Lethal Tribute

CHAPTER TWO

Islamabad, Pakistan

Bolan had been in worse cells. This one actually had a sunroof. Bolan peered up through the three iron bars in the ceiling. The late-morning sun threw shadows against the western wall of the cell, and he idly wondered what happened to the occupants when it rained. He ate the last bite of mystery meat he had been served and was wiping the remaining couscous from his bowl when someone hammered on the battered steel door of the cell.

“Prisoner! Step away from the door!”

Bolan was already sitting in a half-lotus position on the opposite side of the cell, but he decided cooperation was his best gambit for the moment. “I am away from the door.”

A slot in the steel door shot back and a glowering, bearded face noted his location. “Do not move!”

“I won’t.”

Keys turned in the massive lock and the door swung open. A hulking guard with a pistol on his hip filled the entryway. He carried a three-foot length of roughly turned wood wrapped in leather. Bolan knew that such truncheons were most often used in the Middle East for beating the bottoms of the feet of prisoners. A man with collapsed arches was unlikely to make trouble, much less attempt any escape. The guards had taken his boots upon incarceration. Bolan eyed the club in the man’s hands.

The guard should have brought backup.

The guard moved aside as Captain Makhdoom entered the cell. Bolan nodded. “Captain.”

The Pakistani frowned. “You have put me in a very difficult position.”

“I saved your life,” Bolan countered.

“Yes.” The captain nodded solemnly. “Which puts me in a very difficult position.”

“I see.” Bolan smiled in a friendly fashion. “How may I be of further assistance to you?”

“Um, yes.” The special forces captain shifted uncomfortably. “The United States government denies any knowledge of your existence, much less any legitimate reason for you to be lurking, illegally, and armed, within the borders of Pakistan.”

Bolan shrugged. It was a very old story.

Makhdoom shrugged in return. “And yet, my superiors have received—” the captain raised a troubled eyebrow “—intimations, from very, shall we say, oblique sources, that any consideration shown you will be appreciated.”

Bolan kept the smile off his face. “I’m prepared to assist you in any reasonable fashion within my means.”

The guard stared back and forth between Bolan and Makhdoom. His bludgeon creaked in his fists. He clearly yearned to do away with the pleasantries and beat Bolan into paste.

“Captain, may we speak privately for a moment?”

Makhdoom waved the guard away. “Corporal, you may wait for me down the hall.”

The guard’s face twisted in indignation as he gnashed his teeth and stormed from the cell.

Makhdoom’s voice went grim. “I cannot vouchsafe your safety in this place. There are those who wish to see you dealt with severely.”

“Captain, your government is missing some nuclear warheads. No one’s safety can be guaranteed.”

Makhdoom peered up unhappily through the narrow bars in the ceiling.

Bolan continued. “The United States government is aware of your missing warheads and is gravely concerned. You and I both know that whoever took them is most likely to be a dedicated enemy of the United States, Israel and Europe.” Bolan gazed at the captain critically. “Unless of course, the weapons weren’t stolen, but given away by members of your government to further the agenda of terrorists, or the liberation of Kashmir.”

Makhdoom flared. “The warheads were not given to anyone! They were taken! Despite every security precaution!”

“Taken?” Bolan eyes narrowed. “You mean, by force?”

“Taken,” Makhdoom affirmed. The anger in the Pakistani captain’s eyes was tempered by a certain dread. “As my men were taken last night. As you and I were almost taken. The guards at the facility were taken by something unseen. The warheads taken by the unseen. The guards on duty were gone. The weapons littered the floor, unfired. No trace was left.”

Bolan regarded Makhdoom. Pakistani special forces were nowhere near as sophisticated as U.S. Navy SEALs, the British SAS or the German GSG-9. The Pakistani government often used their special forces as shock troops and a number of their “sensitive” operations had turned into bloodbaths. They did, however, have a well-deserved reputation for toughness. Even Bolan had been disturbed by what he’d seen.

Makhdoom was genuinely afraid, and of more than loose nuclear weapons.

Bolan took the captain’s gaze and held it. “If the missing weapons can’t be contained or accounted for, the United States and others may be forced to take action, drastic action, very possibly within your national borders.”

Makhdoom stared into an ugly future. “There are those who say the first step in avoiding such a confrontation with the U.S. would be getting rid of you. Quickly and quietly.”

“I’m sure it’s been suggested.” Bolan nodded. “But I believe we both know that your first, best recourse would be to go back to the site of last night’s—” he considered the inexplicable events “—incident, pick up whatever information we can and proceed from there.”

Makhdoom’s head snapped around. “We?”

“You and I are last evening’s only two survivors. We also have a mutual problem.” Bolan opened his hands. “It’s only reasonable that we pool our resources.”

Makhdoom stared at Bolan long and hard. “Guard!”

The guard roared back into the room with his club cocked back in his hands for a blow. He seemed as giddy as a schoolgirl with the prospect of beating Bolan into oblivion.

Makhdoom let out a heavy sigh. “Fetch this man’s boots. He is coming with me.”

Northeast Pakistani Border

THE MI-8 HELICOPTER thundered across the sere mountains. It was summer in Pakistan and even up in the mountains the land beneath the aircraft was blast-furnace hot. Bolan sat back and enjoyed the breeze through the open doors. The flight of helicopters carried a full platoon of Musa Company special forces soldiers. A pair of Hind gunships flew in escort of the transports. Bolan wore tan Pakistani fatigues that didn’t quite fit, and a steel-pot helmet woven with camouflage netting. Russian-made body armor of titanium plates sandwiched between spun fiberglass fabric encased his torso. Musa Company was no longer creeping around in the dark. It was in assault mode and wanted payback.

Gone were the silenced submachine guns, night-vision goggles and black balaclavas. Each man carried a G-3 automatic rifle with a 40 mm grenade launcher slaved beneath the barrel. One man in each squad carried a light machine gun and another carried a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Every man was also festooned with a personal assortment of pistols, knives and grenades.

Bolan cradled his own weapon. The German G-3 was long and heavy, but it fired the NATO 7.62 mm high-power rifle round and was hell for tough. While dated, all of the Pakistani equipment was solid kit. Bolan could think of worse weapons, and worse people, for that matter, with whom to assault the unknown. He vainly wished he had his satellite link so he could communicate with the Farm, but that wasn’t forthcoming. Everything he had brought into Pakistan had been confiscated. Still, the fact that they had brought him along, much less armed him, showed just how desperate the Pakistanis were. Bolan glanced up as the copilot leaned back in his seat and yelled at Makhdoom over the rotor noise. Bolan didn’t need translation. He had been watching the terrain fly by beneath them.

They were approaching their target.

The Mi-8s dropped toward the plateau like stones. The Hind gunships clawed upward into the sky and orbited the site with their machine cannons and rocket pods ready. The red dust of the mountains flew up as the transports landed.

Musa Company debarked the Mi-8s and fanned out by sections across the plateau. Bolan leaped out behind Makhdoom. He had no orders other than to stick to the captain like glue. As Bolan examined the plateau, he could see spalling and bullet strikes scoring the rocks from the previous night’s one-sided battle. Several spots were scorched by the high explosive of rifle grenades. The single, lonesome shrub lay blackened and burned.

Musa Company maintained radio silence. Makhdoom chopped his hand forward and his men went by sections, two by two, to the edge of the plateau and began to descend the mountainside toward their objective.

In the night the land had been a lunar landscape. By day the arid, vertical hillsides could have passed for a bad patch on Mars. The platoon swiftly descended. A man held up the spent flare and parachute of Bolan’s illuminating round. They leapfrogged from cover to cover, constantly sweeping the surroundings, still encountering nothing. They stopped as they reached the area where Section 2 had been lost. Bolan scanned the recent battlefield. Brass shell casings and spent bullets lay in the sand and gravel, deformed where they had struck rock. There were no bodies.

There was no blood.

Makhdoom moved forward, his rifle at the ready. Musa Company followed. They swiftly came upon their target. Bolan examined the objective. Beneath an overhang of rock there was an opening in the mountainside. It was squared off, clearly man-made, and lined with stone. Just inside lay a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. Its hinges were gone where they had been cut with flexible-shaped charge. Bolan stared at the square, black hole in the mountain.