“Don’t fire at them,” Xiblinti ordered.
He then called out to the Eritrean Afars. “You men, go back to your camp. Soon you will be rewarded for your hard work. Go back.”
The Afars paid no attention to his words. Or they were beyond hearing his rasp. Several were beginning to smile, yellow teeth and yellow eyes. There was going to be bloodshed. He needed to extract himself from it.
“You, with me,” Xiblinti ordered to the man on his left, the one that he had almost thumped earlier on. “The rest of you, stand ready. If the…Eritreans advance, then defend yourselves. I will get the American mercenaries, a show of strength. Then these…people will listen.”
The men shuffled nervously at Xiblinti’s words. Their captain was abandoning them? Was he running? Would he be back?
The captain and the one soldier skirted the Eritrean camp, heading straight for the mercenary tents. But what he saw brought him up short. The Americans were loading boxes into the back of the personnel carriers that General Bouh had given them. They were running. Treachery was everywhere, and the general’s plan was falling apart.
Xiblinti was in the process of flicking his rifle’s selector switch to triburst when the first shots were fired. Xiblinti spun. A mob roar went up, followed by the chatter of automatic fire as his troops retaliated against the Eritreans. For a few seconds, his troops seemed to be holding their own, but then the gunfire died away as his men exhausted their magazines within three seconds, foolishly firing on full-auto. After that they didn’t stand a chance. The mob fell upon them, impervious to bullet and knife wounds, high on khat. He was unable to tell his men’s dying screams from the hysterics of the Eritreans. The butchers and the butchered merged as one.
The last remaining soldier grabbed his arm. “What do we do now? We must run!”
But Xiblinti was unable to run. He saw the mob, heard the same animal noises. They were hacking his parents apart. His brother! He had to hide! No, they had him! He screamed a long and terrible scream as the first club came down, followed by the machete. Knives. Pain. The sound of his parents dying was horrendous; his brother had stopped screaming. He was dying…
The soldier shook his arm again, bringing him out of his paralysis. “Sir, Captain! We must run. We must.”
Xiblinti turned toward the mercenary camp, gasping hard. They were grabbing weapons, running around, organizing themselves. It was too late to find the American spy now. The mob would overrun him. The sound of an APC thundered to life, followed by another. The Americans had several vehicles, including the French jeep-type vehicles.
He saw a way out.
The only problem was in reporting the failure to General Bouh. The general had a lot riding on his plan; he had a lot of backers. The general would not be pleased. But that would come later. For now, escape was the most pressing problem. The mercenaries could sort out the Afar hordes.
“Follow me. Run!”
* * *
BOLAN STEPPED OVER and grabbed the MAS 36 rifle. Streib was on feet, pistol drawn. The three men exited the tent.
“Report!” Krulak bellowed at a passing merc.
“Sir, the rebels are attacking the Djiboutian patrol. They are all high on khat.”
Streib cursed. He had left the Eritreans alone, as long as they didn’t interfere with his men. He didn’t care what they got up to at night. And khat was perfectly legal in Djibouti. But now they were enflamed and likely to turn on the Americans, as well.
“Sergeant, get the men formed up here, ready to repel an attack. I think they will try their chances.”
“Also get the APCs in a position where they can supply covering fire,” Bolan said.
Both Streib and Krulak gave him a look, but Streib nodded. “Do it, Sergeant.”
“How many men do you have, Major?” Bolan asked.
“Twenty.”
“And how many of them?”
“Never counted. It fluctuated daily as some ran off back home. Some stragglers joined up. Some died from heat, drugs, whatever. But I guess one hundred.”
“Then we definitely need those APCs. Come on.” Bolan started to move toward the rear of the camp where the APCs were idling. He didn’t get that far. Bullets whizzed over his head. He threw himself into a roll, dropping the old French rifle and coming up with the more modern FAMAS F1 in his hands. Streib had likewise dropped prone. A handful of Africans were charging toward them, intent on chaos, screaming wildly. Bolan flicked the selector to single shot and squeezed the trigger three times. Three targets fell. The fourth was put down by pistol fire from Streib. But not all were dead. High on drugs, two staggered back to their feet, unable to feel the pain. Bolan fired again. Two head shots. Drugs or no drugs, they were not getting up again.
“Some journalist!” Streib yelled over the mayhem.
The mercenaries were running over, forming up and ready to fight. Krulak was yelling at them to make a defensive line, ready in the event that more of the Afars attacked. A quick head count revealed all to be present, apart from two men in the APCs.
“Get those APCs over here, Krulak,” Streib bellowed. “I want a wall of steel at our backs.” Krulak hurried off to comply.
Bolan saw that two of the men had brought RPG-7s with them, probably to keep them away from rebel hands. Some of the mercenaries had noticed him and were giving him looks. Who was this stranger in their midst, covered in dust and dried blood? Bolan couldn’t care less; there was too much going on. He kept his rifle up and ready. It seemed that the Afars had turned on themselves. Not all had been under the influence of khat. Those who had tried to stop the massacre were now being pursued through the camp. Was Xiblinti dead? Bolan didn’t know, but it seemed likely. His entire patrol would have been torn apart in seconds.
Streib had formed his men into two rows of nine. There was no cover out here, nothing to hide behind. The formation reminded Bolan of films where British soldiers of old would create skirmish lines or squares to fight the French or the Zulus. One would fire while the other was reloading. Sound tactics against the murderous horde. His men were well drilled. They couldn’t have been out of the military too long. Streib had to have bagged them the moment they left the Marine Corps.
There was a thundering behind them as one of the Renault personnel carriers rolled up. Its turret 7.62 mm machine gun swung, pointing into the camp. Krulak jumped out of the rear.
“Only this one, sir. The other won’t start,” he reported.
“Damn. Very well, Sergeant. Let’s hope it’s enough.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Bolan heard one of the former Marines say. Tents in the camp were catching fire, going up quickly. A figure ran out, screaming, aflame. Arms waving, the burning man plunged into another tent before Bolan could line up a mercy shot. More shots rang out from the camp.
“Where the hell did they get weapons from?” Krulak wanted to know.
“From the dead Djiboutian patrol. And smuggled in,” Bolan replied.
“Shit!” growled Krulak.
“Here they come,” another ex-Marine stated.
Wild men ran toward them, at least fifty, brandishing clubs, poles, knives and guns, screaming unintelligibly. One stopped to take aim at the Americans.
“Put them down,” Streib ordered.
The front row of the former Marines opened fire in disciplined three-round bursts. The approaching enemy fell, cut to ribbons by the wall of lead. The turret gun of the APC joined in, scything left to right. Bolan had picked up the MAS 36, chambered a round and aimed it at an enemy farther back, one who was returning ragged fire from a stolen FAMAS. Bullets rattled ineffectively against the side of the Renault APC. Bolan aimed, compensated for the heat from the burning tents and fired. The man flew backward, weapon falling from lifeless fingers.
The second line of mercenaries was now engaged, the front row busy reloading and giving their rifles a chance to cool. The APC’s turret gun blasted away, shell casings clattering to the ground. More of the Afars fell.
Then it was over. The remaining survivors turned and fled, dropping their weapons, running for the open desert or through the remains of the camp.
“Cease fire!” Streib yelled. “Who is in the armor? Lanier, give pursuit. Drive through their tents, drive through the mock-up, drive them away. Fire only if fired upon. Let them run.”
Bolan couldn’t see the man called Lanier from his angle, but the APC belched smoke and rolled away, past the line of mercenaries and into the rebel camp. It drove through a burning tent, then through one that was on the verge of catching fire. Sparks flew into the night sky.
“Show-off,” Bolan heard one of the men mutter.
“Any casualties? No? You four, check the rebels for wounded. We’ll offer them aid if needed,” Streib ordered.
* * *
XIBLINTI CLAMBERED INTO the back of the ACMAT truck. He motioned his last surviving soldier—he couldn’t remember the man’s name and didn’t want to ask—into the driver’s seat.
“The keys are in the ignition,” the man whispered.
Xiblinti nodded. The vehicle was equipped with a .50-caliber Browning machine gun, mounted in a pintle, but Xiblinti wasn’t interested in it for the moment. Cut and run was the name of the game. He crouched in the rear of the truck, looking for enemies. The mercenaries were fully engaged with the scum who had murdered his men. Good. Maybe they would kill one another. He was waiting for the right moment to leave, his comrade looking at him, fear written across his face. The gunfire faded, and he heard the APC move off. This was their moment. If the transport couldn’t pursue them, then they would get clean away.
“Go!” he ordered.
The soldier turned the key and gunned the engine. They shot away, heading for the open desert, past the milling mercenaries. Xiblinti quickly looked for the spy as he passed but didn’t have time to identify him.
“XIBLINTI,” BOLAN SAID as the ACMAT rumbled past.
“That scar-faced bastard,” Krulak added.
Bolan ran to the spot where the ACMAT had driven by. The 4x4 was now fifty yards away, rapidly increasing the distance and throwing up a trail of dust behind it. Xiblinti was obscured, having ducked, but Bolan could make out the head and shoulders of the driver in the moonlight. In one smooth motion he brought up the old rifle, adopted a rifleman’s stance, aimed and fired.
His aim was slightly off due to his unfamiliarity with the MAS 36. The bullet dropped. Instead of hitting the driver through the head, it went clean through his neck and out the windshield. The driver coughed and died, his foot no longer on the accelerator, his hands no longer on the wheel. The steering wheel spun, and the ACMAT slalomed to the left. It hit a large rock with its leading tire, catapulting the vehicle onto its side where the momentum carried it another dozen yards before it came to a rest, its underside exposed to the mercenaries.
“Nice shot,” Streib said.
“Sir?” One of the mercenaries had an RPG-7 in his hands. Streib looked at it then at Bolan. “Do you want to see if he’s alive?”
Bolan considered it for a moment, then thought of the smuggler Samar and his son. There had been no reason to disembowel them other than sadistic pleasure. Who knew how many people Xiblinti had tortured to death over the years.
“No,” the Executioner said.
“Light him up,” Streib ordered the man.
“Sir.” The ex-Marine jogged to a clear spot where no one would be caught up in the rocket’s back blast. He sighted and fired.
* * *
XIBLINTI CRAWLED, GASPING. One of his legs was broken. He had to get away from the vehicle, and quickly. He had to hide. He turned and looked back. The ACMAT was only four yards away. Four yards! He felt he had been crawling a lifetime. He had to continue. He had to report in. He began to drag himself again. Through the pain of his shattered leg, he barely felt the flames that engulfed him.
* * *
THE ROCKET WHIZZED downrange toward the ACMAT. The 4x4 detonated in a fireball, the impact of the rocket and force of the explosion cartwheeling the vehicle over the desert sand before it came to a rest upside down, burning brightly and lighting up the surrounding area. If Xiblinti had still been alive and hiding behind the vehicle or had been crawling away, then he would surely be dead by now. Bolan didn’t feel like checking the 4x4 for corpses.
“Whoa,” Krulak said, shielding his eyes from the heat. “That cooked his goose.”
Bolan turned to Streib. “I still need your help,” he said.
“Still? We’ve given it and then some. We’re out of here. As soon as the personnel carrier is back, we’re leaving. Krulak, take some guys and figure out why the other one didn’t start.”
“Sir!”
“The job’s not done,” Bolan said.
“For us, it is. We cut our losses and run. In case you didn’t notice, we just fired on members of the Djiboutian military, one of which was an aide to General Bouh. That won’t make him happy, and he’ll call in his army to mow us down. We have a rendezvous with a freighter that will get us away. No, we’re done, Mr. Whoever-you-are.”
“No, not yet. Bouh is holding three hostages in a cave by his camp. Two are Trenchard people, the other is CIA. All are in bad shape. I need to get them out and to do it I need your help.”
“Why should we? What’s in it for us?”
“You get to leave unmolested. You keep the money that Trenchard paid. He’ll no longer be needing it. You meet your ride and leave Djibouti. When you return stateside, you won’t face questions from any agency.”
That brought Streib up cold. “And how are you going to arrange all that? You’ll have a word with the President, will you?”
“If need be. It won’t be the first time. And I have a friend who has words with the President on a daily basis. It can all be arranged.”
“No comebacks?”
“None.”
“You guarantee it?”
“Yes.”
“All right. What do you want us to do?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
General Bouh surveyed his troops packing up and moving out. He swelled with pride. His men were extremely efficient and well trained. In the few hours since Captain Xiblinti had left, the camp had been almost cleared. Now they would return to barracks outside Obcock, reorganize and move out. He would lead the military convoy to the outskirts of Djibouti City, waiting in the desert for the signal that the civil unrest had begun. Then he would move in, end the uprising and kill the president and his lackey ministers, making it look as if the rebels had done it. He would have no choice but to declare martial law and assume power. Of course, he would promise the people that there would be new elections, but those elections would never come. No, he intended to be president for life.
But the captain still hadn’t reported in, and that was worrying. It was out of character. Something had gone wrong. Had the spy escaped? Had he evaded the patrol? No, that was impossible. Yam was there and nothing escaped Yam. Xiblinti was just being slack. Or he hadn’t caught the spy yet and didn’t want to inform him of failure.
But he still felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. His instincts told him to get back to base. It was part of the plan anyway, so showing up early wouldn’t raise suspicion with his fellow generals.
Then there was the problem of the prisoners. He had intended to make an example out of all of them, along with the mercenaries. Representatives of American oil and members of the CIA hanging side by side after a show trial. But they were not vital or even necessary, and he had decided to do away with them. He’d have one of the guards at the cave throw a grenade in. The Americans were in no state to survive it, and even if they did, there was no medical attention to be found out here. They would die, no matter what.
Bouh decided to give the order himself. The walk up to the cave would do him good. He had become too lazy at a time when his men needed to see a fit and healthy leader. Too indulgent. He felt rather than saw his men sniggering behind his back at his size. General Elephant! No, that would h
ave to change. He waddled away from what was left of the camp, heading up toward the cave. As he did, an aide ran over to him and saluted.
“Sir! Shall we bring your Ratel closer?”
Bouh considered. If the Ratel was closer, then he could leave so much quicker. Yes, have the Ratel wait for him at the foot of the path. Not so far to walk then.
“Yes, soldier. Have it parked just over there, ready to leave at once.”
The soldier saluted and hurried off. Smiling, Bouh continued his upward trek. He stopped, breathing hard. Yes, he definitely needed more exercise.
Something made him turn to his left. Six lights flared on a nearby ridge from a neighboring hill. Six flaming contrails flew down toward his camp.
Rockets!
Bouh turned and began to hurry as best as he could down the path. It was clear now. Xiblinti had failed. The spy had survived. He had found support and was now here to rescue his friend. His APC was beginning to back into place as the rocket-propelled grenades struck their targets. Several trucks exploded in huge fireballs, throwing the machines into the air. His helicopter at the far end of the camp went up in a massive show of light and flame. Another rocket hit a large pile of boxes that contained ammunition.
The result was both spectacular and terrifying.
The shock wave threw Bouh onto his backside. The fireball rose high into the sky, turning the remains of the night into day. Bouh clamped his hands to his ears and screamed. The sound of the explosion engulfed everything. It was incredible. Hell on Earth. Men, his men, hurtled through the air like grains of sand. Already dead. The blast would have killed them outright. The few remaining tents, including his command tent, had been flattened and torn away.
His APC was still there. He had to reach its sanctuary. Even as he struggled to his feet he saw a rocket strike the rear and detonate. The vehicle was wreathed in flame for an instant. Was it still intact? Could he escape? The rear hatch swung open. The driver poked his head out, looked around and saw Bouh, waving him over. Yes, the machine still worked!
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