Hellfire Crusade (8 page)

"There is a way through up there somewhere," announced Danny positively. "I went out to gather some fuel myself — look what I found!"

"Camel dung."

"Very old, very dry, but somebody else had passed this way, too."

"Okay, you get the fire going. The supplies are in that box there. It ain't exactly cordon bleu," said Bolan, his hopes recharged by Danny's sharp-eyed discovery. "I'm going to scout that trail up there."

With the Uzi slung on a shoulder strap, Bolan followed the twisting path that threaded through the tall boulders above their campsite. A withered thistle, which had bloomed briefly after a shower some seasons past, still held an errant strand of camel hair.

He searched the mottled mauve-and-brown rocks for signs of the trail the drovers must have taken. None of the clefts looked very promising.

A fan of loose shale, too treacherous even for the Hog, marked the one rift the traders might have come through. Bolan worked his way farther to the right, but found nothing passable. And it was getting darker by the moment. He began circling back toward the camp.

The velvet night sky was spangled with myriad stars. After the broiling heat of midday, it was amazing how cool it became once the sun had vanished.

What if he had to go the rest of the way on foot?

Bolan began to recalculate his timetable with half a mind, while the rest of him concentrated on keeping his footing among the tumbled rocks.

He got a tingling jolt from his internal warning system just as he approached the camp. He thought he saw two darkly bundled figures scrambling over the ridge above the Jeep. He unslung the Uzi in a flash. But it was too late.

A white-robed man with an evil gold-capped smile was already squatting by the fire. An ancient Lee Enfield was resting across his lap, his finger curled about the trigger. And the muzzle was only inches from Danny's heart.

In that small circle of flickering firelight the old man's leathery face looked even more like the mask of some evil djinn. With the hand that cradled the rifle he signaled for Bolan to come closer.

"No, sah'b... no touch gun! No need for gun." He made a small patting motion in the air to indicate that the big foreigner should lay down his weapon.

With Danny's life in the balance as a bargaining chip, Bolan had no choice but to comply.

The other two men — both younger, probably the rifleman's sons — jumped down onto the track.

They both wore khunjars, the curved and bejeweled daggers given to every male when he reached manhood. One had a cast to his eye that gave him a menacing, retarded look.

"Closer, sah'b!"

Bolan stepped forward, trying to figure the odds.

He could see the man was not quite as old as he'd first thought. These bedu wanderers were traditionalists if put to the test, where did their loyalties lie? He had to guess they would probably pick Hassan's fundamental fanaticism were they just being cautious about stumbling onto strangers in the middle of nowhere?

Or did they intend to kill them both right here and now? The rifle had not budged an inch. There was less than a hairbreadth between those two possibilities, and Bolan was not going to bet on the difference. Not yet.

He spread open his empty hands, palms showing, "Whatever we have is yours — please, share our meal."

The leader appreciated the courtesy, even though both he and Bolan knew the old-timer was in a position to take what he wanted. Yet he was still more curious about their mysterious presence here than eager for the coffee, which was boiling by the fire.

Danny glanced across at Bolan as he squatted on his haunches. Then she quickly looked away, ashamed and angry at herself for having been taken by surprise.

"What you do here, sah'b? Long way from city."

"Oil. We're looking for oil," Bolan lied easily. "Geologists. We're a search team for Allied Oil."

"Ah, you think you find oil up here?"

"No, not around here, old friend. We want to prospect on the far side of the jebel." Bolan's casual wave at the cliffs above them made one of the other men bring a British army service revolver to bear. They were very jumpy.

The man by the fire translated Bolan's explanation for his companions. None of them looked too convinced, and Bolan observed the puzzled looks on their faces, as they wondered, perhaps, why these Americans would be out here in the deep desert.

"Tell you what," suggested Bolan, appearing as affable as could be, "I could hire you guys as our local guides. The company gives me funds for that. I'm willing to pay You well if you'll show us a safe way across the top of the jebel. Will you do it? Here, let's have some coffee and discuss a fee."

The old man smiled greedily, his gold fillings glinting in the light of the campfire at this mention of money.

"There are ways through the hills," he conceded. "But this territory is forbidden, sah'b. Very dangerous to be here."

"Well, yeah, but the oil down there doesn't know that... and we have to go where the oil is," said Bolan, still playing the part of a modern-day prospector. Anyway, you're out here, too, aren't you?"

"My people have always been in these parts, long before soldiers come with their spiked wire and bombs in the ground. This is our land, sah'b."

"Then I insist on paying you to guide us." Bolan moved slowly — he did not want anyone to get the wrong idea — as he pulled a pouch from around his neck. He poured out the contents in his cupped hand. "See, gold coins... Now, let's have some of that coffee while we talk business, eh?"

Danny followed Bolan's signal and moved closer to the crackling fire. The older man stayed squatting where he was, the rifle still balanced across his knees, though no longer aimed directly at Danny's breast, as he rattled off the proposition to his sons.

One of them replied in the high-pitched guttural dialect of these nomads. Bolan wondered if they were already haggling over a suitable price to charge for their services, as his hand dropped slowly toward his ankle. His own smile was fixed, his eyes steady on the leader; but through peripheral vision he concentrated on Danny. It was up to her to make the next move. Danny lifted the coffeepot away from the flames. The man by the fire rebuked the guy with the lazy eye, obviously imposing his will, then suddenly nodded.

"Now!" shouted Danny, hurling the scalding contents of the pot straight into the leader's face. He tumbled backward with a scream and a spluttering curse.

Bolan pulled the knife from its hiding place and, throwing it underarm, struck the other gunman square in the throat. The revolver dropped from his grasp as he made a futile attempt to pluck out the sticky blade from under his chin. With one last soft gurgle he collapsed sideways on the rocks.

The third tribesman was pulling the dagger from his belt when Bolan hit him low with the full force of a shoulder charge. They slammed into the dirt, struggling like wild beasts for the advantage. Scooping up some dust, the nomad threw it at his attacker, but Bolan was no longer there to be blinded by that old trick. He'd slipped the man's hold, twisted around and was looping a forearm under the Arab's beard. He grabbed hair and head cloth all in one, jerking violently and hard. The man's neck was broken in an instant. He flopped on his back with one final spasmodic twitch, his hand splayed open, and the last grains of sand trickled out between his lifeless fingers.

When Bolan spun around to face the fire, Danny had already disarmed the startled headman and now had him well covered with his own rifle. "He told them we were to be killed," she explained. "They were going to steal our money and then take our bodies to Hassan Zayoud for a reward." The bedu held his head in his hands, sobbing from the pain of being burned as well as the remorse for causing the deaths of his sons. "Those two weren't so keen on the idea at first just in case we really were working for the oil company — but he ordered them to get on with it. He promised that one your gun... that's when I yelled."

"Thanks. I didn't know what the hell they were talking about." Bolan retrieved his Uzi, but Danny did not let the rifle waver even for a fraction. He patted her on the shoulder and she relaxed a little. Then he shook his head as he looked at the bedu bandit. The man was not in too bad shape; what a pity it had come to this. Bolan held nothing against these men. His only concern was to rescue Kevin from Zayoud's castle.

"You have killed my sons."

"Uh-huh, you called the play, old man, not me. You lost the gold. You lost your boys. And if you don't lead us safely over that mountain at dawn, then I'm going to track down the rest of your family and wipe them out, too!" Bolan had no idea how he could have executed this snarled threat even if he had meant it, but the menacing warning deflated the chieftain once and for all.

He had just seen this deadly warrior in action and it never occurred to him that the words might be only an angry bluff.

He did not offer the slightest resistance when Bolan shackled him to the Hog. The big foreigner frisked him for other weapons — he had none concealed on him — and then quite calmly, almost as if nothing had happened, this strange invader poured out the last of the coffee from the pot. They took turns standing watch.

When Danny woke up to take the second shift, the bodies of the two would-be assassins had disappeared. She didn't ask Bolan what he had done with them.

They switched lookout shifts once more during the night. Bolan did not appear to stir as he rested, but Danny had little doubt his automatic warning system remained on full alert even while he slept. She padded over to check on their native prisoner, who somehow managed to doze fitfully with one arm held uncomfortably upright. He was secured by the wrist to the roll bar.

She was well aware by now that Mack seemed to have covered every angle — but why had he brought along those steel handcuffs? Danny turned to look at him but Bolan was no longer there. She saw him sauntering back from behind the rocks as the sun, still unseen, splashed the first vivid rays across the dawn sky.

He packed up the last of their things, then stood over the chief. "Remember what I told you?"

The bedu did, only too well. "I'l1 will show you the way."

"No tricks."

"Oh no, sah'b — upon my honor!"

"Then let's go."

Danny rode in back with the gear. The Hog scrambled along the slope, all four wheels driving it hard up the dangerous incline.

The Arab pointed ahead to what appeared to be a dead end, so well did the colors of the rock blend into a seamless whole. Bolan approached with caution.

The trail hooked sharply, disappearing through the granite shoulders of a gap barely wide enough to admit the armored Jeep. Beyond this concealed entrance it widened out and, except for one large flattened rock that partially blocked the passage higher up, it was an easy gradient to the top of the escarpment.

Loose sand had drifted down into this natural funnel; in places it looked soft and deep enough to cause problems for the heavy vehicle. The tribesman rattled his handcuffs. "Free me, sah'b — I will walk ahead of you. It will be safer."

Bolan hesitated.

"I cannot outrun your bullets," the bedu said, indicating the Uzi. "I can find the best path to follow."

Bolan unlocked the cuffs. Danny wondered why he seemed so reluctant; it sounded like a good idea to her. The man climbed down, carefully scanning the ground as he plodded up the wind-cut passageway. The Hog sat there idling while Bolan modified the Uzi.

The man turned, beckoning them forward with a wave.

He moved faster now, the hill was getting easier, until he skipped sideways with several nimble steps.

Bolan was already halfway up the slope when the nomad made that last odd crablike maneuver.

He pulled up hard, jamming on the hand brake.

With utter horror Danny suddenly realized why Bolan had been so apprehensive. Not four feet from the right front tire, the shifting wind had blown back enough sand to reveal a dark metal lump! The desert thief had led them straight into a mine trap.

"Stop right there!" Bolan commanded.

The man glanced back as Bolan stood up — and as the American's hands cleared the windshield, he saw the fat round barrel of the silencer affixed to the Uzi.

The Arab weighed his chances. He was safely out of the mine strip. That big flat rock offered him cover less than twenty feet away. Bolan did not give him the chance to try for it... a short burst stuttered softly from the submachine gun. The whining bullets made more noise as they ricocheted off the corner of the slab, chipping out puffs of powdered rock.

The chief knew he'd never make it in one piece. The American would cut him in two.

"Get back down here!" Bolan ordered gruffly. "Now!" He handed the gun to Danny. "Watch that trickster." Then he turned to a box in the back and opened the lid, pulling out what he'd claimed to the customs officer was a metal detector.

Danny knew now that he hadn't lied exactly — he just hadn't told the whole truth.

The device was a metal detector of sorts: a highly efficient, compact unit for sweeping mines. Bolan tested the ground alongside the Hog before stepping down. He was waiting in front of the Jeep when the crafty nomad finally got back to them. "One more false move and she's going to pull the trigger, you understand?"

The man nodded vigorously.

"Now I'm going ahead to sweep a way clear for the Jeep."

Another jerk of his head.

"I'll call out where they are... and you, my friend," said Bolan, handing him a wooden stake, "are going to dig them up."

The bedu's throat bobbed with a terrified swallow.

Bolan moved methodically upward, listening through the lightweight headset and watching the gauge as he swung the detector in a smooth short arc.

Twelve paces out and he stopped, pointing to the ground a few inches from his left boot. "Okay, do it!"

The man, trying to stop his hands from shaking, prodded gingerly at the soil.

"Don't try anything stupid," Bolan snarled as he continued to walk up the slope, sweeping a pattern wide enough to take the Hog through safely.

Danny's brow and upper lip were beaded with perspiration and it wasn't just from the early-morning sun that was beginning to arc behind them. She held her breath each time Mack paused, his feet remaining stock-still, as he marked the location of the next mine.

It took nearly fifty minutes to clear a way to the spot where the big block cut the passage to half. Bolan eyed the boulder, the slope beneath and all the other details as he contemplated turning things to his advantage. Prodding the man in the back, they retraced their footsteps to the Hog.

"Okay, Danny, cross your fingers and hope we did it right." Keeping his eye fixed on the critical path, Bolan gunned the motor and the Jeep shot up the slope. He got out of the vehicle, indicating the double-crossing native should do the same. Then he turned to Danny and said, "Take the Hog almost to the top, but stay below the skyline. Then cover it with the net and wait for me there."

"What are you going to do?"

Bolan picked up the silenced Uzi and pointed at the prisoner. "He's going to put all those mines back in the sand again, but in different places."

Danica Jones was not a smoker, not anymore. She'd quit a long time ago. But right at this moment she would gladly have lit up a cigarette. The unexpected violence of last night and the strain of the past hour had left her with the shakes inside. But I asked for it, Danny reminded herself, I wanted it this way... being close to death is the cost of feeling so fully alive.

It was another half hour before Bolan reappeared. He marched up the hill alone. For a minute she thought he might have let that wily bastard go, even though she knew in her heart what must have happened back there. "He should have kept his word to us," was all the explanation Bolan offered her. "He swore on his honor."

Together they walked to the top of the slope, crouching low as they slipped over the ridge. They had a panoramic view of Khurabi's Forbidden Zone stretched out below them.

The actual distance down the far side of the Jebel Kharg was greater than what they'd climbed up to get here, but the slope descended less steeply.

Camels, traders and their miserable human cargo of slaves had, over so many years, beaten a track that was easy to follow. It cut across the hillside diagonally, disappearing through a forest of sandstone boulders, then dipped through a ravine leading all the way down to the desert floor beyond.

Sand, millions of tons of it blown from the Empty Quarter, washed up here like rolling waves upon ancient shores of the Jebel Kharg. Bolan said nothing as he searched the terrain sector by sector. Far away to their right, sunlight twinkled briefly on the windshield of a car or truck using Khurabi's only interior highway; but even through his powerful binoculars it was nothing more than a momentary flash. The road, which Grimaldi had picked as the only feasible landing site, squeezed past the terminal shoulder of the jebel and the oil fields ranged along the frontier. It was a natural bottleneck that would be watched right and day.

Bolan knew he was right to have chosen the more difficult track into this inaccessible region, despite the problems they had run into on the way.

He scanned left slowly, looking for any movement or sign of the patrols that Hassan was bound to have dispatched. The desert lay absolutely still, waiting to be hammered by the full force of the midday sun.

Finally, slightly to the left of their present position, he focused on a small irregularity poking up amid the distant dunes. "Take a look over there," he told Danny, handing her the field glasses.

"Hagadan? Is that the fortress?"

"It's in the right spot. How far off would you say that is?"

"Oh, twenty miles at least." Bolan dusted himself off. "Let's get going. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

Only when she turned back, squinting into the harsh glare, did Danny fully appreciate the wisdom of Bolan's wilderness route to Hagadan. From this angle the sun would be rising behind them all morning. Prying eyes would not choose to look directly along their line of approach.

Bolan stripped off the camouflage covering and left Danny to repack it. He rearranged the gear in the back of the Hog, opening the long wooden crate and lifting out the M-60.

Chandler had engineered a special mount for the machine gun. It took Bolan only a few moments to slot the support column into its base. Danny wondered what that nosy customs officer would have said... there was no disguising their intentions now: they were going off to war.

They were halfway down the far side of the jebel when Bolan started talking. "I won't kill a man merely because of what he believes in. Even if I think he's misguided, perverse or just plain mad, that's his affair." The suddenness with which Bolan launched into these reflections of his past life certainly surprised Danica Jones. But she remained silent. "But when a person, an organization or even a country starts to cause havoc in the name of those beliefs — when they torture anyone who doesn't happen to agree with them, maim the children, murder the innocent — that's when they become the enemies of decency, order and humanity. And that's when they become my enemies, too."

Danny listened carefully. He did not seem to be offering her any excuses or simply trying to justify what had happened in the past few hours; rather she sensed that he needed to paint an overall picture for her. He was letting her know more precisely what she was involved in. And why he tried to help others despite the incredible risks to his own life.

"I will defend myself, those I care for and the values of freedom — I'll defend them to the death!" This was not a hollow boast but a plain statement of fact. "I took no pleasure in killing those guys back there. I admire the bedu. But that man and his sons were double-crossing thieves who intended to murder us. Like I said — he called the play and made it 'them or us.'" He paused to navigate between two jagged outcrops. "I didn't come here to Khurabi because I hate Islam and think it should be put down. I don't. There are many things worthy of deep and abiding respect in the Muslim world. The Koran sets out a harsh code not one that I could easily live by — but if a man wishes to follow it in peace, okay, then I wish him luck..." Bolan's eyes had a distant look. Was he scanning for trouble ahead of them? Or was he remembering another time, another place, another battle? "Some of the bravest men I ever had the privilege of fighting alongside were Tarik Khan and his mujahedeen in the mountains of Afghanistan. No, I won't go on a mission, knowing that men will probably die, just because they worship Allah."

He glanced across at her. Danny gazed back into those pale blue eyes, awed by the strength of his commitment as she now perceived the broader perspectives of the Executioner's endless war.

"There was a journalist once, back in Nam, who tried to write me up as some sort of commie-hating psychotic. Well, I don't hate anyone for merely believing in Marx or Lenin — although, considering their theories have been thoroughly discredited by the events of this century, I'd certainly have to say their faith was misplaced."

Danny had to smile at this last remark. She'd come across several true believers in the Marxist-Leninist line at university.

She had heard otherwise intelligent professors, often indulging in the most affluent of lifestyles, mouthing all the usual platitudes of communist brotherhood. Her thoughts were interrupted as Bolan continued. "But it's in the name of those same beliefs — even masquerading them as a scientific theory — that the Soviets have murdered, what, thirty or forty million people... in their war to first seize power, by a deliberate policy of famine, in slave labor camps, in the treacherous way they conducted themselves both with and then against Hitler, through surrogate terrorist armies, and now with the rape of Afghanistan... The list of their atrocities is endless.

"But their goal is simple: they have to dominate the whole world. They've warned us on enough occasions that that's what they're up to — it's our own fault if we don't listen. And that's what makes the Soviets, not the ordinary Russian man in the street, my enemies. Particularly the KGB. I oppose them because of the horror they inflict in the name of their outmoded beliefs."

Danny recalled the nightmare scenes she had witnessed in Southeast Asia and knew that in his worldwide campaigns Bolan must have seen ten times worse.

"It's the same now with Hassan Zayoud. I don't care if he kneels five times a day toward Mecca. It has always seemed obvious to me that this power, this universal life force we call God must, by definition, be beyond our own limited comprehension."

"Of course," agreed Danny. The detailed study she had made of the past had led her to much the same conclusion. "I'm sure that the great religions are all worshiping different facets of the same limitless source — each formulating their faith in different ways."

"Exactly," said Bolan. "But Zayoud wants to be the new Sword of Islam, spreading his personal beliefs in a bloody Crescent Revolution — and to do that he'll kidnap kids or gather an army of hired killers, build a bomb or murder his own brother, given half a chance. When he ordered his men to snatch Kevin Baker in Florida, Hassan Zayoud called down a sentence upon himself with that action. That's where I come in... Hey, talking of enemy troops, look at that dust!"