Ambush Force

1

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Alpha squad had been slaughtered. Mack Bolan flipped through the file. The reinforced squad of U.S. Army Rangers had gone into the Jalkot Canyon area of Afghanistan, and to a man they had come back in body bags. They hadn’t just been killed; they had been stripped and quite possibly tortured. The exact circumstances of their deaths were uncertain because their bodies had been decapitated, doused with kerosene and burned.

“This stinks to high hell, Bear.”

Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman nodded and sipped his coffee. “That’s what everyone at the Joint Chiefs of Staff is thinking, but no one is willing to say.”

Bolan ran his finger over a map of Afghanistan. “The Rangers were supposed to be intercepting a Taliban courier?”

“That was the mission profile. A simple grab and go. An informant gave the CIA the courier’s route and a timetable. The weird thing is that according to intel, both the sector that got hit at and the adjacent one have been pacified.”

Bolan peered at the map. “Looks like the courier’s route was right along the sector border.”

“Again, it’s weird. As a matter of fact, both sectors are supposed to be models of the post-Taliban reconstruction of Afghanistan. In Sector G, they’re growing saffron for the spice market, and in H Valley next door they’re growing flowers for the European perfume industry. According to reports, they’re paving roads, building schools and there’s not a woman in a beekeeper suit in sight. Before they were pacified, both sectors were nothing but poppy fields ruled by Taliban-friendly warlords like medieval fiefs.”

“Who’s running the show?”

“German coalition forces cleared both sectors.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t need to tell you, Striker. The Bundeswehr doesn’t mess around. They give both the U.S. and the UK a run for our military-professionalism money. They’ve quadrupled their patrols and have poured in men and matériel.”

Bolan had worked with the German army. They were about as good as soldiers got.

Kurtzman pulled up a file on his computer. “Shield Security Services has some operators in the area providing private security for some of the local businessmen and foreign contractors.”

That was interesting, as well. Shield was the top shelf of international private security and hired only the best.

“It still stinks. How did they sneak past the German patrols? This was way too professional for the Taliban,” Bolan argued.

“Well, you’ve got to admit they’ve been getting slicker. They had decades of getting fat and sloppy, looting the country of its wealth, beating women with sticks and stoning men in soccer fields for minor religious infractions. The coalition may have come in and kicked their collective asses, but they aren’t gone. The Taliban are lean, hungry, angry and learning their lessons the hard way.”

That was all very true, but it still didn’t answer Bolan’s questions. “I’m not buying a random band of Taliban bumping into Rangers in the field and wiping them out. This was a planned ambush.”

“So…” Kurtzman took a meditative sip of coffee. “Are you willing to tell the President what no one else will?”

“Yeah.” Bolan nodded. “This was an inside job. The question is who.”

Briefing room, Tent City, Kabul

THE MEN FROM DELTA FORCE were seething. Nearly all Delta Force commandos were chosen from the United States Army Ranger Regiment. The Rangers were the Army’s elite. That made Delta Force the elite of the elite. Delta Force commandos remembered their days as Rangers and knew with great pride that the Ranger Regiment was where they had launched their careers as Special Forces soldiers.

Now an entire squad of Rangers had been killed, beheaded and burned. The assembled Delta team was going hunting for some payback.

“All right, ladies!” The black lieutenant looked like an NFL linebacker who had been shoved through a trash compactor. He barely cracked five-six but he weighed 180 if he weighed an ounce, and his Afro pushed the limits of U.S. military hairstyle acceptability. Lieutenant Richard Dirk was “Dick Dirk” to his friends and equals in rank and affectionately known as “the Diggler” behind his back. The vertically challenged Special Forces officer had amassed a sizable legend for neutralizing the designated enemies of Uncle Sam on three continents and was currently working on his fourth. His voice was out of all proportion to his size. “Listen up! We’re going hunting tonight, and your Uncle Sam in his merciful compassion had been kind enough to send us an observer to make sure we don’t screw up!”

Groans and muttered expletives greeted the lieutenant’s announcement.

“So I would like you all to give a warm, Delta Force welcome to Mr. Matthew Cooper from the Justice Department!”

Mack Bolan walked into the tent.

A lanky blond commando named Sawyer drawled out his disgust with an accent straight out of the hills of Tennessee. “Christ, LT, who is this fucking cherry? I—” Sawyer leaned back in his seat as Bolan locked eyes with him. It took a lot to give a Delta Force commando pause, but whatever Sawyer saw behind Bolan’s blue eyes stopped him midsentence. “Shit, dude, don’t look at me like that.”

That wasn’t enough for Lieutenant Dirk. “You will shitcan that talk, Sawyer, or I will personally correct your cracker attitude for you! You read me?”

Sawyer recoiled before the wrath of his commanding officer. “Shit, LT! Yeah—I mean, yes, sir! I mean….” Sawyer regained some of his composure. “But what the hell, LT? Are we Commies now with political officers spying on our asses? What the hell is an asshole from the goddamn Department of Justice doing here? Makin’ sure we don’t commit no atrocities? I mean who sent him? The Supreme Court?”

Dirk seemed to grow and expand in rage and stature as he prepared to rain his wrath on Sawyer.

Bolan interrupted the dressing-down. “Permission to address your men, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Dirk continued to glare bloody murder at Sawyer. “Oh, by all means. Please do.”

“Who is the angry god of your universe?” Bolan addressed the tent at large.

Bolan had files on all the men present. A hulking Latino private in the back named Obradors shot up his hand. “Why, Mr. Cooper, we do dastardly deeds for the Diggler!”

Lieutenant Dirk rolled his eyes and mostly kept the benevolent smile off his face.

“Well,” Bolan conceded, “the lieutenant is the Messiah, but who is God?”

Special Forces operator opinions flew around the tent.

“Jesus?”

“Santa Claus?”

“Anheuser-Busch?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, it’s the big guy in the round room.”

The tent grew quiet as Bolan invoked the commander in chief.

“He’s taken a personal interest in your situation.”

Jaws set nervously and brows furrowed. That might be extraordinarily good or horrifically bad news. It was generally considered best not to have the Man’s attention at all except when he was handing out medals.

Bolan tapped the com-link clipped to his shirt. “Gentlemen, I am not here to observe you, usurp command or steal your thunder. I am here to deliver the thunder. The standard chain of command has been circumvented. We will not be going through the Pentagon or United Nations coalition command. I am here to make sure that fire support, extraction and real-time data are available as needed. Short of a nuclear strike, it is my job to make sure that you receive everything you need.” Bolan shrugged. “If you require a tactical nuclear strike, I can’t promise it, but I will ask the President of the United States for it directly. However, if my services aren’t required…”

“Oh, hell no!” Sawyer grinned delightedly. “Your shit is sacred, brother.”

“Fuckin’ ay,” Obradors agreed.

Bolan nodded to himself. The Delta Force commando team was leaning forward eagerly. Everyone loved divine intervention. “Captain Fairfax will brief you on the mission.”