Don Pendleton: Desperate Passage

He was blinded by the emergency cushion and could see nothing of what was happening but felt the car begin to roll. His world suddenly inverted, and he was thrown against his door. Then just as suddenly he slid up in his restraint to bang his head on the roof as the SUV completed its roll and landed on its blown-out tires. The air bags settled, quickly deflated and Bolan sprang into action.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He snapped the release on his seat belt and reached for his door handle, but the door refused to budge. There was no answer from Sukarnoputri.

“Are you all right!” Bolan repeated, shouting.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.

The Executioner threw his shoulder against the inside of the passenger door.

“Can you get out?” he asked.

“No, my door is jammed!” Sukarnoputri’s voice sounded panicky.

Bolan leaned back and kicked. With a screech the stubborn door finally opened. Bolan snatched his M-4 and scrambled out.

“Come on!” he snapped.

He looked over the caved in hood and saw a short convoy of three vehicles stopped in the middle of the logging road on the other side of the thick brush from his wreck.

Two Indonesian men dressed in grungy civilian clothes and packing AKM assault rifles appeared. Bolan moved toward the rear of his vehicle as one of the men raised his assault rifle to fire. The Executioner drew a snap-bead and put the man down.

Bullets struck the ruined SUV, and Bolan sensed Sukarnoputri crawling out of the wreck behind him. He pivoted his barrel across the collapsed roof and fired a second time, putting the other man down as well.

Angry shouts came from the road and weapons up and down the length of the convoy erupted into action. A hailstorm of lead cut through the jungle, ripping the flora apart, shredding bark and leaves and riddling the SUV.

Pinned down, Bolan struggled to act.

The Executioner threw himself over the screaming woman.

“Crawl for that tree!” he ordered.

Twelve yards ahead of them an old jungle giant had been battered down in some monsoon gale years before. Its trunk would form a bulwark against the withering gunfire tearing up the topography around them.

He shifted his weight off her body and immediately she started scrambling forward, her belly tightly to the ground and her head down. Bolan let her crawl a body length ahead of him, then began to follow.

Sukarnoputri reached the log and made to slither over it but another burst tore splinters of wood from the dead tree and she froze.

Bolan charged forward, coming up to his hands and knees, and rammed his shoulder into her, sending her tumbling over the top. He landed atop her in a tangle of limbs. She whimpered at the treatment, but he ignored her protests and scrambled into position.

“Stay down!” he barked.

He levered his rifle barrel over the edge of the tree trunk and tore loose with a long burst of answering fire. He then rolled took a position at the end of the log where a tangled mess of old roots had been torn from the earth. He used the broken cover to quickly survey the scene.

The militia gunmen from the convoy had advanced and fallen against the road bank, using it like a berm to gain cover as they fired at their adversaries. On the left side two of the braver men had begun to creep forward under the covering fire of their teammates.

Bolan swung his carbine, spraying the wreck of the SUV. Three times he poured tight bursts into the vehicle until he managed to ignite the gas tank. The already ruined vehicle exploded into flame. Black smoke rolled off the bonfire of gas, rubber and oil. It began to choke the thick forest.

He rolled around and crawled across the ground next to the cowering Sukarnoputri. Bolan realized that necessity had put him in the company of a person completely unsuited for the situation.

“We have to move,” he urged the frightened woman.

She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and Bolan was able to coax and into a crawl. He pushed her forward to speed their flight into the jungle. As he turned to cover their retreat, he saw a gunman race forward, weapon at the ready. The man’s eyes squinted hard against the choking smoke, and Bolan used the advantage to put a single 5.56 mm round through his throat.

The man tumbled forward and sprawled on the ground. A second gunman leaped over the body, weapon chattering in his fists as he fired from the hip. Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that put the man down two steps from the corpse of his militia brother.

“Move!” Bolan urged.

Sukarnoputri lurched to her feet and stumbled behind the cover of a thick tree, swatting away low-hanging branches as Bolan burned off the rest of his magazine in covering fire.

The bolt on his M-4 locked open as he fired his last round, and he dumped the empty magazine as he turned and sprinted for cover. More gun-fire answered his, and bullets tore through the jungle all round him.

Bolan slid around the cover of a tree and slammed a fresh magazine home. He went to one knee and twisted around the trunk of the tree. He saw figures moving in the smoke and foliage and triggered snap bursts in their direction without striking a target. He heard an all-too-familiar shrieking sound and instinctively ducked behind the tree.

A second later the 84 mm warhead of a RPG-7 struck off to his left and exploded with savage, devastating force. Bolan felt the shock waves roll over him even through the sturdy protection of the massive tree trunk. Shrapnel burst through the jungle and Bolan heard Sukarnoputri scream.

He rose and whirled, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and sprinted away from the battle. He stormed through the undergrowth searching. He saw the huddled woman on the ground and went to her.

He rolled her over and saw her blouse was splattered with blood and a long gash had opened across her forehead, turning her beautiful face into a mask of blood. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her eyes flickered beneath her lids. She moaned in pain as Bolan lifted her and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

He rose, lifting her slight form easily, and began to run.

Sukarnoputri’s blood poured over him in a hot, sticky rush. His shirt clung to his skin as if glued there, and each bouncing step he took forced another agonized moan from the woman. Behind him gunshots rang out but the bullets flew wider and wider as the Executioner ducked around and through trees, heavy brush and bamboo stands.

He knew from the reconnaissance maps he had looked over prior to his jump that a Malwi river tributary down out of the mountains near his location. He was unsure how far they had driven in their chaotic ride, but he estimated the bridge for the river should be no more than a few miles from their present position.

He began to make his way back toward the road. Roots and vines tugged at his feet, threatening to trip him up at every step. Branches slapped at his face and angry shouts chased him. He had no time to check Sukarnoputri’s wounds and the slip of a woman had ceased to groan. He feared she had fallen into shock.

Bolan gritted his teeth against the strain and ran on.

He cut out of the brush minutes later and hit the road well below the initial contact site. He jogged onto the road. It was simply too hard to break a trail through the jungle with the woman on his back. For his plan to work he needed to make it to the bridge quickly and as fresh as possible.

He crossed the road and began making his way back toward the stalled convoy that had transported the men now hunting him.

When he caught sight of the convoy, he slowed his approach and took to the trees, choosing his steps carefully. The burning SUV caused light and shadow to flicker and dance across the vehicles.