Assault

by Don Pendleton

  He wouldn't phrase it quite that way, of course. It was important to preserve at least a thin facade of injured innocence, defuse the anger of his comrades — and especially Bakhtiar — before it reached a lethal flashpoint. If he had to fight his friends as well as the American…

  Moheden pushed the thought away. They would believe him, stand behind him in the hour of crisis. Bakhtiar, for all of his fanaticism, couldn't be mistaken for a fool. His own best interests lay in solidarity, a strong united front against the enemy.

  It sounded good.

  If only Moheden could manage to convince himself.

  * * *

  It was a twisted replay of the action in New York, with Bolan as the hunted. He felt the rusty fire escape shiver as he pounded down the steps, heard the gritty sound of bolts attempting to work free of ancient masonry. His pursuers used a burst of automatic fire to clear the windowframe before they scrambled through.

  He spun to face them, squeezing off with the Kalashnikov before he had a solid target. Sparks flew off the steps and spindly railing, brick dust spurting from the wall on impact. One of Bolan's adversaries took two rounds below the belt, the momentum of his fall dragging him across the railing.

  Number two was angling for a shot around his dying partner, but he never found it. Bolan held down the AK-47's trigger and used his last half-dozen rounds to drop the gunner on his backside, stepping clear before the dead meat reached the landing. He discarded the Kalashnikov and leaped across the rail, with fifteen feet between him and the ground.

  The alley ran from east to west beside the building Bolan had evacuated, one end opening upon the street where Moheden had parked his limousine, the other granting access to a cluttered street in back. The front was covered, and just to emphasize the point, a rooftop sniper started pegging shots at Bolan, gravel flying as the first few rounds went wild.

  The warrior sprinted along the alley, the Beretta in his hand, and picked up speed when he heard voices raised behind him. Bullets whined off the alley walls, and he hunched his shoulders, waiting for the impact that would knock him sprawling in a final flash of white-hot pain.

  Stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes filled his path, brimming with the refuse of the streets. He sidestepped, ducked behind the nearest pile and dropped into a fighting crouch. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, two riflemen appeared from nowhere, blocking off the near end of the alley, closing fast. They hadn't spotted him.

  He braced the automatic in a firm, two-handed grip and stroked the trigger twice. His first round struck the gunner on the left and drilled a hole beneath his jawline, clipping vertebrae before it blew a fist-sized exit wound behind one ear. The second guard was still recovering from his surprise when Bolan put a bullet through his heart at thirty feet. The gunner folded like a rag doll, going down in the filth without a whimper.

  The Executioner left the cover of his makeshift sanctuary, moving fast and low, his weapon spitting rounds in rapid fire as soon as he made target acquisition. Three men armed with submachine guns spread out in a ragged skirmish line. The warrior tracked his fire from right to left, his first rounds punching through the chest of number one and blowing him away.

  It was a tie with number two, the gunner ripping off a hasty burst as Bolan shot him in the face, the explosive impact toppling him backward. His partner, all alone now, nearly made the tag, but he was firing high, his bullets slicing empty air a foot or two above his prostrate target. Bolan made it three for three, a relatively simple shot at twenty yards, and he was on his feet, a man in motion, by the time the gunner fell.

  He half expected further opposition on the street, but Moheden hadn't laid on the same security in back. It was an oversight, and it would cost the dealer, as Bolan holstered his Beretta, dodging spotty traffic in his rush across the street. In a few more moments he'd be absorbed by the teeming crowds.

  When he'd covered several blocks, the Executioner began to take stock of his situation. He'd pulled it off, survival-wise, but he was stranded in a hostile city where his enemies had free run of the streets. His features and his clothing marked him as a foreigner, a moving target, and he couldn't count on finding friends among the native populace. Unless he could obtain a rudimentary disguise and some form of transportation, he was lost.

  The Executioner had walked away with one hand, but his adversaries weren't ready to concede the game. All things considered, Bolan wasn't happy with the cards he had been dealt. The more he studied them, the more he wondered if they might not be a dead man's hand.

  Chapter Twenty

  It took an hour and a half for Bashir Moheden to gather all the scattered bits of information necessary for his plan. By that time he had heard the worst of it — Belasko had escaped, against all odds — and he had issued promises to his unhappy partners that the situation would be rectified. Of course, if they were willing to provide material assistance, he would be most grateful.

  Half the ninety minutes were consumed by Moheden's attempt to name the dead informant. In the end, he never learned the man's identity, but that was secondary to uncovering his rebel contacts. When the name of Joseph Chamoun came up, the dealer knew that he had solved a least a portion of the mystery.

  For years the Bekaa Valley's Christian population had been locked in conflict with their Muslim neighbors, echoing the tremors of religious warfare from Beirut. Around the Bekaa, though, the Christians weren't satisfied with sniping Druze and Shiite targets. Rather, they had taken it upon themselves to strike at organized narcotics dealers, doing everything within their power to disrupt the flow of drugs that were the region's single largest-selling export item.

  Granted, all their efforts to the present time had been relatively minor — an ambush, here and there; small shipments hijacked; runners executed and relieved of cash. It was annoying, but the rival dealers did no less to one another in the normal course of business, and reprisals had been more or less successful in containing Christian rebels to the valley's southern quarter. One day, if they grew too troublesome, a concentrated push would wipe them out entirely.

  Now Moheden wondered if the moment for that push had come.

  The troops of Joseph Chamoun had been his most persistent enemies among the scattered Christian forces. They had clashed with members of the Shiite revolutionary guard on more than one occasion, and while there had been no stunning victories for either side, Chamoun's commandos had revealed themselves as tough, determined fighters. They were dangerous, in short, because they wouldn't quit.

  Moheden — through his spy, Selim — had cultivated turncoats in as many of the Christian «armies» as he could. It was a stroke of luck to place a man inside Chamoun's contingent, and the traitor's fingering of Belasko had been nothing short of providential. What might the American have done if he had been admitted to a meeting of the cartel leaders? Would any of them have survived?

  The dealer had no way of knowing if Chamoun had forged official ties with the Americans, or whether he had simply hired a mercenary to advance his cause. The action in New York was clearly separate from any localized offensive by the Christian troops, and that implied at least a tenuous connection with the West. It didn't matter if Belasko or Chamoun had made the overture. Together they were doubly dangerous, and it would be Moheden's task to crush them into the dust.

  It took the second half of ninety minutes to collect and arm a raiding party from the Sheikh Abdullah barracks. Half of the men were Palestinians donated by Halaby, while the rest were members of the Shiite revolutionary guard. Each group had leaders of its own, but after some discussion, they agreed to take their orders from an officer selected by Moheden for the job.

  A background check of Joseph Chamoun had helped to give those orders their direction. Realizing that a raid might somehow miss Chamoun, Moheden had decided on a backup plan. It was, with all due modesty, a master stroke. If executed properly, with all dispatch, he was convinced that it would bring the rebel leader to his knees.

&nb
sp; If not, at least it would provide the troops with exercise, a bit of sport. They had been getting stale of late, in the dealer's opinion, training constantly for raids and revolutions that were first postponed, then canceled. How long had it been since any of Halaby's men had sortied against the Israelis? How long since any of the revolutionary guard had trashed a U.S. embassy or taken hostages?

  This would be a dress rehearsal, practice with a living enemy who could and would return their fire. They should be grateful for the opportunity to test themselves, assuming they survived.

  One final task. Arranging for the helicopters hadn't been supremely difficult, but it required some time, the crossing of strategic palms with gold. Four ships would be available upon demand, with pilots borrowed from the military. In a region like the Bekaa, where the lines of jurisdiction and authority were blurred, the deal wasn't unusual.

  Bashir Moheden would be waiting for the raiders when they came back with the head of Chamoun, or with their prisoner. In either case he'd have struck a telling blow against his enemies, while winning back a measure of respect from his associates. If luck was on his side, he might transform abject humiliation into triumph.

  * * *

  The problem of Bolan's clothing had been relatively simple to resolve. As he roamed the streets, alert to any indication of a tail, he passed a thrift shop and ducked in to buy himself a suitable disguise. Avoiding the extravagance of all-out Arab garb, he settled for the military surplus apparel so popular in Lebanon, the drab material a striking contrast to the navy outfit he'd worn on entering the shop. The owner was startled when his customer insisted on discarding what was obviously an expensive suit, but as a businessman he made no protest.

  Transportation was a bit more difficult, but Bolan had to make the effort. He couldn't remain in Baalbek any longer, and the hike to reach Chamoun's encampment, nearly ninety miles away, might take a week. With wheels he could complete the journey in an afternoon, and so he started searching for a vehicle to fit his needs.

  He chose a taxi after weighing all the pros and cons of just taking a vehicle from the curb. In Lebanon — and more particularly in the Bekaa Valley — poverty restricted ownership of cars to members of the merchant class, the civil service and the military. Auto theft was rare, and the alert for stolen vehicles would bring a swift police response. Instead of bagging wheels from any one of several downtown parking lots, therefore, the Executioner decided on a more direct approach.

  He flagged down the taxi a mile from where he'd escaped Moheden's trap. The driver didn't seem surprised to hear himself being addressed in merely functional Arabic, and he followed Bolan's vague directions to the southern quarter of the city. There, when Bolan showed him the Beretta on a quiet side street and commanded him to climb inside the trunk, he made no argument.

  Avoiding major thoroughfares, he cleared the city limits in another quarter hour, running south along the highway where Chamoun and company had met the Syrians. How long ago? A lifetime. Twenty miles from town he stopped and freed his hostage, allowing cash to take the place of an apology. The cabbie might encounter a patrol five minutes up the road and send them after him, but Bolan had to take that chance. At least this way he had a shot at leveling the odds.

  He drove with the Beretta on the seat beside him, one eye on the rearview mirror. Bolan's mind was racing toward his destination, sorting out the facts that he would lay before Chamoun. The powder factory would be dismantled and removed before a raid could be initiated, but he had obtained the address of Moheden's home away from home in Baalbek, and there still might be a chance to catch the dealer on the scene. If not, the soldier had a backup plan in mind.

  But first he had to reach Chamoun's encampment, find out whether the rebel leader was fit to travel, much less fight. They wouldn't have a better chance to move against their common enemy, but every moment counted now, with Moheden and company undoubtedly preparing their defenses for the coming storm.

  He checked the taxi's gas gauge, saw that he had fuel enough to make a one-way trip and put more weight on the accelerator. Grumbling, the taxi picked up speed and carried Bolan south.

  * * *

  The silence didn't worry Joseph Chamoun. He had agreed with the American that premature communications could betray them and alert their enemies before they were prepared to strike. The absence of a message simply meant that he was close to Moheden, absorbing secret details of the enemy's defenses.

  Of course the silence might mean he was dead.

  Chamoun dismissed the thought. He hadn't known Belasko long, but he believed himself to be a decent judge of men. By any name, the tall American was a survivor. Granted, he took risks that other men might well consider foolish, but his every move was calculated, mapped out in advance for maximum effect. If anyone could pierce the heart of the cartel…

  The sound of helicopters startled him. Some distance yet — a thousand yards, perhaps — but they were audible above the normal racket of the camp, and drawing closer by the moment. Rolling from his cot, he grimaced at a stab of protest from his shoulder wound, retrieved a submachine gun from the folding table as he thrust the tent flaps back and stepped outside.

  The others were alert. Men abandoned their routine jobs in search of weapons, women scooped up stray children and hurried to their tents. Chamoun couldn't make out his sister anywhere. Too late he realized the helicopters were equipped with special mufflers to allow them the advantage of surprise. His thousand yards might only be two hundred or less, and as they broke the cover of the trees, he cursed himself for being such a fool.

  Three airships grazed the treetops as they closed in for the kill. He heard the crackle of machine-gun fire and watched the spurts of dust begin to march across the compound. One tent rippled, flapping in the breeze, and then another. Bullets swept the camp like the initial scattering of raindrops that precede a cloudburst. Here, however, when the rain from heaven fell on human flesh, it left its mark.

  A number of the men were firing back, peppering the whirlybirds with automatic fire, but they had nothing in the way of cover, and their time was short. The pilots kept their ships in motion, while below them human targets ran in circles, dropping where the bullets found them, rolling over in the blood and dust. One sprawled across a cooking fire, past feeling as his khaki shirt and pants burst into flame.

  Chamoun whipped up his submachine gun, taking time to aim before he squeezed the trigger. Did he imagine the hit, or had his bullets cracked the windscreen of the nearest helicopter? There! Firing again he saw them strike, the pilot hauling backward on his joy stick as he tried for greater altitude.

  The rebel leader ran out of ammunition as he tracked the rising target, fumbled for another magazine and cursed as he remembered he'd left the bandolier inside his tent. Retreating, he was barely through the flaps when an explosion rocked the camp, immediately followed by another, then the world fell in around him.

  Something struck him smartly on the skull, and he went down, the tent collapsing on him like a shroud. Chamoun experienced a sense of drowning as he wormed his way along the ground, one hand still wrapped around his empty submachine gun, groping with the other for an exit.

  He was running out of time. Suppressing panic, he retrieved a clasp knife from his pocket, opened it and started hacking at the tent material. It snagged his blade at first, then yielded, and he cut a slit approximately three feet long. Emerging from the gap, blood streaming from a scalp wound, he resembled something in the nature of a freakish newborn entering a hostile world. With weapons clenched in both hands and a savage grimace on his blood-streaked face, he made a perfect war child.

  They had set the helicopters down nearby, their weapons silent now as gunmen fanned out through the camp. One passed Chamoun without observing him, and it was all the edge he needed, scrambling to his feet and swinging his SMG against the gunner's keffiyeh. The raider staggered and slumped to his knees. Chamoun was on him, slashing with his knife. The blade slid home beneath his adver
sary's ear and ripped across the jugular, releasing gouts of crimson. The rebel leader retrieved the dying soldier's rifle, left him to his final heartbeats and broke for the cover of the trees.

  A pair of gunners on his left had spotted him. They shouted and opened fire. He returned a withering blast with the captured rifle. One of his assailants caught a rising burst and staggered, fell. The other went to ground, apparently unharmed, and then Chamoun was in the trees, the sound of shots and shouting voices all around him.

  He had torn the stitches on his shoulder wound, the fresh blood soaking through his tunic. Never mind. There would be time enough to bind it if he managed to escape the hunting party on his heels. Had he been recognized? What had become of Mara? How many of his people would survive the raid?

  He wondered fleetingly if something evil had befallen the American. It didn't follow automatically. There were a hundred ways in which the opposition might have found his camp. They had, perhaps, remained in one place for too long a time.

  Gunfire chattered behind him. He was tempted to return, confront the enemy and try to save his people, but he knew the gesture would be wasted. There was nothing he could do to stop them, and he wouldn't improve their lot by dying needlessly. Instead he would survive and find a way to inflict the appropriate revenge on the men who had decreed this massacre.

  He prayed that Mara might escape, his people find a sanctuary from the storm. Above all else, he prayed for strength to find his enemies and strike them down.

  * * *

  Mara had been working in the mess tent, helping to prepare the midday meal when first she heard the helicopters. Stepping outside she was in time to see them break the tree line to the north and come in with machine guns blazing from their open loading bays. A bullet snapped past on her left, another closer on her right, and instinct took control, propelling her across the compound in a sprint.