Don Pendleton - Whipsaw

Carlos reached out to take the small radio and flashed a grateful smile as soon as Colgan had turned away. Bolan crawled toward the front end of the jeep and lay flat on the ground. He slid under the bumper and used the barrel of his M-16 to push away a clump of fern leaves. The firing from the ambush had stopped, and the jungle was quiet except for a nervous whisper as Carlos tried to raise McRae on the radio.

"How much ammunition do you have?" Bolan asked, backing out from under the jeep.

"Three magazines," Colgan said. "And there might be a couple more in the jeep. There's usually a bag under the seat." Colgan got to one knee alongside the passenger seat and cut loose with a short burst.

"Save it," Bolan barked. "We're outgunned, and you can bet your last dollar they've got plenty of bullets."

"Most of them can't shoot worth a damn," Colgan retorted.

"You don't even know who they are."

"Like hell I don't. It's a bunch of NPA bullies. Sure as I'm sitting here, that's who they are."

"How can you be certain?"

"I've been here a lot longer than you. And if I learned one thing, it's that the NPA couldn't shoot dead fish in a small barrel. If that had been some of Harding's chums in the Brigade, we'd already be small pieces of meat dripping off the leaves on either side of the road. Those guys are well trained. They know how to shoot and they shoot to kill. If they're going to mine the road, they're going to blow the shit out of something. Bang for the buck is something they understand. But the emphasis is on buck. There is no fiscal irresponsibility with those boys. Hell, they're just like Republicans." Colgan laughed, and it turned into a maniacal wheeze. His lungs emptied, and he lost control of himself for several seconds.

Carlos crawled up behind Bolan. "Senor McRae is coming," he said. "Ten minutes."

Bolan moved to a position behind the front wheel, then peered over the hood. Two men advanced along the side of the road through the tall grass. Bolan brought his rifle up to rest on the hood. A burst of fire ripped out of the trees and shattered the windshield. Bolan ducked below the jeep as glass clattered onto the hood and cascaded down over the fenders. Hunks of glass fell into his collar, and small slivers stuck to his neck.

He shook his head, and more splinters rained out of his hair and glued themselves to his sweaty forehead.

Bolan lay on the ground and crawled into the trees behind the jeep. Using the blocky tail of the vehicle to screen himself from the two point men, he knelt among the trees. Drawing a bead with the M-16, he clicked the fire control onto single shot. Every shell was precious.

The front man was getting careless, and Bolan held his breath, waiting for a clear shot. The man wore a white headband, and Bolan could see it bobbing just below the tips of the tall blades. He fired once, and the man froze, the headband hovering in one spot like an uncertain hummingbird.

Bolan zeroed in on the headband. He squeezed again. The M-16 cracked, and the headband disappeared. He heard a shout, and a flurry of activity in the grass told him he'd found his mark. Bolan held steady, waiting to see what the second man would do. It was difficult to be certain, but from the fractured glimpses he'd caught, the second man looked quite young.

Sliding down into the brush, Bolan started to cut an angle among the trees. If he could get closer, maybe even slide in behind them, he might be able to put a lid on things before they pulled themselves together enough to make a concerted assault.

The ground was damp, and the leaf mulch silent under his feet. The remaining pointman had stopped shouting, and Bolan couldn't tell whether the man had held his position, fallen back or come on ahead. He checked the spot every few seconds, but the angle kept changing and he was no longer sure of the exact location.

Another burst ripped at the jeep, and Bolan watched the sparks fly from the hood. A loud bang signaled a blown tire, and the jeep hunched to one side. Somebody fired back, probably Colgan, and the two positions traded short bursts for several seconds. Colgan was on semiauto, and he had a heavy finger. Bolan hoped he didn't use all his ammo before McRae got there.

Something cracked off to the right, and Bolan froze for a second, then sank down into the undergrowth. A clump of flowers trembled unnaturally, and he held his breath.

He'd almost missed them.

Two men, flat as snakes, slithered over the leaves, pressing themselves under the bushes, just barely brushing a branch here and there. So slowly that he felt as if it would take him forever, Bolan brought his rifle around. Just as he was in position, one of the men, a scarecrow in khaki T-shirt and fatigue pants, sprang up. Bolan noticed the grenade as he squeezed the trigger.

He hit the deck just as the scarecrow pitched over to one side. He heard a scream, and the scarecrow's partner started to run. Tangled in some sort of vine, he tripped and fell.

Bolan covered his head, and the grenade went off with a dull crump, like a firecracker in a big barrel.

Bolan darted through the brush, his rifle ready.

The scarecrow lay on his side. Without looking too closely, Bolan knew the man was dead. The bullet hole in his chest was nothing compared to the chopped liver his back had become. Twenty feet away the second man, his feet still snarled in the tenacious vine, lay on his face. Several shrapnel wounds peppered his back. Bolan dropped to one knee and rolled him over.

He was no more than a kid. His eyes stared at Bolan, big as golf balls. His mouth moved awkwardly, and Bolan bent to hear, but there was no sound and the mouth slowly closed. The eyes glazed over as one hand shot out and grabbed Bolan by the wrist. The kid squeezed, and Bolan made no attempt to pull away.

With a soft "oohhh," the mouth moved one last time, the eyes started to glaze over and the hand fell away.

Bolan reached out to close the staring eyes with his thumb.

Up the road an intermittent roar drifted through the trees, growing louder and more consistent. Bolan got to his feet and stepped over the tangle of vines, then cocked an ear. The roar had settled into a steady droning now. It had to be McRae's jeep, Bolan thought as he moved deeper into the trees, finishing the curve and starting back in behind the hidden gunmen.

He wondered how many there were. It occurred to him that he might be walking into the middle of a sizable patrol. But something about their tactics made him doubt it. If there had been a large group, they would not have wasted time on subtlety. They would have charged headlong, relying on numbers to make the difference.

As he headed back in the direction of the road, Bolan could hear whispering voices somewhere ahead among the trees. He moved another twenty feet in, then positioned himself behind a thick-bunked rubber tree. He still heard the voices, but he hadn't seen a thing. It was brighter ahead as the growth thinned out and then was broken altogether by the road. The sound of the oncoming jeep had vanished. If it was McRae, he would be with Colgan. If it wasn't, there should have been gunfire.

With a shrug Bolan started firing into the shrubbery. A startled shout kicked off a flurry among the leaves. Bolan waited for return fire, but heard nothing but the rush of bodies headlong through the foliage. He fired twice more, then plunged after the fleeing men. They had the edge, and he knew, even as he struggled, that they were pulling away from him.

Bolan eased up and headed out into the road. He could see Colgan, Carlos and McRae huddled between two jeeps. McRae was waving his arms vehemently as Bolan broke into awn.

The three young prisoners cowered in a corner of the room. McRae shoved one of them with the heel of his hand, knocking the frail kid back into the wall.