Читать книгу War Drums - Don Pendleton - Страница 17

The dead and wounded were tended to. It was decided that they would be returned to the main encampment in the far desert. The survivors would have to share camels because of the loss of a number of animals during the attack. Sharif and twelve of the Bedouin would accompany Bolan for the strike against the Iranian-Fedayeen camp. Apart from their weapons and ammunition they took little with them except for water skins and a little rice and bread.

One of the Bedouin had cleaned the bullet sear on Bolan’s back, smearing it with cool ointment then covering it. Before the group moved off in the direction of the main camp, they presented Bolan with a black Bedouin robe and a headdress.

“Your Western clothes will not be good enough. These Bedu robes will protect you from the desert,” Sharif said as he helped Bolan put on the clothing. “And Allah the compassionate will do the rest.”

SHIMMERING HEAT WAVES DANCED across the silent desert. To Bolan it was a featureless landscape with little to show one mile from the next. His Bedouin companions rode with the confidence of a people in total accord with the hostile terrain.

Bolan’s Bedouin companions had instructed him how to sit on the curved, padded saddle on his camel, showing him the way to hook his right leg around the high saddle horn and tuck his foot beneath his left knee. It helped support him as the plodding camel created a swaying motion. Bolan was aware they were watching him as they set out. He adjusted to the motion after a time. Once he had mastered the art of sitting on the saddle, he found it to be more comfortable than he had imagined. Sharif showed him how to handle the reins, patiently advising the American and nodding in satisfaction at Bolan’s ability to take the advice on board and put it into practice.

“You see, it is not difficult. Even for an American,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, and eliciting a round of amiable laughter.

“You are as good a teacher as you are a warrior,” Bolan returned.

“This one has also been listening to Ali’s words, as well,” one of the Bedu said. “His praise slides off the tongue like honey from a bee.”

There was more laughter from the group and the Bedouin rode their camels around Bolan, bowing and saluting him with great affection. Later, as they strung out again, moving silently across the desert, Sharif moved his camel alongside.

“You have become one of them. What you did back at the camp will be long remembered. The Bedu respect courage and loyalty and above all they honor friendship, Cooper. You will always be welcome in the camps of the Bedu.”

“Thank you, Ali. I will treasure that above all else.”

TOWARD NOON OF THE following day they came within sight of the camp. Sharif had brought them to a place where they could sit concealed by sweeping sand slopes and ridges. A hot desert breeze sifted fine sand across their path, drifting in fine clouds, and they pulled the folds of their keffiyahs over their mouths to protect themselves.

“Cooper, come with me,” Sharif said, dismounting.

Bolan followed him and they climbed to the top of the steep ridge, going prone and looking across the open stretch of sand that led up to the campsite.

Sharif produced a battered pair of binoculars. The outer casing showed extreme wear and the original leather carrying strap had been replaced by a hand-braided cord.

“These are English glasses. My family acquired them from a British officer during the Second World War. Since then they have been passed down through the generations of my family.”

The Bedouin raised the glasses and focused on the distant camp.

“Three vehicles. The helicopter. I see much activity, Cooper.”

Sharif handed the binoculars to Bolan. The magnification was impressive. As he brought the camp into sharp relief, Bolan saw armed figures taking down the tents and loading equipment onto trucks. Even as he watched he saw a third truck move up to park near the stone building housing the weapons cache.

“Looks like they’re moving out,” Bolan said, “and taking the weapons with them.”

“Then we have little time to wait,” Sharif said. “We must strike now.”

Bolan had the same feeling. If they allowed Kerim to leave, it would prove difficult to deal with the group banded together to protect their cache of weapons. Kerim would also have his armed helicopter as his main deterrent. Machine guns and missiles would present a deadly threat to Bolan and his mounted allies.

As they returned to where the other Bedouins were waiting Bolan saw their main chance lay in a fast strike. Sweeping in out of the desert they might gain the advantage and inflict heavy casualties before the terrorist group could retaliate. It was a calculated risk, which was accepted by Sharif’s Bedouins when the suggestion was put to them. In battle there was no such thing as a cut-and-dried victory. Any plan, no matter how carefully set out, could change during its execution. Mack Bolan, better than any of them, could agree to that. He only had to recall the times when intended soft probes of an enemy had turned hard, more often than not when a small change kicked in the warning alarm. Simple things, incidental to the big picture, but happening at the wrong time in the wrong place. Risk came with the job, Bolan knew, and this time would be no different.

“Did you see the ridge that curves in around the east side of the camp?” Sharif asked. “If we ride behind this ridge, we can bring ourselves close to the camp before we show ourselves.”

“I saw the ridge and had the same thought. But remember, Ali, they have automatic weapons, too. And they’re not about to stand by when we hit them.”

“If Allah decrees some of us must die, then it is written and will be so,” one of the Bedouin said.

“Then it will be my honor to fight beside you,” Bolan said.

Sharif placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had darker skin I would believe I had just listened to a Bedu speaking.”

Weapons were given a final check and spare magazines placed for easy availability. Bolan’s own check was done automatically, his mind on something else.

The bioweapon.

Conventional weapons were one thing. The very presence of the bioweapon notched up the threat rating. It needed erasing fully. Bolan could only see a single, reliable way to achieve that.

Fire. The cleansing power that would consume and nullify the terrible weapon.

Bolan’s first thought was fuel. There had to be some kind of fuel dump within the camp. Gas for the vehicles and the helicopter.