Syrian Rescue

by Don Pendleton

  He was the man in charge, whatever happened next, and no one could dispute it.

  * * *

  “THIRTY MILES,” BOLAN said after double-checking the GPS. “Your arm still holding up okay?”

  “It’s fine,’’ Azmeh replied.

  “Because, if you think you’ll have any trouble fighting—”

  “No.”

  “Or if you’d rather back off from this round—”

  “No,” he said, more emphatically. “I have not come this far to cower in the shadows.”

  “No one mentioned cowering.”

  “Same thing. We have work to do, not you alone.”

  “Okay. Just checking.”

  He knew damn well his guide’s left arm wasn’t “fine,” but Azmeh had been lucky overall. They’d stopped the bleeding and forestalled infection for now. Pain was something else entirely, though. Azmeh would simply have to live with it, fight through it.

  When they reached their destination, Bolan wouldn’t have the time to shelter him.

  Some kind of flying creature swooped through Bolan’s headlights, then disappeared into the night. “I wonder if they’ve begun interrogations yet,” Azmeh mused.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it except get there as soon as possible.”

  “I know. But if we find some of them badly injured…”

  “I’m not leaving anyone behind,” Bolan informed him. “That’s a given.”

  * * *

  “CAPTAIN! A MESSAGE for you, on the radio.”

  Bassam Fakhri rose from his camp chair, facing Sergeant Malki by firelight. “Very well,” he replied. “I’m coming.”

  “It’s too late, sir,” Malki said. “I tried to keep him on the line for you, but he refused.”

  “‘He’? Who is he?”

  “The general, sir.”

  “What are you saying, Sergeant?”

  “General Mourad, sir. He’s arriving any minute now.”

  At first, Fakhri thought Malki must have lost his mind, but then he decided it was just the sort of underhanded trick Mourad might play on a subordinate. Schedule a meeting for first light, then show up hours early in the hope of catching Fakhri unprepared, perhaps with lapses in security that could be cited in a critical report.

  “Wake up the men who aren’t on duty,” he barked at Malki. “Have them fall in for inspection, if the general is so inclined.”

  “Yes, sir!” Malki ran off to do as he’d been told.

  Fakhri approached the captives under guard. Most of them seemed to be asleep, or else they were faking it. He raised his voice, addressing them in English. “Everyone get up! General Firas Mourad is arriving to begin the state’s investigation of your criminal offense.”

  The African, Bankole, was the first man on his feet. “Captain, I must protest—”

  “Save any protestations for the general,” Fakhri said, interrupting him. “Aside from guarding you, my role in the proceeding is concluded.”

  Which was not entirely true, of course. If General Mourad decided execution was appropriate for the invaders, Fakhri would carry out the order, and he would not falter. Since the onset of the civil war, he’d executed scores of rebels, spies and terrorists, sometimes without seeking advice from his superiors. The president’s command was crystal-clear: no mercy would be shown to traitors, although punishment might be delayed until news cameras had left the scene.

  There would be no intrusion by the media this time.

  He heard a helicopter’s engines now. Malki roused sleepy soldiers from their tents. Their uniforms were rumpled, some of them were yawning, but it was the best Fakhri could do on such short notice. Not even Mourad himself could turn out spit-and-polish troops in desert bivouac, with two minutes to spare.

  The Mil Mi-8 touched down in a cloud of dust, its engines quieting and rotors slowing once its fat tires connected with the hardpan. Fakhri dropped the arm that he had raised to shield his eyes from flying grit, brushed dust from his fatigues, and started toward the helicopter with a fixed smile on his face. Whatever happened next, he would seem pleased to see the general and welcome him with all due courtesy.

  Mourad was first out of the helicopter, trailed by Major Farzat, who was clearly struggling to keep his dinner down. Fakhri snapped to attention as Mourad approached, offering a sharp salute that was returned with some insouciance by the general.

  “At ease, Captain,” Mourad ordered. “Upon consideration, I decided there was no point waiting until dawn.”

  “No, sir. As you prefer.”

  “I haven’t caught you sleeping?”

  “No, sir. Far from it.”

  Mourad seemed disappointed, but it quickly passed. “All right, then. Take me to the prisoners.”

  * * *

  THE TRAITOR RECOGNIZED Firas Mourad on sight. Each fighter in the FSA was duty bound to memorize the faces of all generals who served the Syrian regime, in case they ever came upon one of the savages and had an opportunity to strike a blow against the enemy. For most, that was an idle fantasy, but now the traitor saw fate handing him a chance to realize one of his fondest dreams.

  Mourad was known for having ordered various atrocities: torture of prisoners, murder of medical personnel and their patients, massacres of whole villages whose occupants were accused of holding rebel sympathies. Next to the president and his chief of staff, Mourad was the FSA’s most wanted target. Or call him least wanted.

  As soon as he spotted Mourad, the traitor knew what he must do. Killing the peacemakers immediately took a backseat to eliminating the general despised by every freedom-seeking Syrian. His plan could be revised without much difficulty—kill the nearest guard and seize his rifle, make it to the APC and put its heavy machine gun to work—and with only slight adjustment of the target.

  But the traitor also saw his difficulty: he was clearly running out of time.

  Instead of reinforcements, Mourad had brought three soldiers bearing cameras and microphones, plus two more whose duties appeared to consist of just standing around. Mourad spoke to the captain, who in turn directed soldiers to begin striking their tents, clearing a space within the camp for some event that was the focus of the exercise.

  Something worth taping for posterity.

  An execution, possibly, in which case the traitor could stand back and let Mourad complete his own original assignment. It would cost him his life, but if he knew that the negotiators would be killed, their deaths inevitably spiking outrage against the regime, it would be worth the sacrifice. On the other hand, missing his chance to kill Mourad would be a failure he could scarcely tolerate.

  It might even prevent his passage into Paradise.

  None of the hostages were feigning sleep now. Beside him, Muhammad Qabbani whispered, “Do you recognize that one?”

  “General Mourad.”

  “And no escort to speak of.”

  Other than the forty soldiers already in camp, of course. The traitor cared nothing for them. It did not matter if they killed him now, as long as he had time to put at least one bullet through the general’s ugly, smirking face.

  Even the Liberator pepperbox might do it, if Mourad came close enough, but he preferred the thought of commandeering a machine gun, pouring automatic fire into the butcher’s body, shredding him and leaving only pulp even a mother would not recognize. Whatever happened after that, the traitor knew his soul was safe.

  But wait! Mourad was moving toward them now, trailing the captain and an aide who looked as if he had a seriously upset stomach. The traitor scrambled to his feet and slipped one hand behind his back, touching the blocky handle of his 3D-printed weapon.

  Just a few more steps…

  And then it happened. Someone on the southern edge of camp called out, “Captain Fakhri! We have vehicles coming, sir!”

  Mourad and his companions stopped dead in their tracks, all frowning, and turned back the way they’d come. Fakhri was shouting orders, rallying his men to meet the new arrivals. No one see
med to know who the latecomers might be.

  * * *

  “SOME KIND OF CAMP, I think,” Sergeant Zureiq said when they were still a mile out from the main fire and its smaller satellites.

  Captain al-Kassar made out electric lights, as well, though he could not tell whether they came from vehicles or floodlights. The latter made no sense. Why draw more attention to the bivouac in darkness, in an active war zone, than the fires already had?

  “We’ll soon find out,” he told Zureiq. “Switch off your lights now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The desert in between them and the camp went dark.

  He picked up his radio, repeating the order to both of his following drivers, and saw their headlights die. It might be too late already, he knew, if the camp had guards posted. And why would it not? Still, there was a slight possibility of surprising whoever had picked this place to spend the night. With luck, it might turn out to be the party that had seized the diplomats—his rightful property—and he could solve two problems at once.

  If it turned out to be more nomads, he might still collect some useful information from them, if they’d seen a convoy passing with the prisoners. If not…well, that was their hard luck.

  Lifting the radio again, he warned the other vehicles, “Be ready for quick action when we stop.”

  He pictured his soldiers cocking their rifles, preparing the APC’s heavy machine gun. Several of the AKMs had been fitted with a GP-25 Kostyor—“bonfire”—grenade launcher, capable of hurling a 40 mm caseless projectile up to four hundred yards downrange. Whatever waited for them in the desert camp ahead, al-Kassar thought they were ready.

  In fact, he was betting his life on it.

  Without the headlights, Sergeant Zureiq had been forced to cut back on their speed. It almost seemed that they were crawling now, giving their targets more than ample opportunity to plan a hot reception for them. But al-Kassar knew they would gain no benefit from racing toward the camp, disabling their vehicles with reckless driving. Save that for their retreat, if they found themselves facing superior force.

  He checked his own carbine and pistol, making sure that both had live rounds in their chambers, with their safeties off. He wanted no pathetic fumbling with the weapons if he had to use them, no impediment to killing anyone who threatened him.

  He had personally killed a dozen men. Two had been political assassinations, the remainder slain in skirmishes with soldiers. Dozens more had died at his direction, either following his orders or resisting them. None of the deaths weighed on his conscience. They had been sacrifices for a holy cause.

  Blood was required to purge his home of tyranny. It was a time for executioners.

  * * *

  “LOOKS LIKE A CAMP,” Azmeh said, pointing to a glow in the distance.

  Bolan scanned the desert with his night-vision goggles, then checked the GPS. “From what I see, the distance fits our beacon signal.”

  “So, the prisoners.”

  “If so, they’re not alone.”

  “How many soldiers do you think there are?”

  “No telling from this distance,” Bolan said. “If they are soldiers.”

  “Rebels should not seek to harm the delegates,” said Azmeh.

  “If security’s in place, they wouldn’t know the UN’s mission, and they might not care, regardless. All the groups you’ve got lined up against the regime, some of them fighting one another, I can see one trying to upset the apple cart.”

  Azmeh sighed. “Yes. If we could all cooperate, the struggle might be over now.”

  “I doubt there’s ever been a revolution without friction on the up-and-coming side. It’s human nature. Everybody wants to lead.”

  “I don’t,” Azmeh replied. “I want revenge for my family, but I will never know the men responsible. Beyond that, I want peace.”

  “You still might get it,” Bolan told him. “Don’t give up.”

  “I can’t. Beyond the struggle, I have nothing left. Sometimes I wonder if my country can recover after so much blood and suffering.”

  Bolan nodded grimly. He’d seen his share of suffering and knew how hard it could be for people—let alone, nations—to come back from it. That was why he stayed in this game. There would always be criminals and despots who sought to harm others; he did what he could to cut down those players, to give regular people a fighting chance at freedom and justice.

  They were drawing closer to the lights now, and Bolan shifted his focus to the immediate task.

  “When we’re half a mile from contact, we’ll proceed on foot,” he told his guide. “See what the layout looks like, then decide the best way to move in.”

  “And if we find the prisoners?”

  “Play that bit by ear. Extraction and evasion, if it’s possible.”

  “On foot?”

  “I know it’s not ideal, but we can’t drive up to the camp and ask to have a look around.”

  “On foot,” Azmeh repeated. “With six prisoners.”

  “If all of them are still alive. That’s right.”

  “You make it sound like child’s play.”

  “Hardly. But it’s why I’m here.”

  “If something happens—”

  Bolan cut him off. “You want to go all fatalistic on me, you can wait and guard the car.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Bolan said. “Be strong. And when the trouble starts, be mean.”

  11

  Captain Fakhri stood and watched the vehicles approaching, one hand on his holstered pistol, wishing that he had taken time to retrieve an AKM from his staff car. General Mourad stood beside him, with Major Farzat to his right, while Sergeant Malki took the place to Fakhri’s left.

  Across the desert flats, the headlights had not slowed on their approach to Fakhri’s camp. Three vehicles, he counted now, led by a small one not unlike his own UAZ-469. Behind it, from its light display, he made out an armored personnel carrier, trailed by a truck. From a distance, they looked like a standard army patrol.

  Trust nothing, he thought, and unsnapped his holster. Rebels, and even bandits, had seized military rolling stock since the beginning of the civil war or purchased captured vehicles on the black market. Standard military uniforms were also worn at times by Fakhri’s enemies, either in an attempt to deceive authorities or simply because they were the best clothes they could get. If these were rebels, they might well be armed as Fakhri’s men were armed—or better, for that matter, thanks to aid from the United States.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “I want all men on high alert.”

  “Yes, sir!” Malki replied, and scurried off to emphasize the order.

  “If these are regulars, send them away,” Mourad said in a low and even tone. “We need no more support, and no more witnesses.”

  “Yes, sir, ” Fakhri replied.

  “If they are not…” The general let his thought trail off.

  “We’re ready, sir,” Fakhri assured him, hoping it was true.

  The four approaching vehicles had closed to something like a quarter mile, advancing at a steady speed, no sudden charge to raise alarms within the camp. Still, it was odd, the captain thought, that no one in the convoy had attempted radio contact to find out if the camp was friendly or hostile. They weren’t expected here and should not be aware of Fakhri’s presence in the area, much less his mission. If they were a regular, routine patrol that had happened on the site by chance, the general could pull rank, send them packing in an instant.

  But if they were not…

  Fakhri glanced at his two APCs, pleased to find their machine guns aimed at the approaching convoy. Ranged along the camp’s southern perimeter, some two-thirds of his men stood ready with Kalashnikovs to meet any invaders from the darkness. The remainder—Sergeant Malki would have seen to it by instinct—were on guard around the prisoners and on the other edges of the camp, in case this light display was a distraction from a sly infantry raid.

  We�
�re ready, he decided. Or, at least, as ready as they’d ever be.

  “You speak first,” the general instructed him. “If I must intervene, I shall do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It came as no surprise that Mourad did not wish to take the lead, to be identified by anyone who was not present in the camp already. If their bloody business went awry tonight, the general could try to wash his hands of it, deny involvement in the whole affair and lay any blame on Captain Fakhri. But if Mourad thought that Fakhri would submit without a fight…

  The vehicles were only a hundred yards away now, the headlights bright in Fakhri’s eyes. He slipped on his sunglasses, stepping ahead of Mourad and raising his left hand, the right still resting on his gun.

  “That’s far enough!”

  * * *

  THE DESERT NIGHT was cool, verging on cold, but that did not prevent the traitor from sweating through his clothes. He was nervous. His hands were tingling, not quite shaking, as he watched the new arrivals drawing closer to their camp. General Mourad and Captain Fakhri had gone out to greet them.

  Were these the very friends the traitor had been waiting for since he was shot out of the sky? He reckoned it was possible but could not say. He’d never met the men assigned to meet the UN flight when it went down, and if his luck held, he would not see them again after tonight. They had a job to do, as he did, but he hoped somebody had at least described him to them, so they would not cut him down by accident.

  On the other hand, if they were regulars arriving unexpectedly, they offered a unique distraction, one that he could use to make his move against the enemy. If he struck now, while Fakhri and Mourad were otherwise engaged, most of their troops watching the convoy from the desert, he would boost his chances of success. The first shot from his Liberator pepperbox would spark instant confusion, and beyond that—

  What?

  His death, perhaps, but not before he pinned the general with rifle sights and sent his rotten soul to hell, where it would burn for all eternity.

  And if he killed Fakhri as well, so much the better. Two for one, and any more were frosting on the cake.