Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “No way at all,” Kurtzman confirmed.

  “Inform our contact in Yemen that there’s a problem. See what assistance he can offer,” Price ordered.

  Kurtzman nodded and immediately got to work.

  Southern Yemen

  MACK BOLAN STAYED at the landing site for ten minutes, waiting, watching, ignoring the cold night air. Nobody came. He had quickly regained his breath; he had hundreds of hours of experience with parachute jumps and had been extensively trained in what to do when things went wrong, but even so, an uncontrolled free fall was something to be avoided. It wasn’t his first bad experience during a jump, and most likely it wouldn’t be his last.

  His biggest worry now was the loss of his specialist weapons and equipment. The electronics would be smashed, the guns damaged beyond use. He was now only armed with two pistols, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle and a Beretta 93-R, with its custom sound suppressor. Two hand grenades hung from his combat webbing. He also had a garrote, the knife he cut the chute with, a small map and compass, a tiny flashlight and two hundred US dollars along with several spare magazines of ammunition in various pouches and pockets. Everything else was gone.

  Bolan considered the situation for a moment. The mission objectives hadn’t really changed. He would be able to find the terrorist camp from the map; he would still be able to locate and identify Qutaiba. The only difference was his inability to communicate with the Farm. They would in all likelihood still have him under observation via the drone. If he could find a way to signal them, then the mission was still a go. And if he was unable to do so, then he would find a way to remove Qutaiba himself. Then get out of Dodge, avoid the Yemeni army should they show up, rendezvous with the contact and leave Yemen as fast as possible.

  Yes, the mission was definitely still a go.

  A thousand things could yet go wrong. The drone might have been called off. The powers that be might decide to fire the drone’s Hellfire missiles despite Bolan being unable to report in. His main parachute might be discovered, alerting the terrorists. And who knew where his gear bag had landed. The mission could go to hell in an instant, but the soldier had been in tight spots before and knew exactly how to get out of them. This time would be no different.

  Bolan buried his reserve parachute in a shallow hole that he dug with his bare hands. The warm jumpsuit joined the chute in its grave, unlikely to be seen ever again. Now dressed in his combat blacksuit, he quickly checked his weaponry for damage and for sand blockage, before withdrawing the map and compass. Using the miniature flashlight, he roughly worked out his position. Returning the navigation equipment to a pouch on his combat webbing, he straightened and started a slow jog across the loose sand in what he believed to be the correct direction.

  The Executioner had a date with a terrorist.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The solitary candle flickered in the draft from the tiny open window, its flame creating and erasing shadowy images in an instant. The black cloth that covered the opening billowed slightly, held in place by four nails hammered hard into the surrounding wall. Zaid abu Qutaiba lay on his camp bed, his left arm tucked behind his head, using it as a pillow since there was no real one to be found. The arm had long since gone to sleep, and Qutaiba knew that it would hurt like hell when he did eventually move. For now he ignored it, lost in the imaginary world that the candlelight formed.

  The dancing shadows shaped themselves into the face of a devil, before shifting to a flower, before reimaging into a racing cheetah. Qutaiba’s eyes remained unfocused, seeing but not seeing. In his mind’s eye he focused on only one image set against the backdrop of the yellow light—that of an old, long-lost photograph of his wife and young son smiling happily. It worried him that he was unable to recall their expressions, their mannerisms, their real faces. The only recall was of the photograph, which he had lost when Mossad had closed in on him in Tel Aviv, when he had been forced to dress as a woman to escape their clutches. The loss of the keepsake felt like a betrayal to their memory, and as punishment, it had made his memories of them decay.

  Qutaiba could feel a wet line running from his eye to his ear, but ignored it. It was the Americans, of course, always the Americans. There were plenty of Shiite versus Sunni killings. Those were bad with their constant car bombings and suicide attacks, but the Americans had killed his beautiful wife and son; they were the ones who’d sprayed indiscriminate bullets around the marketplace in Kirkuk, not even sparing a backward glance when they left behind the torn bodies of the “insurgents,” including a five-year-old boy and his mother.

  Qutaiba had not been there. Having survived the American-led invasion as a captain in the Republican Guard, he had thrown away his uniform and joined the newly reformed police force instead. He’d never cared for Saddam or his warped sons and wanted so much to help rebuild Iraq, even if it meant cooperating with the American occupiers. They would leave eventually, he had reassured his wife, Aya. But they didn’t leave soon enough. A new phenomenon appeared in American warfare—private armies. Supposedly hired to guard diplomats and protect foreign workers, some of these men took their duties too far and saw Iraq as a free-for-all. Anything could be done. No repercussions.

  When a patrol of these private mercenaries had stones thrown at them in the marketplace by disenchanted youths, they had retaliated with extreme violence. The youths were gunned down, along with many other shoppers. When their magazines were dry, the mercenaries clambered back into their jeep and left. He could remember the call of the dispatcher over the scratched and battered radio, summoning all to the scene of the massacre. When he had arrived, he had been physically held back by colleagues, who had found the torn bodies of his family.

  There was a blank after that, a large blank. Qutaiba imagined that he could remember the funerals the next day, but there was no definition, no clarity. There was a vague image of throwing away his police uniform, which he had been so proud of, but again that could also have been a fictional memory. What he did remember, like a searing pain, was that there had been no claim of responsibility from the Americans. Nothing. No mention of it anywhere. It was just gone, denied as if Aya and his son, Ajmi, had never existed. He’d felt his faith die along with his family. Revenge, vengeance, hate, it all became the same.

  He’d sought out the company of the rebels; he’d known who they were and where to find them from his police days. At first they’d been skeptical, but Qutaiba had showed them what he was made of, leading a devastating attack on the Iraqi offices of the private soldiers responsible for the deaths of those he most valued. He’d slaughtered the men inside, shooting the corpses in their faces until all identity had been erased.

  The insurgents had been impressed, but Qutaiba had wanted more. He was hungry for it. He’d vowed to kill Americans and their allies wherever they were to be found. He began kidnapping Western soldiers and civilians, making bargains with them in front of the rebels: if they could kill him in single combat with a knife, then they could go free. The prisoner was given a choice of fighting knife. One kidnapped diplomat had cut himself before the fight even started, so Qutaiba promptly had helped the fool by cutting his throat. All of the corpses had been dumped in a prominent part of the city where patrolling soldiers could find them.

  He’d come to the attention of al Qaeda, who had taken him under its wing, faith or no faith, molding him into what he was today. He’d discovered a talent for leading and planning, one that the Mullahs, the mad, hypocritical Mullahs, encouraged. Qutaiba felt he was using them as much as they used him and didn’t care if they knew it.

  Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Israel, Kenya—all had suffered from his wrath. But still he felt empty; nothing filled the void that he dragged around with him. Maybe, just maybe, the emptiness would go within a day or two, for then would come his greatest attack, one so simple that the Americans would have no time to respond, just as Aya and Ajmi had had no time to respond.

  Qutaiba shook himself out of his reverie, closing the door on
the ghosts. Blinking, he sat up on the camp bed, cursing as the pain of pins and needles surged through his sleeping left arm. Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed the half-filled plastic cup of cheap red wine and took a sip. Not being a devout Muslim had its advantages. He grimaced. The wine had warmed. Awful. Scraping his tongue against his teeth to remove the foulness of the warm wine, he replaced the glass next to a notebook, which he knew he should not have. But there were certain details of the operation that he needed to be reminded of and the notebook was invaluable.

  The wooden door opened, and the candle almost gutted itself as an imposing figure stepped into the room. The door slammed shut behind him, the figure neither caring about noise or the intrusion. Qutaiba didn’t need to look up from his position to know who it was. Only Hakim Haddad would enter so, only Haddad lacked the manners and the sensibility to knock first. Only Haddad could repulse him more than all the Americans and Israelis put together. The man was a complete animal, and Qutaiba had to wonder if Haddad had finally come to kill him. Qutaiba’s AK-47 was propped against the wall next to the door, now out of reach. He tried and failed to suppress the shudder that ran through him. To hide it, he reached out for the wine, preferring its foulness over the presence of the Afghan visitor. He heard Haddad’s sharp intake of breath and smiled slightly, noting once again how easy it was to rile the fanatic.

  “What do you want, Hakim?” The tiredness in his voice came as a surprise.

  “The first group has arrived at the destination. They will begin their attack at the correct time. The rest of our group will arrive shortly. The men are eager for battle. They wish to bathe in the blood of infidels.” Haddad’s voice was a growl, and Qutaiba wondered if Haddad wanted to bathe in his blood, as well. The man certainly viewed him as an infidel, and only the orders of the Mullahs had kept the two men apart. Qutaiba finally turned to look up at the towering Taliban dressed in traditional Perahan Tunban clothing. Whereas Qutaiba grieved the loss of his child every moment, Haddad had actively murdered his own daughter in an honor killing, never blinking, never mourning. The very thought revolted Qutaiba. He wanted the monster gone, out of his single mud-brick room.

  “Anything else?”

  “I sent extra patrols out. Some men saw something fall out of the sky. They went to look.”

  “Fall out of the sky? A bird?”

  Haddad glowered. The man was a powder keg; the slightest perceived insult would provoke him. Qutaiba tried to keep his mocking tone in check.

  “Perhaps. Or it was a spy or a robot drone. I sent them to look.”

  “Yes, Hakim, you did well. Keep me informed.”

  Haddad’s demeanor didn’t change as he turned and left the hut. The hate stayed in his eyes. Qutaiba closed his own eyes. It was so debilitating to work with these people, but it was a necessary evil. They were nothing more than cannon fodder. They would all be dead and gone within the next few days; maybe even he would be dead. There was an escape plan, one the pawns did not know about, but Qutaiba didn’t know if he wanted to use it. That empty aching void was dragging him down. The plan would kick into action soon, an attack against the hated enemy, one that would not be forgotten. And during that attack, he would make his peace with Aya and Ajmi, begging their forgiveness as he rushed to join them. It would happen soon.

  Nothing could stop it.

  * * *

  MACK BOLAN, LYING on his stomach, observed the comings and goings of the terrorists from his vantage point atop a large sand dune. Even in the predawn gloom he could clearly see that the men were no normal villagers. Armed with AK-47s, they kept up a loose, sloppy guard. These were men not expecting trouble. They seemed more excited about something than keeping an observant lookout. Bolan could occasionally hear their enthusiastic conversation, even from three hundred yards away, the words too indistinct to discern. He had found this outpost an hour earlier and been in position ever since. It was obvious from the ground that this was no true village. Not one of the mud-brick buildings had been finished, there was no main road leading anywhere, and there were no animals of any kind, not even a chicken.

  Situated as it was between the hills and sand dunes, Bolan could conclude that the village had been constructed for only one reason: a hiding place for terrorists. They would know that drones regularly flew overhead, so hiding out in the open made perfect sense. But this place wasn’t yet completed, and that ruined the illusion. Plus, the buildings were too uniform, ten in total, five facing five, with a dirt track between them. No, the village wasn’t complete. They should have waited before occupying the buildings. Yet they didn’t wait, which meant to Bolan that an operation was being planned.

  He had counted ten men so far, but no doubt there were more. He managed to identify the barracks building. It was the largest at the end away from him, and most of the activity was focused there. Qutaiba would not be there, being too important too mingle with the common troops. The building opposite was equally large, designed to house vehicles. There was a slight glow emanating out of the darkness, the only unnatural light to be seen. The soldier thought that he could make out a fender of one vehicle but was too far away too be sure. The other buildings were much smaller; the smallest was closest to him. It could contain only a single room, and he had just witnessed a large man enter for a few moments before leaving again. An outhouse, maybe?

  Dawn was approaching. He needed to quickly scout out the village, a quick in and out before the morning sun truly arrived. The activity down below seemed to be increasing, and Bolan suspected that the enemy would move out soon, assigned missions to kill and destroy. Time to pay them a visit.

  Bolan waited for the two-man patrol to return. In the darkness they had passed him, supposedly on duty but in reality discussing a whorehouse in Aden. He had learned rudimentary Arabic some time ago as part of his ongoing war against terror, and while tough local dialects were hard to follow, these two had spoken clearly enough to be understood.

  They were fast approaching, eager to return to the barracks, discussing something about boats and trucks and laughing quietly to themselves. Bolan pushed himself back into the sand as he quietly raised his Beretta 93-R. Once again they passed by Bolan, paying him no heed. He couldn’t wait much longer. In seconds they would be in sight of the village.

  With the Italian pistol cupped in both hands, he settled himself on his elbows. Using the luminous dots painted onto the iron sights, he pointed and fired, once, twice, a quiet sneezing of the sound-suppressed weapon that would be inaudible in the village. A red hole appeared in the first man’s head, followed by a hole in his partner’s. There was barely time for a look of surprise before both terrorists collapsed onto the sand, dead.

  Bolan waited a moment to see if the sound of the dying men had been heard. It hadn’t. He holstered the pistol, crawling over to the two corpses. Both had stopped twitching. He quickly removed the two AK-47s, examined them, checked the corpses for extra magazines. One rifle was scratched, pitted, uncared for, and Bolan discarded it after removing the banana-shaped magazine. The other weapon was better. One corpse gave up a single, half-full magazine. The other had nothing.

  Seventy-five rounds. Not enough to kill a terrorist group with.

  But enough to make a start.

  The second of the two corpses was the larger of the two, and Bolan began to strip the dead man of his clothing, intending to masquerade as an Arab in the predawn gloom. His appearance might survive a glance, but if somebody stared for more than a few seconds, the flimsy cover would be blown. Bolan pulled the long garment over his head, only to find it was too tight in several places.

  Using his knife, he cut several large holes along the seams, under the arms and down around his legs. When it came to combat, the robe would have to be quickly discarded. Replacing the knife in its sheath and slinging the AK-47, Bolan slouched as he made his way down to the village, hopefully looking like a sentry who was bored and tired to anyone who happened to glance his way. The sand shifted under his
feet as he trudged down the side of the dune. Would they notice his combat boots under the robe? One of the dead terrorists wore running shoes, while the other had on flip-flops.

  His plan of action was foolhardy in the extreme, but he wanted to know if Qutaiba was there. The drone’s Hellfire missiles would blow the place to kingdom come, and if there was no body left to identify, then Qutaiba could very well be elsewhere. Besides, Bolan was also more than a little curious about what the terrorists were plotting.

  He fully intended to find out. The hard way if necessary.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  It was ten o’clock in the evening when Barbara Price returned to the Computer Room in the Annex. Other business had taken her to the farmhouse. She found Hal Brognola—liaison between Stony Man and the White House and joint founder of the Farm—sitting next to Aaron Kurtzman, peering bleary-eyed at the cyberwizard’s monitor. The drone’s-eye view showed Bolan’s location in real time.

  Brognola looked up and gave Price a weary nod. She handed him a weak, tired smile before sitting. Kurtzman transferred the image to the main wall screen.

  “Status?” Price queried.

  “While you were away, Striker eliminated a two-man patrol and is now circling the village. My guess is that he’s making his way toward this building.” Kurtzman used a laser pointer to indicate which building it was. “We believe that it’s a vehicle pool. Striker probably intends to disable anything he finds there.”

  “How much longer can the Reaper drone stay in the area?”

  “It will stay as long as needed,” Brognola stated. “The President has given this op special consideration—the pilots at Cannon are aware of that.” The Reaper’s pilot was operating the drone out of Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, New Mexico.

  “I sense a but,” Price said. “A big one.”

  The men looked at each other briefly before looking back at Price. “Striker may be in a lot of trouble within the next few minutes.” Kurtzman sighed. “We’ve been monitoring this patrol hurrying back to the village. We believe that they’ve found the lost bag.”