Superbolan 157 Crisis Diplomacy by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was said that the commanders of invading forces, in times long past, would fire their boats on reaching the enemy’s shores. The idea was that retreat was no longer an option; the invading force had to either push forward or die. The commitment that burning one’s boats demonstrated was also a powerful psychological motivator. Bolan’s objective in burning the first of the connected buildings was similar. He had cleared that building, but there were no telling how many connecting passages there might be. Simply being unable to cover all the exits and entrances made it a very real tactical possibility that enemy forces could retrace their steps and occupy the first structure once more. Now that structure was on fire. The sprinkler system had already spent itself. Even if it could operate again—Bolan realized his knowledge of such machinery was limited mostly to setting it off—the blaze would engulf the roof and exterior before that could happen, eating with chemical zeal into the skin of the multi-storey office. With his back-trail covered, Bolan could continue moving forward. Now that he knew the Pakistanis were here and that Vostok might be, he intended to deal a decisive blow to— “Sarge! More company!” “Report,” Bolan said. He was still climbing the stairs, careful to watch for sniper fire from above, checking each landing. “I think it’s the Russians,” Grimaldi said. “Six trucks full of men carrying short Kalashnikovs and wearing digital camouflage just offloaded around your location. They’re coming in after you.” “What is your position?” Bolan asked. “Hovering around trying to draw ground fire, of course,” Grimaldi said. “Take it up, Jack,” Bolan ordered. “I need your eyes in the sky. Get out of range. Striker out.” Enemies somewhere above him. Enemies somewhere below. They would catch him between, and whether the two forces were allied or hostile to each other didn’t matter. He would be ground between a rock and a hard place just as surely. It was time to change the game. He removed his satellite smart phone and checked the building layout plans. There was a balcony level midway up the tower, ringing an area that the floor plot said was a presentation suite with a small auditorium. He did some quick combat math. If he were to set up shop somewhere in the building, he would do it there, where his forces could be deployed to support each other with clear lines of fire. He put the phone away, his mind made up. Bolan jacked open the M-203 and inserted another buckshot round. The soldier was now facing a pair of wire-mesh-reinforced windows in the stairwell. From his war bag he took a small pry bar, just long enough to fit unobtrusively in his gear. The titanium bar had an edge like a blade. He shoved the bar into the window fixture as if stabbing an enemy, driving the point deep. Breaking through meshed glass would be slow, messy and noisy. Prying the window from its frame, however, was much easier.

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