Pressure Point - Don Pendleton Gold Eagle Superbolan

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commando closest to the railing was hit in the skull and pitched sharply to his right, disappearing over the barrier before anyone could get to him. Another few rounds hammered the stretcher, puncturing the fabric and thudding into Salim’s legs. The same strafing line of fire found Mochtar, and he let out a howl as several rounds plowed into his chest. He staggered but remained on his feet, wincing in pain. His armored vest had deflected the bullets, but it still felt as if he’d been struck by a jackhammer.

      “Rock?” Bolan called out.

      “I’m okay,” he replied hoarsely, repositioning his hand over Salim’s neck wound. “Keep going!”

      They made it the rest of the way to the chopper without encountering further fire. Grimaldi left the controls and crouched before the cabin doorway. With help from the others, he pulled Salim into the cabin. Bolan and Mochtar bounded up afterward. The Executioner yanked off his mask, then switched places with Mochtar, tending to the major’s neck while the younger man inspected the gunshot wounds Salim had just taken to the legs.

      “He’s in bad shape,” Mochtar said. “We need to get him to surgery, quick!”

      “Anyone besides him we need to evacuate?” Grimaldi asked.

      “Not that we know of,” Bolan reported. “Then I’m outta here.”

      “I’ll stay,” Kissinger called up from the road. “We’ll mop up and then wait for you or hitch a ride with the other Hawk.”

      “I’m staying, too,” Bolan said. “Rock, can you manage?”

      “No,” the younger man said. “I need you to keep pressure on that neck wound while I work on his legs. If he bleeds out much more, we’re going to lose him!”

      Though reluctant to leave any battlefield before the last shot was fired, Bolan nodded to Mochtar and stayed at Salim’s side. Kissinger closed the cabin door on them, then stepped back, joining Latek and the other remaining commando.

      The Black Hawk rose and angled away from the mountain. Grimaldi was making radio contact with the other chopper when he spotted the thin contrail of a projectile jetting out from the mountainside.

      “Shit!” Grimaldi cursed. “Those bastards have Stingers!”

      Without leaving Salim’s side, Bolan leaned toward the cabin window and stared out just as the missile slammed into the other chopper, turning it into a fireball. The shock waves were so strong that the men could feel them reverberate through their own craft.

      “Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls,” Grimaldi shouted, “’cause there’s another on the way and it’s got our name on it.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “Chaff jam!” Bolan shouted to Grimaldi.

      “Already on it,” the pilot shouted back. Groping the console in front of him, Grimaldi thumbed a row of toggle switches, releasing a half-dozen high-yield flares from the underside of the chopper. Igniting within seconds after release, the flares gave off scattered blasts of heat intense enough to rival the thermal signature of the copter’s turboshafts.

      The ploy worked.

      As Grimaldi banked sharply to the right, the heat sensors on the second Stinger missile were unable to distinguish between the intended target and the fiery chaff. Drawn off course, the warhead hurtled past the Black Hawk’s framework, detonating beyond the range from which it could do any damage. The chopper rode out another shock wave, this one weaker than the one that had taken out the other gunship. Back in the rear cabin, Bolan and Mochtar rocked in place, doing their best to keep Salim stable on the stretcher.

      “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take over,” Bolan told Mochtar, rising to his feet. “If I don’t get up front and lend a hand, we’re all dead.”

      Mochtar shifted position, transferring one hand to the major’s neck while continuing to apply pressure to the worst of the man’s leg wounds. “I’ll do the best I can,” he told Bolan.

      By the time Bolan reached the cockpit, Grimaldi had banked the chopper again and changed course, heading back toward the mountain.

      “Our turn!” he snarled. “Find me a target, Striker!”

      Bolan grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the mountains. The sniper who’d just fired at them had dropped from sight, but Bolan could see four others positioned at intervals along a slight trough in the mountain. Peering higher, he spotted a promontory jutting directly above their positions. Pointing, he told Grimaldi, “There. Aim high with the rockets and see if we can get a little help from the mountains.”

      “Gotcha.” Grimaldi locked in on where Bolan had pointed and readied the Black Hawk’s 2.75-inch sub-mounted rockets for firing. “One avalanche coming up.”

      The gunship shuddered faintly as the first four rockets spewed from their launch tubes and streaked toward the mountains. In quick succession, they struck the rock facing, stitch-blasting a crude line ten yards above the source of the last Stinger.

      Weakened from underneath, the promontory collapsed, slamming down hard on another, larger outcropping directly below it. The second shelf gave way as well, splintering into sections and sliding into the trough. As they began to tumble down the side of the mountain, the monstrous stone slabs dislodged still more loose rock, quickly widening the slide’s path. As Bolan and Grimaldi watched, three of the snipers were swallowed up by the avalanche. Several others, hoping to avoid a similar fate, scrambled out into the open and found themselves easy targets for Kissinger and the surviving KOPASSUS troops on the ground. The tide of the battle was quickly turning.

      “Nice shot,” Bolan told Grimaldi.

      Grimaldi shrugged. “I just wish we’d pulled it off before we lost the other bird.”

      Bolan stared at the ravine, where smoke and flames issued from the charred remains of the second Black Hawk. It had landed a little over fifty yards upstream from the fallen bus, which also continued to smolder. There was no way anyone could have survived.

      Grimaldi kept his eyes on the enemy and fired a steady stream of .50-caliber rounds from the Black Hawk’s front-mounted machine gun, bringing down yet another of the snipers. He then banked the chopper, changing course so that he was flying parallel to the mountain instead of toward it.

      “I want to help Cowboy with a few quick flybys,” he told Bolan. “Go ahead and check on the major.”

      Bolan returned to the rear cabin. “How are we doing?” he asked Raki Mochtar.

      “Better than expected,” Mochtar reported. “I’ve got the bleeding in his legs under control. The neck’s still a problem, but he’s got a chance.”

      “Good. How’s the chest?”

      “Smarts a little,” Mochtar said with a grimace as he tapped the area where he’d been hit. “I can live with it.”

      “That’s the spirit,” Bolan said, grinning.

      The Executioner was pulling off his HAZMAT gloves when there was a sudden drumming against the side of the chopper. He cursed and grabbed the nearest carbine, then lurched to the doorway and yanked the door open.

      Down below, he saw a sniper firing at the chopper from a rock ledge twenty yards to the right of the avalanche. Bolan quickly returned fire, even as a stream of rounds zipped past his head, thunking into the cabin’s interior. The sniper reeled to one side, dropping his weapon. He clawed at the mountainside for support but lost his balance and was soon tumbling down the steep incline.

      Down on the ground, meanwhile, Kissinger and the others had taken up positions and stayed put rather than advancing within range of the rock slide. It had been a smart decision. By the time the slide reached the roadway, its swath was nearly a hundred yards wide, and its forceful momentum was strong enough to sweep the delivery truck off the tarmac and carry it sideways to within a few

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