we should try that,” Bahn suggested, prying loose yet another thorn from her forearm. “You know, ‘Me Jayne, you Tarzan.’”
“I don’t think so,” Bolan said.
After a few more minutes of navigating through the unforgiving foliage, the two finally emerged into a clearing and found themselves on a broad, flat promontory, not unlike the one Grimaldi had blasted to create the landslide on the other side of the mountain. Before them lay the north valley. Bolan quickly dropped to his stomach and motioned for Bahn to do the same.
“We’re like sitting ducks out on this ledge,” he whispered.
“I’ll take my chances,” Bahn said. “Beats the hell out of having to pick those damn thorns out of my hide all the—”
Bolan squeezed her arm, silencing her, then pointed downhill. Bahn shifted her gaze, just in time to see a young, bearded man frantically making his way down the slope to the valley floor, where the foliage was even denser than up on the hill. One second the man was in clear sight, scrambling through knee-high ferns and wild rhododendrons; the next he’d vanished into the greenery without a trace.
“So much for heading him off at the pass,” Bolan said.
“We might as well wait for the others.”
As they waited, Bolan looked over the jungle. The valley was easily thirty miles wide and half that distance across, and every square inch of the land seemed veiled by a canopy of trees. The only exception was the foothills on the far side of the valley, where flames could be seen raging through a section of the forest, giving off a thick, dark column of smoke. Beyond the next rise, Bolan could see other, similar columns, all adding to the hazy shroud that stretched over them, blotting the afternoon sun so that it seemed nothing more than a dim bulb. Bolan could smell the smoke. It was so strong his eyes began to burn again. Once more he found himself fighting back a cough.
“It’s worse than smog during rush hour in L.A.,” Bahn said, stifling a cough of her own.
They continued their vigil atop the promontory for another ten minutes, but there was no further sign of their enemy. Finally they heard a crackling in the brush behind them, followed by a radio call from Kissinger telling them to hold their fire.
“It’s just us.”
“Stay put,” Bolan told him. “We’ll come to you.”
They retreated from the ledge and backtracked into the brush until they met up with Kissinger, Latek and two of the KOPASSUS commandos. They’d all long since shed their HAZMAT masks, and Bolan looked quickly into each man’s eyes for signs of treachery. Each of the commandos returned his gaze unflinchingly, then Latek and one of the others moved past Bolan and headed toward the promontory.
“Flyboy made it back to Samarinda in one piece,” Kissinger reported, “but apparently there’s a nick in the chopper’s fuel line, so it’ll be awhile before he can get it airborne again.”
“How about another chopper?” Bolan asked.
“He’s trying to roust one from the military over in Balikpapan,” Kissinger said, “but that’ll take time, too.”
“How’s the major holding up?”
“He’s under the knife at the city hospital,” Kissinger said. “They say it’s going to be a long surgery, and they don’t like his chances. That prisoner we took in is in the OR too, but his prognosis isn’t much better. The others got by with quick patch-ups. They’ve probably already been released.”
Bolan took Kissinger aside and whispered, “If they haven’t been, I think we should have Jack and Rock try to keep an eye on them.”
“Why’s that?”
Before Bolan could pass along his theory about a spy having tipped off the Lashkar about the raid, Latek returned from the promontory and called out, “I see some smoke.”
“That’s not exactly ‘Stop the presses,’” Bahn told him. “There’s smoke everywhere you look.”
“Close by,” Latek said. “Just down the hill.”
Bolan told the others to stay put, then motioned for Kissinger to come with him. When they reached the escarpment, Bolan dropped once again to the ground and inched forward to a point from which he could see back down into the valley. Kissinger did the same.
A hundred yards away, a thin, serpentine finger of white smoke rose through the trees.
“Too small for a slash-and-burn,” Kissinger murmured.
“It’s in the direction the shooter was headed,” Bolan said. “I’m thinking campsite.”
“If that’s the case, we’re in business,” Kissinger said.
They crawled back into the brush. Bolan told Bahn and Latek, “If we’re going to try to hit them, this is the time, before they head any deeper into the forest.”
“I’m with you,” Bahn said.
Latek nodded. “What is the plan?”
Bolan thought it over, then laid out a basic strategy. When he was finished, Latek spoke briefly to the other commandos. As they steeled themselves for what lay ahead, one of the men clenched his assault rifle tightly and murmured something in Javanese.
“What’d he say?” Bolan asked Bahn as they prepared to enter the forest.
“Roughly translated,” she said, “It’s show time.”
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