“Helps me keep track of where I’ve been,” Bolan answered, looking down at the scars crisscrossing his chest, back and arms. He didn’t remember every white streak of skin, every hairline impression, every scratch, but he wasn’t one for concentrating on the souvenirs of his career. He was only there to do his job, not cover himself in glory.
Geren set the plate next to the water jug. “Need anything else?”
“An update on what’s happening with Anwar,” Bolan said.
She nodded. “Anwar’s confused as hell. He and his team are Unit 777.”
Bolan glanced at her with surprise. “The Egyptian counterterrorism unit. No wonder.”
“No wonder you look like you hit a brick wall and bounced.”
“Actually, it was a sofa.”
“Well, Anwar and his unit were hitting the Hezbollah because they launched an attack from Egyptian territory. He was under the assumption that this was a reprisal, but he was iffy about the lack of intel. It was made worse when he realized that there were noncombatant children in the building.”
Bolan set the sandwich on the plate after a couple of bites, his appetite fled. The night before, he came into conflict with soldiers on the same side, and killed some of them. They were soldiers who had been misdirected and misguided into action, but he still felt the pangs of guilt. In the middle of the night, in the heat of battle, there was no way to tell what was going on.
More friendly dead attached themselves to Bolan’s soul, but this time, they joined him because of his hand. The commandos thought they were destroying a threat to Egypt, instead of closing a back door.
Bolan tried pulling himself from the shock and confusion. “Who did he say was in charge of the mission?”
“Captain Pedal Tofo. This guy is top of the line. A super pro,” Geren replied. “Bad news and a half.”
“Anwar said that?”
“Anwar said that Tofo was a real top-secret type. He’s not officially part of Unit 777, but he managed to arrange for Anwar’s commander to assign a team to him. They were sheep-dipped. You know what sheep-dipped is, right?”
“Taking conventional special operations forces, stripping them of their military identity, and then sending them into action where the military wouldn’t normally be able to go,” Bolan said. “Made deniable and sometimes expendable.”
Bolan looked up, confused for a moment.
Geren knelt before him. “You’re human. We didn’t know.”
“I vowed never to harm a soldier on the same side, and last night I personally killed at least…” Bolan tried to think of the night before, but the fog of violence and mayhem was too much. He just remembered muzzle-flashes and bodies convulsing in agony.
“I killed too many men who were supposed to be fighting the good fight.”
“We didn’t know. They were cutting through enemy terrorists like a chain saw through butter, and they were going to cut off our only link,” Geren reminded him.
“I should have known better,” Bolan growled.
“There’s no way you could have known. And with the efficiency they were killing with, they could have ripped you to pieces if you used anything less than your full combat abilities.”
Bolan looked into her green eyes, jaw set firm.
“Someone on Egypt’s side set everyone up. They didn’t care who died. Look at Nitzana. How many Israelis and Palestinians died there? People who were trying to live in peace even with extremists on both sides calling for each other’s blood. This animal doesn’t respect life, any more than the Hezbollah tank drivers cared about their own people.”
“The tanks.”
Bolan checked his watch. “I have to take care of Kazan and his tank force. He’s going to launch a spearhead from a Hezbollah militia stronghold with the remaining six tanks that Faswad bought.”
“Where?”
“Nahariyyah.”
“Faswad wasn’t thinking small,” Geren said.
“I’m thinking that it wasn’t Faswad on his own. His tank dealer probably suggested the assault, especially since the Israelis are building up for more tension in the south along the Egyptian border.”
“But Egypt and Israel are allies.”
“Cold allies. There’s hard-liners on each side that still remember the old days. A long history of enmity—just the kind of thing a warmonger would love to exploit.”
“We could call in the Israeli air force…”
“And tell them what? We think an Egyptian general sold tanks to your worst enemies in order to spark a war between Egypt and Israel?”
“And then we’d really have people itching for a war,” Geren said.
“I have to take out the tanks myself.”
“And what about us?”
“I still need to pin down the mastermind behind all this. Between you and Alex…”
“And Anwar.”
“Anwar. I need to speak to him.”
“Do you think that’s going to be healthy?”
“We’ll find out either way,” Bolan said, pulling on a fresh BDU shirt and leading the way out of the room.
ANWAR FESJAD FELT THE BIG SOLDIER entering before he arrived. It was like a pressure wave, and even recovering from blood loss and several traumas, he recognized the blazing cold eyes of the mysterious warrior who had taken him down the night before.
He paused.
“This is your leader?” Anwar asked the man who had introduced himself as Alex.
Kalid nodded.
“You can call me Colonel Stone,” Bolan told him.
Anwar eyed Bolan. “The rest of my unit is dead.”
“At least one, maybe up to three, made it out.”
On a wobbly leg, Anwar got to his feet. “And why were you there interfering with us?”
“I was going after Faswad myself. I needed to know who sold him twelve Egyptian-issue M1 Abrams tanks.”
Anwar, aching, met the tall man’s gaze unflinchingly. “Did you learn who?”
“Faswad was cold on his back by the time I got to him. The only survivor didn’t know who Faswad dealt with, but he knew about another incident about to go down.”
“So you think someone in my government tried to cover all this up?”
“Some extremist. He might have a following, but not enough to reach the Hezbollah in Lebanon.”
“That’s why he had his spook Tofo grab up my team and lead them to their deaths,” Anwar said.
“I didn’t know who you were,” Bolan said.
“And we didn’t know who you were,” Anwar replied.
Bolan nodded. “You’re free to back out…or I’ll give you a gun and you can take it out on me.”
“You pulled the trigger on my friends, but you’re not the one who murdered them. If it wasn’t your bullets that killed them, then it could have been the Hezbollah’s. Someone else murdered my partners and fellow soldiers, and they also left you feeling like a murderer. I’m not letting that bastard escape,” Anwar explained. After a morning of debriefing and discussion with Kalid and Geren, he knew they bore no malice toward the Egyptian counterterrorist team he was on.
Bolan nodded again. “The real murderer isn’t getting away. That’s my promise to you.”
Anwar extended his hand. “I believe you.”
10
Alex Kalid didn’t like separating from the big warrior to whom he’d pledged his loyalty.
“I want to know if you’re completely mad, or just bonkers from getting blown up too many times?” Kalid asked.
“If one man isn’t enough to take out a column of tanks, what makes you think two will be?” Bolan asked in response.
Kalid shrugged.
“Which is why I’m sending you ahead to Cairo. You and Anwar and Geren are going to have to get things ready for me down there. I can’t be in two places at the same time. Someone has to stop Kazan and the tank strike. And someone has to start picking up the trail of this Major Tofo before he gets ‘cleaned up’ too.”
K
alid wanted to throw up his hands, but a pair of icy blue eyes held him still.
“Major Tofo brought several soldiers into conflict with me and you! You killed two men yourself, remember? You’re going to let Tofo get away with forcing us into a blind friendly fire incident?”
Kalid looked at his hands. He still hadn’t been able to wash all the blood off.
“Are you going to stick around Lebanon waiting to figure out how to take out a division of unstoppable war machines?”
Kalid clenched his fists, then looked at Bolan. “Tofo’s mine. I’m going to chew him up and spit him out.”
Bolan looked him over, then nodded.
It took an hour for Kalid to realize how the savvy soldier had brought focus to his rage. Anger was at once a motivator, and a risk. Too much anger blinded a man to what had to be done, or pushed him to act as a total savage without regard to who he encountered. But too little anger in combat was also something that left one open to fear. He needed just the right cut, and Bolan, in his wisdom and skill, had honed that edge just right.
MAJOR TOFO AND WHOMEVER he was working for were in Egypt—that was where they needed to look for answers. If that meant leaving one man to impossible odds, then no matter how much it crushed the loyal heart of Alex Kalid, he’d do what the big man asked. The villains of this affair were not going to be allowed to escape to freedom.
Or, if the slaughter intended at Nahariyyah was only a feint, then Kalid was going to have to find a way to slow down what further madness they intended.
The more Kalid thought about it, as he explained to the others in the Peugeot, the more he felt that the Hezbollah assault was misdirection.
“You’re right,” Anwar said. “If they’re supposed to be starting a battle between Egypt and Israel, why give the Hezbollah all the work unless it’s to spread the Israeli Defense Forces thin.”
“Double the incursions means double the defensive forces everywhere. We have enough to make the northern and southern borders a wall of steel. The same with the Golan Heights. Israel has all kinds of defensive barriers, and the forces with the skill to make any incursion impossible,” Geren said.
“Unless there was something else,” Kalid spoke up.
“Something that could open up a gap in a wall of Israeli armored divisions?”
“Anwar?” Kalid asked.
“Don’t ask me. Except for the fact that Egypt now has tanks that can match Israel’s, but if our mystery man gave as many as twelve away…” Anwar answered. “Maybe he has other technology.”
“Like maybe aerial firepower?” Kalid asked.
“Something like that,” Anwar stated. “But I can’t think of any Egyptian pilots who would be willing to lead a bombing excursion into Israel. A handful of planes wouldn’t provide the punch necessary, and this force would still be undermanned.”
“Say that again,” Geren said suddenly.
“What?”
“Still be undermanned?” she repeated. Kalid watched her green eyes flicker with activity.
“Unmanned craft. The United States had been using Predator Unmanned Aerial Vehicles to take out enemy antiaircraft sites and even moving vehicles with Maverick missiles,” Kalid said. “You’re brilliant.”
Geren smiled. “You only say that because it’s true.”
“So our mystery man would have perhaps an entire squadron of unmanned aerial vehicles. With the right missile loads…” Anwar trailed off. “That could punch a very damaging hole through Israeli defenses. Or turn another couple of settlements and towns into charnel houses.”
“He’d need a runway,” Kalid said.
“That narrows it down…” Geren muttered.
“It’s a start,” Anwar spoke up.
“Let’s not miss our flight,” Kalid said.
A DIRECT ASSAULT WAS OUT of the question. Even the Executioner, laden with his usual kit of weaponry, couldn’t hope to annihilate a division of tanks before they got rolling and under way in a naked display of firepower.
Bolan knew that tanks could be dealt with in an easier manner, but only if he was stealthy enough and fast enough. Speed and silence didn’t always go hand in hand, but the soldier would have to make do with an uneasy balance.
Naqoura’s lights painted the evening skies purple in the distance, the Hezbollah camp itself draped in camouflage netting that subdued the amber lamps illuminating its grounds. Guards were on patrol, and Bolan knew that this was more than just a simple Hezbollah operation by the presence of top of the line T-72B tanks—Syrian battle tanks, not the older 1960s and 1970s vintage. Even being a late 1980s model, the T-72B had the ability to launch guided missiles from its 125 mm smoothbore cannon. Only its relatively thin skin and the need to stop to fire its guided weaponry made it vulnerable.
The M1A1s could fire on the move and direct-guided fire easily.
As a combined force, the M1s pulverizing a path and laying down cover fire for the stationary T-72s, they would be a fearsome force.
They might not get to Nahariyyah unimpeded, but Bolan knew that actually destroying a city was just the icing on the cake. The armored fist smashing in through Israel’s northern border would send the country on red alert. They were already hyper reactive over the blitz in Nitzana.
If the Hezbollah and Syrian forces were assumed to be taking offensive action from the north, it would start a whole new conflagration of destruction.
Bolan checked his war load. In addition to his usual combat kit, he had with him a drag bag loaded with high explosives, culled from several sources during the day thanks to J. R. Rust and Anwar Fesjad. A raid on a hidden cache of arms stored by the Egyptian special forces in Lebanon gave the Executioner a little extra edge against the tanks, even if it meant that he’d be slowed down.
With a sweep of his binoculars, he confirmed what Cabez had told him. Six M1 tanks and twice as many T-72s, an armada of armor ready to pound into Nahariyyah, sat waiting. Eighteen tanks, which could brush even a soldier as experienced as the Executioner aside like an insect, were ready to be stung.
Bolan slipped down into the darkness, hauling the drag bag into the deepening shadows of evening, cutting closer and closer to the compound. Reaching the fence, he found himself by the latrine runoff and garbage fill. The stench was incredible, but Bolan had smelled worse. Using a pair of rubberized, conventional wire cutters, he snipped through the chain-link fence. It was slower going than with the can of liquid nitrogen from the night before.
It was only twenty-four hours since he’d met Tera Geren, but the Executioner dismissed the compression of time. He was aching and stiff, but each flexing of his muscles, hauling on the bag, was one more step toward loosening himself up. When he’d opened enough of the fence to crawl through, he pushed his drag bag in first, then followed, bending the chain link back into position so it wouldn’t betray his entry. A cable tie helped to secure the fence link in place.
Bolan quietly opened the bag, pulling out the first of several SLAM munitions. The Selectable Lightweight Attack Munition was a one kilogram explosive mine small enough to fit into the pocket of a BDU, yet with the capacity to punch through 40 mm of rolled homogenous armor at twenty-five feet. He wasn’t under the delusion that the minibombs would destroy the tanks, but they would certainly leave the Abrams as fifty-ton paperweights and the T-72s in shambles. For maximum effect, the Executioner figured one fitted to each tread of each tank, and one under the main gun. Robbed of firepower and of mobility, the armored vehicles would be left useless.
That was the plan.
Whether Bolan could get the charges placed was an unknown. Over fifty pounds of high explosives were going to be slowing him down in addition to his gear. The soldier paused and checked the weapons from the Egyptian armory. The SLAMs were items shared with Unit 777 from the U.S. Special Forces who cross trained with them. So was the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3, one of the quietest auto-weapons ever made. On full-auto, with high-velocity ammo, it sounded no louder than a flock of pigeons sudden
ly taking to flight. Bolan was also pleased to note that the weapons cache had a .44 Magnum Israeli-made Desert Eagle to balance things out.
Bolan was off, sliding through the shadows, loaded for tank and terrorist. This was going to be a fast and dirty hit and git. Place the SLAMs, kill anyone who tried to stop him before they raised an alarm, and tear his way to an escape while nearly twenty armored vehicles got punched through with explosions.
Bolan did his best not to be seen, keeping low and crawling, the unblinking eye of his HK scanning the darkness. He didn’t have night-vision goggles, but even in the darkness, he had more than enough light to see by from distant light sources. His own eyes were sharp and acutely capable of picking up movement in all but pitch-black conditions.
The rows of tanks were covered with canopies of camouflage netting, and in order to keep the tanks from being noticeable, their engines were off, and no lights were on. Guards patrolled in the darkness, and Bolan recognized that the operation was very high priority. Instead of the usual battered old AK-47s, the soldiers were armed with FAMAS rifles with mounted flashlights and the guards had the black sheaths of ballistic nylon vests.
The Hezbollah and the Syrians were really pulling out all the stops. Bolan figured that the Syrians were using the Palestinian group as an intermediary in their constant cold war with Israel. The well-armed and well-equipped mercenaries patrolling the parade grounds removed the last bit of doubt that the armored fist was going to be deadly and effective. The joint forces were using professional soldiers, and no doubt there were professional tankers who would use their vehicles with every bit of precision and skill that the Israelis possessed.
Bolan crouched by a tent, watching the guard movement, getting their timing down, then looked to see if there was a way to bypass them. They moved precisely, and their gaze was everywhere. They weren’t going to make it easy for him to slip past, and they weren’t going to drift to laziness and relaxation, as he’d experienced so many times before.
Professionals, however, were just as vulnerable as amateurs, and just as deadly. Bolan could anticipate a professional’s actions. No amateur’s diversions were going to turn these men aside. And the instant one was out of sight of the other, there would be milliseconds to take the guard, if even the sound of a silenced weapon didn’t alert the gunner immediately.
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