Ambush Force

“Brace for impact!”

The tail of the Dauphin lifted straight up in the air. Alarms sounded and red lights flew across the consoles. Zanotto snarled in a rage. “We’re hit!”

Bolan gritted his teeth and held on. Zanotto kicked her pedals, and throttled into emergency war power. The helicopter bucked, tilted, lifted and yawed as it slewed across the sky. Bolan had been in this type of situation before. They were done. The flight was over. The Dauphin started to turn into its death spiral.

“We’re going down!” Zanotto punched the transmit button. “Mayday! Mayday! This is Flight Z-1. We are going down at coordinates—”

Bolan reached over and twisted the radio bandwidth. Nothing happened. It was as if the knob had been set and then snapped off on the Shield tactical frequency. “We’re cut off!” he shouted.

Smoke oozed through the air vents and the fire alarm was peeping and blinking plaintively.

Bolan watched Afghanistan hurtle toward them.

Men who take up arms against one another in public do not cease on this account to be moral beings, responsible to one another and to God.

—U.S. Army General Order No. 100, 1863

Men who betray their fellow soldiers will face judgment from their God. But, before that happens, they will face judgment from me.

—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.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Charles Rogers for his contribution to this work.

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Alpha squad had been slaughtered. Mack Bolan flipped through the file. The reinforced squad of U.S. Army Rangers had gone into the Jalkot Canyon area of Afghanistan, and to a man they had come back in body bags. They hadn’t just been killed; they had been stripped and quite possibly tortured. The exact circumstances of their deaths were uncertain because their bodies had been decapitated, doused with kerosene and burned.

“This stinks to high hell, Bear.”

Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman nodded and sipped his coffee. “That’s what everyone at the Joint Chiefs of Staff is thinking, but no one is willing to say.”

Bolan ran his finger over a map of Afghanistan. “The Rangers were supposed to be intercepting a Taliban courier?”

“That was the mission profile. A simple grab and go. An informant gave the CIA the courier’s route and a timetable. The weird thing is that according to intel, both the sector that got hit at and the adjacent one have been pacified.”

Bolan peered at the map. “Looks like the courier’s route was right along the sector border.”

“Again, it’s weird. As a matter of fact, both sectors are supposed to be models of the post-Taliban reconstruction of Afghanistan. In Sector G, they’re growing saffron for the spice market, and in H Valley next door they’re growing flowers for the European perfume industry. According to reports, they’re paving roads, building schools and there’s not a woman in a beekeeper suit in sight. Before they were pacified, both sectors were nothing but poppy fields ruled by Taliban-friendly warlords like medieval fiefs.”

“Who’s running the show?”

“German coalition forces cleared both sectors.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t need to tell you, Striker. The Bundeswehr doesn’t mess around. They give both the U.S. and the UK a run for our military-professionalism money. They’ve quadrupled their patrols and have poured in men and matériel.”

Bolan had worked with the German army. They were about as good as soldiers got.

Kurtzman pulled up a file on his computer. “Shield Security Services has some operators in the area providing private security for some of the local businessmen and foreign contractors.”

That was interesting, as well. Shield was the top shelf of international private security and hired only the best.

“It still stinks. How did they sneak past the German patrols? This was way too professional for the Taliban,” Bolan argued.

“Well, you’ve got to admit they’ve been getting slicker. They had decades of getting fat and sloppy, looting the country of its wealth, beating women with sticks and stoning men in soccer fields for minor religious infractions. The coalition may have come in and kicked their collective asses, but they aren’t gone. The Taliban are lean, hungry, angry and learning their lessons the hard way.”

That was all very true, but it still didn’t answer Bolan’s questions. “I’m not buying a random band of Taliban bumping into Rangers in the field and wiping them out. This was a planned ambush.”

“So…” Kurtzman took a meditative sip of coffee. “Are you willing to tell the President what no one else will?”

“Yeah.” Bolan nodded. “This was an inside job. The question is who.”

Briefing room, Tent City, Kabul

THE MEN FROM DELTA FORCE were seething. Nearly all Delta Force commandos were chosen from the United States Army Ranger Regiment. The Rangers were the Army’s elite. That made Delta Force the elite of the elite. Delta Force commandos remembered their days as Rangers and knew with great pride that the Ranger Regiment was where they had launched their careers as Special Forces soldiers.

Now an entire squad of Rangers had been killed, beheaded and burned. The assembled Delta team was going hunting for some payback.

“All right, ladies!” The black lieutenant looked like an NFL linebacker who had been shoved through a trash compactor. He barely cracked five-six but he weighed 180 if he weighed an ounce, and his Afro pushed the limits of U.S. military hairstyle acceptability. Lieutenant Richard Dirk was “Dick Dirk” to his friends and equals in rank and affectionately known as “the Diggler” behind his back. The vertically challenged Special Forces officer had amassed a sizable legend for neutralizing the designated enemies of Uncle Sam on three continents and was currently working on his fourth. His voice was out of all proportion to his size. “Listen up! We’re going hunting tonight, and your Uncle Sam in his merciful compassion had been kind enough to send us an observer to make sure we don’t screw up!”

Groans and muttered expletives greeted the lieutenant’s announcement.

“So I would like you all to give a warm, Delta Force welcome to Mr. Matthew Cooper from the Justice Department!”

Mack Bolan walked into the tent.

A lanky blond commando named Sawyer drawled out his disgust with an accent straight out of the hills of Tennessee. “Christ, LT, who is this fucking cherry? I—” Sawyer leaned back in his seat as Bolan locked eyes with him. It took a lot to give a Delta Force commando pause, but whatever Sawyer saw behind Bolan’s blue eyes stopped him midsentence. “Shit, dude, don’t look at me like that.”

That wasn’t enough for Lieutenant Dirk. “You will shitcan that talk, Sawyer, or I will personally correct your cracker attitude for you! You read me?”

Sawyer recoiled before the wrath of his commanding officer. “Shit, LT! Yeah—I mean, yes, sir! I mean….” Sawyer regained some of his composure. “But what the hell, LT? Are we Commies now with political officers spying on our asses? What the hell is an asshole from the goddamn Department of Justice doing here? Makin’ sure we don’t commit no atrocities? I mean who sent him? The Supreme Court?”

Dirk seemed to grow and expand in rage and stature as he prepared to rain his wrath on Sawyer.

Bolan interrupted the dressing-down. “Permission to address your men, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Dirk continued to glare bloody murder at Sawyer. “Oh, by all means. Please do.”

“Who is the angry god of your universe?” Bolan addressed the tent at large.

Bolan had files on all the men present. A hulking Latino private in the back named Obradors shot up his hand. “Why, Mr. Cooper, we do dastardly deeds for the Diggler!”

Lieutenant Dirk rolled his eyes and mostly kept the benevolent smile off his face.

“Well,” Bolan conceded, “the lieutenant is the Messiah, but who is God?”

Special Forces operator opinions flew around the tent.

“Jesus?”

“Santa Claus?”

“Anheuser-Busch?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, it’s the big guy in the round room.”

The tent grew quiet as Bolan invoked the commander in chief.

“He’s taken a personal interest in your situation.”

Jaws set nervously and brows furrowed. That might be extraordinarily good or horrifically bad news. It was generally considered best not to have the Man’s attention at all except when he was handing out medals.

Bolan tapped the com-link clipped to his shirt. “Gentlemen, I am not here to observe you, usurp command or steal your thunder. I am here to deliver the thunder. The standard chain of command has been circumvented. We will not be going through the Pentagon or United Nations coalition command. I am here to make sure that fire support, extraction and real-time data are available as needed. Short of a nuclear strike, it is my job to make sure that you receive everything you need.” Bolan shrugged. “If you require a tactical nuclear strike, I can’t promise it, but I will ask the President of the United States for it directly. However, if my services aren’t required…”

“Oh, hell no!” Sawyer grinned delightedly. “Your shit is sacred, brother.”

“Fuckin’ ay,” Obradors agreed.

Bolan nodded to himself. The Delta Force commando team was leaning forward eagerly. Everyone loved divine intervention. “Captain Fairfax will brief you on the mission.”

“You heard the man!” Dirk bawled. “Now I would like you all to turn your kind attention to our friend and leader, Captain Fairfax!”

The commandos whooped for their commanding officer. Fairfax had been in Somalia and earned his officer’s stripes and the jagged scar along his jaw the hard way.

Lieutenant Dirk edged up to Bolan as the briefing began. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“By all means, Lieutenant.”

“No offense meant, but, uh, just who in the blue hell are you, anyway? Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice that the Man has taken an interest in our little situation, but why exactly are they sending me a Fed?”

“None taken, and I’m not a Fed.”

Dirk cocked his head suspiciously. “Well, you work for the Justice Department, don’t you?”

“No.”

Lieutenant Dirk blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“I was told you did.”

“That was a misinterpretation.”

“Well, we’re going out tonight, me and you.” The lieutenant’s eyes went hard. “So why don’t you illuminate my ignorant black ass?”

Bolan sighed. He had been a soldier, and there was nothing worse than strange, murky individuals suddenly popping up from stateside during an operation. It implied mission creep and goat screws of epic proportions. “I don’t work for the Justice Department. I have a working relationship with the United States government, and when I choose to take action, I liaise with the President through the DOJ.”

“A…working relationship, and when you choose to take action you talk with the Man?” That gave even Dirk pause.

“Yeah.”

“Directly?”

“Sometimes,” Bolan admitted.

“So…you’re a spook?”

“No, though I’ve been spooky.”

“Paramilitary?” Dirk tried.

The man was getting warmer. “I guess you could call me an operator of a sort.”

“You’re—” Dirk’s nose wrinkled in suspicion “—a merc?”

“Naw.” Bolan shook his head. “I don’t get paid.”

“You don’t get paid?” Lieutenant Dirk regarded Bolan like a primatologist who has just encountered a gorilla with wings. “So you’re a…volunteer, spookerator, with a direct line to the President who does this out of love?”

“Close,” Bolan conceded. “And payback. I’m pretty big on payback.”

Dirk suddenly grinned. “Well, hell, that’s all you had to say! Count me in!”

Bolan looked at Lieutenant Dirk long and hard. “You want in all the way?”

The lieutenant cocked his head. “You mean join the all-volunteer spookerator love and payback club? Sorry, man, I appreciate the offer, but I’m Delta all the way.”

“What if I said I might need you on a one-shot deal, and it involves the dead Rangers.”

“I’d ask you to clarify that a little.”

“I think it was an inside job.”

“Inside job?” Dirk’s face became a mask of stone. “That’s some real messed-up shit you’re implying there, Spooky.”

“Problem is, I don’t have any proof. To get it, and get payback, I’m going to have to go inside. I’m going to need someone like you to piggyback my way in, and frankly I don’t mind admitting I’d like to have someone like you on my six.”

“This is getting really goddamn deep and dark.”

“Listen, if we come back from this op tonight alive, and you trust me after, I’d like to buy you a beer and talk about it more.”

“Ooh!” Dirk grinned. “Beer.”

Pandit Valley

“WHERE THE HELL IS Coop?” Dirk hissed. “I told him to keep his civilian ass on my—”

Bolan spoke quietly. “I’m right here.”

“Jesus!” Dirk turned around. “I thought you were arranging satellite feed.”

“I was.”

“Well, don’t sneak up on a brother like that!”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here for five minutes.”

“Man…So what have we got?”

“It’s a series of caves. The local villagers say two years ago there were some earthmoving machines up in the hills. There’s no known mining in the area, and satellite recon shows no new construction. Most likely, what we have is a tunnel complex, probably using the preexisting caves as a template. Thermal-imaging satellites show low-level heat signatures venting from several sources around the cave area, probably cook fires.”

“Great.” Lieutenant Dirk wasn’t pleased. In his experience the only thing worse than urban warfare was tunnel fighting. “We’re going to have to dig them out hole by hole.”

“I’ll have a map of the complex ready in another couple of minutes.”

Dirk brightened. “Someone gave you a map of the place? Why didn’t you say so?”

“No one gave me a map. Someone’s making me one.”

Dirk paused. “Someone’s making you one?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Bolan pressed the mike on his secure line. “How we doing, Strike Eagle?”

Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s premier pilot, came back across the line. “Striker, I am over the target area.”

Gadgets Schwarz came across the radio. He was Able Team’s technical whiz, and Bolan had asked him to come up with something that would give them the edge on the dug-in Taliban. Schwarz loved a challenge and as usual had come up aces. “Striker, we are ready to deploy.”

“Deploy when ready, Strike Eagle.”

Dirk cleared his throat. “So, uh, who is deploying?”

Bolan looked upward. “I have a couple of friends of mine up at about twenty thousand feet in an F-15E Strike Eagle.”

“Oh?” Dirk contemplated that. “What are they deploying?”

“UAVs.”

Dirk nodded. U.S. Special Forces were ever increasingly discovering the joys of working with Unmanned Aerial Vehicles. “So what are they going to do for us? Fly in the cave and blow everything up?”

“No, we want prisoners and we also want any papers, computer files, cell phones or intelligence we can get our hands on. So it would be best if we went in and took care of business ourselves, by hand.”

Dirk frowned beneath his night-vision goggles. “Okay, so…”

“So the UAVs are carrying ground-penetrating radar units. GPR scans work best in solid rock formations that will resonate to the radar pulses. The good news is that those caves are mostly solid granite. We’re deploying three UAVs. With any luck, within a few minutes we’ll have a three-dimensional map of the complex.”

Dirk stared up at the stars. “Aren’t our little friends going to hear the buzz bombs as they come in?”

“The UAVs are gliders. Once they’re near the target, they fold their wings, deploy steerable chutes and extend padded all-aspect legs. GPR works better in direct contact with the ground, so the legs act as the antennas.”

“You know, I thought I had access to all the cool toys, but this is shit I ain’t even heard of.”

Bolan shrugged. “I happen to know the director of the Future Warrior Project in Massachusetts. I gave her a call, and my friends brought over a few working prototypes.”

Dirk considered that and how quickly it had come about. “Jesus, you really can make the magic happen.”

“I’m a helper,” Bolan agreed. “I’m here to help.”

Dirk snorted in bemusement, and then Bolan and Bravo troop waited long minutes. The commando spoke quietly. “The Man wants blood for blood, doesn’t he?”

“From what I understand, favors are being called in. More than favors—the U.S. is giving markers to people we’d normally never get in bed with,” Bolan said.

“Except that no one gets to ice eighteen Rangers and walk away,” Dirk stated.

“No, the Rangers get payback. No one is walking away. The President wrote a blank check to get a line on these caves, and he wants to see people in bags for his money.”

Schwarz’s voice came across the link. “Striker, this is Strike Eagle. The Eaglets have landed. We have solid returns from One and Two. Eaglet Three must have landed wrong. We are mapping. You should be able to pull it up.”

“Copy that, Strike Eagle.” Bolan pulled out a small handheld device and watched as the screen filled with radar patterns. Bolan examined the screen. “We’ve got one main entrance that leads in and up about fifteen yards and opens up into a large chamber. By shape it’s a natural cave, about thirty yards by forty. Two tunnels branch off, one straight back and another off to the left, each about ten yards. They’re straight and level, cut by machines, and each leads to another chamber. The chambers are symmetrical, and again, man-made. One appears to be filled with a number of large, symmetrical objects. The two chambers both have a tunnel coming out of them and meet in a fifth chamber. Basically, the complex is a rough hexagon, each chamber connected by a tunnel.”

Dirk stared at what appeared on the screen to be little more than blobs and streaks. “If you say so.”

Bolan pulled out a stylus, traced the diagram and killed the flashes of the radar pulses behind it, leaving five circles each connected by a line. “That’s your map. I’m sending it to the PDA of each man in the troop.” Bolan pressed Send and a few seconds later each man in Bravo troop signaled he had the map.

“God…damn,” Dirk opined.

“I told you the President was writing a blank check on this one.”

“Then by all means, let’s give the man his money’s worth.” Dirk spoke into his tactical radio. “All units. Start moving in.”

Bolan and Bravo troop began moving through the rocks. Delta Force always had access to the best toys, and Bolan had been given the keys to the candy store. Each man in the reinforced squad was equipped with a SCAR rifle chambered for the Russian 7.62 mm round. It was ballistically comparable to the old Winchester .30-30, but Bolan had no complaints about that. Some people thought the U.S. .223 was too light and didn’t have enough stopping power. Others thought the other major U.S. military small-arms round, the .308, was too heavy and had too much recoil. The 7.62 mm was the porridge the Russian Bear had chosen, and her soldiers had collectively wept when they’d abandoned it to try to emulate the Americans.

These rifles were firing heavy subsonic bullets and had suppressor tubes fitted over their muzzles.

Bravo troop was as silent as wolves running through fog.

Corporal Sawyer’s voice came across the link. “I got two sentries by the entrance to the cave beneath camouflaged shelters.”

“You got a line of fire?”

“Affirmative.”

“Take ’em,” Dirk ordered.

Bolan was close enough to Sawyer to hear the action of his automatic rifle click twice and two spent pieces of brass tinkle to the ground. At the cave mouth, nothing seemed to happen save that an arm flopped out from what appeared to be solid rock.

“Sentries down,” Sawyer said.

“Move in,” Dirk ordered. “By the numbers.”

“Mind if I take point?”

“Oh, by all means, please.” Dirk waved Bolan forward expansively. “I’m sure Sawyer would love the company.”

Dirk spoke into his radio. “Sawyer, wait on Striker.”

“Copy that.”

Bolan moved forward to Sawyer’s position. “Corporal.”

“Nice to see you up front, Coop. In my experience, civilians tend to lead from the back.”

Bolan scanned the entrance. From Sawyer’s angle, the Executioner could see that the rocks overhanging the cave mouth were really awnings, blankets stiffened with clay and dirt and stretched across stick frames so that they looked like rock formations. It was an old trick and a good one.

“You ready to step into the funhouse, Sunshine?”

“After you.”

They moved to the mouth of the cave. Beneath the camouflaged awning, two men in local dress lay facedown with a single bullet hole through their heads. “We’re in, Bravo. Come ahead.”

Bolan and Sawyer moved down the tunnel. Bolan ran a hand along the wall. It was rough and appeared to have been recently widened. It was wide enough to drive a jeep through. Bolan knelt and found tire tracks in dirt among the many footprints. “Bravo Leader, this is Striker. Be advised there has been vehicle traffic in the complex. At least jeep size.”

“Copy that, Striker,” Dirk replied. “We’re coming in.”

Dirk left a team outside watching their six, and the rest entered. Bolan and Sawyer crept down the tunnel. Both men held up their fists for “Halt” and crouched at the entrance to a large chamber. There were about fifty men in the cave, and several fires burned. Many were asleep. Others crouched in small circles drinking tea and talking or running rags over their rifles.