Armed Response

“Why haven’t we seen any traffic on this road?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a road that goes nowhere. I have no idea why it was built. But we’ll be joining the main highway in a moment, and it’ll get a little busier.”

It did get busier on the main highway. As they traveled toward Aden, they encountered several troop trucks heading in the opposite direction.

“They’re probably going to see where you were playing.”

Bolan didn’t reply.

“There’s a camera on the backseat. Hang it around your neck. You’ll look the part of a journalist to them.”

Bolan leaned back and grabbed an old Nikon digital camera. “Does it work?”

“Sure does. I’ve even taken a few photos of the desert if they care to inspect it. They’ll stop us at the checkpoints and ask us what we’re up to. We’ll say something about following the troop trucks for a story, got turned back and now we’re on our way to the airport to cover that story. I have some money to slip into the passports, for administration purposes you understand. Say, are you going to tell me what happened back there? What happened to Qutaiba? It was Qutaiba, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, I knew it. Oh, this is going to be on the front page of the New York Times.” Thompson glanced at Bolan. “I can report this, can’t I?”

“As long as all credit goes to the brave Yemeni army who tracked and engaged Qutaiba in a gun battle, killing all of his terrorist team while sustaining no casualties themselves. Something like that.”

“Damn. And they won’t even give you a medal for what you did.”

“That’s the way it goes.” Bolan leaned back and closed his eyes. “I found a notebook of Qutaiba’s. I haven’t had time to look at it yet. We’ll need to decipher it when we get to your place. How much farther is it?”

“Depends. Without checkpoints and disasters, about an hour. But this one wasn’t here this morning, and it looks like they’re checking all cars.”

Bolan’s eyes snapped open as Thompson brought the car to a halt behind a truck full of bleating goats. There were at least another four cars in front. The barricade was no more than a couple of military-style jeeps parked on either side of the road and two wooden barriers, which could be raised and lowered. Half a dozen soldiers milled around.

The Executioner closed his eyes again. There was no point in looking nervous. It was just another day for a freelance journalist with a job to do. Just another checkpoint. Thompson didn’t seem nervous, either. The man had to pass through roadblocks every time he left the city. Three cars, then two, then one. It was the truck’s turn. The driver chatted with the soldiers a few minutes before being waved through.

Thompson drove the car to the makeshift barrier, smiling at the soldiers. They didn’t seem impressed, especially after spotting a white man in the passenger seat. Thompson was instructed to turn off his engine. A young soldier held his hand out for papers, never taking his eyes off Bolan or Thompson. The others stood back, hands on their AK-47s. The young soldier scanned the documents for a few seconds, discovered a small pile of US dollars hidden within and slid the money into his top pocket. He looked down at Thompson.

“Who this?” he asked in heavily accented English, indicating Bolan with his chin.

“Why, my new colleague!” Thompson said. “We came out looking for a story for our newspaper.”

“How you find story in desert?”

“Well—” Thompson lowered his voice conspiratorially “—I have a friend in the glorious Yemeni army, quite high up, a colonel, and he told me that you guys had a big gunfight out here somewhere in the desert. So my friend and I, well, we came looking. But then some soldiers turned us back, saying they would shoot us if we didn’t go away. So now we’re going to the airport to see what story is there.”

How much the soldier understood wasn’t clear, but he seemed to get the gist of it. He continued to stare suspiciously at Bolan and Thompson before finally waving them through. Whether it was the bribe that convinced the soldier, the mention of knowing a colonel or a combination of both, Bolan didn’t know. Thompson let out a breath, muttered something about good luck and drove away from the checkpoint at a cautious speed, apparently not wanting to raise further suspicion.

“The first of many,” he said.

Bolan closed his eyes again. The sun beat down. Thompson turned his inefficient car cooling system to full. Warm air blasted into Bolan’s face. He adjusted the vents so that they pointed toward his feet, then he dozed off.

They passed through another army checkpoint on the outskirts of the city. The situation was no different from the first: some money in one of the passports, answer a few questions about journalism, mention a nonexistent colonel and be waved through.

The city appeared in the distance. They passed the outlying buildings, billboards advertising cola, jeans, cars. Bolan asked for the cell phone, and Thompson passed it over. There was a strong signal. The soldier typed in a long number and waited for it to ring. The number was good for one call. Once used, the number would be reassigned by one of the phone companies, becoming a launderette or pizza parlor. The signal would pass through many cell phone providers and bounce off several satellites before being answered. The entire electronic journey took two seconds.

“Yes,” a disembodied voice answered.

“Six Alpha Green,” Bolan replied.

The phone clicked a few times, then Barbara Price came on the line.

“Striker?”

“Affirmative. The line is unsecure.”

“Understood.”

Bolan reached for the dashboard and turned the car’s roaring air system down in order to hear what was being said.

“Our friend was at the location, but had to depart quickly to meet his maker.”

“Understood.” There was slight relief in Price’s voice at the confirmation that Qutaiba was confirmed dead.

“I’m now heading back I’ll check in again at our other friend’s house.”

“Understood. Be advised that the boys in green have found a burning car in the desert. The local police have been informed.”

“Roger that.” Bolan broke the call and handed the cell phone back to Thompson.

“They found the burning UAZ,” he said, “and have informed police.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that. The police won’t be as easy to please.”

“I could bail out and make my own way in.”

“What would that achieve? If you get caught, then you’ll have even more explaining to do. Stick together and we can give them the old dumb-Yankee-journalist routine.”

Thompson had a point, and Bolan decided to go with it. The concealed weapons were the only problem. The Executioner spotted an industrial building with several large garbage containers outside. There wasn’t much activity around the place.

“Pull over here.”

Thompson complied, driving the car up to the containers. Bolan reached behind the seat, to the compartment, and removed the two weapons and the blue notebook. Working quickly he stripped the two pistols to their component parts, emptied the magazines of bullets, then spent several moments spreading the contents among the garbage, ensuring that no two pieces could be found together. The ammunition was similarly dealt with. Bolan climbed back into the car, and they left the scene without anybody taking any notice.

Bolan flicked through the pages of the notebook. Some of it was in English, but the car bounced too much for him to be able to read anything clearly. He looked up from the book when Thompson began to slow the car. A police checkpoint loomed ahead, consisting of several police cars and an armored vehicle. The police were stopping and searching every vehicle entering the city. They watched as an officer mounted the tailgate of a truck before clambering in among the goats and sheep. The animals could clearly be heard bleating in protest. The policeman jumped out, the truck was waved on and the procedure began again with the next car. And the next. After ten minutes it was finally Bolan and Thompson’s turn.

The police officer who leaned into the vehicle was instantly suspicious. He held out his hand for their papers, while several armed colleagues moved up close. One began to check under the car. Bolan knew that if they had the equipment to check for traces of cordite, he would light up like a Christmas tree. The officer instructed them to get out. Bolan and Thompson complied. Bolan had tucked the blue notebook into his shirt’s top pocket, where it was clearly visible, hiding in plain sight. They were ushered away from their car as several policemen began the search, popping the trunk, the hood and clambering inside. They found the empty compartment easily. The first officer finished examining the two men’s papers and looked at them, staring coldly. Bolan knew he could easily stare back but didn’t, knowing that the challenge could be construed the wrong way. Instead he wore the air of someone slightly cowed and intimidated. Thompson remained cool, smiling at the official.

“No problems?” Thompson asked.

The man continued to stare. Eventually he broke his silence. “Where have you been?” he asked. The question sounded like an accusation.

“Well,” Thompson began, but the officer silenced him.

“I ask him,” he said, pointing at Bolan. “Mr… B-lan-ski.”

Bolan gave the man a weak smile. “We were looking for a story. We were told that there was shooting in the desert. We followed the army out, but they turned us back at the checkpoint. They told us there was nothing to see. So now we are going to the airport to cover that story.”

“Airport closed. Who told you about shooting?”

“Colonel Nissal,” Thompson said. “He’s a friend.”

The policeman was unimpressed with the reference to an army colonel. He looked at one of his approaching officers, a black eyebrow raised in question. The other man shook his head, muttered something and then stared at Bolan and Thompson, obviously hoping to intimidate them more. The official in charge turned back to the two Americans.

“Why compartment under seat? You hide drugs?”

“No, no,” Bolan protested. “No drugs. It is for this.” He held up the camera hanging around his neck. “We hide it in the car—we don’t want it stolen.”

The officer seemed to find this answer acceptable. He examined the papers again, hoping to discover a discrepancy in the passport stamps, the work permits. Finding none, he reluctantly handed them back.

“You go now. Leave.”

Bolan and Thompson thanked him and climbed back into the car. They left the checkpoint, the police still staring after them. Thompson let out a gasp of pent-up relief.

“That was tense. I’m sure glad I didn’t slip in the customary bribe. I don’t think that guy would have appreciated it.”

“No, he was dedicated, I’ll give him that. Colonel Nissal?”

“Guy in the army who I have tried to interview a few times. I think that he’s on the take. Keeps turning me down. Maybe the police will check him out. Revenge is sweet.”

Bolan chuckled. The city became more and more modern. Low houses gave way to towering apartment buildings, extremely white, and shining in the sun. The road was black and smooth, the cars driving on it far more modern than those outside the city. More billboards lined the road and hung on the sides of buildings. It barely seemed like the Middle East. Almost ringing the city was a long, unbroken chain of stone hills. Thompson caught him taking in the sights.

“You ever been here before?” he asked.

“I’ve passed through once or twice.” Bolan said.

The buildings to his right vanished, offering a fantastic view of the bay and the sea beyond. Bolan could see all manner of oil tankers and freighters docked in the harbor, entering, leaving, all floating on a perfect blue surface. The whole vista was simply stunning. Thompson broke the spell by reminding him that the USS Cole

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