Final Judgment by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

The motor pool was empty when he got there. Bolan searched the bays. One Jeep remained in the multiunit carport, but its tires had been slashed, most likely by Nitzche to cover his escape. Bolan looked left, then right, assessing his options.

A tarp covered an object next to the far wall. He went to it and pulled it off. The Nazi, in his haste to flee, had forgotten this, or perhaps thought it unimportant. It was a Kawasaki KLX and the keys were in the ignition.

The vehicle roared to life under him when Bolan gave it some gas.

He exited the motor pool and pushed the bike as fast as he dared for the terrain. Nitzche and his men had a head start, but it wasn’t insurmountable. Taking the compact field glasses from a pouch on his web gear, the soldier scanned the road ahead and spotted the dust cloud raised by the fleeing vehicles. The preceding weeks had been very dry.

Nitzche and his men were traveling in heavy four-door Jeeps. Bolan’s Kawasaki was considerably faster. He leaned forward, riding out the ruts, pouring on the speed. When they saw him, they started shooting from the windows of their vehicles.

“Jack, I need you!” Bolan said. “Striker to G-Force, requesting air support this position, south of the bunker!”

“I read you, Sarge,” Grimaldi said. “I’m already on my way to… Sarge! I’m getting a tone that says I’m locked!”

Bolan looked back to see the plume of the rocket rising from the bunker. There were still men in there somewhere, and they had what Bolan guessed were Stinger antiaircraft missiles.

The Cobra heeled about and deployed countermeasures, going low to avoid the rocket. Bolan couldn’t see what happened next; the bunker itself was between him and his line of sight to Grimaldi. He heard and saw the explosion, however.

“Jack! Talk to me!”

“Still here, Sarge,” Grimaldi reported through Bolan’s transceiver. “But it looks like the intelligence was dead-on. They’ve got Stingers and a good field of fire. I can’t get close enough to hose them clean without risking them taking a shot at me.”

“Don’t try, Jack,” Bolan said. “I’ve got this.”

“I can try to make a run at them,” Grimaldi suggested. “All I need is long enough to line them up, and then I can raise the roof on that joint.”

“If you can get a shot, go ahead and take it,” Bolan said. “But don’t risk yourself. We need you.”

“And my chopper,” Grimaldi cracked.

“And your chopper,” Bolan agreed.

Bullets struck pieces of lime-green plastic from the Kawasaki, narrowly missing Bolan. He weaved back and forth along the roadway, making himself harder to target. As he neared the rear Jeep, he saw the neo-Nazis within, aiming their folding-stock Kalashnikov rifles.

Nitzche had to have lucked into a fire sale on the things, Bolan thought, which wasn’t surprising. There were parts of the world where fully automatic AK rifles could be purchased for less than 20 USD each. The weapons had been plentiful on the open market

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