“Right here, exactly as requested,” the bald Red Star agent said, extending the briefcase. “As you requested—one hundred million in German bearer bonds, one hundred million in cut diamonds and an electronic deposit card for three hundred million in United States dollars.”
“Check the card, Professor,” Armanjani said.
“Yes, General,” Khandis replied, handing his briefcase to the major. He felt silly using the fake rank and name, but then science was based on knowing the truth, while most business transactions were precisely the opposite.
Opening his own briefcase, the bald Chinese agent extracted a black card and passed it over. Pulling a compact scanner from his pocket, Khandis took the card and ran it through the slot. The indicator lights blinked twice, then a chime sounded.
“It’s real, General,” Khandis said.
Armanjani smiled slightly. “Give him the rest, please.”
“No, we want your briefcase first.”
Nervously, Khandis looked at the major.
“Do it,” he said in an even tone.
“Here are the mechanical blueprints, mathematical formulas and electrical schematics,” Khandis said, offering the briefcase.
The bald Red Star agent frowned. “The plans?” he demanded in a low voice. “We expected the command codes for the actual weapon!”
“That was not part of the deal,” Armanjani growled, hooking both thumbs into his belt.
The mature agent smiled. “But it is now.”
“We negotiated for the plans only.”
“Things change, Arab.”
“Unacceptable!”
“Ah, but we will pay twice what you asked for!”
“No!”
“Three times…four!”
Two billion U.S. dollars was a vast sum, but the major wasn’t to be swayed by mere numbers. “Money is not the concern. You violated the contract,” he growled. “Go home. We will now sell the Scimitar to somebody else.”
“Idiot! You’ll give everything to us right now!” the bald Red Star agent shouted, thrusting out both hands. Instantly, a pair of slim Norinco .22 automatic pistols slapped into his palms from inside the sleeves.
“Now, do as you’re told,” he said with a sneer, cocking both hammers, “and maybe you’ll live long enough to fuck another camel, eh?”
“As you command, you filthy…yellow dog,” Armanjani whispered, folding his arms.
Instantly, they heard the report of a high-powered rifle, and the armed Red Star agent spun, his pistols firing wildly as red blood gushed from a hideous neck wound.
As the major and the doctor dove for cover behind a low dune, the dying Red Star agent tried to raise a pistol with a blood-streaked hand, and the distant sniper rifle sounded again. This time, his head erupted into chunks, teeth sailing away to patter into a shallow tidal pool.
Grinning widely, Khandis scrambled for the Chinese man’s briefcase, but Armanjani tackled him and rolled away fast into the cresting waves. A split second later, the briefcase detonated, the assorted contents hurtling skyward on a searing column of burning thermite. Even yards away, the wave of heat forced the other man back.
“We must save the diamonds!” Khandis cried out, an arm covering his face.
While Khandis crawled for the ocean, Armanjani pushed aside a clump of seaweed to dig into the soft sand and extract a plastic food container containing a 9 mm Tariq pistol and spare magazines.
On the other side of the peninsula, a dozen heavily armed soldiers poured out of the Z-10 helicopter, their QBZ assault rifles firing steadily. They only got a few yards before there was an answering barrage from the ocean as ten Ophiuchus solders in scuba suits rose from the waves, the M-16/M-203 assault rifle combos in their hands now free of the sealed plastic bags that kept out the saltwater.
As the Chinese soldiers dropped into defensive positions, the Ophiuchus troops cut loose with a full barrage of 40 mm shells. The combination of HE, thermite, white phosphorous and depleted uranium slugs rocked the helicopter hard, punching soup-can-size holes in the composite armor of the fuselage and shattering the windows. Riddled with lead, the dying pilot instinctively tried to lift off. The Pratt & Whitney engines roared with power, which only made the ruptured fuel lines ignite and catch fire.
Suddenly, two more Z-10 helicopters appeared in the distance, their 30 mm nose cannons spitting flame.
In response, a dozen more Ophiuchus troops appeared along the sloping deck of the abandoned ship, their arms cradling Stinger missile launchers. As the incoming 30 mm rounds stitched a path across the sandy shoreline, the Ophiuchus troops launched their Stingers.
Accelerating to nearly mach 2, the deadly American antiaircraft missiles streaked across the sky to converge on the hot engines of the armored Z-10 helicopters like avenging bloodhounds. The combined detonations illuminated half the sky with smoky fire, the burning wrecks tumbling into the warm Atlantic, trailing fuel and oil.
In retaliation, a rain of grenades flew from the Chinese soldiers, the beach erupting in hammering explosions.
Without expression, Armanjani advanced on the enemy troops, firing slowly and steadily. Faces disappeared in bloody explosions of brains and bone until the rest broke ranks and ran behind the burning Z-10 for cover.
“Blue dog, green dog,” Armanjani whispered into the concealed throat mike.
Once more a full salvo of Stinger missiles lanced from the corroded ship, and the missiles slammed into the destroyed Z-10 with devastating force, the tattered bodies of the Chinese soldiers flying into the ocean or slamming against the rocky face of the low cliff.
“Check the bodies. Kill any survivors!” Armanjani commanded over his throat mike, the 9 mm Tariq firing into the broken corpses to make sure all of them were deceased.
“We should have known it was impossible to trust the Chinese,” Khandis muttered, ripping open his shirt to inspect his body armor. “This was supposed to be a business deal, nothing more!” There were several gray lumps on the smooth black material, two of them directly above his heart, the rest in a ragged line across his stomach. He had abandoned the idea of trying to find the diamonds.
“Communists take everything personally,” Armanjani replied, pausing in the executions to reload.
“Then they simply take everything!”
“That is their way, yes.”
“So what now, sir? Must we deal with the Saudis?”
“No! They will not do business with us anymore,” the major said with a pronounced note of annoyance. “They will assume that we have sold the weapon to the Chinese and now are trying to sell the Scimitar again.” He paused, fumbling for the correct phrase.
“Double dip?” Khandis suggested.
The major smiled. “As you say, double dip.”
“What should we do now?” Khandis asked.
Walking to a moaning Chinese soldier, Armanjani used his boot to push the wounded man over, then shot him in the face. “We go home,” he said, holstering the pistol.
“I meant about the sale, sir,” Khandis persisted. “Do we try the Russians again, or perhaps the Japanese?”
“After that earthquake they do not have the funds to purchase anything, much less a weapon system.” Armanjani scowled, looking over the battleground. “No, we will have to try somebody else. Perhaps the United Nations.”
“The United Nations?” Khandis gasped. “But sir, they do not negotiate with terrorists!”
“Perhaps this will be an exce
ption.” Armanjani laughed, starting back for the Black Hawk, his boots sinking deep into the soft golden sand.
Swampfox Firebase, Alabama
DRAWING BOTH OF HIS HANDGUNS, Kirkland took a position behind the living-room sofa, his weapons trained on the closed front door.
“Get dressed!” Bolan snapped, swinging around the XM-25 and going to the shaking window.
“Why?” Emily pleaded. “What can you possibly do that will—”
Interrupting the emotional torrent, Montenegro slapped the rattled woman across the face with the flat of her hand. With a cry, Emily hit the bed in a sprawl, her eyes wide.
“We are here to help you,” Montenegro said firmly, as if speaking to a child. “Now, do as we say, and you’ll dance on his grave. Sound good?”
Rubbing her stinging cheek, Emily mutely nodded.
“Then please get dressed like the man said,” Montenegro instructed her, pulling out a 9 mm Glock pistol. “But take this first!”
Looking as if she were being given the fabled Ark of the Covenant, the woman accepted the weapon, then surprised everybody by dropping the magazine to check the load.
Opening the window a couple of inches, Bolan aimed the grenade launcher at the building across the street. Stroking the trigger, the Executioner sent a 25 mm shell streaking down to detonate violently on the front door of the armory.
A maelstrom of wood chips and smoke blew across the green, and a moment later a snarling pitbull surged out of the building, closely followed by another, then six German shepherds, and finally a motley pack of assorted breeds.
“I would have preferred the 18,” Emily said, a faint smile on her lips, sliding the magazine back into place and working the slide to chamber a round for immediate use.
“Ah, the woman of my dreams!” Kirkland chuckled, his full attention on the door. His first urge was to block the door with some furniture. There certainly was enough in the room to do a good job. But until they decided on a course of action, it was more important to maintain the ability to stay mobile than it was to dig in.
Casting the big man a furtive glance, Emily then scrambled out of the bed and rushed to a closet. With no concern for the others present, she stripped and quickly donned a mottled-green Swampfox uniform.
Charging out of the barracks, a large group of men carrying M-16 assault rifles stopped in their tracks at the sight of the slavering dogs. A few of the Swampfox guards drew weapons and started shooting, but the rest broke ranks and pelted madly back into the barracks. Choosing their targets, the pack of dogs separated and ruthlessly attacked, jumping on the armed men and driving them down to the street, then ripping out throats, and moving on to the next victim.
In the bright streetlights, Bolan could now see the scars on the backs of the animals where they’d been regularly whipped to make them more aggressive. Bad move, guys, he thought in cold irony.
Buckling a canvas gun belt around her waist, Emily tucked the Glock into place, then grabbed a pair of old sneakers.
“Better wear these,” Montenegro suggested, tossing her a pair of U.S. Army combat boots that had been on the floor.
“Anything but those,” Emily replied, lacing the sneakers on tightly. “The boots have an electronic tracking dot hidden inside the heel.”
“Old Edgar doesn’t miss a trick, does he?” Bolan said thoughtfully, firing another round into the second floor of the armory. As the glass windows exploded, more dogs came charging out of the front door, howling, yipping and snarling, looking eagerly for their unseen tormentors.
“Fifteen years ago Edgar was pumping gas at his uncle’s service station. Now he’s worth billions of dollars and guards kings,” Emily said, buttoning her cuffs. “So you tell me…whatever your names are.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Bolan growled, this time firing a shell into the front door of the barracks.
The blast ripped the door off the hinges to sail away. Sensing a weak point, the circling pack of dogs charged into the barracks, howling for blood. Men cursed and dogs barked as assault rifles chattered away steadily, the bright muzzle-flashes illuminating the darkness in flickering strobes.
Unexpectedly, searchlights flashed into operation, the blindingly bright beams sweeping along the carnage-filled streets of the compound. Bolan used his last few shells to take them out, and the protective mantle of darkness returned.
“There are probably more 25 mm shells in the armory,” Montenegro suggested with little interest. “If you want to give it a try.”
“Rather stick my face in a lawnmower,” Bolan said, casting away the exhausted weapon. He was down to the Desert Eagle and the Beretta now.
“Any weapons in here?” Kirkland asked hopefully, glancing over a shoulder.
“Where I might find them?” Emily laughed. “Good God, no! There aren’t even any knives in the kitchen! This apartment is a prison cell, nothing more.”
“Edgar Barrington slept in a prison cell?” Montenegro said slowly, testing the words. “No, that’s bullshit.”
“Where’s the secret exit?” Bolan demanded, squeezing off a couple of rounds at the men on the green. As blood gushed from their wounds, the dogs went into a frenzy, and converged to tear the dying men apart. At the grisly sight, the rest of the Swampfox guards turned and ran.
“The what?” Emily scowled, her beautiful face distorted into a monstrous grimace. “Trust me, there isn’t one!”
Holstering both of his guns, Kirkland shoved the sofa firmly against the door to the apartment, then threw the dead bolt. “Let’s see, shall we?”
Ignoring the closet where Emily had gotten her clothes, Montenegro went across the bedroom to a second door and stepped aside before pulling it open. As she’d expected, a shotgun roared, the blast hammering the opposite wall with deadly stainless-steel fléchettes. Cracked plaster fell off in chunks, exposing the splintered wood slats underneath.
“The man does like shotguns,” Montenegro muttered, carefully removing the weapon from the clamp holding it in place.
“Edgar says that shotguns are manly,” Emily said in a mocking tone.
“Just more proof that the man genuinely has shit for brains,” Kirkland stated, glancing along the painfully neat rows of hanging shirts, pants and jackets. “The toughest guy I ever knew once took out an entire biker gang with a rolling pin.”
“It was a baseball bat,” Bolan corrected, staying alert by the window. Something was going on down there. Dogs were still barking, but the voices of the men seemed less frightened, and the random gunfire was taking on a measured quality. Almost as if they were trying to lure the intruders out of hiding by pretending the base was still in a panic.
“The shit is about to hit the fan,” Bolan said. “We need that exit, Heather.”
“Give me a minute,” Montenegro replied slowly, concentrating on the details of the closet, looking for anything that seemed to be out of place. At first, there didn’t seem to be anything odd or off-kilter, and that was when she noticed a bookshelf built into the wall. There were ten hardbacks, each of them a classic military tome: The Art of War by Sun Tzu, Caesar’s Gaelic Wars, all six volumes of The Gathering Storm by Winston Churchill, and a single novel, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas.
“Now, what is an adventure story about a daring escape doing among all of these military volumes?” Montenegro muttered, pulling out the book.
The plaster wall behind it was blank, but on a hunch she gently pressed it with a fingertip.
There was a subtle click, and a section of the closet floor swung away to reveal a dark opening.
“Houston, we have lift-off,” Montenegro said hesitantly, shining a flashlight into the shadowy passage.
“Do…do you mean to tell me that’s been here the whole time?” Emily asked incredulously, a hand going to her throat.
“Apparently so,” Montenegro replied, studying the access ladder bolted to the side of the passage. She tried to see the bottom, but it was beyond the reach of her halogen beam. Then a subtle movement in the darkness below caught her attention, and Montenegro desperately threw herself backward to land outside the closet.
A split second later, a roaring column of fire rose from the darkness below to splash across the ceiling, and the entire apartment was filled with the telltale stink of jellied gasoline.
“Hello, my love!” a man shouted from the darkness. “Who are your new friends? FBI? NSA? You’re certainly not smart enough to find the escape chute by yourself!”
“Eat shit and die, Edgar!” Emily screamed, rising shakily to her feet.
Grabbing her by the collar, Bolan dragged the enraged woman behind the aquarium tank. Kirkland and Montenegro were already there, stuffing sofa cushions under the raised platform.
Rising into view from the opening in the floor came the fluted barrel of a military M1A flamethrower, the tiny blue flame of the pre-burner hissing steadily. A pair of hands wearing thermal gloves were on the control levers. For a long moment, nothing happened, then the lights went out.
“Surrender, and I guarantee your lives!” Barrington called. “Release my wife, and you can live!”
“I’m not a prisoner,” Emily screamed back, spittle flying from her mouth. “It’s a rescue, not a kidnapping, you moron!” Her words hung in the air for long minutes, the silence almost deafening.
“Then it’s time to die, bitch!” Barrington screamed, raising the wand higher.
Stepping quickly to the side, Bolan fired the Desert Eagle around the aquarium. The gun boomed, and Barrington shrieked in pain, a glove spurting blood as it jerked out of sight.
Fireburst Page 24