Fireburst

by Don Pendleton

  Moving fast, the major and the others charged down the main hallway just before the stacked belts of .50-caliber ammunition started cooking off, a stuttering barrage of wild bullets zinging everywhere.

  Only seconds later, the personal ammunition carried by the terrorists did the same thing, exploding inside their guns and pockets. Bloody chunks of raw flesh were blown around in a ghastly abandonment.

  “Black dog!” Armanjani yelled, scrambling up a steep flight of curved stairs.

  Reloading as they ran, the three members of Ophiuchus ignored the second floor and continued to the third. Briefly, they ran across the exposed span of another bridge, and then directly into the private sleeping quarters of the former president of Iraq.

  Easing their steps, the three of them slipped past the rows of barren guest quarters to reach the master bedroom and proceeded directly to the small linen closet.

  While the others warily stood guard, Armanjani pushed open the door and fumbled along the top shelf. Unless his memory was wrong, it had to be here somewhere. It had to! In the distance, more ammunition detonated, and the machine gun briefly sputtered into action.

  Finding the hidden switch, the major pressed it three times, and a section of the wall moved aside to reveal a steel pole. Grabbing the pole, he slid down into the darkness.

  The descent took a lot longer than he remembered, and it seemed impossibly long before Armanjani hit the floor of the sub-basement. Landing in a crouch, he instantly stepped aside. A moment later, Nasser arrived, closely followed by Hassan.

  As the sergeant landed, they heard three fast clicks, and the entire length of the pole suddenly jutted razor-sharp blades. With a gasp, Hassan jerked his hands clear.

  “I told you to move fast,” Armanjani reminded him harshly.

  “Yes, sir, you did,” Sgt. Hassan panted, rubbing his undamaged palms, but unable to remove his eyes from the shimmering display of edged blades. There was a single drop of red blood on one, and he checked to find a finger nicked. That had been close.

  Going to an open passageway, Nasser eased into the darkness, only to reappear a minute later.

  “Clear,” she announced.

  Assuming the lead, Armanjani surged forward, making sure that he never removed his hand from the left wall. The antiradiation maze twisted and turned countless times through total darkness before there was a distant haze of light that grew steadily brighter.

  Stepping into bright sunlight, the three people quickly scanned the ruins of a large greenhouse, but they seemed to be alone. The plastic windows, designed to withstand the worst possible sandstorm, were intact, but sandblasted dead-white, so that it was impossible to see what lay outside. Dust hung heavy in the air, and they stirred up small clouds shuffling past the rows of empty shelves and ornate pots. Dead plants lay underfoot, and their boots softly crunched on the desiccated foliage.

  “Sir, why did we not simply go back out the front door?” Hassan asked in a terse whisper.

  “Didn’t you see the man on the balcony activate a remote control?” Nasser demanded impatiently. “What else could it have been but an antipersonnel device?”

  “And where would you place such a thing?” Armanjani asked, peeking around an ornate column to check the next wing of the huge greenhouse.

  “Front door, the exact way we got in,” Hassan replied tightly. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Not to worry, old friend,” Armanjani said, glancing at the hulking goliath. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Continuing on through the dusty buildings, the trio finally reached the last structure. Creeping along the sandy floor, they dimly heard voices discussing the battle.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Give them another few minutes?”

  “Let me finish this cigar first, eh?”

  “Fair enough. Got one for me?”

  “Of course!”

  Rising in unison, the members of Ophiuchus aimed at the unseen enemy on the other side of the white plastic and fired in unison. The plastic windowpanes splintered under the furious assault, and several men screamed in pain, then went silent.

  Kicking open the flimsy door, Armanjani moved out of the greenhouse with the others in flanking positions. A dozen bodies were sprawled on the sand, a few of the men still alive and choking on their own blood.

  Parked nearby were a pair of Cadillac SUVs, the engines softly purring. The closest vehicle was missing all of the tinted windows along one side, and a corpse, missing most of his face, was slumped over the steering wheel. The second SUV was undamaged, the driver’s door open, the man running for his life along the bank of the lake.

  Taking careful aim, Armanjani stroked the trigger of his gun, and the fleeing man flipped over sideways to splash into the water.

  With Nasser standing guard, Hassan used his 9 mm Tariq to shoot everybody on the ground twice in the face just to make sure they were dead.

  Yanking open the door to the intact SUV, Armanjani wasn’t surprised to find an old man huddled on the floor in the rear compartment.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” he begged, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  Blowing the man away, Armanjani hauled out the body, then removed the corpse’s white kaffiyeh to mop the fresh blood off the leather seats.

  “Think there are any more hidden about?” Hassan asked, reloading the pistol.

  “No, they were overconfident,” Nasser said with a sneer as if that was the worst crime it was possible to commit.

  Checking the trunk of the first Cadillac, the major found only the shipping case for the .50-caliber machine gun and some spare belts of ammunition. Useless. However, the other SUV contained extra fuel, military rations and a small arsenal of handguns, assault rifles and ammunition. But there was no money. The major stiffened in rage. Obviously, al Qaeda had never planned on paying for the weapon, even if a deal could have been reached. How could he have been so foolish as to trust them?

  Slamming the hatch closed, Armanjani glanced across the lake to see that the abandoned palace was on fire, red flames licking out the shattered windows to slowly expand along the balconies.

  “That secret exit was why you chose this palace for the meeting. Am I right, sir?” Nasser asked unexpectedly.

  “Knowing where to fight is half the battle,” Armanjani replied, holstering his weapon. “All right, let’s go.”

  As Hassan got behind the wheel, Nasser took the passenger seat and Armanjani climbed into the rear, carefully avoiding the damp patch of sticky leather.

  Taking a minute to familiarize himself with the controls of the new vehicle, Hassan then turned on the air conditioner and slowly drove away, following the double set of tire tracks in the sand.

  “What now, sir?” he asked, turning onto the access road and accelerating. A wide dust cloud rose behind the speeding vehicle that soon obscured the view of the burning palace.

  “We return to base and try to find more reasonable customers,” Armanjani replied, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket.

  Nasser scowled. “Sir, what if we can’t find any reasonable customers, just more dogs like these fat fools?”

  “Then we create some,” the major said, pulling out a cell phone to start thumbing a text message.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Washington, D.C.

  Tugging his necktie loose, Hal Brognola used the heels of his palms to rub his eyes, and the
n poured himself yet another cup of strong black coffee from an insulated carafe. Only a few drops came out, so he rose from behind the desk and crossed the office to start making a fresh pot.

  The office was orderly and neat, the walls decorated with pictures of his wife and children and law-enforcement certificates. His suit jacket was hung across the back of a chair, and an old police-issue .38 revolver was holstered at the small of his back. The grip was worn from decades of use in the field, and long hours at the shooting range every weekend. It had been a while since Brognola had drawn a weapon, but he knew that when the need arose there would be no advance warning.

  The big Fed returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee. Tapping some keys on a keyboard, Brognola reviewed the fact sheet he had been assembling for Mack Bolan and the President on lightning. The voltage and wattage widely varied, but generally they were around a hundred-million volts, which was more than enough to kill a bull elephant, much less a human being. The earth was hit by roughly 50,000 lightning bolts a year, and an average 3,000 people died every year from being struck.

  Single-strike, multistrike, forked, chain, sheet, sprite, elves, trolls, Brognola hadn’t heard of half of the forms of lightning bolts he’d researched, and he had been startled to discover the old joke about a bolt from the blue was horrifyingly true. Blue lightning could arc in from five miles away. The sky would be perfectly clear, the wind calm, and a split second later you were a pile of ash in the grass.

  “Good night, Chief!” his secretary, Kelly, called out from the other side of the office door. “See you tomorrow!”

  “Drive safely!” Brognola answered back, casting a nervous glance out the window at the cloudy sky. It wasn’t raining in D.C. yet, but it would soon, at which point all bets were off.

  On top of everything else, the list of possible targets hit by these snake charmers, as they used to call people who claimed to be able to make it rain, was getting longer all the time, and the death toll was rising faster than Brognola could keep track of. At first, it was mostly meteorologists and weather scientists. Now, it was financial experts, bank computers and underworld informers. Obviously, the snake charmers were systematically clearing the way for when they came out of the shadows.

  “That’s when the blood will really hit the fan,” Brognola said softly, starting to drink from his mug, only to find it empty once more.

  Suddenly, an alarm began beeping. A new icon was spinning on the monitor. He double-clicked, and it expanded into a view of the President of the United States sitting at his desk in the Oval Office.

  “Good evening, Hal,” the President said, pulling his hand back from a keyboard. Then he frowned. “Although, to be honest, I don’t think that it’s going to be very good for either of us now.”

  “What has happened, sir?” Brognola asked.

  “First, allow me to apologize,” the President said, running both hands through his black hair. “I didn’t believe in your theory of terrorists using lightning, but now…”

  “What was hit?”

  Tapping some keys, the President sighed. “See for yourself, my friend.”

  The view of the Oval Office reduced to a small rectangle in the corner, the rest of the screen shifting to an outside view of military base in the desert. Dark, jagged mountains filled the horizon.

  “Five-Star, this is Fireball Forward!” a colonel shouted into a handmike while trying to hold his cap on top of his head against a stiff wind.

  In the background were rows of Buffaloes and Hummers, a score of 4x6 trucks, a dozen Abrams tanks and two Black Hawk gunships. The Hummers were equipped with light machine guns, while the much bulkier Buffaloes were actually armed with .50-caliber machine guns. A burst from those would flip over a Hummer, but not even shake the road dust off an armored Buffalo.

  “This is Five-Star,” a voice stated. “Go ahead Fireball, we read you loud and clear!”

  Brognola grunted at that. Five-Star was the code this month for the Pentagon.

  “Five-Star, we’ve found the enemy camp,” the colonel shouted, the wind kicking up dust clouds. Soldiers were running for cover as the buffeted trucks rocked slightly. “But we had to take cover—there is a major sandstorm coming this way!”

  Just then, lightning flashed across the sky, painfully bright even on the laptop monitor, and the picture scrambled for a few seconds from the accompanying electromagnetic burst.

  Leaning forward, Brognola held his breath. Please guys, start running, he silently urged.

  “Say again, Fireball?” the Pentagon demanded.

  “Sandstorm!” the colonel bellowed as, in the background, the horizon rose like a wave at sea.

  Billowing and churning, the stormfront swept toward the army battalion. In only a matter of seconds it engulfed the makeshift base and visibility was reduced to only a few feet.

  A deafening howl dominated the picture as dozens of soldiers were slammed to the ground, and every loose item was sent hurtling about into the turbulent brown air. Then lightning flashed, and a truck exploded, the concussion slamming other trucks aside and sending a dozen men flying away into the building storm.

  “Say again, Fireball, where is your location?” the Pentagon operator demanded, the volume bar sliding all the way to maximum. “Do you need assistance?”

  The colonel said something about northern mountains when the lightning appeared again, going straight into the open hatch of an Abrams tank. The armored machine seemed to bulge outward for a moment before erupting, the hellish corona of shrapnel, corpses and broken machinery spraying outward to decimate a group of soldiers and flip over both of the Black Hawks.

  “Get in those caves,” Brognola whispered, both hands clenched into fists.

  Again and again, the lightning lanced out, destroying one tank after another, then the bolts began walking along the ground, leaving behind rivers of steaming lava. Screaming soldiers burst into flames, their weapons discharging, grenades mercifully ending their ghastly torment.

  Feeling physically ill, Brognola wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch, filing away every detail of the savage attack. It lasted less than five minutes, then the lightning abruptly stopped, and there was only the howling wind. The dry sand quickly covering the tattered remains of what had once been a full battalion of men and women.

  “Fireball, respond!” the Pentagon demanded. “Is there anybody still alive? Hello, is anybody there?” But the only response was the howling wind and the crackle of countless small fires.

  The view froze and shrank, as the President returned.

  “When did this happen?” Brognola asked, flexing his hands.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” the President stated grimly, sitting back in his chair. “Search and Rescue teams are already on the way, but there’s little hope of finding anybody alive.”

  “After that? I would hardly think so,” Brognola replied, fighting a rising wave of helplessness. An entire battalion destroyed in five minutes. Five minutes!

  “Have you made any progress on finding these people? Or at least what they want?” the President asked. “These attacks are coming more and more often, and at bigger targets. Soon they’ll start on cities, and then…” His voice trailed off, his face a mask of repressed fury. “We have got to do something!”

  “Our best man is in the field, sir,” Brognola said. “But Striker hasn’t reported anything so far.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “There’s not much to go on yet, s
ir. It’s all happening so damn fast! These snake charmers…I mean…”

  The President held up a palm. “I understand the reference, Hal. It helps to give the enemy a name, that makes them less intimidating.”

  Brognola scowled. “Anyway, sir, these snake charmers have obviously planned out every detail far in advance, including all of our possible responses.”

  “Are there any preventive actions we can take?”

  “Not at the moment. This isn’t some fanatic with a truckload of dynamite,” Brognola continued. “These are cool, calculating professionals. Right now, we’re still just trying to catch up!”

  “Accepted,” the President said. “Granting the assumption that we fail to ascertain their ultimate goals, what happens then?”

  Unexpectedly, thunder rumbled overhead.

  “They win,” Brognola stated in brutal honesty, as a soft rain began to patter against the window panes.

  Miami, Florida

  THE SUN WAS WARM ON THEIR faces as Bolan and Kirkland strolled along the boardwalk, the air full of the smell of saltwater mixing with delicious aromas wafting from nearby Cuban and French restaurants.

  A steady stream of cars zoomed along the shorefront highway while crystal-blue waves crested on a smooth white shore. Colorful beach umbrellas dotted the sand like psychedelic mushrooms, the small circles of shadow mostly empty, aside from the very young or the very old. The dichotomy of beachlife encapsulated.

  There were numerous families playing in the shallows, while small children built sand castles. Standing alert on a centrally located wooden tower, a burly lifeguard dabbed zinc oxide on his nose to prevent unsightly peeling.

  Teams of armed police officers in T-shirts, shorts and sneakers, pedaled their speed bikes along the boardwalk, voices crackling from the compact radios clipped to their gun belts. Safely out of the way, a group of muscular young men lifted weights in the glare of the noon sun, while countless dozens of young women in bikinis lounged on oversized towels and spread suntan lotion on their bare skin in a lazy, almost sensuous manner.