Agent of Peril

by Don Pendleton

  “Sinbal took three of our fucking tanks out of the country?” Idel asked.

  “We gave him the tanks. Any money he’d get selling them would be pure profit,” Tofo answered.

  Idel stood and walked to the window. Sunlight burned outside, flaring off the almost white sands surrounding his base’s compound. He took a deep breath, then spit out his gum, lighting a cigar to chew on. Grinding his teeth into the fat tobacco roll made him feel better, the sponginess cushioning his aching jaw muscles.

  “Do we have anyone who can do a wet operation on Sinbal when he returns to Lebanon?” Idel asked.

  “Affirmative,” Tofo stated.

  “Make sure Sinbal doesn’t spend an evening more in Beirut without a bullet in a major part of his anatomy.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “That said, how did the three tanks do?” Idel asked.

  “Reports have 375 dead so far, 250 missing, and thirteen hundred injured,” Tofo reported. “The border between Egypt and Israel has been locked down, and the Gaza Strip and West Bank are under heavy military patrols at this time. Combat aircraft are on constant patrol, too.”

  “Their armored divisions?”

  “They’ve brought up two divisions, in the north and the south to cut off access to their coastal settlements.”

  “Only two?”

  “Others are in motion, and a third is passing by Nitzana and has set up temporary camp across the Nitzala River.”

  Idel smirked. “They’re wondering if Cairo had anything to do with an attack on their stolen territories.”

  “Or they’re simply not taking chances. Israel might be outgunned by her enemies, but she makes up for it by not fucking around.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Have we been given any green light by Cairo, sir?” Tofo asked.

  Idel looked over his shoulder, pulling the cigar from between his lips and stretching out his jaw. He let his ears pop before continuing. “Would it make you feel better if we had our benighted leaders’ support?”

  “I’m already dedicated to the cause of getting back Egypt’s lands from the Israeli thieves. I merely worry that…”

  “We will be seen as traitors and thieves if we are caught. I understand, Pedal,” Idel said, clapping his aide on the shoulder. “We won’t be tied to the events that turn the cold peace between Egypt and Israel into a hot war. But we will be there at the forefront when it is time to be heroes and take back what is rightfully ours.”

  Tofo nodded. “I do not doubt you, or this plan.”

  Idel smiled and took a drag on his cigar.

  But if Tofo truly didn’t doubt the success of the plan, he was the only one in that room.

  THE STRAPPED FOR COMBAT SH-60 Seahawks tore over the landscape, penetrating deep into Pakistani airspace. Captain Carlton Hofflower perched in the doorway of the lead chopper, eyes sweeping the horizon for an angry response coming over the horizon. Nothing, however, was turning its attention toward the quintet of helicopters this day.

  The message from HQ was quick, simple and terse.

  “Retrieve Colonel Stone. Bring lots of explosives. Coordinates to follow.”

  “Captain. We have smoke,” Lieutenant Charles Ellis, the pilot, reported.

  Hofflower’s hazel eyes focused like lasers on the spiraling rub of charcoal smearing upward into the blue over the rolling hills. He didn’t need a map to equate the billowing smoke to the location of Colonel Stone. “That’s our guy, GPS be damned.”

  Ellis glanced back at Hofflower, and then returned his attention to guiding the Seahawk.

  In moments, the sharklike chopper was splitting the sky over the smoldering battlefield, and Hofflower could see a conflagration. Two major blast craters, and a half dozen minor smoking pits plumed smoke skyward, while one man stood with an old-fashioned bolt-action rifle over an injured man.

  “That’s Stone?” Ellis asked.

  Hofflower nodded.

  “Who’s the wounded?”

  “I don’t know, but he doesn’t look like a friendly. Tell the other choppers to land in a diamond around this airfield,” Hofflower said.

  Hofflower gave Ellis’s helmet a tap, and the SH-60 dropped to the ground, landing with a light bump. As always, the six-foot-six Marine captain “unassed” first, hands resting on the M-249 hanging from his neck and massive shoulders.

  “I have a present for you,” Bolan stated in lieu of a greeting.

  “I see. Middle Eastern, Lebanese by chance?” Hofflower asked.

  “Yeah,” Bolan returned.

  “Bidifah Sinbal. Works for Hezbollah,” Hofflower said. The Marine grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Colonel Stone, this is a wonderful gift.”

  “I want to know where Sinbal got his tanks from, and if it was his people that were behind Nitzana,” Bolan said.

  An interesting question, the Marine thought.

  He intended to make Sinbal squeal and spill his guts.

  IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES for a medic to clean and dress all of Bolan’s injuries, but during that time, the Marine Force Recon platoon was busy wiring up the M1 Abrams tanks with enough explosive power to chop them to splinters.

  Inside, even more insidious devices were being planted. The insides of the tanks would be able to survive the destruction of the hull and engine section. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon would pulverize every component of the tank in one shot, and even then, the M1s were designed during the Cold War. Their very design was meant to get the massive steel beasts through a nuclear-explosion blasted war plain and continue fighting, even as atomic artillery shells created football field-sized craters all around them.

  The Marines were putting miniature Fuel Air Explosive charges inside the tanks. The mini-FAEs were designed for house clearing the easy way. First, a burst would spread a cloud of fuel through a space as large as a single floor of an apartment building. With the air saturated with explosive fuel, a second burst would spark and ignite the atmosphere. Everything within the space would be vaporized.

  Bolan had seen entire mountainsides crumbled with a Fuel Air Explosive device improvised from a simple propane tank.

  The mini-FAE would smash every ounce of valuable electronics and design inside the M1 to useless pulp. The last thing the world needed was a reverse-engineered version of the U.S. Army’s best tank.

  The Marines were meticulous in setting the charges on the armor, though. That was the one thing that Bolan was most concerned about. Abrams armor, indeed any modern tank armor, was a secret design, and each nation had its own proprietary formula. Having that secret drop into the lap of even an ally was considered a disastrous development.

  “I’m done,” the medic said. “You can stop the Zen meditation.”

  Bolan managed a weak smile. “I was just thinking about the tanks.”

  “How the hell did these get here?” the medic asked. “I mean, Pakistan uses old Soviet T-72s.”

  “They were brought by the Hezbollah, and the Hezbollah somehow got them from Egypt,” Bolan answered. “How they got them, I intend to find out as soon as I get some intel.”

  A gunshot rang out and Bolan turned his head. The sudden reflex action filled his head with sloshing, hot liquid pain, but it was dying down and his equilibrium swiftly returned to normal. It took a moment for his brain to register the sound as a .45-caliber pistol. Captain Hofflower was returning, stuffing his MEU (SOC) custom 1911 into its holster with one hand, holding a small black box with the other hand.

  “I recorded everything,” he said, tossing over the digital recorder. Bolan caught it with one smooth motion.

  “Make sure that someone sends me a new recorder. With all the features,” the Marine captain said.

  “How much did he have? Nutshell version,” Bolan said.

  “Well, he helped load the van with explosives for the 1983 Marine barracks attack.”

  “That was more than two decades ago.”

  “He’s forty-three. And he’s been Hezbollah since he was a
teenager,” the captain explained.

  “The tanks?”

  “Given to him by his commander. He doesn’t know exactly where they came from.”

  “Who’s his commander?”

  “A creep named Faswad.”

  Bolan closed his eyes and reviewed his mental files. Imal Faswad moved into the Bekaa Valley after Bolan rampaged through to take out a terrorist-backed drug cartel. He’d been behind some major counterfeiting of American hundred-dollar bills, approximately fifty million worth, before the U.S. Mint updated to the new bills. The Hezbollah headman was someone who was never quite on the top of the Executioner’s “to do” list because he was mostly attacking people who could, and did, fight back. Bolan’s previous interest in Faswad was derailed when the guy’s headquarters was blasted to atoms by an Israeli air strike and a dozen thousand-pound bombs.

  It looked like it was time for the Executioner to pay Mr. Faswad a visit to find out why he was suddenly selling off tanks.

  “Who did Sinbal come to sell the tanks to?” Bolan asked.

  “Somewhere in the piles of grease you left littered all over the place, there was a party of Filipinos who are, er, were with Abu Sayyaf.”

  Bolan’s jaw clenched for a moment. Abu Sayyaf was aligned with al Qaeda. Another case of unfinished business that the Executioner would have to get to.

  “You sure I got them?” Bolan looked around. “A lot of guys just took off running.”

  “Well, give me a good DNA lab, we’ll know for sure,” the Marine replied.

  “All right. I’m lucky I got a single prisoner for you to interrogate,” Bolan conceded.

  “Thanks for helping bring a little justice to the Corps,” Hofflower said, putting out one beefy paw.

  Bolan took the hand, remembering what felt like a lifetime ago, his own incursion to avenge Marine blood. He could feel the bond with the fighting man before him.

  “It’s time to unass and blow this Popsicle stand,” Hofflower called out, pulling Bolan effortlessly to his feet. “It’s good to have you aboard, Colonel.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan answered. They got into the Seahawk and Lieutenant Ellis pulled the chopper into the sky, rising a half mile before stopping.

  Hofflower handed over the radio detonator to the Executioner. “Your prerogative, Colonel.”

  Bolan accepted the detonator, flipped up the safety cover on the firing stud and thumbed it down. Even through the rotor slap and vibrations of the SH-60’s powerful turbines, the shock wave from detonating the tanks was palpable. Concentric rings of smoke, indicating the rippling forces that devastated the armor, were still visible down below.

  That was just the opening salvo to the scorched earth process being undertaken.

  The four orbiting Marine Seahawks were armed with artillery rockets and Hellfire missiles. Pilots and gunners opened fire instantly on the ground where the terrorists sought to sell the Devil’s tools. Explosions formed a scouring cloud of devastation that swept from the four corners of the auction ground toward the middle, shredding and splintering anything in its path. Stomped flat as if under the feet of giants, the hodgepodge mixture of surviving jeeps, guns, helicopters and low-speed jets, as well as various missiles and other explosives, disappeared in a cacophony of devastation that Ellis yanked the SH-60 out of just in the nick of time.

  Bolan could almost reach out the side door and touch the blossoming mushroom of smoke from the hell blitz.

  An explosive start to a mission that promised more such devastation ahead.

  3

  It was time for the weekly mail drop, and J. R. Rust, posing as a journalist, stepped up to the cage, smiling.

  “Your new cameras and printer are here, Mr. Russel,” Rudiah, the mail clerk, notified him. He was wrestling a box onto the counter.

  Cameras and printer? Rust thought. The box looked fairly large. “I hope the editors thought to include an instruction manual this time,” he said.

  Rudiah almost said something, and then smiled tightly.

  Yeah, the Lebanese post office wasn’t at all interested in what James Russel was receiving in the mail from America, Rust thought sarcastically. He looked at the return address and saw it was from Egypt, but labeled from a blind intel dump that a man named Striker had set up with him. Rust had worked with Striker and a covert strike team on two dangerous operations, one in Pakistan, and one in Lebanon, racing to deal with forces ready to blow the Middle East wide open in a nuclear conflict.

  Since then, Striker had tapped Rust personally, knowing that the CIA man had his ear firmly planted to the ground in regards to Middle Eastern politics and terrorism. Born eating and breathing the cultures of the Islamic nations from the Mediterranean through the Kashmir, Rust was an expert not only in Arabic dialects but mannerisms and mind-set. This ingratiated him to the movers and shakers of the nations he frequented. Either as an invisible part of the embassy staff, or, slightly more out there, as a journalist, Rust was able to blend in, become a fly on the wall, and get information to the ears that needed to hear it.

  Rust thought about the need to get information to the right ears, and thought of 2001. Maybe that was why a veteran CIA man was so willing to buck the system and risk his job by leaking information to a phantom not even the Company was sure about. Striker went to the field and actually put boot to ass.

  He signed for the box. The damn thing weighed a ton.

  Hauling it under one arm, he left the post office. That’s when he saw a dark-featured young man out of the corner of his eye. Rust’s alarm bells went off when he knew that the young guy didn’t fit in. There was something wrong about him, but he couldn’t place what.

  Things were really tight now. Unbalanced and hindered by the heavyweight box, he couldn’t rapidly reach the tiny Glock 26 he had nestled in an ankle holster. He knew how to draw quickly with the ankle rig he wore, but that was with his hands free and his ability to turn unhindered by a big, heavy box. The CIA man was of a mind to just dump the box, but that wouldn’t be good for his health if the package contained a bomb.

  “Russel,” a voice called. It had a mixed Midwestern and South Florida drawl to it, and Rust had to look twice at the man who spoke using the voice.

  It was the guy who set off Rust’s instincts. The features were a little too dark for Egypt, and not hooked enough to be fully Semitic, but he did look like he fit in Lebanon, even though his manner was that of a Westerner. The hair, though, was nappy and short to his head, and dark eyes studied him carefully.

  “Russel, I’m here on ranch business,” the man said. His hands were occupied, filled with a rolled newspaper in his left and a bottle of water in his right.

  Rust relaxed. It was kind of an unwritten code among the agents in the area that they have their hands filled when they met, to distinguish friend from foe. Empty hands meant that the person you were meeting wanted his options open to immediately grab a weapon. The plastic water bottle and newspaper, however, were indicative of a savvy mind—they could be dropped with no hassle, and guns could be grabbed as trouble arose.

  Ranch business was another clue. It was a code phrase that Striker had used with him in their private dealings.

  “Let me set this hunk of crap down and we can talk somewhere,” Rust answered.

  The handsome man smiled, and easily slipped the bottled water and newspaper into the deep pockets of his cargo pants. Reaching out, he took the box. “I’ll carry that.”

  He could see the younger man’s dark arms ripple with corded muscle. “Oh sure. Just because you’re young, strong and agile…”

  The kid grinned. “Old age and treachery will win over youth and purity every time.”

  “I like your attitude, kid.”

  “Just want to live long enough to get to old age and treachery, Mr. Russel.”

  He nodded and led the way. “Got a name?”

  “Alex Johnson, sir.”

  Rust paused and looked him over. “You look like a Johnson.”

  “Excelle
nt, sir. I was barely able to detect the sarcasm in your tone.”

  “Come on, Alex.”

  ALESSANDRO KALID SET DOWN the cardboard box with a grunt, causing the rickety old table to wobble under the sudden impact. Kalid held his breath for a moment, but the spindly legs held. In the heat, it was heavy work, and he was glad for the breeze that pushed and puffed-up the gauzy drapes to Rust’s apartment. He didn’t know how much was in it, but knowing the man he knew as Striker, the box certainly wasn’t filled with jelly beans and Easter eggs. He looked at the seal on the box and saw the telltale signs that the tape had been stripped off and replaced.

  “Someone’s been looking in Striker’s stuff,” he muttered.

  “Yeah,” Rust stated. “The Lebanese have been interested in the packages that come in to me.”

  Kalid flipped out his Tanto knife with a deft wrist movement, slashed open the box and returned the blade with a flourish. “If that’s the case, your cover might be blown.”

  “That’s on the short list of things that are certain in life,” Rust answered.

  Kalid could only shrug and pull out the contents of the box. “A laptop, a printer and some digital cameras.”

  “Son of a…” Rust said.

  Kalid smirked. “The printer works, but it’s twice the size it should be.”

  He flipped over the unit and looked at the bottom. “No, not smuggling guns.”

  “So what’s that?” Rust asked, pointing at the silver square that Kalid was removing from the printer’s plastic shell.

  “Consider it the ultimate in wireless modems. State of the art. I think I’m supposed to light my eyeballs on fire for knowing about this,” Kalid said. He looked through the heavy booklet in the box. “And the manual on how to use the cameras.”

  Kalid flipped through the book. “You think they’d slip something into this that could give us a clue as to what’s going on?”