Path To War
And the possibility of nuclear holocaust.
Ron Baraka wondered right then about his own sanity, and just how far he would go to pull off the revolution of the ages.
ONCE CONSIDERED an adventurer’s paradise, a thriving hub for artists, poets and travelers the world over, even once tagged the Paris of North Africa, Morocco, the Executioner knew, was changing, and for the worse. Situated at the far northwest corner of North Africa, its shoreline spanning both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, it was a short ferry, or hydrofoil ride from Spain across the Strait of Gibraltar. Perfect, as far as logistics for extremist forays into Spain went. Times did change, Bolan realized, and with the expansion of Islamic jihad into once-moderate Morocco, there was no longer the allure of some Arabian Nights fantasy, a guaranteed peaceful stroll through the souks, a leisurely hour or so spent in a bathhouse, or wandering the kasbah, marveling at the citadels, ramparts and fortifications the old sultans had erected.
No, the extremists had found a new home, due to both its close proximity to Europe—where terrorists could hop back and forth, planning or acting out atrocities, then seeking safe haven in Morocco—and the fact that it was inclined to cooperate with the West in its war on terror. Meaning it was fertile ground to stoke the flames of fanaticism. And with its vast expanse of desert and mountain ranges to the south of Casablanca, American intelligence was lately learning of terror camps springing up, extremists from other countries shopping here for fresh cannon fodder.
The world, Bolan thought, was becoming darker, stranger, more vicious and savage with each passing day. If he was so inclined, he might become depressed that the scourge of Animal Man seemed to be expanding, a boiling dark cloud, where no one was safe anywhere, anytime.
But in his War Everlasting there was no time for a dark night of the soul. It was his task, his duty to the innocent, who wished only to live in peace, to hunt down and trample the plague of evil wherever, whenever he could.
The Cabaret Medina was next up for the Executioner’s cleansing fire.
Bolan navigated the domed alleyways, following the twists and turns, having committed to memory the course to his next hit as drawn out by his team. With Mousuami, his thugs and the North Koreans the ghost of a memory, the soldier thoroughly trusted his team when it came to their intelligence on the players in question, the numbers, their pedigrees and such.
And the player on deck was the great white shark of Islamic jihad in Casablanca. With luck, the soldier would net him, alive, if not thrashing.
The souks were shut down, but Bolan found the alleys teeming with shadows on the move, the night alive, with both prey and predator alike. Swiftly passing beneath the high arch, he cut left down a wide alley, caught the muffled din of music about midway down, spotted the banyan tree that landmarked he had arrived. Several couples, spilled half-drunk through the doors of the Cabaret Medina, the establishment advertised by an ornately carved sign, trimmed in gold, and hung above the entrance.
The Beretta 93-R already fixed with a sound suppressor for what he intended a quick and quiet hard hit, Bolan only hoped he could tip his hat to his team’s intel once again.
He would know soon enough, as he moved inside the Cabaret Medina to a blast of American rock and roll.
NABHAT KAIROUSH HAD a decision to make, as he considered the future of Islamic jihad, both in and beyond Morocco.
He was gathered with his three most trusted lieutenants for their nightly situation report and brief. Before getting down to business they always gorged themselves on couscous, fruit, spicy lamb and chicken. Mohammed and Abibah were now helping themselves to fresh tea lighting cigarettes at the same time. Under the dictates of Islamic law forbidding drug use, Kairoush should have chastised Fetouka for indulging himself on the native-grown marijuana, but the man was like a brother to him, forever loyal, always ready to shed blood, a hungry eye toward the future of jihad. Men of war, he reasoned, owed it to themselves to unwind, no matter what their pleasure.
And they were at war, make no mistake. Always braced for the worst, they kept their AK-74s canted against their chairs, a quick grab if the Moroccan authorities or the hated American FBI made it past Toulajah, who was posted outside the door watching the hall that led from the cabaret’s dance floor to the back office.
Kairoush sipped his tea, allowed them a few moments to relax, glancing around the spartanly furnished war room. They were far enough removed from the raucous crowd, drinking and dancing the night away in the cabaret, to speak at normal conversation level, though the walls thumped to the rhythm of American rock and roll. The cabaret wasn’t only a front for washing cash that came to him by way of fellow brothers in jihad who needed to remain at large but have ready funds available, but the business raked in enough money to buy weapons, explosives, recruit and train young fighters in the camp they ran in the desert. He was responsible for three recent car bombings in Morocco that had claimed sixty-eight lives, half of the victims, foreigners of one type or other. It galled him that he was forced to kill his fellow countrymen, but the government had chosen to hold hands with the Great Satan, and a message needed to be sent to those in power.
Sleep with the Devil, they could die with the Devil.
It was long since time, he believed, to reshape his country in the image of true Islam. All non-Muslims were the enemy, no exceptions.
As if reading his thoughts, Fetouka began the discussion. “I must ask again—do you feel it wise to trust the infidels in what is a venture so risky it may topple our organization?”
Kairoush pursed his lips, bobbed his head, the great leader taking his time, considering what sage advice he could deliver. He decided simple and straightforward was best. “My brothers, first I do not trust the Americans. Bear in mind, though, they came to us, practically on bended knee.”
“With money so that we could insure the safety of the North Koreans and grant safe passage for a suitcase nuke, which by all rights, should be ours,” Mohammed groused.
“I concur with your sentiments,” Kairoush calmly said, looking to keep the meeting from spiraling down into heated argument. “Granted, I believe the Americans should come bearing greater gifts than a few briefcases of their hundred-dollar bills. But we can put their money to good use for our own operations. Further, I intend to meet with the head mercenary—”
“Mercenary?” Abibah interrupted. “Nabhat, for all we know, they could be CIA, looking to walk us into a trap.”
“I have considered that possibility, Abibah,” Kairoush answered, putting an edge to his voice, a warning he hoped the others cued in on to not interrupt again. “But when the North Koreans arrived and I met with them, I came to believe that these American mercenaries have their own agenda, one that does not involve any patriotic love of their country or any covert action against us.”
Fetouka blew the harsh smoke out his nostrils. “What are the chances we can acquire a Suitcase from God from the North Koreans?”
Kairoush checked his watch. Brother Habib should have called by now, the money transaction on behalf of the infidels completed, the North Koreans on their way out into the desert to deliver the package.
“It is something I intend to discuss with the head mercenary when we meet,” Kairoush answered. “Where there can deliver one, they can deliver more. Our own sponsors in Saudi Arabia will be more than willing to finance such a venture. I understand your reservations about this strange arrangement with the Americans, but my contacts in Yemen have assured me they can be trusted.”
“Americans building an army of freedom fighters,” Abibah said. “I do not like it, Nabhat. We have no idea what their agenda, why it is they are using us to do their dirty work.”
“Are you suggesting we cut them loose?”
Abibah hesitated, then said, “I believe it is too late for that. We’re being paid well, and I agree their money can build us our own army of freedom fighters here in Morocco. If they are, however, renegades, what if their own people are on to them? Say they are captured and talk? They would sing loud and long, point the authorities in our direction. The North Koreans would either be captured or flee the country in their private jet.”
“Again, I have considered that possibility,” Kairoush answered. “But without risk, there is no reward. We need to set our sights on bigger, grander operations. And I am thinking the Americans can find a way to smuggle us into their country, with, I am hoping, one or two Suitcases from God. Picture Washington, D.C., brothers,” he said, watching them closely as their eyes lit up, “wiped off the face of the earth in a nuclear fire cloud. Their country would collapse into complete anarchy, what with their government infrastructure wiped out. Say we could detonate another package in New York at the same instant.”
“Yes, yes,” Mohammed said, nodding vigorously. “It would be the greatest of all victories for Islam. Hundreds of thousands dead and dying in their streets. Riots sweeping the country. Military law. Their entire system would unravel.”
“But for now it is merely a dream,” Kairoush said. “In short time we will have what we need to bring America to its knees.”
“But for now we play second string to the mercenaries?” Fetouka said, an edge of annoyance to his voice.
“As long as their cash keeps coming we do,” Kairoush said.
Kairoush fell silent, allowing them to contemplate the future, the glory that could be theirs. It would be no small feat, smuggling an atomic device into America, but if it was hidden in a container ship, the crew handpicked and sworn to martyrdom if it came down to that, it could be done. He was always hearing how America’s borders were wide open, and with so much shipping traffic, the countless ports along its shores, he was feeling more confident they could pull it off the more he considered the operation. He had never seen, much less handled a Suitcase from God, but from his understanding it was fairly simple. A key that turned on the power pack, then punch in the access code, set the timer for doomsday countdown. Easy enough.
Kairoush was smiling, envisioning in his mind’s eye the White House, their Capitol building heaved up into a blinding mushroom cloud when he heard a loud thud outside the door. It sounded like a body falling. Kairoush grabbed for his assault rifle, Toulajah’s name on his tongue, then the door crashed in, a big figure in a black overcoat holding a weapon in a two-fisted grip.
Mohammed and Abibah jumped to their feet, AK-74s in their hands, but they never fired a shot. Kairoush felt a moment’s paralysis at the big invader’s brazen show of deadly force as the weapon chugged, blood and brain matter puking from the shattered skulls of Mohammed and Abibah. As they toppled, the gore splashing what was left of their feast—a Westerner, he believed, though he had a swarthy or sun-burnished look that could have made him Arab or Italian—swung his aim and drilled a third eye in Fetouka’s forehead. It was over as fast as lightning would streak the skies, Kairoush staring down the black eye of the sound suppressor.
“Grab some air.”
Kairoush stared into icy blue eyes that seemed to belong to something out of hell rather than anything human. He showed his hands.
“You can come with me in peace and talk,” the big stranger said, “or join your comrades. Your choice.”
“Who are you? Are you with the mercenaries?”
“I’m with me. Your answer.”
Kairoush barely heard the thundering rock and roll through the pounding of his heart in his ears. He nodded, waiting as the big invader came around the table, snatched him by the shoulder and shoved him toward Toulajah’s outstretched body.
CHAPTER THREE
Bolan understood the pros and cons where torture was concerned. Sleep deprivation, genitals hot-wired for electric shock, extreme forms of humiliation, even beating a prisoner senseless rarely produced viable information, and, more often than not, an enemy captive would say anything to stop the pain or shame. There were times, however, when the Executioner believed the right application of suffering could loosen the most obstinate tongue. It wasn’t part of his SOP to inflict pain, but under certain circumstances—such as the threat of WMD being loosed to wipe out thousands of innocent lives—the threat of torture could work as well, if not better, than the act itself.
The soldier found the warehouse near the waterfront, northeast of Casa Port, near Mole du Commerce pier. With the sound-suppressed Beretta he shot the lock off the door. Bolan informed the FBI team about the backpack nuke, and Special Agent Dawkins had insisted he tag along for the grilling. Glock pistol in hand, Dawkins followed the soldier into the dark interior. Bolan slung Kairoush, the terrorist’s hands bound behind his back with plastic cuffs, to the floor. He waited while Dawkins, using his flashlight, fumbled around in the dark until he found and turned on the hanging ceiling lights to the warehouse. It was standard warehouse fare the soldier had seen the world over, crates and catwalks, forklifts, other machinery and tool benches, with a few offices packed against the back wall. As good a place as any, he figured, to conduct some hardball Q and A.
Bolan fired two rounds from his Beretta, the 9-mm bullets whining off stone beside the terrorist’s head.
“You’re insane!” Kairoush shouted.
“I’ve never been more stone cold,” the Executioner told the terrorist, aiming the muzzle at the extremist’s crotch. “The next one’s for real.”
Dawkins muttered a curse, Bolan glimpsing the big, crew-cut agent rubbing his face, dancing a little from foot to foot.
“What do you want?”
“Answers,” Bolan told the terrorist. “I want to know about the North Koreans. I want to know where the backpack nuke is, or how I can get to it. Two seconds before I shoot your family jewels off. One…”
“I will talk!”
And Kairoush did. Bolan listened to the strange and sordid deal that had come to the Moroccan by way of what he called American mercenaries, though he believed they were current or former CIA, but with plenty of leverage still in their intelligence circles. Bad news to him, but at least he’d found a starting point. The head merc Kairoush knew as Baraka was hiding out in the desert, the last he heard, east of Marrakech on a desert plateau near the High Atlas Mountains. This Baraka had handed off close to half a million dollars to his terror group in U.S. currency for refuge in Morocco. Along with the cash tribute, Kairoush had settled the mercs in with his own fundamentalist army in the desert, both to sit on the Americans and for the mercs to use them as fighters in the event of an attack by Moroccan authorities. Between Kairoush’s army and the Americans, there were close to a hundred men in the camp. Bolan heard how Baraka had set up the deal with the North Koreans, using Kairoush’s contacts and safehouses to get them into the country, negotiate the good-faith payment with the late Habib Mousuami. What their plans were for the Suitcase from Allah, Kairoush couldn’t say, but he was supposed to make a phone call to a number given to him by Baraka once Habib handed off the initial payment to the North Koreans. Bolan was turning toward Dawkins to tell him to give Kairoush his cell phone when the autofire rang out, the soldier flinching as he glimpsed a line of ragged holes dancing and spurting crimson across the terrorist’s chest. The Executioner was wheeling when he spotted the black-clad, armored storm troops surging into the warehouse.
“Freeze, both of you! Lose the guns!”
And Bolan found himself staring at Commander Raz Tachjine, the muzzle of the Moroccan’s Spanish Ameli machine gun aimed at his chest.
RON BARAKA WAS DISTURBED. As he stepped away from the Learjet, greeted by his three most trusted fighters, he was hit by the first wave of bad news. It was troubling enough, shouldering the overthrow of an entire country, with Yemen in the wings, but there was no word out of Casablanca about the down payment to the North Koreans, and the way Engels informed him about Colonel Yoon Kimsung’s growing agitation and desire to leave Morocco, it sounded like the deal was about to fall through. No way, at the eleventh hour, he thought, would he be left holding the crap end of the stick.
Baraka heaved a breath, marching toward the first line of tents and stone hovels. He let his gaze wander over the sprawling camp, taking in the vast motor pool of Hummers, four-wheel drive SUVs and the rust bucket Toyota pickups most of the rabble here used as transport. Kairoush had fielded a small army of extremists, all of them well armed, with heavy machine-gun nests grabbing up turf on four points, but he had plopped them down in some of the most godforsaken country he could imagine. For miles in any direction it was all sand and stone, with some ancient ruins sprouting up to the west of camp. Marrakech, about twenty klicks or so west, was as close to civilization as he would find. Well, the Consortium had never promised him a day at one of Morocco’s beaches or leisurely booze-sodden nights in the clubs and cabarets. Still, he was mired in the bowels of hell, and the coming days didn’t bode much better for any decent change of scenery. During the day it was blistering hot, with the occasional Bedouin caravan with camels wandering the desert wasteland. At night it was bitter cold, with gusts blowing down from the mountains that could chill a man to the bone. He spied the fire barrels, shucking his black leather bomber jacket higher up his shoulders, the armed shadows of extremists looking his way. He was aware of the HK MP-5 slung across his shoulder, briefly wondered if he’d be forced to confront the NKs at gunpoint if they reneged on the deal.
“Hold up,” Baraka told his men, Engels, Durban and Morallis forming a half ring around him as he stared out across the rolling dunes, dark humps like a camel’s back outlined by moon, starlight and the combined glow of firelight and kerosene lamps around the camp.
And Baraka began looking toward the immediate future. Two Huey choppers and one Bell JetRanger, purchased at considerable expense through Consortium contacts high up in the Moroccan military, were grounded in a gorge in the mountain foothills. Getting to the far southern desert wastes of Morocco near the Mauritania border where the two C-47 Dakota transports waited wasn’t the problem. Hell, if he wanted, he could kill the North Koreans, take the nuke and fly on. No, the Consortium was in the revolution for the long run, no shortcuts, no quick fixes. He was to arrange the purchase of two more backpack nukes ASAP, as in this night. He wasn’t to fly off for the Angolan border without the package. Besides, he needed Katanga out of Barcelona and en route for his big return by sunrise. So much to do, he thought, so little time…
“Since there’s no word out of Casablanca,” Baraka told his men, “we’ll assume the worst. Either Kairoush took our money and ran or someone got to him.”
“If that’s the case,” Morallis said, “then our time in this country has run out.”
“You think?” Baraka quietly rasped. “Okay, we have how much cash on hand?”
“Three bags,” Durban said. “Just under ten mil.”
“I want you three to go get it,” Baraka said. “The North Koreans have stated they’re with us all the way through the revolution. They want in, they’ll have to take whatever money we have for now.”
“Yeah,” Engels growled, “they left at our disposal all of one full squad of their Special Forces. We’re not exactly battalion strength when we go marching into Luanda.”
Baraka ignored the skepticism. Grimly aware of the long odds, he knew that without the threat of the backpack nuke there was very little chance they could pull off the seemingly impossible. Morocco today, Angola tomorrow, then Yemen. Then what?
Telling himself he worried too much, he drifted a hard look over the grizzled, bristled faces of his soldiers. “We go with what we have. Go get the money. I’ll take care of the North Koreans, but be ready to back my play.”
Nodding, they strode off, their HK subguns in hand, Baraka wondering how many men he would lose in the coming revolt. Sure, the Consortium could always recruit more shooters, but finding hardened, bonafied warriors like the men he now commanded was next to impossible.
Go with what I have.
There was no other way.
Swiftly he rolled into camp, silently cursing the dark eyes boring their natural hostility into the side of his head. Say something had happened to Kairoush and his people in Casablanca, word reaching the top lieutenants here that the infidels needed to be skewered and hung over a fire for some imagined treachery that was beyond his control? Twenty shooters of his own on hand wouldn’t cut it against an extremist strong force of eighty or so. The only option, if a storm blew over the camp, would be to cut and run.
Baraka found Merkelson guarding the tent where his NK guests waited. He swept through the flaps, found the three North Koreans turning his way, wearing their perpetual scowls carved in stone, and demanded to know, “Is there a problem?”
“YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN, Tachjine, just what the hell you think you’re doing?”
Bolan listened as Dawkins echoed his angry thoughts, but the soldier was more focused on the Ameli subguns, as Tachjine’s six-man force spread out in a standard flanking pattern, taking cover behind crates, forklifts, weapons swinging this way and that.
“The weapons, gentlemen!” Tachjine barked. “You will drop them now!”
“Or what?” Dawkins snarled. “You’re going to gun down American agents you swore up and down to cooperate with. Or are you just some lying backstabbing sack of—”
“Drop the guns!”
And Bolan saw their own four-man force barrel through the door, HK subguns out and fanning the Moroccan commandos, the tension shooting up to superheated as their team pealed off in twos, sealing the six of their foreign so-called hosts. The Executioner sidled for a crate, heart thundering in his ears, while he drew the Uzi, watched both sides whirling on each other, shouting and cursing. If, Bolan thought, this was Tachjine playing out a dirty hand then he was steeled to go the distance.
“Enough! Silence!” Tachjine roared, the Moroccan commander raising his Ameli subgun over his head, as if the gesture was an olive branch. “We can talk this out!”
“Bullshit!” Dawkins growled. “You just murdered a man in cold blood. He was our prisoner and he had valuable information.”
Bolan took cover behind the edge of a crate, Uzi pointed at Tachjine’s chest, Beretta holding steady on swarthy faces framed in black helmets. “You better explain yourself, Commander. And if anyone starts shooting, you’re the first one I drop.”
“And believe me,” Dawkins said, “Agent Cooper hasn’t struck me as being long-winded on diplomacy.”
The short, swarthy, goateed Tachjine nodded, an odd smile creasing his lips. “I believe that. It would appear Special Agent Ballard has had a very busy night already. I count nine bodies to his credit, and the night is still young.”
“Saying you’ve been following us?” Dawkins quipped, his Glock drifting over the commandos as the FBI team spread out on the rear and flanks of the Moroccans. “Mind if I ask why? Since you told us to our faces this was our show.”
“It is simple. I changed my mind. You see, we have had this butcher,” Tachjine said, and spit on Kairoush’s corpse, “under surveillance for months. He and his murderers are responsible for close to eighty dead in this city. We’re aware of his dealings with the Americans and the North Koreans. I needed to be sure you gentlemen were not part of the conspiracy that is brewing in my country.”
“You’ve got a damn strange way of seeking the truth.” Dawkins was out in the open still, square in the spotlight, his Glock trained on Tachjine.