Assault

by Don Pendleton

  "I'm not anticipating a career move," Bolan told him.

  "No, I didn't think you were."

  The two-man flight had taken off from Haifa, courtesy of the Israeli military, with a flight plan filed for Lemesos, on Cyprus. Halfway there, Grimaldi took the Cessna down below the normal radar level, veering east to cross the coast of Lebanon between Beirut and Al-Batrun. So far, except for certain startled farmers, no one seemed to be aware of the intrusion. There was only silence on their radio, but Bolan and Grimaldi kept their eyes peeled for a fighter escort, just in case.

  The warrior shifted in his seat, weighed down with parachutes and gear essential for survival on the ground in Lebanon. There wasn't room for him to sit up front beside Grimaldi, but he kept in contact with the feisty pilot via mike and headphones.

  "Ten," Grimaldi said without enthusiasm, marking off the minutes left until they reached the drop zone.

  "Roger."

  "Seems to me a couple loads of paraquat could do this job just fine," Grimaldi muttered. "Zap the poppies, put the ranchers out of business. End of story."

  "Right. Except you'd have a military incident, for starters, and we'd have to use the scattergun approach — spray everything, including food crops — since we wouldn't get a second chance. Much misery, my friend, and bad press up to the eyeballs."

  "Screw the press, okay? You think there won't be one hellacious military incident if someone bags you on the ground? That won't look good for Uncle Sammy."

  "It's been taken care of," Bolan told him. "Plausible deniability. The cover story marks me as a free-lance mercenary. If they break that down… well, everybody knows that I'm a wild card."

  "Damn. That stinks."

  "It works," The Executioner replied. "Besides, I hadn't planned on getting caught."

  "Like Syria?"

  The comment took his mind back to another desert mission in the Middle East, when Bolan had been called upon to infiltrate a cult of assassins based in Syria. On that occasion, Bolan's cover had been blown, and he came close to losing everything before an air strike, with Grimaldi at the point, had saved his life. The memories of Syria were crystal clear that morning as they winged across the desert, but he refused to let them prey upon his mind.

  Some thirty-seven hours had elapsed since Bolan walked away from the Razmara compound. He'd been in touch with Jack Grimaldi on the morning after to arrange for transportation, kissing off the airline tickets he'd purchased under the Belasko alias. If anyone was watching for him at the Nicosia airport, Bolan wished them luck. His outbound flight had taken off from a secluded, private airstrip south of town, arranged through Brognola's connections with Mossad, the crack Israeli secret service.

  It hadn't been difficult to win cooperation from the brass in Israel. Bolan's mission was a no-loss situation for the leadership in Tel Aviv. If he succeeded, and the Bekaa Valley pipeline was destroyed, it was a telling blow against embattled Israel's enemies. If he should fail, the government was free to disavow connections with a foreigner who acted on his own initiative.

  "That's five," Grimaldi said. "You want to play it one more time?"

  "No point."

  He knew the details of the plan by heart, and talking through them was a waste of time. His drop zone was an isolated region on the western outskirts of the Bekaa Valley. Justice's connections in the CIA had made arrangements for a welcoming committee, members of the Christian underground that waged unceasing war against Islamic terrorists and the narcotics traders. After touching base, it would be Bolan's job to win the rebels over, turn them into allies for the short duration of his mission. If it all worked out, if Bolan managed to survive, Grimaldi would be there to see him safely home.

  He spent a moment double-checking his equipment, starting with the main chute and reserve, the latter strapped across his chest. His rifle was an AK-47, manufactured by the Soviets and confiscated from a PLO commando in the Gaza Strip. His side arm was the same untraceable Beretta he'd used in Nicosia, with its silencer secured in a pocket of his desert camouflage fatigues. Besides the parachutes, he wore a rig of military webbing, pouches filled with extra magazines for both his guns, a fighting knife and Russian RGD-5 antipersonnel grenades secured to his harness. Nothing carried on his person would connect him with America or Israel if his luck ran out.

  "One minute."

  "Right."

  He pulled off the headset and rose on steady legs to reach the jump plane's exit on the starboard side. The sliding door gave no resistance, and he braced himself with both hands in the doorway, leaning out to scan the desert and the rolling hills below.

  The warrior took a last glance at Grimaldi. The pilot's lips were moving, but his voice was lost to Bolan in the roar of the wind. Thumbs-up for "Go," and Bolan tumbled forward into space, the sunbaked desert rushing up to meet him at a hundred miles per hour.

  There was an instant after Bolan pulled the rip cord when he wondered if his parachute would function. Then the canopy snapped open, swift deceleration tightening the harness straps against his armpits and his groin. He felt himself begin to drift, his shadow tracking northward on the desert floor. The warrior hauled against the risers, compensating for the wind that tried to carry him off course. It wouldn't be a pinpoint landing, but he didn't need precision this time out. The ballpark would be close enough.

  On impact Bolan folded at the knees and let momentum take him down. A stiff breeze caught his chute and tried to drag him, but he came up fighting, hauling on the shroud lines, reeling in the catch. When the warrior had pooled the silky material around him like a giant blossom, he hit the quick-release snaps on his harness, using the reserve chute and some handy stones to weight the whole thing down.

  A careful scan in each direction showed him nothing that would indicate pursuit — no rising dust clouds, racing vehicles or human silhouettes on the horizon. There was still a chance he might have been observed, perhaps from miles away, but any hunters on his track were safely out of range.

  He unpacked the aluminum entrenching tool, assembled it and dug a grave for his surplus gear. When he was finished with the pit, he dumped the parachutes, along with helmet, gloves and goggles, then covered the lot with fresh-turned earth. A layer of lighter sand disguised the excavation site. As a final precaution Bolan used a clump of brush, uprooted from a nearby rise, to whisk his tracks away. He dropped the folding shovel down an open burrow, kicked loose sand on top of it and worked the AK-47 off its shoulder sling.

  A brief examination of the weapon told him it would function on command. It had sustained no damage from the jump, and he ignored the layer of dust that had collected on the weapon's stock and barrel during touchdown. The Kalashnikov was built to function under harsh conditions, and its years of faithful service — from Siberia to Southeast Asia — had confirmed a reputation as the most reliable of modern rifles. Bolan had a live round in the firing chamber and the safety set as he struck off east-bound in the direction of the nearest hills.

  The Executioner knew the dangers posed by human adversaries well enough, and he spent the first full hour of his journey running down the snares prepared for him by Mother Nature. Heat and thirst would be the killers, and his two canteens would have to last until he found a spring or water hole. There were no predators of any size, but he'd have to watch for cobras, certain other vipers, even desert scorpions. The sun would help him there, as desert dwellers normally sought refuge from the midday heat, emerging to pursue their prey by night.

  And if his luck held out, he'd have made connections with his local contact well before the sun went down.

  He had a name — Chamoun — and little else to go on in regard to his intended contact. There had been no photographs on file, and the description in Chamoun's brief dossier might cover half the men in Lebanon. Appearances aside, his contact was the leader of a Christian «army» that had spent the better part of six years skirmishing with Shiite revolutionaries and narcotics dealers. In the Bekaa Valley, Bolan was advised,
the missionaries carried guns and weren't afraid to use them in defense of their particular beliefs.

  What sort of men made such a bleak and inhospitable terrain their home? What made them fight and die for sand and thorny scrub brush when they could have built a new life elsewhere?

  Bolan knew the answer going in. It was commitment, plain and simple — dedication to a cause, a place, whatever — that compelled a man to stand his ground instead of turning tail. It didn't matter in the long run whether they were fighting for a luscious garden or the far side of the moon, as long as it was home.

  America had learned that lesson from the Vietcong, and Russian troops had discovered the same in Afghanistan. The history of mankind was replete with similar examples, from the stoic Apache tribes to modern Israel. Home was where a warrior drew the line, to live in peace or die in the attempt.

  Bolan had been climbing over rugged ground for ninety minutes when a sudden pang of apprehension made him hesitate. The Executioner had no opinion on the controversy over ESP and psychics, but a lifetime on the firing line had taught him to respect his jungle instincts. They had saved his life on more than one occasion, and the old, familiar feeling — hackles rising as his skin began to crawl — told Bolan he was being watched.

  Before he tried to find the watcher, the warrior spent a precious moment seeking cover. On his right, a narrow gully had been carved by flash flood waters in some long-forgotten rainstorm. Years ago, perhaps, but it would serve him now if he was forced to ground by hostile fire.

  Pretending he had merely stopped to wipe his sweaty brow, the Executioner began a sweep of the surrounding landscape, easing off the safety on his automatic rifle. Rocky earth reflected heat and made him squint, a traveler in search of landmarks. Still, the weapons that he carried would betray him to an enemy on sight.

  He nearly missed the movement, subtle as it was, but on the cautious double take he spied a gunman, lying prone between two boulders fifty yards up the slope. Another sheltered in the shadow of an outcrop on the right, his weapon trained on Bolan's silhouette. Between them, rising from the spot where he had hidden up to now, a third man showed himself deliberately, blocking Bolan's path.

  The Executioner took stock of his position, keen ears picking up the sound of boot heels scuffling on stone behind him. Thirty yards? One man, if he was any judge of sound, but he couldn't afford to turn and thereby lose the three in front of him.

  These might have been his contacts, but he didn't think so. There was something in their attitude that set his teeth on edge, alerting him to mortal danger. Even so, there was a recognition signal, and he felt obliged to try it.

  "Arms alone are not enough to keep the peace," he said, and waited for the other half of the remark by John F. Kennedy. His standing adversary seemed confused to hear himself addressed in English, and he glanced beyond the spot where Bolan stood, eyes seeking out the gunner who was closing up on the Executioner's flank.

  It was enough. His finger tightened on the AK-47's trigger, stitching four quick rounds across the nearest gunner's chest. Before the others could recover from their shock, he lunged for cover in the shallow creek bed, burrowing between two boulders for protection.

  Automatic fire converged upon his hiding place from three directions, pinning Bolan down. He dared not raise his head to duel with either of the snipers on the slope above him, or the man below would pick him off with ease. Whichever way he chose to move, advancing or retreating, he was blocked by hostile guns.

  He twisted over on his side, unclipped a Russian antipersonnel grenade and pulled the safety ring. An uphill pitch wouldn't be easy, but he had the forward gunners spotted in his mind, their distance and positions filed away. The rocky outcrop sheltering his chosen target posed a problem, but he needed cover more than surgical precision. Something that would help him shave the odds a little in his favor.

  Bolan made the pitch, and he was counting down the doomsday numbers as he braced himself, the AK-47 pointed back down the slope along the twisting gully. As the fragmentation grenade went off, he sat up in the trench, his shoulders hunched against potential impact from above, the weapon tracking toward a target he had never seen.

  He caught the flanker in the open, dazed and gaping at him from a range of thirty yards. Above them on the hillside, one of Bolan's adversaries had been blinded by a storm of dust and flying shrapnel, his companion momentarily bewildered by the blast. They hesitated long enough for Bolan to release a short precision burst that dropped the backup gunner in his tracks, and by the time they opened fire again their mark had disappeared.

  Two were down, but the grenade had scored no casualties. The path was cleared for a retreat, but after thirty yards or so, the gully petered out, soil scoured down to bedrock by erosion. Falling back would cost him time and precious cover, while it seemed impossible for him to forge ahead.

  The rocks and sand were warm beneath him, baking through his camouflage fatigues, reminding Bolan of his tenuous position on the slope. From where they sat, his enemies could well afford to wait him out, preserving contact, firing scattered rounds as necessary, while they waited for the sun to do its work.

  Bolan braced himself to try another rush. He still had three grenades, and that might be enough to pin them down, perhaps to wound his adversaries if he threw them fast enough. Two pitches, with the one held back for use as he erupted from the ditch. Once he was clear, with the Kalashnikov in hand, they would be more or less on equal footing.

  Bolan wondered who the gunners were, and quickly pushed the thought away. It made no difference now if they were terrorists or bandits, simple thieves or lookouts for a caravan of opium in transit. He'd have to kill them both, or he was finished here and now.

  He palmed two grenades and was ready to release the safety pins, when heavy automatic fire erupted on the hillside. In the place of two guns, Bolan now heard six or seven hammering in unison, their bullets spattering on stone and whining into space. A heartbeat passed before he realized that he wasn't the target; there were no incoming rounds.

  Confused, he clipped the two grenades back on his harness, lifting the Kalashnikov and clutching it against his chest as the explosive outburst died away. In place of gunfire now, his ringing ears heard footsteps, scuffling over sand and stone, approaching his position over open ground.

  There was no time to think the action through. He was surrounded, from the sound of things, and it made little difference if they killed him now or thirty seconds later. If he chose the time himself, at least he might take one or two of his opponents with him.

  Pushing off with knees and elbows, Bolan rocked back on his haunches, leveling the AK-47 at a line of dusty, grizzled warriors. Five of them had weapons leveled from the hip, prepared to cut him down on order, but the nearest of them had his automatic rifle slung across one shoulder, big hands hanging empty at his sides.

  The gunner was as good as dead. And he was smiling.

  "Arms alone are not enough to keep the peace," he said, repeating Bolan's recognition signal.

  Almost giddy with relief, the Executioner replied, "It must be kept by men."

  "I wonder," his contact said, glancing back toward crumpled bodies on the slope. "It seems that arms have done the job today. But, please, decide if you must kill me or accept my hospitality. My name is Joseph Chamoun."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "You took your time," Bolan said affably.

  Chamoun's smile dazzled, white teeth flashing in the sturdy olive face. "I had to satisfy my curiosity," he said. "My men and I are asked to risk our lives on your behalf. I wanted to be certain it wasn't a foolish gamble."

  "And?"

  The broad smile softened just a bit. "You are a warrior. I believe you would have killed them all yourself… but why take chances?"

  "Right."

  Emerging from the ditch, Mack Bolan waited for the rebel leader to extend his hand, then shook it firmly. Dusting off his camouflage fatigues, he quickly took stock of his allies,
realizing that they looked no different from the bandits who had tried to kill him moments earlier. They wore no uniforms and carried a variety of weapons, ranging from familiar Chinese knockoffs of the AK-47 to Beretta submachine guns made in Italy. A couple of them had grenades clipped to their belts, and all wore bandoliers of ammunition looped across their chests. Their eyes called up distinctive memories of other lost-cause rebels he had worked with in the past. They held the same peculiar mix of fatalism, optimism and a dash of reckless disregard. There didn't seem to be a harried, hunted face among them.

  "Should we bury these?"

  As Bolan spoke, the rebels were already fanning out, relieving scattered corpses of their arms and ammunition, rifling through pockets in a search for smaller items.

  "We don't have time," Chamoun replied, "and it would be a waste of time in any case. The desert deals with rubbish in its own efficient ways."

  The dark man cocked a finger toward the sky, and Bolan followed its direction, picking out the microscopic flecks of vultures riding on the thermals overhead. The scavengers were patient, waiting for surviving humans to evacuate the scene before they circled lower, homing on their prey.

  When they were finished picking over bodies, the platoon set out, a pointman leading, Bolan walking close to Chamoun and four other rebels bringing up the rear. They marched due east through rolling hills, and while the natives seemed at ease, completely casual, their eyes were constantly in motion, overlooking nothing. Bolan let himself relax a little, falling into step beside his contact.

  Joseph Chamoun wasn't a large man — maybe five foot eight and slender in comparison to Bolan's own six foot three, two hundred pounds — but he exuded confidence and strength. Beside him his companions seemed diminished somehow, though some were larger men. His leadership was absolute, and clearly based on hard-won trust.