Читать книгу Agent Of Peril - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The flat LCD screen popped up a still image of the Executioner’s hawkish features, giving Barbara Price something to visually focus on as the satellite phone connected them vocally.

“Did I catch you after a full night’s sleep, or are you delusional from Bear’s coffee?” Bolan asked.

“Mix and match.” Price sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“Lots. I’ve got three M1 Abrams tanks. I’m thinking they’re U.S. military aid package tanks because they have the old 105 mm cannon instead of the new 120 mm tubes,” Bolan told her.

“Abrams tanks?”

“The Hezbollah operatives I followed had them transported here for the auction.”

Price summoned recent intel-footage on her second monitor. “We had three M1s roll into a Gaza Strip settlement and kill a few hundred people.”

“A tank attack on the Gaza strip? Where?”

“Nitzana.”

Bolan paused a moment. “If I remember my map of the space between Israel and Egypt well enough, it makes sense to strike there. Nitzana is far from any other major settlements. Vast expanses of empty hills, desert, and desert farmland surrounded the settlement.”

“It took twenty minutes for the Israelis to scramble aircraft.”

“A few hundred people?” Bolan asked.

“The count is 249 dead, another three hundred missing, and over twelve hundred injured. They blew up buildings…Hell, they even blew an F-16 out of the sky. That crash killed almost fifty people by itself,” Price said.

“Three hundred missing, which means that we could see the death toll get over four hundred as a conservative estimate,” Bolan said.

“Most of those missing are from a school and a hospital that the tanks shelled,” Price told him.

“Children and the infirm.”

Price knew the tone in Bolan’s voice—grim and torn. He was getting ready to revisit hell on the kind of savages who would drag the innocent and helpless into their petty political games.

“Striker, how many tanks did you say you had?”

“Three here. With Arabic writing on the controls. I’m looking for a good way to dispose of them, but I don’t have the kind of firepower needed to take them out.”

Price turned. “Hunt, I need a way to dispose of three M1 tanks without bringing the entirety of the Pakistani military down on whoever’s blowing it. They might think it’s India.”

“A Force Recon off the USS Stennis is stationed in Tora Bora. They can chopper in hot and fast, set daisy cutters on each vehicle and be out before anyone knows what’s going on,” Hunt Wethers stated. He managed a grin. “I’ve got Captain Hofflower on speed dial.”

“Send them on in,” the Executioner said.

Price heard a wet sniff on the other end of the phone. “What’s wrong? You sound…sick.”

“Got too close to an improvised Claymore mine I made. Or rather, didn’t get far enough away from it,” Bolan answered. “The shock wave broke blood vessels in my nose and I’m bleeding all over.”

“Why can’t you get nasal drip like most people?” Price asked.

“Just get the team here quick. I’ve got a live prisoner, and he’s Hezbollah.”

“Striker, you’re going to hand over a member of Hezbollah to a Marine?” Price asked.

“This animal’s buddies killed a few hundred people. Including children. I don’t care what the Marines decide to do with him.”

With that, the phone went dead.

PUSHING HIS TONGUE between his upper and lower molars, General Nahd Idel forced his lower jaw to relax, but the clenching muscles were relentless. His personal physician had tried all manner of muscle relaxants and therapy, but that didn’t help. A mixture of stress and old rooted pain from a botched wisdom tooth removal had given him a case of lock-jaw that he couldn’t kick.

Idel jammed several sticks of gum into one cheek and looked at the aide who was finishing his report about the “terrorist raid” on Nitzana.

“They’re saying that at least a quarter of the dead were Egyptian or Palestinian,” Major Pedal Tofo concluded. “Hezbollah won’t be so darling with some of their friends because of this.”

“No concern,” Idel replied. “Why did they only attack with three tanks? Didn’t we give them a dozen?”

Tofo shook his head. “We have people who are in Lebanon. They were watching Sinbal and his men leave Beirut on a cargo freighter with six oversize boxcars. He only left three in Alexandria, and stayed with the freighter. Records list the ship en route to Gwadar, Pakistan.”

Idel bit his tongue, muscles swelling and straining. Outwardly, his face remained impassive, but inside, he was strung as tight as a bear trap. He sat up and squared off a stack of paperwork on his desk, making sure the corners were sharp on the pile. Come to think of it, the jaw clenching could have just been another symptom of the obsessive-compulsive disorder that drove him to be the perfect officer, and kicked him through the ranks of the Egyptian military.

“Sinbal took three of our fucking tanks out of the country?” Idel asked.

“We gave him the tanks. Any money he’d get selling them would be pure profit,” Tofo answered.

Idel stood and walked to the window. Sunlight burned outside, flaring off the almost white sands surrounding his base’s compound. He took a deep breath, then spit out his gum, lighting a cigar to chew on. Grinding his teeth into the fat tobacco roll made him feel better, the sponginess cushioning his aching jaw muscles.

“Do we have anyone who can do a wet operation on Sinbal when he returns to Lebanon?” Idel asked.

“Affirmative,” Tofo stated.

“Make sure Sinbal doesn’t spend an evening more in Beirut without a bullet in a major part of his anatomy.”

“A pleasure.”

“That said, how did the three tanks do?” Idel asked.

“Reports have 375 dead so far, 250 missing, and thirteen hundred injured,” Tofo reported. “The border between Egypt and Israel has been locked down, and the Gaza Strip and West Bank are under heavy military patrols at this time. Combat aircraft are on constant patrol, too.”

“Their armored divisions?”

“They’ve brought up two divisions, in the north and the south to cut off access to their coastal settlements.”

“Only two?”

“Others are in motion, and a third is passing by Nitzana and has set up temporary camp across the Nitzala River.”

Idel smirked. “They’re wondering if Cairo had anything to do with an attack on their stolen territories.”

“Or they’re simply not taking chances. Israel might be outgunned by her enemies, but she makes up for it by not fucking around.”

“Good. Good.”

“Have we been given any green light by Cairo, sir?” Tofo asked.

Idel looked over his shoulder, pulling the cigar from between his lips and stretching out his jaw. He let his ears pop before continuing. “Would it make you feel better if we had our benighted leaders’ support?”

“I’m already dedicated to the cause of getting back Egypt’s lands from the Israeli thieves. I merely worry that…”

“We will be seen as traitors and thieves if we are caught. I understand, Pedal,” Idel said, clapping his aide on the shoulder. “We won’t be tied to the events that turn the cold peace between Egypt and Israel into a hot war. But we will be there at the forefront when it is time to be heroes and take back what is rightfully ours.”

Tofo nodded. “I do not doubt you, or this plan.”

Idel smiled and took a drag on his cigar.

But if Tofo truly didn’t doubt the success of the plan, he was the only one in that room.

THE STRAPPED FOR COMBAT SH-60 Seahawks tore over the landscape, penetrating deep into Pakistani airspace. Captain Carlton Hofflower perched in the doorway of the lead chopper, eyes sweeping the horizon for an angry response coming over the horizon. Nothing, however, was turning its attention toward the quintet of helicopters this day.

The message from HQ was quick, simple and terse.

“Retrieve Colonel Stone. Bring lots of explosives. Coordinates to follow.”

“Captain. We have smoke,” Lieutenant Charles Ellis, the pilot, reported.

Hofflower’s hazel eyes focused like lasers on the spiraling rub of charcoal smearing upward into the blue over the rolling hills. He didn’t need a map to equate the billowing smoke to the location of Colonel Stone. “That’s our guy, GPS be damned.”

Ellis glanced back at Hofflower, and then returned his attention to guiding the Seahawk.

In moments, the sharklike chopper was splitting the sky over the smoldering battlefield, and Hofflower could see a conflagration. Two major blast craters, and a half dozen minor smoking pits plumed smoke skyward, while one man stood with an old-fashioned bolt-action rifle over an injured man.

“That’s Stone?” Ellis asked.

Hofflower nodded.

“Who’s the wounded?”

“I don’t know, but he doesn’t look like a friendly. Tell the other choppers to land in a diamond around this airfield,” Hofflower said.

Hofflower gave Ellis’s helmet a tap, and the SH-60 dropped to the ground, landing with a light bump. As always, the six-foot-six Marine captain “unassed” first, hands resting on the M-249 hanging from his neck and massive shoulders.

“I have a present for you,” Bolan stated in lieu of a greeting.

“I see. Middle Eastern, Lebanese by chance?” Hofflower asked.

“Yeah,” Bolan returned.

“Bidifah Sinbal. Works for Hezbollah,” Hofflower said. The Marine grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Colonel Stone, this is a wonderful gift.”

“I want to know where Sinbal got his tanks from, and if it was his people that were behind Nitzana,” Bolan said.

An interesting question, the Marine thought.

He intended to make Sinbal squeal and spill his guts.

IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES for a medic to clean and dress all of Bolan’s injuries, but during that time, the Marine Force Recon platoon was busy wiring up the M1 Abrams tanks with enough explosive power to chop them to splinters.

Inside, even more insidious devices were being planted. The insides of the tanks would be able to survive the destruction of the hull and engine section. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon would pulverize every component of the tank in one shot, and even then, the M1s were designed during the Cold War. Their very design was meant to get the massive steel beasts through a nuclear-explosion blasted war plain and continue fighting, even as atomic artillery shells created football field-sized craters all around them.

The Marines were putting miniature Fuel Air Explosive charges inside the tanks. The mini-FAEs were designed for house clearing the easy way. First, a burst would spread a cloud of fuel through a space as large as a single floor of an apartment building. With the air saturated with explosive fuel, a second burst would spark and ignite the atmosphere. Everything within the space would be vaporized.

Bolan had seen entire mountainsides crumbled with a Fuel Air Explosive device improvised from a simple propane tank.

The mini-FAE would smash every ounce of valuable electronics and design inside the M1 to useless pulp. The last thing the world needed was a reverse-engineered version of the U.S. Army’s best tank.

The Marines were meticulous in setting the charges on the armor, though. That was the one thing that Bolan was most concerned about. Abrams armor, indeed any modern tank armor, was a secret design, and each nation had its own proprietary formula. Having that secret drop into the lap of even an ally was considered a disastrous development.

“I’m done,” the medic said. “You can stop the Zen meditation.”

Bolan managed a weak smile. “I was just thinking about the tanks.”

“How the hell did these get here?” the medic asked. “I mean, Pakistan uses old Soviet T-72s.”

“They were brought by the Hezbollah, and the Hezbollah somehow got them from Egypt,” Bolan answered. “How they got them, I intend to find out as soon as I get some intel.”

A gunshot rang out and Bolan turned his head. The sudden reflex action filled his head with sloshing, hot liquid pain, but it was dying down and his equilibrium swiftly returned to normal. It took a moment for his brain to register the sound as a .45-caliber pistol. Captain Hofflower was returning, stuffing his MEU (SOC) custom 1911 into its holster with one hand, holding a small black box with the other hand.

“I recorded everything,” he said, tossing over the digital recorder. Bolan caught it with one smooth motion.

“Make sure that someone sends me a new recorder. With all the features,” the Marine captain said.

“How much did he have? Nutshell version,” Bolan said.

“Well, he helped load the van with explosives for the 1983 Marine barracks attack.”

“That was more than two decades ago.”

“He’s forty-three. And he’s been Hezbollah since he was a teenager,” the captain explained.

“The tanks?”

“Given to him by his commander. He doesn’t know exactly where they came from.”

“Who’s his commander?”

“A creep named Faswad.”

Bolan closed his eyes and reviewed his mental files. Imal Faswad moved into the Bekaa Valley after Bolan rampaged through to take out a terrorist-backed drug cartel. He’d been behind some major counterfeiting of American hundred-dollar bills, approximately fifty million worth, before the U.S. Mint updated to the new bills. The Hezbollah headman was someone who was never quite on the top of the Executioner’s “to do” list because he was mostly attacking people who could, and did, fight back. Bolan’s previous interest in Faswad was derailed when the guy’s headquarters was blasted to atoms by an Israeli air strike and a dozen thousand-pound bombs.

It looked like it was time for the Executioner to pay Mr. Faswad a visit to find out why he was suddenly selling off tanks.

“Who did Sinbal come to sell the tanks to?” Bolan asked.

“Somewhere in the piles of grease you left littered all over the place, there was a party of Filipinos who are, er, were with Abu Sayyaf.”

Bolan’s jaw clenched for a moment. Abu Sayyaf was aligned with al Qaeda. Another case of unfinished business that the Executioner would have to get to.

“You sure I got them?” Bolan looked around. “A lot of guys just took off running.”

“Well, give me a good DNA lab, we’ll know for sure,” the Marine replied.

“All right. I’m lucky I got a single prisoner for you to interrogate,” Bolan conceded.

“Thanks for helping bring a little justice to the Corps,” Hofflower said, putting out one beefy paw.

Bolan took the hand, remembering what felt like a lifetime ago, his own incursion to avenge Marine blood. He could feel the bond with the fighting man before him.

“It’s time to unass and blow this Popsicle stand,” Hofflower called out, pulling Bolan effortlessly to his feet. “It’s good to have you aboard, Colonel.”

“Thanks,” Bolan answered. They got into the Seahawk and Lieutenant Ellis pulled the chopper into the sky, rising a half mile before stopping.

Hofflower handed over the radio detonator to the Executioner. “Your prerogative, Colonel.”

Bolan accepted the detonator, flipped up the safety cover on the firing stud and thumbed it down. Even through the rotor slap and vibrations of the SH-60’s powerful turbines, the shock wave from detonating the tanks was palpable. Concentric rings of smoke, indicating the rippling forces that devastated the armor, were still visible down below.

That was just the opening salvo to the scorched earth process being undertaken.

The four orbiting Marine Seahawks were armed with artillery rockets and Hellfire missiles. Pilots and gunners opened fire instantly on the ground where the terrorists sought to sell the Devil’s tools. Explosions formed a scouring cloud of devastation that swept from the four corners of the auction ground toward the middle, shredding and splintering anything in its path. Stomped flat as if under the feet of giants, the hodgepodge mixture of surviving jeeps, guns, helicopters and low-speed jets, as well as various missiles and other explosives, disappeared in a cacophony of devastation that Ellis yanked the SH-60 out of just in the nick of time.

Bolan could almost reach out the side door and touch the blossoming mushroom of smoke from the hell blitz.

An explosive start to a mission that promised more such devastation ahead.