Volatile Agent. Don Pendleton
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a canvas-covered bed and drove to the front of the airport terminal. As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, Le Crème’s gendarme strolled out of the building and climbed up into the cab beside the driver.
Behind him the rest of the security unit followed, clambering over the tailgate and into the back of the truck. As soon as the last man was in, those in the back shouted something and the truck pulled away from the terminal and drove down the access road toward the highway leading into the township.
Bolan watched them go, satisfied for the moment. The operation had been so rushed there had been no time to implement a more comprehensive strategy than the one just executed. When Bolan was finished, it would take even more cash at even higher levels of government to smooth the incident over. What Le Crème thought was a smuggling operation was something very different.
Briefly, Bolan considered moving his operations into one of the hangars or even inside the terminal itself. It mattered little if the few remaining civilian officials saw his face. But he dismissed the idea. If everything didn’t unfold precisely, he wanted as little potential for collateral damage as possible. In a country where the life expectancy was barely fifty years of age, the people didn’t need to be shot for political machinations for which they weren’t responsible.
Bolan looked at his watch. Communication with Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi was based on an arranged timetable. Grimaldi would begin his approach in the Cessna Conquest I in ten minutes. Once he landed the pilot would turn the airplane and point the nose straight back up one leg of the twin strips with engines idling, prepared for an immediate takeoff.
Bolan caught a flash of movement and turned. A Land Rover pulled off the highway and began to speed down the terminal access road. Bolan zeroed in the binoculars on the vehicle windshield. James du Toit’s square head came into focus behind the wheel. Bolan felt a grim satisfaction. Du Toit appeared to be grinning madly at some private joke. His lips moved as he said something to someone else in the vehicle.
Bolan frowned and refocused the binoculars. He zoomed in on the South African mercenary again.
Suddenly a pile of black hair rose from du Toit’s lap, standing between him and the steering wheel. Bolan cursed in frustration. The girl from Le Crème’s shack snuggled into the comfortable passenger seat of the vehicle. The Land Rover pulled up to the airport terminal. Bolan ground his teeth together in frustration.
He didn’t know why the girl was there. Maybe du Toit had given Le Crème such a generous payoff the corrupt gendarme colonel had simply thrown the girl in as a bonus. Maybe du Toit had just bought her. Hell, Bolan thought, maybe she was the guy’s wife, the why didn’t really matter at the moment.
The steady drizzle of rain began to increase. The stiff breeze shifted slightly, and the orange wind sock on top of the terminal spun in a different direction. Bolan watched as the pair got out of the Land Rover and entered the terminal. He had just minutes to figure out how to change his plans.
She’s not important, Bolan tried to tell himself. He didn’t like how it sounded, even in his head. She had chosen her company, and he couldn’t be held responsible for that. His life and the life of Marie Saragossa were on the line. Bolan frowned. He knew what he was getting into, had always known, and it had been his choice. Saragossa was a mercenary at heart. She’d turned down a hundred opportunities to get out of the game since Noriega had fallen. She was in Burkina Faso by choice.
Bolan knew it would be easy for him to extrapolate how many lives could depend on the information that Marie Saragossa held, but it didn’t feel right in the face of a girl cursed by poverty to a short, brutal life. He couldn’t kill her. She was, when all was said and done, an innocent.
Bolan looked at his watch, then back up to the sky. Right on time Bolan’s sensitive ears picked up the sounds of the Cessna Conquest’s big, prop-driven engine. Grimaldi was approaching for his landing. Bolan reached for his sat phone, prepared to scrub the mission. His eyes fell across his little cache. He saw the clackers for the Claymore mines he had set out along the runway where the helipad was located. It was more than enough to take out a Super Puma as it landed, destroying du Toit’s transportation and putting down his eighteen-man strike force.
Claymores were indiscriminate killers, and the back blast area was significant. If du Toit pulled the Land Rover up next to the helipad to rendezvous with his team, the girl would be gravely injured. At best.
Grimaldi landed the plane smoothly despite the heavy rain and crosswind. He began to brake the aircraft as he guided it toward the terminal. Its rear end skidded out to the side slightly as the rear landing gear slid in the mud on the runway. On board the plane the rest of Bolan’s equipment for the mission was secured. Bolan knew he needed his long weapons. While he had wreaked considerable havoc before through the use of his Beretta and the Desert Eagle, he was going into a war zone when he left Banfora. It would be suicide to consider completing the operation armed as he was.
Bolan, his mind racing, debated with himself as Grimaldi taxied the plane into position. At that moment, from over Bolan’s shoulder, came the rhythmic thumping of a powerful helicopter engine. Du Toit had managed to place his troops and equipment in the area of operations in just hours despite the heavy rains.
Bolan watched the terminal, hoping du Toit would leave the girl in the building when he came out to meet his men.
Grimaldi reached the end of the runway and turned the plane smoothly, his tires leaving deep ruts in the muddy strip as he did so. From above Bolan’s head the racket of the helicopter coming in obscured all other sounds. A doorway set next to the observation window opened and du Toit walked out, heading toward the helicopter pad.
Bolan gripped the binoculars. Stay inside, he silently willed the girl. But she emerged from the terminal right behind du Toit.
The pair approached the landing pad as the helicopter hovered into position and the pilot began to lower the powerful aircraft. Bolan had placed his mines on either side of the pad, away from the raised dirt mound, camouflaging them and the detonation cord carefully so they were positioned in a V-pattern facing out from the rear of the helipad.
Bolan watched du Toit and the girl standing on the edge of the landing pad. The South African gave the pilot a thumbs-up as the skids touched down on the muddy soil. Bolan made up his mind. He was willing to risk detonating the Claymore on the far side.
He reached over and pulled the detonation clacker to him. He covered the edge and double-checked the electrical connection by looking for the blinking light in the small, recessed window of the detonator. The connection was good. Bolan looked up.
The pilot began to power down the rotors. Du Toit stepped away from the girl and approached the crew doors as they slid open on either side of the helicopter cargo bay. Beyond the helicopter landing pad Bolan saw the door set inside the frame of the Cessna open up and Grimaldi kick a short rope ladder out the side.
Bolan set his jaw hard and squeezed the detonation clacker.
The Claymores positioned on the far side of the helicopter erupted. Shrapnel slammed into the side of the Super Puma with ruthless efficiency. The frame of the aircraft shrieked in protest, and flight-tempered glass shattered. The explosion was murderously loud, but Bolan could hear the mercenaries’ screams immediately.
Metal struts positioned at the point where the main rotor shaft met the roof of the helicopter shredded under the impact of the steel ball bearings, and the still spinning blades drooped dangerously. Bolan realized that if he triggered the second Claymore the mortality rate would be final for the South African mercenaries. He looked at the girl, hating that she was there, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the smart thing.
Du Toit had been thrown to the ground and behind him the girl cowered at the explosion. Du Toit rose and pulled the pistols under his arms clear of their nylon holsters. Wounded mercenaries stumbled out of the helicopter, holding injuries, their clothes soaked in blood.
Bolan came up with the Beretta 93-R ready. He thumbed the selector switch to the triburst setting and hooked the thumb of his free hand through the oversized trigger guard. He swiveled, running for the terminal from his concealed