Mission To Burma. Don Pendleton
involuntarily as the two SU-30MMK fighters screamed past, but a tumbling human body was virtually no target to a fighter’s air combat radar. Lily plunged through space as the jets flew on toward India at six hundred miles per hour.
The clouds flashed as if they were lit up by lightning as both fighters cut loose with their 30 mm cannons. The cloud cover in the west went from orange to white and then to red as Flight 402 broke apart and exploded beneath the automatic cannon onslaught. Lily winced against the sonic booms as the fighter jets turned and went supersonic to return to base. She had lost her drop count, but the Kumon Mountains were rushing up beneath her with disturbing speed. Lily brought her feet together, kicked off her high heels and faced facts.
Regal, voluptuous and green-eyed as she was, her problem was that from the get-go she had been designed to be insertable, deniable and expendable. Any extraction assets in the civil-war-ridden mountain and river valleys of Burma would have to be the same. The upper tier of the jungle canopy of the Kumon Mountains rushed toward Lily’s silk-stockinged feet and she wondered what, if any, kind of man might be sent to save her.
2
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan stared at the 8 x 10 glossy of Lily Na. She was Taiwanese National Security Bureau and undoubtedly straight out of “Mystical 110,” or 110 Yangteh Boulevard on Yang Ming Mountain outside Taipei. It was the address of NSB headquarters, a place where no visitors were allowed, and people who did visit usually came in late at night and often never left. Miss Na was undoubtedly one of the NSB’s secret weapons, probably from the Chinese Mainland Maneuvers Committee.
Bolan looked up at Hal Brognola. “Rescue missions aren’t normally my kind of thing, Hal.”
“Yeah, but what about the woman?” Brognola countered. “I know for a fact she’s your kind of thing.”
Bolan returned his gaze to Na’s picture. She was undeniably erotic. “Still not my kind of mission.”
“Yeah, I know.” The big Fed gnawed on his unlit cigar. “But the stakes are high on this one.”
Bolan knew the stakes were about as high as they got in the world of international espionage. The United States and Taiwan very badly wanted the ballistic-missile-defense information. It was information the Chinese government wanted back even more, so much that they’d downed an entire jet full of innocent people over Burmese airspace. They were working on the forty-eighth hour of her disappearance, but her personal transponder was still signaling.
“You know the government has people and agencies who train for exactly this kind of spook-extraction bullshit,” Bolan argued.
“Yeah, I know.” Brognola sighed. “They’ve already tried and failed.”
Bolan raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Yeah, actually the CIA was Johnny-on-the-spot on this one. Within twenty-four hours, they sent in two paramilitary rescue teams. One was compromised and stopped at the border before ever setting a boot in country. The second was smaller, a couple of advisers who parachuted in and met up with mobilized local assets. It’s been twelve hours since we’ve heard from them. We have to assume they’ve been captured or killed.”
Two teams in twenty-four hours was not good. “I think you have to assume they were compromised.”
“That’s right. That’s why the President wants to send in someone who’s outside of normal channels.”
Bolan had to admit he was about as far from normal channels as one could get, short of hiring extraterrestrials. “You know, I don’t speak Burmese, Hal. I don’t think I even know any of the swear words.”
“It’s a former British colony,” Brognola said. “Everyone there speaks a little English.”
“That was sixty years ago.” Bolan considered what he knew about the Union of Myanmar, known by most Westerners as Burma. The government was an utterly corrupt military junta that ruled with an iron fist. Human rights were nearly nonexistent. Human trafficking was some of the worst in Asia. Like most of Southeast Asia, the country was a patchwork of mountains and river valleys with dozens of oppressed ethnic minorities. Some of the minorities were large enough and well enough armed that the rule of the government only extended as far as their artillery could reach outside the big cities. Burma was also ground zero of Asia’s Golden Triangle of opium production. The warlords ruled their areas like medieval fiefs, alternately fighting with and doing business with government and rebel alike. “You do realize I’m over six feet tall, white and have blue eyes?”
“Actually I’ve noticed that about you,” Brognola admitted.
“So I can’t exactly blend in. If the first villager who sees me doesn’t turn me into the government as a spy, then they’re going to sell me to the drug lords as a DEA agent.”
“The President and I were both hoping you might do that lurking-in-the-dark thing you do so well.” Brognola brightened. “Besides, we have a local asset to assist you.”
“Hal, the Chinese found out Miss Na and the data were on the plane and shot it down. You had one CIA paramilitary team stopped at the border, and a CIA lead team of local auxiliaries has disappeared. There’s a leak someplace, and you’re going to have to forgive me if I’m not trusting local CIA or Taiwanese assets.”
“I wouldn’t trust them, either.” Brognola smiled. “So he’s neither.”
“Care to explain that?”
“Sure, like you said, there’s a leak somewhere. I’d like to think it’s Taiwan, but we can’t be sure. The President wants you because you’re outside normal channels. That made sense to me, so I went outside normal channels to get you some local backup.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I called David McCarter.”
McCarter was the team leader of Stony Man Farm’s elite international strike force. He was also a former member of the British SAS.
Bolan smiled. “He contacted British intelligence.”
“Well, like I said, they used to own the place, so I figured they must have a few people keeping their hands in. MI-6 was kind enough to get in contact with this guy.” Hal handed over a file. In it was the picture of a bald, buck-toothed little man with a belly like Buddha jammed into a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He was grinning into the camera. “His name is Fat Sho Nyin. His call sign with British intelligence is ‘Fatso.’ Don’t let his looks fool you. He was a sergeant in the Burmese Airborne Unit.”
“So what’s his story?”
“He was operating in the northern mountains, in the Sagaing Division about a decade ago. He fell in love with a Naga tribeswoman. The local opium lord came in and wiped out her village. She and Nyin’s illegitimate child were killed. Nyin’s commander had a business arrangement with the drug lord and did nothing. The Naga are headhunters. The practice was banned in 1991, but rumor is some of the good old boys up in the hills still stick to the old ways. Rumor is Nyin got together a few of his woman’s relatives, got tattooed and inducted into the tribe, and they went and got a little payback. Most U.S. heroin comes from Afghanistan and Mexico, but a lot of the heroin in England is still coming in from the Golden Triangle. Nyin’s been one of the guys on the ground for MI-6’s antinarcotic Southeast Asia sector for a decade. Mostly, he works against the drug trade, but apparently he’s given them military intelligence from time to time, as well as helping break up a few slavery rings. He’d be your liaison among the locals.” Brognola cleared his throat. “If you go…”
“Anything else you need to tell me?”
“Well, now that you mention it, NSA has picked up some chatter.”
“What kind of chatter?”
“They believe the Indian government is aware of the situation and possibly even taking action.”
Bolan