Savage Rule

After orchestrating Orieza’s coup, his rise to true power in Honduras, and after seeing to it that the old man’s claim to governing was shored up by blood and terror through his shock troops and his command of the Honduran military at large, Del Valle wasn’t satisfied. It was he, therefore, who had seen the potential of the oil pipeline. Nationalizing the country’s remaining private concerns had simply been a matter of course, but knowing what to do with those resources…well, that had been Del Valle’s brilliance at work, as well. It was Roderigo del Valle who had concocted the daring scheme to build the pipeline to Mexico, and it was Roderigo del Valle who recognized that a man like President Castillo would be receptive to the power play that Del Valle offered. Of course, Castillo thought all this was Orieza’s doing, and that was as it should be. If it went wrong, Orieza would take the blame. If somehow Del Valle’s hold on power was broken and the regime crumbled, it would be General Orieza’s back against the wall before a revolutionary firing squad.

When you were the power behind the throne, you could hide behind it, too.

But he was drifting. Back to the problem at hand. Castillo would call, would want assurances that the plan was to continue. Del Valle, through Orieza, would provide those assurances. President Castillo would be easily enough placated; he was many miles away, and understood the military might that General Orieza could yet bring to bear. Castillo also had a weakness that Del Valle was happy to exploit: the new Mexican president was a believer. His faith in this La Raza business, this Chicano nationalism, burned deeply in him. His hatred for the United States and his desire to take what he could from the Yankees north of his border would be the carrot that continued to lead him down Del Valle’s garden path. Only Roderigo del Valle would know that it was he who held the stick….

In offering these assurances to Castillo, of course, it was critical that Del Valle shield his general from the shock of the attacks near the Guatemalan border. Above all, Orieza couldn’t be allowed to know the true extent of the damage done.

Del Valle had seen the man. He had seen the big soldier and known him instantly for what he was, this Caucasian with dark hair. There was no way to be sure, but something about him—the way he moved, the equipment he carried, just something indefinable about his bearing—had made Del Valle place him as a an American. Certainly his willingness to invade, to kill, to cut a bloody swath across a foreign nation’s sovereign borders, was typical of his kind. Del Valle had seen U.S. Special Forces soldiers in action, and this man was very likely one of them.

His head still reeled with the knowledge of what the soldier had done. It was clear that the invader couldn’t be working alone, not given the extent of the carnage. He would likely be a leader, however. He had that look. Even in his brief contact with the big foreigner, Del Valle had felt something like fear tickling his guts. He had brushed against death and escaped, this man whose clothes were stained with blood, who smelled of smoke and of gunfire. This man with the two large knives mounted on his combat harness.

It was only after escaping the ruins of the base camp that Del Valle had learned of the true fury of the invading onslaught. His raiding party, massing on the border for another strike into Guatemalan territory, had been wiped out utterly. No doubt the American soldiers, if that was what they were, had brought a sizable team into the country. They were perhaps Marines, or SEALs…. It didn’t matter. He would have to make inquiries, once he returned to his own offices, in order to perform damage control.

The lesson they hoped to impart was clear enough: leave Guatemala alone. In truth, Del Valle hadn’t credited them with the courage to make a minor show of force, much less this. They were fools if they thought a bloody nose would be enough to dissuade him. He would find their forces, if they hadn’t already fled, and he would make lessons of them. But first there was Orieza….

Del Valle finished his useless attempts to clean himself up and turned to the door. He gestured to the woman, who pressed the buzzer beneath her desk. The door opened automatically, the locks releasing. That door was bulletproof, of course, the walls of Orieza’s office reinforced against explosives. The general himself sat within, looking far older and more tired than his troops would ever be permitted to see him.

“Roderigo,” he said weakly in Spanish, looking up from his ornate chair behind his equally ornate desk. “I am glad you are here.” He looked pale and sallow, his white hair flat against his skull. The elaborately gilded white uniform he wore hung limply on his frame, as if a size too large. He was staring at the phone on his desk, with its faux-antique receiver and engraved casing. It was ringing.

“Is that…?”

“Castillo.” Orieza nodded. “He has been calling all morning. I thought it best you be here before I spoke with him.”

Thank heavens, Del Valle thought, that the old fool can be trusted to follow my instructions at least that far.

“Of course, General,” he said, bowing smartly at the waist. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I will be honored to assist you.”

Orieza looked relieved. Del Valle took up a position perched on Orieza’s desk, where he would be able to listen to the call and quietly offer suggestions to the general out of range of the telephone.

After Orieza’s secretary and the operator on the other end traded formalities, the leaden voice of Mexico’s president blared from the device. “General Orieza,” Castillo said. “I have heard disturbing things.”

Del Valle whispered, and Orieza repeated his words verbatim. “I know full well what you have heard,” he said, the steel in his voice an act, but the role one he was quite accustomed to playing. It was as if the simple fact that Del Valle was there to think for him liberated him from whatever had turned him into such a shriveled shell of himself. He was free to be the powerful general, the macho hero of the new Honduran regime, as long as Del Valle did the heavy lifting—in this case, by telling him what to say.

“Then you know that I’ve learned your forces have been dealt a defeat on the Guatemalan border,” Castillo stated smoothly. “I don’t know how bad it is, but it worries me. Tell me, my friend, how bad is it?”

Worse than I will permit your spies to learn, useful idiot, Del Valle thought. Through Orieza, he said, “A small matter only. We believe the Guatemalans have called on their allies for assistance. It may have been the American directly, or some international force, which amounts to roughly the same thing.”

“And?” Castillo demanded.

“And they obviously seek to send us a message,” Del Valle said through the general. “One that, clearly, will have no effect. You know the Americans. They are gutless.”

“This I agree with,” the Mexican said. “But you are guessing. You do not know that it was the United States.”

“No,” Orieza repeated obediently. “But then, I do not know that it wasn’t, and in either case, it does not matter. Only a few men were killed. The operation will not be significantly slowed. The pipeline will be completed on schedule.”

“I have my doubts,” Castillo murmured. “Though, in truth, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“In what way?” Orieza asked, sounding genuinely as curious as Del Valle was.

“When you first came to me,” the Mexican president said, “telling me of your…shall we call it newfound wealth, and suggested the pipeline, I thought the plan insane. Waging war through your neighbors and mine in order to bring us the oil directly… Why, yes, the resulting wealth is most welcome, and with wealth comes power. But I got to thinking. You were dreaming big. I should do no less, I thought, and so I started to dream bigger.”

“We discussed this,” Orieza said, his cautious tone mirroring Del Valle’s. “You will use your money, your power, to accomplish your own goals in your upcoming battle with the Americans. We provided you significant material assistance in exchange for your cooperation with this plan, which is very detailed and has a specific schedule.”

“Assistance? You speak, no doubt, of your fine little helicopter. Yes, well,” Castillo said, “do not fear. We shall be putting it and the missiles to good use.”

“The time for your incursions is soon to be reached in that schedule—”

“That’s just it,” Castillo interrupted. “There is no ‘soon to be.’ My operatives are already in position. The first moves are already being made. Soon I shall bring those weaklings north of the border to their very knees, and we, the proud people of Mexico, will take what belongs to us.”

“But this is not what we agreed,” Orieza repeated for Del Valle.

“I do not give a damn for schedules any longer,” Castillo said. “I will take what I wish from the Americans, with or without your oil money. I will gladly take that, of course. Do not count it against me. But you have inspired me, General. I am taking what I want with or without your help. I shall gladly use the toy you have sent us to do it, too.”

“Is that wise?” Orieza asked, and this time he spoke before being prompted. Del Valle let it go, for he was about to ask the very same thing. He whispered, and Orieza repeated his next words: “If you alert the forces of the West too early, they may respond with greater force than they have already done.”

“Ramon, Ramon, Ramon.” Castillo tsked into the phone, setting Del Valle’s nerves on edge. “You refuse to acknowledge with whom you are dealing. These Americans are a fundamentally inferior race. We have discussed this.”

“Please do not ply me with your racial theories,” Orieza said, unbidden, and Del Valle had to admit that he felt much the same. “I am aware of your notions, and we agree that the territory you will seize rightfully belongs to you. But if you move too far too fast, before we have filled our coffers and purchased more weapons and equipment, they will crush you.”

“We have been eating them alive for years now, from within,” Castillo said with a sneer. “But perhaps I misunderstand. I am informed that you have suffered material damages. That someone has interfered with your operation on the border.”

“And I,” Orieza said, his tone mirroring the venom in Del Valle’s, “would very much like to know how you are aware of this.”

“We are all friends,” Castillo said. “Friends talk among themselves.”

“Indeed,” Orieza dutifully repeated. “We will not discuss that for now. As we—” He stopped abruptly as Del Valle shot him a look. “As I said, everything is under control. Pipeline construction continues on schedule. The Guatemalans cannot stop us. They do not have the means, nor the strength of will. Our own people can be counted on to do as we order them. It is a good plan and we shall stick to it.”

“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?” Castillo said. “So I’m moving my people into position earlier than we discussed. It means little, provided the pipeline does go through. And, frankly, if you fail, Ramon, I will not be held back by your weakness. The Race demands more. It deserves more.”

“Just tread carefully,” Orieza said. “Remember what I have said.” He looked up at Del Valle as his adviser snatched the receiver and slammed it down on the cradle.

“That miserable pig!” Del Valle hissed. “He could ruin everything!”

“Roderigo…” Orieza said hesitantly, gazing directly at him for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“You look terrible. Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Del Valle said sharply. He softened his tone, catching himself. “Please, General, think nothing of it. All is well. There are simply many things to monitor, many things I must keep a watchful eye on.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be so,” Orieza said, sounding unconvinced. “But who is it that attacks us? Have they done us much harm?”

“No, no, General.” Del Valle spread his hands, smiling broadly. “You know that a man like Castillo must always try to impress others with his great power. If he makes us believe he thinks us weak, he gains an advantage. We are in no danger, and our plans progress according to schedule. Our dream for our great nation progresses accordingly. There is no need to worry.”

“But, Roderigo, I have doubts. I have heard from some of the men that the people are angry.”

“Angry? Who told you that?”

Orieza shrugged. “One hears things from the staff. Is it true that the elite guard are interrogating our own people?”

“My men? Your bodyguards? That is absurd,” Del Valle lied. “Really, General, you must give this no thought. These are the kinds of rumors spread by the bored, the idle and the envious. You must know that your great power and popularity will bring unfair criticism.”

“I suppose,” Orieza said, his forehead knotting. “I simply do not understand—”

The intercom buzzed. Del Valle, grateful for the distraction, pressed the button before he could continue, and made a mental note of the fact that some people had been far too free in their conversation with Orieza. Roderigo would determine who the general had been listening to, and would make sure those persons disappeared permanently. Orieza was asking far too many inconvenient questions.

“Yes?” he said, leaning over the intercom.

Orieza’s secretary spouted a stream of apologies for interrupting, and then begged their pardons, but could Commander Del Valle take an urgent call from the field? One of his men had been trying to reach him for some time, she said, and she had delayed connecting the call for as long as she thought prudent.

“Yes, yes,” Del Valle said testily. “Put it through.” He picked up the large receiver. “Yes?” he said again in Spanish.

“Commander,” stated one of his field lieutenants, whose name escaped him at the moment. The soldier was out of breath, or frantic in some way, as if he was frightened or had run to reach the phone. “Sir, I must sound the alarm urgently, sir! There is great trouble here at the terminal!”

“The pipeline terminal?” Del Valle demanded.

“Yes, Commander, yes!”

“Well?”

“Sir…it…”

“What, damn you?” Del Valle roared. “Spit it out, or I will wring your neck!”

“Sir, the terminal burns.”

“What?” Del Valle shouted. “What are you talking about?”

“Sir—” The voice was cut short by a loud clap of sound, a noise Del Valle couldn’t escape.

“Report!” he yelled. “Report, damn you!”

The muffled click of the receiver being replaced in its cradle was the only reply.

CHAPTER FIVE

Thick undergrowth between closely packed trees gave way to the blade of Mack Bolan’s machete, ending abruptly at a large clearing that was dominated by the pipeline terminal. This, too, was concealed beneath camouflage netting, but the NSA’s satellite surveillance had easily picked out the facility with thermal imaging. Bolan was no expert on the technology used for oil drilling, but he gathered that this nationalized plant had been an innovative one before it was essentially stolen from its owners by Orieza’s regime.

Intelligence operatives posing as interested parties from the United States government’s international trade commission had interviewed key employees of O’Connor Petroleum Prospecting, according to the files sent to Bolan by the Farm. They had provided blueprints of the proposed plant layout, which Bolan consulted on his phone’s muted screen. There were supposed to be changes made to these preliminary plans, alterations that would be filed on-site only. If there had been any major departures, he couldn’t see them as he surveyed the terminal.

Of particular interest to him were the office buildings, a collection of interconnected, prefabricated sheds south of the pipeline cluster. The cluster—it was designated as such on the plans—was a complicated mass of piping, tributaries of some sort that came together at a junction of the oil line. That pipeline, constructed by Orieza’s people after the takeover, stretched off into the distance, the way Bolan had come. It ended, he knew, at the advance camp he had just destroyed.

There had been no point in targeting the pipeline itself, for it was far longer than Bolan could deal with. Destroying portions of the line would slow the progress of Orieza’s invading teams, but Bolan didn’t believe in chopping off tentacles when he could attack the head of the monster. The OPP terminal had to be destroyed, if the pipeline project was to be ended effectively. Destroying the equipment would deny Orieza’s regime access to the oil, which, in Bolan’s relatively limited understanding of petroleum prospecting, wasn’t accessible without the new technology OPP had brought to the project. Once the terminal was eliminated, there would be no point in continuing to invade Guatemala in order to bring the pipeline through to Mexico.

That was the plan, anyway.

Brognola had told Bolan that the employees present when the facility was nationalized had been killed or taken hostage. The Orieza regime had said nothing about them publicly, nor had the communications between the two nations intercepted by the Farm’s intelligence sources included any mention of them. This was likely because the human beings caught in the power play cooked up by Orieza and Castillo meant very little to the two leaders. It was Bolan’s hope that those OPP employees were still alive. If they were, the most likely location to hold them would be those offices, if the hostages were still on-site. The cyber team at the Farm had analyzed the available data and come to the same conclusion.

Bolan consulted another file on the phone, this one the instructions provided by OPP management for shut ting down the drill house and its pump valves. The deep-ranging equipment was connected to a series of turbines heated with geothermal energy, the briefing explained. Tapping this power helped make a project on the scope of the OPP operation possible, and it was the reason the company had managed to find oil where none had previously been detected. Bolan skipped over the technojargon elaborating on that. The gist was that if he shut down the pumps and valves in the order specified by the company’s technicians, then reversed the turbines, overrode the safety circuits and instructed the drill equipment to perform a self-cleaning procedure with the pump power at maximum, a mechanical disaster would occur.

The OPP technicians had been very clear on that point. A self-cleaning operation reversed the drills and drew full power from the pumping network. If the safeties were disengaged and the procedure implemented with the turbines also at full reverse, the harmonic vibrations created by the drills would shake the casings apart. The turbines, disconnected from the shafts and overdriving the pumps, would then overheat and explode, shattering the pumps. What was left of the terminal would be torn to pieces by the shrapnel. Any of the equipment still functioning would be so much scrap metal, useless to anyone without the associated high-tech equipment. With the valves shut beforehand, any environmental damage would be minimized; there would be no spewing geysers or burning plumes of oil smoke.

Bolan snapped his phone shut and stowed it. The immediate problem was how to penetrate the facility. It was heavily guarded by Honduran troops who, he could see through his field glasses, wore the blue epaulets of Orieza’s shock forces. They patrolled the fenced perimeter of the terminal, a chain-link affair to which strands of razor wire had been added. He could tell the wire was new because it hadn’t yet begun to discolor or corrode in the tropical climate, while the chain-link fence itself already looked much older than it could possibly be. No doubt Orieza’s thugs had beefed up security once they’d seized the terminal.

The men walking sentry duty in twos carried M-16 rifles. Bolan observed the guards for half an hour, timing them and judging the gap between patrols. It wasn’t a large one, but it was there. Orieza’s gunmen had become complacent. They would regret that—but not for long.

Bolan gathered himself for his charge. He didn’t have the advantage of darkness now. Once he began to fire on the shock troops, the element of surprise would be lost and full-scale combat would commence. There was no room for error.

He counted down the numbers. When he hit zero, he ran.

Bolan’s sprint across the clearing to the fenced perimeter carried him between the two closest pairs of sentries. He knelt, brought his rifle to his shoulder and waited, aiming in the direction from which the next team would come. The two men rounded the corner at the far end of the perimeter.

They saw Bolan and froze.

It was all the Executioner needed. In the fraction of a moment that the gunmen’s brains failed to process what their eyes saw, he fired a single round through the face of the man on the left. Bolan rode out the mild recoil of the 5.56-mm NATO round, acquiring his second target smoothly without delay. He squeezed the trigger, completely at ease, completely relaxed. The second shot was echoing as both bodies hit the ground.

Bolan let go of the rifle, trusting to his sling to keep it with him. He plucked a grenade from his combat harness, pulled the pin and let the spoon spring through the air. He threw the bomb underhand at the chain-link fence, just beyond what he judged to be a safe distance. Then he hit the dirt and covered his head with his arms.

The explosion did more damage to the ground than to the barrier, pelting Bolan with clods of moist earth. He drew himself into a crouch, bringing the rifle up again, and wasn’t disappointed. Armed men were running for him, firing as they went, spraying their weapons blindly.

The Executioner added his own weapon to the cacophony. While his enemies’ shots went wide and wild, his own precise bursts were true. First one, then another, then a third of the Honduran shock troopers went down. Bolan pushed to his feet and made for the opening torn in the fence.

He squeezed through with just enough room to spare, despite all the equipment he carried. Once on the other side of the fence he quickly dropped and rolled aside. Lines of automatic gunfire ripped into the dirt where he had stood, again spraying him with debris.

At the awkward angle he now lay, Bolan couldn’t bring his rifle to bear. Instead, he let it rest beside him, tethered to its sling, and drew the Beretta and Desert Eagle from their holsters. With a weapon in each hand, he waited, and when gunmen moved into view, he started shooting.

The .44 Magnum Desert Eagle bucked in his hand. The Beretta machine pistol chugged 3-round bursts with each press of the trigger. Like cattle driven to slaughter, the shock troopers kept coming—and kept dying.

There was a pause and Bolan took advantage of it, moving deeper into the pipeline terminal, stepping over bodies as he went. He swapped magazines in his pistols and then holstered the guns once more, bringing his rifle back into play.

He could hear shouting in Spanish and even hear a few bursts of rifle fire, but whatever the men were shooting at, it wasn’t Mack Bolan. Most likely it was more panic fire. The urge to do something, anything, when death was at a man’s doorstep was a powerful impulse not easily ignored. Bolan had the benefit of many years as a guerrilla fighter, many years on the front lines of a private war that was if not of his choosing, then of his making. Orieza’s shock troops were no doubt feared by the citizens of Honduras, but they had proved to be little threat to the Executioner.

There were three battered military-style jeeps parked near the entrance to the small complex. He took note of these and ducked under a large, steel-gray pipe that was mottled with rust spots. Everywhere around him he could see, as he passed by machinery that dwarfed him, that the climate was having an effect on the largely untended OPP equipment. It was possible that in time, without the technical expertise to run the facility, Orieza’s regime wouldn’t be able to pump the oil at all. The people of Guatemala, however, didn’t have the luxury of waiting out the Honduran hard-liners. Nor was it acceptable to let an emboldened Castillo, drunk with the thought of coming oil riches, continue to terrorize the Southwest United States by proxy.