Path To War

“It was the only way.” Tachjine lowered his subgun, waved at his commandos to stand down. “My government has pledged cooperation with your country in the war against the terror savages. We have been receiving these past months aid from the United States. You send your operatives here with money, weapons, intelligence. You have further built our Special Forces with helicopter gunships, high-tech equipment we desperately needed to keep Morocco from becoming like our filthy dogs of neighbors, the Algerians.”

“Tell us something we don’t know, Tachjine,” Dawkins snapped.

Tachjine nodded at Kairoush. “As for this jackal, he is only one more dead terrorist who can never again murder innocents.”

Bolan wasn’t quite buying Tachjine’s crusading act. “So where do we go from here, Commander?”

“Why, we go get the Suitcase from God the North Koreans smuggled into my country.”

“You know where it is?” Dawkins said.

“Or did you know where it was all along?” Bolan added.

“A reconnaissance aircraft, with the help of your people stationed in the city,” Tachjine said, “has pinpointed the location of the Americans and the North Koreans. It is a large camp, used by this dead jackal to train and build his fundamentalist army. I have transport arranged and a battle strategy mapped out.”

“And you’re going to cut us out?” Bolan demanded.

“Hardly. I need your assistance. I will even allow you,” Tachjine told Bolan, “to review my strike plan, as co-commander. I regret this encounter, but as I said, I needed to know which side you were on.”

Bolan grunted. “We could wonder the same about you.”

“Indeed.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not getting the whole picture?” Bolan posed.

“There is no picture,” Tachjine said, “other than my desire to rid my country of terrorist vermin.”

Dawkins chuckled as he lowered his weapon. “You want that suitcase nuke, don’t you? You want a trophy, something to hold up to your bosses so you can—”

“Nonsense!” Tachjine growled. “I am one of the most powerful men in Morocco. As for career advancement, I have gone as far as I wish to go, and politics has no appeal to me. I do not wish for my country to be viewed as a safe haven where tactical nuclear devices or any other weapons of mass destruction can be shipped and purchased here as easily as one might buy a carpet in the souk.”

Bolan stowed the Beretta, but held on to the Uzi, dropping it by his side as he stepped out into the open. “I needed this man, Tachjine. I suspected he knew where I could find three assassins who call themselves Al-Jassaca.”

“Yes, I know of whom you speak. They are in Pakistan.”

“That much I could have figured out on my own,” Bolan said.

“There is a strong possibility I can steer you to a cell here in the city who can give you the information you seek on Al-Jassaca. But, first—do you wish to assist us in our surgical strike against the camp?”

Bolan felt Dawkins staring at him as he stepped toward the Moroccan counterterrorist commander. “Let’s hear what you have.”

BARAKA FELT HIS NERVES, taut as a garrote around some victim’s neck, a hot anger bubbling in his gut the longer he stood around, sensing the heat build in the tent, mentally hashing over everything that could go wrong. The NKs were busy rolling the cash through their battery-powered money counters, grunting, mumbling to one another in their native tongue, while he and his men stood their ground like lackeys waiting for approval. Their granite expressions didn’t shift an inch from what he read as either contempt or disdain, their stares fixed on the numbers scrolling up on the digital readouts. And Baraka was on the verge of a quasi-tirade, figured to kick some life into their smug asses, eager for Colonel Kimsung to show him how to activate the suitcase nuke. He wanted out of Morocco, every bit as bad as the NKs, his paranoia radar all of a sudden blipping off the screen. So far the operation was running smoothly, but when it all looked and felt too easy…

He’d never known easy. Easy street was for brass, or the fat cats of the Consortium.

To throw gasoline onto the potential firestorm, Baraka could tell Engels and Morallis had shot themselves up with Z-Clops. Of course, he had passed on the order—it was up to each soldier whether he chose to inject the steroid-meth derivative—but this was the first time he was watching his own men morphing into possible rabid werewolves before his eyes. Even with the bite of the cold night air seeping into the tent, beads of sweat were mottling their faces, eyes bugging, the air practically whistling out their nostrils as if they were on the verge of hyperventilating or exploding out of their skin. A glance at their hands, and he found them trembling, knuckles stark white as if they were about to snap their subguns in two or rush the North Koreans in a wild cannibal frenzy. How many others under his command had gone ahead and fueled themselves with Z-Clops?

Baraka silently cursed. This wasn’t good. The stocky little Kimsung was throwing them dark looks, eyelids slitting so narrow Baraka could barely see his beady eyes, but suspected the North Korean Special Forces colonel knew they weren’t playing with a full deck, or were so edged out on fear and paranoia he believed they might start blasting any second. Baraka knew there were soldiers under his command who had track records of drug and alcohol abuse, wouldn’t think twice about juicing their systems with Z-Clops, if only to propel them into battle with an edge. Luckily the North Koreans only toted shoulder-holstered pistols, but the last problem Baraka needed was a shootout when he was surrounded by a few platoons of fanatics, many of whom, he was sure, wanted to seize that suitcase for their jihad.

“It’s all there, Colonel,” Engels suddenly said, eyes bulging, flickering over the North Koreans like ricocheting pinballs. “Close to ten mil, just like we said. So how much longer do we need to stand here and watch you count Kim Jong’s booty?”

Morallis jumped into the act, as Kimsung glowered at Engels. “Your little tyrant-buffoon you bow and scrape before while millions of your countrymen starve to death? That pint-size clown who spends his day swilling imported Scotch and watching Star Trek reruns and Rambo, and who claims he’s a god descendant from the UFO mothership? He isn’t going let you see the first Franklin of that, so let’s stop dicking around here and break open that suitcase.”

“Other words,” Engels growled, “we’re busy men. Places to go, things to do, Angolans to kill.”

“Take it easy,” Baraka snapped, his heart racing, poised for the worst as Kimsung wheeled on him.

“What is wrong with your men to talk to me with such insolence and disrespect?” Kimsung rasped.

“They’re tired and they’re stressed. That’s all.”

Kimsung held his furious stare on Engels and Morallis, and said, “I am not so sure. I have been to your America. I have seen the inhuman faces of your citizens who are on drugs…”

“Look, Colonel,” Baraka said, taking a step toward the North Koreans, “they’re fine. Can we get on with it?”

“Yes,” Kimsung said quietly voice. “We shall get on with it. But if we’re to share in the future we have planned, I would strongly urge you to tell your men to watch their tongues.”

“Consider it done. The suitcase, Colonel?”

Huffing and scowling, Kimsung went and crouched beside the large black suitcase. Glowering back at Baraka, he produced a key, inserted it into two latches on each end. “I trust you are a quick study and have a good memory?”

Baraka unclipped the Personal Digital Assistant off his belt. The small handheld computer was custom-built by Consortium technicians. Complete with e-mail, Internet and even fax capacity, the supermicrochip they had installed was capable of saving all the data, what with its powerful random access memory, that he would require for the operation.

“You are going to store such critical information on a PDA?” Kimsung inquired, looking slightly aghast.

“My memory’s not what it used to be, Colonel. Proceed.”

Heaving a breath, as if disgusted or amazed, Kimsung took a pair of keys, one larger than the other, from his coat pocket, tossed them to Baraka. “Pay attention. The small one is for opening the case itself, the larger key will turn on the device, but for complete activation and to keep it running, you will need the power pack. That is a backup set of keys. Do not lose them.”

While his comrades kept slapping the wads of hundred dollar bills through their counters, Kimsung punched in a series of numbers that Baraka, using a pen, scribbled down on his touch pad. A snick, and the colonel opened the suitcase. Taking a knee beside Kimsung, his men hovering behind him, Baraka looked at the blackmail instrument of the coming revolution. It didn’t look like much, but he wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected. He had heard about but never seen the Special Forces version of the tactical, or what was lately dubbed as the landmine nuke. Supposedly the lifespan of the weapons-grade plutonium didn’t last more than a few weeks, but Baraka didn’t intend to test that educated theory beyond the next few days. The backpack specials, he’d heard, were primarily meant to destroy railroads, bridges, large compounds, or annihilate the spearhead of an advancing army. Whatever it was meant to do, he knew it would be nasty beyond any human comprehension. There would be ground-zero blast, then fires, outsweeping fallout, radiation for years to come that would drop thousands with an invisible web of cancer. According to Consortium brains, this particular device could obliterate ten to twelve city blocks. Thirteen kilotons had vaporized 130,000 in Hiroshima, he knew, another 70,000 dropping eventually from radiation sickness, and the Devil only knew how many cancer deaths beyond that or the number of deformed babies born just after the world’s first Big Bang. At eight kilotons, this suitcase nuke, depending on where in Luanda it was touched off, could produce six-figure casualties, in and near ground zero.

Kimsung showed him the large key, grunted, then inserted it into a slot beside what he suspected was the control panel. He reached into the small nylon bag beside him and showed a small black box. “Power pack,” he said, then snapped the box into place beside the keypad. “I will provide you with one backup pack. They will only last for ten days.”

“I don’t plan on keeping the thing around as a conversation piece, Colonel.”

Kimsung grunted. “Indeed. I would think not.” The digital readout flashed on in red, the colonel tapping in the first set of numbers, Baraka writing them down as fast as he could. “Two more sets of numbers,” Kimsung said, then began tapping on the keypad.

Baraka took them down, then saved the data.

“This switch here,” Kimsung said, his finger hovering over a slender lever at the top right-hand corner. “Once the access codes I gave you are set—once you flip this switch up—there is no deactivating the device. The equivalent of eight thousand tons of TNT.”

Baraka felt his body go utterly still, sensed his men, jacked up as they were on Z-Clops, paralyzed by the mere notion of the power of the utter destruction before them. If he didn’t know better, Baraka would have sworn a smile ghosted Kimsung’s lips. Did his finger just move an inch closer to the switch? It did, and Engels nearly shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

Kimsung chuckled. “I wanted to make certain you were paying close attention.”

“Cut the crap,” Baraka said. “I need time-setting and shutdown instructions.”

Quickly, Kimsung showed Baraka how to set the doomsday timer on the keypad, then wrapped it up with deactivating instructions, then, digital readout winking out, the colonel finally twisted the key and removed it. He shut the case, locked it, Baraka noticing the Colonel pocketed the other set of keys.

“Yes,” Kimsung said, “I will keep the original keys, in the event some unforeseen disaster befalls us.”

Baraka didn’t like it, noted Durban’s dark stare, Engels and Moralllis fidgetting, jaws clenched. “You don’t trust us?”

Kimsung stood. “Understand, this is a highly volatile and what will be a fluid situation when the time comes. The buffoon-tyrant,” he said, glancing at Engels and Morallis, “your soldiers so flippantly referred to, has put us under orders to see this operation is a one-hundred percent success—or we do not return to Pyongyang. Should you or your men fall in battle, I will become your Plan B. Is that a problem for you or your men?”

It was, but Baraka had the Consortium’s deal nailed down. Whatever glitch thrust itself into the operation down the road, he’d deal with it on the spot, by the barrel of his weapon if he had to. If he had to cut the NKs out of whatever they believed would be their lion’s share of Angola…

“You’re aware the people I work for want to acquire two, perhaps three more of these devices?”

“This would be the second time you mentioned the matter.”

Engels took a step toward the colonel. “Hey, we just handed you ten million bucks.”

“Relax!” Baraka growled. “What about that, Colonel? We negotiated a price of five mil per suitcase.”

“Yes. So consider yourselves owed at least one more device. What concerns me is why I have not heard from my operators in the city.”

“Meaning what?” Baraka said, tensing at what he believed was a sudden tone of accusation.

“Meaning, you brought in a third party, these Arab fanatics.”

“That was explained already,” Baraka said. “Their country. Their contacts. Their safe ouses for your men and for safe transport of the device.”

Kimsung bobbed his head. “You see my dilemma.”

Baraka felt his anger rising. “Not quite.”

“These extremists will want just such a suitcase. Have you looked outside at the army of fanatics you are surrounded by?”

“Their turf, their rules. And they’ve been paid for their cooperation.”

“What’s to keep them from killing us and taking the device for themselves?” Kimsung posed.

“How about twenty of the most ferocious, kick-ass and take-no-prisoners warriors since Ghengis Khan?”

“I am pleased you have such great confidence in your men. Just the same, I would feel much better if we were on our—”

Kimsung froze in midsentence, the sudden commotion outside alerting Baraka something was terribly wrong. Baraka was pivoting when two of his men rushed inside, voices beyond the armed shadows of his soldiers shouting in panic hurtled at his ears—along with the distant crunch of explosions.

“We’re being hit!”

Baraka cursed, wheeled on Durban and said, “Grab the suitcase!”

THE EXECUTIONER WASN’T all that wild about Tachjine’s battle plan. Since they were on the enemy’s clock, and with the suitcase nuke believed to be somewhere in the sprawling terrorist camp, Bolan figured any last-second tinkering of the strategy would only delay launch time.

It was going to be a straightforward blitz, three Hueys and a matching number of Cobra gunships laying down an aerial bombardment of machine, Gatling and minigun fire, peppering the enemy with a 70 mm rocket barrage while the Moroccan Special Counterterrorism Force jumped off into hot landing zones for hand-to-hand encounters. That left too much to chance, as far as the soldier was concerned, an errant missile perhaps finding the suitcase nuke, the potential of a nuclear firecloud being touched off never far from his thoughts if this Baraka or his North Korean cronies were spooked into some grandstand suicide play. Factor in all these extremists, many of whom he was sure wanted nothing more than to get their mass murdering hands on the suitcase nuke for themselves, and with Tachjine refusing to encircle the camp on all points with his flying armada, sealing off any escape hatch…

The Executioner would have preferred the gunships blow the motor pool to smithereens right off the bat, but Tachjine seemed more interested in full-scale slaughter of the extremists, bent on rolling them up, north to south, drive them into his guns. Whatever commandos on the ground, it was their grim duty to dig out information from prisoners—wounded or not—and steer them toward this Baraka and his brigands. Assuming he walked out the other side of this mess, Bolan knew he’d have to contact Brognola for a sitrep and background check on Baraka. Smart money told Bolan this Baraka was the spearhead, a grunt on the firing line for some shadow conspiracy. What he wanted with the suitcase nuke, his agenda or the endgame for whoever he answered to…

There was only one way to get to the truth, he knew.

Bolan supposed the only good news was that he was going in, solo, prepared to wax and roll from his east by southeast vector. It was his task to take out as much of the motor pool as he could. No small feat, he knew, considering the number of vehicles, but he’d brought plenty of 40 mm high explosive rounds for the M-203 launcher fixed to his M-16. Togged in blacksuit, face, hands and neck smeared with warpaint, he was as close to invisible at the midnight hour as he could hope for.

That was until the shooting started and he announced his lethal intent.

He had come in through the wadi, dropped off two klicks from the camp by chopper. A check of his watch and he knew the doomsday numbers were rolling off in a hurry, Tachjine in a grim knot of adrenaline and urgency, anxious to get the fireworks started. His own team of agents was reluctant to remain behind in a Huey, but Bolan didn’t want to get bogged down shouting orders under fire. Besides, he was unsure how they would fare in all-out combat, certain, too, a few of them were family men. If he could help it he never wanted the blood of either the innocent or those fighting on the side of good on his hands. Dawkins, however, was manning an M-60 in the Huey, and with the other agents able to shoot from above, they weren’t exactly left sitting on the bench.

Long odds, however it was sliced, but with this many enemy guns, the soldier knew he would need all the help he could get. As for Tachjine, well, if it turned out the Moroccan wasn’t playing it straight, the desert would simply get littered with another corpse.

Shedding his night-vision goggles, Bolan adjusted his eyes to the sheen of firelight glowing just over the edge of the southeast rise. M-16 leading the way, scanning the ridgeline, he climbed the slope, then dropped into a prone position when he topped out.

And found his first three marks.

They were grouped around a fire barrel, AK-47s slung around their shoulders as they rubbed their hands near the flames, smoking and conversing quietly among themselves in Arabic. Between tents, stone ruins from some ancient village long since dead and gone and the motor pool, the soldier figured he was looking at a compound that covered at least three city blocks. An extremist training and operations camp this large had to be backed, he knew, by power-players, either high up in the Moroccan military, government or both. It always left a bad taste in his mouth, but he was realist enough to know that bribery was alive and well in this part of the world.

A hundred shooters, he considered.

He had three in his sights, so why not get started?

Drawing the sound-suppressed Beretta, shouldering his M-16, he spied a narrow gully, and dropped into the crevice. Hunched and homing in on their voices, he advanced down the gully, intent on cutting the range to kissing close. At what he figured was twenty yards or so, he crawled up an incline, took a knee and aimed the Beretta over the lip. There were other armed shadows in the vicinity, but they were moving away, vanishing in the gaps of the second line of tents. He steadied the weapon in a two-handed grip, drew a bead on a kaffiyeh, gently caressed the trigger. Number One extremist was toppling, the headcloth sheared off his shattered skull, when Fanatics Two and Three came alive. Swinging his aim, the Executioner cored a 9 mm Parabellum shocker through a vented mouth, shoving whatever the fanatic was going to shout back down his throat, as a crimson finger jetted out the back of his skull. Fanatic Three froze for a mircosecond, lurching back at the sight of still another of his brothers in terror sprawled at his feet, and the Executioner punched his ticket, painting a third eye on his forehead.

And then it went to hell.

According to Tachjine’s time frame, the soldier still had two more minutes to get into position, but he saw the Cobras bearing down on the camp, as they unloaded their opening salvo. Cursing Tachjine’s impatience—or was it something else altogether?—Bolan stowed the Beretta, filling his hands with the M-16/M-203 squad blaster. A brief sideline stand, and Bolan watched as Gatlings, miniguns, 20 mm automatic cannons and 70 mm missiles began churning up the north end rows of tents. Armed figures, maybe twelve in all, were spiraling to earth with death and fury from above.

And the Executioner got busy doing his part.

A short march down the incline and five hardmen, armed with a hodgepodge of assault rifles, machine guns and RPGs, burst through the flaps of their tent, the air rife with angry shouts in Arabic.

The Executioner hit them with a long burst, sweeping the M-16 autofire, left to right, knocking them down, human bowling pins, but sliced to red ruins.

A clean strike, but the soldier knew the worst was yet to come.

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