low across the valley toward them. He wasn’t concerned. They were friendlies. He’d seen the choppers—both U.S. Black Hawks armed with .50-caliber M-2 Browning machine guns and submounted 2.75-inch rockets—back at the airport. One was being flown by a KIPAM-trained pilot, the other by Stony Man flying ace Jack Grimaldi, who had also been at the controls of the Learjet that brought Bolan to Samarinda from Islamabad. The Black Hawks were flying low for the same reason the bus had been outfitted with tinted windows: to maximize the element of surprise as they closed in on their target.
As the gunships drew nearer, Bolan glanced at his watch. Abdul Salim did the same.
“Right on schedule,” the major said, echoing Bolan’s thoughts.
Salim rose from his seat and conferred briefly with his second in command, Sergeant Umar Latek, then strode quickly down the aisle, passing along last-minute instructions to the other commandos as well as the driver. Latek, meanwhile, donned a headset linked to a portable Heaton 525 field transceiver and patched through a quick call to the three-man KOPASSUS surveillance team posted on a hillock overlooking the agri-compound. Bolan could see the sergeant’s features darken as he spoke with the team leader. As Major Salim passed by on the way back to the rear of the bus, Latek motioned him aside to pass along the news.
“Apparently the smoke from all these fires has drifted across the IMA grounds,” the major explained as he rejoined Bolan. “Our surveillance team is having trouble seeing the facility.”
Bolan stared back out the window at the dark, low-hanging soot cloud that loomed ahead of them. “Assuming they’re having the same problem at ground level, it could work to our advantage,” he stated. “Disguised or not, we’ll be better off the closer we can get before they see us coming.”
“True,” Salim conceded. “Maybe there’s some truth to that saying about every cloud having its silver lining.”
Soon the bus came to a turnoff. A posted sign indicated a left turn for those traveling to the textile center. The driver ignored the sign and continued to drive straight, downshifting to better tackle a steep rise in the grade. Bolan knew from the briefing that the agricultural facility was now less than a quarter mile up the road.
“It’s time for the masks,” Salim said. He pulled on his protective headgear and affixed the seals securing it to the rest of his HAZMAT suit. Bolan quickly did the same.
After rounding a tight corner, the bus came to a straightaway. The road leveled off slightly and it narrowed, hugging closer to the near-vertical rise of the mountain it had been carved out of. To the right, a steel guardrail, corroded by years of monsoons, separated the road from a precipitous drop into a deep, rock-choked ravine. Bolan peered into the chasm and saw a narrow, glimmering band of water swirling its way around an obstacle course of large, fallen boulders.
“The Mahakam River,” Salim told him. “It carries water from the upper mountains all the way to the delta near…”
The major’s voice suddenly trailed off. Bolan turned and saw Salim staring straight ahead, slackjawed, past the other soldiers and out the front windshield of the bus. Up ahead, less than a hundred yards away, a second vehicle had rounded yet another turn just below the smokeline and was heading downhill toward them.
“The delivery truck,” Bolan murmured through his mask.
“It’s supposed to still be at the facility! This is all wrong!” Abdul Salim called up to Sergeant Latek, “Why weren’t we alerted?”
“I don’t know,” Latek responded, his voice edged with concern. “Perhaps with all the smoke…”
“I don’t care how much smoke there is up there!” Salim ranted. “They had to be able to see the truck leaving!”
Latek had on his headset and was trying once again to raise the field agents. “I’m not getting any response.”
“I don’t like this,” Salim said.
The major was reaching for his carbine when the driver suddenly slammed on his brakes. Bolan had to grab at the nearest armrests to keep from being flung down the aisle by the abrupt stop. A torrent of curses filled the bus. Bolan couldn’t understand them, but he knew damn well what had the men so alarmed.
Up ahead, the Bio-Tain transport truck had veered from its lane and was now straddling the median as it bore down on the bus, picking up speed. With no shoulder between the guardrail and the mountain, the bus had nowhere to go to avert a head-on collision with the truck and its lethal cargo.
“A dirty bomb on wheels,” Salim mused grimly.
Eyes on the approaching vehicle, Bolan muttered, “A guided missile is more like it.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Everybody out!” Abdul Salim shouted as he and Bolan bolted to their feet. “And get your masks on! Hurry!”
Sergeant Latek yanked off his headphones and grabbed for his mask. The other commandos responded just as quickly, and once their headgear was in place, they rose in their seats and quickly unlatched the window safety catches, then leaned heavily into the hinged framework. As the windows swung downward, the men began clambering from both sides of the vehicle, clutching their assault rifles. The driver, meanwhile, wrestled determinedly with the gearshift, trying to throw the bus into reverse.
“There’s no time for that!” Salim called out. “Get out! Now!”
The driver either didn’t hear the warning or chose to ignore it. He wasn’t about to distract himself putting on a gas mask, either. Still cursing, he continued to grapple with the transmission. He finally managed to put the bus into neutral, but while trying to shift into reverse, his foot slipped off the clutch. The bus shuddered violently as the engine sputtered, then died. An eerie silence filled the bus as it began to roll slowly backward. The driver pumped at the brakes but they, like the steering, were power assisted, and with the engine out of commission, it quickly became clear he would be unable to keep the vehicle under control.
Bolan, meanwhile, shouldered open the rear emergency door. Salim shouted again for the driver to get out, but the man refused. He was still fighting the wheel when a bullet smashed through the windshield and plowed into his shoulder. His pained howl was punctuated by more bursts of gunfire. Outside the bus, one of Salim’s men took a bullet to the head and pitched forward alongside the road.
Snipers, Bolan thought. From where he stood he couldn’t see where the shots were coming from, but he guessed the Lashkar Jihad had to have positioned gunmen somewhere up on the mountain.
“Ambush!” Abdul Salim cried. Assault rifle in one hand, he moved past Bolan to the rear doorway. Another round of gunfire poured into the bus, pummeling the bench seats three feet from where the two men were standing. “Let’s go!”
Bolan cast another glance at the driver, who’d hunched over slightly but was still conscious and struggling with the steering wheel.
“He needs help.”
“There’s no time!” Salim tugged at Bolan’s arm as more gunshots poured into the bus, riddling the seats. “You’ll never make it! We have to go!”
Bolan reluctantly followed Salim out the rear exit. Both men dropped hard onto the pocked asphalt, then quickly tumbled to their right to avoid being run over
