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“We’re in a damn tight spot!”
The woman struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield down the road from where they had fled.
“I only want to see my little girl again. Please, you have to help me see her again.”
Her voice was too raw with emotion for it to be a lie, and Bolan couldn’t help but respond with the same honesty.
“I will, I promise you, I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”
“Here they come!” she cried.
The Executioner whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed. He snarled and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the brutal beating it was taking on the rough road. The woman fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place as Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Then the grenades began to rain down.
Desperate Passage
The Executioner®
Don Pendleton
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nathan Meyer for his contribution to this work.
Between two groups that want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy except force.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
1841–1935
When there is no option but force, I will be that force.
—Mack Bolan
THE
MACK BOLAN
LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
1
Mack Bolan stood on the runway at Diego Garcia.
The thirty-seven-mile long atoll sat in the Indian Ocean just over one thousand miles south of the southern coast of India. It formed a sort of geographical aircraft carrier for U.S. military forces, with a runway long enough to accommodate the heaviest planes in the Air Force.
Bolan closed his eyes to the warmth of the sun and turned his face toward the sea breeze coming through the lush tropical vegetation. He wore a flight suit devoid of identification and rank. It was splattered with blood.
Diego Garcia curved around a twelve-mile-long lagoon nearly five miles across. The atoll was a joint British and American venture and had become increasingly pivotal to U.S. strategic interests since its inception as a military base in 1971.
It had served as the launching pad for Marine Prepositioning Squadron Two and similar units designated as logistical support of naval and army units. It had also been rumored to be a clandestine location site in the government’s controversial Extraordinary Rendition program for terror detainees.
The base commanding officer hadn’t batted an eye when presented with paperwork originating from the director of National Intelligence, instructing him to give the unidentified man before him every operational courtesy while maintaining complete indifference as to his purpose.
Bolan put a foot on the heavy pack at his feet. A slim wireless ear jack was set into his right ear, and it chirped. Bolan pressed a finger to the device.
“Go ahead,” he said quietly, the sensitive microphone picking up his speech vibrations through the hard, prominent angle of his cheekbone.
“We’re coming in now,” Jack Grimaldi said.
“Copy, Jack,” Bolan replied.
He turned his head toward the horizon and was able to immediately pick out the quickly growing shape of the C-12 Huron, the military version of the twin-engine Beechcraft King Air model airplane.
Grimaldi touched the aircraft down gently and braked along the runway, following instructions from military air traffic controllers. Bolan reached down and shouldered the heavy pack at his feet. An M-4 carbine was strapped to the outside. While waiting, he had spent some time disassembling and cleaning the weapon.
As Grimaldi taxied the plane toward him, the Executioner turned and threw a salute at the two officers of the British Indian Ocean Territory Police who had served as his escorts. They waved back as the rear door of the Huron was opened by Charlie Mott and Bolan headed for the lowered stairs.
Bolan nodded to Mott as he ducked inside the stripped-down cabin of the plane and threw his heavy bag on a seat.
“How’d Somalia go?” Mott asked. He buttoned up the aircraft hatch.
“About as well as could be expected,” Bolan allowed. “Where did you guys fly out of?”
“SOCOM base in Djibouti. Were you aware the French Foreign Legion travels with its own brothel?” Mott asked.
“I had heard that,” Bolan said.
“Go figure,” Mott said, incredulous. “Anyway, let’s get off the ground, then we’ll hook you up with what Stony Man has cooking.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Bolan secured himself as Mott made his way back up the center aisle to join Grimaldi in the cockpit. He heard the engines rise as Grimaldi turned the nose of the Huron around he looked out the window beside his seat to watch the tarmac go sailing by.
He felt the thrust of the turboprops push him back into his seat, and he knew Grimaldi had put the nose of the plane in the air. He watched the serpentine twist of Diego Garcia disappear beneath him as they made a run toward open ocean.
With grim finality Mack Bolan put the bloody horrors of Somalia behind him.
AFTER GRIMALDI HAD REACHED his cruising altitude and engaged the autopilot, he left the cockpit and opened a safe set into the front wall of the passenger compartment. He removed a laptop Bolan knew would be outfitted with encrypted sat-com upgrades and brought it over to where Bolan was seated, absently picking through a spaghetti dinner MRE he had pulled from his bag.
Grimaldi grinned as he handed over the computer. “We’re on course for Jakarta. It’s about two thousand miles, so it’ll take a few hours, plus the in-flight refueling operation. We’ll have you over the LZ on time though.”
“No rest for the weary,” the Executioner said.
The pilot shook his head. “No, there’s always some bushfire that needs pissing on. This one is more last minute than most. Charlie and I have been in air the whole way from the Farm, refueling in flight as needed except for the touchdown in Djibouti. They want you in Indonesia yesterday.”
“Barb wants everything yesterday. It’s why she’s the best.”
Grimaldi nodded. “True enough. I’ll leave you to it.” he stood and tapped an overhead compartment. “You’ll find a cooler in there of a little microbrew lager I stumbled across. Help you wash some of the Somalia taste out of your mouth. I’ll radio home and tell them you’re booting up.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said and opened up the laptop.
The videoconferencing software fired up with a smooth hum. The LEDs blinked into life, and the digital camera rapidly focused its lens. Bolan saw Barbara Price, Hal Brognola and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman. He knew from long experience that his own face was being projected onto the big screen TV wall mounted in the Stony Man War Room. He greeted his old friends and close comrades.
“Hey, Striker,” Brognola greeted. “You feeling okay?”
“I could use a nap, but I’ll get one soon enough.”
“You up for a jump?” Price asked from beside Brognola.
Bolan narrowed his eyes. “Sure. What’s the LZ?”
“An old landing strip in the mountains outside of Jakarta,” Kurtzman said. “Used to be part of a heroin smuggling operation the DEA shut down about a decade ago with the help of the Indonesian government. Too overgrown to land a plane, but should serve just fine to parachute onto.”
“From how far up?” Bolan asked.
“Well, the Indonesian government has got army patrols all through there so, Jack’s going to feign engine trouble on the approach into Jakarta and dip down to five hundred feet,” Kurtzman answered.
“I take it the Man didn’t run this one past our allies?” Bolan said.
“I think I’d better let Hal start from the beginning,” Kurtzman replied.
“DEA has been very busy throughout the region—Malaysia, the Philippines, Indonesia, all of the South China Sea countries, really. Attacking those operations where there’s cross connection between terrorist activities and narcotic traffickers,” Brognola began.
“Plenty of that in Indochina,” Bolan stated. “I thought the government was part of the problem.”
“Typical Third World split personality. Some elements are working with us, taking our financing and aid while smiling to our faces. Then corrupt elements of the same regime climb into bed with the bad guys. Indonesia is especially bad when it comes to piracy through the Strait of Malacca, but they have opium problems as well.”
“If you click on the tab to the left of your screen,” Kurtzman interrupted, “you’ll see a photo.”
“That’s Zamira Loebis,” Price informed him.
Bolan clicked on the link and looked at the unsmiling image of a middle-aged Indonesian man in a military uniform. He was very thin.
“He’s a particular thorn in our side.” The Stony Man mission controller continued. “He’s the assistant minister of defense. We have him tied into piracy and heroin smuggling, often using Muslim extremist groups as cutouts while keeping a death squad of government commandos as personal muscle and bodyguards.”
“We also have him pegged as a traitor working as a stringer for both Chinese and Vietnamese intelligence agencies,” Brognola added. “He’s very well connected with a lot of resources and a strong network of criminal activity funding his villa in the Swiss Alps and plantations in Kenya.”
“The DEA has a crucial informant in a safehouse in Jakarta,” Price said. “We’ve arranged a flight back to the U.S. where the man will testify about Indonesian corruption and several worldwide networks linking Jemaah Islamiyah and Abu Sayyef with ex-Taliban opium growers in Afghanistan. It’s a real intelligence coup, and it’s just what we need to bring more political pressure to bear on some of the countries who’ve been dragging their feet on antiterror measures.”
Bolan knew Jemaah Islamiyah, sometimes referred to as JI, had burst onto the world stage in 2002 with the Bali car-bombing incident that had claimed the lives of over two hundred innocent people on the second anniversary of the bombing of the USS Cole in Yemen. The group itself had been around since the 1970s in one incarnation or another. It was closely linked to Abu Sayyef in the Philippines and al Qaeda.
“What’s the catch?” the Executioner asked.
“The usual,” Brognola growled. “According to our intel, our very well connected defense minister doesn’t want the informant to make it to trial. A Kopassus hit team has been assembled.”
Bolan knew of the special forces unit by reputation. Kopassus had earned a grim reputation for its special operations in East Timor and against rebel separatists in the Achen province as well as covert activities in Jakarta itself.
“We didn’t tell the good guys in the government?” he asked.
“The Man would like to use the opportunity to send those corrupt government elements a very pointed message about spilling American blood under the guise of being our ally. The Military Liaison Element in Jakarta has the location where the hit team is held up waiting for our guys to move the witness. The Oval Office holds the opinion that if that hit team goes belly up, it might just shake some sense into those rogue elements.”
“Should be doable if the intelligence on the hit team is right,” Bolan said.
“It is,” Price said. “I’ll give you the rundown on the specifics. We don’t want a hint of your arrival or identity so you’ll need to go in black. That’s why the night jump instead of civilian cover insertion.”
“I understand,” Bolan said.
“We have a stringer ready to facilitate your actions,” Price continued. “Arti Sukarnoputri. She is a midlevel clerk with the interior ministry. She began working with the DEA when her brother, a Jakarta police officer, was killed by corrupt government agents on a heroin investigation. She’s what we were able to put together on short notice, but stay sharp around her for now. I know this is a little haphazard, Striker, but that hit squad is primed to go and something has to be done, immediately. “
“We’ll get that government witness out safely,” Bolan promised.
Quickly Price began to run down the fine points of the logistical factors.
Ten minutes later Bolan shut the laptop and put it back in the cabin safe. Grimaldi gave him a thumbs-up through the cockpit door and Bolan made his way back to his seat. He eased himself into his seat and settled back to fall asleep.
Outside the vast indigo waters of the Indian Ocean sped by.
2
Bolan came awake instantly as Charlie Mott touched his shoulder.
“We’re fifteen minutes out,” Mott informed him. “Jack’s already reported engine difficulty to the control tower. We’ll dip down to five hundred feet, equalize things back here and put you out the door.”
“I’ll be ready,” Bolan said.
Mott handed him a thick envelope. “I just counted it out of the safe. That’s for the stringer once you link up. The stringer knows nothing about what you’re doing, or why. She’s there to provide transportation and navigate the locals.”
“That’s what Barb said,” Bolan replied, nodding.
“You want me to help you suit up?”
Bolan shook his head. “No. I’ll do it. Give me a couple minutes, and then you can double-check my hook-up before you kick me out the door.”
Mott laughed, then retreated up the center aisle.
Bolan slid the envelope into his blacksuit, then pulled his parachute from under a seat and began checking the harness and adjusting the straps for a good fit based on long experience.
He worked methodically, with diligent attention as he slid into his harness and readjusted the straps. He double-checked that his weapons were secure and pulled on a nondescript helmet that he buckled under his chin. He decided he was better off without it and took it back off again and tossed it under a seat.
He stood and manhandled his backpack toward the rear door of the plane where he started attaching his guidelines. His ears began to pop, and he knew Grimaldi was bringing the plane down toward jump altitude. At five hundred feet the drop would be over in an instant. He’d be out the door and on the ground so fast there’d be no room for miscalculation of any kind.
Mott began making his way toward Bolan. The Executioner felt the plane tilt sharply as Grimaldi began his circle over the landing zone. Bolan could see a dark mass of thick tropical foliage below the plane.
“Jack’s told the tower in Jakarta he’s compensating for a bad turboprop,” Mott told Bolan as he checked the fittings on the parachute harness. “The weather’s clear with a half moon. The old landing strip is easy to spot in the vegetation. There’s about a five mile per hour wind out of the southeast.”
Bolan nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”
Mott moved to the door and grasped the handle. Bolan fitted a pair of goggles into place. After two long minutes during which Bolan could see the ground growing closer through the plane’s windows, Grimaldi killed the lights in the rear compartment and Mott jerked the door open.
Bolan felt the pull of the open door. He saw the nude scar of the old, overgrown airfield and orientated himself toward it. The sound of the plane’s engines was deafening. He shuffled forward, and Mott slapped him on the back as he went through the doorway into space.
The slipstream took him and he was buffeted away from the cruising aircraft. He pulled his rip cord almost immediately. The chute unfurled behind him then popped and his free fall was over. He plummeted toward the earth, the parachute hardly seeming to slow his rate of descent. His eyes quickly adjusted to the low light, and treetops sped toward him beneath his dangling boots.
He twisted hard and let the backpack dangle. The pack struck the ground and he overshot it. He hit with both feet and felt the impact slam all the way up his body, immediately rolling and absorbing the landing.
Bolan quickly popped up and stripped away the harness connecting him to the parachute. He tore off his goggles and drew his Beretta machine pistol from its sling under his arm. He turned in a slow circle, looking for danger. Seeing nothing, he quickly began gathering in his parachute and shouldering his bag.
He marked the position of the low hanging, half moon and headed to the east of the abandoned airfield. The old landing strip was made of hard-packed dirt dotted with patches of shrubs and jungle grass. Just on the edge of the field the Indonesian jungle encroached aggressively. At the end of the landing strip was an ancient, dilapidated Quonset hut hangar where his stringer had been told to meet him.
In order to increase operational security the stringer hadn’t been informed of how Bolan was making his approach to the meet, only the location. Skirting the tree line, Bolan made his approach toward the abandoned structure.
He slipped into the shadows of the trees and bushes before putting away the Beretta and concealing his parachute gear in the undergrowth. He took his M-4 carbine from his pack when he was finished.
A rickety chain-link fence encircled the hangar, and the windows set into the structure were all broken. Nothing moved.
As Bolan drew closer to the building, his instincts alerted him to trouble. He then saw the earth in front of the fence gate was freshly turned up in semicircular patches, revealing darker earth and, once he was close enough, tire treads.
Bolan adjusted the grip on his M-4 and moved out of the nominal safety of the tree line. He stopped at the fence. One of the gates hung from only a single hinge. The frame was bent near the center, and rested, old metal had been scraped clean. A medium strength steel chain hung limp from the fence links. Bolan picked it up and inspected it. The chain had been broken cleanly through on one of its individual links.
Bolan saw something in the turned up earth and bent to retrieve it. It was an old key-operated lock. A bit of the broken chain fell away as he plucked it from the mud where it lay in the middle of a wide tire track.
Bolan looked up, scanning the silent hangar.
He moved through the gate and put himself at an angle to the door, then jogged forward and put his back to the wall next to the slightly open sliding door.
He paused for a moment, listening, but heard only the silence. Steeling himself, he flipped around the corner and penetrated the dilapidated hangar, M-4 up and leading the way. He moved out of the light of the opening quickly and took up a defensive position on one knee beside the sliding door. He felt the hard cylinders of spent brass under his knee and detected the aroma of cordite.
He flicked his muzzle around the cavernous hangar and found nothing.
The meet location was deserted.
The Executioner left the building and hurried across the short stretch of yard between hangar and ramshackle fence. As he searched the environment, he saw a black pool that had been hidden in shadow. He knelt beside it and reached out his hand, his fingers coming away sticky and damp. He took in the copper-tang smell, confirming his obvious suspicions. The pool was blood, and whoever had been wounded had either made his or her escape or the body had been taken away to hide evidence.
Bolan rose and made for the shelter of the jungle.
THE EXECUTIONER his GPS unit and noted the time on his watch. He was early, as the plan had called for, giving him time to recon the area around the contingency rendezvous zone. He let his sniper’s eye take in his surroundings, cataloging them with terse efficiency, discounting shadow, penetrating dark while his ears strained to catch even the slightest and most innocuous of sounds.
The stringer, Arti Sukarnoputri, had been told to meet him at a given coordinate should the initial contact not be made, but not how Bolan had made his insertion. That had been a deliberate precaution to avoid his being captured should Sukarnoputri prove duplicitous. But Bolan knew the fact that he had not been immediately ambushed was in no way a guarantee that the Indonesian stringer was legitimate.
A she watched the old logging road, his finger rested on the smooth metal curve of the M-4 carbine’s trigger. Gnats, thirsty for the salty flow of his sweat, descended on him in a cloud and he could feel them batting against his face. He made no move to shoo them away.
The minute hand on his watch moved and on cue headlights appeared in the curve on the road from the north. Bolan frowned and grasped the stock of the carbine tightly. The car was moving too quickly for the road conditions.
The vehicle was unidentifiable in the deep gloom. He remained motionless as the car skidded to a stop on the dirt road precisely at the spot he had noted with GPS readings. The driver’s door was thrown open and Bolan saw a slim figure hop out, leaving the engine running and breaking the protocol for the meet.
“You are a long way from home! You are a long way from home!” a feminine voice hissed in a frantic tone.
Bolan rose and was forced into making a decision. The stringer had been instructed to stop her car, kill the engine and lights before getting out and moving to the rear of the vehicle. There Bolan would approach her. Upon seeing him she was to say “You are a long way from home.” His reply would be “Home is where you hang your hat.”
It was simple, direct and slightly cliché in the way most tried and true methods often were. Anything other than the proper protocol and Bolan was supposed to avoid the contact. This was an extreme deviation Bolan readjusted his grip on his M-4.
Suddenly, from the direction the stringer’s car had driven, a second and then a third set of headlights appeared. Bolan saw the women turn her head toward the light.
Once again she called out, and Bolan was able to hear the racing of the other two car engines as the vehicles sped toward the rendezvous site. He gritted his teeth then committed himself to his course.
“Home is where you hang your hat,” he snapped and rose from the shadow of the bushes.
“Thank God!” the woman said in heavily accented English. “Hurry! Those are Laskar Jihad!”
Bolan sprang forward as the woman ducked back behind the wheel of her vehicle. Bolan snatched open the rear door and threw his pack inside before slamming the door and jumping into the front passenger seat.
He had barely touched the leather seat before his contact floored the gas pedal of the SUV. The vehicle shot forward down the rough and potted secondary road, bouncing hard and rattling Bolan’s teeth. He fought his way around in the seat to look out the rear hatch window. The chase vehicles had closed a little bit of the distance.
“Laskar Jihad,” he said. “They aren’t supposed to be active in this area.”
“Your intelligence is wrong. They entered into an operational alliance with Jemaah Islamiyah. They undertake activities in the highlands around Jakarta, drawing resources while JI conducts attack in the city. Besides, I’m almost positive Zamira Loebis is running them through bribes,” the woman said.
Bolan didn’t know whether to believe her. It seemed too coincidental that his contact should arrive under fire, potentially killing his own mission before it had even begun. Still, the situation on the ground in Indonesia was extremely fluid, and half-a-dozen terror groups operated in the poverty stricken country. But it would have been easier to simply ambush him.
“Pop the hatch,” he ordered.
He crawled between the front two seats and into the back of the SUV, folding one of the seats down to sprawl out in the back.
“What are you doing?” The woman shrieked.
“Shut up!” Bolan snapped. “Do what I say and pop the hatch!”
The woman swore, then reached down and yanked on the plastic lever controlling the catch release. The rear hatch popped open and swung up, revealing the racing road just beyond the bumper. The two vehicles were following close behind.
Bolan was tossed to one side as the SUV dipped into a rut and bounced out on the other side. He grunted under the impact but maneuvered his M-4 into position. The hydraulic support struts caught, locking the hatch door open.
From the darkness next to the windshield of the first chase vehicle a sudden brilliant star-pattern burst erupted. Bolan heard the unmistakable sound of 9 mm rounds being burned off. The SUV lurched hard to the side as Sukarnoputri wrestled it around a corner.
Bolan used his thumb to click the fire selector switch on his carbine to the 3-round burst position. He spread his legs wide in the rear compartment to equalize his balance and dug in with his elbows to steady his weapon. The buttstock slapped into his cheek and opened a cut as the SUV drove over a jutting rock shuddering the vehicle on its frame.
Bolan ignored the stinging wound and crammed the stock back into the pocket of his shoulder. The headlights of the first vehicle appeared around the tree-choked turn of the road, and Bolan caught a brief flash of a human figure hanging outside the passenger window of a battered white truck.
Bolan squeezed his trigger and saw the left headlight on the truck wink out as one of the 5.56 mm rounds struck home.
The submachine gunner on the truck’s passenger side returned fire, burst for burst, but the effect of speed and road conditions on the two men’s aim made the duel nearly futile for several exchanges.
The Executioner rode out another jarring pothole and adjusted his fire. Suddenly the SUV hit a patch of gravel. He felt the rocking lurches of the road give way to an almost even vibration as the SUV slide across the gravel, and he squeezed the trigger on his M-4.
He put two 3-round bursts into the front windshield of the pickup, shattering it. The pickup swerved hard to the right and the front tire rolled up an embankment. It rolled onto its side as it half climbed the embankment, then slammed into the gnarled and twisted trunk of a squat jungle tree. The hood crumpled under the impact, then the truck flipped. It struck the broken road hard, the cab smashing flat with a crunch followed immediately by the thunderclap of metal on metal as the second chase vehicle slammed into the first. The overturned truck spun away from the contact like a child’s top while the second vehicle lost control and careened off into the heavy underbrush beside the road.
Bolan scrambled up and grabbed hold of the open rear hatch from the inside and yanked it closed.
“You killed them all!” Sukarnoputri shouted as Bolan shoved himself back into the front seat.
“I doubt it,” Bolan muttered. “And stop shouting.”
“Whatever you say!”
“How did you know that was Laskar Jihad?” Bolan asked, buckling his seat belt. He placed his still smoking M-4 carbine muzzle down between his legs.
“I know because I know. They tried to stop me at a roadblock where this access road starts off the main regional highway. Your people gave me very good car. I drove into the ditch and around them, no slowing down. But they caught up with me at the hangar. I got away.”
“Good job,” Bolan said.
“I want more money. This was a stupid place to pick you up.”
“I’m not the company accountant. And I needed to get to Jakarta in a hurry.”
“Why? What do you have to do?”
“You’re not getting paid to ask questions,” Bolan pointed out. “And slow down. No one’s chasing us anymore. You’re going to shake my teeth out of my head if you don’t wreck us first.”
“First I do good driving then you’re worried I’ll wreck you?”
Bolan turned to look at his driver. She was slim and pretty with raven hair. When she took her eyes off the road to meet his he saw a calculating intelligence.
Bolan turned his attention toward the road. A thick wall of tropical forest formed a shadowy corridor along the logging road. Vines, branches and rotted logs had fallen across the single lane, forcing Sukarnoputri to swerve the vehicle around the obstacles while navigating potholes, rain-wash trenches and protruding rocks.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
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