Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  Hassim joined Bolan, and the two vehicles turned and headed on the long journey back to the fishing village. It was a long drive to the coast, and Bolan was bone weary after the combination of combat and travel. Despite this, he took first shift at the wheel, carefully briefing his companion on the events that had taken place. Hassim’s eyebrows shot up when he realized that the targets had probably been the architects of their own failure to be freed, but refrained from comment until Bolan had completed his monologue.

  “Matt,” he said slowly, with Bolan noting the change of address and its implications. “Those halfwits chose a stupid time to grow a pair. That’s the kind of lousy luck that loses wars,” he continued, his early American years seeping back into his speech. “Russians, they get all the luck.”

  Bolan grimaced. “Those guys on the ground? They’re soldiers, just like us. They just work for whoever pays top dollar. I don’t care where they come from—I just need to take them down. I’ll need your men, if they’re willing. And if I’m right, it’ll be a long haul.”

  “Ah, we’ve got nothing better to do,” Hassim joked. “Besides, the cash is always useful. If I was them I would be shitting myself and want to get the sale done before the buyers get bored with the haggling and wander away. It should be a simple enough mission.”

  Bolan held his peace. He didn’t agree, but this was not the time to argue. They pulled up, switched drivers, and Bolan settled into the back of the jeep to grab some sleep. Yet his mind still raced, with half an ear out for his phone—as soon as Kurtzman could update him, he’d feel a lot better.

  * * *

  VLADIMIR FELT MUCH the same. Jordan was not a hot zone. Any unrest grumbled below the surface, and the royal family was determined to keep their people at peace with a degree of Western liberalism. Despite this, there was still a military presence in some of the areas that bordered the West Bank, and heading into densely populated Irbid put them right in the middle of that region. If their cargo had been decently dressed and behaving normally, both Russians would have been confident. But they were still in ragged clothing and were not behaving normally. The older man was withdrawn and muttering softly to himself. The younger one was downcast and broken. They would attract attention if their vehicle was stopped. And any search would, of course, reveal ordnance that required explanation.

  “If they want us to do a good job, why do they force us to take such risks?” Vladimir asked coldly. “It would make much more sense to send someone out to us with provision and transport so we could take a wider path and avoid this type of area.”

  Piotr sighed as he guided the vehicle through the outskirts of a city whose buildings and roads contrasted dramatically with the desolation they had so recently left behind.

  “They do not care for such things. They are not soldiers. They are panicking. We must make the most of what we are given to work with.”

  Piotr’s resigned tone spoke more than his words. It would only add to their load if Vladimir continued to complain, so Piotr remained in silence while he used the GPS to guide them to a backstreet garage where two Arabs were looking out for them. Guiding them in and securing the doors, the Arabs waited until Piotr killed the engine before hitting the lights.

  From the outside it had appeared as nothing more than a cheap backstreet chop-shop, with a battered sign and a peeling paint facade. With the interior hidden from the street, the strip lighting across the length of the ceiling revealed a workshop that was immaculately maintained. There were two other vehicles in the garage—an ancient Mercedes truck with a canvas back that was battered and pitted but had an open hood revealing a customised engine; and a Humvee with a mounted M249 SAW 5.56 mm.

  “I can see why you like privacy,” Vladimir said by way of greeting, indicating the two vehicles.

  “It pays to be careful,” one of the Arabs replied. Both were young men, bearded and with faces that were carefully trained to betray little. It was only by their body language that Vladimir determined the man in command.

  “We have been given this location, but no further orders. Do you have any?” he asked.

  The Arab shook his head. “We are to provide you with cover until we receive word. Then we use the truck to convey you to the next location. That has, I think, not been determined.”

  “Good. We could both use a shower and food. The merchandise needs to be cleaned up a little, too,” Vladimir said, indicating the two scientists in the rear of the jeep.

  The Arab peered in, then back at him. “They are what all the fuss is about?”

  Vladimir shrugged. “I agree. But that is not our concern. We just need to get them to the next location in one piece and, frankly, looking good even if they are shit, you know?”

  The Arab shook his head, coughing a short laugh. “Okay. We will do our best.”

  * * *

  “I’VE BEEN DOING my best with it—we all have—but they’re fast, Striker. In many ways.”

  Bolan rubbed his forehead. He was sitting in the building he had left just over twenty-four hours before on his way to Jordan, and he felt as though he was reliving the previous day.

  “I would have expected that. They must have known they’d left the phones and laptop behind. The first thing I’d expect them to do is put up new firewalls.”

  “Naturally—and they’re very good. There’s no back door that anyone here has found, but we did manage to extract a contact list from the email account before it went down. It makes for very interesting reading. The usual suspects, of course, but it was a little saddening to see some names from our own neck of the woods on there.” There was a satirical edge to his voice. “However, sad to say even more that we could not get at what those names have been returning. Hal has them, but what he can do is limited, especially in the short time available.”

  “Listen, Bear, if we know who organized this hijack of the sale, then that’s fine and Hal can deal with that later. That’s not my concern. I need to know where the hell I’m headed next, and how long I have to get there.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That’s kind of what I meant by their being fast in a lot of ways. Hal’s mole is dead. His car had a sudden brake failure.”

  “Won’t that look a little suspicious?”

  “Yeah, well, it was more like they failed to stop him when a ten tonner hit a red light and took him out with a sideswipe. Drunk driver.”

  “You can buy a lot of liquor and an easy jail life with what he must have gotten.”

  “Exactly. Thing is, with the mole gone, Hal can’t move on the names we’ve got in Washington until we’ve hacked their email.”

  Bolan knew what this meant. Enforced downtime until the rendezvous was made and the appropriate email hacked. “Okay. Just keep informed.”

  He disconnected and relayed the information to Hassim and his men. There was a tension in the air that was difficult to dispel. When they reached the village and Hassim put the proposition to the men, there had been little hesitation in their agreement. Bolan could pay well from his war chest, and in truth some of the men felt cheated of the action they had been expecting on their earlier excursion. Combat and the adrenaline rush could be a drug. But now they were sitting around, waiting—and that was the worst feeling. Some gambled, others prayed. One or two disappeared outside the main building. Hassim told them to rest up, be ready—not so easy when they were hyped up and ready to roll.

  Bolan was sure the Russians would be headed to Libya, but Hassim couldn’t see it. He said, “Matt, I am a simple man and I believe in a simple man’s ways. If you have produce to sell, you do not tell your buyer to follow you across half the fucking continent. Egypt has plenty of places to hide two men and some soldiers.” There was little point in Bolan trying to get the mercenary leader to listen to a battle plan until the destination was settled. So all he could do was sit and wait, a
nd mull it over in his own mind.

  If it was Libya, then which part of the country would be most likely? Great swaths of it were desert, like Jordan. There were also areas of oasis, raised on plateaus, and because these were isolated from each other they tended not to gather towns and cities. Oil was more important than water. The oil regions were those with the densest populations. If he was back in a Washington bar he would bet any money on the north of the country, where there were some oases and not a lot else. That also took them to a coastal region, and with a no-fly zone anywhere near water it made things a whole lot easier to set up. How long would it take the team to get there by boat? Come to that, how long would it take to procure a seaworthy vessel for such a journey?

  There was a lot to think about and the clearer he had it in his mind, the quicker he could relay it to Hassim when the moment came. Except that fate—and Kurtzman—had other ideas. His train of thought was interrupted by the ring of his cell.

  “Bear—speak to me.”

  “You got it right. Libya. Twenty-eight hours. Nearest coastal city where you could land is Derna, and the rendezvous is a good eight hours over the desert, down to the southwest. Man, it’s mostly desert—”

  “Most of it is over there,” Bolan interjected.

  “Damn right, Striker. Point is that you don’t have a lot of time to get over there, especially as flying is a no-no. I’ve sent you the details and maps that you’ll need. We don’t have much on the ground there—it’s still chaos with the NTC, and—”

  “That’s okay, I have what I need.” He paused. “There is one thing, Bear. If Hal’s mole is down, then—”

  “Striker, you wouldn’t believe who came up on that damn list. Hal has the details, though what he can do with it other than cover his own ass I don’t know. What I do know is that you should watch your back.”

  “Friendly fire?”

  “I don’t know about that. I do know that it’s likely the Russians could back-engineer and figure out who hacked them. Whether they can do it before the auction takes place is another matter.”

  Bolan nodded to himself. “Fine. Guess we know where we are. I’ll set up my boys, and maintain silence unless I need something real fast. You couldn’t manage a UN air strike at short notice if I need one, I suppose?”

  “Hey, we can hack anything and send the order. Doesn’t mean it can’t be traced.”

  “Yeah, but that would be when it was too late.” Bolan smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Bear.”

  “Unless it was really necessary,” Kurtzman replied with heavy emphasis. “The impossible just takes a little longer, Striker. You take it easy out there.”

  Bolan signed off, took a deep breath and looked back to the village.

  Time to roll.

  * * *

  “COLONEL, IT’S GOOD to see you again...”

  Colonel Tom Osterman shook the proffered hand and looked around. It was late evening, and the Mall was almost deserted. In the shadow of the Supreme Commander, he felt uneasy at this meeting, no matter how high the clearance of the man before him.

  “Make this quick, Senator. There are too many eyes and ears,” Osterman whispered, not realizing this was hardly an original observation.

  “Most of them are ours, Colonel. This concerns Chronos.”

  Osterman’s gut churned. Black ops and hidden budgets had been the bane of his life since becoming a desk jockey. Trouble was, you could hide paperwork and figures but you couldn’t unlearn...too many people knew exactly how deeply he was involved, even though all he yearned for was retirement and a pension.

  “I—I wasn’t aware of your involvement—”

  “No, possibly not. But I was certainly aware of yours. You only have six months until you retire. It would be a shame if that was dogged by rumor and an official investigation that may possibly even cause you—”

  “I get it, Senator. What do you need?”

  “As you are aware, Chronos is heavily reliant on nuclear technology. This is expensive and cumbersome. Currently we are trying to obtain the sole rights to a process that may solve our current problems. There are other interested parties, but we are confident that we can outbid them.”

  “Then I don’t see—”

  The senator sighed. “It’s quite simple. Another private project within our governmental structure has an interest in stopping the auction for this property going ahead. We need someone to ensure that the sale is not interrupted. It is important for our own needs that this seem to be a legitimate—if you will excuse the term under such conditions—auction. You see what I mean?”

  There was a pause. Osterman knew too well, and was unwilling to voice either his understanding or his objection. The senator realized this.

  “Let me put it more simply, Colonel. You will send a covert task force to prevent our representatives from disrupting the sale.”

  “Go up against our own.” It was a statement of disgust rather than a question.

  “It may be distasteful to you, but it is necessary for your own well-being as much as the project’s. Let me put it this way. Are you familiar with Camus?” The senator smiled at the colonel’s puzzled expression. “No, perhaps not. I mention him because I once saw a play where a man returned to an isolated inn after many years away. He was thought dead, I believe, and his mother and sister had spent the intervening years robbing and killing their guests. He wished to surprise them and so did not at first reveal his identity. Unfortunately, it was only after his death, on examining his billfold, that they discovered the truth. It was called Cross Purposes, which is as apt a description as I can think of. You understand me, of course?”

  Osterman thought of his log cabin by the lake and his grandchildren sharing their summer vacations with him.

  “It will be done,” he said finally, with only the slightest crack in his voice betraying his true feelings.

  * * *

  THE IPAD SAT center of the table while Bolan indicated the location of the auction and detailed his plan. They would set up camp on the edge of the Qattara Depression, which would place them about thirty klicks from their enemy’s location. When he pointed out Derna as a likely landing point, he was interrupted by Hassim.

  “Just along the coast, up near Egypt, is Tobruk. Less busy. Fewer prying eyes. You follow?”

  Bolan assented. “Good idea. Apt, too.” He smiled when he caught Hassim’s puzzled expression. “Military history, World War Two. Rommel and the Nazi panzer divisions ruled the desert, and by rights should never have been defeated. They reckoned without the British general, Montgomery. His forces were smaller, their hardware not so adaptable. But he had balls, and he knew overweening arrogance when he saw it. He out-thought Rommel, and that’s what we’re going to have to do. They might have more men than last time—hell, they’d be damned stupid not to—but their attention will be split between the possibility of our assault, and maintaining order in a bunch of bidders who may just be spitting blood by now. We have to take advantage of that. Superior force can always be overturned by surprise and intelligence.”

  Hassim looked at his men. “Matt Cooper, you just better hope you have brains, ’cause I can’t vouch for me and my boys,” he said with a sly grin.

  * * *

  VLADIMIR AND PIOTR were much happier men. Cleaned up, and with their charges also cleaned up and fed, they had been taken in the camo truck to the rendezvous with the vessel that would take them from their port side destination out into the Mediterranean and toward Libya. From the outside it seemed to be a down-at-heel cargo boat of medium size, flying a Liberian flag. It could have been any one of a dozen idling at dockside while their crews killed time until they could find a non-Muslim port and drink their wages away. And while it was true that it was, in a sense, a cargo boat that would relay a most valuable load across the water, that was where the resem
blance ended once the two Russians and their charges were aboard.

  Although the bridge appeared to be weather-beaten and rusting from the outside, the interior contained state-of-the-art equipment and communications equipment that was military in origin. Similarly, when the Russians went aboard they were interested, rather than surprised, to see that the tawdry exterior belied a below deck set-up that housed cabins for both crew and a number of passengers, with much of the cargo space taken up by extra cabin space and a fully equipped armory. Much of the above deck container space was taken up by dummies that could be stripped back to reveal mounted gun and cannon emplacements similar to that of military vessels of comparable size.

  Below decks, after they had been shown their bunks for the journey and their charges were secured, the Russians were taken to the captain. He relayed their destination, plans for their travel into the interior of the Libyan desert to the Qattarra region and the main oasis where, even as they spoke, forces had been advanced to set up and secure the site where the merchandise would be auctioned. On board the ship were six men who were detailed to accompany them on the road trip across the desert to the location. Another half-dozen men were on board as security in the event of any attempted intervention.

  This time, it seemed to the two Russians, their paymasters had taken into account possible danger and disruption and left little to chance.

  “I prefer it that way,” Piotr said as the two men stood on the forward deck, looking across the Mediterranean as the prow split the deceptively calm waters. He hawked and spat into the wash below them.

  “I would prefer it to be finished,” Vladimir said flatly. “We are better prepared, but I have a bad feeling in my gut.”

  “I, too, have never liked Arab food,” Piotr said straight-faced. It was only when the taller man gave him a cold stare that his face cracked. “Vladimir, I have never understood your unrelenting pessimism. Of course there is always risk. But if you are ready, and have the greater firepower, then you have all the advantage you need.”