Kitabı oku: «Trial By Fire», sayfa 2

“Good answer, Snake.”

Shelby blinked. “Snake, Sergeant?”

“Shelby. Carroll Shelby. Greatest American car designer of the twentieth century. You’ve heard of the Cobra? Super Cobra? Super Snake?” Bolan shook his head with weariness. “You’re Snake, Cadet.”

Shelby’s whisper followed Bolan as he walked down the line. “Sweet…”

Bolan found himself in front of a fifteen-year-old youth who could look him in the eye. The young, lantern-jawed mesomorph in the making stared straight ahead with a grim look on his face. Bolan looked long and hard at the name embroidered on the front of the young man’s uniform.

Hudjak.

“Cadet?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” The tall young man was a tower of stoicism.

“I think we’ll just call you Huge.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Until you screw up, Huge.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Next cadet in line was the only black cadet. Except for Huge, he was the biggest in the group. Bolan read his tag. “Johnson.”

“Yes, Sergeant. John Henry.”

“You know the legend of the man you were named after, Cadet?”

“Heard it every day growing up, Sergeant. Told every day it was something I’d better live up to.”

Bolan smelled leadership potential. “Good to know, Hammer.”

Hudjak elbowed Johnson in congratulations as Bolan moved on.

A young Chinese man stood at attention. “King, Donald, Sergeant!” The cadet’s voice dropped low. “Sergeant?”

Bolan dropped his voice in return. “Cadet?”

“Sergeant, please don’t call me Donkey Kong. It takes a fistfight every year at the start of school to scrape that one off.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Cadet. We’ll keep it Don King.”

The cadet looked confusedly for the rub. “But, Sergeant, that’s my name.”

“Don King,” Bolan prompted. “The Rumble in the Jungle? The Thrilla in Manila?”

Cadet King stared at Bolan vacantly.

“The Sign from God hairstyle?” Bolan tried. He was becoming painfully aware of the fact that it had been some time since he had spent any quality time with the latest generation of America. “Fine, what’s your real name?”

“Sergeant?”

“You’re second-generation Chinese.”

“Yes, Sergeant. My parents came from Taiwan.”

“So ‘Donald’ is the American name they picked for you. Chinese put the family name first and the given second. That makes your family name King. What’s your real name, Cadet?”

The cadet sighed painfully. “Dong, Sergeant.”

“Donger, I tried to be merciful.”

Cadet King rolled his eyes. “I knew it.”

Bolan lunged. “I will roll your eyes right out of your head, Donger!”

Cadet King snapped to attention. “Cadet Donger! Ready for duty, Sergeant!”

Bolan came to the last cadet in line. If he hadn’t looked down, he might have missed him. The cadet was clearly Indian or Pakistani. The young man just cracked five foot two, and if he was more than ninety-eight pounds dripping wet Bolan would be surprised. He read the young man’s moniker.

The cadet just barely kept his shoulders from sagging.

Bolan heard Metard snicker back in line and made a note of it.

For the moment the soldier looked at the cadet before him with a modicum of sympathy. “Son of the Indian subcontinent?”

“Technically I was born in California, Sergeant, but we went back to West Bengal right after for five years for my father’s job. Then we came back again.”

“Lovely country,” Bolan opined. “Been there several times.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. My family goes back to visit every year.”

“Well,” Bolan mused. “Might as well get this over with.”

The young man nodded bravely. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Bolan read the embroidery again—Rudipu.

“Hell of a handle,” Bolan admitted.

“Yes, Sergeant. Thank you.”

“You got a first name, Cadet?”

“Gupti, Sergeant.”

Metard snickered again. The young man was digging a deeper hole for himself. Bolan stayed with the business at hand. “Gupti Rudipu.” Bolan nodded. “Hell of a handle.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You know the possibilities are mind-boggling.”

“Yes, Sergeant. I know.”

“I bet you do. Any mitigating factors before I pass judgment, Cadet?”

The teenaged cadet considered his résumé. “Well, I am captain of the rifle team at the academy.”

Bolan perked an eyebrow. “NRA Whistler Boy High-Power Junior Team Match?”

The sack of chicken bones Cadet Rudipu called a chest swelled with pride. “This will be my second year, Sergeant.”

Bolan nodded. “Never met a rifleman I didn’t like, Rude.”

Rudipu beamed. “Yes, Sergeant! Thank you, Sergeant! I’ll make you proud of me, Sergeant! I promise I will!”

“No one likes the squad cocksucker, Rude.”

Rudipu snapped back to attention. “No, Sergeant!”

Bolan turned back to face the line. “All right, I want—”

“Hey!” Metard’s outrage boiled over. “How come everyone else gets cool names and me and Jovich’s suck?”

King held his peace on that one. Jovich stepped away from Metard like he was radioactive.

Bolan rounded on Metard. “Because they know when to have themselves a tall frosty STFU when certain others I can name ran their mouths.”

Metard’s face flushed scarlet.

Bolan regarded the cadet like something he had just scraped off his shoe. “You want another nickname, Meatwad? You earn it. You read me?”

Metard shook with impotent rage.

“I asked you a question!” Bolan bellowed.

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“Yes, what?”

“I read you, Sergeant!”

Bolan took a few steps back and eyed his squad. “You have questions. Let me answer ninety percent of them right now. I am the angry god of your universe. You will do what I say when I say it. You are cadets, in training to become officers in the United States Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. I expect you to act like it. Do those two things, and you might just live through this. I hope that clears things up.”

The eight cadets stared at Bolan in a mixture of shock and awe.

Bolan glanced up at the sinking sun. “We need to do distance, but given the nature of the situation, I am going to allow each of you to ask me one question, once. After that, every last question had better be pertinent and about survival. Now. Go.”

The cadets glanced around at one another. Johnson raised his hand.

“This isn’t the classroom, Hammer. We’re in the jungle. We don’t raise our hands. We don’t have the time.”

Johnson nodded. “Sorry, Sarge, I just—” Johnson suddenly balked at his own temerity. “I mean, may I call you Sarge, Sergeant?”

“If it’ll speed things up.”

Johnson gazed on Metard with cold pleasure. “Well, I don’t want a new nickname or anything, Sarge, but I’m with Meatwad. I mean, what’s going on? Don’t get me wrong, you are super-bad, but, like, where are the choppers and Navy SEALs and shit?”

“There are no choppers. There are no Navy SEALs and shit. There are no carriers or special operations teams currently in range. Don’t hold your breath waiting for them. All you have is each other and me.”

Jovich eyed Bolan warily.

“You got something to say Jock-itch?” Bolan asked.

“We’re American citizens. Our plane got shot down. I mean, why isn’t anyone coming?”

Bolan looked around the squad. “Anyone know why not?”

It was Johnson who spoke. “Because all modern U.S. administrations have had a reluctance to have American soldiers shooting black Africans.”

Bolan nodded. “And?”

“And neither the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Uganda, Sudan or anyone else has authorized the United States to send military flights over their airspace, much less Egypt, Libya or any other North African countries, and the DRC sure as hell hasn’t given Uncle Sam permission to mount a military rescue mission within its borders.”

“You just made squad leader, Hammer.”

Johnson seemed to have mixed emotions about the promotion. “Thanks, Sarge.”

Eischen gave Bolan an appraising look. “So, who are you?”

“I don’t know, Ace, you tell me.”

Cadet Eischen continued to maintain his positive attitude. “Expendable, deniable and…super-bad?”

“Something like that.”

The truth was dawning on Metard. “So who sent you?”

“You tell me.”

Cadet Shelby addressed the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the camp. “He’s here because you’re the son of a United States senator, Meatwad.”

Metard reappraised Bolan. “My father sent you?”

Bolan locked eyes with the prize. “I wasn’t sent. I was begged.”

Metard flinched.

“Your father is a senior United States senator and a war hero. When you went missing, he called in every marker he had. Then he begged the President of the United States—your soon-to-be commander in chief, assuming you live that long—for his son’s life. The powers that be begged me. I said yes.”

Metard cast his eyes down.

Hudjak frowned. “So if there are no carriers in range, where did you come from?”

“Where do you think?”

“You parachuted in.”

“You think?”

“From where?”

Bolan gave the hulking cadet a pointed look.

“South Africa?”

Bolan nodded.

“Why were you in South Africa?”

“That’s three questions, Huge.”

Cadet Hudjak smiled. “Sorry, Sarge. I beg forgiveness and ask that my multiple questions not impose on Snake’s rights of inquiry.”

Shelby gave the guy a winning smile.

“Forgiven. You got a question, Snake?”

“So we’re walking out of here, Sarge?”

“That is the long and short of it.”

Visible alarm spread down the line. King almost raised his hand and stopped himself. “Sarge?”

“Donger?”

“What happened?”

“You tell me.”

King did some math. “Terrorists figured out that the son of a U.S. senator was on a private flight to an international military leadership seminar in South Africa. They decided to shoot us down.”

“Look at him go,” Bolan said.

“And those…guys—” King shuddered “—who found us are not them. Who were they?”

Shelby spoke quietly. “I did a paper on the Congo Wars last quarter. Those guys were tribal militia, rebels…or worse.”

“Last call.” Bolan looked up and down the group. “Anyone else?”

Rudipu perked up. “Sarge?”

“Rude?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

The ghost of a smile passed across Bolan’s face. “No.”

A few nervous laughs broke out. “Cold camp tonight. I don’t want any fires giving us away. Divvy up the food from the plane. Sandwiches, power bars, whatever snacks you brought with you. Eat half now, save the rest for breakfast. Long day tomorrow, and we’re going to have to start catching whatever we eat real soon.”

Bolan turned before a new round of questions started and went over to the crew. The copilot was in bad shape. His broken legs were swollen and smelled. There was nothing to be done about the bullets in his guts. “How’s he doing?”

The flight attendant just managed to choke back a sob.

The copilot opened red-rimmed eyes. They were lucid as he surveyed Bolan. He spoke in about the thickest Australian drawl Bolan had ever heard. “Heard your palaver with the kids, then. Reckon you got a nickname for me, too?”

Bolan gave the dying man a grin. “You prefer Bullet-stop or Brittle-bones?”

The copilot grimaced good-naturedly as a rale passed through his lungs, “You know it hurts when I laugh, then.”

The flight attendant mopped the bloody spittle from the copilot’s mouth. “And me? Do I get a name, too?”

“What is your name?”

The woman looked steadily into Bolan’s eyes. “Roos von Kwakkenbos.”

“The Rudester has nothing on you, and you and Hudjak may be related.”

Von Kwakkenbos laughed. “And?”

“We’re just going to stick with Blondie.” Bolan turned his attention back to the copilot. “How you doing?”

The copilot turned to Von Kwakkenbos. “Reckon you should take a look at the kids, get some tucker while the getting is good.”

The woman gave the copilot a long look and went to join the cadets.

Copilot Pieter Llewellyn sighed, and there was a bad gurgle at the end of it. “Reckon I’m done, then. It’s at least 150 klicks to the border.”

“The cadets are willing to carry you. So am I.”

“Fine bunch of lads. ’Preciate it. But those dipsticks following us? You’re not going to beat them in a footrace, specially toting my carcass about. ’Sides, we both know I’m gonna cark it long before we ever reach Uganda. Guess there’s nothing to be done.”

“I could give you some more morphine,” Bolan countered.

The copilot perked up. “Aw, that’d be bonzer, mate!”

Bolan readied an injector from the plane’s kit. “You know, you’re the only Australian I know who actually uses that word.”

“Well, then, you’ve never been to Maralinga, then, have you? There’s an—” Pieter’s eyes just about rolled back in his head as the morphine flooded his veins. “Aww, beauty…”

“Would you believe me if I said I had?” Bolan asked.

“Believe almost anything you tell me at the moment.”

“You saw what they did to the pilot.”

Pieter’s eyes hardened through the morphine haze. “Bill was always a bit of an asshole, but he didn’t deserve that.”

“Listen, if we bury you, they’re most likely going to dig you up.”

“Well, that’ll waste a little of their time, then, won’t it?” Pieter asked.

“Yeah, but then they’ll probably eat you.”

“Hope they choke.” Pieter grinned past his bloody teeth. “Or at least get indigestion.”

Bolan smiled. The copilot was a brave man.

“Well, your choice, then, mate. Burn me, bury me, leave me for the dipsticks. Reckon I’m fine with any of it.”

“Mighty reasonable of you, Pieter.” Bolan nodded. “How would you feel about all three?”

3

Arua, Uganda

Alireza Rhage looked out of his office window across the sea of lights just outside Arua proper. The constellations of campfires were a cosmos of misery. The twinkling lights were the result of thousands of refugees burning whatever flammable garbage they could find. Arua was swollen with those who had fled the internecine fighting in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Sudan. The refugee camps were swiftly becoming suburban shantytowns rife with violence and despair.

They were fertile recruiting grounds.

Ostensibly Rhage was a businessman investing in Uganda’s northern tea cultivation. Years of corruption and warfare had turned that industry into a shadow of what it once was. In his year and a half as a tea exporter, agricultural attaché Rhage had never turned a dime of profit. That was of no consequence. In reality, Captain Rhage was an exporter, and what he exported had reaped untold dividends in blood and human misery.

Rhage turned to his personal secretary. “You say there has been no report of a crash, and Flight 499 never arrived at Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria?”

Sergeant Major Pakzad shook his head. “No, Captain.”

“Have there been any reported emergency landings?”

“There have been seven emergency landings by private planes reported in sub-Saharan Africa within Flight 499’s flight window, Captain, but none was reported by Flight 499.”

“Given the nature of the emergency, could they have landed under false identification?”

“That is possible, of course, but none of the emergency landings recorded in the last forty-eight hours were made within reasonable distance of Flight 499’s flight path.”

“Does it strike you as odd, Sergeant Major, that a private flight full of American military cadets, one of them the son of a United States senator, appears to have disappeared without a trace?”

Pakzad smiled with pride. “Well, Captain. We did shoot it down.”

Rhage smiled in return. It had been Sergeant Major Pakzad’s plan. He was a brilliant intelligence officer. He and his staff constantly processed information and devised scenarios. In the sergeant major’s fertile mind, Flight 499 and its passengers had gone from a nonactionable item of mild interest to an opportunity. “Yet, no international outcry. No rescue or salvage mission mounted that we know of. What does that tell you?”

“It says that perhaps the crash occurred in a place the United States cannot easily reach. A bad place, where they have no assets. So they are keeping the situation quiet.”

“Which implies that the cadets may be alive.”

“It is possible, given the nature of the emergency, the pilots did not get out a distress call. By the same token, it is possible that the United States has the power to suppress the situation. My best guess is that the plane crash-landed. If there are survivors they most likely used their cell phones to call for help, which we could not monitor or intercept. The United States has no realistic way to project force into the Congo, much less do so without creating an international incident. The northeastern corner of the DRC is one of the most violent, lawless places on Earth. The United States would not want to advertise they are missing people in the region. Any number of groups hostile to them could retrieve the survivors. A hostage situation involving U.S. military school cadets in Equatorial Africa would be a worst-case scenario for them.”

Rhage glanced at the tri-corner border region of Sudan, Uganda and the DRC. “The best they could immediately manage would be to drop in Special Forces operators.”

“Yes, but from where?” Pakzad pondered. “The United States? Divert them from operations in Afghanistan?”

“Nevertheless, I am taking this continuing silence to mean the Americans are up to something.”

“Very well, Captain. Let us assume the Americans have somehow dropped in a rescue team. That leaves them trying to walk out of the Congo. In that case, their best option would be to make for the Ugandan border.”

The corner of Rhage’s mouth quirked up. Pakzad’s plan was growing more momentous by the minute. “Straight toward us.”

“Yes, Captain, and if you are correct, then I suspect the CIA station in Kampala is quietly arranging a team to meet them.”

“I want you to quietly assemble a team of our own, and we will need native trackers who know the area.”

“Yes, Captain!” Pakzad smiled. “We shall herd the little ducks and then pluck them!”

“You are confident, Sergeant Major. You are aware of the fact that U.S. Special Forces operatives are the best in the world.”

“Yes, Captain. Yet I doubt they could have mustered a full Delta Force team, and they will be saddled with children.”

“Military students, Sergeant Major.”

“American teenagers,” Pakzad scoffed. “Soft cadets.”

Rhage smiled tolerantly. “Did you know that I attended academy in my youth?”

“No, Captain. I did not.”

“Oh, I will admit, the greater proportion of my youthful studies stressed the glory of the Revolution and utter loyalty. Nevertheless, it was at academy where I first learned to read a map, use a compass, route march, and fire and field strip an automatic rifle.”

“Yes, Captain. I understand,” Pakzad’s smile suddenly turned sly. It was a smile Rhage knew all too well, and it always meant something was afoot in the man’s mind. “Captain?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“I have an idea.”

“I look forward very much to hearing it.”

“I am reminded of the siege of Troy…”

THE CADETS SQUATTED in the morning mist and made a cold and meager breakfast of the individually wrapped cress-and-cucumber finger sandwiches that they’d despised during the flight, the few packs of peanuts and remaining odds and ends. The cadets had changed out of their dress uniforms and wore the T-shirts and shorts or casual pants they had packed for South Africa. Jovich eyed his tiny sandwich that consisted mostly of leaves. “Man, who is that guy, Rambo?”

Cadet Shelby ate the last honey-roasted peanut. “Sarge rocks.” She carefully opened the empty foil pack like a letter and licked the salt and dust from the inside.

Metard and King immediately followed her lead and began licking foil.

Jovich shoved his sandwich into his mouth and glanced around to see if the sergeant was lurking. “And what’s with the fraternity pledge names?”

Johnson licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “Actually, I kind of liked it when he went all Heartbreak Ridge on us.”

Eischen took a swallow from the last can of Coke and passed it on. His eyes narrowed slyly. “He’s taking a ragtag band of pubescent cadets and turning them into a well-oiled fighting machine.”

Several cadets laughed. Rudipu eyed the battered ladder-sight of his Kalashnikov dubiously. “Man, I sure hope so.”

Bolan appeared out of the mist with the plane’s emergency folding shovel in hand. “Grave detail. Fall in.”

The cadets stared as a unit. “Sarge?” Johnson asked.

“The first officer died around 4:00 a.m. last night. Follow me.”

The cadets stared around at one another glumly. They rose and followed Bolan a little way through the trees. The copilot lay in an open grave about five feet deep and just long and wide enough to fit his frame. Miss von Kwakkenbos knelt beside the grave weeping. The copilot lay with his arms crossed over his chest holding his uniform cap. He looked at peace.

“I dug his grave, but he was your first officer. He was part of your flight. Flight 499. I figured you might want to cover him. Maybe say something over him.”

Hudjak took the shovel from Bolan’s hand without a word. He stood over the grave for a moment and then looked back at Bolan. “Sarge?”

“Huge?”

“They’re just going to dig him up, and do him voodoo-style like they did the captain. Probably going to eat him.”

“You’re right, Huge.” Bolan nodded. “Can anyone tell me why that doesn’t matter?”

“Because there’s nothing we can do about it.” Shelby looked down at the dead copilot. “It doesn’t matter what they do. What matters is what we do, and we respect our fallen.”

Hudjak nodded and began shoveling.

The cadets watched silently as Flight 499’s first officer went beneath the ground. “Hey,” Metard said. “Huge.”

The young man didn’t look up from his work. “What do you want, Meatwad?”

“A turn.”

Hudjak straightened. He gave Metard a look and handed over the entrenching tool. One by one each cadet took a turn burying their flight officer. Rudipu spent long moments patting the grave flat and even.

Bolan nodded. “Anyone want to say anything?”

Rudipu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He called me Sprout.” A few of the cadets laughed quietly or smiled. Rudipu wiped tears from his face as he gazed upon the grave. “But he gave me a tour of the cockpit before we took off. He showed me his gun.”

Shelby sniffed and pushed at her face. “He called me Sheila. When I said I was Air Force, he said he liked lady pilots. I liked him.”

“He fought them.” Johnson stared long and hard at the grave. “Even with two broken legs. He fought them.”

Tears spilled down Cadet Eischen’s cheeks. “Even when we didn’t.”

The cadets lowered their heads.

Bolan spoke over the grave. “He was Pieter Llewellyn, Lieutenant. He flew 604s for the Royal Australian Air Force, Transport Wing. He was honorably discharged after two enlistments and became a private contractor, specializing in the African VIP hub. He fought that plane to the ground.” Bolan looked around at the survivors of Flight 499. “He said you were a likeable bunch of lads and sheilas. He said he’d brought you down, but it was up to me to keep you safe. He said take care of his Niners. He said take them home.”

The cadets nodded at Bolan, who shook his head. “I couldn’t promise him that.”

The squad stared.

“I can only promise you two things. I leave no one behind, and I’ll die before I let any of you get taken again.”

Profound silence filled the gravesite.

“Flight Officer Llewellyn,” Bolan intoned. “Niner Squad! Salute!”

The cadets saluted their fallen copilot with parade-ground precision.

“Fall out,” Bolan ordered. “Gear up. Line up for inspection in one minute.” The cadets and Von Kwakkenbos fell out and grabbed their kit. They were armed and in line in fifty seconds.

Bolan took Johnson’s AK. “How many of you have fired a gun?”

Rudipu, Metard, Eischen and Von Kwakkenbos raised their hands.

“How many have fired an AK?”

All hands dropped.

“This is a Kalashnikov.” Bolan swiftly ran through the manual of arms. “This is your selector lever.” He pushed the lever through the settings, “Safe. Rock ’n’ roll. Semiautomatic. These are your sights. They graduate from 100 to 800 meters. This is the fixed battle setting for all ranges up to 300 meters. This is your folding bayonet.” The squad members eyes widened as Bolan snapped out the foot-long, quadrangular spike. Bolan snapped it back and returned the weapon to Johnson.

“Set your sights to fixed battle setting. Set your selectors to semiauto. You will not change these settings without permission. Unless the enemy is directly engaging you, you will not fire without permission. Our ammo supply is extremely limited. Every shot has to count. Some of the weapons have folding stocks. You will keep them deployed at all times. You will not fix bayonets unless you are out of ammunition or I have ordered you to do so. Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, sergeant!” the squad said in unison.

“Huge.”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“I have no time to train you. You’re going to have learn the joys of supporting fire on the fly.” Bolan pointed at the light machine gun Huge cradled. “Don’t go Rambo on me. Use your bipod. Get on and off the trigger fast. Short bursts.”

“Short bursts.” Huge nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Rude.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“So you’re a rifleman.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Bolan eyed the Dragunov sniper rifle Metard was holding. “Switch with Meat.”

Metard noted the “wad” suffix had been left off his name and smiled. “But Sarge, it’s bigger than he is.”

“He’s just going to have to grow into it,” Bolan said, as Rudipu took the Dragunov. The four-foot-long, nine and a half pound rifle nearly reached his chin. Bolan gave the cadet a meaningful look. “Fast.”

Bolan looked at several abandoned dress uniforms. “Uncle Sam still makes his full dress uniforms out of wool, Niners. You’re going to want those jackets and slacks when it gets cold.”

King glanced about as the morning mist turned to rainbowing steam in the morning sun. “Sarge?”

“Donger.”

“Where does it get cold around here?”

Bolan pointed directly west at the mist-shrouded peaks that lay between the Niner squad and the Ugandan border. “There.”