Amir Habikin had a dream to fulfill, too.
Holy human time bombs were destined to erupt all over the streets of America, Israel, Western Europe, and at the same appointed hour, day and night. He could see it, so clear in his mind after a few stiff belts of whiskey, that it was alive in running cinematic color, dozens of glorious moments of victory forever seared in the annals of Muslim history. They would stroll into shopping malls, restaurants, movie theaters. They would stand in lines at banks, post offices, carry briefcases or wrap themselves up with explosives, bring down entire courthouses. They would walk down crowded streets, take out hundreds of infidels in the blink of an eye. They would slip luggage, stuffed with explosives, onto Greyhound, Amtrak, jetliners. There would be mass death at the same instant. There would be horror and chaos, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Entire transportation systems—rail, bus, plane, highway—would screech to a halt, everything jammed, swimming in blood and terror. There would be no hope, no way out for the enemy, no amount of cleaning up ever restoring order. Their so-called civilization as they knew it would be over, finished, all of it, he thought, gone to Hell where it belonged. What he couldn’t finish, well, the infidels would slaughter and consume one another in panic, internal anarchy sweeping their masses, riots, looting, murder in the streets.
It was a beautiful vision to behold.
And he wasn’t about to see it all perish because some wild scheme was dropped in his lap by a questionable ally with an insane agenda. There were entire waves of martyrs, loaded down with explosives, willing to light themselves up in the targeted lands on his word. Key cells were already in place. The date, in fact, was already set, but it would take time to get the other martyr cells situated, final logistics ironed out.
Now this madness—or foolishness—staring him in the face.
The more he thought about the Iranian, the more he began to believe that the sponsor was perhaps setting him up, a pawn in his mad scheme, or perhaps he was viewed now as expendable, the Iranian wishing him out of the way, wanting all operations and all the glory for himself.
That in mind, he decided it was best if he began covering all of his bases. He was protected by the Syrian army in the Bekaa, and he was thinking he should take this crazy scheme directly to General Salidin, get his thoughts, gauge his reaction. If they were on the same page, then the Iranian had to be cut loose. He was safe enough inside the borders of Lebanon, even against Muslim assassins who might seek to impale his head on a stake if the Iranian felt snubbed.
Enough.
He rose, gathering the report, shutting it inside his briefcase. One last sip of whiskey, stabbing out the cigarette, and he was marching for the door, toting the plan. He was in the hall that led to the radar and communication stations, searching for a subordinate to drive him to Salidin’s command post when it happened.
It was strange, this frozen moment, he briefly thought, how he knew what that sound of thunder was, and why the entire facade of the C and C building was blown through the room in a tidal wave of fire and smoke.
The enemy had arrived; the dream was over.
Amir Habikin wanted to scream in outrage, but there was a blinding supernova in his eyes, then he was airborne, sailing through blackness and silence.
THE FIREBALL ROILED OUT of the cave. Bolan winced at the flash of light but his mind was on the next battlefield. Even still, as Gator manned the Land Cruiser and tore over the broken floor of the wadi, he gave a grim moment’s thought to the campaign. He was under no grand illusions about their effort to strike back at terrorism, in this or any other mission. The new war had shifted tactics, going preemptive in world headlines, but it was still the same never-ending battle for the Executioner. No matter how many they took out, it was a monumental task to expect even the most skilled and determined force to rid the planet of what the administration tagged as evil-doers. There would always be more terrorists when the sun rose the following day.
It never stopped for Bolan.
Perhaps, he thought, killing a man was easy—it was the changing of his heart that seemed impossible. A warrior, he would leave all that to the priests, poets and philosophers. For him, there was always that point of no return, and when any man crossed it, became a savage, out for number one, he could expect no mercy from the Executioner.
Bolan focused on the grim chore at hand, scouring the darkness as the headlights stabbed into the night. Keying his com link, as he saw the sky lighting up with mushrooming fireballs to the north, he attempted to raise Collins. “Wild Card to Cobra Leader! Do you read me?”
Three seconds and Collins growled in his ear, “I’m a little busy right now. What?”
“We’re en route. ETA maybe five minutes. Your cave’s been taken care of, five bad guys and cache, burned and buried.”
“Roger that. Good work.”
“You have a second to see us painted on your monitor? I’d hate to get waxed by mistake this late in the game.”
“Yeah, but how come I’m only reading two of you?”
“Wallbanger didn’t make it.”
Collins cursed. “You know where to shake and bake, so get your asses here and give us a hand! Out!”
Bolan fed his M-16 a fresh clip, dumped a 40 mm frag grenade down the chute of his rocket launcher. He knew the battle strategy, but that didn’t mean Collins or the Gods of Thunder would stick to the plan. Friendly fire sometimes didn’t distinguish between friend or foe.
Moments later, Bolan saw the van pop up in the headlights. A figure was slumped in the driver’s seat.
“Pull it over a second.”
Gator hit the brakes with some anger the soldier figured was hostile residue, jerking him in his seat. He started to bare his teeth, but he focused on the body in the van. Their Lebanese contact had taken one between the eyes.
“Any thoughts why your boss eighty-sixed him?” Bolan asked Gator.
Gator shrugged. “None leap to mind, Colonel. Maybe the major knew something about him we didn’t.”
“Why does that bother me?”
“You’ll have to ask the major.”
“Move it out, we’ll bail at the bottom of the slope.”
“What about Wallbanger?” Gator asked, throwing a nod over his shoulder.
“He’s not going anywhere. We’ll come back and get him later.”
The Executioner was out the door and advancing up the hill, the din of massive explosions swelling the air, urging him on and into the fire.
Aware of where it was headed beyond Lebanon, Bolan knew he was close to the end of the mission now. But, he wondered, the end—or the beginning—of what?
“THUNDER GOD Red White and Blue to Cobra Leader. Let me know something if you’d be so kind.”
Collins was in and running, angling for the smoking rubble of what was left of the C and C center when his Apache ace patched through. Thunder God RWB was on the way, he hoped, to help mop up and cover their asses in the wake of the Spectre’s brutal touch, but he was a little too preoccupied at the moment to check in for confirmation.
M-16 flaming and dropping two terrorists on the intensive-care list at twelve o’clock, Collins pulled up behind the overturned wreckage of a Land Cruiser, hacking on smoke, flames dancing near his face.
The compound, he saw, was an inferno, east to west, north to south, firestorms spiraling in some bizarre tornado twist from fuel and munitions depots north, the heat so intense it wanted to suck the air out of his lungs, bitter smoke stinging his eyes, bringing on the tears. There were still plenty of armed problems to take care of, despite the pummeling by the Gods of Thunder, twenty to thirty strong, scattered about and scurrying by his first reckoning. F-15Es and the black and near invisible flat arrowhead that was the Stealth, he saw, were still swarming the skies overhead, screens sure to be tuned in to any MiGs brazen or stupid enough to take to the skies. Any Syrian or Lebanese patrols in the area were on the playcard to get the hook.
Collins was taking Python and Diamondback on the hunt
for Habikin’s intel. It would be a miracle, he knew, if he found it. If anyone after this night bothered to dig through all that rubble and found it, he figured they could have it, but only after the job was done. Whether or not he found the package by some miracle, the game plan just got bumped up either way. There were pressing calls to make, time frames to alter, accounts to verify.
First he had to survive the night.
“Go, Thunder God!”
“I’ve got you painted. One minute and counting before we’re on the spot.”
“Still lots of problems for you to take care of, Thunder God. We’re still in a pinch.”
And Collins spotted a ZSU still intact, muzzle-flashes stabbing the night from the east and north towers, the bulk of crazed wounded appearing to scrape themselves off the ground or materializing out of wreckage and smoke to his deep three. He told his Apache ace to stick to the east, and his men would hang back while he sanitized that area.
“Get my Black Hawk in the area, ten minutes and counting to pick us up.”
The order copied, Collins broke for the mountains of rubble. Python and Diamondback got the next round of shooting started. Three terrorists, the ones Collins thought as wearing checkered underwear wrapped around their heads, poked through a break in the rubble, AKs chattering. With Python and Diamondback brandishing M-249 SAWs—squad automatic weapons—the enemy didn’t stand a chance.
Collins held back on the trigger of his assault rifle, adding some punch to the whopping firepower of the SAWs, each one fitted with a 200-round magazine, blazing away at 750 rounds per minute. Faces and headcloths were obliterated in crimson clouds before Collins’s eyes.
He was climbing the rubble next, peering into the smoke, sparks and electricity snapping from several small fires touched off by the aerial bombardment somewhere in all the debris but guiding him, when he spotted the battered snake. Sliding down the hill of rubble, he thrust the muzzle of his M-16 into a bloody mask of hatred.
In Arabic, Collins said, “Habikin? You seen him?”
The terrorist was thinking about something, then smiled, jerked a nod over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
“The strong make their own luck,” Collins said, and shot him in the face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Executioner once again found the overwhelming force of air firepower had leveled another opponent, but controlling the skies had never been in doubt. Even still, the warrior knew no enemy was ever entirely obliterated by saturation bombing alone, and there was much recent evidence—mistakes made in the interests of keeping friendly casualties to a minimum—in that regard. It took trained and determined professional soldiers to wade in on foot and smoke the last rat out of its nest. Whatever he might think—or suspect—about Collins and Cobra, he could stand up and tell them to a man they weren’t lacking in martial skill and guts.
It took five minutes plus to find the hole in the fence, and by the time Bolan led Gator onto the slaughter-ground he could tell it was winding down. The enormity of the thrashing he found before him told him two things. One—the scope of this operation, so classified and so buried even from the cyber team at Stony Man Farm, was well beyond anything he’d been briefed on, but he couldn’t fault Brognola for plunging him into some black void of dangerous ignorance where he had to figure it out along the way, prove himself to unknowns, ride with whatever program unfolded with each round. Two—no punches were being pulled. Damn any political backlash or UN harangue, so-called sovereign nations harboring terror armies were not even any longer on short notice.
This mission, Bolan had seen, gave new meaning to “preemptive strike.”
The soldier took in the death spasms of the battle, spotting Cobra commandos, concealed behind strewed rubble and wreckage on a north-by-northeast line in staggered firepoints, busy hosing down the shattered terror remnants. Whatever they didn’t nail with sustained autofire, rocket-propelled grenades, Bolan found the Apache gunship hard at work. Hellfire missiles peppered the ruins, east and north, the tank killer hovering over the cyclone fencing, rotor wash shooting dust and debris across the carnage, the warbird blazing away with the grim works. The 30 mm cannon was pounding the standing guard towers to shredded matchsticks, the nose swinging to rake a few runners, all but pulping them to flying goo, dismembering a ZSU and a batch of vehicles in the process.
It was a dangerous moment, nonetheless, as Bolan moved up on their rear. He keyed his com link, announced himself, his closing advance, Gator on his right flank.
“Hold your fire to your six!”
Even still, he braced himself for impulsive reaction. Tsunami whirled in his direction, eyes ablaze with adrenaline. Two other Cobra commandos were swinging M-16s their way, Bolan shouting a warning, Tsunami bellowing at the others, “Hold up! It’s Wild Card and Gator!”
Doc Holliday shouted at Bolan, “Where the fuck is Wallbanger?”
Bolan simply shook his head. Holliday grumbled something the soldier couldn’t hear over all the racket, swung his multiround launcher toward the rear end of his wreckage concealment and popped off another missile toward a pack of shooters firing away behind a Land Cruiser.
There were a few staggering targets left, Bolan sighting down, hunkering at the demolished nose of a Hummer beside Tsunami. The Executioner joined the others in a long sweep of autofire, dropping whatever shadows boiled up or reeled in the smoke.
“Where’s the major?” Bolan shouted in Tsunami’s face.
“Over there!”
The Executioner noticed Python and Diamondback were missing, tracked Tsunami’s scowl toward at least a city block’s worth of rubble.
Interesting the three of them were AWOL from this melee, Bolan thought. Combing the demolished building for live ones? Or was it something else?
The Executioner decided to investigate. He was up and moving, rolling in a three-sixty, scanning for hostiles. Clear on the enemy front, but he figured it might be smart to announce to Collins he was coming to join whatever the party.
THE MIRACLE HAPPENED. If he was a believer in God he would have hit his knees, clasped hands and given thanks for this moment. He was far from saved regardless, but, hey, he was thinking as he tugged the briefcase out from between two concrete slabs where it had wedged—that the strong really did make their own luck. But that was life and life was tough. Only the weak and the foolish, the poor and the desperate, he thought, believed in the mythical nonsense of an almighty supreme being.
The strong survived, they won, they created their own destiny and they did indeed inherit the earth.
With his commando dagger, he pried the clasps open, threw back the lid. Rifling through the top sheaf of papers, right away he knew what he was looking at. He was spared for now, for sure, and praise be, just the same—at least to himself.
The sounds of withering autofire and crunching muffles of explosions beyond the rubble, Collins threw Python and Diamondback a glance, ordered, “Keep your eyes peeled. No one comes in. No one.”
“Our little problem solved, Major?” Python asked.
“For the moment. And, believe me, this isn’t little.”
He couldn’t believe what he read, his heart thundering in his ears. Part Farsi, part Arabic, there were eleven pages, clipped together, laying out the job beyond the mission. The great ayatollah—and this was not part of the original plan, as far as he had been led to believe—had detailed for Habikin the finer points, weaving in the usual Islamic line about keeping the faith, obedience to Allah’s will and so forth.
Bastard had named names down the line on both sides, cited sat and other eyes in the sky, those open windows through which safe passage was already outlined and guaranteed in advance. Ran through each leg of the mission. Spelled out, bottom line, what the hell it was really all about from beginning to end.
“Un-effing-believable.”
Collins was shaking, his face running with sweat. Damn right there were calls to make, find out if any nervous types, growing either a patriotic o
r moral conscience, were abandoning ship. He didn’t think so, since it had come this far, and the plug would have been pulled by now if cold feet were shuffling off in the other direction. He had to believe this was simply some insurance policy, in case their own side didn’t come through, and that made sense to him, as far as the twisted thinking of fanatic Muslims went.
“Rotten son of a…”
The other stack of papers, he discovered, was an operational manual. Keep that, he decided, to maintain the smokescreen, give it up—Israelis or the CIA, it didn’t matter, play the big shot who had saved the day for the Western world. One fast but hard perusal, both anxiety and relief propelling him into speed-reading mode, and he knew he was looking at routes, times, operatives, strategy, the whole logistical ball of wax for a coming massive jihad. All of it was enciphered, of course, but this particular mathematic code had long since been broken by Gambler and a few other NSA operatives, passed on and learned by himself and a few of his own people. Some of what he read gibed with he’d learned about the great ayatollah’s own vision of holy war, only matériel a little nastier than C-4 and dynamite would be used.
Collins was clacking open his lighter, putting the torch to the evidence when he heard Stone patch through, announcing he was on the way inside.
“This fucking guy again,” he muttered.
It was all Collins could do to stay calm, respond.
“Glad you could make it, Colonel Stone.”
Now Collins cursed, Python nearly shouting the bastard’s name, a warning to hurry, wrap it up. Why not just hold the guy’s hand, escort him in, have a peek inside the briefcase or toast marshmallows over the burning evidence?
Collins set the rest of the evidence on fire, a few pages at a time to be sure he got them all, then stowed the lighter. Then he slammed the briefcase shut, began to retrace the tortuous path back through the maze of debris. He sucked in a deep breath, tried to will the trembling out of his hands.
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