Don Pendleton - Tiger War

Dedicated to our peacekeepers killed by the suicide bombers.

In the words of the President, "We must be more determined than ever that thugs cannot take over a strategic area of the earth or, for that matter, any other part of the earth."

A trap! The word exploded in Mack Bolan's head. He brought up his weapon and went into a crouch, eyes scanning the terrain. The valley shone peacefully in the moonlight, the rhythmic rasping of cicadas the only sound.

Was his subconscious warning system alerting him to a real danger, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

By the light of the moon he could see all the way to the tree line. The ground was flat, covered in elephant grass dotted with clusters of bamboo.

Bent double, his parachute still slung over his shoulder, Bolan ran for the nearest cluster. He crouched in its shadow and listened, mouth open to hear better.

From the jungle forest came the screech of parakeets. An owl hooted. A bullfrog croaked nearby. The cicadas went on with their concert.

A typical night in Thailand.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, he thought. After all, the ground recognition signal had been the right one.

His mind went back to the circling Antonov. He had stood by the open jump door, wind tearing at his clothes, and watched the light flash in the darkness below.

Long, long, short, the light flashed. The letter G in Morse, It was the agreed signal. So why this sense of danger?

The valley dimmed as a cloud covered the moon.

Suddenly, on the east side of the valley to his left, figures emerged from the forest. Almost immediately more men appeared on his right. Then a third group came out on the northern end, straight ahead of him.

For a moment Bolan thought they might be Nark and his Montagnards come to look for him, but they were too silent for that.

A reception committee was a noisy affair, especially when the parachutist landed as far off the drop zone as he had. People would thrash through the bushes shouting instructions to each other, calling the parachutist's name.

But this group was on a manhunt. They moved furtively, communicating by hand signals, and they held their weapons at the ready.

The moon came out from behind the cloud and Bolan could see them better. They were soldiers and wore the distinctive fatigue caps of the Nationalist Chinese.

Tiger troops. It was a trap!

Bolan looked around for an avenue of escape. The only one was the way he had come, to the south. Even then it would be touch and go; the moment he left the bamboo they would see him.

He unhooked two Slepoy grenades from his gun belt, took one in each hand, and armed them using the opposite index finger to pull the safety ring. He glanced at the sky. Another cloud was approaching the moon. The gods were on his side.

Bolan waited, a motionless shape in the night.

To the north, a line was being formed, the original group swelled by new arrivals. They began to sweep the valley like game beaters while those on the side made sure their prey did not escape that way.

The valley dimmed, and Bolan sprang to his feet. He lobbed one grenade to his right, the other to his left, then ducked, clutching his weapon.

The Slepoys burst in midair, each giving birth to three minigrenades that fanned out and hit the ground with blinding flashes, spewing irritating smoke.

The valley boomed, surrounding hills reflecting the explosions, and Bolan raced for the southern tree line, mentally counting the seconds.

The Slepoys — Russian stun grenades — were supposed to give a man six seconds' grace by stunning his enemies, but that was for a given area. Here, the troops had been spread out.

In the end he got four seconds, because on the fifth the lead began to fly. At first their bullets went wide, the soldiers' aims hampered by the noxious smoke, but as they crossed the screen after him, their shooting narrowed.

A flare gun fired in rapid succession, and the valley turned silver. Bolan, a silhouette in the flashing light, zigzagged toward the forest.

A green tracer sang past his ear, another brushed his sleeve, a third ricocheted off his haversack. Bolan felt the hand of death reach out for him.

He ran like a hunted animal, unaware of anything but the tree line ahead, his whole being concentrating on it. Eyes glazed by the rush of air, deaf to the noise around him, he raced toward sanctuary.

The forest drew nearer, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and suddenly he was inside, swallowed by its protective darkness. He darted behind a tree and, gasping for breath, peered back. The valley was lit up like a football stadium for a night game, flares dangling everywhere. As for the players, they were coming at him, their guns spitting flame.

It was time for some counterplay.

Bolan folded out the butt on his AK-74 and changed trees to give himself a better angle. He took a deep breath and started firing.

The effect was instantaneous, for the new Kalashnikov was a formidable weapon, its muzzle brake practically eliminating recoil and climb, giving its handler the ability to keep it on target throughout a burst.

Dying screams tore the air, men toppled and the charge halted.

But they were well-trained troops, and those who had dived to the ground in time immediately returned fire. And now their aim became more accurate, every man knowing where Bolan was.

For all its improvements, the new Kalashnikov had one major defect: its muzzle-flash was three times the normal. The brake did nothing to reduce flame.

To counter this, Bolan began changing trees after each burst. He fired burst after burst, keeping the soldiers pinned, sacrificing ammunition to gain time to catch his breath. On the next leg, lungs — not ammunition — would decide the outcome.

A new group of soldiers appeared in the distance. And these had dogs. Bolan saw them run to outflank him. He fired a last burst and fled.

Now began a grueling marathon.

Going like a blind man, he crashed through the undergrowth, thorns tearing at his clothes, razor-sharp grasses cutting his skin. The forest was pitch-dark, and it took time for his eyes to adjust.

The ground rose and fell, so that one moment he was sliding into gullies, the next struggling up slopes on all fours. Vines kept tripping his feet.

Behind him, he could hear the dogs barking and shouts in Chinese. He had to go faster!

A clear stretch came, followed by more thick jungle, then an area of boulders so big he had to climb over them, another clear stretch, then a forest of bamboo and more gullies. The ground began to slope.

A stream appeared and he hurried up it, hoping to obliterate his scent for a short distance. He splashed himself with handfuls of water scooped up on the run. The heat, the burning cuts, the sting of ants... he felt on fire.

On the other side of the stream was a clear stretch, the ground aglow with bits of phosphorescent bark. He raced through that, then the terrain thickened. Once again he was thrashing through dense undergrowth.

An hour after he began his escape he emerged atop a ridge overlooking the valley, his fighter suit in tatters, his arms and face a mass of bleeding cuts. He ran along a trail until he came to a clearing, turned into it and collapsed to the ground.