Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  “What about boats?” Bolan had asked. “Surely any one place is as good as another?”

  “In theory, perhaps, but local knowledge is what you pay me for, eh?”

  With that, Bolan had been prepared to let Hassim take point for this part of the mission.

  The three jeeps moved in convoy through the outskirts of the city until they hit a dirt road heading northwest. So far, they had seen little of the military presence that was supposed to keep the city in lockdown. When questioned, Hassim snorted and passed a comment on the government that had been less than complimentary, but had amused the other men in the jeep.

  “The trouble with those dogs,” one of the men had said in heavily accented English, “is that they want to keep the money to themselves. Look at us...all of us.” A sweep of his arm took in himself and the two following vehicles. “Do we look like a people who have money from oil? Our land is some of the richest in this region, but do we look like we see any of it?”

  “Same old story,” Bolan said. “Not one that counts against an SMG, mortar or grenade.”

  “True. But like all of their type, the government and their army only go in hard when they know they can win... Look, this will prove it to you.”

  He indicated ahead. Coming toward them was an armored car, dusty and carrying two soldiers on the exterior, both with carbines held loosely.

  Bolan looked back. The other two jeeps were behind them, but in the dark night there were no other indications of traffic or even habitation, the ribbons of light from their headlamps being all that cut through the darkness.

  The soldier was carrying a Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle. With a practiced and unconscious ease he brought it up so that it could easily be put in a firing position. He could feel the tension in the vehicle rack up a notch. Bolan didn’t have to look back a second time to know that the same had happened in the two vehicles following.

  The armored car approached, and the two men on the exterior snapped up from their previously relaxed postures. The armored vehicle slowed and started to turn so that it would cut across the road and block their way.

  “Shadeeb, you know what to do,” Hassim yelled over the noise of the desert wind and the roar of the engine as he held steady speed.

  From a bag at his feet, the man who had spoken to Bolan with such contempt for the military opted to demonstrate this by producing an RPG-7 that he hoisted into position. With the armored vehicle presenting its side, and the two men on the exterior moving to adopt cover on the far side of the turret as the mounted gun swung around, it would seem that the military were, in truth, lining themselves up nicely for a broadside from the rocket-propelled grenade launcher that Shadeeb toted.

  “Too easy,” Bolan said to himself, at the same time hoping that the commotion would not draw too much attention. They seemed to be isolated out here, but the light and sound resulting from such a clash would all too easily alert anyone within several klicks of their position.

  Shadeeb stood up in his seat as the jeep closed on the armored car, making sure that, although it exposed him as a target, the enemy could see his ordnance.

  It was an extraordinary game of chicken, and Bolan marvelled at both the reckless bravado and utter stupidity of such a move.

  All the more surprising then, when the armored car—at the behest of the gesticulating and shouting soldiers on the exterior—began to back up until it sat at the farthest edge of the road.

  The three jeeps passed without reduction in speed and without interference. In the reflected light of the headlamps, Bolan could see the men on the exterior of the vehicle glowering at the party as they passed, yet they made no move to intercept or pursue.

  “You see?” Shadeeb said as the armored vehicle receded into the distance, placing the RPG-7 carefully back in the canvas bag at his feet. “They only have courage when they have the bigger numbers or the bigger guns.” He spat out of the moving vehicle for emphasis.

  “Let us hope we do not encounter any with more courage before the dawn,” Hassim added. “We cannot afford the delay of a firefight if we are to make the bay by the time the sun rises.”

  “And then?” Bolan asked.

  “And then we take a little boat trip.” Hassim smiled. “Trust me, Matt Cooper. It’s the only way to travel.”

  Chapter 6

  Dawn was breaking as they reached the coastal fishing village. With some outlying farms, and little sign of any military presence, it seemed to be a perfect launch point.

  The jeeps drove up and stopped, creating a cloud of dust in the still morning air. Despite the early hour, there were people moving about, beginning their daily business.

  “Wait here,” Hassim told Bolan, before climbing down from the jeep and heading toward a small group of men clustered around boats that had been dragged from the water’s edge to the shore. As Bolan watched, the group—he counted seven—turned to the approaching man. One of them said something that made the others laugh before stepping forward to accept the embrace Hassim offered him. Bolan was too far away to hear what was said, even assuming he could understand the dialect. He sat impassively, watching as some kind of negotiation took place.

  The bay was wide, and even the most cursory glance showed that the far shore was not in plain sight. That would take them to the Muhafazah of Tartus—easy for him to remember as intel had told him that their target ship was called something not too far removed—and they would have to skirt the coast of this governance in order to reach their destination. Going by water would be easier than using roads—faster, too. But the boats these men were clustered around didn’t look like they could make the pace.

  Hassim left the group and walked back to the jeep. “It’s arranged,” he said with a smile.

  “I hope you’re not expecting those vessels to make time,” Bolan said, indicating the boats that the group still clustered around.

  Hassim looked over his shoulder, then threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You think that I would? No, surely not.” Then, likely noticing the soldier’s set expression, changed. “Cooper, I haven’t forgotten everything I learned over the years. Come with me.”

  Bolan walked in his wake as Hassim barked commands at his men. The jeeps roared to life and circled the edge of the village toward a stone-and-slate barn that looked disused.

  “You know, Cooper, when you work for yourself you have to build a network of those you trust, and also a spread of equipment in places where it may be of use. This is such an instance. Behold.”

  Bolan had to smile—Hassim was enjoying this. And Bolan had to grant that it was worth savoring. His men poured out of their vehicles and opened the doors of the barn, revealing two powerboats on trailers. Both appeared to have been kept in good condition, and the men transferred the ordnance bags from the vehicles to the boats while moving the vehicles around to couple them to the trailers.

  “We can make good speed with these.” Hassim and Bolan watched the procedure. “Time will not be an issue. Watching for harbor and military patrols might. I do not suppose that with your intelligence sources you could determine points of caution?”

  “It’s asking a lot at such notice, but I can try.” Bolan pulled the phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial to Stony Man Farm.

  “Striker, nice to hear from you. Pleasant weather where you are?”

  “You probably already know that, Bear. I need some intel and as fast as you can muster.”

  “I will always do my best by you, Striker.”

  “I’m standing in Rif Dimashq, on the border of Homs, and I’ll be crossing the bay and circling Tartus toward Latakia. Obviously we would prefer not to engage with any harbor patrol or naval forces along the way. We don’t have the time and we can’t afford the attention.”

  “I’ll get on to it. Harbor should be easy. Navy may take a little longer.”<
br />
  “Thanks. But try not to make it too much longer, Bear.”

  Bolan disconnected. Hassim nodded understanding and approval before indicating that they should join his men by the water’s edge. The powerboats had been launched from the trailers and were in the shallows. The men had divided themselves into two parties and were settling into position. Men from the village dragged the trailers from the shallow waters and hooked them back up to the jeeps before removing them to cover.

  “This is a tidy operation you’ve got,” Bolan said as they waded out to join the boats. “If it stays like this, it should be a pleasure doing business with you.”

  * * *

  “A PLEASURE DOING business with you,” Vladimir muttered, palming a clip of cash into the hands of the harbor official. “You do realize the consequences of not carrying through your part of the bargain?”

  The harbor official looked at the man standing before him—six feet plus of muscle and scar tissue, one eye clouded and the other boring into him with a cold ruthlessness. The official had six children and his salary was small. His wife was demanding. But he loved her and his children.

  “I am aware. And scared, if I am honest.”

  Vladimir smiled, icy and vulpine. “Fear can be a good thing. You and your family will have a good long life if you listen to that voice well.”

  “I intend to.”

  The Russian nodded briefly, then left the harbor official’s office and walked across the dock toward his vessel. It was painted in the colors of the Syrian naval forces, and to any onlookers the uniformed men on the deck appeared to be genuine. A gunboat with twin mounted cannon and machine guns, it was—to all intents and purposes—the real thing. The only indication that this was not the case became apparent when Vladimir came aboard without being challenged. He climbed to the bridge, where a small, squat man with a neck thicker than his skull stood waiting for him.

  “Piotr, it is done,” Vladimir said.

  The squat man assented with satisfaction. “This is good. It should be a simple matter to resolve.”

  “I very much hope so. I prefer when things are smooth.” He rubbed unconsciously at the scar that ran from below his ear under the collar of his black shirt. It was a remnant of when things had not run smoothly, and only Piotr’s paramedic skills had prevented his demise.

  The squat man turned to his comm system and gave the order for the gunboat to cast off. They would leave the harbor at Tartus and be at their destination in less than an hour.

  * * *

  “THREE HOURS AND then it will be under way,” Singh said softly as he stared out from the bridge of the Taurus. He wiped his nose.

  “I wish you would leave that until after the auction,” Bosnich murmured.

  “It keeps me sharp. We’ll need that,” Singh retorted. “With merchandise like this, I will be very surprised if we don’t have some kind of dispute during the day.”

  “There is nothing they can do on board,” Bosnich said with a dismissive wave. “Negotiators and delegates, they pose no threat. All else is covered.” He clapped Singh on the shoulder. “Just hold it together, my friend. This is going to be a great day... Why are you so quiet, now?”

  Singh was staring out into the harbor. Coming in from the Mediterranean was a gunboat in Syrian colors. It seemed as though it was heading straight toward them. He frowned.

  “What’s that fucker doing? I laid out good money to avoid this.”

  “We laid out good money,” Bosnich corrected gently. “Why worry? It’s a long way off, and has plenty of time to change course...”

  * * *

  SPRAY FROM THE warm Mediterranan cascaded over them as the prow of the powerboat cut through the water. Behind Bolan and Hassim, five men were hunkered down over the secured ordnance, grabbing what rest they could in the couple of hours it would take to make the distance. Already they were halfway there. The sun was presently high above them, moving across the cloudless sky, the heat becoming stronger.

  Bolan checked his phone. No intel as yet. It wasn’t like Kurtzman to have problems with something that was relatively straightforward.

  In his mind, Bolan had the beginnings of a battle plan. They had two vessels. A pincer movement would divide the security on the yacht. Unless it was heavily armed, they would be up against men with handheld ordnance. What intel he had suggested that it was not large enough to carry any kind of heavy artillery. Reconnaissance would clear up this point. He checked his watch—if they kept on schedule, then there would be the time to do so. If current assumptions proved correct, their companion boat would draw fire and lay down cover while Bolan and Jared would lead the assault on the yacht. The aim was to board the vessel and take the two men who were their objective. Brognola had forwarded Hassim details on the men, including photographs, and he had made all his men aware of these during the briefing.

  It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a simple plan with little that could go wrong and push it off the map.

  Looking to the horizon and then back toward the distant shoreline, Bolan was uneasy about the lack of vessels in the water—some fishing smacks at a distance, ignoring them, but that was all. While he welcomed the lack of interference, he would have expected to run into some routine patrols.

  He hit the speed dial on his phone once again, yelling over the waves.

  “Bear, talk to me.”

  “Strange days, my friend. There are usually patrols in the area both from provincial harbor authorities and from the military. But today there seems to be a distinct lack of activity, and in a very specific and localized area. I would suggest that your target has been at work with a touch of bribery. Good, in that it clears you a path, but bad—”

  “In that they’re very cautious. I’d expect nothing less, if I’m being honest. Thanks, Bear.”

  Bolan pocketed the smartphone and caught Hassim’s quizzical glance, filling him in briefly on what he had been told.

  “So, at least we know what to expect a little more than before,” the grizzled warrior shrugged. “Your plan?” Bolan outlined his thoughts, and when he had finished, Hassim assented. “Seems reasonable.”

  The two men continued to stare ahead as the powerboats cut through the sea. There was nothing to do but wait. The entrance to the harbor at Latakia was finally within range of the naked eye.

  Countdown began to tick in Bolan’s mind.

  * * *

  “GET BELOW AND marshal the men,” Piotr snapped. “We have less than five minutes before we are in range.”

  Vladimir immediately went below deck, barking orders as he did so. His assault team was already assembled, dressed in Syrian military uniforms and carrying weapons that were checked, locked and loaded. One of his team stepped forward at his command, handing him a spare uniform in which he dressed hurriedly. He knew that with his height and coloring he was an unlikely fit for an officer in the Syrian forces, but with good planning his enemy should not have time to assimilate this before being overrun.

  Briefly, he recapped the maneuver for which they had been briefed. The enemy would not expect a Syrian vessel and would be momentarily disarmed. No doubt there would be an argument from one or both of the fools who presumed to set up the auction. This small amount of delay and confusion would be all they would need to open fire, and from there, locate target, secure and extract. It should take no more than a few minutes.

  Vladimir felt the vessel move in the water, broadsiding as it came close to its objective. He indicated to his men to follow, and led them on deck.

  As his head cleared the deck, he could hear the shouts of anger and confusion that were already emanating from the Taurus. His teeth bared in a grin as his feet hit the deck.

  * * *

  “WHAT THE FUCK is going on here?” Bosnich snarled as he picked up the walkie-talkie that connected him to his s
ecurity chief. “Who are these jokers?”

  He saw the security man turn and look in his direction as he spoke into his headset.

  “They aren’t responding to our shouts and they just keep coming. I thought the military were being kept out of this? I can’t just order fire...”

  “No, of course not. The last thing we want is an incident right now. Let them come alongside and allow the captain to board.”

  “Uh, looks like they want more than that,” the security chief answered, his tone betraying uncertainty and nerves.

  Bosnich didn’t blame him. From below deck he could see a six-man team, led by an officer who didn’t look, well, didn’t look like an Arab to him.

  “Hadji, I thought you’d—”

  “I did, believe me,” Singh said, his voice cracked with panic. “They must be from outside the region, but why—”

  Bosnich snatched up the walkie-talkie again. “Those aren’t military—that bastard leading them is no more an Arab than me. Chief, open fire and take protective measures. All men guard the merchandise.” From under the bridge, he snatched up an HK-MP5, which he racked with the practiced ease of one familiar with arms. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he felt alive. The nerves of the previous evening, when all had been peaceful, were paradoxically banished; at least this was something he understood. He turned to Singh, a wild grin slashing across his face. “You’d better get some firepower, Hadji. This is going to be short and ugly—like you, my friend.”

  * * *

  AS THE POWERBOATS entered the harbor, Bolan could see that something was seriously amiss. From the intel Kurtzman had passed on, he had expected to have a clear passage, but there was a gunboat alongside the Taurus—recognizable, as it was the only non-working vessel on the water—and even above the roar of the boat engines he could hear the crackle of gunfire.

  “What the hell is going on?” Hassim yelled above the noise.

  Bolan shook his head. “I don’t know, but it looks like we might be too late for the party.”