Assault

by Don Pendleton

  Around her, men were cursing, firing, falling. Mara saw a boy of six or seven cut down in his tracks, unmoving as the bullets danced around him. She was searching for her brother, but he might be anywhere. If he was still inside his tent…

  A grenade went off, immediately followed by another, dust and gravel raining down on Mara as she ran. Disoriented, she suspected she was running in a circle, but the gunfire and explosions had her trapped. She felt the blast of rotor blades and knew the helicopters were coming in for a landing. She tried to veer away, but there was one on either side of her, another squatting just across the compound.

  One chance left, she ran in the direction of her brother's tent and the grove of trees beyond. Where was his tent? She saw it now, collapsed and rippling in the artificial gale produced by rotorwash.

  Forgetting danger, Mara ran to find her brother, stopping short beside the shambles of his tent. A dead man lay nearby — an enemy, his throat slashed open — and she turned away from him, intent on rescuing the living.

  Where to start? She grabbed at the stiff material of the tent, discovering that it was torn in places. Bullets, she decided, or the jagged shrapnel from explosions. There were shapeless lumps beneath the shroud, all deathly still as Mara crawled around them. Furniture, perhaps, upended when the tent collapsed. There was no sound, no movement, to betray the presence of a living man.

  Had her brother been elsewhere when the explosion struck his quarters? Was he safe? She glanced around the compound, saw more enemies than friends, and knew that it was time to save herself. She scrambled to her feet and struck off to the west, where trees and undergrowth would cover her retreat — if she could get that far. Sporadic gunfire cracked around her, weak resistance falling in the face of the assault, but Mara concentrated on her destination, jumbled thoughts competing for attention in her mind.

  The gunman came from nowhere, tackled her and brought her down. The jarring impact emptied Mara's lungs, but she fought back with all the strength she had, claws raking at her adversary's face and drawing blood. He cursed and tried to pin her hands. Mara kicked him in the groin.

  She scrambled to her feet, prepared to run, but other men surrounded her, eyes wary, fingering their weapons. Mara waited for the bullet that would end her life, and when it didn't come, she understood that these men meant to capture her alive. It gave her an advantage if the enemy was under orders not to kill her, and she seized the moment, breaking full tilt for a weak point in the line.

  A Palestinian stepped out to intercept her, and she saw the butt of his Kalashnikov as it swept through a narrow arc, directly toward her face. She raised an arm to shield herself, to absorb the crushing impact, but the blow threw Mara off her stride. She lost her footing, stumbled and fell. They were on her in an instant, pinning down her arms and legs.

  Immobilized, she felt a rough hand work its way along her neck in search of the carotid artery. She tried to bite the probing fingers, but her head was pinned, a gunman standing on her hair. The searching hand made contact, pressed and Mara saw dark motes begin to dance before her eyes. Another moment and her world went black. She didn't feel the gunmen lift her body.

  * * *

  The drive took longer than Bolan had anticipated, with patrols twice forcing him off the road. Each time he saw them coming from a distance, pulling into turnouts, and hoped they would pass him by without a second glance. If he was stopped and questioned, it was over. He didn't speak fluent Arabic — couldn't even attempt any of the regional dialects — and his Beretta wouldn't get him far against a rifle squad with automatic weapons.

  Luck was with him. The patrols were intent on other missions. Bolan watched them pass and counted down the moments after, each time giving them a decent lead before he put the stolen cab in motion. It was creeping on two o'clock before he reached the narrow side road leading to the rebel compound. He slowed as he made the turn, leaning out the driver's window so the sentries could identify him.

  Bolan had been ready for a challenge, but there seemed to be no guards on duty. Startled by the lapse, then worried, he pushed on, avoiding swift acceleration in case there might be spotters he had overlooked. It would be bitter irony if he was shot down by an ally this close to his goal.

  Within a hundred yards of camp, he met two stragglers, both armed with submachine guns. They were braced to fire when recognition saved him, and the men came forward, speaking to him excitedly and gesturing in the direction of the compound. Bolan couldn't understand much of what they said, but one of them was bleeding through his shirt from what appeared to be a superficial wound, and both were caked with battle dust. He gunned the taxi forward, and within another moment he was on the outskirts of the rebel camp.

  Before him, in the aftermath of combat, was chaos. Tents lay scattered, flattened by the firestorm. Retrieval teams were lifting bodies from the field and laying them along the sidelines. Bolan counted eighteen silent shapes so far, with others on the way, but he was more concerned with an examination of the living. He was searching for familiar faces, hoping for survivors.

  Joseph Chamoun approached him, looking weary and beaten. Blood had stained his shirt and plastered it against his wounded shoulder, and the rebel leader's face was streaked with rusty abstract patterns. Bolan didn't need to ask what happened, so he chose another question.

  "When?"

  "Perhaps an hour," Chamoun replied. "They came in helicopters, from the north. The ships were military, but the men were Palestinians and revolutionary guards."

  He made the link immediately, scowling at the memory of frightened eyes above a scrap of gauze.

  "One of your men turned up while I was with Moheden," Bolan said. "He fingered me. I didn't get a clear look at his face, but he was average height, slim build, with longish hair slicked back. I recognized him from the camp, but we were never introduced."

  Chamoun was staring at him, boring holes in Bolan with his eyes. "Rashad," he snarled. "I sent him into town myself. He had a message to deliver."

  "More than one, I'd say."

  "The filthy Judas has betrayed us ail."

  "He paid the tab."

  "You killed him?"

  Bolan nodded.

  "I regret that I couldn't have done the job myself, and slowly."

  "We've got other things to think about right now. How many people did you lose?"

  "Two dozen, at a minimum. More likely three."

  Chamoun was holding something back, and Bolan didn't have the time to dance. "There's something else," he said. "What is it?"

  "Mara. She isn't among the dead, and all the others have returned from hiding." Chamoun's expression had become a mask of pain. "The enemy has taken her away."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Moheden had been waiting for a quarter of an hour when he heard the helicopters. He stood on the veranda of a spacious ranch-style house, with poppy fields surrounding him on every side. The yellow flowers blazed as if the fields were burning, and he watched the helicopters skimming low above the crop, maintaining speed as they approached.

  The ranch, as with the rest of it, had been Moheden's brainstorm. Bakhtiar had favored dropping off their hostage at Hosseinieh, the Shiite stronghold, while Halaby had preferred interrogation at the Sheikh Abdullah barracks. It had taken precious time for them to be convinced the helicopters shouldn't be observed delivering their human cargo inside Baalbek. Thus far, members of the military and police force had agreed to play along on the dealer's assurance that they wouldn't be involved directly in the conflict. The appearance of three army helicopters landing at a point controlled by terrorists and revolutionaries would incite discussion and, perhaps, investigation.

  Thus, the ranch was perfect. They had privacy, security and all the time Moheden needed to prepare for the elimination of his enemies. Chamoun, his sources said, would stop at nothing to preserve his sister's life. A «private» meeting would be scheduled, and Chamoun would keep the date because he had no choice. His final act as leader of
the Christian rebels would be suicide.

  Communication with the hit team had been minimized to shave the risks of being overheard and spotted by legitimate authorities. Moheden knew that they had found the girl, whose photograph they'd studied prior to takeoff, and that damage had been suffered to at least one helicopter. He would have to pay for the repairs, as well as something extra for the officers who risked their jobs by renting him the airships. But it would be worth the cost.

  The helicopters hovered briefly, whipping up a storm of dust, then settled to the earth like giant prehistoric insects. One of them was scarred around the nose and flank by bullet marks, and a spider web design was etched on its windshield. Shiite riflemen ran out to meet the new arrivals, ducking low beneath the rotor blades, off-loading bodies first, before the others disembarked. He counted five dead — three Palestinians, two revolutionary guards — before the girl was dumped unceremoniously through the loading bay of number one.

  Her hands were tied behind her, and the short drop sent her sprawling. She resisted briefly as a pair of gunmen lifted her and marched her toward the house. She didn't meet Moheden's eyes, and probably wouldn't have recognized him anyway. He watched her go, then turned and waited for the leader of the strike team to report.

  The man was tired and dusty, but his military bearing was intact. "We lost five men," he reported, "plus three more wounded. And the damage to one helicopter, which you see."

  "How many of the enemy were killed?"

  "No less than twenty-five. Perhaps twice that."

  The estimate was almost certainly inflated, but Moheden didn't care. Substantial casualties had been inflicted on a force with limited reserves, and the specific numbers didn't interest him.

  "Chamoun?"

  The soldier braced himself as if expecting to be beaten. "He was seen, but managed to escape."

  "No matter." It amused the Lebanese to observe the fighting man's reaction. "While we have the woman, he cannot go far."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You are dismissed."

  Was it the truth? he wondered, as he turned back toward the house. Their late informant in the rebel camp had filed reports of Joseph Chamoun's devotion to his sister, but there was a chance the man had been mistaken. If Chamoun decided that his cause was more important than the girl, Moheden would be back where he had started.

  No. Not quite.

  His enemies were damaged, reeling from the unexpected blow, and their attempt to infiltrate his operation had been foiled. It troubled him that sweeps of Baalbek hadn't turned up the American, but there was time enough for that. Belasko had retarded the dealer's production schedule, but the heroin refinery would be operating at a new location in another day or two. All things considered, it could easily have been much worse.

  It would be worse for Chamoun and his American accomplice. They would suffer for their interference in the schemes of more intelligent, sophisticated men. Moheden meant to see them suffer, wanted to relish every moment of their pain before he granted them the sweet relief of death.

  But first there was the girl.

  * * *

  Their first priority had been evacuation of the camp. It seemed unlikely that the raiders would return, but while the slightest possibility remained, Chamoun couldn't afford to take the chance. Aside from any risk of secondary strikes, there was a danger that the Syrian patrols might be informed about the battle by civilians in the area and come to check things out.

  Reluctantly Chamoun gave orders for the bodies to be loaded on a truck held for burial when camp had been established at a new location. Fortunately he already had another site in mind, selected with an eye toward the necessity of swift evacuation, and by dusk they had the makings of another camp, some twenty miles away.

  Survivors labored on past dark, erecting tents and cooking up a frugal meal. In the desert heat, the recent dead were going ripe before they finished supper, wafting an aroma of corruption over the encampment. Bolan took a shovel and assisted in the preparation of a common grave. His mind was off and running while he worked, unraveling the mystery of Mara's disappearance.

  Certain facts were plain enough. She hadn't been selected randomly, the single prisoner abducted while her captors gunned down other women in their tracks. A solitary hostage stood for little in the scheme of things, unless the prisoner's identity supplied the hostage takers with a special edge.

  He thought about the traitor who had lived and worked beside Chamoun, perhaps for years, and wondered what the man had told their enemies. Presumably he had discussed the close relationship between Chamoun and Mara, somehow kicking in a photograph or two to help the raiders choose their target. Mara would have been abducted as a weapon to be used against her brother if he managed to survive the first assault. Moheden would be counting on the rebel leader to submit, agree to anything, on the condition of his sister's liberation.

  Bolan wondered if the girl was still alive. Had she been wounded in the raid? Would she be executed or allowed to die upon arrival at her destination? Moheden might anticipate resistance from Chamoun, demands to see or speak with Mara prior to making any deals, but it was difficult to guess the dealer's mood. He might be so enraged by recent setbacks that he'd take his anger out on Mara, using her to punish Chamoun. Conversely if Moheden wanted further information, Mara might be subject to interrogation by techniques producing disability or death.

  If she was still alive, her time was limited. A day or two at most — perhaps no more than hours. Bolan felt the urgency, but he was still confronted with the problems of location and retrieval. Would the raiders take her back to Baalbek? And if so, would she be caged in the Sheikh Abdullah barracks or among the Shiites at Hosseinieh? Was there some other unknown holding pen Moheden might prefer?

  He'd have to put himself inside his adversary's mind, examine the contingencies from the Lebanese's perspective. Were there drawbacks to confining Mara at a given site? Would risks outweigh advantages if she was caged at one place rather than another? Was it safe to let her live at all?

  The answer came to Bolan in a sudden flash of insight. Could he manage to convince Chamoun in time? Were they too late already? Only one approach could prove him right or wrong, and if he was mistaken, they would be committed to a full assault — their last assault — before his error was discovered.

  Still, he knew. And if Chamoun wouldn't accept his logic, Bolan would be forced to test the theory on his own.

  * * *

  For Joseph Chamoun, the night seemed dark and hopeless. In a few short hours he'd seen his life turned upside down — his people driven like a herd of sheep before the enemy, his sister carried off by men who would inevitably kill her… if she wasn't dead already.

  Twenty-seven persons had been killed in the attack, another fifteen wounded as they ran for cover in the trees. Their medic, stunned by a grenade blast, had been carried from the field to safety, working overtime to help the others after he recovered from the shock. New stitches in his shoulder and a fresh batch in his scalp had made Chamoun presentable, but he cared nothing for the pain. Instead he burned with grief and anger.

  It would be difficult, he knew. Twenty-three of his commandos were among the dead and wounded, a reduction in his fighting force of more than twenty-five percent. With sixty-two armed men remaining, he could never hope to mount a killing thrust against the enemy at either of the Baalbek strongholds, where his force would be outnumbered from the start.

  Whatever happened, he wouldn't allow himself to rest until he learned his sister's fate, her whereabouts. If it was possible to set her free, Chamoun would take all steps within his power, even if it meant surrendering himself, his life, in an exchange.

  Could that have been their plan from the beginning? If it was, then Bakhtiar and Moheden couldn't afford to let his sister go, whatever they might promise in negotiations. She was bait and nothing more. When Mara had served her purpose, she would become expendable, a piece of excess baggage to be cast aside and soon forgotte
n.

  Staring at the cook fires, listening to shovels rasp on sandy soil, he thought about Amir Rashad, regretting that the man had died so easily. Chamoun's idea of justice would have brought the traitor back to camp alive, for special handling by the men he had betrayed. He might have yielded crucial information while he lived, and even if he managed to resist, he would have been rewarded for his treachery.

  Too late.

  The American had been right to kill him while he had the chance. At least Chamoun knew how the enemy had singled out his sister — how they would have had him, too, if he hadn't escaped. Rashad had doted on his inexpensive camera, recording aspects of their daily life around the camp on film — "for history," as he'd explained it. Group shots, panoramas, candid photos of action around the camp — all perfectly innocuous until they were delivered into hostile hands, laid out to form the blueprint for a sneak attack.

  On learning of Rashad's betrayal, Joseph Chamoun had gone directly to the dead man's tent, hauled back the crumpled canvas and rummaged among his things. The metal strongbox had been dented by a bullet, but its contents were secure. The photos lay before Chamoun, arranged in stacks, and they included several dozen that Rashad hadn't seen fit to show around the camp.

  Snapshots of Mara. At the bathing pool.

  The photos clearly spanned a period of months. In some her hair was shoulder-length, whereas it had been cut a few weeks earlier into a shorter, almost boyish style. He could tell nothing from her clothing, as she wore none in the photographs Rashad had saved.

  He stacked the photos back inside the box and made a mental note to burn them all before he went to bed that night. It was ridiculous to think that he could sleep, but he would still go through the motions. There was nothing else to do.