Hellfire Crusade (5 page)

Others had needed to start afresh. It was not difficult to sympathize with this woman. He could see why she had chosen to immerse herself in books, to seek refuge in a study of the past and to find solace in the peace and quiet of a small college community.

"So I guess it was at Da Nang that I first heard of you," she finished softly. "I think you must be the same Sergeant Mack Bolan."

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

"Do you remember Leo Cameron?" she asked him.

"Yes." How could he forget? Three good men were lost on that mission. A small squad under the command of Captain Nile Barrabas had been sent deep into the jungle to rescue Cameron from a Vietcong stockade. They were to bring him out alive — or dead.

Those were the orders. Bolan, Barrabas and the badly wounded Cameron were the only ones to get back.

"I looked after Leo. I nursed him. We became friends," explained Danny. "He never told me what he was doing or why he was so important. He didn't say much about what they did to him in prison, but you didn't need to be a medical expert to guess. But he did tell me about the guys who risked everything to pull him out. You were quite a hero! And I don't think he was exaggerating. I'm glad you told me your name."

"So am I," admitted Bolan. Very glad.

"Then we'd better get back to my office. This is going to require some careful planning."

"I could only trace two references to the so-called Crescent Revolution for you," said Kurtzman, after Bolan had reported on his meeting with Danny Jones. "It's been mentioned by advisors close to Khomeini. And an inside contact reports that Hassan Zayoud referred to this coming revolution in a speech he made to a meeting of senior ministers within the Pan-Arabic League."

"Zayoud! It's all coming together."

"Yeah," said the Bear. "And I've got a feeling we're all going to hear a lot more about this unless you nip it in the bud." Kurtzman was not a field agent — he was a genius with those computers — but Bolan could still sense his colleague's frustration at being trapped in the mobile prison of his wheelchair.

"I need some up-to-the-minute surveillance on Khurabi," requested Bolan. "Specifically, I want pictures of the fortress at Hagadan."

There was a long pause at Kurtzman's end.

"That's a tall order, Mack. I'm going to have to pull strings with the National Reconnaissance Office, the NSA, the Pentagon and I don't know how many other agencies."

"If you can't twist enough arms, then use those smart machines of yours. If Kevin Baker managed to break into the Defense Department's system, then I'm sure you figured out how to penetrate the NRO network long ago."

"Okay. Don't ask me for the details," said the Bear, chuckling, "but I'll get it done somehow. Anything else?"

"Grimaldi." Bolan would have to call on the best pilot around if he was to get in and out of Khurabi in one piece. "Ask him to stand by. I'll need a longrange cargo. No official markings."

"What about equipment?"

"I'm going down to see Red Chandler."

"He's a crazy man!"

"Yeah... like a fox."

The vehicle bounced across an empty ditch, then the engine gave a muffled snarl as the tracks dug into the sand and propelled it up the steep slope beyond. As they slithered over the rise, Chandler shouted, "Target at two o'clock!"

Bolan scanned right, spotted the plywood cutout of a battle tank and tracked forward twenty degrees with the tube balanced on his shoulder. Chandler slowed for a second as they chewed their way across a gravel flat. Bolan, legs braced, let the cross hairs settle on target and unleashed the projectile.

The detonation shattered the desert calm as plywood splinters, cactus pulp and sagebrush erupted in a choking cloud of sand. Chandler was off and running again.

"So what do you think of my little Tiger Cub?" he shouted. "Hey, troops at ten o'clock!"

Bolan had already spotted the cardboard cutouts half concealed in the creosote bushes. His assessment of Chandler's machine was drowned out by the staccato roar of the M-60.

Bolan pivoted the gun in its mounting as Chandler slewed the Tiger Cub broadside to the targets, before accelerating away in a spray of flying grit.

With the targets so ably disposed of, Red Chandler headed back down the range toward the main compound well pleased with the performance of his latest invention.

The Tiger Cub, as Chandler had dubbed this new creation, was a lethal hybrid between an ATV, a miniature half-track and an armored golf cart.

It could carry two men and a full complement of firepower across the toughest terrain to knock out advancing tanks, scouting platoons and even aircraft.

Red Chandler, a staunch individualist, could not compete head-on with the huge military-industrial conglomerates that got the billion-dollar contracts for ever more sophisticated tanks, missiles and computerized weapons systems.

But Chandler knew that if the bombs were not used — or even after they had gone off like — then the outcome of the next major conflict would likely depend on small, highly mobile units that could still hit and run with maximum force and effectiveness. He had converted an unprofitable ranch in the Southwest into a private testing ground, complete with its own airstrip and firing range, to try out his high-tech approach to the traditions of guerrilla warfare.

He wasn't getting rich, but he made a living. Delta Force had contracted Chandler to supply them with some of his unconventional weaponry.

And the Rangers were interested in a lightweight, long-range glider he had developed. Bolan had come to depend on Andrzej Konzaki, the brilliant weaponsmith for the Stony Man operation, to supply his special needs. But Konzaki had been taken out by Lee Farnsworth's bloody conspiracy to destroy the Phoenix team.

Another fallen comrade.

Bolan had learned of an addition to the Phoenix program, a replacement for Konzaki called John "Cowboy" Kissinger. But the soldier was reluctant to tie up the services of the new Stony Man armorer. Perhaps on another mission.

Gary Manning had been the one to recommend Red Chandler. He had a reputation for being eccentric, but Bolan quickly appreciated Chandler's unorthodox imagination.

"You're asking for some very expensive pieces." Chandler scratched at his ginger stubble. "I mean, they're prototypes... I couldn't put a price on them."

Bolan stared at the undulating haze that smudged the horizon. What could he say? The chance that he would be able to return any of Chandler's equipment was extremely remote.

Red Chandler had laid down the rules.

Despite the urgency of the situation, Bolan played the game Chandler's way. First they tried out Red's latest toy — the Tiger Cub. Then they discussed tactics, military history, the latest developments in the weapons market... finally, Red Chandler conducted a monologue on the merits of doing business with Bolan. "That Sand Hog you want is one of a kind. And as for the ultralight..." Chandler knew that Bolan's credit was good — for virtually any amount. And he was also certain that this taciturn warrior would not ask him for these items unless Bolan was playing for the highest stakes imaginable. "And on top of everything else you want all this stuff crated up to look like anything but what it is!" Chandler rubbed his hand over his close-cropped coppery hair. It was already turning grayish white over the ears — helping Mack Bolan was going to complete the process.

"I really need it, Red," said the soldier. "By tomorrow morning."

"And they call me crazy!" retorted Chandler. Then he stuck out his hand, saying, "Okay, but I want a full report on how each piece performs under battle conditions."

"It's a deal. I'll have Grimaldi fly in tomorrow."

Forty-eight hectic hour's after leaving for Florida, Bolan was back at his base.

Danny Jones flew in from Westfield to join him.

"Any problems getting away?" he asked her.

"No. This is my semester off. I'm supposed to be doing writing and research. What could be more natural than my going back to the Haufari dig for a short visit?"

"Did you call the Minister of Culture?"

"Salim Zakir was in a meeting with the sheikh. But I left a message with his office."

Danny poured them both strong coffee. The table was littered with notepads, equipment checklists, maps — the Executioner's order of battle. Despite the speed with which this operation was being mounted, Danny appreciated just how thoroughly Bolan prepared for action.

She could not deny a surge of excitement at briefing him on Khurabi and discussing the best approaches to Hagadan, but at the same time it was mixed with trepidation for Danny knew their safety, perhaps even their lives, depended on getting it right. They had only one shot at pulling it off. No consolation prizes.

"Look, you might think this is a dumb question, but why not hand over the whole matter to Sheikh Zayoud? I'm sure he'd take action when he knows the score."

"That was the first option I considered. There are a couple of problems, though. First, how much would it take to persuade Zayoud that his own brother is plotting against him? And, once convinced, he might unleash everything against Hassan — with Kevin still being held hostage in the cross fire. Secondly, if Hassan Zayoud got word of what was happening, it might precipitate him into staging a coup right now. Either way, things could turn into a bloodbath."

"This way at least you preserve some element of surprise."

"Yes. When Kevin is safe, we can then explain things to Harun Zayoud." A buzzer called Bolan's attention to the computer. It was the Bear. "What's new?"

"They're still keeping a lid on the Florida kills. From what I can monitor they still haven't figured out the connection."

"If and when they do, the whole affair will have to plod its way through the regular diplomatic channels." Bolan watched the images on the video screen.

There was no mistaking the high-altitude view of the desert fortress; the layout of Hagadan was already imprinted on Bolan's memory. The match was perfect. Succeeding photos brought the brooding structure into close-up, the foreshortened shadows indicating that the surveillance had taken place in the early afternoon. The definition was good enough to count a number of vehicles parked in the courtyards.

"Three Jeeps plus a couple of army trucks," commented Kurtzman. "And that looked like a Land Rover on the approach road. Quite a lot of activity."

"Yeah. And that could be a generator truck parked against the wall." Bolan could make out the tiny figures of sentries posted on the ramparts, but the photos were too grainy to permit positive identification of nationality or uniform.

Danny had moved across to stand behind Bolan, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He felt the sudden tension in her fingers as the final picture in the series flashed on the screen.

A white stallion was being paraded around the outer yard. A small group was watching the magnificent horse. The four guys standing back in a semicircle might have been the bodyguards for the man seated at the center; sitting cross-legged beside him was a slighter figure. "Kevin?" Bolan wondered aloud.

"That's the way I read it," said Kurtzman.

"Zayoud has several sons..." Danny added cautiously.

"What would they be wearing?"

"A thaub." She was referring to the long white robe favored by the true Arabs.

"And a head cloth? What do they call them — a ghutra?" asked Bolan. "Looks like that young man is wearing jeans and a sport shirt or something just as casual."

It was the end of Kurtzman's transmission. The Bear waited on the line, knowing that Bolan was silently making a final assessment.

After a few moments the man in black said simply, "We're going in."

"Right," Danny backed him up.

"Two last things I need from you," Bolan told the Bear. "All the material you've compiled, especially the satellite shots... I want them on one tape. And I want you to call Steve Hohenadel and tell him that everything's on as we arranged." Bolan had already held a long-distance conference with Hohenadel and his partner, Chris Sorbara, in East Africa. They were the ace bush pilots who had flown Bolan and Phoenix Force on their mission to Blood River. The Executioner knew he could trust them.

"What about Grimaldi?" asked Kurtzman.

"I'll call him myself."

It was the next thing Bolan did — and Jack Grimaldi was waiting.

"It's a go!" instructed Bolan.

"I'm taking her off auto," warned Grimaldi, glancing back over his shoulder to where Bolan stood hunched over near the cockpit entrance. "There could be some turbulence up ahead. Better warn Danny."

Bolan returned to the cabin. Danica Jones sat glued to the window, just as she had for the past two hours. She appeared excited, which brought out a schoolgirl excitement in her. Bolan liked her fresh-faced enthusiasm.

She seemed even more vital, more alive inside, than she had in the suffocating confines of her retreat at Westfield. There was an edge of anticipated danger, the keen thrill of being tested against long odds, as they headed into action. All three of them shared and savored the same stimulation.

"Nearly there?" asked Danny.

"Soon," Bolan told her. "But Jack says we could be in for a few bumps."

Danny did not have to be told to fasten her safety belt, then she resumed her watch through the porthole.

The vast and block of Arabia, hostile and uninviting, stretched from the foam-flecked shoreline to the horizon. Here the earth's crust lay bare, without the slightest shade of trees or the cool refreshment of streams and takes, but parched, crumpled and forbidding.

It was also starkly beautiful in its own primeval way. The checkerboard politics of the Middle East had forced Grimaldi to plot a zigzag course, skipping this way and that like a drunken frog.

The cover story over the airwaves was that they were a special team on their way to put out an oil blaze in Oman.

Jack Grimaldi nursed the big cargo clipper through the turbulence. He had fought alongside the Executioner in this part of the world before — in the big blitzer's recent war against the Muslim Madman. The veteran pilot wore a mirthless grin as he adjusted the trim; after all, Ayatollah Khomeini was only one of the cannibal contenders for that dubious title.

Grimaldi was a crack pilot, able to fly almost anything. His Italian good looks attracted women by the score. Bolan liked the guy. In common, they had distinguished service records and an enduring hatred for the Mafia. The Stony Man flying ace had worked backup for the universal soldier on more missions than he could remember.

They were a good team. Back home Bolan had filled him in on a need-to-know basis, but Grimaldi was already well briefed in this mission; what mattered was that Mack was trying to pull someone out of Khurabi.

They had pored over the maps together looking for a possible landing site — an improvised and most definitely unauthorized airstrip for a sudden retrieval op. But not a single square inch of Khurabi's rugged terrain looked in the least bit suitable, even for emergency use. The pilot had suggested that the only paved road in the interior, which served the oil fields along the northwestern edge of the country, might serve their purpose. Bolan turned down the suggestion; they had to stick much closer to the opposite frontier.

Grimaldi resumed the search.

The Forbidden Zone was mined and patrolled. The sand sea around the old crusader fortress was out; it was smooth enough in places to risk a crash landing, but far too treacherous to attempt a takeoff. The craggy heights of the Jebel Kharg were out of the question. And the tortured terrain of wadis, quicksand, mineral beds and barren rock that lay between those inland peaks and the sea was no place to land a plane, even for a pilot as experienced as Grimaldi.

The only way to fly out of Khurabi safely was from the same place they would be going in; the country's one commercial airport, twelve miles outside the capital.

"That's the way it looks to me, too," Bolan had told his buddy. "I just wanted the input of your expert advice." Bolan's alternate plan was already in motion, but Grimaldi's role was still an integral part of the Khurabi mission.

The combat vet judged it was safe enough once more to switch back to autopilot, while he doublechecked his computations to navigate their way into the gulf states' airspace.

"Should have you unloaded in less than an hour," he told Bolan, who had returned to the cockpit. He nodded to the communications equipment.

"Incoming signals..." Bolan slipped the padded earphones on his head, exchanging the constant, muffled roar of the powerful engines for the hollow static of the electronic network. It was Kurtzman, who had accessed himself through safely scrambled channels to update the Executioner.

"I got a few items for you. First, the good news: Steve Hohenadel and his partner have confirmed all arrangements. They can risk one run and one run only. Time and place as you specified."

"Uh-huh," Bolan said. "Okay, so what's the bad news?"

"Intel sources report a box of krytons has possibly reached Khurabi. Now KN22's are sometimes used in the oil exploration business, but they're also the same kind of switches needed to trigger an H-bomb. This get uglier by the moment."

"We never thought it was going to be a picnic."

"Yeah, well, some guy over at N.E.S.T. is beginning to put the same pieces of the puzzle together. And N.E.S.T. has alerted the CIA, the State Department and the team at Rand. Things are starting to move back here... And move they would."

Bolan knew that a N.E.S.T. report would be taken seriously. The guys who made up the Nuclear Emergency Search Team didn't joke about the nightmare scenarios they had to deal with and the powers-that-be knew it, too.

The big question was still whether Bolan could defuse the situation before it became an international flare-up and hit the world headlines in the worst possible way.

Bolan was trying to put out a fire all right; and he could not afford to make a mistake.

"Got a few more close-ups of the target zone since you took off," said the Bear. "Did a head count. I figure Ruark's got maybe forty men there, and they're training a hundred or more local troopers. Of course, I don't know how many others were still inside the castle when these snapshots were taken. Either way, Zayoud has surrounded himself with a small army."

This latest estimate gave Bolan pause for thought. In a way, the more men there were milling around the fortress made it easier for him to infiltrate unchallenged, but it made getting out again even more hazardous. The odds against were mounting.

"Thanks, Bear. We're still going in."

"Never doubted it, Mack. Good luck!"

Bolan shed the headset. He stretched as best he could in the cramped walkway behind the pilot's seat. Glancing down through the aircraft's windshield, he could see the vivid flames of the burn-offs at an oilfield some way inland. Odd patches of brilliant green surrounded the occasional well or irrigation system. Sunlight twinkled on a truck window far below.

"I'll begin the final descent in about three minutes." Grimaldi checked the transmitter. "Better confirm our arrival..."

Bolan sat next to Danny for the landing. There was nothing further for them to discuss. She had briefed him with every detail she knew about Khurabi, making him precisely aware of the difficulties and dangers he faced.

She had set things up in advance with Allied Oil, and it proved that her contacts with the giant oil corporation reached far higher than Bill Patterson. And, above all, she was a source of unfailing encouragement and approval. Bolan could not have asked for more. The ex-nurse, every bit as much of a veteran of Nam's blood-soaked craziness as Bolan or Grimaldi, wanted to rescue Kevin Baker for the boy's own sake far more than for some abstract threat to world peace. Sergeant Mercy understood that full well.

Jack Grimaldi, with a feather-light touch at the controls, brought that big bird in as if it were a two-seater. Danny shook her head in disbelief and sheer respect as they rolled down the runway of Khurabi International.

"It sure isn't LAX," she warned her traveling companion. "Looks like a few more buildings, but no more planes than when I was last here."

Grimaldi followed the tower's instructions and taxied onto the apron at the southeast end of the terminal complex.

It was like opening an oven door. The midday sun hammered the concrete, then bounced back up to roast anything that moved. An Allied Oil truck followed the self-propelled steps to the side of the plane. The driver waved frantically as Danny emerged.

"Miss Jones! Miss Jones!"

"Abdel!" She waved back.

She introduced "Professor" Bolan, while Jack lowered the cargo ramp. It seemed as if Danny had dropped her words in all the right ears; a small crew of swampers suddenly appeared and worked quickly under Grimaldi's gruff supervision.

A Jeep, carrying three customs and immigration officials, drove across from the terminal.

The Americans' paperwork was all in order. The men stood there, watching, hands resting lightly on their shiny holsters, as Grimaldi barked out instructions for unloading the gear.

Danny and Abdel were stowing some of the smaller packages in the back of the company truck. She glanced around once or twice, wondering why there had been no official welcoming committee.

Grimaldi himself drove Chandler's Sand Hog down onto the tarmac. Bolan was busy making small talk with the inquisitive customs inspector. "And what is in this crate here?" He tapped the box with a highly polished toe cap.

Bolan used a small crowbar to pry open the lid. "These are sensitive metal detectors. Archaeologists use them to find old coins, swords, cooking pots, that sort of thing. It save a lot of time digging."

The captain twirled the point of his well-waxed mustache. "And what is this... engine?"

"That's our generator," replied Bolan, quickly and convincingly. Damn, was this guy going to rummage through everything? Most of the equipment was carefully stowed in the long trailer Red Chandler had fashioned from a converted horse box.

"Open it," ordered the captain. "Please." He peeked inside two of the reinforced cardboard cartons. "And why so much, er, canvas... all this fabric?"

"Tents," Bolan lied. "Several of them. One for myself. One for Professor Jones. Another for a darkroom. It's all there on the manifest."

The officer was briefly distracted by the arrival of a fuel tanker. Jack Grimaldi went over to talk to the technicians. The second official had been inspecting the Sand Hog, and not without an envious gleam in his eye.

"What is this for?" he shouted. The man was pointing at the mounting bracket in the back of the Hog.

"Oh, that... that provides a secure base for my surveying and photographic equipment."

The man nodded thoughtfully. Danny was amazed to hear Bolan's rapid explanations. She had no idea they were bringing this much equipment just for a cover story of a brief dig. Bolan had got enough gear here to unearth Troy single-handed.

This whole charade was making Bolan tense. He knew they were being watched. At first there had been nothing to warn him except that uneasy prickling he had long ago learned not to ignore. The guy in the short-sleeved white shirt standing close to the tower's shaded windows was to be expected; any controller worth his salt would want to know more about a man who could fly like Grimaldi. It took Bolan longer to pick up on the second watcher.

One glinting flash from the binoculars marked the thin man in the leisure suit, who was lounging against a car parked beyond the chain link fence at the perimeter of the airfield.

The arrival of Delta-One-Niner must have been the most interesting thing to have happened in Khurabi all day.

The first customs officer was still fingering his mustache.

"What is in this crate? Open it, please."

Bolan moved a lot more slowly this time.

Inside that wooden box was the one item he could not coolly explain away — a machine gun looks just like a machine gun and nothing else.