pods engaged, and then the larger helic
opter was a brilliant flash of flame and burning metal as it turned into a fireball above their heads.

  Metal parts began to rain down, and helicopter fuel splashed in flaming arcs toward the ground. Waves of heat rolled into Bolan hard on the concussion of the initial explosion. The stink of burning fuel overwhelmed the stench of the jungle vegetation.

  Bolan looked away, down the road toward the approaching troop trucks. The vehicles had braked to a complete stop as more Myanmar border guards spilled out of the back and began joining the first teams in laying down suppressive fire on the temple and KNLA fighters.

  Bolan sighted down the length of the LAW launcher tube then yelled, "Fire!"

  Smith Dun repeated the instruction to his men as Bolan depressed the firing stud on the collapsible launcher. He felt the weapon recoil smoothly across the muscles of his shoulder.

  The 66 mm rocket leaped from the front of his launcher tube and spiraled toward the trucks in a burning contrail. Like a diving bird the rocket spun into the side of the deuce-and-a-half truck.

  The warhead slammed into the vehicle and exploded. All around Bolan the other LAW rockets flared into life, and the night air was alive with flying rockets. In a wave the weapons slammed into the Tatmadaw assault force. Explosions erupted in rapid sequence, tripping the fuel tanks of the big trucks and shooting their twisted frames into the air. Bodies and parts of bodies pinwheeled across the burning background canvas. Geysers of dirt erupted and rained down, along with bits of broken weapons and personal equipment.

  The mass use of shoulder rockets in volley formation had emerged out of the chaos of Iraq. Insurgents had utilized the technique there with old Soviet RPGs to devastating effect. Bolan had just been able to apply that knowledge in a starkly vivid lesson. He knew that when it came time for these guerrillas to go to work with him in the capital, they would apply the lesson with deadly efficiency.

  "Up!" Bolan snarled.

  He rose and pulled his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the holster on his hip. The weight of the big pistol felt good in his grip. Around him the ambush squad he'd assembled lifted up their weapons and began to follow him.