"You are indeed a 'combat specialist," kuvii Bolan.
"And you are, as well, kuvii Malikyar." Bolan repaid the compliment as required by Afghan tribal etiquette, stressing the Pashto form of address for friend. He and this tough little hill soldier were more than friends. They had taken enemy fire together. "Tell your men to open up with everything they've got and keep it hot for at least a half minute, then cease firing for another two minutes unless the badmash start to advance."
"They will not," Alja assured Bolan. "Badmash are treacherous cowards."
"Then get your men ready, Alja. A sixty count from right... now."
"Yes, kuvii Bolan."
Bolan stood and delivered a blistering barrage from his M-16 at the ambush fire raining in on them. Alja took the opportunity to dash in a zigzag charge toward the nearest outcrop of rock behind which three of his men sought cover, trading shots with the enemy. Bolan crouched back down to feed a fresh clip into his rifle. Smoke curled from the M-16's snout; the strong scent of cordite burned his nostrils.
He scanned terrain given a surreal glow by his NVD goggles, charting his course in what would be one man's attempt to outflank the gunners who had them pinned down.
His line of attack set in his mind, he leaned around the boulder, pulled off a burst with the M-16 and thought he saw one of the red winks of enemy gunfire cease.
He prepared to move out the instant Alja's men opened fire. His heart hammered against his ribs but his combat consciousness was cool, taut, ready to strike.
Welcome to Afghanistan, where the rape of a nation is resisted today by scattered bands of these brave mountain men who had summoned Bolan to join them.
Bolan ranked this country as priority number one in the Executioner's new solo war against the KGB, the worldwide terror organization of the Soviet Union.
The Executioner had first visited this far-off corner of the planet in the midst of a very personal crisis involving a KGB'-sponsored assault on Bolan's base of operations, Stony Man Farm, in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Washington, D.C.
That attack had claimed the life of April Rose, Bolan's woman, and the big soldier still had not worked through the full effects of that loss on his soul.
Bolan's bloody mile of war against the KGB had taken him to Afghanistan and had established a blood debt between Bolan and malik Tarik Khan — the same man.
Bolan and Alja's patrol had an appointment to meet within the next few hours in the foothills outside Kabul, the nation's capital. Bolan had saved the life of Tarik Khan's son during that first mission to this land and the malik, or honored man, considered this a blood debt. The mujahedeen had made contact with Bolan this time by an excessively roundabout method, because Bolan was on the terminate list of the CIA and every other Western power spy agency for his "unsanctioned" activities — no matter how successful — against the KGB.
Initial contact came through a coalition of seven Pakistan-based groups that had waged the guerrilla war against the Soviets since the Russian invasion of Afghanistan: the Islamic Alliance of Afghan Mujahedeen. Bolan's last stop before infiltrating Afghanistan had been the refugee camp in Peshawar, Pakistan.
The scene of human squalor and misery at the camp had at first made Bolan's gut ache, then knotted it with anger.
Something had to be done to stop the cannibals of the Soviet war machine, damn straight. That is why the Executioner returned to Afghanistan. They had moved out at dusk toward the narrow passes through snowcapped mountains to the northwest. Hiding from Soviet air and ground patrols, they traveled by night with packs on donkeys.
The only other humans Alja's team and Bolan encountered along their trek were nomads with a camel caravan. The passing groups had allowed each other wide, cautious berth without communicating as they moved across the rugged frontier.
The long march, mostly by foot and occasionally by camel, cut through fiefdoms under the command of a local force, tribal bands led by a chief or a mullah of the largest landowner. These, too, Alja skillfully avoided, leading Bolan and the fighting unit deeper into mountainous terrain of rough-cut volcanic walls and steep forested valleys separated by deep ravines and rugged gorges.
The Soviets held the key cities and airfields of the country, but the sprawling expanses of wilderness belonged to anyone after the sun went down.
Alja's mujahedeen opened fire precisely on schedule as Bolan had directed, a thunderous cacophony.
The incoming rounds from the badmash abruptly ceased as the ambushers sought cover under the brutal mujahedeen fusillade. Bolan took his chance and darted from cover, moving fast, soundless as a specter, outflanking what he estimated to be at least ten bandits, his night vision and M-16 probing the night as he angled in on them undetected.
Closing in for the kill.
Or to be killed.
2
Bolan hurried low along the rocky downslope that would take him behind the badmash. He could hear the mujahedeen pouring heavy cover fire at the ambushers' position so the gunmen's Soviet-supplied night vision devices did them no good, they were too busy dodging bullets from Alja's men. Bolan's NVD goggles allowed him to pick his way fast and soundlessly across the uneven ground separating the two forces. The sound of so many weapons firing simultaneously made only a dull popping in the broad expanse of open country, but the bullets were real enough and some traveled far to whiz near Bolan.
His goggles tabbed them as errant fire from the mujahedeen, not always the best of shots.
The badmash still had not detected his approach.
He slung the M-16 over his shoulder as he ran and brought the Ingram MAC-10 SMG into ready position. He gained an outcrop of rock that brought him parallel to the curved line of the ridge behind which the ambushers, garbed much like the mujahedeen in dark robes and turbans, still crouched for cover from the unusually concentrated fire of Alja Malikyar's force. Bolan knew the hill bandits had ambushed from lower ground because it provided an easier withdrawal. The terrain on the other side of the trail, on the far side of the mujahedeen, angled abruptly into sheer cliff. These badmash had not expected much resistance from their victims, not with coordinated backing from those Russian choppers. The smugglers probably were counting on their night vision goggles to help make quick work of the mujahedeen, whereupon the bandits could appropriate all their weapons, munitions and supplies. Alja had told Bolan that the price of an AK-47 automatic rifle in Miran Shah, on the Pakistan side of the border, was $2,800. In Pakitia, ten AK-47 bullets cost six dollars, though in Kandahar it was said a badmash leader claimed to have bought one thousand of the same bullets from Soviet soldiers for a kilo of hashish.
The Kabul Pass, which cuts through the Hindu Kush separating Afghanistan from Pakistan, has been a major drug pipeline for centuries.
Bolan positioned himself at a good vantage spot from which to observe for a moment, but not be caught in the incoming fire from the mujahedeen. He decided on a strategy.
The gunfire from Alja's men ceased abruptly, and for a moment silence reigned.