Tiger War (te-6) by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton [Pendleton, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: det_action
ISBN: 0-373-61061-0

A little later fifty Montagnard riders slipped from the main force, heading east. They left in groups of five, keeping close to the trees — away from openings in the canopy — so the Piper would not spot them. All carried machetes in addition to their weapons.

At their head rode Bolan and Heath. The pilot came from New Mexico and was at home in the saddle. Bolan had taken a liking to him; the young man impressed him. He brings back a burning plane, lands, and instead of running, starts unloading. Cool.

The forest was flat, so they made good time. They came to the dirt road and followed parallel to it, keeping inside the trees. The road crossed the rail line, and eventually they reached the eastern edge of the woods. Ahead was a stretch of open country before the road disappeared into another forest.

They all dismounted, and the Montagnards proceeded to cut down branches that they tied into large bunches using lianas. Bolan inspected the road. The soil was powder dry; there had been no rain since the night after he arrived in Thailand. Perfect.

When everything was ready, Bolan inspected the diversion force. They sat on their horses, rifles on their laps, handkerchiefs over their noses like bandits. Behind each horse was a large bundle of branches attached by a cord to the saddle.

"Remember," Bolan told them, "when you shoot, you shoot to miss. If we down that plane, the Thais will send a regiment and we'll never get out."

Grunts acknowledged this last point.

They checked their radios. Twenty handsets arrived with the arms. Communications always played a big part in Bolan's scheme of things. Then Bolan ran to a spot from which he could observe the entire road.

"Okay, Heath, let's go!" Bolan said into his radio.

A pair of riders galloped out of the forest, down the road and into the next forest, the branches behind them raising dust. The dust hung in midair, as there was hardly any wind.

"Next, "said Bolan.

A second pair galloped out, this one already partly obscured by the dust. As they went by, the cloud over the road thickened.

"Next."

On the fifth turn, Nark's voice came on the radio. "It's working," he said. "The Piper's heading your way."

The spotter flew overhead. A wing dipped as the pilot prepared to investigate this dust cloud to the east. A moment later he was zooming skyward, bracketed by tracers from riders on the road and in the forests. When he reached a safe height he began circling.

"Phoenix to Nark," Bolan said into the radio. "He's hooked. Start moving out."

"On the way," the other replied.

Now began a tense waiting game, the plane circling, the riders galloping. Occasionally the plane tried to come down for a closer look. And each time it was driven off by gunfire. A closer inspection might have revealed riders galloping both ways.

The radio came to life. It was Nark. "We hear choppers." A little later he added, "Eight helicopters. Heading your way."

The sky filled with the sound of rotor blades, and the helicopters passed over Bolan's head.

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