Читать книгу War Drums - Don Pendleton - Страница 15

“I want them dead. No questions. No excuses. Track them down and kill them. That American has caused us too much trouble already. I can’t afford to have him running around wreaking more havoc.”

Kerim’s tone warned his men he was in no mood for compromise. They retreated from the tent, checking weapons and communication equipment, heading for the remaining truck to take up pursuit. One of the helicopters had already taken to the air.

“Do you think they will catch them?” Salim asked.

Kerim caught the light taunt in the other man’s tone. “Yes, they will, because if they fail, they will know not to return. Do not underestimate us, Salim. My brothers do not play the fool’s game.”

“The thought was not on my mind, Kerim. Forgive me, my friend.”

Kerim shrugged off the apology. He turned back to his deliberations, mulling over the charts spread across the table. There was so much to deal with. The upset caused by the American had left Kerim with a bad feeling. Not of defeat, more of a sense of being made to look weak within his own camp, the secret place that the Jordanians had promised him would be safe. Now even that sanctity had been broken and one man—one man—had already killed three of his loyal fighters.

The sting of embarrassment made him lose his concentration. He found he could barely make any sense of the information spread out before him. Kerim concealed his bitterness, not wanting to exhibit it in front Salim. He was aware that Salim had drawn his own conclusions from the incident. Like it or not, Kerim had been made to look foolish. He couldn’t trust that Salim would keep the matter to himself. The man had a loose mouth. Though he had proved useful during negotiations, acting as a go-between, the man had always struck Kerim as slightly untrustworthy. Salim had a way about him that indicated he was forever on the look-out for himself. There was that slyness about him that Kerim had always found disagreeable. And knowing his greed when it came to money, Kerim didn’t doubt he would be prepared to offer what he knew about the incident at the camp.

Loyalty wasn’t a word Salim understood, apart from loyalty to himself. He wouldn’t hesitate to let Razihra know what had happened if the chance came up. One mistake could ruin Kerim’s future, maybe even threaten his life. Failure, in any form, was frowned upon and the camp fiasco wouldn’t be seen in a favorable light. It would matter little to Razihra that Kerim had been strongly instrumental in setting up the camp by making a deal with the Fedayeen and their Jordanian sympathizers. He had also helped to broker the deal with the Russians to obtain the consignment of bio weapons. Kerim, not Salim—nor even Razihra—had done any of that. Their contribution had been to supply the cash, then sit back in safety and let someone else do the work. There was a bitter irony for Kerim when he thought about Ayatollah Razihra gathering all the praise if the operation was a success. He knew without a doubt that Razihra would claim it all as his own work. That realization had become apparent to Kerim quite some time ago.

Kerim glanced across the tent at Salim’s back. The man was lighting a cigarette, his actions slow and deliberate as he sat gazing out through the open tent flap. So calm and all-knowing. Kerim felt his anger rise. Why should his word have so much influence? Enough that it could destroy all that Kerim cherished. There was no one with as much loyalty to the Ayatollah’s cause. No one. And it could all be wiped away by idle gossip. Salim’s whispered words would be carefully chosen so as to lay full blame on Kerim. The reprisal would be swift and without mercy. Kerim had no doubts as to that. He had seen it happen to others under Razihra’s command.

Without turning his head Salim said, “It would be a pity if my bringing the American here came to nothing. At great personal risk. Would you not agree, Kerim? A chance to find out who had sent him and what he might already have learned. Now we may never know.” Salim paused, letting his words hang in the silence. “I am sure the Ayatollah wouldn’t be pleased if he was to hear of this. Of course I am only thinking of you, Kerim. The Ayatollah holds you in great esteem. My own small part in this is insignificant against your position of great authority.”

Kerim had been waiting for that. The thinly veiled threat of exposure to Razihra. No doubt, if told by Salim, the error would be exaggerated out of all proportion. And once primed with this, Razihra would do his own search for what had happened. Kerim saw this as nothing more than a threat against his very life. If he waited, Salim would reach out the hand of friendship, pledging to help Kerim bury the matter. However, there would be certain matters to be dealt with and money would need to change hands.

So it comes down to one life against another, Kerim thought. If Salim speaks with the Ayatollah, I am finished. It will be as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

His life was under threat. When that happened was not a man allowed to defend himself against the perpetrator? Kerim turned and picked up the AK-47 that was resting against the leg of the table. He raised it, turning the muzzle in Salim’s direction as he snapped back the bolt to arm the weapon. Salim heard the sound, pushing up off his chair and turning. He stared at the black muzzle, eyes suddenly glistening with unconcealed terror.

“Kerim? What is this…?”

“Self-preservation,” Kerim said, and pulled the trigger.

The burst hit Salim in the chest, throwing him backward. As he fell, Kerim followed his body, still firing, the muzzle rising up to Salim’s throat and head. Kerim kept firing until the AK fell silent, its magazine exhausted.

Armed men crowded the tent opening, staring down at the bloody, lacerated form at their feet. The savage volley had reduced Salim’s head and upper torso to a bloody wreck.

“Get that thing out of here and bury him,” Kerim shouted, seizing the moment. “He spoke treason against Ayatollah Razihra. He wanted us to turn against him. To betray our brothers and the cause. This I will not stand from any man. Now drag the dog out of here and bury him with no marker. Let him lie in a traitor’s grave.”

One man pushed to the front, confronting Kerim.

“They have spotted the truck,” he said.

THE HELICOPTER MADE A LONG, low sweep, approaching the truck from the side. Bolan threw a swift glance in its direction and spotted the stubby pod attached to the lower fuselage.

Missiles.

“Ali,” he yelled, “missile incoming.”

The Bedouin followed his gaze and saw what the American meant. There was a sudden whoosh of sound as the slim missile erupted from the pod. It began an erratic flight that looked as if it might terminate at the truck. Bolan swerved violently, the missile slipping by and exploding yards ahead.

Not a heat-seeker, Bolan realized.

The helicopter zoomed in behind the truck, the pilot realizing his error. His second shot was fired at minimum range.

“Jump!” Bolan yelled.

They exited the truck together, hurling themselves clear of the vehicle and hit the dusty ground, rolling and staying low.

The missile impacted against the rear of the truck. The explosion threw up a mass of sand and rock, tearing the vehicle apart in a searing flash of fire. Smoke followed, billowing thick and acrid. The explosion sent out shock waves in a rippling effect that battered at Bolan and Sharif, shoving them farther across the ground. They were lost in the dust and the rain of debris that dropped back to earth.

THE LYNX HELICOPTER SURGED closer, rotor wash swirling the dust and smoke in eccentric spirals. The pilot stayed high until the explosion faded, then dropped to a position where the scene below could be examined. The truck was a blazing wreck, torn apart by the missile, blackened and skeletal, tires smoldering and sending out black, bitter fumes.

“Where are they?” The question came over the pilot’s headset from the door gunner.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe the missile blew them into little pieces.”

The gunner grunted. “I’m sure I saw them jump clear just before it struck.”

Easing the helicopter down, the pilot cut the power, reaching for the AK on the deck at his feet. “We had better make sure. If we go back and say we think they’re dead, Kerim will make it hard for us.”

The gunner’s sigh was audible over the headset. “I know.”

They exited the helicopter and walked to view the wrecked truck.

“They went out on the far side,” the gunner said, checking his AK again, nervous and hoping it didn’t show.

The thick smoke from the wrecked truck had laid an opaque curtain across the immediate area, denying them a clear view beyond the vehicle.

“The blast could still have hit them. Knocked them unconscious.”

It was a hope; one the pilot was depending on.

IN THE MIDST OF THE SWIRLING smoke Sharif was slapping at his scorched robe, trying to put out the smoldering fire. In any other situation it might have offered a moment of light relief, but Bolan had picked up the sound of the descending helicopter and knew for certain that the attack was far from over.

“Ali, the chopper is coming in for landing. They’re still looking for us.”

The Bedouin snatched up his assault rifle, checking the action to make sure it hadn’t been clogged with dust. “Then I hope they find us.”

“Go around that way,” Bolan said. “I’m taking the rear of the truck.”

He moved out quickly, conscious of the helicopter engine winding down now that it was on the ground. He used the smoke as an effective shield, hiding his movements until he was able to determine he was well clear of the demolished truck. As the smoke began to thin out, Bolan moved forward, seeking his targets, and in a few seconds when the hot breeze dispersed the smoke he saw one of two figures turning in his direction, registering Bolan’s presence. The man tried to gain target acquisition, but the Executioner took a swift two-step to one side, crouching slightly as he brought his AK in line, finger already pressuring the light trigger. The assault rifle jacked out its deadly fire, and the other man shuddered as the 7.62 mm slugs struck him in the chest. He fell back, making an attempt to push to his feet. Bolan cut him down with a second burst that ripped into his left side, shattering ribs and spinning the man facedown into the bloody sand.

More autofire caught Bolan’s attention. It came from the area Sharif would have been approaching. Bolan sprinted around the wrecked truck, eyes searching for the Bedouin. He spotted him moments later. The man was bending over his downed target, taking the man’s weapon from him and removing the magazine. He glanced up at Bolan’s approach.

“These are not fighters,” he said. “Any Bedu child would defeat these idiots.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Ali.” Bolan glanced at the helicopter. “Could you guide us to your camp from the air?”

“You can fly this thing?”

“I’m no ace, but I can make it stay in the air.”

Sharif grinned and said dryly, “Then, indeed, Cooper, we will take your Western magic carpet.”

Telling himself he would have to buy Jack Grimaldi a drink, in fact a couple of drinks for the flying instructions he had given, Bolan settled in the pilot’s seat and went through the routine of adjusting the controls, boosting the idling power up to speed. He watched the instrument panel. His takeoff was steady, with only a little side slipping as he worked the controls.

“One thing about the desert,” Sharif said. “At least there are no tall buildings in the way.”

Bolan wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or passing a genuine comment. He closed his mind to Sharif’s muttering and concentrated on getting the chopper on an even keel.

“So which way do we go?”

“Toward those hills,” Sharif said.

Bolan’s handling of the helicopter settled down within a few minutes. His confidence grew, familiarity allowing him to keep the aircraft on an even keel and maintain height and speed. He promised himself an intensive refresher course once he returned to Stony Man and got Grimaldi on his own. Even Sharif relaxed, ceasing to grip the frame of the seat so tightly. He began to scan the terrain below. Some minutes into the flight he leaned to peer through the side canopy.

“We are being tracked, Cooper. It looks like one of the trucks from the camp.”

Bolan took a look. He could clearly see the vehicle following them. The configuration of the truck matched that of the ones at the camp.

“How far before we reach your people, Ali?”

“Less than an hour.”

“We need to deal with that truck. I’m not going to risk leading it right into your camp.”

“Then send a missile. Like the one that hit our truck.”

Bolan checked the missile configuration. The readout told him the pod was empty. “No more missiles, Ali.”

“Can you fly this machine lower? Close enough to bring the machine gun back there into range?”

“Just make sure you use the harness. I’d hate to lose you now.”

Sharif clamped a strong hand on Bolan’s shoulder as he clambered out of his seat. “I have faith in you, my friend.”

“And put the headset on so I can talk to you.”

While Sharif made his way through to the cabin section Bolan pulled on the pilot’s headset. He began to maneuver the helicopter in a wide circle, intending to come up on the truck’s rear, at the same time losing some height.

“Cooper? Do you hear me?”

“Ali, you don’t have to shout. That microphone is sensitive.”

Sharif lowered his voice. “Is that better? Good. I am ready. The machine gun is loaded and also ready.”

Bolan leveled off behind the truck. The driver had anticipated what Bolan intended and had started to swing the truck, removing it from a direct line of travel. The soldier heard the door-mounted machine gun as Sharif fired a test burst. His volley fell well short. His second was better, still off target, but closer.

“Can you not keep this machine steady?” Sharif yelled into the headset.

Bolan settled the controls and managed to hold the chopper on a smooth line. This time Sharif managed to lay down a burst that tore at the truck’s rear body section. Even Bolan saw the debris that flew out from the damaged area.

“Steady enough for you, Ali?”

All he received was a flow of what he took to be Bedouin curses. Then the machine gun crackled again.

The line of slugs hammered the truck cab and the vehicle swerved. Sharif then hit it with an even longer burst that punctured the driver’s door and window and blew out the windshield from inside the cab. Sharif’s final volley sent slugs through the hood into the engine and it began to die.

In the same space of time someone opened up from the canvas-topped rear of the truck, a stuttering volley from a lighter SMG. The moment he heard the clatter of shots Bolan banked the chopper away, but not before he heard the metallic clang and ping of bullets striking somewhere along the helicopter’s fuselage. As the chopper pulled up and away, the truck lurched to a jerky stop.

“Cooper? Did I hear bullets hit us?” Sharif’s tone was urgent over the headset.

“I think so, Ali. You’d better come up front and strap yourself in.”

By the time Sharif strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat Bolan had the helicopter back on track. He had already become aware of a slight, irregular beat to the sound of the engine. Adjusting the power he coaxed the aircraft along, keeping the helicopter at a lower altitude than before.

“Is this bad, Cooper?”

“I’d be happier without it.”

“Will we reach my camp?”

Bolan smiled. “Time will tell, Ali.”