Don Pendleton - Lethal Tribute

“One moment, Striker. Encryption broken. We’re in,” Kurtzman confirmed. “Patching you in passively.”

Bolan’s earpiece crackled as he was connected to the Pakistani secure radio frequency. The Puzzle Palace had done its work. Whatever encryption code the Pakistani military was using wasn’t up to the giant supercomputers in the bowels of the NSA building. Bolan listened as voices spoke in the quiet, clipped tones of soldiers giving and receiving data across a military channel. Bolan frowned slightly. He had been in Pakistan before and could speak enough words in the dominant language to get by as a tourist. He didn’t recognize the language being spoken. “Bear, that’s not Urdu.”

“Confirmed, Striker. One moment.” Pakistan was a large country split by mountains, deserts and river valleys. The people of Pakistan spoke several major languages and had innumerable dialects. “Switching translators.”

Bolan watched Musa Company creep forward, disappearing and reappearing from behind rocks and boulders below. They were slowing as they approached their target.

“Striker, they’re speaking Sind. Patching in standby translator.” Halfway across the world Kurtzman sat in Virginia and opened a satellite conference call with the NSA translator in Washington, D.C. “Translator is in. I am squelching the dialogue on your end.”

The sound of the Pakistani commandos faded from Bolan’s earpiece and was replaced by a woman’s voice speaking with an English accent. “Striker, this is Translator 2, I am receiving.”

“Affirmative, Translator 2. What are they saying?”

The woman listened for a moment and began translating. “Musa—Approaching objective. Islamabad—What are your observations? Musa—No movement. No activity observed.”

Bolan crouched in the rocks, scanning through the electro-optical sight of his sound-suppressed M-1 A scout rifle. Musa Company was converging on something.

“Musa—Objective in sight. Islamabad—What do you see?” The translator spoke clearly and rapidly in Bolan’s ear. “Musa—No movement. No apparent sentries.”

Bolan scanned for an objective, but the craggy, boulder-strewed terrain showed nothing but rock peaks and shadows.

The translator’s voice rose slightly. “Musa—Bunker found!”

Bolan’s eyes slightly widened and he strained to see a bunker entrance. It was more likely to be a fortified cave. The mountains of Kashmir were riddled with them. “I’m moving closer.”

“Affirmative, Striker,” Kurtzman replied.

Bolan picked his path through the piled mounds and erupting knife edges of rock. “Bear, what can you see?”

“Observation satellite shows twelve individuals below you. Moving in concert.”

That was Musa Company. “Anything else? Any sign of hostiles?”

“Nothing, Striker. Just you and the team below you.”

Bolan scanned everything in a 360-degree arc. His spine spoke to him. “Bear, there’s someone else out here.”

“Satellite shows nothing but you and Musa Company, Striker.”

“There’s someone else out here, Bear.” Bolan trained his sight back on the area Musa Company surrounded. “I can feel it.”

Kurtzman was silent a moment. Through long, hard experience he had learned that a Mack Bolan hunch was to be heeded at all costs. “Acknowledged, but we don’t see them, Striker. Satellite shows no motion and no anomalous heat sources. If they’re hidden, then they are hidden but good.”

“Translator, what are they saying?”

“They are not saying anything.” The translator unsquelched the Pakistani transmission and there was nothing except silence. “They’ve stopped transmitting.”

Bolan gazed hard at their position. “Bear, any motion?”

“Negative, Striker. Musa Company has come to full stop.”

Bolan let out a long breath. Whoever was in command of Musa Company didn’t like it, either.

Something was wrong. The translator spoke again. “Musa—We are going to breach the bunker. Islamabad—Affirmative.”

Bolan waited long moments. There was a sudden quick flare of light in his night-vision goggles. Bolan recognized the hissing crack of flexible-shaped charge detonating.

“Musa—Sending in Number 1 section. Islamabad—Affirmative.”

Half of the Musa Company team disappeared underneath an outcropping while the other half held down the perimeter.

“Section 1—We are inside. No hostiles detected. Islamabad—What do you observe? Section 2—Extensive underground complex. Catacombs, very old stonework. Believe complex predates target occupation. Islamabad—Any sign of the packages?”

Packages. Bolan raised a bemused eyebrow at the code word. His hunch had been right. Musa Company was hunting the same thing he was. If Musa could make a successful retrieval and get the warheads back in Pakistani government hands, Bolan might just be able to call his own mission a wrap.

“Section 1—No sign of packages. No sign of targets. Signs of recent habitation Proceeding. Islamabad—Affirmative.”

Bolan grimaced. Musa Company was no one to mess around with. If the bad guys had gotten wind that the elite commandos were on their trail, they would have hauled ass into India already and the nukes would be gone.

“Section 1—Zia? What happened to Zia? Zia, report! Islamabad—What is happening?”

Bolan’s instincts began to clamor up and down his spine again. “Translator 2, what are you hearing?”

“Intercommunication between individual Musa Company soldiers, Section 1 and 2 and Islamabad. It’s becoming…confused.” The translator’s voice rose just slightly as she translated. “Section 1—Zia! Where is Zia? All units hold position! Section 2—What is happening, Falzur? Islamabad—What is happening? Section 2—Falzur! Falzur! Where is the sergeant! Islamabad—Report!” the Translator swallowed. “I am having difficulty keeping things in order—”

“Keep translating!” Bolan ordered.

“Musa—Section 2 hold positions! By God, I said hold positions! Islamabad—What is happening? Report! Section 1—Where are they coming from! I can’t see any—”

Kurtzman cut in. “Striker, satellite reception shows multiple radio transmission points in Musa Company are now off the air.”

Bolan’s blood went cold.

The translator broke in. “Striker, I hear gunfire.”

“Give me audio.”

“Patching you in, Striker.”

Kurtzman unsquelched Bolan’s end. The soldier’s eyes flared under his night-vision goggles. Someone was firing a semiautomatic handgun as rapidly as he could pull the trigger. The sound was followed by the crack of a hand grenade.

People were screaming.

The translator’s voice was rising close to panic. This wasn’t the sort of mission she had been trained for.

“Islamabad—What is happening! Report! What is happening? I order you to report!”

For a moment there was nothing but silence.

A voice spoke in tightly controlled Sind and the translator spoke over it. “This is Section 2, all contact lost with Section 1. Repeat, all contact lost with Section 1. They are not responding. We are holding position outside. What are your orders? Headquarters—Try them again.”

Section 1’s commander spoke slowly and clearly. It needed little translation. “Section 1, any unit, report. Repeat, Section 1 this is Section 2, any unit report.”

Nothing but static came back.

Section 1 was gone.

Bolan watched Section 2 through his night optics. They were arranged in a crescent around the hidden opening of the catacombs.

“Section 2—There is no response. We are holding position. What are your orders?” The pause on the line was lengthy. “Islamabad—Section 1, withdraw to primary extraction point. Section 2—Affirma—”