Читать книгу Plains Of Fire - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

Captain Fial Aflaq had been prepared for the coming of the nameless crusader for a full day. It was common knowledge among even African militiamen trained by the radical Islamic clerics of the Middle East that there was an American commando who stalked those who fought for the cause of converting the world to their ways. This one man, almost mythic in strength, prowess and the sheer number of kills attributed to him, was unknown, other than for the effects he had left behind him.

Aflaq jolted as he heard the rattle of a lone FAMAS preceding the rolling thunder of a multigrenade barrage. Shock gripped the Thunder Lion leader.

“Only ten men are reporting in,” Lieutenant Anid told him, looking up from his radio.

Ten men? Aflaq’s stomach churned as he processed his nephew’s words. He realized that his fighting force had been halved in a matter of seconds. He was about to give the evacuation order when a powerful concussion shook the small hotel. Aflaq looked out the window and saw a column of smoke billowing upward from a corner of the compound. Rifles exchanged blistering salvos through the breach in the hotel grounds before the firefight was terminated by the bellow of a hand grenade.

“He’s in here with us,” Aflaq said, stunned.

Anid’s eyes were wide with horror. “He told us not to side with Bitturumba any longer.”

Aflaq’s lips drew into a tight, bloodless scar across his face. “Run.”

“But, Uncle—” Anid began to protest.

Aflaq gave the young man a hard push. “I ordered you to run!”

Anid nodded and spun, racing into the hallway. Even as Aflaq’s door swung open, the Thunder Lion officer heard the blazing chatter of French FAMAS rifles, snarling in a vicious two-way cross fire. Anid whirled in the doorway, his shoulder blown into a bloody mess by a snap shot from down the hallway. Aflaq leaped across the office and pulled his nephew back to cover behind his desk. Was it too late for his sister’s son?

“Fall back! Fall back!” Aflaq bellowed into Anid’s walkie-talkie. “It’s not worth dying for! Retreat!”

“Listen to your boss,” Bolan’s chilling voice agreed over the radio. The Executioner’s Arabic was thickly accented, and by no means fluent, but where his words were slightly halting, the tone of voice conveyed a message easily understood. “The Thunder Lions will be extinct inside of a week. Why join Bitturumba all the way to the bitter end?”

“God,” Aflaq prayed.

“No,” Bolan responded, returning to his native English. “Not God. Just your judgment, Captain. It takes a lot more to earn my forgiveness.”

Aflaq looked down to Anid, who was clutching his wounded limb. “I have a wounded boy in here with me. Spare him. I ordered him to stay with me here.”

Bolan strode into view, his tall frame filling the doorway. Clad all in black, bristling with weaponry, the grim figure of the Executioner turned Aflaq’s bowels to ice water with his fearsome visage.

“No!” Anid shouted, almost deliriously. Somehow the eager youngster had twisted his left hand around and had pried his South African Vektor pistol from his hip holster. The sleek black Beretta clone filled his fist as Anid rose to confront the ferocious wraith looking across the desk.

Aflaq lunged and crashed into the wounded lad, knocking the pistol from his grasp. Its metal frame clattered on the floor of the office.

Bolan glared at Aflaq, who was certain that he had doomed himself.

Then the wraith spoke. “Make sure the kid behaves.”

Aflaq kicked the weapon across the floor to Bolan. “I will.”

“Good call.” Bolan glanced out into the hallway. “Keep behind the desk. It’s going to get a hell of a lot hairier in here.”

Bolan fired three swift bursts down the hall, tagging targets in the distance. Satisfied that he’d bought himself a few moments, the Executioner reached into his battle harness, opening a pouch and taking out a small packet. He turned and lobbed it to Aflaq. “It’s something to make the blood clot. Pour it on his shoulder wound, and it’ll stop the bleeding.”

Aflaq tore open the packet. “Peace be unto you, soldier.”

Bolan was taken aback by the militiaman’s gratitude. “Let’s hope not too soon. I’ve got some aggression to extinguish.”

The Executioner turned and fired another long burst from his FAMAS, targeting enemy gunmen making another approach to the office. He disappeared from Aflaq’s sight, and the former militiaman did his best to be a healer.

THE THUNDER LION RESISTANCE had been shattered to pieces in almost record time. It didn’t hurt that Bolan had destroyed half their fighting force in the space of ten seconds, but the conversion of Fial Aflaq and his nephew was an unexpected bonus. Now the Executioner was free to focus on the Muslim Brotherhood contingent who had foolishly dealt themselves into this battle. He keyed his throat mike. “Pushed back a fire team from the Egyptians. Any other advancement on my position?”

“Movement around the lobby at the front of the hotel,” Encizo explained. “I don’t have the range on my launcher and no straight shot with my rifle. Can’t help you with them.”

“Approximate numbers?” Bolan inquired.

“Eight to ten,” Encizo answered. “I’m holding off another group, but they’re retreating to try another approach.”

“Let them through and just concentrate on your side of the hotel. They’ve only got one path to get to me, and if I know my back’s covered, I can deal with their pressure,” Bolan returned. “I’ve got my battlefield set up, and they’re just being funneled into a slaughterhouse.”

“Cattle don’t usually bring AK-47s and RPGs into a slaughterhouse, Striker,” James admonished.

Bolan plucked a fragmentation grenade from his thigh-mounted pouch and bowled the minibomb down the hallway heading toward the lobby. As the fragger’s momentum petered out, the tip of the first Muslim Brotherhood assault team lurched into view. Bolan could see three sets of eyes widen with horror as they looked down at the smooth-skinned green egg of damnation that skittered toward them at head level as they rushed to the top of the steps. A moment later the grenade detonated and the three terrorists disappeared behind a cloud of flame, smoke and dust, their death cries swallowed in the throaty roar of the explosion.

The wall of fragmented razor wire wrapped around the grenade’s explosive core didn’t have the velocity to reach back to the Executioner as he crouched in a doorway twenty-five yards from ground zero. On the other hand, the renegade Egyptians were well within the ten-meter total kill radius of the rocketing, flesh-shredding shrapnel. Meat and skin were pulled from the Brotherhood’s skulls, ripped away as the high-powered sheet of concussive energy struck them like an invisible guillotine blade, shearing through neck bones and ripping the dead men’s heads clean off.

Killed twice over, the mutilated masses of flesh toppled backward onto their overpressure-stunned compatriots, throwing the Brotherhood’s charge even further off balance. Bolan knew he’d only given himself a small window of opportunity against the Egyptian militia, so he charged to the end of the hallway as fast as he could. He fed the FAMAS a full kill-load while he was still on the run, charging a live round into the chamber as he put on the brakes. Bolan’s momentum glided him across the smooth tile floor as if he were ice skating, slowing to a halt at the grenade-crumpled top step. He looked down the stairway and into the dazed opposition as they struggled to free themselves from beneath the tangled limbs of their three decapitated comrades.

Bolan opened fire with the FAMAS. At a range of less than three yards, the French rifle’s full-powered 5.56 mm NATO rounds, launched from a full-length twenty-inch barrel, had no difficulty in tunneling through the mass of jumbled bodies between him and the still stunned enemy. Searing along at 3200 feet per second, the bullets shredded through lifeless meat and bone as if they were made of tissue paper. Ugly craters dented the torsos of the terrorists jammed beneath the deadweight of their friends.

It was a brutal, merciless slaughter, one in which his opposition had very little chance, but Bolan knew that if he had been a mere two seconds slower, the Egyptian renegades would have pulled themselves free from their jumbled mass, grabbed their weapons and launched a hail of lead against him. The difference between two different one-way slaughters was the breadth of three or four heartbeats, and the Executioner’s ruthless efficiency had kept him alive through thousands of such encounters.

“More movement on your side, Striker,” James warned over the radio. “Rafe was right, that group swung back to try a different approach.”

Bolan saw the mob of Muslim Brotherhood gunmen approach the lobby door. His FAMAS had been locked empty, and he let it drop on its sling, transferring to the mighty .44 Magnum Desert Eagle on his hip. When the Egyptians made their move, the need for his stealthy 9 mm weapons had ended, and the suppressed weapons didn’t have the same reach and power as the Israeli-designed hand cannon. In a lightning quick movement, he leveled the .44 at the lobby doors, waiting for the right moment.

The first Egyptian through the door stopped cold, as if he’d struck an invisible brick wall, 240-grains of lead smashing violently through his forehead. The heavyweight slug punched out of the back of the dead man’s neck and speared into a gunman behind him, the poor guy screaming as the deformed hollowpoint round lanced into his groin, shredding through muscle to cut his femoral artery. It was a two-for-one shot that Bolan sometimes encountered when firing high-powered weapons at his enemies. It was the kind of bonus that Bolan didn’t want to count on in the field. A jet of arterial blood hosed onto the other gunmen beside him, jolting them in surprise. The Executioner adjusted his aim and triggered two more rounds into the third and fourth terrorists who were trying to charge through the entrance.

The doorway suddenly became an unnavigable mass of bodies as four corpses blocked the way, bodies piled high enough to force anyone behind them to climb up and over the dead. This gave Bolan an opening to draw another fragmentation grenade. He popped the cotter pin and launched the munition past the pile of lifeless Egyptians. It bounced off a corpse’s back and landed at the feet of a clutch of stacked up Brotherhood gunmen. The terrorists weren’t able to go forward because the bodies of their Magnum-mutilated comrades were too high to easily step over, and the men at the back of the group were shoving too hard against them to allow them to haul the bodies out of the way. When the jammed up gunmen saw the lethal grenade arc into their midst, panic seized the group and they tried to force their way back against the crush of gunmen at the rear of their group. The riflemen at the back were unaware of the impending detonation at their feet until it came through.

The M-26 fragmentation grenade disintegrated, unleashing an umbrella of cutting force through the legs of the snarled terrorists, carving through thighs, knees and shins with enough force to rip them from their owners’ bodies. Shrapnel sliced into vulnerable bellies, ripping open abdominal muscles and crushing intestines and lower spines. Bolan took the opportunity to slam a fresh magazine into the FAMAS and clean up the horrific mess caused by his grenade, firing head shots to end the suffering of those who still lived despite their brutal grenade-mauling.

“The Brotherhood’s in full retreat,” Encizo announced. “Ambush broken.”

“Watch yourselves,” Bolan warned. “The Brotherhood might not be too happy with you guys and take a parting shot.”

“They tried to get us before,” James stated. “They’d come up on the roof with us, but we put them back down.”

“Let the survivors run,” Bolan said. “The Brotherhood knows who they came after, that’s why we had nearly a hundred of them show up to fight. By now, they’ve learned their lesson, in spades.”

“The faster these creeps learn that they’re no longer the top of the food chain, the better,” James stated. “These screwheads need to be more scared.”

“Trust me, I’m getting through to some of them,” Bolan replied. “At least one of the Thunder Lions had a significant change of heart.”

“We had a convert up here, too,” James answered. “He won’t be walking too well, but he’s no longer interested in helping out violent insurgency anymore.”

“Wish the ratio of slaughtered to converted was the other way around,” Bolan said. “More good people are always welcome in the War Everlasting.”

“Better than none redeemed,” Encizo interjected.

Bolan returned to Aflaq’s office. The former militiaman looked up from his first-aid efforts on his nephew.

“How’s the shoulder?” Bolan asked.

“You’ll never cow a true warrior for the Prophet,” Anid snarled.

“Is that so?” Bolan returned. “The Egyptians abandoned close to fifty of their dead brothers after we were done with them. Let’s call it sixty true warriors for the Prophet, bleeding their guts out, and forty or so survivors running away through the shadows, all defeated by three men. Three men including me.”

Anid swallowed.

“My quarrel’s not with the followers of Islam, only the jackals who use the Koran’s teachings as a license to engage in rape and murder,” Bolan said. “Tell me how gang-raping children and mass executions bring enlightenment to the people?”

Anid remained silent, his eyes cast down at the wound in his shoulder.

“Search your soul. Who is the truly merciful one here? Who destroyed an overwhelmingly superior force and crushed the fight out of it, then stopped long enough to assist in the healing of your wounds?” Bolan asked.

“You did,” Anid admitted.

“Your uncle saved your life,” Bolan told him. “Pick the right path in your beliefs and actions. The one that the Thunder Lions have chosen only brings them defeat and suffering at my hands.”

Aflaq gave his nephew’s hand a squeeze.

“I’m not telling you two to turn your back on God. I’m telling you that there are ways to be true to your faith that don’t involve murder and pain. As your uncle said, peace be unto you.”

Anid looked up and met Bolan’s eyes.

“Understand?” Bolan asked.

“I do,” Anid answered.

Bolan nodded and left the office.

Cartegena, Spain

SHAVED BALD, YET STILL wearing a thick beard, Igor Sharpova looked uncomfortable as he sidled up to Alonzo Cruz’s table at the café. The midsummer sun raised a sheen of sweat on the Russian’s forehead as Cruz watched the man’s eyes flick nervously behind his sunglasses. The bulk of Sharpova’s chest was further thickened by a concealed bulletproof vest.

“I ordered some iced tea for you, amigo,” Cruz said.

Sharpova sat heavily. He snatched up a napkin and mopped at his wet brow. “I’m used to cooler climes. You do realize that this city comes under considerable scrutiny from NATO, the CIA and Interpol, do you not?”

Cruz chuckled. “Which is why we are talking here. This is a major port, the largest in Spain. Intrigue drips from the walls. Besides, you’re a Russian. Yesterday’s news. It’s the Islamicists that the West fears.”

Sharpova sighed. “So we’re secure.”

“Not if you keep acting so antsy and suspicious,” Cruz replied. “Relax.”

“What happened to the shipment?” Sharpova asked.

“What’s the worst possible thing that could happen to you, Igor?” Cruz responded.

Sharpova grimaced. “You mean that we’ve been found out.”

“I mean that your bogeyman has emerged from the shadows. And he’s become very interested in the Darfur tests,” Cruz told him. “Does he know what truly is going on? Unlikely.”

Sharpova frowned, his jowls hanging, which increased his resemblance to a bulldog. “You don’t understand. This man has derailed countless plots of ours around the world. He is the living doom to any who dare oppose him.”

“Poetic,” Cruz commented with a nod. “This time, however, we have knowledge on our side.”

“Knowledge. Ninjas. Nerve gas. Nanotechnology. Nuclear weapons,” Sharpova rattled off. “Nothing we’ve ever employed has been above his ability. You call him a man, but he is not human. No mortal could be so unerring and infallible.”

Cruz smiled. “Yes, he is a terrifying opponent. Don’t forget, you’re allied with Thor and me.”

“And the two of you actually possess the powers of gods?” Sharpova asked.

“Yes, we do,” Cruz answered. He spread his hands, his fingertips tracing a globe in the air. “The two of us can halve the population of an entire continent at a whim. A continent full of teeming resources that would be lost or destroyed by any other means. Diamonds, oil, precious metals and nuclear materials litter Africa. Such a prize is beyond anyone’s dreams.”

Sharpova swallowed.

“You look very tense for a man who can tame the wild renegades of the Commonwealth of Independent States and open up a whole new frontier of limitless resources,” Cruz noted.

Sharpova took another sip, shifting to get comfortable in his body armor. “But the devil is stalking us like a hungry lion.”

“My brother knows how to deal with lions, and is himself a devil, my friend,” Cruz said.

Sharpova grimaced. “I have some men on hand. Highly trained commandos. A small army at your beckoning if you need them.”

Cruz nodded, acknowledging the Russian’s generosity. “And I have my own highly trained security force. Throw in Thor’s militia and the allies coming to him as we speak, and we can sweep away any minor irritant.”

“Do not see this devil as one man, Alonzo. He is a force of nature, and he is simply not to be underestimated. We have done that in the past, and suffered greatly for it,” Sharpova warned.

Cruz sighed. “I’m not stupid, Igor.”

Sharpova looked around nervously. “Others have said that. They aren’t around anymore. Keep that in mind.”

The Russian excused himself and left.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED at the data the Executioner and his two Phoenix Force allies had gathered over the course of their operations in Alexandria. The men were sitting in front of their laptop in a video conference, grim-faced as they were displayed, twice normal size, on the video monitor wall. Brognola could tell why the trio was unhappy. The implications of their discovery left the big Fed’s gut knotted as he saw the potential for tragedy. Mixing black-market military weaponry, a murderous plague and the ethnically charged slaughter occurring in the Darfur region meant a death toll that could easily top six figures in the space of a few days. The presence of Bitturumba’s Thunder Lion militia was a disturbing note.

“Weaponized Ebola in the hands of a violent, radical Islamic group,” Brognola said out loud, looking at Barbara Price, the Stony Man mission controller. She’d been infected with an artificially manufactured version of Ebola and would have died had not a treatment been developed by the CDC’s researchers thanks to intel gathered by Kurtzman and his cyberteam.

Price cleared her throat, remembering her near brush with death. “We need to see if this current variant is vulnerable to the same treatments that helped me out. Regular Ebola Zaire has proved resistant to any vaccines or countermeasures developed off the designer variant utilized on me. This version might be based off the same DNA blueprint, or even have been recovered from a stockpile used by the Imam.”

“I knew something wasn’t kosher when the Russians loaded up an arms shipment for Alexandria,” Bolan said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called in Cal and Rafe. This situation is about as bad as it gets. If the Thunder Lions succeed at their goals in the Sudan, we can see a lot more of viral outbreaks like the one at the refugee camp.”

“We’d be talking global nightmares,” Price agreed. “The only saving graces are that you have almost a one-in-two chance of surviving infection, and once the virus has been dispersed and settles, it goes inert and is no longer infectious. It’s only contagious in human respiration, and it either kills or fades out after twenty-four hours. Those who aren’t killed aren’t infectious, but they look like they’ve been run over by a truck.”

“It’s no longer infectious, or just dormant?” Bolan asked. “Who knows how long this brand of virus can remain valid in soil or groundwater.”

“So far, the WHO hasn’t found any residual virus in soil samples. The microbe breaks down quickly. So far, we don’t have a viable, living virus to test anything against,” Price noted.

“We’ll head in,” Bolan announced. “Our USAMRIID backgrounds are already with the World Health Organization, right? Cal can lend us credibility as a medical emergency investigation team.”

Brognola bristled. “You’ll be right at ground zero for an epidemic.”

“Trouble is, Hal, we have what looks like an artificially manufactured virus out in the Sudan. If it’s manufactured, then that means there is a strong possibility that there will be a form of treatment or a vaccine to grant immunity. Even if there isn’t, we can intercept the means of dispersal and destroy them before they claim any more victims,” Bolan countered. “We’ve encountered designer diseases enough times in the past, and the scientists who bred them leave a back door to treatment, if only for their own personal safety. The fabricators of these diseases aren’t suicidal, no matter who they give this particular loaded gun to.”

“Some things are just plain incurable,” Brognola mentioned. “Remember the incident in Utah?”

“I do,” Bolan answered. “But what should we do in that case? I’m not going to hide my head in the sand and hope the disease goes away. I’m going in, and if I can’t help locate a cure, then I’ll at least bring down every member of Bitturumba’s murderous militia. However, I am going to make sure that I can slam the lid on this box before any more demons escape. It’s a few countries over, and Darfur has been on my to-do list for too damn long.”

“Good luck, Striker,” Brognola said. “The WHO has your package and they’re vetting you. Bear’s set it up, as always. You’ll be bought hook, line and sinker unless you start acting like the professional ass-kicker you are.”

“I hope we’re not there long enough for them to look at us that closely,” Bolan replied. “But once we get there, I have a feeling that we’ll have the time to attract more attention than the Thunder Lions and their disease.”