Don Pendleton - Pressure Point

As they made their way past the Bio-Tain truck, Bolan sized up the remains. He doubted the vehicle would yield any useful information, at least any time soon. The cab had been all but obliterated, and the cargo hold was clearly contaminated by ruptured tanks. Any evidence that hadn’t been destroyed by the explosion would likely be ruined once a CBR crew arrived and doused the vehicle with chemical retardant. If they wanted any answers as to where the herbicides were headed, they were going to have to take one of the snipers alive and wring the truth out of him. So far Bolan had counted at least twelve of them up in the mountains, and only three had been killed that he knew of. Judging from the steady flow of gunfire still raining down on the asphalt, Bolan figured they were going to have their hands full.

When they reached Salim, the commando leader was unconscious. Like Latek and the other soldier huddled next to him, he was still wearing his full HAZMAT suit. Mochtar spoke quickly to the others, then checked over Salim while Bolan took up position near the railing and fired into the mountains, covering Kissinger’s approach.

Once he’d finished inspecting Salim, Mochtar raided his fanny pack for a gauze pad.

Bolan asked him, “What’s the verdict?”

“He took a bullet in the neck, just above his vest,” Mochtar reported, reaching inside the major’s HAZMAT suit and pressing the gauze against the wound. “It missed the artery, but he’s losing a lot of blood. Weak pulse, too. We need to evacuate him back to Samarinda ASAP.”

“What about poisoning?” Bolan asked. “That cloud rolled right over him before it came down on me.”

“He’ll need to be tested,” Mochtar said, “but the entry hole was small, and these suits are bulky enough that a fold might’ve kept out any contaminants. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Once Kissinger caught up with them, Bolan relayed the information, then grabbed Salim under the arms and signaled for Mochtar to take his legs so they could transfer him onto the stretcher once Kissinger unfolded it.

“We’ll carry him,” he told Mochtar. “Follow alongside so you can keep a hand on that wound.”

Latek spoke up in halting English. “We will cover you.”

“That would help,” Bolan said.

Latek spoke briefly to the other commando, then moved ahead of the group, leaving his colleague to guard the rear.

Bolan grabbed one end of the stretcher, Kissinger took the other and together they raised Salim off the ground.

“Okay, let’s move,” Bolan said.

They headed out, with Latek and the other commando firing into the mountains. Halfway back to the chopper, another commando caught up with them, providing additional protection. It wasn’t enough, however. The group had just made it past the Bio-Tain truck when they fell under cross fire from two different snipers. The commando closest to the railing was hit in the skull and pitched sharply to his right, disappearing over the barrier before anyone could get to him. Another few rounds hammered the stretcher, puncturing the fabric and thudding into Salim’s legs. The same strafing line of fire found Mochtar, and he let out a howl as several rounds plowed into his chest. He staggered but remained on his feet, wincing in pain. His armored vest had deflected the bullets, but it still felt as if he’d been struck by a jackhammer.

“Rock?” Bolan called out.

“I’m okay,” he replied hoarsely, repositioning his hand over Salim’s neck wound. “Keep going!”

They made it the rest of the way to the chopper without encountering further fire. Grimaldi left the controls and crouched before the cabin doorway. With help from the others, he pulled Salim into the cabin. Bolan and Mochtar bounded up afterward. The Executioner yanked off his mask, then switched places with Mochtar, tending to the major’s neck while the younger man inspected the gunshot wounds Salim had just taken to the legs.

“He’s in bad shape,” Mochtar said. “We need to get him to surgery, quick!”

“Anyone besides him we need to evacuate?” Grimaldi asked.

“Not that we know of,” Bolan reported. “Then I’m outta here.”

“I’ll stay,” Kissinger called up from the road. “We’ll mop up and then wait for you or hitch a ride with the other Hawk.”

“I’m staying, too,” Bolan said. “Rock, can you manage?”

“No,” the younger man said. “I need you to keep pressure on that neck wound while I work on his legs. If he bleeds out much more, we’re going to lose him!”

Though reluctant to leave any battlefield before the last shot was fired, Bolan nodded to Mochtar and stayed at Salim’s side. Kissinger closed the cabin door on them, then stepped back, joining Latek and the other remaining commando.

The Black Hawk rose and angled away from the mountain. Grimaldi was making radio contact with the other chopper when he spotted the thin contrail of a projectile jetting out from the mountainside.

“Shit!” Grimaldi cursed. “Those bastards have Stingers!”

Without leaving Salim’s side, Bolan leaned toward the cabin window and stared out just as the missile slammed into the other chopper, turning it into a fireball. The shock waves were so strong that the men could feel them reverberate through their own craft.

“Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls,” Grimaldi shouted, “’cause there’s another on the way and it’s got our name on it.”

“Chaff jam!” Bolan shouted to Grimaldi.

“Already on it,” the pilot shouted back. Groping the console in front of him, Grimaldi thumbed a row of toggle switches, releasing a half-dozen high-yield flares from the underside of the chopper. Igniting within seconds after release, the flares gave off scattered blasts of heat intense enough to rival the thermal signature of the copter’s turboshafts.

The ploy worked.

As Grimaldi banked sharply to the right, the heat sensors on the second Stinger missile were unable to distinguish between the intended target and the fiery chaff. Drawn off course, the warhead hurtled past the Black Hawk’s framework, detonating beyond the range from which it could do any damage. The chopper rode out another shock wave, this one weaker than the one that had taken out the other gunship. Back in the rear cabin, Bolan and Mochtar rocked in place, doing their best to keep Salim stable on the stretcher.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take over,” Bolan told Mochtar, rising to his feet. “If I don’t get up front and lend a hand, we’re all dead.”

Mochtar shifted position, transferring one hand to the major’s neck while continuing to apply pressure to the worst of the man’s leg wounds. “I’ll do the best I can,” he told Bolan.

By the time Bolan reached the cockpit, Grimaldi had banked the chopper again and changed course, heading back toward the mountain.

“Our turn!” he snarled. “Find me a target, Striker!”

Bolan grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the mountains. The sniper who’d just fired at them had dropped from sight, but Bolan could see four others positioned at intervals along a slight trough in the mountain. Peering higher, he spotted a promontory jutting directly above their positions. Pointing, he told Grimaldi, “There. Aim high with the rockets and see if we can get a little help from the mountains.”

“Gotcha.” Grimaldi locked in on where Bolan had pointed and readied the Black Hawk’s 2.75-inch sub-mounted rockets for firing. “One avalanche coming up.”

The gunship shuddered faintly as the first four rockets spewed from their launch tubes and streaked toward the mountains. In quick succession, they struck the rock facing, stitch-blasting a crude line ten yards above the source of the last Stinger.