If the man had registered a problem, noted that his backup wasn’t visible, it didn’t show. At some point on the long walk back, the guard was bound to notice that he was alone, but Bolan hoped the revelation might be stalled a while, until the shooter was within his reach.
When number two had been eliminated, they could risk a move to board one of the tanks.
And then, he thought, the party could begin.
BASRA HAD FOUND THE PERFECT spot to leave the trucks with reasonable certainty that they would be intact and waiting upon his return. And if his plans should go awry, who cared what happened to the vehicles?
With only flashlight beams and faint starlight to guide him, Basra formed his soldiers into ranks. He passed among them, cursing, muttering reminders that they all belonged to him, that he should be the object of whatever fear possessed them in the moments prior to battle.
Basra thought that he had chosen well, picking the soldiers who had seen more combat, killed more people and participated in more heinous crimes than any others on his payroll. It was no exaggeration to suggest that this assembled team included some of Mogadishu’s most remorseless and sadistic killers, all of them long since lost to God.
If the men feared anyone at all, it was Jiddu Basra.
Because they knew that whatever they had done, he was prepared to raise the ante and do worse.
His soldiers knew where they were going, more or less. Most of them couldn’t use a compass; some of them were likely baffled by the simplest maps. But that didn’t matter, since Basra would be leading them.
All they had to do was follow him.
And kill upon command.
They left the trucks a mile east of their destination and began to march through darkness, Basra out in front with a red-lensed flashlight, compass and his memory of visiting the compound once, before his falling out with Guleed. He remembered the layout, but supposed there had to have been some changes in the two years since he’d been a welcome visitor.
Security, for one thing. If Guleed had truly stashed the stolen military hardware at his compound outside Merca, he would want more men in place than normally patrolled the camp. And if he was prepared to use some of the Russian weapons in his own defense—even the tanks—there would be hell to pay.
For that reason, Basra had brought along six RPG grenade launchers, each with a half-dozen 85 mm HEAT rounds designed specifically for killing armored vehicles. In English, HEAT identified a high-explosive anti-tank projectile, which employed a jet of superheated metal in a state of superplasticity to penetrate armor plating.
Basra didn’t fully understand the science of it, and he didn’t care to. If the HEAT rounds worked, then that was good enough for him. He’d brought enough to gut thirty-six tanks, and if he believed the television news reports, Guleed had only thirty-three.
The rest of his men carried assault rifles, pistols and two grenades each, as a boost for their confidence. Basra assumed the members of the Abgaal clan whom he expected to find waiting for him would be similarly armed. With any luck, Basra would have at least a hundred men at his command, enough to sweep Guleed’s troops from the field and bury them. He hoped.
Their march was interrupted only once, when Basra nearly plunged headlong into a gully carved by flash flood waters in the rainy season. Quick reflexes spared him the embarrassment of falling, but he had to send scouts north and south along the gulch until they found a spot where all of Basra’s men could scramble down one dusty bank and up the other side. That cost them half an hour and left Basra fuming in a rotten mood.
But they were finally drawing closer. Basra could see the compound’s lights ahead, few as they were, a beacon on the black plain that permitted him to navigate without the compass. He still used the red-lensed flashlight, though, to watch for any further pitfalls laid across his path by Mother Nature or the enemies he’d come to slay.
The killing would begin soon.
Basra found that he could hardly wait.
CAPTAIN ABASI BOIPELO was bored. The elation produced by his skirmish with bandits along the highway had dissipated, replaced by a vague sense of restlessness tinged with anger. When that passed, only boredom remained.
And that could be fatal.
Bored soldiers were often careless. They made stupid mistakes, overlooked some precaution that might save their lives when the enemy struck. Even knowing the risk, now, Boipelo could still feel the fingers of ennui massaging his brain, urging him to relax. Let it slide. Drop his guard.
And why not?
What did he owe to Guleed, when by rights AMISOM should have caged the man years ago, placing him on trial for crimes against humanity? If Boipelo was not allowed to move against Mogadishu’s most powerful warlord, surely he’d be justified in driving off and leaving Guleed to his foes?
If doing nothing was the order of the day, why not at least do nothing in a way that benefited innocent civilians?
But he was still a military man, for whom obeying orders was an ingrained way of life. During the course of his career, Boipelo had not always understood the reason for those orders, and he sometimes disagreed with those he understood, but he had never deviated from obedience. Now, far from home and under the command of foreigners, adherence to his duty was the only thing that made life bearable.
So, he would run his armored vehicles along the highway near Guleed’s armed camp, and he would keep watch for approaching enemies. Boipelo had informed the man in charge of the compound, a scar-faced thug with missing teeth, that he would not station his men around the camp on foot, which seemed to suit the felon perfectly. No doubt, they had some dirty business to transact and did not relish AMISOM observing it.
As if the peacekeepers would try to intervene.
Captain Boipelo was disgusted with the posturing at headquarters in Mogadishu, where his nominal superiors pretended that their presence in Somali had any positive impact. Boipelo had considered leaking observations to the press, but knew that he would be exposed and crucified for breaking ranks.
He often thought that when he retired, his memoirs might intrigue some Western publisher. White readers seemed to like stories of savagery in Africa, and there was decent money in a book, more so in films.
Who should portray Boipelo in the cinematic story of his life? Djimon Hounsou was always good on-screen. Or, maybe an American? Denzel, perhaps—or Samuel L. Jackson? Or how about Blair Underwood?
The fantasy amused Boipelo for a moment, but it did not change his mood. He craved action, but there was none in sight.
Where were the bloody bandits when he needed them?
MIRONOV STOOD IN THE SHADOW of a tank with Waabberi beside her, waiting for Bolan to bag the second sentry. He was poised and ready, knife in hand, but now it seemed the guard was dawdling along his beat, taking his own sweet time to reach the point where he would die.
And why not, after all?
What else was there for gunmen stationed here to do, she thought, but kill time while they waited for a chance to kill their enemies?
She heaped silent invective on the bastard who was stalling them, completely unaware of how his lackadaisical approach to guard duty was slowing the wheels of progress.
Or of slaughter, as the case might be.
Mironov wondered if the man had missed his comrade, yet. But surely, if it looked as if he was searching for the dead one, or about to raise a general alarm, Cooper would signal her to help him end it. Mironov held the GSh-18 in her right hand, its muzzle heavy with the sound suppressor attached, prepared to pitch in if it seemed her comrade needed her assistance.
“This is taking longer than I thought it would,” Waabberi whispered.
“It’s all right,” Mironov answered, not entirely sure that she believed it.
“What if they come out to try one of the tanks?” Waabberi asked.
“They’ll have a rude surprise,” she said, and turned away in hopes that it would silence him.
But no such luck.
<
br /> “I think—” Waabberi had begun to say, when Bolan suddenly came loping back to join them, consternation written on his face.
“The other one’s coming around behind the tanks,” he said, and faced along the line of armored monsters to his right.
Mironov spun in that direction, leveling her pistol without anyone to aim at, covering the night.
“How far?” she asked
“Five, maybe six tanks down the line,” Bolan replied.
She didn’t wait for more, was moving by the time he finished speaking, taking extra care not to scuff her shoes on the soil. It would be helpful if she heard the sentry coming, prior to glimpsing him.
And maybe fatal if he heard her first.
Passing the third T-90, she began to second-guess the big American’s judgment of the distance, wondering if he’d meant seven tanks, or even eight. It would have been a gross mistake, but possible in the poor lighting. He was only human, after all, and—
Suddenly, the young man with the automatic rifle slung over his left shoulder was there, standing in front of her. He fumbled at the zipper of his baggy pants, intent on nothing but relief, and there was true shock on his face as he glanced up to face the muzzle of her GSh-18.
Mironov shot him once, through the left eye, and left a wet smear on the fender of the tank behind him. He collapsed as if his legs had turned to sand, without a sound of protest, and had nearly finished shuddering before she reached the body.
Bolan was quickly beside her, helping the Russian agent shove and kick the corpse beneath the rear end of the nearest tank, where it would be concealed from anyone who happened by and glanced along the row. Neither of them gave a thought to cleaning up the blood.
There would be more to follow that, and soon.
“All ready, then?” she asked Bolan.
“As ready as I’ll be,” he said.
THE COFFEE HAD TURNED acrid—or, perhaps it always had been, and Tenagne had only noticed it because it matched his bitter mood.
The bidding stood at two-point-three million U.S., and he was authorized to go as high as two-point-five. If he could not secure the shipment at that price, his trip would have been wasted, and he would be going home a failure.
In other circumstances, Tenagne might have tried another tack, perhaps some form of ecclesiastical intervention, but Guleed was a secular animal, interested in nothing but profit and power. He cared nothing for a guaranteed entry to Paradise, with seventy-two vestal virgins waiting to satisfy his every whim.
Nor was there anything Tenagne could exchange with Guleed to sweeten the pot if his money ran short. Guleed had no interests in Eritrea, and was unlikely to develop any in the future. Only Allah could judge if the man even had a future, but his lifestyle made him prone to sudden death by violence.
All that remained was the bidding. And Tenagne had a choice to make. He could protract the auction, raising Dahnay Zenawi’s bids in five- or ten-thousand-dollar increments, or he could bid his limit, try a bit of greenback shock and awe, to see what happened next.
In either case, if Zenawi outbid him at two-point-five million, the game was over. Tenagne, feeling more and more repulsed by his surroundings, saw no reason to protract it needlessly.
“Mr. Tenagne?” Guleed prodded him.
“Two-point-five million dollars,” Tenagne said.
It was good to see the bandit’s eyes go wide for just a second. Better still, to see the scowl on Zenawi’s face as the bid registered. He had to now bid more than three hundred thousand to take home the prize, without knowing if that would be ample.
Zenawi craned toward his aide and whispered something into the younger man’s ear. Tenagne did not try to eavesdrop, but he watched the aide first shrug, then nod, almost reluctantly.
A dumb performance for his benefit? Or…
“Two-point-seven million,” the Ethiopian said.
Tenagne smiled and put his heart into it, as if he had mouthed the winning bid. It pleased him when Zenawi flinched at his expression, visibly recoiling like a man confronted with a spider on his breakfast plate. Tenagne wished he could prolong the moment, make Zenawi suffer, but he knew that it would be a childish gesture.
“My congratulations,” Tenange declared at last, still beaming, “on your purchase.” Turning toward Guleed, he was in time to watch the bandit’s disappointment at the close of bidding register. “And thank you for your hospitality,” he said.
“Not even a little higher?” Guleed asked.
Tenagne almost laughed aloud, at how the question made Zenawi glower, but the Ethiopian stopped short of offering a verbal protest. He had come to purchase weapons, after all, not have them turned against him.
“I regret,” Tenagne said, “that my esteemed rival has deeper pockets. To the victor go the spoils. And now, I must be on my way.”
“Well, if you must.” Guleed seemed almost crest fallen.
It was the high point of Tenagne’s night.
BOLAN HAD SCALED THE rear deck of his chosen tank, trusting the turret to conceal him from any casual passersby while he scrambled across the grille. Reaching the turret, he was still masked by the pintle-mounted 12.5 mm antiaircraft machine gun mounted in front of the hatch he’d chosen as his means of entry.
The hatch, which could only be locked from inside, opened easily, with only the slightest of groans from its hinges. Bolan hesitated, even so, then scrambled up and over, lowering himself into the fighting vehicle feetfirst.
And that left two.
The plan was for all three of them to be inside the tank before he started firing. Mironov was supposed to take the driver’s seat, while Waabberi made himself useful as needed, perhaps manning the 12.5 mm MG topside, or lobbing smoke rounds from the turret’s launchers to confuse approaching infantry.
It would be Bolan’s job to fire the big gun and the 9M119M Refleks missiles, which he’d found on board and ready to switch out for standard 125 mm cannon rounds. In that department, he had HEAT and HE-FRAG rounds, the latter equipped with fuses that Bolan could set for explosion at various ranges, coordinated with a laser range finder.
He listened for the sound of footsteps on the armored hull and was prepared when Mironov slithered down beside him, flashing a smile in near-darkness before she dropped lower, angling toward the driver’s seat. Bolan didn’t plan on taking the tank for a cruise, but mobility might help him when the killing started.
And they still needed a means of exit from the camp.
Another moment passed before Waabberi clambered through the open hatchway, taking time to close and lock the lid behind him. He found space next to Bolan, in the turret, taking care to keep himself out of the automatic loader’s way.
They were secure against small-arms fire from Guleed’s men. As for the other tanks, the RPGs, and whatever else the warlord might have on hand for cracking tin cans, Bolan knew he would simply have to strike faster and harder, make damned sure that no one had time to hit back.
It was a strange, cramped kind of sanctuary, but the tank offered more cover than the Executioner was used to in a firefight. It could also be his coffin, if his luck ran out.
But one way or another, Bolan wasn’t going down alone.
14
Rolling or not, Bolan had opted to start the tank’s Model 84 V-84 12-cylinder diesel engine before he fired up the big gun, to avoid draining battery power. Military vehicles had no ignition keys that might be lost or broken during combat, and Mironov had no trouble with the T-90’s starter button. Within seconds after she vanished below, the monster was rumbling and ready to go.
Bolan took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls, aware that sentries had to have heard the engine snarl to life. Some would be on their way to check it out, while one or more would alert Guleed, but the Executioner still had surprise on his side.
And one hell of a killing machine.
The commonsense approach was clearly to address the tanks ranged silently along the compound’s west
perimeter, directly opposite his own, before dealing with those on either side of him. Straight shots were easiest, and the T-90s facing Bolan’s also posed the greatest threat if one or more of Guleed’s men knew how to operate their guns.
Sixteen tanks had been backed against the western fence, facing their twins to eastward. Number thirty-three, the odd tank out, was parked behind Guleed’s command post, with its cannon angled northward. Through his viewing slits and periscope, Bolan spotted defenders stirring in the camp, headed his way.
He sighted on the lone tank near the CP and activated the cannon’s self-loading system, watched a 125 mm HEAT round slide into the breech and secured the breechblock. The tank’s night sight allowed target acquisition within eight hundred yards, and Bolan’s view was crystal clear at a mere hundred feet.
He fired, then blessed the earphones that he’d found on entering the turret. The T-90’s automatic fume-extractor kept the crew from chocking on gunsmoke, but without headsets, they would certainly be deafened by the cannon’s roar.
Downrange, his target lurched, then detonated with a blast that sent its shock wave rattling through the compound, raising dust to match the roiling cloud of smoke.
And that left thirty-two, including Bolan’s tank.
He spun the turret, sighting on the farthest of the sixteen tanks lined up along the camp’s western perimeter. The T-90’s big gun was loaded and ready to go as he zeroed the shot at a hundred yards and sent another 125 mm HEAT round barreling downrange.
The second target seemed to flinch and shudder, then its turret was airborne, rising on a tail of flame like a fighter jet’s ejector seat. Bolan had been tracking toward another mark when it fell back to earth and crushed a slow-moving sentry as if he were a cockroach underneath a boot.
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