Читать книгу War Drums - Don Pendleton - Страница 14

Bolan pushed to his feet and checked out his cell partner.

The man was of medium height, with wide shoulders and lean hips. He was clad in torn, stained black clothing that was covered by a loose robe. His neat black beard framed a light brown face that had undergone recent hard treatment. Bruises and bloody cuts marked his flesh and his hooked nose was badly swollen. Dried blood crusted his mouth. He regarded Bolan with a fierce stare. His dark eyes held an undiminished gleam that his rough treatment hadn’t dimmed.

“Do you speak English?” Bolan asked. “I ask because my Arabic is not good.”

“Of course I speak English,” the other replied in a tone that suggested he was talking to a child. “Do you think I am just another desert savage?”

“No, I was hoping to make conversation with a fellow warrior.” Bolan had recognized the configuration of the man’s dress. The black garb and flowing robes, the Jalabiyya, of a Bedouin. His head was covered by the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, the black cloth held in place by the double-corded agal. The man’s interest brought him closer, examining Bolan’s own black attire. “You are a warrior, too?”

“So I’ve been told, though I would never class myself in the same league as a true Bedouin.”

The man straightened, staring into Bolan’s eyes. His expression showed approval. His stance, though regal, wasn’t from vanity. The Bedouin tribes, though much decimated, were men of enduring pride in their long and noble history. Monarchs of the desert lands, they had once been many, ruling their dusty kingdoms with a fierceness little could equal. Reduced to dwindling numbers and with many of their kind having deserted the almost barren terrain, the few who remained close to their roots upheld the nobility of their past and retained their customs.

“You are American?”

“Yes.”

“They know of the Bedu in America?”

“Men of wisdom and influence know of the Bedouin. Of their history. Their great deeds.”

“Good. I am Ali bin Sharif of the Rwala.”

The Rwala, Bolan recalled, were one of the Bedouin tribes who wandered the dusty terrain of Syria and Jordan and the northern parts of Saudi Arabia.

“Then I am in good company,” Bolan said.

“How are you called, American?”

“Cooper is my name.”

Sharif spoke the name to himself, nodding as he registered the strange word.

“If they have brought you to this pigpen, Cooper, then you must be an enemy of these dogs, as I am.”

Bolan smiled at that. “No doubt about that, Ali bin Sharif. I am their enemy.”

“Then we are allies.”

“How did you come to be in this place?”

“Two of my fellow warriors and I stumbled across this place. We rode in asking for water and we were attacked. My friends were shot down in front of me even though we came in friendship.”

The Bedouin had moved to stand and stare out through the tiny square in the wall that served as the only window in the cell. Bolan sensed he was stifled within the confines of the room, longing to be back in his wide, clean desert.

“If we stay, they are going to kill us,” Sharif said as he turned, reluctantly, from the window. “I know this. They took great delight in telling me I would die when they poison me with the weapon they plan to use against the Israelis.”

Bolan tensed. “Tell me what you have heard, bin Sharif. It is important that I know.”

“Did you see the stone building standing on its own? Just beyond the wall?”

When he had arrived Bolan had made a silent appraisal of the camp’s layout. Recon was important when it came time to effect an escape, something always at the forefront of Bolan’s mind whenever he found himself disadvantaged. Thinking ahead and formulating an escape route could make the difference between staying free—or failing completely.

“Look beyond the window,” Sharif said. “At the eastern edge of the camp. Do you see the wall?”

Bolan nodded. “And the square stone building thirty feet out?”

“Yes. In there they store weapons. Guns and ammunition. Explosives. And the weapon they will kill the Jews with. Those Iraqi dogs who yapped at Hussein’s heels showed me. They delivered it here for the Iranians to use. They said it would make me scream like a child as I died. Ha, they must not be aware I am Rwala, of the Bedu.”

“What did this weapon look like? Liquid? Was it gas in cylinders?”

“In round glass balls. Big enough to fill my palm. Inside was a green-colored liquid. One of those Fedayeen laughed in my face when he told me one drop would spread all across my body and eat me alive.”

A reactive bioagent that became active when it made contact with living tissue. Bolan had heard about the varying strains of biological weapons, created in labs by men to use against other men. Another of the vile products of the endless search man immersed himself in to destroy his own kind. He wondered briefly where the Iranians had gotten hold of this particular strain. Not that it mattered right now. The where could come later.

“Did they say where it would be used in Israel?”

He shook his head. “If they send it into Israel it will set this whole region alight. Iraq. Iran. Why cannot these fools be satisfied with what they have? When will they be content? Only when we are all fighting each other? Or dead and the desert is rid of us all?”

“Ali, we can stand around all day discussing the worst. Or we can get out of this place and stop what these men are planning.”

The Bedouin thought about it for only a moment. “You are right, Cooper. So what is your wonderful plan that will release us from this miserable dung pit?”

“The truth?”

“Always.”

“I have no plan.”

Sharif smiled, stroking his dark beard and said, “Then we must do it anyway.”

“Do they feed you?”

Sharif laughed. “If you can call it food. I believe it is the slop that even the camp dogs refuse to eat. But they say I must eat to keep up my strength. So that when they use their chemical I will be strong and resist better.”

“That suggests they’re not sure of its power. They need to test it.”

“Is that good?”

“It means they may not have worked out how to use it. So there might not be a date for attacking Israel. It gives us an edge.”

Sharif frowned. “An edge?”

“Time to destroy the cache.”

Sharif grunted, deep in his own thoughts. “If we could break free and gather my brothers, we could return and attack this place.”

“My own thoughts exactly.”

“You have seen the helicopters they possess. They would track us.”

“The Bedu aren’t afraid of helicopters,” Bolan said.

Sharif slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course not. If you believe that then I am not the only mad one in this cell.”

They waited. According to Sharif, midday was when his food was delivered. Bolan’s watch showed they weren’t far from that time.

He sank down on his heels, his back to the wall, and let his body relax, conserving his energy. He still hurt from the punishment he had received from Yusef. The only good thing to come from his recent confrontation with Kerim was being locked up with Sharif. Kerim deciding to delay his interrogation might yet prove to be Bolan’s way out of his current situation. While his body rested, his mind was busy, evaluating the information he had gathered since becoming fully involved in the convoluted twists of the mission. There was a repeated strain of deceit embedded within the relationships he had come in contact with. Mistrust permeated every strand. No one was comfortable with the next in line. It loosened the secrecy that should have knit the whole thing together, allowing Bolan to extract information with less effort than he might have expected. It also meant those involved were acutely nervous and liable to hit out unexpectedly. Sudden violence was chosen as the swiftest way of resolving problems. Bolan was always aware of that during mission time so he never took anything for granted. There were still times when even his keen awareness failed him. He had only to look around the cell to confirm that.

“Cooper.”

Bolan glanced across at Sharif. The Bedouin nodded in the direction of the cell door. He picked up the soft whisper of footsteps moving in the direction of the cell, a murmur of voices.

“We have a choice. Die of poisoning from the execrable food they are bringing, or the cleaner death from a bullet.”

Pushing to his feet Bolan lounged against the rough wall, head down, and he remained in that position as the door was unbolted and pushed wide. Sunlight streamed into the cell, bright, with swirling dust motes in the hot shafts. Then the fall of light was partially blocked by a man carrying an AK-47. He paused to check the position of the two prisoners, then stepped aside to let a second man enter. This one carried two wooden bowls of steaming food. He bent and placed them on the floor.

Sharif began to berate the two guards in wild, explosive Arabic. Bolan didn’t know what he was saying, but the tone and phrasing suggested he was delving deep into his knowledge of his language’s obscenities. The unexpected outburst delivered in a ringing volume caught the guards by surprise, if only for a fraction of time. In those scant seconds each man turned his startled gaze on the ranting Bedouin.

With only the briefest opening Bolan moved, powering himself away from the wall to launch a blistering strike at the guard with the rifle. His sweeping kick drove the toe of his combat boot into the guy’s groin, producing a shocked grunt. The guard began to double over, tears welling from his bugging eyes. Bolan slammed his bunched right fist into the exposed throat, feeling flesh and bone cave in under the unrestrained power of the strike. The choking guard fell back against the open door, wide-open eyes seeing nothing. He offered no resistance as Bolan stepped in close, snapped an arm around his neck and yanked the guy off his feet. As they dropped, Bolan spun the helpless guard back across his knee and snapped his spine. The guard uttered a final gurgle of agony as his entire body became limp.

As Bolan took the AK-47 from the dead guard, Sharif went for the second man as he grabbed for the pistol holstered on his belt. The Bedouin moved with the speed of a striking snake, one big hand clamping over the guard’s pistol, preventing him from lifting it, the other driving full-force into the man’s face. The solid impact of the blow was accompanied by the sound of breaking bone as the guard’s nose was crushed into a bloody pulp. Without pause Sharif hit the guard again, this time delivering a hefty punch that drove the target’s lips into his teeth and snapped his head back. Sharif snatched the guard’s heavy weapon from his belt and used it to hammer the guy’s skull, driving him to the floor.

Following Bolan’s lead, the Bedouin dragged the downed guard away from the door and deeper into the cell. Bolan crouched beside his man and checked him for additional weapons. He was going to have to be content with the AK. The 30-round magazine had a second taped to it for quick reload.

“Tell me about this gun, Cooper,” Sharif said, thrusting the pistol at the American.

Bolan checked it out. It was a 9 mm Glock 17, with an extended 31-round magazine. He made sure the safety was off, then handed it back to Sharif.

“Just aim and pull the trigger,” he said. “Thirty-one bullets in the mag.”

“Like this one?” Sharif asked, showing Bolan a second magazine he had pulled from the guard’s belt.

Bolan nodded. “When the magazine is empty the slide will lock back. Press here and the empty mag drops out. Snap in the fresh one, release here and you’re ready to go again.”

Sharif nodded. “I understand.”

They left the cell and moved down the passage to the main door. Bolan eased it open so he could check outside. Their most likely mode of transport was one of the dusty trucks.

“See the trucks?”

“Yes.”

“That’s our way out. We break for them.”

Sharif considered the suggestion. “But the weapon they have stored?”

“If we can get clear, we reorganize and come back.”

“If we can reach my camp, there are others there who would help.”

“Let’s do it, Ali.”

BOLAN MADE A FINAL SCAN of the camp, seeing the tented area off to the right, the parked vehicles across to the left. Between the lockup and the vehicles the ground was open, uneven, a rocky stretch that would offer little in the way of cover. It was far from ideal but there was no alternative. If he and Sharif were going to make their escape they needed a vehicle. On foot they would be an easy target if one of the helicopters came looking for them.

The only thing in their favor was the fact that being the middle of the day, the occupants of the camp had retreated to the comparative coolness of their tents. Bolan silently thanked the collective thinking that had created this siesta-like observance. Apart from an unfortunate sentry on the far perimeter and a second man standing in the shade provided by one of the helicopters, there was no sign of the camp occupants.

“Ready, Ali bin Sharif?”

The Bedouin shrugged, a fatalistic gesture that expressed his feelings. “As ready as I will ever be.”

“We won’t have a better opportunity. Go.”

Bolan slipped out through the door, picking up the pace as he moved away from the lockup. The black-clad figure of Ali bin Sharif stayed close behind him. The ground beneath their feet offered minimal resistance and they made little sound as they made their dash for freedom. Bolan made frequent checks on the two sentries, hoping neither glanced in their direction.

They traversed a low rise of ground, skirting one of the tents, dust rising from their passing, over the top of the rise and along the final stretch, closing in on the parked vehicles.

As always, it was the unexpected that posed a challenge as Bolan angled in on the truck he had chosen. A lean figure in khaki pants and shirt, wearing a long-billed baseball cap, stirred from his resting place in the rear of the truck. As he sat up, the man saw the approaching figures, mouthed a few words and fumbled for the AK-47 resting across his lap. He leveled the weapon and opened fire. His instincts were sharper than his aim—the stream of 7.62 mm slugs pounded the ground yards away from his targets.

Bolan came to a dead stop, raising his own AK. He targeted the shooter who had raised himself to a kneeling position, finger stroking the trigger, sending a single shot into the guy. It cored deep into his chest, spinning him sideways. He struggled to stay upright but a second shot from Bolan’s rifle laid him flat.

“Get him out of there,” Bolan called to Sharif as he climbed behind the wheel.

The Bedouin dragged the body out of the rear of the truck, commandeering the man’s rifle, and scrambled into the passenger seat next to Bolan. The engine burst into life as the soldier pressed the button. He worked the stiff gears, released the handbrake and floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, dust billowing as Bolan swung it away from the camp and headed for the desert beyond.

“Any suggestions on our direction?” Bolan yelled above the howl of the engine.

Sharif pointed. “To the north for now. That way.”

The crackle of autofire rose over the engine noise. Slugs snapped through the air, some clanging sharply against the metal sides of the truck.

“I think we have upset them,” Sharif shouted, his face creased in a smile.

Bolan concentrated on driving. The truck had little in the way of sophisticated suspension. Every bump and ripple in the ground was transmitted through the vehicle’s framework. Bolan had to fight the shuddering wheel as they bounced and lurched across the uneven terrain. His arms and shoulders began to ache. There was nothing else he could do but keep going, using whatever cover he could find. He gave up that maneuver when he became aware of the rising dust trail they were creating. It hung in the hot air long after they had passed.

“If they get those helicopters into the air, we will be spotted easily,” Sharif said.

“Tell me about it.”

Minutes later Sharif twisted in his seat, searching the sky behind them.

“I see one,” he said.

“Has he picked us up yet?”

The Bedouin studied the distant aircraft. “I think he is turning this way, Cooper.”

“If he starts firing, we abandon this vehicle. Understand?”

Sharif nodded. “I understand.”