Don Pendleton by Frontier Fury (v5)

Author:Frontier Fury (v5)
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: a cognizant original v5 release october 09 2010
Published: 2010-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

UNLIKE THE .44 Magnum pistol immortalized by Hollywood, the Browning M2 .50-caliber machine gun really was powerful enough to blow a human head clean off—and when Bolan thumbed down the butterfly trigger, it did precisely that.

The Pakistani colonel didn’t even have a chance to scream before his skull was vaporized by 647-grain bullets traveling at 3,044 feet per second, meeting flesh and bone with 13,144 foot-pounds of destructive energy. The headless body fell away, and Bolan swung the M2 back around toward the patrol’s remaining soldiers.

It was commonplace to say that men cut down in combat never knew what hit them, and that was precisely true for some of those whom Bolan strafed with the Browning M2, firing short bursts to conserve ammunition at the standard cyclic rate of 600 rounds per minute. Those who were not facing Bolan when he found them likely felt only an instant’s stunning pain, as bullets meant to pierce armor shredded their flesh and bones. They dropped like puppets with their strings cut, rarely making any sound beyond the thud of their bodies striking the earth.

But others definitely saw it coming, knew exactly what was happening—even if they could not grasp how or why it was happening. Those who’d seen their comrades cut down from behind and turned to see what madness had possessed the friendly turret gunner gaped in shock or cursed before they died. Some bolted; others stood their ground, returning fire.

Each man’s death was his own. He may not choose the time or place, he may not even realize that he was dying, but no two departures from this life were ever perfectly identical.

Each man had to ultimately die alone.

And so it was for these.

The Executioner claimed each of them in turn, sweeping his scythe from left to right and back again, across the killing field. He felt no more or less for those who died with their backs turned, or running hopelessly for cover, than he did for those who spent their final seconds bent on killing him.

Surprise, shifting to full-blown panic in a heartbeat, spoiled the aim of those who threatened Bolan. He heard their bullets rattle past him, even felt a couple of them go by, and grimaced as one lucky ricochet plucked at his sleeve, missing the flesh beneath. And all the while, his Browning hammered at them, spewing four-inch casings, mulching flesh and bone with bullets flying half a mile per second.

At the last instant, two of the soldiers almost escaped.

Almost.

They had sprinted out of Bolan’s view, around the nose of the first APC, where he could neither track nor drop them. The Executioner was ready to dismount and follow them, root them out and drop them with his rifle—or by hand, if that was what it took—when both came reeling back, twitching and jerking through a clumsy death dance.

Bolan saw the bullets rip into their bodies, heard the crack-crack-crack of a Kalashnikov in semiauto mode, and then watched Gorshani step from hiding, firing two more rounds before the dying soldiers fell.

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