Frontier Fury

by Don Pendleton

  One of the shell-shocked soldiers had been strong and smart enough to flank him. Now, unless Bolan could spin and drop at the same time, fire from the hip and nail the man who meant to kill him—

  Halfway through his turn, Bolan flinched at the report of a Kalashnikov on autofire. Already braced to take the bullets that he knew were coming, the big American blinked, surprised to see his would-be slayer sprawled across the APC’s gun turret, facedown in a spreading pool of blood.

  “He’s dead, I think,” Gorshani called up to him from the ground.

  “I’d say you’re right,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

  4

  Mount Khakwani, North-West Frontier Province

  The messenger’s name was Harata Bhutani. At thirty-four, he was the youngest man permitted access to the leaders of al Qaeda in hiding. All of the command staff’s other aides were ten or twelve years older—and, of course, they all were men.

  Akram Ben Abd al-Bari would not trust a woman—even his own mother, were she living—with the knowledge of his whereabouts, much less his current plans. To him and those around him, granting any power to a woman reeked of sacrilege.

  Bhutani drove his battered motorcycle up a narrow, winding mountain road that was, at least in theory, wide enough for a small sedan. He didn’t like to think about what might occur if two cars traveling in opposite directions met each other on the road. There was no room to pass, much less to turn around, and driving in reverse, he thought, would have been tantamount to suicide.

  It’s not my problem, he consoled himself. Bhutani did not own a car and never would. He had a driver’s license, chiefly for delivery of martyrs to the towns where they would detonate the vests of high explosives hidden underneath their robes. On such occasions the car was always provided by his masters, and then discarded after it had served its purpose.

  The small bike that he rode now, with its imported Chinese engine, cost 37,000 rupees in a showroom—about 575 U.S. dollars. Bhutani had only paid roughly half of that, considering its age, but it had served him well.

  One more trip to the mountains, basking in the modest glory of al Qaeda’s leadership. Despite years of faithful service, the trust with which they honored him was more than Bhutani had any right to expect.

  He knew when to expect the guards, black-turbaned and wearing peasant garb, with their Kalashnikov rifles and mismatched pistols tucked into their belts. They recognized him, but demanded that he speak the password, as if none of them had ever met before.

  Security was everything, and rightly so.

  When they were satisfied, the riflemen allowed Bhutani to proceed. The last two hundred yards comprised the steepest bit of highway on the mountain, rising toward a crest above the hidden caves—Bhutani’s destination. Only those with business in the caves ever lived to reach them.

  More guards waited for him at a turnout, where he killed the motorcycle’s engine and dismounted, willingly surrendering the grenade, pistol and dagger that he carried every waking moment of his life. Bhutani then submitted to a search that would have been humiliating under any other circumstances.

  Finally, the last phalanx of killers stood aside. One of them turned and led him back along a worn stony path, even though Bhutani could have navigated the trail in his sleep, blindfolded.

  His escort left him at the cave’s mouth, frowned in parting, and was gone. Bhutani stepped into the mountain’s maw alone.

  “WHAT WORD?” Akram Ben Abd al-Bari asked the messenger. Ra’id Ibn Rashad sat to his right, while two gunmen with checkered scarves obscuring the faces underneath their turbans stood on guard to either side.

  “Masters,” Bhutani said, “the struggle progresses. Martyrs have completed their angelic sacrifice in Kabul, Kandahar, Qunduz and Ghazni. At the present time, we estimate one hundred dead, four times that number wounded. In Kabul, the count includes seven Crusaders.”

  “Excellent,” al-Bari said.

  He knew the body count might be exaggerated slightly, for his own benefit, but no one in the ranks would risk an outright fabrication. The resultant penalties would be severe, protracted and irreparable.

  “What of Iraq?” Rashad inquired.

  “The conflict that Crusaders choose to call an insurrection serves us well,” Bhutani said. “Each day, we welcome new recruits. The pool of volunteers for martyrdom is constantly replenished, spurred on by the actions of the invaders and their lackeys in Baghdad. Selective executions of the Shiite leadership continue. One sad note…”

  Bhutani hesitated, lowering his eyes.

  “Proceed,” al-Bari said.

  “Abdul Aliyy Ibn Nidal is dead, slain by the agents of Mossad, we think, in Amsterdam. A car bomb.”

  Well, al-Bari thought, live by the sword…

  “He waits for us in Paradise,” Rashad intoned.

  Al-Bari nodded, but his thoughts were not with Nidal’s mangled body, lying on a bloodstained street in Holland. Rather, he was thinking once again about the facts of life that forced him to receive such news by word of mouth, sometimes delayed for days. A television or a shortwave radio would have made life much simpler. But with all the tracking satellites circling the planet, beaming signals earthward to al-Bari’s enemies, modern communications might have spelled the end of life for him.

  His guards used simple two-way radios—handheld devices sold at any electronics shop, range limited to half a mile or less. Al-Bari had convinced himself that they could not be monitored by enemies, as long as their transmissions were irregular and brief.

  But for the rest, for passing orders down the ranks and waiting to discover whether victory was his, or if valued comrades had been slaughtered by their foes, al-Bari now relied upon the oldest method of communication known to man.

  “What of the project in Islamabad?” he asked Bhutani.

  “Ready to proceed on your command, master.”

  “Let it proceed.”

  Bhutani bowed his head in mute acknowledgment.

  “On your way out,” al-Bari ordered, “send in Arzou Majabein.”

  THE BATTLEFIELD was far behind them. Far enough, at least, for Bolan to relax a bit and to begin debriefing his contact. Hussein Gorshani, for his part, still seemed nervous, eyes flicking back and forth between his rearview mirror and the road ahead.

  “Nobody’s chasing us,” Bolan advised him.

  “No. Not yet,” the driver said.

  “You think they radioed ahead?”

  “Why not? It’s possible.”

  “We should have seen the reinforcements rolling in by now,” Bolan replied. “We’re clear. For the moment.”

  “I just didn’t expect…I mean, so soon.”

  “Neither did I,” Bolan admitted.

  Had it been bad luck, or something far more sinister.

  “You weren’t followed?” he asked Gorshani for the second time since their narrow escape.

  “I swear it! I took every possible precaution.”

  “And you didn’t let it slip to anyone, where you were going?”

  “I am not a fool,” Gorshani said, sounding offended now.

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Not if one is cautious.”

  “Fair enough. Call it a random patrol. Wrong time, wrong place.”

  “I hope so,” Gorshani said, sounding less convinced by his own argument than he had previously.

  “It’s the only way to play it,” Bolan said, closing the subject. “Now, tell me more about al-Bari’s hideout.”

  “I received the information from my contact in Islamabad,” Gorshani said. “He is, how do you say, my handler in such things.”

  “That’s how you say it,” Bolan granted.

  “Such a term could be interpreted as an insult, I think, but never mind. I understand it.”

  “So?”

  “It was a strange thing, yes? I am supposed to give him information, not receive it. Yet, he visits me the other day and says that a man is coming who
will strike against al Qaeda. He tells me I must guide this man to a certain place, and then he gives me the approximate location.”

  “When you say ‘approximate’…”

  “He named a mountain in the Safed Koh range, near the border with Afghanistan. It’s also known in Pashto as the Morga Range—white mountains.”

  “And the mountain is…?”

  “Mount Khakwani, south of Mount Sikaram, but not so tall. Perhaps two thousand meters.”

  “Nobody mentioned climbing gear,” Bolan observed.

  “We can obtain what you would call the basics on our way. The climb should not be arduous, although we cannot use the road.”

  Bolan wondered if Brognola had known that, or if the fact had been withheld from him by someone higher up the bureaucratic ladder. Either way, it further complicated Bolan’s task, which had been perilous enough without a fling at mountaineering.

  “And once we’ve climbed the mountain, then what?” Bolan asked.

  “I’m told the road on Mount Khakwani passes caves, where those you seek are now concealed. They are located near the summit. And knowing that, it would seem to me that once we have reached the proper altitude, we could simply follow footpaths on the mountainside—and there they are!”

  Simply, Bolan thought, nearly smiling at the driver’s choice of adjectives.

  “Should be a piece of cake, then, right?” he said.

  “A piece of cake?”

  “Forget it. How far is it to al-Bari’s mountain?”

  “Across the Kunar River, then another sixty-five kilometers. But first, we stop at Sanjrani. It is a village where I have a friendly source for climbing gear.”

  “Are the police friendly?” Bolan inquired.

  “There are no resident police in Sanjrani. As for army patrols or Frontier Corps, we take our chances, yes? Hoping to be in the right place, at the right time.”

  “You do the talking,” Bolan said. “But if it starts to fall apart, stand clear.”

  “The people of Sanjrani will not harm us. I am sure of them,” Gorshani said, and then amended, “Most of them.”

  “Then all we have to do,” Bolan replied, “is watch out for the rest.”

  ARZOU MAJABEIN followed the narrow corridor of stone, with daylight fading at his back, until he reached a heavy curtain hung across the rough-hewn entrance to Akram Ben Abd al-Bari’s receiving chamber. Passing two armed guards, he slipped past the curtain and advanced to kneel before a low stone platform in the middle of the room.

  Seated before him on a humble pad of blankets were the men he served. Akram Ben Abd al-Bari sat to Majabein’s right, and Ra’id Ibn Rashad to his left. Their bodyguards, stationed on either side of the two seated men, might have been carved from wax for all the animation they displayed.

  Majabein bowed, his forehead almost touching the stone floor, and asked, “How may I serve you, masters?”

  “You will take a message to our friend in Rawalpindi,” Rashad said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was no need to ask which friend. Rawalpindi, southwest of Islamabad on the Punjab Plateau, hosted headquarters for the Pakistan armed forces. Only one man of importance there was allied with al Qaeda. But even here, in the one place on Earth where they should feel secure, al-Bari and Rashad refused to speak his name aloud.

  “Tell him,” al-Bari said, “that we have always appreciated his aid, but we observe the tide of government accommodation for the Great Satan. Islamabad accepts money and guns from Washington, then uses them to harass freedom fighters. We believed removal of the woman would convey our disapproval, but the message was ignored.”

  Again, there was no need to ask which woman al-Bari referred to.

  “We are informed,” al-Bari said, “that the Crusaders are reopening their church and school within Islamabad. We view this plan with disfavor and believe that it should not proceed.”

  That statement came as no surprise. An attack on Islamabad’s historic Christian church in March 2002 had killed five persons and wounded forty-six. Since the Crusaders failed to get the message, six more died in an August raid against the nearby Christian school.

  It would seem, the infidels had forgotten that lesson.

  “Tell our friend,” al-Bari said, “that an example must be made. A martyr’s sacrifice may serve, where other methods have failed.”

  Majabein suppressed a frown. He could not predict how their friend at military headquarters would react to news of an impending bomb attack in the nation’s capital. If the reaction was adverse, it would be Majabein himself who felt the first sting of the lash, but he could not refuse the call.

  He lived to serve.

  Rashad spoke next. “Inform our friend,” he said, “that we desire no martyrs among the faithful other than our chosen one. Any Sunni carpenters or other workmen hired by the Crusaders should be sick at home tomorrow. Tell them to repent for serving Allah’s enemies, and caution them that any further sin against our holy cause will not merit forgiveness.”

  “As you say, masters, so let it be.”

  “We have considered that our friend may show some reticence,” al-Bari said. “If that should prove to be the case, remind him that he owes a debt of honor to al Qaeda. We have no desire for him to be embarrassed…or removed.”

  “I understand,” Majabein said.

  “You are dismissed,” al-Bari said. “May Allah speed you on your way.”

  “My thanks to you, masters.”

  After bowing once more, Majabein rose and backed away from the chamber, turning only when he felt the heavy curtain brush against his backside. From that point on, he moved briskly along the tunnel corridor to daylight, passing guards who would forget his face as soon as he was out of sight.

  He had important work to do.

  And like the targets in Islamabad who were condemned, Majabein was running out of time.

  Army Headquarters, Rawalpindi

  BRIGADIER BAHAAR Jadoon cradled the telephone receiver with exaggerated care and turned to face Colonel Salim Laghari. “It’s confirmed,” he said. “All twelve are dead.”

  Jadoon supposed the colonel’s scowl was less for twelve dead soldiers than for some concern of potential damage to his reputation and career.

  “Sir, we must strike without delay,” Laghari said.

  “At whom, Colonel?” Jadoon inquired.

  The question stumped his junior officer for several heartbeats, then Laghari said, “It is obvious that rebels are responsible.”

  “Indeed? Which ones?”

  Another hesitation on the colonel’s part.

  Within the North-West Frontier Province, there were several “militia” groups at war with one another. Sunnis killing Shiites and vice versa. Smugglers running weapons, drugs and other contraband across the border, to and from Afghanistan. Any faction, if taken by surprise or threatened, might fire on a government patrol.

  But to annihilate a dozen soldiers and destroy an armored vehicle, now, that took skill.

  Laghari took the safe road, saying, “Sir, we should respond with force throughout the area. Arrest and punish weapons dealers. Institute a sweep to drive guerrillas from the province.”

  And send them where? Jadoon was on the verge of asking, but he held his tongue. Colonel Laghari’s anger and frustration were predictable. Jadoon felt much the same himself, but there were still certain realities to be observed.

  Sweeping guerrillas from the North-West Frontier Province had been tried before, on numerous occasions, and the effort had always failed. In that event, the person subject to demotion, transfer and a slow death for his once promising career would be the officer who had given the order to proceed.

  And Jadoon did not intend to be that man.

  He planned to be a general someday, but that meant climbing three more ranks, obtaining three more stars to decorate his uniform, instead of being slapped down to the grade of colonel—or, worse, yet, lieutenant colonel. Jadoon would be taking orders from Lagh
ari, then, and that would be unbearable.

  “Colonel,” Jadoon replied, “I think you’re onto something. Any move we make, of course, must first be based on sound intelligence. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “With that in mind, I’m sending you to take charge of the inquiry and follow every lead available. You will report to me twice daily, at a minimum, by radio or telephone.”

  Colonel Laghari wore a vague expression of surprise. “Sir, when you say investigate—”

  “I mean precisely that. Examine the location of the ambush, whatever evidence may be available, then seek out any witnesses from the surrounding countryside. Interrogate known malcontents and arms dealers. You understand? Investigate.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “It may take some time, I realize. Don’t worry about that. Lieutenant Colonel Davi will assume your duties, in your absence. He’s a capable young officer, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir, apparently. But I wonder if—”

  “You’ll need to seek assistance from Frontier Corps, of course. And don’t forget the Federal Investigation Agency. This is primarily a military matter, naturally, but any massacre of active-duty troops also raises the broader question of security across the board.”

  “Sir, if I may—”

  “You’ll need to leave at once, Colonel. No time for tying up loose ends around the office, I’m afraid. Leave everything to me…and to Lieutenant Colonel Davi. He can use your office while you’re gone, eh? Good. Dismissed!”

  Colonel Laghari stiffened to attention, snapped off a salute, then turned and marched out of the office, pausing only long enough to shut the door. Jadoon circled his desk, sat down and smiled.

  He had not solved the problem of the murdered soldiers, but he had removed a sharp stone from his shoe, however temporarily. Colonel Laghari was ambitious, even avaricious. And, worse yet, Jadoon had reason to believe he was a spy for someone higher up who sought to meddle with the brigadier’s career. Jadoon could not yet take action against the man behind Laghari, but he was well accustomed to the military regimen of hurry up and wait.

  If he could place Laghari in an awkward situation, even one where danger was involved, so much the better. Of course, if Laghari’s investigation of the ambush failed to bring results—or if he made things worse somehow, by agitating groups with no connection to the incident—it would be the colonel’s career that suffered, not his.