Desert Falcons

CHAPTER FOUR

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Mustapha Rahman sat on the soft cushions on the floor of his well-appointed apartment and watched as his second son, Mamum, poured some of the sweet mint tea into a cup for their three guests.

Mamum, the trustworthy. It had been he who had driven the three Shi’ites to Bahrain to conduct the attack on the nightclub, which had allowed Mahfuj, the protector, to perform the heroic rescue. That act had, in turn, ensured the trust and confidence of both the prince and the king.

Mustapha’s three guests were all high-ranking military men, and each had committed himself to the plan. Mustapha had no doubt as to their loyalty. With the assassination attempt the previous night, and the first part of the plan successfully initiated, they were well beyond the point of no return.

It was like a Bedouin pilgrim crossing the desert on his holy hajj, Mustapha thought. To stop at any point in the seemingly endless sands was to embrace death.

Colonel Tariq Matayyib, the weakest link in the chain, Mustapha knew, was perspiring heavily. He accepted the tea from Mamum and sipped at it.

Mustapha reached out and laid a hand on Matayyib’s thigh in reassurance.

“Do not worry, my brother,” Mustapha said. “All is well. It will work as I have foretold.”

Matayyib nodded, accompanied by a very nervous smile. “I have placed my faith and my life in your hands, but still I see the knife being drawn across my throat in my dreams, should we fail.”

Mustapha squeezed Matayyib’s leg again in reassurance. “I have just received a message from my youngest son, Masoud. All is going according to plan.”

This was not entirely true. Masoud had risked using his satellite phone to inform Mustapha about the near catastrophe of the previous evening. It was already morning here in Arabia.

Yes, Arabia, Mustapha thought. He would no longer use the name of the house of traitors to designate his country, the only one in the modern world named after a specific family. As if it were their personal possession.

He glanced at the chess board that the other two colonels had set up. The pieces were configured piecemeal around the board, without any clear strategy or plan of action on the part of either player. Thinking two or three moves ahead was something Mustapha prided himself in being able to do. Even as a boy he’d had the knack for strategy and planning. Perhaps it was a result of his grandfather’s careful instruction in the art of repairing the timepieces. It had taught Mustapha the intricacies of the most complicated series of motions, all seemingly working independent of each other, but collectively accomplishing one purpose.

He leaned over and moved the black queen belonging to Colonel Arak Hafeez, thus placing the white king of Colonel Kalif Samad in check.

The eyes of Hafeez widened. “You have virtually won the game for me with one move.”

He grinned and pointed at Samad. “You will be checkmated in two more moves.”

“Did you have so little faith that I could not?” Mustapha said.

Hafeez smiled. “Never for a moment.”

Mustapha turned back to Matayyib. “Do you not see? It is a sign from God. All is well.”

Matayyib nodded, but his face was still wet, and the perspiration had begun to seep through his tan uniform shirt despite the air conditioning.

“Why do you worry?” Mustapha asked.

“My father…” Matayyib lowered his head. “He told me of the scene of long ago. He was only a boy then, but he saw them lined up in the public square. Their heads rolled on the stones, and he swore he saw the lips of one of them moving in prayer, begging for forgiveness.”

Mustapha frowned. He, too, had heard the tales of the failed coup d’état of 1966. A group of air force officers had planned to wrest power from the decadent king, but the Americans had discovered their intentions and warned then-King Faisal. The monarch had immediately arrested them and, after rebuking their treachery, subsequently had all of them beheaded in the city square. Not a pleasant thought, but Mustapha knew this time his plan would succeed. The Americans would not be able to warn the king this time. He shook his head vehemently. This time we shall strike with the swiftness of a falcon…four desert falcons.

“Must I again tell you of my dream?” His voice was loud, steady, unwavering. “My dream of the four falcons? I was told by a holy man that it was a sign, a prophecy from God.”

Matayyib compressed his lips.

“Remember,” Mustapha said, increasing his grip on the other man’s thigh to convey the rectitude of his pronouncement, “that the prophet himself, blessed be his name, was guided by his dreams.”

Matayyib’s face looked distorted now and Mustapha realized he’d been exerting too much pressure in his fervor. He released the other man’s thigh. “You need to spend more time playing football.”

Matayyib’s expression showed relief now, but his body emanated the smell of encroaching fear.

But perhaps a little fear was good at this point.

“My son Mahfuj is now the most trusted bodyguard of Prince Amir,” Mustapha said. He reached down and moved the rook to block the retreat of the white king. “It has been insisted upon that Mahfuj, who saved the prince’s life, be placed in charge of the bodyguard contingent.” He reached over to make the final move to checkmate the white king. Everything was falling into place in life, just as on the chessboard. “Now, quit worrying and drink your sweet tea. But first, say it.”

Matayyib’s dark eyes flashed for an instant, as if he were confused…or doubtful.

“Say it, my brother,” Mustapha said, knowing he had the full attention of all of them. “Show me you are committed to our plan. Show me your confidence in our course of action.”

“Praise be to God,” Matayyib said. “We shall succeed.”

Yes, indeed, Mustapha thought. He turned and looked at each of them, holding his gaze steady as he searched their eyes.

“Yes, we shall,” he said. “Soon, you will each be generals.”

The three of them exchanged glances as smiles crept over their faces.

And I, Mustapha thought, shall be the supreme leader of a new Arabia.

* * *

Las Vegas, Nevada

“THERE SHE IS,” Grimaldi said, pointing through the windshield of their black, Cadillac Escalade as Bolan drove northbound on Las Vegas Boulevard from the car rental place. “My favorite sign.”

Bolan glanced back at the huge Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada sign that was set in the middle of the grassy area that separated the north- and southbound lanes of the boulevard. Groups of people were lining up to get photographed by the sign, which was shaped similarly to a giant cocktail glass.

They’d touched down at McCarran Airport an hour ago, and with the three hours they’d picked up flying west, it was not yet noon. After arranging to secure their Learjet in one of the private hangars, they secured their rental car.

Each man had a suitcase and a black nylon duffel bag that contained their traveling arsenals and equipment: body armor, night-vision goggles, gas masks, flash-bang and CS grenades, knives, pistols, two M-4 rifles, two MP-5 submachine guns, numerous magazines and a copious amount of ammunition. Flying commercial, as Grimaldi had pointed out, would have been more than just a little problematic.

“Well, how about we swing by the Peppermill and get a couple of steaks?” Grimaldi patted his stomach. “I’m starving, and remember, I did all the flying to get us here in a timely fashion.”

“I’ll buy you a sandwich and an energy drink instead. I want to drop this stuff off and do a recon. Let’s go.”

* * *

AARON “THE BEAR” KURTZMAN had reserved a condominium for them just southeast of the Strip. It was close enough to the entertainment action, yet far enough away to allow for quick departures to the outlying areas, including the site of the desert warfare training seminar. The condo was also equipped with two rather large safes that enabled them to secure their weapons. As soon as they arrived, they carried their duffels into the bedroom and Bolan removed his Beretta 93-R from the bag along with two extra magazines.

“Planning on going to war early?” Grimaldi asked. “I thought that damn class wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow.”

“It’s better to be prepared,” Bolan replied.

“You got that right,” Grimaldi said, taking out his SIG Sauer P 223 and one extra mag and setting them on the bed. “But did anybody ever tell you you’re the world’s oldest Boy Scout?”

“Just you,” Bolan said. “Nobody else who did is around to talk about it.”

Grimaldi raised his hands, palms outward. “No offense, partner.”

Bolan slipped the end of his belt through the loops of his pancake holster and snapped the Beretta into place. The holster had a special safety guard that gripped the trigger guard to prevent the weapon from falling out of or being ripped from its holster.

He inserted the two magazines into the holder on the left, front side of his belt. He was almost ready to roll. The only thing left to do was to remove his large, folding Espada knife from the duffel bag and clip it inside the right pocket on the leg of his black cargo pants. He then stowed the two duffel bags with their remaining weaponry in the safe and donned a windbreaker to cover his weapons.

“Almost ready?” he asked.

Grimaldi was putting his arms through the loops of a shoulder holster rig. He turned and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. “Almost.”

Bolan took out his cell phone. “I’m going to check in with Hal.”

Brognola answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you’d call. How are the accommodations?”

“First-rate,” Bolan said, putting the phone on speaker so Grimaldi could monitor the situation. “Tell the Bear he did a great job setting us up.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that. Kind of makes up for all the times we send you to those rat holes all over the place.” Brognola cleared his throat. “Bad enough I gotta send you to that damn desert warfare training seminar. Hell, you and Jack could probably teach the instructors how to do it.”

“You can always pick up something,” Bolan said. “Nobody knows it all.”

Brognola laughed. “Yeah, you can take the soldier out of the jungle, but not the jungle out of the man.”

“Anything new?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. The FBI agents are on their way to the area. It seems two BLM park rangers disappeared last night. They didn’t report in at the conclusion of their shift.”

Bolan considered that. “Where did they disappear?”

“They were assigned to prowl around the disputed area of Autry’s place. Camp Freedom.”

“Did they report anything suspicious?”

“Just that they noticed some vehicular traffic on the main highway by the back entrance and were going to investigate. Apparently there’s a private road that runs from the main compound area. It’s gated, and there were no signs of entry there, forced or otherwise.”

“Did they call in any license plates on the vehicles?”

“Negative,” Brognola said. “They aren’t monitored by any dispatching base, although they do have the capacity to get on local law enforcement radio bands to call for help if they need it. They maintain a mobile data terminal computer log of their activities, but there were no entries or transmissions after the one about them noticing the vehicular traffic.”

“What about GPS locators?”

“Struck out again. There is a GPS transponder in the vehicle, but it stopped transmitting about an hour after their last report. And it was miles away from Camp Freedom, according to its last recorded location.”

“Did you find out anything more about Rand Autry or that militia group we saw on the news?”

“Like I said, the FBI’s got some agents en route to investigate the disappearance. They probably plan to interview Autry as a matter of routine investigation. Not that they have anything solid to connect him to it.

“As for the People’s New Minutemen Militia, they’ve been active for the past year or so, but we don’t know much about them. They don’t seem to be affiliated with any criminal organization, and the report that they’re trying to buy more arms is unsubstantiated at this time. For now, they’re just a paramilitary group that sprung up about the same time as this thing with Autry started. They appear to be little more than a group of security guards for this Camp Freedom place of his. I’ll send you some aerial surveillance photos. The place is pretty big and looks well-fortified.”

“If he’s got all that property,” Bolan asked, “why is he in dispute with the BLM?”

“Autry’s been letting his cattle graze on what he claims is open range, per some proclamation from 1857. All his neighboring ranchers have been paying grazing and water rights to let their cattle use land in the same area. Since Autry refuses to recognize the federal government’s authority, he hasn’t. He owes a couple of million in back taxes. Now, the government is knocking on his door intending to collect.”

“This sounds like something to be decided in the courts.”

“It was. Autry lost the first round, but he’s appealing. In the meantime he’s recruited this small, private army to protect him, and they’re well-armed and apparently intend to stay that way. That’s where the possibility of the illegal arms deal enters into things. Add that to Autry’s recent televised outbursts calling for action against the Muslims, who he’s blaming for being in cahoots with the government, and you can see why the President is a bit worried there might be trouble with one of the royal heirs being in the area.”

“I think it’s time Jack and I got a look at this Camp Freedom,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, email us those surveillance pictures.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

“Okay. Keep me posted about Prince Amir,” Brognola said, then hung up.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan surveyed the scene on the desert highway as they approached in the Escalade. Several police barricades had been placed across the road. About fifty yards farther down, a large group of people was milling about on the road. At the barricades, a pair of uniformed state troopers waved at the line of cars to turn and go in the other direction.

“Looks like we’re arriving late for the party,” Grimaldi said from the driver’s seat. “So much for your recon.”

“We can still find out some things,” Bolan replied.

“Okie-doke,” Grimaldi said, pulling forward as the car in front of them made a U-turn. The trooper, who looked hot and exasperated, waved emphatically for them to turn as well, but Grimaldi slowly crept forward and lowered his window.

“Turn it around, bud,” the trooper said. “Road’s closed.”

Bolan held up his Department of Justice credentials that identified him as Agent Matt Cooper. The trooper strode to the window and scrutinized them. Grimaldi quickly got out his ID and held it up, as well.

“DOJ?” the trooper said. “Just what I need, another couple of Feds.” He stepped back and waved them through, calling to his partner to move the barricade.

Grimaldi nodded a “thanks,” drove around the barricade and scanned the crowd ahead. Several news vans, antennas erect, were parked on the side of the road. A gaggle of news reporters, some with microphones, stood in front of the camcorders as two groups of people seemed to be engaged in a face-off of some sort. One side appeared to be police, the other some sort of uniformed men wearing camouflaged BDUs, black baseball caps, and bloused pants over desert warfare boots.

Most likely the militia Brognola mentioned, Bolan thought as Grimaldi pulled the Escalade on to the shoulder of the road, shut off the engine and grabbed his ball cap. Bolan did the same. The hats, along with their sunglasses, afforded them a modicum of anonymity as they ran the gauntlet of news cameras.

Grimaldi tapped the brim of his cap, which was black with white letters spelling out Las Vegas. “Maybe I’ll wear this at that damn desert warfare class. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said as they passed by the reporters and showed their IDs to another police officer manning the inner perimeter. “Those white letters make a nice target.”

As they got closer, Bolan saw that both groups were armed, but the militia members seemed to have an edge since they held what appeared to be AR-15s with 30-round magazines at port arms. They seemed to be well-disciplined and were lined up across a paved road that had a gate and a seven-foot-high chain-link fence running perpendicular along an expansive perimeter. A large metal sign was posted over the gate, reading Camp Freedom. Below it, lesser signs proclaimed various warnings: Private Property—No Trespassing, Violators Will Be Dealt With Accordingly.

“Looks like the mark of a man who values his privacy,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan said nothing. He was too busy assessing the various shades of tan uniforms on what appeared to be the cop side: more state troopers, what appeared to be county sheriff officers, and several he didn’t recognize until he and Grimaldi got close enough to see the patches on the men’s sleeves: BLM—Bureau of Land Management. A big, barrel-chested man in a county sheriff’s uniform stood at the front along with two people in blue polo shirts and dark slacks. One of these was an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hey, check out the babe,” Grimaldi said. “She’s hot.”

“She’s also FBI,” Bolan said, discerning the yellow lettering stenciled on the upper left side of her shirt.

Across from them, two of the militia men stood at rigid attention, saying nothing. In front of these a rather obese, middle-aged man in cowboy garb and a similarly dressed woman gesticulated emphatically. Bolan recognized both of them from the file Brognola had given him: Shane and Eileen, the two children of Randall “Rand” Autry, the owner and master of Camp Freedom. Bolan also knew that while Shane was purported to be more or less a gofer for his autocratic father, Eileen had graduated from Harvard Law School. She was a rather attractive woman with blond hair and a nice figure that filled out her Western shirt and blue jeans. She wore a buckskin vest, and her pants were tucked into highly polished, decorative cowboy boots. Her brother, Bolan knew, was eight years older, placing him in his early forties. His Stetson hat was set low on his forehead, riding over a pair of eyes set deep into a face that looked like an inflated balloon. An expansive gut pulled the bottom of his red shirt tightly over the top of a pair of blue jeans, held in place by a fancy leather belt with a decorative silver buckle.

“Ms. Autry,” the female FBI agent said, “all we’re asking is a chance to speak with your father regarding this incident. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

“My father will make a statement when he’s good and ready,” Eileen said, her voice calm but defiant. “And not before.”

“When will that be?”

“When he gets here,” Shane said. “Now, get your unlawful assembly off our property.”

“This is public road,” one of the uniformed BLM rangers said. “And two of our personnel disappeared in this area. We have a right to be here.”

Shane’s face took on a belligerent expression. “You want to talk about rights? What about our rights as citizens? What about you jack-booted government thugs harassing us without authority? What about—”

The uniformed BLM ranger jumped forward, but the big man in the tan uniform raised a massive arm to hold him back. He silenced the man with a mean look.

“Thank you, Sheriff Dundee,” Eileen said, “You saved my brother from an unwarranted assault and saved this government thug and his department from a horrendous lawsuit.” She smiled and pointed toward the news crews. “Let’s not forget that this entire incident is being recorded.”

Dundee nodded and held up his hand. “I’m not in any position to forget anything, ma’am. And, please, excuse the exuberance of my fellow law-enforcement officer here, but understandably, he is a bit concerned, as we all are, about those two missing park rangers.”

“Park rangers,” Shane said in a disgusted tone. “Ain’t no parks around here for them to patrol.” He spit on the ground between him and the law-enforcement personnel.

“Shane,” Dundee said, “I’ve known you for a long time, but if you do that again I’ll take you in.”

“Oh, that’ll look good in front of all these cameras, won’t it?” Shane did a little dance. “Come on, big man. Don’t talk about it, do it.” He threw his arm back toward the line of stoic militiamen. “I’d like to see you try it.”

Eileen turned and put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. The situation looked about ready to explode. Bolan stepped closer, but stayed about fifteen feet away from the principal players sizing each one up.

As they stood nose to nose in momentary silence, a rhythmic, clopping sound became noticeable. Bolan looked for the source of it and saw a man wearing a white Stetson hat rapidly approaching on a white horse alongside the paved road inside the gates. He held an American flag on a pole that was hooked into his left stirrup. The flag was upside-down.

“Looks like Rand Autry’s here,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi nodded. “Damn, just like John Wayne in one of those old Westerns.”

“Shane,” Rand Autry said loudly as he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a stop. He then urged the animal cautiously forward. Several of the militiamen broke ranks to allow him passage. One of them, obviously the leader, was a big, broad-shouldered guy with light-colored eyes. He issued a command to the militiaman next to him to take over as he accompanied the elder Autry to the front of the standoff. This second militiaman had reddish hair and a wiry build. Although he looked formidable, he appeared a few years younger than the big guy and nowhere near as powerful.