portions of territory for long enough—especially those parts of the Southwest United States that are predominantly Hispanic, thanks to largely uncontrolled illegal immigration—they’ll effectively own it, and it will be too much trouble and cause too much unrest for us to get it back.”
“Possession being nine-tenths of the law,” Bolan had said.
“Exactly,” Brognola confirmed. “The Man doesn’t want to be put in that position, for obvious reasons. That’s where you come in, and that’s why our national security is tied to both nations. Striker, we’ve got to put a stop to this. Our analysts tell us that a sudden power vacuum in Mexico would allow the more moderate elements within the government to take control once more. Honduras is more turbulent, but removing Orieza would at least end the immediate crisis.”
“So where do I start?”
“Our ties to Guatemala have always been close, give or take, and Orieza’s troops have made several skirmishes over the border already. We’ve got satellite tracking of the invading force gathering on the border for yet another run. The Guatemalan military isn’t up to the task of repelling a determined invasion. They’re willing, but underfunded and disorganized. They’re screaming for help, and Orieza’s men have bloodied their noses already. Officially, we’ve told them there’s nothing we can do. Unofficially, they’re going to get some assistance as fast as we can get it to them.”
“Me.”
“You,” Brognola said. “I don’t have to tell you that this is delicate. The President isn’t one for nation building, nor would Congress back him if he tried. We have to maintain plausible deniability in this, at least overtly. But we’ve got to stop both Orieza and Castillo, or all four nations will suffer—Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico and the United States. We’ve got to put an end to the crises on the Guatemalan border, and then deal with Castillo’s forays across our own.”
“How far are you willing for me to go?” Bolan asked.
“It was made very clear to me. Do what you do.”
“He realizes the implications?” Bolan pressed. “We’re talking about removing by force, however illegitimate, the leadership of two separate nations. I’m prepared to do that. Is he?”
“The President of the United States of course doesn’t sanction any such action,” Brognola said smoothly.
“If those volatile regimes’ leaders were suddenly to become…ineffectual, and perhaps fall from power, well, that would be fortuitous, wouldn’t it? Yes, I believe fortuitous was the word they used at the State Department when I spoke to them.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “Backup?”
“None, unfortunately,” Brognola replied. “Able is tied up domestically, and Barbara’s got Phoenix on assignment halfway around the world. You’re it, Striker.”
“Understood,” Bolan repeated. “Let Cowboy know that I’ll need a lot of equipment. I’ll text Barb a list.”
“Grimaldi is already on his way to you by chopper,” Brognola said. “He’ll get you to the nearest airport, where your flight will be waiting. A courier will be dispatched from the Farm and meet your plane with the supplies you specify.”
“Then I’d better get to work.”
“Striker?” Brognola said. “Good luck. I realize that every time we call you it’s important. But I think we both know how much is riding on this now. More than ever.”
“Thanks, Hal. And yeah. We do.” He had terminated the call and immediately begun working out precisely what he would need, in order to fight a one-man war against the armies of two different dictators.
Now he was here, in Honduras, according the GPS coordinates provided by his secure satellite phone, and poised to strike a death blow to Orieza’s troops. Intelligence and satellite imaging provided by the Farm had revealed that Orieza’s pipeline was already under construction. To clear the way into and, thereafter, presumably through Guatemala, Orieza had an advance force preparing to move across the border. Bolan presumed it was this unit that had already carried out the initial attacks that had the Guatemalan government screaming. Apparently casualties on the Guatemalan side had been very high, as reported by Barbara Price. She had transmitted a detailed mission briefing to his secure satellite smartphone while he was in transit, with Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi at the controls of the long-range jet from which Mack had later jumped.
A black-clad ghost, he crept as close as he dared to where the enemy advance troops were massing. He checked his secure smartphone again; the screen brightness was turned down as low as it could go, and he cupped it with his hand to avoid giving away his position. The muted tones of the GPS grid told him his position relative to both the advance force, whose position the Farm had fixed using a “borrowed” NSA surveillance satellite, and to the semipermanent base camp from which the troops operated. That camp was a few miles down the “road”—a pair of ruts only recently cut through this densely forested area—that Orieza’s advance team had used to move both men and equipment to the Guatemalan border. It was logical that it was from this same camp, detailed and enhanced satellite photos of which had been overlaid with tactical priorities in Bolan’s mission briefing, that Orieza’s troops had launched their previous raids across the border.
Silently, the Executioner peeled back the black ballistic nylon covering the luminous hands of the military field watch he wore. If he judged correctly, the enemy troops would be preparing for a predawn raid for maximum psychological benefit. They would cross the border, destroying anything in their path, using that most vulnerable period of early-morning darkness to their advantage. Bolan didn’t know if they had a specific target in mind—if they planned to travel some distance once over the border, it would alter their departure time—but he judged that he still had at least a couple of hours before Orieza’s military thugs were on the move. That would be plenty of time for him to bring the fight to the enemy, using their own anticipation of battle against them.
They would be preparing to strike the first blow, counting on having the momentum, the combat advantage. Bolan would strike before they were ready, and thus steal that most valuable of battlefield elements from them.
It was this advantage on which all his plans were built. For a single man to take on so many troops would be suicide. Bolan wasn’t suicidal, nor was he insane. He understood only too well what it took for a small, motivated force to defeat a larger and largely unprepared opponent. In this case, he was a small, motivated force of one.
The enemy would never know that.
He unlimbered his compact but powerful field glasses, which were equipped with light-gathering night-vision circuitry. Through their green-tinged view he counted off the enemy column, resisting the urge to whistle as he gauged the strength of their force.
This forward raiding party would be composed of scouts and supporting infantry. They had come fully equipped. Bolan counted several Alvis Saladin six-wheeled light tanks, a couple of RBY Mk1 reconnaissance vehicles and a small fleet of two-and-a-half-ton trucks, whose canvas-covered cargo areas would be used to transport the infantry. Most of the soldiers Bolan saw milling about or gearing up carried M-16s, though a few had Galils and he saw at least one MP-5 submachine gun. He knew that the Honduran military fielded M-79 grenade launchers, though he saw none in evidence; the weapon dated to the Vietnam War and was functionally equivalent to the launcher slung under his rifle’s barrel.
He brought up his own weapon. Pressing the latch, he shoved the barrel of the M-203 forward
