hoped they could abort a holocaust that would surpass the atrocities of the Nazis or even the mass devastation these Russian invaders had already wrought upon Tarik Khan's beloved Afghanistan.
The mujahedeen leader knew that any faith at all he had in the success of this operation could only be placed in the hands of Allah, in the toughness and spirit of his men... and in the savage presence of an incredible human fighting machine, the American, Mack Bolan. The Executioner. But time was running out.
They could already be too late.
12
Bolan and Tarik Khan's force pushed on relentlessly across hostile, cruel terrain.
The Executioner realized again what superb condition these men were in, the ceaseless march forward to reach Parachinar testing even his own stamina. This made him appreciate all the more the fact that Katrina Mozzhechkov kept pace at Bolan's side, never once lagging during the trek.
The nighttime journey was broken only at one point when a friendly tribe of mujahedeen assisted them with motorized transportation in an odd assortment of ancient vehicles over a stretch of mountains unpatrolled by the Russians.
This generous aid cut off what would have been several days of marching time; then another province began and the stealthy force continued on foot again, looking as if they would make it with perhaps an hour of darkness to spare.
Bolan could think of no recommendations to Tarik Khan regarding their security. The resistance leader commanded a damn tight ship: scouts with walkie-talkies were posted on each flank, several miles ahead and to the rear of the main group.
Conversation was kept to a bare minimum the whole time even when they were being assisted by the friendlies.
At the end of that stretch of the trek, as Tarik Khan's men had debarked from the ragtag convoy to regroup and resume the march, Katrina had a few stolen moments with Bolan out of earshot of the others.
The Russian woman and Bolan had not spoken since the group briefly stopped at the village after the action near Charikar to pick her up and commence their march.
Bolan had been relieved to find her safe and waiting for them but had not missed the pain-racked look in her eyes. He had also observed an attitude of withdrawal about her that indicated a deep inner turmoil, but that did not deter her from a march that would have done in most American women and men Bolan knew.
His respect for Katrina made him care. He welcomed the chance to communicate with her and maybe help.
"We will reach Parachinar soon," she began. She gestured with the M-16 she toted. "I must do something. I can no longer sit by idly."
"Katrina, we've been over that."
"In the village during the attack on the convoy... I started toward that battle three separate times but I... I could not leave the hut. I was afraid."
"Any person would be."
"Are you afraid of death?"
"I risk it, I don't invite it. You're no coward, Katrina. I've seen you fight."
She nodded. "Thank you for understanding."
Then it came time to move out and resume silence during a stretch of the march through a somewhat populated area. Bolan had an uncomfortable hunch that he had not said the right thing at all to a woman who remained an unknown quantity, an enigma, who, yeah, could be one of the enemy, who could be a damn good actress playing a convincing part. But in any case Katrina Mozzhechkov was certainly a woman capable of anything.
* * *
Bolan and the mujahedeen reached the vicinity of the installation near Parachinar at 04.00 hours.
The mountain fighters appeared little worse from the wear of the seven hours of constant movement.
The Executioner was wearing the traditional Afghan headgear that he had borrowed from Tarik Khan.
Tarik Khan chose a position along an irregular ridge of scattered spearmint bushes and mountain scrub trees; ideal for the placement of the heavy tripod machine guns that would be primarily for defense against Soviet air power, which the government forces would
The mujahedeen leader knew that any faith at all he had in the success of this operation could only be placed in the hands of Allah, in the toughness and spirit of his men... and in the savage presence of an incredible human fighting machine, the American, Mack Bolan. The Executioner. But time was running out.
They could already be too late.
12
Bolan and Tarik Khan's force pushed on relentlessly across hostile, cruel terrain.
The Executioner realized again what superb condition these men were in, the ceaseless march forward to reach Parachinar testing even his own stamina. This made him appreciate all the more the fact that Katrina Mozzhechkov kept pace at Bolan's side, never once lagging during the trek.
The nighttime journey was broken only at one point when a friendly tribe of mujahedeen assisted them with motorized transportation in an odd assortment of ancient vehicles over a stretch of mountains unpatrolled by the Russians.
This generous aid cut off what would have been several days of marching time; then another province began and the stealthy force continued on foot again, looking as if they would make it with perhaps an hour of darkness to spare.
Bolan could think of no recommendations to Tarik Khan regarding their security. The resistance leader commanded a damn tight ship: scouts with walkie-talkies were posted on each flank, several miles ahead and to the rear of the main group.
Conversation was kept to a bare minimum the whole time even when they were being assisted by the friendlies.
At the end of that stretch of the trek, as Tarik Khan's men had debarked from the ragtag convoy to regroup and resume the march, Katrina had a few stolen moments with Bolan out of earshot of the others.
The Russian woman and Bolan had not spoken since the group briefly stopped at the village after the action near Charikar to pick her up and commence their march.
Bolan had been relieved to find her safe and waiting for them but had not missed the pain-racked look in her eyes. He had also observed an attitude of withdrawal about her that indicated a deep inner turmoil, but that did not deter her from a march that would have done in most American women and men Bolan knew.
His respect for Katrina made him care. He welcomed the chance to communicate with her and maybe help.
"We will reach Parachinar soon," she began. She gestured with the M-16 she toted. "I must do something. I can no longer sit by idly."
"Katrina, we've been over that."
"In the village during the attack on the convoy... I started toward that battle three separate times but I... I could not leave the hut. I was afraid."
"Any person would be."
"Are you afraid of death?"
"I risk it, I don't invite it. You're no coward, Katrina. I've seen you fight."
She nodded. "Thank you for understanding."
Then it came time to move out and resume silence during a stretch of the march through a somewhat populated area. Bolan had an uncomfortable hunch that he had not said the right thing at all to a woman who remained an unknown quantity, an enigma, who, yeah, could be one of the enemy, who could be a damn good actress playing a convincing part. But in any case Katrina Mozzhechkov was certainly a woman capable of anything.
* * *
Bolan and the mujahedeen reached the vicinity of the installation near Parachinar at 04.00 hours.
The mountain fighters appeared little worse from the wear of the seven hours of constant movement.
The Executioner was wearing the traditional Afghan headgear that he had borrowed from Tarik Khan.
Tarik Khan chose a position along an irregular ridge of scattered spearmint bushes and mountain scrub trees; ideal for the placement of the heavy tripod machine guns that would be primarily for defense against Soviet air power, which the government forces would
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