War Drums
One of the attackers got behind the machine gun and swiveled it around to track Bolan’s advancing figure. The moment the Executioner saw the weapon move he dropped to a crouch, bringing him below the immediate trajectory of the muzzle. Before the gunner could realign his weapon Bolan opened fire, burning off a volley that clipped the edge of the truck before locating its human target. The would-be gunner was thrown back, bloody debris exploding from his chest. Bolan angled away from the truck, coming in from the side and caught the next man as he dropped from the vehicle. The warrior’s burst hit the guy in mid-jump, knocking him sideways and dropping him bloody and squirming into the sand.
Sharif gave a warning yell as a second man pushed to his feet from the bed of the truck, clutching a hand grenade. He had pulled the pin when Sharif fired, his burst rippling across the man’s chest. As he fell he dropped the activated grenade. Seconds later the truck was the center of the explosion. The grenade set off stored ammunition and extra fuel cans, and the vehicle vanished in a burst of shivering fire and smoke.
Bolan had a split second to drop to the ground as the truck blew. He buried himself in the sand, hoping that Sharif had done the same. He felt the slap of flying debris across his prone form and sensed the wash of heat from the explosion. Something hard and sharp scored a searing line across the back of his left shoulder. As the heat died away the rumble of the blast began to fade, leaving Bolan with diminished hearing. He shook his head against the effects of the explosion, pushing to his feet, sleeving stinging smoke from his watering eyes.
He was on the periphery of the blast area. Burning chunks of wreckage were strewed around the former camp. One of the Arabs was slapping at a smoldering robe. Within the blast circle scorched bodies lay on the blackened sand. One man was still on his feet, stumbling blindly, clothing and flesh still burning, blood soaking through his clothing. Sensing Bolan, the man turned in his direction, pained eyes pleading from the grisly, burned-raw face, his lower jaw blown away. He raised an arm in Bolan’s direction, not realizing he had lost the limb below the elbow. The sound that issued from his heat-scorched throat was less than human. Bolan raised the AK and laid a short volley into the torso, a mercy burst that ended the man’s suffering.
“It speaks well of a man that he treats his enemy with compassion,” Sharif said from where he stood at Bolan’s side.
“No man deserves to suffer that way.”
Sharif considered the American’s words. “Some of my people might question that. Perhaps we are not as civilized as you might expect us to be, Cooper. Remember we are only a tribe of roving Bedu. What do we know of compassion and justice?”
Bolan glanced at the Arab. He had noted the sardonic tone in Sharif’s voice, and he knew the man was teasing him, seeking to clarify the American’s opinion.
“Small in number, perhaps, Ali. But the reputation of the Bedouin is known throughout the world. And that isn’t a small reputation. The Bedouin are known for their courage, compassion and their sense of honor.”
Sharif nodded slowly. His brown features quickly became a mask of quiet pride.
“The camp where those dogs came from? It is still your wish to go back?”
“Yes, Ali, this is still my wish.”
Sharif nodded. “Today you have fought with us as a true Bedu. So as a brother of the Rwala, your wish is ours.” The Bedouin looked into Bolan’s face. “Have we not found a common enemy, Cooper?”
Bolan indicated the burning hulk of the truck. “What does that tell you, Ali? They came to slaughter your people, simply because you stood against them. Because you and I know they are planning to attack across the border into Israel. They will release their poison on women and children. They want to create fear and distrust that will spread all across the Middle East. Turn brothers against each other and soak the desert with blood.”
Sharif considered the American’s words. “True, I have no great love for the Israelis. But they have stayed within their borders and the Bedu have had little dealings with them. Even so, these damned Iranians and their Fedayeen have set up camp on the land of the Bedouin and they chase us away if we venture near. And now—” he gestured dramatically with his arm “—they have dared to strike at us at our own well.
“The Bedu are few now. Our times of ruling the great desert lands are well past. But what we have left we guard with our lives. Our pride is all we have, Cooper, so we will go with you to this place and we will show these foreigners it does not pay to camp on Bedu land without permission.”
CHAPTER TEN
The dead and wounded were tended to. It was decided that they would be returned to the main encampment in the far desert. The survivors would have to share camels because of the loss of a number of animals during the attack. Sharif and twelve of the Bedouin would accompany Bolan for the strike against the Iranian-Fedayeen camp. Apart from their weapons and ammunition they took little with them except for water skins and a little rice and bread.
One of the Bedouin had cleaned the bullet sear on Bolan’s back, smearing it with cool ointment then covering it. Before the group moved off in the direction of the main camp, they presented Bolan with a black Bedouin robe and a headdress.
“Your Western clothes will not be good enough. These Bedu robes will protect you from the desert,” Sharif said as he helped Bolan put on the clothing. “And Allah the compassionate will do the rest.”
SHIMMERING HEAT WAVES DANCED across the silent desert. To Bolan it was a featureless landscape with little to show one mile from the next. His Bedouin companions rode with the confidence of a people in total accord with the hostile terrain.
Bolan’s Bedouin companions had instructed him how to sit on the curved, padded saddle on his camel, showing him the way to hook his right leg around the high saddle horn and tuck his foot beneath his left knee. It helped support him as the plodding camel created a swaying motion. Bolan was aware they were watching him as they set out. He adjusted to the motion after a time. Once he had mastered the art of sitting on the saddle, he found it to be more comfortable than he had imagined. Sharif showed him how to handle the reins, patiently advising the American and nodding in satisfaction at Bolan’s ability to take the advice on board and put it into practice.
“You see, it is not difficult. Even for an American,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, and eliciting a round of amiable laughter.
“You are as good a teacher as you are a warrior,” Bolan returned.
“This one has also been listening to Ali’s words, as well,” one of the Bedu said. “His praise slides off the tongue like honey from a bee.”
There was more laughter from the group and the Bedouin rode their camels around Bolan, bowing and saluting him with great affection. Later, as they strung out again, moving silently across the desert, Sharif moved his camel alongside.
“You have become one of them. What you did back at the camp will be long remembered. The Bedu respect courage and loyalty and above all they honor friendship, Cooper. You will always be welcome in the camps of the Bedu.”
“Thank you, Ali. I will treasure that above all else.”
TOWARD NOON OF THE following day they came within sight of the camp. Sharif had brought them to a place where they could sit concealed by sweeping sand slopes and ridges. A hot desert breeze sifted fine sand across their path, drifting in fine clouds, and they pulled the folds of their keffiyahs over their mouths to protect themselves.
“Cooper, come with me,” Sharif said, dismounting.
Bolan followed him and they climbed to the top of the steep ridge, going prone and looking across the open stretch of sand that led up to the campsite.
Sharif produced a battered pair of binoculars. The outer casing showed extreme wear and the original leather carrying strap had been replaced by a hand-braided cord.
“These are English glasses. My family acquired them from a British officer during the Second World War. Since then they have been passed down through the generations of my family.”
The Bedouin raised the glasses and focused on the distant camp.
“Three vehicles. The helicopter. I see much activity, Cooper.”
Sharif handed the binoculars to Bolan. The magnification was impressive. As he brought the camp into sharp relief, Bolan saw armed figures taking down the tents and loading equipment onto trucks. Even as he watched he saw a third truck move up to park near the stone building housing the weapons cache.
“Looks like they’re moving out,” Bolan said, “and taking the weapons with them.”
“Then we have little time to wait,” Sharif said. “We must strike now.”
Bolan had the same feeling. If they allowed Kerim to leave, it would prove difficult to deal with the group banded together to protect their cache of weapons. Kerim would also have his armed helicopter as his main deterrent. Machine guns and missiles would present a deadly threat to Bolan and his mounted allies.
As they returned to where the other Bedouins were waiting Bolan saw their main chance lay in a fast strike. Sweeping in out of the desert they might gain the advantage and inflict heavy casualties before the terrorist group could retaliate. It was a calculated risk, which was accepted by Sharif’s Bedouins when the suggestion was put to them. In battle there was no such thing as a cut-and-dried victory. Any plan, no matter how carefully set out, could change during its execution. Mack Bolan, better than any of them, could agree to that. He only had to recall the times when intended soft probes of an enemy had turned hard, more often than not when a small change kicked in the warning alarm. Simple things, incidental to the big picture, but happening at the wrong time in the wrong place. Risk came with the job, Bolan knew, and this time would be no different.
“Did you see the ridge that curves in around the east side of the camp?” Sharif asked. “If we ride behind this ridge, we can bring ourselves close to the camp before we show ourselves.”
“I saw the ridge and had the same thought. But remember, Ali, they have automatic weapons, too. And they’re not about to stand by when we hit them.”
“If Allah decrees some of us must die, then it is written and will be so,” one of the Bedouin said.
“Then it will be my honor to fight beside you,” Bolan said.
Sharif placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had darker skin I would believe I had just listened to a Bedu speaking.”
Weapons were given a final check and spare magazines placed for easy availability. Bolan’s own check was done automatically, his mind on something else.
The bioweapon.
Conventional weapons were one thing. The very presence of the bioweapon notched up the threat rating. It needed erasing fully. Bolan could only see a single, reliable way to achieve that.
Fire. The cleansing power that would consume and nullify the terrible weapon.
Bolan’s first thought was fuel. There had to be some kind of fuel dump within the camp. Gas for the vehicles and the helicopter.
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