Agent of Peril

by Don Pendleton

  “Got a plan?” Geren asked him. She, too, saw the gunners through her rifle’s scope.

  Kalid knelt, cradling a weapon from one of the dead fighters who had tried to guard the mine entrance. He’d paused to peel the pants off the body. They weren’t too much of a mess, but they hung in tatters around his legs. He took the pause in the action to slice them into shorts.

  “There’s about five of them down there. I don’t want to use a grenade,” Bolan said. “It’ll bring down the roof, even with just a stun-shock.”

  Bolan looked at the stairwell that wound in a tight circle behind the hydraulic lift. He didn’t like that approach into the depths, as the clatter of boots on metal would alert anyone below. His blue eyes scanned the darkness till he spotted a winch hanging from the ceiling, ropes dangling. The winch itself was rusted and old, but the ropes were new, checkered yellow-and-green nylon gear. An alternate form of transportation, but still across the dreaded catwalks. Through the grating, he could spot the gunmen below, perched and ready to open fire on them.

  “Give me your gun,” Bolan ordered Kalid, handing him his M-4. “I need cover fire.”

  Kalid looked confused for a moment, but he exchanged ammunition with the big soldier. “You’re not going to go swinging down there?”

  Bolan wrapped the sling on the AK-47 around his forearm, gripping it tight in his right fist. “I’ll have only one chance. If I blow it, fall back and destroy this place.”

  Before either of his allies could object, the Executioner snapped to his feet, racing across the catwalk. As soon as his boot struck metal, gunfire erupted from below. Bullets sparked on grating, and the dull rip roars of sound-suppressed assault rifles filled the air behind him as Geren and Kalid opened fire.

  Bolan’s boots struck solid stone as a booming hail of slugs clattered against the catwalk, pellets bouncing off the stone ceiling just behind him. There was a frantic, angry cry below. He recognized the boom as the roar of a grenade launcher firing a buckshot round. Acting like a titanic shotgun, it fired a fist-sized wad of pellets that could shred flesh in a cone of death two yards wide.

  Only the speed of the Executioner kept him from ending up slashed into strip steak. With three more bounding steps, Bolan launched himself, left hand reaching out and snagging the rope dangling from the winch. Friction seared against his palm and fingers before his crush grip took over. Bolan’s weight suddenly began threading the rope through the pulleys, and he sailed down, seemingly out of control.

  He stiff-armed the AK-47 in his fist and opened fire, sweeping a blast of steel-cored slugs across the gunners who were trying to track him. They screamed and fell, bullets punching into them, only a few able to return fire, aiming too high to hit the rapidly descending angel of death.

  Bolan struck the ground, knees bent, shock jarring him head to toe. He was on the ground with the two remaining gunners, one arm snagged in the winch’s ropes, the other holding an empty assault rifle. One of the gunners brought his rifle to his shoulder, but pulled the trigger on an empty weapon while the second gunman snarled and charged, knowing his gun was also empty.

  The charging gunman used the muzzle of his rifle as a spearhead, not sharp enough to pierce flesh. That wouldn’t matter with enough speed and strength behind the thrust. Steel would still break bone and tear flesh with ridiculous ease. Bolan leaped to one side, riding the rope in a swing that carried him over his first foe, boots dancing him forward along the wall.

  Coming down on the second rifleman, Bolan whipped the muzzle of his weapon across the guy’s face, steel meeting flesh and parting it all the way to fragile bone. The second gunner staggered back, dropping his rifle and magazine.

  The first Egyptian spun and jammed the stock of his rifle into the Executioner’s stomach, folding him over. Bolan grunted with the impact, losing his footing and skidding as the ropes slid him along the floor. He tucked in his legs to avoid having them chopped by the merciless weight of wood and steel in his enemy’s hands. Getting one foot under him, Bolan lashed out with his other, kicking the gunner in the belly and snapping the AK-47’s buttstock into his jaw, driving him into the wall.

  With two steps, Bolan got himself upright, but didn’t enjoy that position for long. The torn-faced terrorist slammed into him, screaming and clawing. The Egyptian grabbed Bolan’s rifle. The Executioner had miscalculated the tenacity and suddenness of his enemy, as well as miscalculating the grip that the winch ropes and the rifle sling had taken on his arms. The bloody-faced madman knotted up his fist and launched a pair of brutal strokes into Bolan’s face before the big soldier put his foot down. Tarsal bones shattered under the Executioner’s boot, stunning the Egyptian enough to set him up for a knee between the legs.

  Freed of his second foe, Bolan hung on hard to the ropes, using them for leverage to kick the first of Idel’s fighters in the chest, stopping him cold. He loosened his grasp on his weapon and clawed at his chest harness, whipping free his knife. With a swift and savage slash, he freed one hand, and, transferring the knife, freed his other arm from captivity.

  The battered Egyptians regrouped from their momentary defeat. The two men closed in on Bolan, holding their rifles like clubs. They were coiled like spring steel, waiting for an opportunity. The Executioner faked a misstep, and the twin rifles whistled through the air, slashing at him.

  Ducking, Bolan lunged to the left, the razor sharp tip of the knife slamming into the groin of the man with the torn face. Rising swiftly, Bolan lashed upward, drawing the blade through the abdominal cavity of the terrorist. Guts spilled out as Bolan pivoted, ramming a roundhouse kick into his other foe.

  Bolan could feel ribs break against his combat boot. The rifleman dropped his weapon, but the Executioner moved in swiftly, driving the harsh ribbon of judgment deep into the terrorist’s chest cavity. Within moments, the fight was over.

  Geren and Kalid were only halfway down the metal staircase, and moving quickly.

  “Striker,” Kalid said.

  “I’m okay. Just a few bumps and a little bit of a burn,” Bolan answered.

  He fed a fresh magazine into his rifle. “Let’s get moving.”

  GENERAL NAHD IDEL SHOOK his head as he rushed to the command-and-control center. The blast doors were thick, and it would take a lot of power to cut through. That would give him at least some time to accomplish his plan, and perhaps even repel the attackers already on the scene.

  Bodyguards raced alongside the general as he made his way into the massive complex with rows of computer tables devoted to the control of the unmanned drones.

  A wall radar displayed the sudden appearance of three Egyptian military helicopters. Idel immediately took them for Unit 777 ships.

  “Air defenses?” Idel asked.

  “We’re trying to get targeting locks, but their pilots are keeping too low. They’re only showing up on radar for a moment, opening fire, then ducking back against the mountainside or over the lip of the plateau,” a captain spoke up. “I’m surprised we haven’t been hit with more firepower than just those three.”

  “Sir, we lost three drones already!” came a cry from one of the controllers. Idel looked over one of the pilots’ shoulders. A camera on the Predator was picking up the deadly sharklike form of the Egyptian Apache gunship as it slashed among the Predators.

  “Six drones down! We’re trying evasive!”

  “Send five back toward us. The rest go on to Egypt. Target the enemy helicopters,” Idel ordered calmly. “Keep a few to occupy and harass the Apache, crash into it if you must. Ten of them must get to Israeli airspace!”

  THE DRONES WERE GETTING harder to catch now that their pilots back at the base knew the Apache was among them. Still, Ekan was glad to have taken out a full fifth of the enemy force. Nateg kept the Apache diving and climbing, weaving among the enemy to avoid a midair collision, but also trying to keep the gunner from missing targets of opportunity.

  “Damn!” Nateg said.

  Ekan cast his gaze from his helm
et’s display and to the radar screen in his gunner’s bay. Five of the Predators had swung off, trailing back southwest at full dash speed. Others were breaking off too, ten ripping off to the north while the rest continued swarming around the Apache.

  The hunter was suddenly the prey as the Predators circled.

  “We’re screwed,” Nateg growled.

  “We have to break out and get those drones heading for Israel,” Ekan stated. “You have to get us out past them.”

  “You always get me into these messes, Ekan.”

  The Apache’s engines blasted at full power. “You’d better call back to the others, Ekan. Those drones are going to lay down some deadly winds when they get back home.”

  “I’m ahead of you,” Ekan replied. “Deathbird to Nova. Deathbird to Nova, be advised! Five incoming bogies, armed with chemical weapons!”

  “Nova to Deathbird. We read you. Their antiaircraft has proved ineffective against us. This might be their idea of a response,” Major Fesjad answered.

  “We’re going to try to break free and go after the drones heading toward Israel,” Ekan stated.

  “Ekan, you might run out of fuel. If you crash there, we won’t have any way of bringing you home,” Fesjad warned.

  “It’s a slim chance, but what’s two lives against a thousand or more?” Ekan asked.

  “Be nice if you asked me first,” Nateg said as he swung the Apache between two darting Predators, lunging after the flight that had torn off from the main group.

  “I don’t see you disengaging the pursuit,” Ekan stated.

  The Apache roared into the darkness, followed by a swarm of deadly sky darts intent on smashing it from the sky.

  BOLAN WAS LEADING the charge when his earpiece squawked to life.

  “Colonel Stone. The general has turned a portion of his sky force back toward us,” Fesjad warned. “They’re Predator UAVs, and they have improvised canisters of chemical weapons hooked under each wing. Pull back and we’ll blow this place.”

  “How are your men faring against the other drones?” Bolan asked.

  “They’re hard-pressed, and ten slipped away from them,” Fesjad explained. There was a heartbeat of silence. “You’re not turning back.”

  “If we take out the command and control, we can give your helicopter crew a chance to knock out the Predators over empty desert,” Bolan explained.

  “I was right about the unmanned drones,” Kalid said dejectedly.

  “What’s wrong with being right?” Geren asked him.

  “The fact that Unit 777, a lot of Israelis and we are all going to get killed when they deliver their nerve agents,” Kalid answered.

  “A wise man once said believe three impossible things before breakfast,” Bolan told Kalid. “Technically it’s before breakfast, so let’s go stop those missiles.”

  “Those aren’t missiles,” Kalid said.

  “All the better. They’re slower, which gives us more time,” Bolan stated.

  Four gunmen raced down one of the side tunnels, spilling out into the open. They were going to make a hasty turn, presumably heading for command and control. Warning sirens were already sounding, but the new tone of the alert only confirmed Fesjad’s warning that the mine complex and the surrounding area was going to be hammered with gallons of nerve agents.

  Spotting Bolan and his allies, the gunmen froze, giving them the advantage they needed. Rifles flashed and recoiled, spitting a fountain of lead into the quartet, chopping them out of the way.

  Kalid knelt and began pulling grenades off the dead men, stuffing them into an improvised pouch. “Command and control is going to be protected at least against nerve gas. That means we’re going to have to get through one hell of a thick door.”

  “Blasting might bring the mountain down on top of us,” Geren said.

  “If it does, maybe we’ll be lucky and it’ll get them. Besides, I can use the grenades to help focus my own explosives,” Bolan countered.

  Geren shook her head. “Join the Mossad, see the world, meet interesting people, blow up underground terrorist bases…”

  “It is written that ‘May you live in interesting times’ is not a blessing, but a curse,” Kalid said.

  Geren stuck her tongue out at him in a combination of mock defiance and stress relief.

  “Onward and downward,” Bolan ordered.

  19

  Major Fesjad watched the skies as the Commando helicopter hovered at the mouth of the mine entrance. He glanced down to the mine, and then back up.

  “Nova to Horn and Nomad. Disengage and return to Blackjack base,” Fesjad ordered.

  “Negative, Major. We’re picking up too much radio interference. Repeat again on that order to turn chickenshit,” Nomad’s pilot spoke up.

  Fesjad smiled at the loyalty of his men. “We’re going to be expecting some deadly incoming fire in a few moments.”

  Nomad darted over an antiaircraft gunner’s nest, sweeping it with a blistering assault. The nest was silenced, and the Commando whirled back toward cover as bullets trailed in the sky behind it.

  Fesjad shouldered his M-16, targeting the gunner’s nest. He milked out half his magazine when the M-60 next to him roared, following the tracers he laid down on the target. Bodies churned and disintegrated under the hail of combined small-arms fire.

  “Colonel Stone needed us to close the killing box. Right now, the only ones who’re likely to be killed in this box are us. Nomad and Horn, get your stupid tails out of here now!” Fesjad ordered.

  “We’re still not reading you, sir,” Horn answered from the other side.

  Fesjad grumbled. “Nobody’s willing to back down in this fight.”

  “Not when that bastard killed our best people. Besides, you didn’t say you were leaving,” Nomad’s pilot said.

  “I’m seeing this one out for my nephew. You don’t have to,” Fesjad explained.

  “Yes, we do, sir,” Nomad’s pilot replied.

  NATEG ROLLED THE APACHE as a Predator swung past it, just missing slamming into one of the wing stubs. Despite being rolled at enormous centrifugal forces, Ekan hit the firing stud on the M-230 chain gun, the explosive bolts ripping the Predator into a thousand shreds. Fragments of the shattered drone came slapping against the cockpit of the helicopter, and the pilot found himself wrestling to keep the aircraft right after coming out of its barrel roll.

  Ekan targeted a Predator that was sailing at the extreme of the Apache’s range. It took a 20-round burst to finally blast it into ragged wreckage, dumping it out of the sky and into barren sands where the winds of the desert would scatter and neutralize its deadly cargo.

  Nateg grunted, swerving as another drone nearly clipped the rotors of the Apache as it dived down and swung up, getting out of the way of Ekan’s retaliatory fire. His eyes were torn between the radar, watching over both shoulders, and not driving the Apache into the ground like a giant bug against a windshield. “How much ammo are we counting?”

  Ekan looked at his counter. “Three hundred and thirteen rounds left. Not a lot to work with. How about fuel?”

  “The arrow’s almost pointing at E. I think that means enough, but it’s hard to tell with these American controls,” Nateg said.

  “It’s dark, we’re three hundred kilometers from Cairo, we have an empty tank of gas, we’re almost out of ammo and we’re about to crash-land in Israeli airspace while they’re on full alert for bad guys coming from Egypt,” Ekan stated.

  “Another day of fun with us,” Nateg growled. “Keep knocking out those Predators. I’ll keep our buddies off our tail!”

  IDEL LOOKED UP AS MORE of his men opened fire at the door to the command-and-control center. “Close that door!” he ordered.

  “But we have men out there!” one of the sentries yelled.

  Idel pulled his pistol, jaw tightening with rage until he thought it would snap. He put a bullet into the sentry. “Get that blast door closed! The drones are almost here. If anyone’s still outside, may God
have mercy on their souls!”

  The metal bulkhead door swung shut, screams and curses cut off by the clang of the airtight seal closing. Idel shook his head in sympathy, then moved toward the communications center, holstering his pistol.

  “I wish to use this by myself,” he told the officer.

  “Sir,” the young man said, getting out of his chair.

  “I also want total privacy. Clear an area for me,” Idel said.

  The general turned, knowing his men would follow his orders, the incident with the sentry notwithstanding. He turned on the power to a SATCOM radio phone. A voice answered in English.

  “Our sources at US CENTCOM are telling us of unusual activity over the Sinai Peninsula. The operation is already under way?” the American voice on the other end asked.

  “You have heard of al Askari?” Idel asked. His jaw muscles twitched, and he tried to blink away the ache. He opened his mouth wide, hearing the mandible joint pop like distant gunshots.

  “I’ve heard unsubstantiated rumors,” the American answered.

  “Well, he’s on the other side of a two-inch-thick steel door. He’s cut down several of my men, and he’s working his way to kill us. He managed to get Unit 777 on his side, and they’re trying to intercept our delivery vehicles,” Idel stated.

  There was a sigh. “I gave those Predators to you in the hopes that we could use them all. How many have we lost?”

  “Too many,” Idel said. “I’m bringing five back to perform a scorched earth campaign on this part of the plateau, but I’ve been exposed here.”

  Silence.

  “Israel is not going to wade in blood,” Idel told him, “but she will mourn the deaths of her children in the gas attacks that get through.”

  “We have nothing more to say. If you eliminate al Askari, you can contact me, face-to-face within a week.”

  The SATCOM locked out, signal dead.