Assault

by Don Pendleton

  "I imagine so."

  He didn't have to ask about the cost of acquisition. There were no holes in his uniform, but Bolan recognized the clothing as another weapon in Chamoun's unending war. If lives hadn't been forfeited to gain that edge, he'd be very much surprised.

  The uniform fit passably, a little snug beneath the arms. Bolan wore his own boots, noting that the rebels were eclectic in their choice of footwear. With a standard-issue bandolier across his chest, he slung the AK-47 he'd carried into Lebanon and joined the others to begin their trek.

  The vehicles were foreign copies of the standard military jeep, one sprouting a machine gun in the rear, the other one unarmed. It took a second glance, but Bolan saw the points where bullet holes and shrapnel scars had been filled in with putty, sanded smooth and painted over. There had been a price tag on the vehicles as well.

  "You guys don't miss a trick."

  "We can't afford to," Chamoun replied.

  He chose the unarmed jeep and slid behind the steering wheel, directing Bolan to the shotgun seat. Two bogus Syrians climbed in behind them, four more peeling off to fill the second vehicle. On impulse Bolan glanced back toward the camp and saw the woman, Mara, watching through the haze of morning cook fires. Was her expression one of curiosity? Suspicion? Bolan let it go as engines growled to life, and they were off.

  Chamoun drove cautiously along the narrow track, his escort rolling through a trail of dust until they reached the highway.

  Forsaking comfort in the jolting vehicle, Mack Bolan concentrated on the countryside. They rolled through cultivated fields and orchards, passing isolated huts and tiny villages where people studied them with lifeless eyes. The village streets were ripe with cast-off garbage, rotting in the gutters and in mounds between the unkempt homes.

  As they passed several settlements, they could hear a deep-timbred voice blaring words of wisdom from scratchy speakers. Chamoun translated some of the ubiquitous graffiti as they drove along, an endless litany of hatred for America and infidels in general, aimed at stirring up the Shiite population to a fever pitch.

  "How did the Shiites get involved with the narcotics trade?" Bolan asked.

  "Historically the Bekaa bandits have survived by selling hashish in Beirut and in surrounding states. Today they sell hashish and heroin around the world. New times, new markets. When Khomeini sent his Missionaries' to the valley, they discovered that a revolutionary cadre could support itself by dealing drugs as well. The Iranian government thus saved money to invest in war with the Iraqis."

  "How does dealing drugs square up with Shiite doctrine?"

  "Much the same as murder, terrorism and the rest of the program. As you know, everything done in the name of the Islamic revolution is sanctified by God. Narcotics are a weapon aimed against the West. Iran has no long-range bombers, guided missiles or the like. Instead it has a hypodermic needle pointed at the heart of Europe and America."

  Chamoun's assessment of the situation jibed with the reports from Stony Man, and Bolan knew it wouldn't be the first time that narcotics had become a covert weapon. Britain had used opium against the Chinese empire in the nineteenth century, and China had reversed the flow in recent times. Drugs also played a part in the subversive foreign policy of Castro's Cuba and the Nicaraguan Sandinistas. On the flip side, anti-Communist guerrillas in the Golden Triangle and in Colombia had also fattened their coffers by exporting poison to America. Whichever way you sliced it, the narcotics trade was death on the consumer, and for Bolan's money, any players in the game were marked, regardless of their leanings to the left or right.

  As they proceeded north, the settlements grew larger, and the highway broadened to approximate two normal lanes. The traffic thickened, most of it pedestrian, all flowing in the same direction. Bolan understood, with some misgivings, that they were about to reach a major town.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, Chamoun announced, "We're approaching Baalbek. Three, four miles to go. With any luck we may see something of our common enemies. If nothing else, you can examine their abode."

  "Is there a problem with the regular patrols?"

  Chamoun didn't appear concerned. "To all appearances," he said, "we are a regular patrol. If we meet others in the countryside there might be trouble, but there are too many Syrians in Baalbek for the troops to know each other well. A bluff, some reference to urgent business if we are detained. It shouldn't be a problem."

  "I admire your confidence," he said.

  "Of course."

  The population center of the Bekaa Valley, Baalbek posed no challenge to Beirut in terms of size. He knew, from running down the bare necessities at the Farm, that there were something like a hundred thousand people in the city, and it seemed that all of them were on the streets this morning. Foot traffic overflowed the sidewalks, slowing progress to a crawl, but local drivers took the crush in stride, maneuvering around pedestrians who blocked the way. Bolan noted other khaki uniforms around them, and while the soldiers on patrol occasionally raised a hand in greeting, none made any move to halt Chamoun's contingent.

  The rebel leader was pleased. "As I predicted, we're merely faces in the crowd. Invisible."

  The Executioner reflected that «invisible» wasn't synonymous with "bulletproof," but kept the observation to himself. They seemed to have no destination as they rolled through crowded streets, but Bolan counted on Chamoun's built-in guidance system, memorizing landmarks on his own as a precaution.

  Suddenly they turned a corner, and he knew precisely where he was.

  "Hosseinieh," his guide announced. "Headquarters for the Shiite revolutionary guard."

  They circled once around the drab, graffiti-decorated building he'd seen in slides and photographs at Stony Man. Inside that gray, foreboding structure beat the heart of the Iranian expeditionary force in Lebanon. Mir Reza Bakhtiar would occupy an upstairs suite of rooms, protected by the men and guns around him, while he served his master's pleasure. There were riflemen outside the entrance, seemingly alert, and any access from the courtyard was concealed behind an eight-foot wall, surmounted by a roll of concertina wire.

  "Impenetrable, yes?"

  The Executioner responded with a question of his own. "How many men inside?"

  "The number varies. Thirty-five to forty on the average. Ten times that when Bakhtiar demands their presence for the monthly gatherings."

  "Fixed dates on those?"

  "No steady pattern. Bakhtiar sends word a day or two ahead of time, and everyone arrives on schedule."

  "How long since they last got together?"

  "Three weeks, perhaps a little more." Chamoun was following his drift. "My scouts advise me when the call goes out, but an assault on Hosseinieh is hopeless."

  Bolan let it go and concentrated on the changing scenery as they evacuated downtown Baalbek, winding north and east through narrow, twisting streets. Beyond the sprawl of shops and civic buildings lay the residential district, homes diminishing in size as they retreated from the city's heart. Unlike the urban centers of America, where poverty and rampant crime afflicted inner-city areas, the Baalbek slums were scattered on the city's outskirts, crowded out of sight and out of mind.

  Chamoun directed Bolan's gaze to an encampment on the hillside, overlooking Baalbek from the east. It looked familiar, even though his previous examination had been made through aerial photographs.

  "The Sheikh Abdullah barracks," said Chamoun. "Ahmad Halaby and his Palestinians are quartered there, although the camp is dominated by the Shiite revolutionary guard. Both groups use the facilities to train their new recruits, along with visitors from Northern Ireland, Italy and West Germany."

  "A regular finishing school. Can we get any closer?"

  Chamoun shook his head. "The Syrians don't patrol this area. Our presence would arouse suspicion, possibly an armed reaction from the camp. There are an estimated hundred terrorists in residence at any given time."

  "Can't say I like the odds."

  "Nor I."r />
  Chamoun confirmed the reading of his wristwatch with a brief examination of the sun's position overhead. It would be some time after noon, and Bolan's stomach grumbled to remind him of the hours that had flown since his meager breakfast.

  "It's time we started back," Chamoun said. "There's a place where we can stop along the way and have our midday meal."

  This time they skirted Baalbek, pushing south and managing to miss the bulk of traffic as they stuck to smaller roads. When they had traveled ten or twelve miles from the city, Chamoun swung off the highway and parked in a grove of trees where running water babbled somewhere just beyond the hedgerows. At a signal from their chief, the soldiers in the second jeep broke out a canvas sack of bread and cheese, salted meat and several skins of wine.

  "A simple meal," Chamoun declared, as food was passed around, "but filling. It will see us through the afternoon. We're expected back in camp by dusk."

  The bread was fresh, the cheese well aged, the meat and wine delicious. Bolan was about to thank his host, when he was silenced by the sound of vehicles approaching. In an instant, even as he dropped the quarter loaf and reached back for his rifle, three more vehicles filled the clearing, jammed with six or seven Syrians apiece.

  "Say nothing," the rebel leader hissed, lips already molded in a smile of greeting. On the sidelines, Chamoun's commandos seemed relaxed, but each was armed and ready, poised to strike upon command.

  The Executioner released his AK-47's safety, unobtrusively transferred the weapon to his lap and held his breath.

  * * *

  Chamoun recovered swiftly from his momentary shock. He'd been speaking English to the man who called himself Belasko, and shifted smoothly into Arabic for conversation with the Syrians. To all appearances, he was a junior officer in charge of a routine patrol. With any luck he'd be able to maintain the fiction and escape without a bloody confrontation.

  They disposed of the preliminaries, with Chamoun saluting the commander of the new arrivals, silently deploring the coincidence through which he found himself outranked. His counterpart and nominal superior was shorter and heavy-set, and he retained his seat, as if by stepping down he might surrender his seniority.

  "I don't recognize your face," the stranger said. "I thought I knew all junior officers in this command."

  Chamoun thought fast, recovering the serve. "A recent transfer, Captain. I'm new to Baalbek."

  "And your orders?"

  He'd have to bluff it out. "We're assigned to search for rebels in the central district."

  "Ah, then I assume your orders came from General Fawzi?"

  "Certainly." The name meant nothing to Chamoun.

  "How strange."

  The rebel leader felt his bowels begin to tighten. "Sir?"

  "There is no General Fawzi in Baalbek. Imposters!"

  The commander of the Syrian patrol was clawing for his pistol when Chamoun whipped up his submachine gun and squeezed off a burst at point-blank range. He had no time to measure its effect, as hell broke loose along the line, with automatic weapons blazing in a lethal crossfire. Chamoun heard the machine gun on his backup vehicle cut loose, and then the general clamor drowned out the report of any single weapon.

  Scrambling for safety, he slid in behind the jeep and found Belasko there ahead of him, his AK-47 spitting short, precision bursts. Chamoun knelt in the dust beside him, popping up to spray the enemy from cover. One quick glance revealed three bodies, sprawled between the hostile lines, their faces hidden or obliterated. Only three, in such a blast of concentrated fire? It was a miracle.

  The storm raged back and forth, a game of numbers too intense to last. Chamoun knew they were finished if he couldn't shave the odds. His men would die — and the American — before they had a chance to face their major enemies.

  Chamoun edged past Belasko, reaching up inside the jeep where he'd packed a satchel of grenades. A bullet shattered on the metal near his face, and slivers gouged his cheek, blood mingling with his perspiration as he found the duffel bag and hauled it clear. He yanked the zipper open, palmed a hand grenade and freed the safety pin. A simple pitch, no windup.

  The hostile spray of bullets faltered, then started up again with less conviction. Bolan fished inside the duffel, found a hand grenade and pitched it farther down the line. Another blast before Chamoun could make his second pitch, and now the enemy machines were burning, soldiers scattering to put some distance between themselves and leaping flames.

  Chamoun abandoned his secure position, firing from the hip as he advanced. He caught three Syrians on open ground and dropped two of them before his magazine ran out. Then he was left alone, unarmed in no-man's-land.

  He saw the bullet coming, or imagined it, his body twisting to avoid the impact that would surely kill him at such close range. Instead the hot round drilled his shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him unceremoniously in the dust. It would require a moment for the pain to register, and he didn't have many moments left.

  The Syrian looked eager, hungry, as he raised his AK-47 for another shot. The killing shot. Chamoun refused to close his eyes, and so he saw the private's tunic ripple, spouting crimson, as a spray of bullets knocked him backward off his feet.

  More firing, distant, as Chamoun began to lose his grip on consciousness. His eyes were clear enough to recognize Bolan as he bent over him, and suddenly the rebel leader understood. Before the darkness took him, he summoned the strength to smile.

  * * *

  Incredibly one jeep was functional once they had changed a flattened tire. Eight men had started the patrol, and four of them — including Joseph Chamoun — were still alive as they began the journey home. Four men were left behind, together with the riddled second jeep, to keep the opposition guessing for a while.

  Dusk overtook them on the road, and Bolan kept an eye out for the enemy. A soldier in the back had been assigned the task of keeping the pressure on Chamoun's untidy shoulder wound. The slug had gone completely through, and they had managed to control the major bleeding, but he still had need of medical attention. Would there be a doctor in the camp? If not, Bolan might have to cauterize and stitch the wound himself.

  It didn't come to that. The sentries recognized their situation from a distance, and the medic was on standby when the battered vehicle pulled into camp. Chamoun was lifted clear and placed on a stretcher, then hustled toward a tent that seemed to serve as the infirmary. His sister, Mara, jogged beside the stretcher, holding tightly to her brother's hand.

  The Executioner scrounged a cup of coffee and a bowl of some sort of stew. A second helping filled his belly, and the caffeine helped to clear his head. The other compound dwellers left him to himself, and Bolan took advantage of the time alone to sort his thoughts.

  He didn't think Chamoun would die, but convalescence might deprive the rebels of their leader for several days. Ii was his second night in Lebanon, and Bolan had no time to spare in waiting for his contact to recuperate. If necessary, he'd have to try the next phase on his own and keep in touch with Chamoun as best he could.

  The compound had three showers, but he opted for a visit to the bathing pool instead, and had it to himself as darkness fell. The water, warm from soaking up the sun all day, relaxed his aching muscles, helping melt the tension from his body as he floated on his back, eyes open to the starry sky. Away from city lights and camp fires, Bolan almost felt that he could count the pinpricks overhead, if only be had time.

  A flicker in the corner of his eye put the warrior on alert. Three strokes and he was on the shelf with solid footing, water lapping at his chest. A solitary figure stood upon the bank, not far from where his clothes and weapon lay. He recognized the woman as she spoke.

  "You saved my brother's life."

  "That makes us even."

  She moved closer to the waterline, moonlight falling on her face. "You have come far," she said, "to kill our enemies."

  "Not only yours.

  "I understand. But they are still too
many."

  "Someone has to try."

  "We try. My brother tries each day. You see what has become of him."

  He'll be all right."

  "This time, because of you. Next time, perhaps…"

  "Don't sell him short."

  She was unbuttoning her shirt, the moonlight casting shadows on her body as the garment fell away. Beneath it she wore nothing but her silken skin.

  The soldier felt himself responding as she kicked her shoes away and stepped out of her slacks. A worm of doubt was wriggling around the back of Bolan's mind, compelling him to ask the question.

  "Mara…"

  "Silence."

  She was in the water now and gliding toward him like some elemental spirit, dark hair spilling around her shoulders. As she slipped her arms around his neck, her body molding close against his own, Bolan's doubts and questions seemed irrelevant.

  "For Joseph," she said as her lips grazed Bolan's. Fingers laced behind his neck, she raised her legs and locked them tight around his waist. "For me."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "I understand. Keep trying." Slowly, carefully, Bashir Moheden cradled the receiver, swallowing an urge to slam it down with crushing force. He drew his hand away and wiped his palm along the fabric of his slacks, as if it might have been contaminated.

  Once again the news from Nicosia had been disappointing. Contacts on the street and on the metropolitan police force had no word of the American who called himself Belasko. He'd dropped from sight, one hotel room abandoned and no others occupied. The airport had been watched around the dock, but be hadn't attempted to depart from Cyprus. If he didn't show by four o'clock that day, his scheduled flight would leave without him.

  For the hundredth time Moheden wondered if the man was even still alive. There was a possibility that he'd been abducted by the men who murdered Sarkis and Makarios, before they moved against Hussein Razmara's compound. If the killers were American, intent on getting even for Silvestri's murder in New York, they might have trailed Belasko from the States, observing him until his contact with Makarios confirmed their dark suspicions of betrayal. Moheden knew the Mafia mentality, and once they started leaping to conclusions, right or wrong, they gave no quarter to their enemies.