“No routine,” Warlock said.
“No act,” Cyclops added.
“His nuts really itch,” Gambler said, and chuckled. “He’s also got this thing about jars and collecting feces in them.”
Before Bashir could pry himself from a clear state of confused revulsion, Gambler heard the rolling thunder next, saw the Sudanese colonel and his men freeze, dust floating from the ceiling, walls and floor shaking, as the first wave of explosions rocked the compound. Gambler briefly savored the sound of music that floated from the far eastern edge.
On the money.
Gambler allowed a moment for his AC-130 Spectre to spit it out for him, then he had the Beretta out and aimed squarely between Bashir’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The gist of the Cobra leader’s assault plan on the Sudanese colonel’s garrison was a straight aerial bombardment followed by the troops blitzing into the smoke, dropping whatever enemy numbers popped up along the way. Bolan could live with that, as long as the key players were in place for the scooping, and the AC-130 Spectre smashed the bulk of the enemy on its first and only strafe of the fort. What he didn’t much care for was Asp and Mamba assigned to his Blue Team. It struck Bolan as if Collins were glueing his serpents up his six, there to monitor his every move, made sure he followed orders, nothing cowboy, as the good major kept stating. Or was it something else?
No time to ponder any number of dark possibilities. Bolan was seconds away from plunging into the fires of combat, in charge of Blue Team, their role defined by Collins.
The Spectre was already wreaking havoc on the garrison as the soldier led Blue Team on a hard charge across the grassy plain, M-16/M-203 combo searching for live ones. It was always quite the fearsome sight, Bolan knew, to behold the devastating hell an AC-130 could dump on a target. Entire sections of designated walls were blown away, leaving behind any number of gaping holes through which to penetrate and make it up close and personal. He assumed the Spectre had razed the troop barracks inside those walls, catching most hands asleep at that hour, since Bolan spied any number of dark scarecrow figures sailing for the sky. It was a pummeling that shattered the senses, shook the earth under his feet as the 105 mm Howitzer, twin Vulcan Gatlings and Bofors 40 mm roared and flamed down from the port side of the flying leviathan. The Executioner knew that no matter how flayed and shocked and numb, there would be armed survivors somewhere near that firestorm.
Ideally Bolan would have preferred their seven-hundred-foot combat jump land them on the enemy’s back door before the Spectre lowered the boom. A decent surveillance first, swathed in the blackness of night, assess numbers, machine-gun nests, any weak points around the garrison where they could slip through, quick and quiet. Collins insisted they do it his way. Sat imagery and Collins’s HUMINT would have to cut it. While the Spectre soared in to pound the fort, Bolan and his teammates had jumped from the C-130. DZ was roughly two hundred yards west of ground zero, the night erupting ahead, the sky shimmering from the blasts marching through the compound. While Bolan was to bull Blue Team into the compound, Collins and his Black Team would mop up any runners, secure a number of vehicles to the east that were still intact. This was only round one of the Sudanese foray, as mapped out by Collins during the brief in the air. Colonel Ayeed Bashir, known as the Crucifying Colonel, having staked or impaled entire black Christian villages in the south, had been on Bolan’s list of bad guys to take care of for some time. Opportunity now called, but the sort of justice Collins was bringing to the colonel and his top lieutenants paled in comparison to what Bolan believed the butcher deserved. From there, assuming they were successful in bagging Bashir and cronies, commandeered vehicles would take the team to a terrorist training camp, some fifteen miles northeast as the buzzard flew, where the second assault would be launched. Collins had a big surprise in store for that camp, a fuel-air explosive to be exact, but one that was packed with what he called NARCON-D.
That was up and coming, a long night ahead for all of them, so Bolan focused on the task at hand. According to his handheld monitor, the three black ops, their beacons flashing bright and strong on the screen, were in the command post, midway down and tucked up against the west wall, waiting to be escorted with prisoners to Collins. Whoever they were—Company shooters Bolan assumed—they had been engaged in some ruse to deliver chemical weapons to Bashir, stringing him along the whole time until the net could be dropped over him by Cobra Force. It sure seemed that Collins could make all the right moves, armed with all the answers, every critical piece of intelligence at his beck and call. For some reason that alone bothered Bolan. Senses choked with a mesh of fumes, everything from burning fuel to eviscerated bodies strewed before him, the Executioner led Blue Team into the smoke. They were screaming just beyond the thinning pall, dancing around as rubble and bodies hit the ground when Bolan hit the trigger of his assault rifle. He fanned off to the left, directing concentrated 3-round bursts at armed shadows too shocked by the Spectre’s hammering to get it together. Ten or more went down as Blue Team opened up in concert, Sudanese hardcases flung in all directions under the blistering autofire. Firing on the fly, waxing a trio of Sudanese hardmen scraping themselves up off the ground, the soldier headed for the command post. Whoever this vaunted trio the good major had bragged on, Bolan already had a mental picture of three more carbon copies of Collins. That, too, indicated not everything was as he was led to believe.
IT WAS A MOMENT to savor, all the sweat and blood to get it this far, seeing the light flare on in the colonel’s eyes, Bashir standing there, torn between outrage and terror, the man looking set to soil himself. Gambler laughed, allowed his comrades their own victory jig as he heard their pistols barking, everything so far by the numbers. More music to his ears, the sounds of death as he heard the two soldiers—already deemed nonessential personnel going in—grunt, cry out as rounds tore into them, casting them aside, so much refuse. They were thudding to the floor, in rhythm to the beat of the ferocious thunder-doom of the Spectre, when Warlock and Cyclops both roared at the lieutenants to freeze.
“Do you want to explain yourself?”
“Nothing to explain, Colonel. We screwed you. On your knees, put your hands behind your back.”
Bashir hesitated, so Gambler delivered a crack over his skull with the butt of his pistol, buckling his knees, then shoving him down onto the floor. Warlock and Cyclops were all over their own catches, relieving them of their assault rifles, fastening on the plastic cuffs, binding their hands behind their back. All set, or so Gambler hoped, aware they were hardly on their way, home free. With the compound under siege he could be sure a few of Bashir’s more loyal following would have something to say about them skipping off with the Crucifying Colonel.
“I don’t know what you think you’re—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gambler fixed the cuffs on Bashir, jacked him standing. “You’re thinking you’ve got a hundred men ready to cut us to ribbons when we walk out of here. But you hear that sound, Colonel? That’s a Spectre out there. You ever seen one of those monsters at work? No? You’ll see what it can do on the way out. And those hundred-plus soldiers you think will come running to your rescue? Most of them were blown to Hell where they slept in their bunks.”
“They say even the Devil needs friends,” Cyclops said, toting the AK-74.
“Guess you’ve been chosen to be our pal,” Warlock added.
Gambler was hauling Bashir to the door when he heard, then saw the commotion. They were sliding into view, maybe fifteen Sudanese soldiers, assault rifles out, calling for Bashir, shadows in flickering light that threatened to wink out from the sheer shock rattle of the Spectre’s pounding.
Bashir chuckled. “I believe you were saying?”
“Hey, assholes!” Gambler yelled, locking an arm around Bashir’s throat, lugging his human shield into the doorway. “You can see I’ve got the good colonel, so I suggest you throw down your weapons and let us be on our way.”
Bashir struggled,
croaked out, “They are not to leave here alive!”
“Wrong thing to say, pal. Warlock!” Gambler growled over his shoulder. “Get on the blower, and please inform me Cobra Leader is in the neighborhood.”
IF WILD CARD THOUGHT he was doing all the dirty work, he hadn’t said it, but Stone’s quiet compliance with the battle scheme still left Collins wondering. Blue Team was shouldering the brunt of the killing, taking on the greater risks by being, essentially, the first and only ones through the fort’s door, but Collins and his Black Team weren’t exactly looking at a stroll on the beach. It was a faint hope, something about Stone feeling more wrong with each turn on the mission, but Collins wouldn’t mind if the man caught a bullet inside the walls. And he had almost given the order to Asp….
Patience, he told himself. Maybe later.
Collins veered in from his southeast vector, closing on the motor pool, pouring out a blanket of hot lead that mowed down the first wave of armed shadows beating a path for the smattering of APCs, Jeeps and Hummers. Like a well-oiled machine, Collins charging point, Black Team fanned out in a skirmish line, leapfrogging from vehicles, five assault rifles flaming away as the second wave of Sudanese soldiers burst out of the gate. Three well-placed warheads from their M-203s, Collins setting the example, and the triburst of fireballs ripped the heart out of the second batch. Whatever vehicles they didn’t need would be wasted by the Spectre on a second flyby.
“Gambler to Cobra Leader! Come in!”
“Move it down the line!” Collins ordered his troops. “Find us a few rides and power them up!” They were gone next, Collins hunkering beside a Hummer, unclipping the handheld radio off his belt. He thumbed the button, acknowledged Gambler.
“I hope you’re in the ballpark, Cobra Leader. We’ve got problems blocking our way out of the CP, roughly fifteen irate Sudanese.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He was about to sign off, raise Stone when he heard the shouting and din of weapons fire blast out the radio.
“Looks like the cavalry just arrived, Cobra Leader. Appreciate your promptness.”
“Then I’ll see you in a few. Cobra Leader out.”
No point in calling Wild Card—the damn guy was way ahead of him. Well, the night was young, and the contingent of terrorists on the backburner could prove a little more nasty chore than a bunch of shell-shocked Sudanese rabble. Not only that, but Collins kept thinking Wild Card just might have that accident by friendly fire yet.
BOLAN HANDED OUT the orders for Asp, Mamba and Tsunami to cover their backs. He caught a look in Asp’s eyes, wondered briefly if that was defiance or something else, but the trio peeled off to comply with his order. Sons of bitches, he thought, what the hell was going on with them?
The Executioner heard the shouting inside the doorway, threats going back and forth between a number of Sudanese and who he assumed was Gambler. He gave the compound a quick search, a second’s flare of paranoia warning him it would have been best to watch his own six, then found his rearguard take concealment behind a Toyota Land Cruiser miraculously unscathed. The trio of Cobra commandos began selecting the few armed runners on the loose, chopping them down with concentrated 3-round bursts, enemy return fire brief and wild, the night just about over for the enemy. Two more shadows, Bolan spied, were reeling in the smoking rubble of what had been their barracks, blown off their feet next by the Cobra triburst.
Bolan hand signaled Roadrunner and Brick to take flank on the opposite side of the doorway, Roller and Bulldozer to fall in behind him. A check inside the doorway, and the soldier found both sides locked in a standoff, each side trying to outshout and outbluster the other.
“Last time! Put the fucking guns down and eat some floor! I’ll shoot this asshole colonel of yours and we’ll take our chances!”
“You are not walking out of here!”
“I’m here to tell you, asshole, you are fucking with the wrong Yankees! I’ll save you for last, honey, gut you like a fish!”
Bolan primed a frag grenade, figured a squad or so of Sudanese, dead ahead, twenty yards. They had split up, halving the force to each side of the hallway, he saw, a few muzzles of assault rifles poking out the doorway closest to their intended point of entry. The tricky part, he knew, would come if Gambler and pals decided to throw some rounds into the chaos, a ricochet or even a straight shot catching Bolan as he bulled into the fight.
No risk, no victory.
The Executioner told his teammates he would be the first one in, and rolled the steel egg down the floor. It bounded up, square in the heart of the Sudanese pack. Bolan hung back, hugging the wall as the blast erupted. They were screaming, a few bodies chewed, head to toe, by countless lethal steel bits. Two mauled Sudanese were scraping themselves off the floor when the Executioner charged into billowing smoke and cut loose with autofire.
A WARNING WOULD HAVE been nice, the grenade detonating before he realized what the plan was, but Gambler had human cover just in case some shrapnel came tearing his way. Bashir screamed, flinching, Gambler hauling him back deeper inside the office. He watched the smoke, Warlock and Cyclops squeezing beside him.
The smoke was hanging thick, Sudanese snakes writhing around, then the shooting started.
He was a big dark guy and he moved like lightning, a pro for damn sure.
Gambler watched him work.
Three commandos raced in behind the big shooter, combined autofire eating up whatever was crawling, kneeling or screaming. Blood spattered the scarred walls, bodies spinning, toppling, big shooter hitting the doorway where a few Sudanese rats might be hiding. No hesitation, no wasted moves as the big shooter flamed away with his M-16, sweeping the room, leaving no doubt in Gambler’s mind their immediate problems were over. One Sudanese was crabbing his way, a big bloody slug sliding out of the smoke when the big shooter rolled over him and put a round in the back of his head.
“Sweet,” Gambler called out, whistled.
“Nice work, guy,” Warlock said.
“What I call grand slamming it,” Cyclops added. “That damn near makes me want to cut a big fat steamer in a jar.”
“You must be the Gambler.”
Gambler was about to show the big shooter a winning smile, then saw something in those icy blue eyes that froze him. What the hell was he looking at like that? he wondered. Was that judgment? Taking a measuring of the three of them, not liking too much what he saw?
“That would be me. And you are?”
“Stone. Shake a leg. I don’t want to keep your buddy Collins waiting.”
Gambler looked at the big shooter as he turned away and melted into the smoke. What was that he just heard? A little tone in the voice? A badass and smartass package on the team?
Gambler shoved Bashir ahead, thinking things were just about to get real interesting. This Stone didn’t fit the bill of a few of the black ops who had signed on for what was really going to go down. Gambler read the man as a serious problem.
And a definite liability, a walking killing thorn in the side who would have to be dealt with in no uncertain terms at some point.
“ASSUME ALL OF YOU have been introduced to the new guy?”
“You could say that,” Gambler said.
“Sorta, kinda,” Warlock added.
“Yeah, we got all warm and fuzzy together back at the CP,” Cyclops said.
Bolan was making his way toward Collins when Gambler, Warlock and Cyclops handed their prisoners off to other Cobra commandos. The C-130 was on the plain, waiting to take the latest round of bad guys. It was time to shake things up a little, light a fire, the Executioner decided, his gut getting more knotted with bad instinct with each phase.
“You,” the Executioner growled at Asp. “Next time I give you an order, you better shag your ass like it’s on fire. We clear?”
Bolan watched the commando’s jaw drop, Asp looking to Collins.
“He’s clear,” Collins said. “Move it out, soldier. What was that all about, Colonel?”
“You tell me.”
Collins worked a look down the trio of black ops, then told Bolan, “Grab a seat in my ride, Stone. We’ve got a lot of work still to do. I don’t want to have to hang around Sudan any longer than necessary.”
Bolan hung back a moment as Collins marched off toward a Hummer, then fell in. He couldn’t shake the ominous feeling the Cobra leader wanted him retired from the mission, and in permanent terms.
CHAPTER SIX
Abdulaziz Nayid believed he had endured too much pain and suffering, horror and humiliation at the hands of the infidels to now waste away in Sudan. Hate, and the hunger for revenge, had kept him alive up to that point, but he wanted more than burning in the fires of unsated vengeance, or wallowing in fantasy about all the death and destruction he wished to wreak on America. What he needed was blood.
Which meant he needed action, not sweating out the daily grind of PT and tactical exercises, sweeping stone hovels with his AK, shooting up paper targets or learning how to mix the components for pure TNT or how to build a dirty bomb. His pure anger and certainty he was chosen by God for greatness demanded far more than the sharpening of skills on hostage takedowns, or trying to stay awake and look interested during the long hours of classes given by their various appointed leaders on urban warfare, among other tactics in dispensing justice on their enemies. But when would he be called?
Sure, he knew he was one of the lucky to have escaped Afghanistan when the Americans had turned most of the country into a smoking crater with their ferocious and, in his mind, cowardly bombing campaign. He had lost and left behind slews of fellow Muslim fighters, many of whom, he knew, had been either buried alive or vaporized by incendiary bombs in the caves, holy warriors he now believed were in Paradise, smiling down, urging him to avenge them all.
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