The Libya Connection by Don Pendleton
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Men's Adventure, Non-Classifiable, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Vietnam War; 1961-1975
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nose.
"Out of here! Out, out!" he called, as if automatically overcoming shock and pain with roaring movement.
Hohlstrom was lifting himself once more from the helicopter's floor. The impact of the landing had knocked him down and damn near out again, then the nose-tilt had sent him sprawling.
Like a man skilled at being big, he had moved through the ordeal with a relaxed rolling motion that had spared him major hurt or rupture. Any puncturing was reserved for the gas line.
Now Hohlstrom was up and leaping from the gas-reeking wreck. But Bolan had already moved clear, was indeed returning for Hohlstrom, his mouth forming further commands to get the hell out.
The vapor seemed to sizzle before it suddenly burst into a mighty
whump,
blasting a fireball of broiling red and orange out across the crash site, spreading a wave of scorching acrid hell that gobbled at the back of the Mossad agent.
Hohlstrom nose-dived toward Bolan, the heat mushrooming over him. He was safe — and his face was half-buried in gritty sand.
Mack Bolan, his features ablaze from the glow that illuminated the environment like sunrise in a gray dawn sky, reached Hohlstrom and hauled him to his feet.
"Here comes whatever's next," he said, glancing up. The two men were near a ridge that would hide them from what was soon to be a landing zone. And a kill zone.
Gunship number two now touched down there. The pilot brought his engine to ground idle. The only sound in the night was a lazy, sibilant
swoosh
as the rotors of the healthy Huey continued to turn. Its lights came on, revealing the barren Sahara topography around it.
Behind Bolan, the injured Mossad agent stood steady. He slammed a fresh clip into his AK-47.
"Get
down!"
growled Bolan.
He had discerned movement around the open hatch of the other Huey.
A volley of automatic weapons fire suddenly rattled in the desert quiet. Projectiles whistled by inches above the sprawled figures of Bolan and Hohlstrom, buzzing like a cloud of angry hornets.
Hohlstrom's face was inches from Bolan's on the sand. The Mossad man's eyes were hard and steady.
"We're pinned good," he said.
"Only on our right flank," responded Bolan. "I saw a ridge to our left before I cut the landing lights. Let's make it there before those men swing around behind us."
"I'm with you!" growled Hohlstrom. "Lead the way."
Bolan did exactly that.
The gunfire from the other chopper ceased. Obviously the gunship commander was trying to decide how to play this.
Bolan and Hohlstrom hustled in a low jog toward the sand dune that Bolan had indicated. Both men carried their weapons, ready to use them on anything that moved in the shadows cast in weird, multicolored hues from the other copter's landing lights.
Nothing physical came at them; only the magnified voice of the pilot from the other gunship.
"ARE YOU ALIVE OVER THERE?"
The demand was firm and authoritative.
Bolan's impression of the surrounding terrain, briefly glimpsed as he had brought down the chopper, proved accurate.
The ridge of sand dune that he and Hohlstrom now held visibly, extended to their left in a lazy sweep around and slightly above the open ground separating the two copters. It embraced the rear flank of the pilot's position.
Bolan considered whether the pilot was aware of this.
Whether he was baiting a trap.
Hohlstrom spoke in a whisper, reading Bolan's mind.
"Okay, it just might work. I'm with you, Phoenix. Let's take those bums
out."
The two fighting men were already moving at a low trot, beneath cover of the stony ridge.
They had not gone five yards before more weapons fire erupted from the vicinity of the second gunship The rocky ground seemed to pound beneath Bolan's feet as orange silver strobelike flashes wildly illuminated the wilderness.
Mack Bolan and Hohlstrom continued along their course beneath cover of the ridge, swinging around to the other force's side flank
Death was in the air.
Executioner at work!
16
The gunship pilot could feel
"Out of here! Out, out!" he called, as if automatically overcoming shock and pain with roaring movement.
Hohlstrom was lifting himself once more from the helicopter's floor. The impact of the landing had knocked him down and damn near out again, then the nose-tilt had sent him sprawling.
Like a man skilled at being big, he had moved through the ordeal with a relaxed rolling motion that had spared him major hurt or rupture. Any puncturing was reserved for the gas line.
Now Hohlstrom was up and leaping from the gas-reeking wreck. But Bolan had already moved clear, was indeed returning for Hohlstrom, his mouth forming further commands to get the hell out.
The vapor seemed to sizzle before it suddenly burst into a mighty
whump,
blasting a fireball of broiling red and orange out across the crash site, spreading a wave of scorching acrid hell that gobbled at the back of the Mossad agent.
Hohlstrom nose-dived toward Bolan, the heat mushrooming over him. He was safe — and his face was half-buried in gritty sand.
Mack Bolan, his features ablaze from the glow that illuminated the environment like sunrise in a gray dawn sky, reached Hohlstrom and hauled him to his feet.
"Here comes whatever's next," he said, glancing up. The two men were near a ridge that would hide them from what was soon to be a landing zone. And a kill zone.
Gunship number two now touched down there. The pilot brought his engine to ground idle. The only sound in the night was a lazy, sibilant
swoosh
as the rotors of the healthy Huey continued to turn. Its lights came on, revealing the barren Sahara topography around it.
Behind Bolan, the injured Mossad agent stood steady. He slammed a fresh clip into his AK-47.
"Get
down!"
growled Bolan.
He had discerned movement around the open hatch of the other Huey.
A volley of automatic weapons fire suddenly rattled in the desert quiet. Projectiles whistled by inches above the sprawled figures of Bolan and Hohlstrom, buzzing like a cloud of angry hornets.
Hohlstrom's face was inches from Bolan's on the sand. The Mossad man's eyes were hard and steady.
"We're pinned good," he said.
"Only on our right flank," responded Bolan. "I saw a ridge to our left before I cut the landing lights. Let's make it there before those men swing around behind us."
"I'm with you!" growled Hohlstrom. "Lead the way."
Bolan did exactly that.
The gunfire from the other chopper ceased. Obviously the gunship commander was trying to decide how to play this.
Bolan and Hohlstrom hustled in a low jog toward the sand dune that Bolan had indicated. Both men carried their weapons, ready to use them on anything that moved in the shadows cast in weird, multicolored hues from the other copter's landing lights.
Nothing physical came at them; only the magnified voice of the pilot from the other gunship.
"ARE YOU ALIVE OVER THERE?"
The demand was firm and authoritative.
Bolan's impression of the surrounding terrain, briefly glimpsed as he had brought down the chopper, proved accurate.
The ridge of sand dune that he and Hohlstrom now held visibly, extended to their left in a lazy sweep around and slightly above the open ground separating the two copters. It embraced the rear flank of the pilot's position.
Bolan considered whether the pilot was aware of this.
Whether he was baiting a trap.
Hohlstrom spoke in a whisper, reading Bolan's mind.
"Okay, it just might work. I'm with you, Phoenix. Let's take those bums
out."
The two fighting men were already moving at a low trot, beneath cover of the stony ridge.
They had not gone five yards before more weapons fire erupted from the vicinity of the second gunship The rocky ground seemed to pound beneath Bolan's feet as orange silver strobelike flashes wildly illuminated the wilderness.
Mack Bolan and Hohlstrom continued along their course beneath cover of the ridge, swinging around to the other force's side flank
Death was in the air.
Executioner at work!
16
The gunship pilot could feel
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