Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  Gabriel pulled Hoeness out of the trailer and toward the jeep. The older man staggered at his heels. Gabriel clambered into the vehicle and fumbled frantically with the ignition. The key had been left in, as it had in all the vehicles, to enable their captors to use them with ease.

  “Hurry up,” Hoeness hissed, not helping the nerves that caused Gabriel to stumble over his actions.

  Both men flinched as the windshield of the vehicle starred and shattered. They looked up to see Vladimir—still and silent like a rock while the madness whirled around him—standing before them, about ten yards from the front of the jeep, arm extended with a Beretta 93R in his fist.

  The engine of the jeep coughed into life while both scientists sat, seemingly transfixed, by the man before them.

  * * *

  BOLAN MOVED IN on the encampment. Triggering the last of his explosives, he also took short blasts at more moving targets. Another two down, one of them dead and the other uncertain—so far he had been able to even up the numbers a little without getting in too close. That would have to change.

  He took a flash grenade from his stock, and used the diversion of the last explosive charge to stand upright and launch it in the direction of the camp. He risked his targets being caught up in the detonation, but it was a chance he would have to take. He was still outnumbered and would need to use any advantage he could take.

  He fell to the ground as the grenade arced through the air. There was no fire hitting sand around him, so it was safe to assume that his location had not been spotted in the confusion.

  The roar of an explosion and a flash of light that penetrated even through his closed and covered eyes told him that it was time to move. Flashing lights appeared before his eyes as he stood up and started to move toward the camp. He shook his head to clear his vision; he had to be as sharp as possible in order to take out any enemy while locating and securing his targets.

  Not a big ask, he thought grimly.

  There was no fire on him as he advanced toward the camp. The flash grenade had done its work and the guards were temporarily blinded. It was a relatively easy task for him to pick them off before they had a chance to adjust. But as he got closer to the camp and the numbers of opposition thinned out, it struck him that there was a problem. Among those who were falling easily, he could see no sign of either Russian.

  If they were with the two targets, then this could be a much trickier task than he would have liked.

  It was then, as the echoes of the grenade blast cleared in his ears, that he realized he could hear two distinct jeep engines whine and roar in the desert air. As the last of the guards fell to his HK G63A4 bursts, he scanned the immediate area and then cursed loudly as he saw the plumed clouds of two jeeps exiting to the west. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a pursuit rather than a retreat.

  There were vehicles left in the compound, which presently resembled a charnel house as he was surrounded by the decimated guard. He headed toward them, knowing that he had no time to waste. With every step the two vehicles escaped him more—the last thing he wanted was to have a firefight on the move, but it looked as if that was the way it was going to be.

  * * *

  GABRIEL HAD BEEN frozen for a moment, seeing the tall Russian framed in the shattered windshield. But then the adrenaline had kicked in and he figured that no matter how valuable he and Hoeness may be, there was every chance that the Russian would just take them out and to hell with his paymasters.

  Well, he’d had enough of being ground underfoot. If this was how it was going to end for him, he might as well go out fighting. He hadn’t fought so far, and just look where that had gotten him.

  He gunned the engine and released the brake, and the jeep shot forward toward the tall Russian. If Gabriel was to stop him from firing at them again, then the only hope was to mow him down.

  * * *

  VLADIMIR STOOD HIS ground for a second, pumping three shots at the shattered windshield and the hood of the vehicle. The shells whined off the metal of the vehicle, and uselessly through the empty windshield as Gabriel ducked down and pushed his fellow scientist flat in his seat.

  Swearing loudly, the Russian dove out of the way after pumping the rest of the magazine into the approaching vehicle, blindly hoping to cause damage to man or machine. He was unsuccessful, and rolled across the floor of the camp, bumping into the dead body of one of his men and getting a mouthful of bloodied sand for his trouble.

  When he came upright, wiping the sand from his eyes, he could see that the jeep piloted by the scientist had veered wildly, cutting across the tent that should have held the auction, causing it to fall symbolically.

  “Vladimir—come on!” Piotr yelled from behind him. Wheeling around, Vladimir could see that the fat man had taken the wheel behind another of the vehicles. He ran across, reloading as he went, and climbed in beside Piotr, who already had the engine running.

  “Who the fuck is attacking us?” he yelled.

  Vladimir shrugged. “Get going. Whoever they are, they won’t follow us.”

  As their jeep wheeled and spun around in the sand, Vladimir leaned out and took out the tires of the remaining vehicles, two on each, to render them useless. He could hear the chatter of fire and the screams of his men—he had no idea how many were in the assault party, but neither did he care. His men had proved to be of straw when it came to it. The task he and the fat man had left to them was to secure their cargo, and then retreat and regroup in safety.

  He reloaded once more as Piotr hit the gas and urged his vehicle on over the desert sands, the engine screaming as he tried to gain ground on the erratic vehicle in front of them that veered wildly as the scientist fought for control.

  Behind them, the camp grew silent as the guards were taken out one by one. A pall of smoke and cordite hung over it. Neither of the Russians looked back—it could be written off, as long as they regained their cargo.

  But it would have to be paid for, eventually—and not by them.

  * * *

  BOLAN CURSED LOUDLY as he saw the wheels of the vehicles that had been left behind. Two flats on each. There was no way that he would be able to follow the two vehicles that grew smaller on the horizon with each second. He couldn’t make up his mind if this was a strategic retreat or if it was some kind of escape attempt by his targets, pursued by the Russians. It would make more sense if it was the former, as that would more readily explain the disabling of the remaining vehicles. And yet there was something about it...

  Bolan made a quick survey of the camp. There was no indication of anyone left alive; even those he had only injured had not been able to survive long in the crossfire and with no immediate medical assistance. While this meant that he would encounter no more resistance, it also left him with no one that he could interrogate. Not that they would probably have known much—they were likely just grunts.

  Even though he was in no immediate danger, there was still a need for speed. If there was anything left here that would give him intel indicating where they may head next, then the sooner he could get it and return to his own vehicle the better. Part of him cursed his caution in leaving his vehicle so far away, even though this had been in every other way the correct decision.

  The tent, only part of which was still erect, revealed nothing except that it had been laid out in a similar manner to the stateroom on the yacht. There were no tents for the men, which suggested that they had not intended to be hanging around too long.

  Would it be worth waiting to get a look at the incoming auction bidders? He wondered about this for a moment, then dismissed it. It may be useful for Brognola, but it would get him nowhere in regaining the targets.

  The trailer, too, revealed very little. A radio receiver, clothes in a cupboard unit, and the materials taken from the yacht that belonged to the scientists. Whatever happened next, the car
tel that was behind this would be forced to conduct the auction without the demonstration materials.

  That was a point worth considering—where would they go next? This was assuming that the Russians had taken the scientists with them and not, as seemed possible, that the scientists had used the cover of his attack to try and escape. If they were taken alive, then what?

  Too many questions and not enough intel to make a decision. It was a long way back to his own transport, and he was losing ground and time by pondering these questions. Information was what he needed, though it seemed thin on the ground here. He left the trailer and looked around at the silent camp. All that was left were the remaining vehicles. It was a long shot, but there seemed to be little else to hope for. With any luck, the Russians had taken the first vehicle at hand and not necessarily the one they used as a mobile command post—for they must have operated like that, there was no other OP.

  It was the second vehicle he searched. The Russians had left a laptop and two smartphones. Unless either of them carried one on his person, then Bolan had lucked into their entire communications and intel system.

  He took the three pieces of equipment and secured them on his person. He was still carrying the HK, and intended to keep it handy until he was well clear of the site—which he needed to be soon. Forget that the Russians and the targets were well away—incoming bidders and their security were now a threat. He needed to get back to his own vehicle and his own phone and laptop, which he had purposely left behind.

  Squaring himself, Bolan took one last look around before sighting his location and beginning the march back to the deserted farm.

  * * *

  GABRIEL DROVE HARD, but with a sinking feeling. He had no idea in which direction he was headed, and the desert blowing up around him was blinding him as he tried to pilot the vehicle. Beside him, Hoeness was crying. The older man had completely gone to pieces, and in truth Gabriel did not blame him. It was only the fear of what would happen if they stopped and were caught that was making him carry on. Who, looking at them at this moment, would believe that these two disheveled, terrified and cowed men were scientists of international reputation who had researched their way to what they saw as a breakthrough for mankind?

  Who gave a shit about mankind right now? Gabriel thought. All he wanted was to live, and not to be frightened. Not necessarily in that order.

  He risked looking behind him, the vehicle bucking as he took his eyes off the undulating and treacherous dunes that rose and fell around them. There was no doubt that the other jeep was catching up with them. It drove straighter, truer than Gabriel could pilot his own vehicle. It seemed as though it had a life of its own: implacable. The windshield hid the occupants from view, but at least the Russians had not yet fired on them. That was something—maybe a sign that they would not kill them outright. Perhaps they still had value. Slavery was preferable to death—a bowed and subservient existence better than none at all. Gabriel would never have believed he could have felt that way, but the imminent approach of death had affected him in an unexpected manner.

  This panicked train of thought cost their freedom. He turned back to face the front, still distracted, and failed to see a sudden dip in the sands. There was not enough time for him to steer the vehicle out of the drop, and he was thrown forward over the wheel, stalling the vehicle. The air was driven out of him by the impact, and as he tried to draw breath despite aching ribs, he heard the pursuing vehicle slow and come to a halt behind them.

  Hoeness was still crying.

  * * *

  PIOTR SAT BEHIND the wheel, his face giving nothing away as he listened to the voice on the other end of his cell phone. Vladimir could not hear the words, but the distant and tinny timbre of the voice coming through to him told him all he needed to know. He sat looking straight ahead, not wanting to embarrass his colleague by catching his eye. Looking ahead through the windshield he could see the rear of the stalled jeep with its tail in the air as it sat in the hollow formed by the dune. There was no sign of movement. He doubted that the crash had been enough to seriously injure the two scientists. Fear was what had paralyzed them—that and a crushing sense of defeat. He doubted they would cause him any further trouble.

  They would not have caused him any trouble in the first place if not for whoever had mounted the attack on the encampment; they were the ones who would get payback, when he had the time.

  Finally, Piotr snapped his cell shut and sighed.

  “What did they say?” Vladimir asked without looking at him.

  “As you would expect, we are incompetent dogs who are not worth the money they pay us, and if we fuck up one more time they will have us hunted down like the dogs that we are and have us killed slowly and painfully.”

  “Yes, of course. They have their tantrums. But what of our orders?”

  “Ah, yes. We are dogs who are incompetent but still we must gather the cargo and proceed to an arranged spot where we will be met. From there, a new auction point will be given to us, as it will to those who wish to bid, and we will be assisted to the location. We are still good enough, despite our lowly station, to act as their bodyguards.”

  “Naturally. They would have to hire us to track ourselves, they know that. I would assume that they also realize that whoever attacked us and facilitated this escape must have obtained our location from a leak?”

  “They are angry, not stupid. I think they will be investigating that.”

  “I also think that they will not rush a second auction,” Vladimir said. “They will have to be cautious about security, not just for us, but for those whose cash they hope to extract.”

  “So you are saying that this may be a good thing in the longer term, yes?” the fat man asked sardonically.

  “Of course. Everything can be worked to your advantage if you think about it,” Vladimir replied with a humor that his face did not betray. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do.”

  He got out of the jeep, drawing the Beretta 93R and keeping it in both hands, pointed down, as he advanced on the dunes. Proscribing an arc, he half slid, half walked down the shifting sand, keeping his balance with an ease that betrayed his training. When he drew level with the side door of the jeep, he lifted the Beretta up so that it was level with the door.

  “Come out,” he said in German. “Slowly. No stupidity. No time wasting. You have nowhere to go, eh?”

  He waited. There was no sign of movement from within, but he remained—gun leveled, posture steady. Eventually, the door opened and Gabriel crawled out. He looked beaten. He stood in front of Vladimir, head bowed. After a short wait, Hoeness followed, coming out on his hands and knees. He had stopped crying—there was nothing left—but he was shaking.

  Vladimir looked at them. They were pathetic. But they were his job.

  “On your feet,” he barked at Hoeness. When the scientist did not respond, the Russian snapped at Gabriel. “Help him.”

  The younger scientist helped the older one into a semicrouching position, and they shuffled toward the jeep where Piotr was waiting.

  “I’ll be glad when this is fucking over.” Vladimir sighed as he watched them go.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD REACHED his jeep in double time, and was taking a brief and cursory look at the phones and the laptop while he called Stony Man Farm from his own phone. He cut off Kurtzman’s greeting and briefly outlined what had happened.

  “Uploading now,” Bolan said as he relayed the information on the laptop hard disk to Stony Man Farm. “Listen, these guys will be desperate to get this completed, but I’ve had a long march back to think about it, and they’re not going to be hurrying unnecessarily. They’re also going to realize Hal has a mole in their camp, so things may get tight. The way they’ve proceeded before, the logical move would be Israel. But I can’t see them wanting to cross swords with the Israelis. E
gypt is possible, but I’d put cash money on Libya. There’s still enough chaos in the transitional council for them to find holes.”

  “I’ll get on to what you’ve sent. Anything we can take from it that can be traced back to the Russians, or get us hacked into their networks, I’ll let you know.”

  “Make it soon, Bear. I’m heading back to the border. I’ll need men next time, and I know who I can rely on.”

  “You can take them with you?”

  “If there’s a way, then Jared will know it. It’s just a matter of logistics.”

  “I’ll tell Hal that if a bill comes in,” Kurtzman said before signing off.

  Bolan sat for a brief moment, looking at the cell phone, before sighing and putting the jeep into gear.

  “I’ll be glad to see the back of this one,” he said to himself, little realizing how he echoed his adversary.

  Chapter 11

  “Cooper, I have to admit I didn’t think I’d be seeing you alive again. But then again, I didn’t think that if I did see you it would be alone, either,” Jared Hassim shrugged as Bolan arrived at the rendezvous. The other two Arab fighters looked on impassively.

  “Things did not go exactly according to plan,” Bolan said wryly. “Not that they ever do, I guess. But it does mean that I may have some use for you.”

  “If the price is right,” Hassim replied in a deceptively offhand manner. “I would rather we discuss this elsewhere. It feels a little uncomfortable to be so close to the border carrying so much hardware. Anyone who happens along may not be as understanding as I would like.”

  Bolan was agreeable. It made sense for them to move, and it would also save him time—even though they may spend hours traveling, minutes could still matter.

  “Drive with me,” he said. “I’ll brief you on the way.”