The soldier was out of his chair, intel packet in hand, trailing Collins and Python up the stairs. The steel door slid open as Collins swiped his card.
Hitting the hallway on the main floor, Bolan saw Collins and Python picking up the pace, a sense of urgency in their strides.
Calls, huh, Bolan thought, keeping his distance but watching as Collins and Python marched ahead, talking to each other in what appeared hushed tones. They veered around the corner, Bolan heading toward the quarters allotted to Cobra Force. He stopped, found Collins and Python moving out the door that led to the helipads.
Curious, Bolan gave it a few seconds, waited until the rest of Cobra Force had moved past, then followed in the major’s wake.
He was outside, squinting against the harsh sunlight, when he found Collins and Python hopping up in the cabin of the Black Hawk. Collins slid shut the port then starboard doors. If the major had seen him watching, then Bolan figured he was being ignored. If ignored, then why?
Calls, huh, he again thought, and felt that itch grind harder than ever between the shoulder blades.
Bolan turned and accessed himself back into the building.
“WE’VE BEEN wondering when you’d call.”
“We may have problems. There’s been a change in plans, effective immediately.”
“You’re making me shiver and shake. What’s up?”
Tim “Warlock” Smith felt his heart lurch, spine stiffen like a piece of steel, the whole package of rock tightness forcing him to sit upright in his bolted-down metal chair. Collins sounded edged-out, ready to blow a gasket, but there was an undercurrent of suspicion in the major’s tone. Warlock wondered if maybe he’d done something, the sliver of accusation not escaping ears trained to pick up the smallest sign of deceit in the voice.
He was in the com cubicle on the Hercules, monitoring his state-of-the-art NSA prototype Dragon computer for communications from the others. Com link on, he looked over his shoulder at Cyclops as he slipped on his own headphones.
Warlock heard silence, Collins wanting to say something, choosing his words. Finally he said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What problems? What change?”
“First, what’s your situation?”
“Grounded. Incirlik,” Warlock answered. “We’re still waiting on the Marines. Snafu. Must have caught a ride with the Navy.”
“Goddammit. How much longer?”
“I was told their briefing should be over soon.”
“Soon? Define soon.”
Warlock was feeling his nerves stretching taut, snapping back at him like frayed electric lines over this sudden intrigue, the agitation loud and clear in the major’s voice. He shook loose a cigarette, Cyclops helping himself, lighting them both up.
“I was told roughly two to three hours before we’re wheels-up.”
“That might work to our advantage. Okay. I came across a nasty little surprise,” Collins told him. “I’ll bypass the particulars, but it’s under control. It involved the bigger picture. It spelled it out. Our—or rather—your boy in ER station,” he said, the code for Iran, “may be hedging his bets.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Are you, Mr. C and the others still in the game?”
“I’ve been in contact with the others. All systems are go. What is this? You think…”
“I don’t know what to think. But I’m booted up, so why don’t you show me something?”
Warlock was snapping his fingers at Cyclops, but he was already punching in the access code on his own computer, fingers flying away.
“You can’t explain your nasty little surprise?”
“Not in so much fine detail,” Collins told him.
That made sense. No communication was ever guaranteed one-hundred percent security, not with all the latest in microchip supertechnology, the new NSA satellite, Warlock knew, that was recently put in orbit and designed specifically to intercept satlink coms, e-mails, and was even capable of eavesdropping on conversations inside a building.
It took a good thirty seconds for the information to be relayed, then confirmed. Finally Warlock heard Collins say, “Sweet. Looks like a party. Seychelles, here I come.”
“You’ve had your look, you know it’s there. I need to cut it off.”
“So do it.”
“Talk to me.”
“Stick with the plan. We’re almost there. Prep our pigeons at your earliest convenience. When they’re locked down, uncuff them. Do not wash them, do not have them change into uniform, do not pass out Korans. Stall the head shed, make excuses, whatever, you’re in charge of getting them situated. When I touch down, set your watch to two hours and ticking.”
“This could alter…”
“Everything, I’m aware. Speaking of that, do you have everything on board?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“It’s all here.”
Warlock glanced at the large metal bin on the floor, against the bulkhead, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he thought about what was inside.
“I was thinking,” Collins said, “when you prep the pigeons you might want to ease them into it with the legend of King Groethe and Attila.”
Warlock chuckled. “Way ahead of you.” He paused, his own anger stirring. “What about Colonel Asshole?”
“His time is short.”
“It damn well better be,” Cyclops cut in. “G was the only—”
“I know how tight the three of you were. It will be handled and I will tell you how and when. We clear?”
“Got it,” Warlock said.
“So then, I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Wait a second. I see a brick wall in our future.”
“And?”
“I’m thinking we could all bail, just walk away, leave them stewing. You saw the numbers. There’s plenty, and with two of our own out of the game, the split just grew a little fatter.”
“You sound real broken up about your buddy and Asp.”
“Just being a realist.”
“The answer is no. The full ride. I make a commitment, I keep it. Besides, we still have something to collect. And they’re holding on to two of ours as collateral. What could be worse, they could aim the guns our way, knowing what they know. If that happens…well, I don’t need to be sitting on the beach, jumping at the shadows of seagulls flying overhead, straining to get a hard-on for my island girl because my nerves are screaming at me. Read me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Later then.”
Warlock stripped off the com link, his thoughts racing with questions. Problems. Nasty surprise. Change in plans. It was the last thing they needed when the brass ring was right there in front of them. He knew all about loss, the usual rug getting yanked out from under him as a black op whose duty, career—life—meant more to him than wife, kids and a home in the suburbs. He had risked his life for his country for years now, his eyes long since focused on retirement. As far as he was concerned the men he worked for—and America—could go straight to Hell. It was, anyway, too many changes, and all of them for the worse, having swamped America with a political correctness, a pseudoculture that turned his stomach. If glory was never in the equation—book deals, the hot seat on all the talking-head shows, telling the world how much he knew—the least he could do he was walk away with a fat wallet. Bottom line was he was in it for the money, and God pity any poor bastard who would deny what was rightfully his.
He glanced over his shoulder at Cyclops, could tell the man was seething over Gambler getting popped by Stone. Or…
What?
Cyclops had to have been reading his thoughts, as he said, “You’re not thinking the major pulled one over on us?”
“No. I mean, we weren’t there…”
“But?”
“I accept the major’s version.”
“I want a piece of Stone’s ass to hang on my belt
.”
“You’ll get it.”
“I’d better.”
“Fuck it.”
“What’s that mean—fuck it.”
“It means we’re too late in the game to start sweating.”
“Ride it out.”
“Take it to the limit.”
“And beyond.”
“They can kiss our asses.”
“We did our time—hard time—for Uncle Sam,” Warlock said. “Time for Uncle Sam to give us back a little something. Collins isn’t the only one around with big dreams about an island paradise.”
“Amen.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Faisal Hussein was ready to go to God. He had been, in fact, prepared to martyr himself for years, but he had been hanging on, hoping to unleash one last massive wave of martyrs before the Zionists killed him. Either way, it was time, he knew, to stop marching out others in the cause, have them die, doing all of God’s work in his place, blowing themselves up in the discos, restaurants, marketplaces, weddings. He needed to do his own no-small part, if nothing else than to bolster courage, shore up resolve in those warriors he left behind, his death only meaningful if they continued to fight the Jews until all Zionists were dead or driven into the sea.
Standing at the window on the second floor, peering through a crack in the curtain, he braced for the shelling to begin, or that massive rocket attack by helicopters that would bring the roof down. It wasn’t a question of if, but when.
Four sleepless days now, and the anxiety was building all around, his men gaunt, reeking of sweat, unwashed flesh, the strain clear in red eyes that had seen virtually no sleep. With no running water, the toilets were backing up, the air foul with the fumes of body waste. The stink was the least of his concerns.
Hussein watched the tanks, hulking armored monsters parked out front, itching to cut loose his AK-47 if one of the soldiers stepped into view. Two days ago, and he’d gotten lucky, his patience rewarded as a soldier finally stepped into his gun sights. A clean head shot, no question the soldier was dead, and he found himself surprised the Israelis hadn’t responded with instant retaliation.
So they were tired, hungry, anxious. They had to be patient—the fight would come to them, he had told his followers, prepare to meet God. A true believer accepted his lot, whatever it was, as a test from God, no matter how hopeless the moment seemed. A warrior, he believed, accepted his inevitable death, a sign he was chosen by God, and who among them could question his will?
There could be no other way than martyrdom.
The good news was they had at least another week’s worth of food, bottled water on hand, but the meats and fruit would begin to rot soon. Empty bellies, he knew, made even the hardest of fighting men crumble. Surrender wasn’t an option.
This, he thought, was the moment he had been waiting for, full-scale battle with the hated Jew oppressors, kill as many of them as he could before he soared to Paradise. He could see it now, aware he would go down with the ruins of the Compound Intifada, his own martyrdom simply a ringing statement the Palestinians would someday prevail, no matter what it took, no matter how many Jews were killed. His death would be remembered, hailed a victory, even, his face on posters flying high and proud as they mourned him in the streets of Gaza, the West Bank.
In death there would be glory.
It pained him, just the same, slated to take over the PLO, the successor to the Hero, but it was an honor he would never know.
He glanced at Namir as his cousin stepped up beside him.
“If they storm us, as you anticipate, I have prepared quite the surprise for them,” Namir said.
“They will be coming,” Hussein said. “It has been too quiet the last day. How many are ready?”
“Three. One upstairs, one to the back. One in the dining room, as you ordered.”
It was a shame, he thought, they only had so much Semtex and dynamite left, having used up most of what the Syrians had smuggled in the past three weeks. The way it felt, Hussein believed the Israelis would encircle the compound, commandos storming inside, shooting, hurling around grenades. He had survived one such attempt before, despising the memory of himself surrendering instead of dying, imprisoned, beaten, tortured.
He would erase the feeling of cowardice forever this time. He would never again see the inside of a Zionist jail.
He heard the pounding of feet, voices raised in alarm. Turning, he found the Egyptian, Tuballah, racing into the room.
“Helicopters! Soldiers…”
He didn’t hear the rest of it, as he flinched and hit the floor at the tremendous boom. The walls shook, the bottom floor rattling and rolling so hard he was sure the floor would cave beneath him.
“They’re here! Go with God!” he shouted. “No one surrenders!”
THE EXECUTIONER had three live ones painted on his heat-seeking monitor. They were marked, just inside the concrete housing of the rooftop stairwell, Bolan the first one flying past the door gunner, finger curled around the trigger of his assault rifle when all hell broke loose. A forty-or-so-yard charge to penetration, the Black Hawk lifting off, and Bolan suspected what was coming next.
Tsunami and Gator, brandishing SAWs, trailed Bolan as the fanatic burst onto the roof. He was wrapped in packets and sticks, a shuffling mummy ready to blow them off the roof with a mixed wallop of Semtex and dynamite, screaming out the familiar martyr’s cry.
“Allah akhbar!”
“Hit the deck!” Bolan roared, his full-bore autofire pounding the wanna-be martyr, driving him back in an ungainly jig step, the fanatic’s finger on the button of the radio remote and—
Depressing doomsday.
Even as Bolan pummeled the fanatic back and down into the stairwell the blast erupted, fire, smoke, rubble and invisible hammering of shock waves tearing across the roof.
It could have been the giant sat dish, or the concrete structures dotting the roof—surveillance posts—that saved Bolan and Cobra company. No time to ponder good fortune, the Executioner nose-dived for cover behind Tsunami and Gator, debris and smoke shooting past them, the air suddenly choked with any number of foul odors. A look back, and Bolan found the Black Hawk was soaring away, the M-60 door gunner ducking as wreckage sought to bring down the warbird, the hull taking a few hits but flying on.
Bolan lurched up, peering into the thick clouds of smoke, the stairwell housing little more than smoking trash, when the thunder of a 105 mm shell echoed from below. The roof beneath Bolan’s feet shuddered, signaling to the soldier that Collins, Cobra and the Israelis were making the bull rush inside.
“Stone!”
Bolan keyed his com link. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t like the sound of what I just heard up top!”
“All present and accounted for, Major. I suggest we abort the mission.”
“What?”
“We just had a close encounter with a suicide bomber. I’m thinking there’s more inside, probably waiting behind a closed door or two. There’s no fighting back against that kind of play.”
“Keep going—that’s an order.”
“I would strongly suggest bailing. Bring the house down with a good 105 mm shelling or some Apaches, then see what’s left standing.”
“This is the home stretch, Colonel. Stick to the goddamn game plan. Now get your ass in gear.”
“This is a bad idea, Collins.”
“Hey, Stone, how about a little courage, huh?”
Bolan gave the orders for Tsunami and Gator to lag behind, ready to arm a frag grenade on his word.
“I go left, you two go right,” the Executioner said, then led them across the roof, eyes fixed for anything that moved in the smoke.
For the moment Bolan found his screen clear of targets. Soon, he figured, that would change. There was no time to argue with Collins. He would help take down the compound, but getting too close to the enemy wasn’t an option. This was worst-case times a thousand. If a man was hell-bent on committing suicide to kill h
is enemy, there was little that could be done to stop him.
Collins and the Israelis, Bolan feared, were going to lose a few men on this one. There was nothing to do, he thought, but ride it out, hope—and, yes, offer up a quick silent prayer to the gods of war.
COLLINS WAS LOOKING at gutted fanatic sacks, body parts and slick puddles of goo when he barreled through the smoke. The 105 mm shells had pulverized half of the bottom floor. The beams were hanging matchsticks, doors and walls blown to hell, a torso with legs and dripping intestines hung in a gaping maw dead ahead. In this mess, Collins knew there was no telling how many fanatics had been blasted off the planet, how many left standing. They had taken a direct hit right up the sphincter.
What worried Collins now were those suicide bombers, grateful Stone had clued him in. He had figured a wicked surprise or two coming in, factored in his own play, which was why he waved for Doc Holliday and Lionteeth to take point, start kicking down doors. No sense in getting himself smoked now, not when the brass ring was hanging in his face.
The choking smoke of explosives and raining plaster nearly blinding him to what was down the hall, Collins claimed the edge for temporary concealment. Sticking to the script, half of the Israeli shooters branched off in both directions to his side, a few of those commandos weighted down with enough Semtex, he figured, to take out two city blocks. The other six Israeli commandos were already announcing their presence to the north, autofire steady, the crunch of a couple grenades telling Collins they were making quick work of militants with some heavy-duty room sweeping.
Collins glanced at the Israelis to his flanks as they pasted small globs of plastique to doors, priming the charges, when doors ahead burst open and another sense-shattering barrage of autofire erupted down the hallway, voices screaming in Arabic, fanatics hell-bent going down with the Compound Intifada. Collins figured why not give the suckers what they so desperately wanted, searching for targets, but suddenly wishing this was wrapped so he could be on his way when Lionteeth kicked in a door and a fireball blew out into the hall.
There was no sense in checking for pulses, since they had both taken the blast right in the face, but this was part of the scheme, anyway.
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