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Carnage Code
Don Pendleton
Rogue ThreatWhen the CIA intercepts a coded message that reveals the delivery of nuclear materials to Sudan, the U.S. decides to investiage this North African hot spot. Mack Bolan's hard probe exposes a renegade faction deep within the Sudanese government that's planning to nuke its Ethopian neighbors into oblivion–an event that could lead to global war.Bolan is greeted in a hail of bullets as he enters Khartoum with a young journalist and an old spy as backup. Going on the offensive, he must smoke out an enemy operating undercover in the country's law enforcement, intelligence and diplomatic agencies. With a lethal shipment of plutonium to track down, the Executioner wastes no time using the kind of hard-core diplomacy that gets the job done.
The Executioner
Carnage Code
Don Pendleton’s
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry VanCook for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
Khartoum. For Ron Cassetti, the very word had always held adventure. And a lust for adventure had been in his blood for as long as he could remember.
Cassetti, a Washington Post reporter, walked along the cobbled stones toward the White Nile Bridge, where the White and Blue Niles met and the colored waters meshed with the clarity of bright blue and white paint being splashed together.
The young man on the bridge thought back over his twenty-one years of life. For most of those years, he had concentrated on his schoolwork and martial arts, with only an occasional date, here and there. But within a week of the day he’d left Oklahoma for Georgetown University, he had met Margerete. And they had dated ever since.
He had finally graduated with a double major in journalism and English literature and acquired his third-degree black belt in karate at roughly the same time. Rather than open his own dojo in the D.C. area, he had instead accepted a job in Khartoum where he would report on both Sudan’s rumored nuclear-weapons program and the civil war raging in Ethiopia, next door. There, in this ancient country bordering the Red Sea, the violence between the Ethiopian government and the Coalition for Unity and Democracy continued to spill over into Sudan.
The problem, as it pertained to Sudan, was that both CUD and out-of-control Ethiopian regulars” had begun attacking installations and villages in Ethiopia, then fleeing to safety across the Sudanese border. Both sides wore unmarked green fatigues to avoid being recognized and, for that reason, they had all come to be called “greenies.” Certain elements within the Sudanese government wanted to declare war on Ethiopia and wipe out the invaders entirely.
Cassetti’s mind drifted away from Sudan and Ethiopia and back to his own problem, and he felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. For a brief moment, he thought again about Margerete. Then the picture in his mind turned quickly to Fran.
He had never been true to Margerete, he realized, and the guilt increased even more. He had almost always had someone “on the side” during their four years at Georgetown. But in the three months he and Fran had been together, he had never even considered cheating on her. After Fran had entered Cassetti’s life, he had lost all desire for other women.
Cassetti wiped his face with his hand, telling himself it was water that had blown up from under the bridge rather than tears. Margerete would have returned to Washington by the time he returned from Sudan. And a decision would have to be made. A decision, he knew, that would affect the rest of his life.
The bottom line, as Ronnie Cassetti saw it, was that he owed Margerete. But he wanted Fran.
Cassetti’s tormented thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of running footsteps and huffs and puffs approaching from his right. Turning back toward the direction from which he’d come, he saw an elderly man wearing a striped robe and matching headdress shoving people to the side as he ran and limped toward the top of the bridge. A second commotion of some kind was occurring farther down the bridge, past the old man, with other people sprawling on the ground.
Cassetti squinted but was unable to make out the source of the problem.
As the elderly man reached the top of the bridge, Cassetti could see that he held a white envelope in his left hand. With his right, he clutched his chest, as if he might be about to have a heart attack. Cassetti was surprised further when the old man stopped next to him against the railing.
“I have…seen you,” the old man gasped out. “American?”
Cassetti nodded.
“Writer?” came another gasp. “American writer?”
Cassetti nodded again.
The old man grabbed Cassetti’s hands and pushed the envelope between them. “You take,” he said in heavily accented English. “Go—” He never finished the sentence.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, and the old man in the robe folded at the waist. A second later, he was on the ground, his open eyes staring sightlessly up at the clear blue North African sky.
Ronnie Cassetti stared down at him, confused, but another shot brought him out of his trance.
Now Cassetti could see what had caused the second disturbance behind the old man. Two equally dark complected figures—both dressed in lightweight tropical suits—were pushing their way along the crowded footpath toward him. Both held pistols in their hands, and more shots exploded as the men raced toward him.
Ronnie Cassetti was no fool. These shots were meant for him.
The envelope still clamped in his hand, Cassetti turned and sprinted down the other side of the White Nile Bridge. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the envelope contained or why men were willing to kill for it. But he had no doubt that the envelope was what this was all about.
Cassetti held the advantage, running downhill while his pursuers still climbed to the crest of the bridge. So he put as much distance between him and the gunmen as he could, while he could. In a matter of seconds his downhill advantage would be lost, and when that happened, if he hadn’t made full use of it, he had no doubt he’d be as dead as the old man.
Cassetti continued to run, pushing men, women and children unashamedly out of his way as he reached the bottom of the bridge. Loud shrieks of terror and what he suspected were curses in Arabic shot out at him with as much venom as the bullets. He didn’t care. He wanted out of this. Now.
Not far from bridge, Cassetti saw the beginning of a large shopping area. If he could make it to the first shop door, then race through it and get out the back, he had a chance of losing his pursuers in the maze of streets behind it. A final gunshot whizzed past Cassetti’s head as he ducked inside the first door to which he came.
To the proprietor’s dismay and anger, Cassetti knocked over a shelf containing religious statuettes as he lumbered through the shop. Another misstep sent a case of colorful glass bottles and vases shattering to the floor, and brought on more unintelligible curses. Finally, he burst blindly through a violet-colored curtain and out the back door.
Behind the shop, Ronnie Cassetti saw the confusing, winding streets he’d hoped for. Picking one at random, he raced past the wrinkled faces of old men and women and groups of playing children. He didn’t stop running for five more minutes.
When Cassetti finally slowed to a walk he was breathing hard. It took another five minutes to find his way out of the labyrinth of small streets and emerge onto one of Khartoum’s main streets. A second later, he flagged a cab and rode it back to his hotel. With his Swiss Army knife, he slit open the envelope. He was surprised to find that the single page inside was written in English. But what shocked him even more was that it was a poem. Not just a poem, but a limerick.
Cassetti closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Something valuable had to be hidden within these rhyming words. The old man had made sure he was an American before giving him the envelope, so it was his duty as an American to find out what the limerick actually meant. Which meant he’d have to get into bed with men most journalists considered the enemy.
The United States Central Intelligence Agency.
1
Mack Bolan had just stepped out of the plane onto the tarmac in Khartoum when the first shot exploded to his right. The bullet missed the Executioner’s head by half an inch as it drilled a hole through the window of the still-open cockpit door.
“Take off, Jack!” Bolan yelled as he rolled to the ground away from the plane and drew the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.
“Like hell I’ll take off!” Jack Grimaldi shouted back through the doorway. The pilot reached behind him, grabbed a German-made Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun and tossed it to Bolan.
The Executioner reholstered the Desert Eagle as he caught the subgun with his left hand. Twirling it in his hands to grab the pistol grip and fore end, he turned it in the direction from which the shot had come.
As he did, a barrage of rifle fire came from his left.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw that Grimaldi had pulled another MP-5 from behind his seat in the cockpit and was deplaning on the other side of the aircraft.
Flipping the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, Bolan cut loose with a trio of 9 mm soft-point RBCD “total fragmentation” rounds. The bullets in the brass casings looked like simple soft-points, but were hardly simple in the way they worked. While the RBCDs would penetrate most substances—like glass, thin wood or plaster—they literally exploded in any water-based material.
Such as a human body.
As he held back the trigger, the Executioner saw three men dressed in olive-drab BDUs racing his way. They continued to fire as they ran, but their rounds flew wide of Bolan’s.
The Executioner’s return fire did not.
The first set of rounds from the big man’s MP-5 caught a dark-skinned, bearded man within a two-inch group—all in the heart. He dropped like a cow hit over the head with a sledgehammer as it walked through the slaughter gate.
Shifting the German weapon slightly to the side, the Executioner fired a 3-round burst into the throat of the next man in green. A geyser of blood erupted from the man’s carotid arteries as he staggered backward, dropping his AK and holding his neck with both hands. A split second later he, too, was on the tarmac, dead.
On the other side of the Learjet that had brought him to Khartoum, Bolan heard Jack Grimaldi firing at the men who approached from the other end of the runway. But he didn’t have time to look that way. The third man in green was still running forward, an Uzi gripped in his fists.
The Uzi fired 9 mm rounds just like Bolan’s MP-5, and had been created for the same reason—to serve as a midrange submachine gun and lay down a lot of fire, fast. But it had one distinct disadvantage from the H&K. It fired from an open bolt, meaning that the bolt didn’t slam shut until the trigger was pulled and the weapon fired. This often threw off the first round.
And now was no exception.
The man with the Uzi had been smarter than his friends—he had waited until he got closer to begin shooting. But now, as he neared, Bolan saw his index finger move rearward. The jar of the bolt sent the first 9 mm hardball round to Bolan’s left, but before the full-auto weapon could fire again the big American had swung the MP-5 on target. Another trio of RBCD rounds struck the man with the Uzi squarely in the face, practically decapitating him.
Bolan turned his back to the three men he had just killed and spotted six more running toward the Learjet from the other side. Behind them, on the tarmac, he could see that Grimaldi had already downed two of the men. But the remaining six still sprinted toward the plane, firing on the run.
More fire from the Learjet’s pilot dropped another man in green as the Executioner dumped two more of their assailants. Bolan’s soft-point bullets caught the first gunner in the chest, and a pink mist burst forth as if someone had just sprayed it from a bottle of window cleaner. He opened his eyes wide in awe, not knowing what had happened, then fell forward onto his face.
Bolan’s second target was trying to run and fire another of the AK-47s. He, too, wore a sidearm, as well as carrying the assault rifle, but his short gun of choice appeared to be a revolver of some kind.
Bolan directed a trio of RBCDs at the running target. The first round caught the attacker in the pelvis, the second in the gut and the third in the heart.
In the meantime, Grimaldi downed yet another of the yet-to-be-identified assailants with a triburst into the chest.
Only two men remained now, but they showed no signs of giving up peacefully. Bolan shifted his front sight toward a slightly overweight man who looked to be of mixed African and Arabic descent. Holding the MP-5s trigger back again, the Executioner sent three more soft-point slugs into the man’s rib cage. When they exploded, sharp white slivers of bone came shooting out along with the same pink mist Bolan had created a second earlier.
Almost simultaneously, Grimaldi downed the final man approaching the tail of the Learjet with three more 9 mm bullets.
For a moment, it appeared the unexpected attack was over.
It wasn’t.
Suddenly, the tarmac around the Executioner’s sides was torn to flying pieces of tar. Bolan turned to his left and saw that more men in green were approaching from the area of the terminal itself.
He briefly wondered again who these men were and how they had known he was arriving. None of their attackers’ OD green fatigues bore any markings.
But this was still not the time to worry about such things. First he had to stay alive. And make sure that Grimaldi did, too.
“Jack!” Bolan cried out. “You okay?”
The pilot’s voice came back to him. “If you don’t count these guys who just popped their heads up behind that berm to the side of the runway!”
Bolan nodded as he watched three more rounds take out another man in fatigues. So, a second wave was mounting on Grimaldi’s side of the Learjet, too.
A 7.62 mm round ripped across the top of the Executioner’s shoulder, ruining his sport coat and shirt. Beneath the shredded material, the Executioner felt the heat. It was much like a bad sunburn.
Bolan didn’t let the close call slow him. Rolling to his side, he came up on his belly with the MP-5 gripped in his right hand. Using his left to raise his chest off the ground and give the 30-round magazine room for clearance, he fired again.
Three more RBCD slugs took out another dark man with a beard.
Bolan rolled again as more AK rounds struck the tarmac where he had been a second earlier. These new attackers were better shots. He’d have to keep moving.
Squeezing the trigger once more, the Executioner dropped yet another shooter. This time, the Executioner rolled back the other way, to the spot where he’d fired first toward the terminal. Using the same one-handed grip, he downed another pair of gunners before the MP-5 bolt locked back, empty.
Dropping the dry subgun, Bolan drew his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The roar of the big handgun was thunderous.
Bolan watched the force of the huge hollowpoint round knock an oncoming attacker back two steps, then throw him to the ground on his back. Another squeeze of the trigger blew off the top half of another man’s head. Then, suddenly, gunfire sounded from behind the men running toward him.
And the attackers started falling to the ground without the Executioner even pulling the trigger.
Bolan looked past the men in green and saw that finally the airport police had intervened. He downed the final man coming from the terminal with another .44 Magnum slug, then rose to his feet, sprinting toward the Learjet.
If his MP-5 had run dry, Grimaldi’s was bound to have done the same by now. And the pilot—whose primary job was to fly airplanes rather than get into gunfights—usually carried only a Smith & Wesson Model 66 with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel.
And six .357 Magnum bullets weren’t going to last long in a fight like this one.
Dropping to the ground as soon as he reached the Learjet, Bolan rolled under the plane in time to see Grimaldi swing the cylinder out of his wheelgun, reach into the pocket of his faded leather bomber jacket and produce a speedloader. Bolan fired at a man not ten yards away as the pilot calmly and steadily refreshed his revolver with another six rounds.
The Executioner’s .44 Magnum round caught the man in the chest, just left of center, and squarely in the heart. He twirled a full circle, then dropped his AK-47 and fell to the ground.
Only three men were left now, but they were close. Swinging the Desert Eagle to the side, Bolan pulled back on the trigger and sent another 240-grain .44 Magnum slug into the skull of the nearest man.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw a deadly grin on the face of his pilot as Grimaldi shot the next man in the gut with his S&W. The knees of the man in green buckled, and the attacker knelt on the tarmac, one hand pushing against his lower abdomen in an attempt to keep his intestines inside.
Grimaldi fired again, and this time his Magnum hollowpoint round struck higher. The kneeling man flew backward as the 125-grain bullet expanded inside him.
