Don Pendleton - Whipsaw

Using a small light and shielding it with his palm, Bolan quickly found the first strip of sensing wire half-buried in the leaves. He was pleased to have found it, and worried, too. Where there was one, there were bound to be others. Looking carefully, he quickly spotted four more, strung at odd distances one from another to pick up any stride, regardless of its length.

For a moment he wondered whether they might even have seismic sensors. It was a distinct possibility, but there was just so much caution even a paranoid could take. Bolan was anything but paranoid, but he wasn't reckless, either. He was a man who knew his abilities and, more importantly, their limits. Once past the pressure net, he would have to take his chances.

He still used the light, worried more now about trip wires than detection gear. If they knew he was there, that was one thing. If he triggered a claymore and blew himself to hell, that was another matter. Seen once, it was something you didn't forget. Ever. And he'd seen it more times than he could count.

In tight, the razor wire stopped shimmering. It lost its neutral beauty and he could see it for the ugly stuff it was. He didn't have anything to cut it, and it was more than likely wired, in any case.

There would be no surreptitious entry by simply climbing over the fence. That was clear enough. If he was going to get in, he was going to have to work at it.

While he debated what to do, the floods went out, and Bolan heaved a deep sigh of relief. Something was going his way at last.

After the circuit he dropped back to consider his options. The camp itself nagged him. It struck a resonant chord, but it took him a while to place it. Something about the layout seemed familiar. Using the light, he did a quick sketch. As he scratched the last couple of buildings in place, it hit him: it was the same as Colgan's camp.

At first blush, that made no sense until the common link jumped out and bit him McRae. The bastard must have laid them both out. He must have been in Harding's pocket for a long time, maybe from the very beginning. Hell, he might even have done a little judicious prodding here and there, steering the hapless do-gooder without Colgan even realizing it. That would be typical of outsize egos. They had a tendency to follow while thinking they were leading. And they usually ended up just like Colgan. Che did it, and so did Lumumba. It was the fashionable thing.

And every single nearsighted fool told himself the same thing it won't happen to me, brother.

Bolan couldn't be sure, but he'd seen no evidence the razor coils had been electrified.

If they weren't plugged in, and it looked like he'd have to chance it, he just might be able to go up and over. The fence itself was sturdy cyclone web. The posts had been anchored in concrete, the bottom of the cyclone itself trenched and cemented. There would be no going under, not without a half-dozen hard hats and a backhoe. That meant up and over, while avoiding wire as voracious as a hungry shark.

He had seen some bamboo that looked fairly sturdy. Dropping back away from the fence, he searched it out. Appraising it with the small torch, he shook his head uncertainly. As he hacked away at the most likely looking trunk, he found it hard to believe bamboo was in the grass family. The serrated edge of the survival knife scraped and scratched on the tough fiber, but eventually cut all the way through.

It had taken considerable effort to cut the one piece, and that meant a ladder was out of the question. He didn't have time. Fallback was an Olympic nightmare. But when you had to pole vault, you ran like hell and hoped your behind didn't end up like a stack of cold cuts somewhere in the middle of the shiny wire.

A single light burned in one of the huts, and Bolan paced while he waited for it to go out. He checked his watch and set the timer. Ten minutes that was all he was prepared to wait.

Then, come hell or high wire, he was going up and over. He knew that kind of setup well enough to know that most of the men were already asleep. The few who were awake were probably lying on their cots, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering why they had come to such a godforsaken hellhole in the first place. They ticked off the credits, subtracted the debits and wondered just how close they were to breaking even.

He looked at his watch, and the timer read ten minutes while the seconds and tenths whizzed on like cars on a freeway.

It was time.

The approach wasn't that long, but the fence wasn't that high, and he wouldn't be setting a world record. He measured the run and cleared a spot to plant the hole. He had only one chance, and it had better work. Tamping the damp earth to solidify it, he tried the short sprint without the pole. When he was convinced he had a shot, he tossed the M-16 over the fence, then slipped the magazines through the wire. Making sure the AutoMag and Beretta were secure, he hefted the pole, then took a deep breath.

His first approach was all wrong, and he stopped just short of slamming into the fence. Bolan backed up for another go. On there next try, he altered his stride just enough, planted the sturdy bamboo and hurled himself toward the sky. The bamboo wasn't as flexible as he would have liked, and his shoulder sockets felt as if they'd been filled with hot lead, but the pole held and he clung fast. As he sailed over the wire, he closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact.

Bolan landed heavily. He lay there, listening to the bamboo still rattling the wire while he caught his breath. He got to his knees, rubbing his left shoulder. It burned a little, but the arm moved, and he shrugged off the pain. Gathering his ammunition and the rifle, he moved along the fence until he was right behind the middle building. If he was right about McRae, this would house the arsenal.

It was the only windowless building, and the front door was locked. He realized there was something to be said for arrogance as long as it was the enemy's as he slipped around to the front door.

Relying on technology instead of humanity, Harding or whoever passed for a honcho at the moment had chosen not to post sentries. That was his second big plus, and Bolan was not unappreciative.

Keeping his ears open, he used the survival knife to carve through the wood around the padlocked latch. It took several tries, but he managed to loosen the lag bolts enough to pry the latch free.

Inside he closed the door with relief.

For a few minutes he'd be safe from discovery.

Using the small light again, he took inventory of the large room. Just as he'd suspected, it contained nothing but munitions. But how was he to take on an unknown number of men, even if he had control of their backup firepower?

A crate of LAW rockets was part of the answer, but only part. He pulled the crate over near the door. An M-60 was another part, if he could find the ammo. It took a few minutes.

The quartermaster was anything but systematic. The stuff was piled haphazardly, without regard to any rational order he could discover. The search paid off, though, in something better: a spare M-134 Minigun for one of the choppers, a folding mount already attached. It sat in a dolly with a 3000 round canister. He didn't need the M-60 now, or its ammo. His first inclination was to blow the arsenal first, but he might need something when this was all over. The LAW's were eleven pounds apiece, and the crate weighed a ton. He pried it open and removed six of the drab-looking tubes.

Bolan worked quickly, wanting to do as much as he could inside. Once the fireworks started, there would be no time for second thoughts and should haves. He got a dozen LAW'S fire-ready, then checked the magazine of the minigun. It was loaded for more than bear, chock full of 7.62 mm killers.

Bolan opened the door and jammed a sliver of crating under it to keep it open. He sprinted straight across the compound, over near the gate, and stacked an armful of LAW's. A second trip put the rest of the dozen in place.