Aswan Hellbox

by Gar Wilson

  He was in a good spot to see the blurred motion off beyond the Unimog — the white-robed phantom that fled along the edge of the dunes, moved in faltering strides toward the place where Gary Manning was bedded down. A thin, wise smile crossed his face. An envious smile.

  Manning heard the soft swish of sand off to the right and instinctively came alert, his hand closing on his H&K. His scalp prickled as he recognized the voice. "Do not shoot, Gary," it whispered. "It is me. Tala."

  A moment later she was standing over him, staring down with wide, beseeching eyes. In the eerie half light she deftly undid the sash of her taub, let the cotton garment float to her feet. His eyes widened in disbelief as he saw her exquisite nakedness, the glowing, proud breasts, the slim legs, the voluptuous flare of hips.

  With a rush she was beside him, groping for the zipper of his sleeping bag. Manning tore it down, dazedly slid aside to give her room.

  "Gary," she giggled nervously, shivering, her lips inches from his, her eyes glistening with luminous mischief. "Do you want me?" The question was essence of total, childlike naivete. "Do you want me... as woman? I want you."

  Something shattered inside his chest, and his voice snagged. "Yes, Tala," he choked. "I do."

  He put his arms around her, the warmth and smoothness of her skin electrifying under his fingertips. He drew her close, buried his lips in the side of her silky, fragrant throat. "You lovely, beautiful darling..." Manning whispered.

  She withdrew, stared down again, her gaze liquid. "Is that a love word? Darling?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I call you darling. Gary... darling."

  He could not believe this was happening; he was sure he must be dreaming, that he would shortly awake. But as his hands slid restlessly up and down her tawny back, as he felt the thrust of her passion-hardened nipples against his chest, as he felt the shudder of her lower body against his, he conceded that it was no dream.

  She accepted him, welcomed him. As lover, as protector, as teacher, as friend.

  His kiss was gentle, searching, intoxicating. He touched her tentatively, slowly.

  Tala hissed, arched her body. How, she pondered, her body tensing in exquisite pleasure, could this man, a warrior so fierce in battle, be so sweetly considerate, so mild.

  His touch was velvety, adoring. This was man, this was love in every glorious sense of the word. She flowered inside, felt herself sink more deeply into a drowsy, delicious state.

  "Oh, darling," she said, testing the term, the only love word she knew. "My darling..."

  10

  The Black Cobra army was in bivouac in an end-of-the-world wadi approximately twelve miles east of Abu Hamed. Massive camouflage nets spread over the cluster of Unimogs, trucks and command cars provided relative shade for the two-hundred-sixty-odd troops sprawled everywhere, recuperating from their last eighty-mile run.

  Though it was 0100 hours, and Blackwell should have been sleeping, the Cobra leader felt sleep was out the question just then.

  Alternately pacing the gravelly sand of the Nubian desert and hanging over the shoulder of Attilo Malwal, the officer responsible for their communications net, he was beside himself with rage. Not only were they behind schedule in their march to the sea, but there was the more nagging problem of the two missing search parties he had sent after that blasted bedouin tramp.

  Lieutenant Malwal was not having any more success getting something out of his alleged radioman than Blackwell had. Hovering over the shortwave radio in what had been Ochogilo's command car. General Blackwell ground his teeth in frustration.

  "Nothing, sir," Malwal said, raising his hands in apologetic gesture. "We cannot raise anybody in Munzoga. No one is manning the radio, apparently."

  "Lazy bastards," Blackwell stormed. "They should have checked in by now. What in hell are we paying them so-called counteragents for?"

  He pushed back his elaborate dress cap, the bill emblazoned with outrageous tangle of gold braid, and stared up at the mottled camo net. "Where in hell did them bastards get to?" he said to nobody in particular. "One of the squads should be reporting back by now."

  The tall, almost emaciated black, his cheekbones gaunt, his eyes haunted, commenced his impatient loping again. His lips moved nonstop while he contemplated.

  And suppose those men did not come back, he speculated. What could it mean? Did they get lost in the desert? Highly unlikely. Aboud and Nyamahanga were good men; they had been with him from the earliest days.

  What, then? Desert? Hell, no. They were as high on the program as he was. They were in to the bitter end.

  Native resistance? That set-to in Al-Rashad, maybe? An ambush by the locals? Hardly. They didn't know one end of a rifle from the other. Scratch that notion.

  Suffocatingly hot as it was under the netting. Blackwell was nevertheless whipped by a sudden chill. He stopped in midstride. Was there someone out there? Another attack force? The Chad outfit? Coming after him?

  He shrugged that one off, too. Who, then? Who had the firepower, the knowhow to knock out three dozen of his best men? The chill grew stronger, pierced to the marrow of his bones. He could let nothing, no one stop him now — not when he was so close to achieving his pivotal mission, that first big step. Bring this one in, and he was halfway home.

  The CIA, he mused. Could it be? They were always poking their noses where they were not wanted. Had the supersnoops somehow got wind of his plan? Had they enlisted a gang of mercs, put them on his tail? God knows there was no shortage of guns-for-hire in Africa these days.

  Blackwell shook off the thoughts. Can't be. No way. We'll be hearing soon. A breakdown, that's what it was. They'll show up before the day's out. They'll check with the Munzoga network, get our bearings, head on in.

  But Blackwell was not entirely reassured. He continued his restless pacing, his brow more deeply furrowed than before.

  * * *

  At that moment, at Aswan, roughly three hundred miles to the north, atop the parapet of the High Dam, Yuri Kirov, a highly placed KGB gopher presently attached to a Russian terrorist branch known as Department V, was slowly promenading on the visitors' view point, along with sidekick Alexei Yevgeny.

  Posing as tourists, carrying cameras and binoculars, both talked in muffled voices, planning a bloody bath for the people of Egypt.

  Colonel Kirov was no stranger to the High Dam. He had been one of the top Soviet engineers assigned to the supervision of its construction, which began in 1960, and he had remained there until 1972, when Sadat had kicked the entire Russian delegation out of the country.

  Memory of that humiliation rankled to this day. Thus, when General Donvyov, commandant of Department V, had summoned him and outlined the crucial mission, Kirov had been only too happy to accept. Deliriously happy. Vengeance — long-delayed vengeance — is always sweet.

  Standing apart from a guided tour that was passing, Kirov spoke rapid-fire Russian. "Perhaps there was no real need for me to come here," he said. "After all, I know the dam like the back of my hand. But if one is planning a surprise such as ours... it doesn't hurt to double-check."

  He pointed to the vast blockhouse to his right, on the Aswan Dam's northern face, then to the intake gate almost directly opposite, on the southern side, where the waters of Lake Nasser glittered blindingly in the sun. "This is where the rocket will strike," he said. "It would be useless to attack the high walls. It would take a five-megaton warhead to blow the dam itself.

  "As it is, the one missile will do nicely." He looked at the power-plant complex, where the twelve turboelectric generators, producing ten billion kilowatt hours annually, were located. "We will kill two birds with one missile."

  The intake-gate crane and all six tunnels, Kirov said, detailing the destruction strategy, would take the main brunt of the blast. With every gate open and the means of closing them blown to kingdom come, the three hundred miles of water backed up into northern Egypt and southern Sudan would be given free rein. At first the deluge would be minor. But
as the millions of cubic feet of water impacted in savage, relentless pressure, the tunnels would crumble. The widening would increase the speed of the torrent even more.

  "Within forty-eight hours," Major Kirov gloated, "the intake area will totally disintegrate. The entire wall there will collapse. And there goes Egypt. Sudan as well."

  "Beautiful, Major," Yevgeny congratulated. "And the most beautiful part of it is that once the chain reaction starts, there is absolutely nothing they can do about it. Imagine the panic, the total frustration."

  "By then the fall of the Egyptian government will be assured. It would take them six years to repair the damage. No, comrade, the dam will never be rebuilt. Not in our lifetime."

  Both men fell silent as they continued to stare out at the vast expanse of Lake Nasser — three hundred sixty-five feet at its deepest point — where it shone in the ever-widening reservoir beyond the ridges of the Nugrus Highlands. Glazed, anticipatory light in their eyes, they felt an all-consuming pride at the ingenious simplicity of their plan.

  Ingenious because when all was said and done, no blame would ever be attributed to the Soviet Union. All responsibility for the horrendous catastrophe would fall on that black madman. General Jeremiah Blackwell. The Soviet Union and Cuba would emerge with lily-white hands.

  A nation, a civilization would be utterly destroyed; the precarious balance of the Middle East would teeter into chaos. All existing political alliances would be undermined. And the U.S., France, England, Israel, Germany could do absolutely nothing about it.

  The two Russians finally emerged from their smug trance and began to walk along the esplanade of the three-mile-long dam. They paused to take some photographs with an ultralong lens and jotted precise notes on distances, angles of trajectory. Visual estimates were second nature to Colonel Kirov.

  "Come," the engineer said forty minutes later, "we have sufficient data. Let us return to our hotel. A few vodkas, Alexei? A good day's work. We have earned it."

  * * *

  Another good day's work was also being concluded in the Red Sea port city of Beylul, located in Ethiopia, just across the Bay of Mandeb from South Yemen. It was dusk, and under cover of a humid fog, the Iraqu III, a medium-size freighter of undetermined registry, was being loaded with one of the most vital elements in the Aswan strategy.

  The missile was of U.S. origin — a thirty-four-foot-long Nike Ajax — and along with its improvised carrier launcher, it was giving Iraqu's crewmen fits. Had they known the missile was loaded with a one-megaton nuclear warhead capable of blowing its way through fifty feet of solid concrete, they might have fled the decks of the decrepit vessel in screaming terror.

  Watching from dockside. Captain Angel DeRosa smiled broadly. His part of the mission was on deadline; the rest of it was up to Blackwell. And to Sadiq Des Fara-Lit, fanatical leader of the Eritrean People's Liberation Front, who would give his right arm to overthrow Sudan's president, Jaafar al-Nemery. It was Fara-Lit who had volunteered to back up the Black Cobra forces should the need arise.

  Sometimes, though he considered himself a professional terrorist, DeRosa got a headache trying to keep the conniving terrorist factions in this part of Africa-Ethiopia, Sudan, Yemen — separate.

  It was from Yemen that the Nike Ajax had originated. Where had the Commies got it? For an answer there was much shrugging, but no definite info. The closest the Cuban liaison-organizer specialist had got to explanation was that it had been salvaged from a U.S. cruiser that had "mysteriously" gone down in the Gulf of Aden. The CIA was still fuming over this minor coup.

  The missile had been gone over and completely rebuilt by Soviet experts; most certainly it was now totally operational.

  DeRosa watched the long thin crate being safely bedded into a thick mat of straw. As he saw the mechanized carrier finally crane-lowered into the Iraqu's hold, he breathed a fervent sigh of relief. Now he could get back to his black stooge, Jeremiah Blackwell, and keep him on track. The stupid episode with that Arab puta, the resultant search parties, had been particularly distressful to him.

  "Eh, bueno," he said to Lieutenant Alcero Quintero, his liaison between South Yemen and Sadiq Des Fara-Lit and al-Mahdi. "At last. I thought those fools would never get the equipment loaded."

  DeRosa handed Quintero a bulky, brown envelope. Unmarked, but plainly containing a great wad of currency.

  "I have kept my end of the bargain, Quintero," he grumped. "I trust that you will keep yours."

  "Exactamente, mi capitán," the junior officer assured. "Fara-Lit has been informed. His troops are on standby status. The captain of the Iraqu has his instructions. The cargo will be offloaded at Haiaib within three days, where, as I understand it, Rejection Front people will enter the picture, see to moving it into Egypt, within range of the Aswan. Your Blackwell will provide guard, will see to the actual firing of the missile. We want none of that..." he made a distasteful grimace "...on our heads."

  Qunitero rubbed his hands. "Should there be anything left of the missile... any incriminating shreds whatsoever... guess who shall be fixed with the blame?"

  Shortly Quintero bid his partner in terror adieu, melted into the gathering gloom. DeRosa stayed on the dock another half hour, waiting until he saw the Iraqu cast off and begin its sluggish northward run into the Red Sea.

  * * *

  Approximately one thousand miles to the northwest, an eighteen-hour run behind them, the men of Phoenix Force were settling into a hard, replenishing sleep. The next day they would hit the relative metropolis of Munzoga, where, they hoped, crucial linkup with Stony Man's top-secret African network would be made. If anyone knew where Blackwell was, could provide pinpoint coordinates, these dedicated counter-agents could. But for tonight — sleep.

  In one isolated outpost of the hasty bivouac, no sleeping was going on; it was the farthest thing from Gary Manning's mind.

  Again Tala had magically appeared from the all-suffocating darkness. Again, freshly washed and fragrant, she had invaded her lover's sleeping bag. Again they were naked, body to body, lips locked, hands feverishly caressing and exploring.

  Their bodies twined, locked, began ecstatic crash and recoil. Their murmurings, whispers climbed.

  "Ana bahibek," Tala choked. "Oh, Gary. It is so. I do love you."

  And though Manning did not want to commit himself, though he was not ready at this early point in time to admit his sudden dependence upon this incredible female, he was helpless before the hurricane of emotion within his heart at that moment.

  "Tala," he groaned, "I love you."

  Tala buried her mouth in his shoulder, stifled her scream of primal delight, felt her heart expand to joyful near-bursting.

  Afterward, as their bodies were still, as their breathing evened out, she began to sob against him. The woman was learning — love has its price. It can be very sweet indeed — a paradise of delight and happiness.

  But it can also be unspeakably sad.

  11

  Phoenix Force caught first sight of the hazy smear of smog over Munzoga at 1615 hours. The city of perhaps twenty thousand people was still an hour away. Primitive by modern-day standards, Munzoga assumed Big Apple status to the civilization-starved commandos. Though all knew the layover's real purpose, a holiday buzz still jangled mental circuits.

  Katzenelenbogen called a halt perhaps six miles due north of Munzoga. Closing on the Nubian desert, the terrain taking on definite new cragginess, they holed up in a protected gully between forty-foot-high ridges of rock.

  Tomorrow, early, there would be time for restocking of fuel and water. But for now — water to waste. Shave, scrub down. Also, a fresh change of clothing, sand brushed from boots.

  Phoenix Force decided nighttime entry to the city would be best; the less attention they attracted, the better. The murky desert darkness would prove a good ally as they skulked the narrow, winding streets, seeking to locate the undercover contacts that Brognola and April Rose had provided that last afternoon at Stony Man. Only tw
o weeks ago? It seemed a year had passed.

  They would enter in the Land Rover. It would be unwise to roll in with assault rifles and machine guns in full view. Somebody would have to remain behind. Coins had been flipped. And flipped again. A very disgruntled Keio Ohara became the watchdog.

  It was imperative that Salibogo and Nemtala accompany the recon force. Their skills as interpreters, their ability to warn of hostile vibrations would prove invaluable once inside the alien camp. And how would they ever find the street called Sharia Ali Unqulah in a tangled maze this size?

  It was 2000 hours, dusk finally having given way to a mineshaft darkness, when they picked their way out of the desert.

  Phoenix Force rolled into Munzoga. The low, square-cut structures, here and there a mosque spire or a pasha's residence, poked above the matchbox construction. In the murk the hundreds of miles of walls, crazily winding and doubling-back streets became an impenetrable labyrinth.

  Feeble electric lights shone in erratic sequence, the spaces in between becoming black, treacherous no-man's-land. The sand roads — barely wide enough to accommodate one vehicle — were rutted and potholed, demanding low gear. The farther they got into the city, the more overpowering became the maze effect. The endless array of high mud walls — painted in washed-out shades of gray, white and tan — hyped claustrophobic tendencies.

  Behind the walls they saw half-domed peaks of more affluent residences; shafts of cypress, acacia, date palms, even a baobab tree, climbed against the night sky.

  Most of the homes were already dark, but sporadic flickers from candles and oil lamps could be seen. A bare light bulb — the mark of wealthy family — cut the blackness with near-blinding brilliance.

  Gradually, up ahead, things grew brighter; they were approaching the city's center. Here Munzoga's bazaars, restaurants, public buildings and business offices proudly flaunted their modernity.