Читать книгу War Drums - Don Pendleton - Страница 16

The helicopter quit on Bolan just as night started to spread across the desert. He had been aware of the increasingly uneven sound from the engine and discovered that power was reducing. He tried to compensate but it made no difference.

“Looks like we get to walk the rest of the way,” was his only comment on the situation.

“Then it is providential I know how to reach the camp,” Sharif said.

Bolan took the Lynx down. Before he and Sharif left the aircraft, Bolan ripped out the wiring from beneath the control panel and did the same after he had raised the engine cover. Disabling the machine would reduce its use against Bolan and the Bedouin.

“Perhaps one day we will come back and salvage what we can,” Sharif mused. “The Bedu are the best traders in the area.”

He led the way into the dusk, sure of his path, walking steadily without pause. Bolan followed, making frequent checks on their back trail. It was almost 8:00 p.m. by Bolan’s watch when Sharif signaled for him to halt. Bolan joined him and they looked down a long, sandy slope to where a small camp had been set up around a well.

“Your people?”

“Welcome to my camp, Cooper,” Sharif said, and made his way down the slope, calling out as they neared the camp.

Bolan saw the erected tents. A short way off tethered camels grumbled softly to themselves. Glowing cook fires glowed in the shadows and robed figures, alerted by Sharif’s voice, moved out to meet him.

There was much conversation, hands slapping Sharif across the shoulders once he had been recognized. Bolan stood to one side, waiting to be invited into the camp. The Bedouin were a proud people who clung to the customs of their past, and he had no intention of offending them.

Eventually Sharif himself turned and gestured to the American. “I welcome you to join us, my friend. Welcome to the home of the Rwala.”

It was obvious that the Bedouin had regaled his brothers about Bolan and what he had done. The members of the group clustered around the tall American, greeting him in their own tongue and parting to allow him to pass. Sharif watched him, nodding his approval as Bolan acknowledged his invitation with small bows of his head, to the delight of the Bedouin tribesmen.

“Tell your brothers I am honored to be invited into their company.”

“Tell them yourself, Cooper,” Sharif said. “They all understand some English.”

Bolan repeated his gratitude. It was greeted with a chorus of approval, his words translated for those who had difficulty understanding. With Sharif at his side and slightly behind, Bolan was escorted into the camp. A rug was spread before one of the tents and Bolan was invited to sit. While the majority of the group sat in a semicircle around him, others brought utensils and placed them in the warm sand. Bolan watched as coffee was prepared in smooth worn copper pots over a small fire of red-hot glowing embers. The rich brew, spiced with cardamom, was served in small ceramic cups.

Bedouin custom decreed the first cup be tasted by the host, to satisfy the guest he wasn’t being offered anything suspect. When Sharif had done this, he indicated that Bolan himself pour the next cup and taste it. On the third filling Bolan was allowed to drink the full cup. Bolan raised his cup to his hosts before he drank. Rich and spicy, the coffee burned its way down into Bolan’s empty stomach.

At his side Sharif spoke quietly. “They greet you as a brother warrior. The coffee is their way of acceptance.”

“I have been told the Bedouin are great warriors,” Bolan said to the assembled group. “Now I see that their hospitality is as justly praised.”

Bolan’s words were well received. There was much talk then, some of it directed at Bolan. He kept his replies short and respectful.

“Now they will bring food, Cooper. What is ours is yours. We apologize it is not as sumptuous as we would like to offer you, but as you may see, this is a small group. We were on a hunt for food when my brothers and I stumbled into the hands of those dogs.”

Bolan had observed the way the Bedouin settled themselves to eat. Left leg tucked beneath them and the right raised so the arm could rest on it. He adopted the same position as his hosts, and remembered the custom he had read somewhere that the Bedouin ate with three fingers of the right hand only.

The food when it arrived on a circular flat dish consisted of a deep layer of rice cooked in samn, a form of clarified butter. It was accompanied by roast mutton. Around the edge of the dish was a sprinkling of pine nuts. There was also cooked bread made of flour, dates and samn. The dish was placed centrally and Bolan felt all eyes on him. As the guest he was given the first choice from the communal dish. He obliged, taking rice and mutton in his fingers, tasting the spiced food and nodding in appreciation. Once Bolan had made the first move it was open for the gathering to join in. Bolan ate along with the Bedouin, listening to their conversation, sometimes in Arabic, while English was also used as a gesture of respect to their American guest. He joined in when a question was put to him. The Bedouin were excellent hosts, making Bolan feel at home in their midst. When the meal was over and more coffee was passed around, the business became serious.

“I have explained to them about the camp where we were captive,” Sharif said. “About our murdered brothers and the terrible weapon those criminals intend to release on the Israelis.”

Bolan was aware of the silence that had fallen as Sharif spoke.

“I have to go back, Ali. One of the reasons I came here was to destroy whatever the Iranians and their Fedayeen allies have stored. Now that I’ve learned about the chemical, it is even more important I stop them.”

Sharif nodded. “This I understand. And what I said before I will honor. I will go with you.”

“And I,” called one of the gathered Bedouins.

His offer was picked up by the others.

“We have a duty also to avenge our slain brothers,” said another.

“It is Bedu tradition that those who are wronged must be avenged. It has always been this way. We would be betraying our own if we did nothing,” Sharif explained. “You understand this?”

Bolan nodded. He understood only too well.

“We will leave in the morning. Tonight we rest. Will you share my tent, Cooper?”

“Thank you, Ali.”

THEY ROSE EARLY, THE BEDOUIN leaving Bolan as they said their morning prayer. Breakfast was dates and Bedouin coffee, following which the camp was broken up and packed on two camels. The Bedouin then prepared their weapons, checking and loading the assault rifles they carried. Bolan noticed they were all armed with AK-47s. Sharif explained that the weapon was the common denominator in the region. It was readily available wherever they traveled and could be purchased easily. The Soviet Union military complex, if it was remembered for little else, had sustained a legacy that would survive forever. Some of the men carried handguns and they all, to a man, wore sheathed knives.

Sharif was leading Bolan across to the camel herd when the American paused, looking in the direction of the slope that had brought them into the camp. There had been a single Bedouin on sentry duty since first light. The man had gone.

“Ali, has the guard been relieved from the ridge?”

“Of course not…” Sharif said. He followed the line of Bolan’s gaze, stared at the empty spot, and was immediately galvanized into action, shouting orders to the others.

Bolan had already picked up the rising throb of an approaching vehicle. “They found us.”

The truck appeared above the rim and swooped in toward the Bedouin. The crackle of a machine gun sounded, flat and brittle, sending a line of hot slugs that chewed at the sandy ground then hit a couple of the tethered camels. Blood sprayed the air as the animals staggered, bellowing in pain as they fell. The action galvanized the tribesmen into movement, some turning to reach for their weapons, others running in shocked panic. The firing continued as the truck sped down the sandy slope, the heavy burst ripping into flesh. Two men went down, spinning in stunned agony, disbelief in minds unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.

Sharif stumbled as he neared the cover of the trees, his anger making him turn to see what had happened. On his knees he fumbled with the AK-47, his dark eyes fixing on Bolan.

“You see what these dogs are doing to my people? This will be slaughter.”

Bolan was watching the circling truck, his unwavering gaze fixed on the vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said quietly.

“What are you thinking, Cooper?” Sharif asked. “To attack that truck?”

Bolan’s next act gave Sharif his answer as the tall American moved quickly around the stand of palms, taking cover by the thick trunk of the last in line. He leaned around the palm, settling the AK-47 as he tracked in on the moving truck. He made no indication he had noticed when Sharif joined him, watching in silence as Bolan studied his intended target.

The armed truck spun wildly as the driver worked the gears. The machine gun opened up again, the barrel sweeping back and forth, raking the area with further blistering bursts. The weapon was swung out at an angle, flexible on its universal mount, allowing the gunner plenty of latitude when it came to widening his field of fire. There was a cold efficiency as he targeted more of the Bedouin’s camels. The helpless animals were cut down ruthlessly.

Sharif sighed in despair. The camel was a prized possession within the Bedouin tribes. They allowed the roving tribes to move whenever and wherever they wanted, providing them with far-ranging freedom and independence. Killing them was a direct insult to the Bedouin, showing contempt for them and their age-old traditions.

A half-strangled scream of defiance came as one of the tribesmen ran into view, shaking a clenched fist at the attackers. The robed figure took a stance, raising the assault rifle he carried to his shoulder and opening fire. It was a pointless exercise. The man fired without aiming, allowing his anger to dictate his actions rather than employing cool logic to the situation. All he did was waste his ammunition and present himself as an easy target for the truck’s gunner. There was a chill finality in the way the gunner eased his weapon around, lining up on the Bedouin. The machine gun crackled briefly, directing a white-hot stream of 7.62 mm slugs into the Arab. His body jerked awkwardly as the bullets hammered into him and tore open his yielding flesh.

Bolan fired, taking his cue from the slowing truck as the driver watched the gunner’s handiwork. The AK’s 7.62 mm slugs hit the windshield, shattering the glass. The driver threw his hands up at his pierced face, screaming as keen shards penetrated his eyes. The out-of-control truck made a sudden turn, spilling men from the rear. Bolan raked the hood, sending slugs into the engine compartment, and the vehicle stalled as the power was cut.

The dazed men were hastily climbing to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons.

“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped.

Sharif realized Bolan’s intention, and though he responded quickly he was steps behind the big American as Bolan ran toward the truck, the AK tracking and firing. His first burst took down two of the strike team, knocking them off their feet in bloody disarray. Others returned fire as they found themselves caught by the autofire from the rest of the Bedouin. Bolan kept moving forward. There were enemies to deal with and there was no other way than to maintain the advantage.

One of the attackers got behind the machine gun and swiveled it around to track Bolan’s advancing figure. The moment the Executioner saw the weapon move he dropped to a crouch, bringing him below the immediate trajectory of the muzzle. Before the gunner could realign his weapon Bolan opened fire, burning off a volley that clipped the edge of the truck before locating its human target. The would-be gunner was thrown back, bloody debris exploding from his chest. Bolan angled away from the truck, coming in from the side and caught the next man as he dropped from the vehicle. The warrior’s burst hit the guy in mid-jump, knocking him sideways and dropping him bloody and squirming into the sand.

Sharif gave a warning yell as a second man pushed to his feet from the bed of the truck, clutching a hand grenade. He had pulled the pin when Sharif fired, his burst rippling across the man’s chest. As he fell he dropped the activated grenade. Seconds later the truck was the center of the explosion. The grenade set off stored ammunition and extra fuel cans, and the vehicle vanished in a burst of shivering fire and smoke.

Bolan had a split second to drop to the ground as the truck blew. He buried himself in the sand, hoping that Sharif had done the same. He felt the slap of flying debris across his prone form and sensed the wash of heat from the explosion. Something hard and sharp scored a searing line across the back of his left shoulder. As the heat died away the rumble of the blast began to fade, leaving Bolan with diminished hearing. He shook his head against the effects of the explosion, pushing to his feet, sleeving stinging smoke from his watering eyes.

He was on the periphery of the blast area. Burning chunks of wreckage were strewed around the former camp. One of the Arabs was slapping at a smoldering robe. Within the blast circle scorched bodies lay on the blackened sand. One man was still on his feet, stumbling blindly, clothing and flesh still burning, blood soaking through his clothing. Sensing Bolan, the man turned in his direction, pained eyes pleading from the grisly, burned-raw face, his lower jaw blown away. He raised an arm in Bolan’s direction, not realizing he had lost the limb below the elbow. The sound that issued from his heat-scorched throat was less than human. Bolan raised the AK and laid a short volley into the torso, a mercy burst that ended the man’s suffering.

“It speaks well of a man that he treats his enemy with compassion,” Sharif said from where he stood at Bolan’s side.

“No man deserves to suffer that way.”

Sharif considered the American’s words. “Some of my people might question that. Perhaps we are not as civilized as you might expect us to be, Cooper. Remember we are only a tribe of roving Bedu. What do we know of compassion and justice?”

Bolan glanced at the Arab. He had noted the sardonic tone in Sharif’s voice, and he knew the man was teasing him, seeking to clarify the American’s opinion.

“Small in number, perhaps, Ali. But the reputation of the Bedouin is known throughout the world. And that isn’t a small reputation. The Bedouin are known for their courage, compassion and their sense of honor.”

Sharif nodded slowly. His brown features quickly became a mask of quiet pride.

“The camp where those dogs came from? It is still your wish to go back?”

“Yes, Ali, this is still my wish.”

Sharif nodded. “Today you have fought with us as a true Bedu. So as a brother of the Rwala, your wish is ours.” The Bedouin looked into Bolan’s face. “Have we not found a common enemy, Cooper?”

Bolan indicated the burning hulk of the truck. “What does that tell you, Ali? They came to slaughter your people, simply because you stood against them. Because you and I know they are planning to attack across the border into Israel. They will release their poison on women and children. They want to create fear and distrust that will spread all across the Middle East. Turn brothers against each other and soak the desert with blood.”

Sharif considered the American’s words. “True, I have no great love for the Israelis. But they have stayed within their borders and the Bedu have had little dealings with them. Even so, these damned Iranians and their Fedayeen have set up camp on the land of the Bedouin and they chase us away if we venture near. And now—” he gestured dramatically with his arm “—they have dared to strike at us at our own well.

“The Bedu are few now. Our times of ruling the great desert lands are well past. But what we have left we guard with our lives. Our pride is all we have, Cooper, so we will go with you to this place and we will show these foreigners it does not pay to camp on Bedu land without permission.”