Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  “Enough. We have work to do, without this distraction. Our men will be ready for any attack. We know they have been reduced by two men at least. If there are more casualties or wounded they have to carry, then so much the better. Now we must prepare, yes?”

  Vladimir took a last look at the now barely breathing Arab and assented. He allowed Piotr to lead him away, not noticing the signal that passed between the Libyan and the fat Russian. It was only when they were outside the tent that he heard the single shot.

  * * *

  A SINGLE TRUCK moved across the desert sands, its oddly lurching motion revealing the shifting of the sands beneath its heavy wheels. Inside was a detachment of Marines briefed for action. They knew of two objectives. The first was to neutralize the two forces they would be ranged against. The second was to take two men from the danger zone and transport them back to U.S. soil. They were twenty-five miles from their objective.

  * * *

  THE MORNING SUN lit the camp and enabled Bolan and Hassim to take stock of their men and hardware. The battle of the night before had been short and sharp. There were two missing, two dead, and although Shadeeb was in better condition that he had feared, he was still not up to speed. Nine fit men and one operating at a disadvantage. It was not what Bolan would have preferred. But on the upside, they hadn’t used as much of their ordnance as he had feared during the firefight, and they were still well equipped.

  They pitched camp and loaded up, heading for the auction site, thirty klicks across the desert. It would be hard to hide when they got close, and an all-out frontal assault was their best option. All the more so as their enemy knew their starting location. Rafik and Aref were good men, almost certainly gone, and even if they had talked—which was unlikely—they knew nothing that the enemy couldn’t have already guessed.

  As the two jeeps rattled across the desert sands toward their fate, Bolan took stock of his men. Hassim’s mien set the tone—the Arab mercenaries had a personal involvement in this now that went beyond cash. There would be no doubts about their ferocity—it would just be a matter of whether or not they would let rage color their actions.

  It would help if he could gain some intel on the layout of the enemy camp. Bolan took out his smartphone. He had been unwilling to use it as it could be tracked, but it was too late to worry about that. After the preliminaries, he asked if Stony Man Farm had picked up any extra intel that could be of use.

  “Striker, they shut up on us tighter than a gnat’s ass. Moreover, they hacked us so easily I’m starting to wonder just who is behind these Russians, or who they’re working with. Oligarchs can buy a shitload of tech, but there are some things that the military just doesn’t let out easily. And they look like they’ve got that. Hal’s onto their Washington connection, hopefully before they get his ass. You need to watch your back. That UN flightload is headed your way, too.”

  “To stop us?”

  “I don’t know. Stop you, disrupt the auction—”

  “Both,” Bolan interjected. “It’s best to assume that, I guess. Everyone is an enemy unless actions prove otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. All I can tell you is they’re good—very good.”

  Bolan ended the call. It was no more than he had expected, in truth; their enemy had been one jump ahead all the way along, and the only reason they were able to play catch-up was because the opposition had stopped moving.

  He looked at the mileage on the jeep’s odometer. Only five miles to go. Showtime.

  * * *

  SUNRISE ALSO BROUGHT a sense of foreboding for the two scientists as the rays penetrated the shades of their trailer window. Since being brought here, the two men had tried to sleep, but neither had been able to get anything more than a fitful rest. Piotr had visited them the previous night and had briefed them on what was expected of them. They were to deliver the same presentation that they had prepared for the original auction. When Hoeness pointed out that they did not have the laptop that contained all their data and slideshow material, the fat Russian had laughed in his face and hit him.

  “We are not selling a laptop, fool. That is just window-dressing. Our clients will only want to know that you are alive, sane and available to take up where you left off. We are not selling the idea—they are already sold on that, or else they would not be here. We are selling you. Get that into your heads and at least you will walk out of here to some kind of life. If you fail, and our clients do not make bids, then we will be left with you. A lot of time and money has gone into procuring you and bringing you here. Those who employ myself and Vladimir will not be pleased...either with you, or with us. They will want you disposed of, and believe me, my friend, if they also want a piece of our ass then we will make sure that you suffer for us...”

  Neither scientist had said anything, but they had heard the screams of two other men echo in the night, and then the finality of the pistol shot. That had been a partial cause of their fitful rest. They had no doubt that the fat Russian would be as good as his word. The only thing that concerned them both—though neither would say it to the other—was whether or not the traumas of the last few days had caused them to be so shocked that they would lose any rationality. Feeling like they were living in a nightmare, both men felt as though they had lost touch with themselves.

  They showered and dressed without exchanging a word. It was only when they heard the desert air split by the sound of choppers in the distance that Gabriel turned to Hoeness.

  “I don’t think I can do this. I barely know who I am anymore. And I think I might rather that the nightmare ended than carry on, no matter what that means.”

  The older man shook his head. “You say that, but facing death makes me want to cling more to life, no matter how insane it might seem. If you cannot talk, then for the sake of God do not hinder me. I am so scared I could talk for both of us.”

  * * *

  THE PIECE OF equipment Bolan pulled from his duffel bag was small and delicate—in truth it was a surprise that it had come this far unscathed—and Hassim looked at it with interest.

  “Matt, I’ve not seen one of those before.”

  Bolan’s teeth bared in what would, under any other circumstances, been a grin. “Hear that? Look,” he said, gesturing in the direction they were headed. “Incoming. We haven’t got time to be delicate about this. I’m betting they’ve got motion sensors and cameras buried around here, just waiting to tip them off. Ordinarily, we’d stop and dig them out. No time for that now, but at least we can see where they are, know how much notice they’ve got of us coming.”

  The detector would not tell him much when used in this way, serving only the purpose he had stated. The one good thing about having to approach in this way, with the attendees for the auction approaching, was that the forces of their opponents would be divided between their customers and their oncoming attackers.

  For there was little doubt that they would be running straight into the middle of the auction they had come to prevent. Three choppers were approaching the enemy camp. All three were UH-1D Hueys. Crewed by two men, they each held fourteen passengers. That made for forty-two passengers, representatives of up to twenty nation states, with one bodyguard apiece. He seriously doubted that they would have been allowed more than that. Somewhere in there was a U.S. black-ops bidder, representing a part of the government of which even the legislature was probably ignorant.

  The Hueys were identical and carried no identifying marks. Bolan figured that they had beat the no-fly zone by the simple expedient of coming from the coast and keeping low after picking up their passengers from a prearranged point. There would be little opportunity for the NTC’s new Libyan Republic air force to even realize they were airborne, let alone intercept them, in the short time they were up. That was always assuming that blind eyes had not been paid for, anyway.

  “Got it,”
he yelled as the choppers passed over a seemingly empty stretch of sand. “Impulses from remotes, looks like they’re strung around, but they begin and end as early warning here... They now know we’re inside,” he affirmed to Hassim.

  “Fine. Let’s rack up the tension a little, then,” the mercenary chief snarled.

  Gesturing with an upraised arm and a circling hand, he brought his jeep to a halt as the other vehicle pulled up close. The men rapidly disembarked and checked their ordnance while Bolan marshaled them around him.

  “You know what to do. Spread out, keep it real frosty and take position. Synchronize—” those men with watches joined him in so doing “—and in twenty you start maneuvers.”

  The men assented. Their game plan was simple. The arriving bidders had been perfectly timed—the Russians wouldn’t be able to devote all their resources in coming to meet their attackers. Knowing that they were inside the cordon in two vehicles, they would be expecting a full-frontal assault.

  They weren’t going to get it. Make them wait, get nervous and anxious. Meantime, spread out and form a pincer. The enemy’s greater numbers were neutralized by the need to secure and conduct the auction. Let that begin, perhaps—then attack.

  But while they waited, Bolan had a preliminary of his own to undertake. Part reconnaissance and part expeditionary, he would go ahead of the pack and set up a few surprises of his own.

  Bolan took a last look around the men who were serving with him, knowing it might be the last.

  “We know what we need to do. Let’s do it, and hope I see you all on the other side.”

  * * *

  “GENTLEMEN, IF YOU will follow me, I will show you to where the auction is to take place. I would ask that your personal security keep their weapons out of sight and out of action. I will not insult you by asking them to discard these weapons, but remind you that this site has been secured by our men for your express safety and to expedite a quick, efficient and fair sale.”

  Piotr cast his eye over the throng that had disembarked from the choppers. Like animals from the ark, they came in pairs. The alpha males were the suited, briefcase-carrying men who exuded an air of authority; the lesser partners were the larger, security men with bulging armpits accompanying each alpha male, seemingly handpicked because they looked the part. Eyes hidden behind shades that were part functional, part shield and image, the security men were impassive, even when they looked around. The alpha male delegates, however, made no secret of the contempt and competition in their eyes as they sized each other up even before they followed the uniformed guards into the air-conditioned tent that had been prepared for them.

  It was all show. They only wished to outgun each other with words and hard cash. Piotr only wished to get the sale concluded, ship the merchandise and then turn his attention to the matter of the American and his Arab men who had been dogging their footsteps.

  His reverie was broken by the approach of the ex-general placed in charge of the camp.

  “Please, this way,” he murmured, taking Piotr’s forearm to guide him toward the smaller tent that served as the Libyan’s OP center. “Your friends are approaching. They have passed the outer defense line. I have sent a preliminary team to meet them. Look.”

  On his laptop, he clicked and replayed film from the cameras, showing the vehicles crossing the cordon of motion detectors and cameras. He played it at quarter speed so that Piotr had a good view of his approaching enemy. Data from the motion sensors played in sidebars, showing the weight of the vehicles, times crossed and speed.

  “They don’t give up, do they?” he muttered to himself. “But can they really be that careless?” He looked away from the laptop screen at the Libyan. “Thank you. Proceed as you think. I must inform my colleague.”

  This was something Vladimir would relish.

  * * *

  BOLAN COUNTED IN HIS head as he made his way across the sand toward the camp. The undulations of the desert gave him little cover, but he guessed that the bulk of the opposition forces would be directed either at the men he had left behind or maintaining security at the auction. He was also hoping for a wild-card entry from the UN planeload. They were inevitable, although their timing could not be relied upon.

  As he progressed, he kept a weather eye on the small device he carried with him. If there were any other motion sensors or cameras, he would be able to skirt them. Nothing had shown so far, and he guessed that the need to set up the camp quickly had led them to use the tech purely as a cordoned warning system.

  In desert camo, he was now within sight of the camp. Not that he could get a good view from his current position—a couple of vehicles and the blank canvas and tarp of some tenting were all that greeted him. There was also little in the way of any regular patrol. In fact, from this angle there was no sign of life at all.

  As a survey it told him nothing. As a back-door entry, it was ideal. He made his way across the sands and into the outskirts of the camp.

  Approaching, he could hear voices from several of the tents. In one, it sounded like one man on a communications system. Farther over he heard the babble of several voices, likely from the auction tent. By the sound of it, business had not yet commenced.

  If that was the case, then his targets were not obscured by the mass of potential buyers. They were still contained somewhere. This would make them easier to take. But first he would have to locate them.

  He carried the HK G3A4 slung across his back, with a .357 SIG P228 holstered on his thigh. But neither of these would be appropriate until the firefight began in earnest. He also had a benchmade Stryker automatic knife with a 4-inch Tanto blade, which he unsheathed as he moved toward the first tent in his path. A good piece of steel would be silent and more efficient.

  Then he heard another sound that was barely audible beneath the voices. Distant, but getting closer.

  Bolan allowed himself a small smile—his wild card was approaching.

  * * *

  PIOTR WAS ALMOST out of the tent when he heard the Libyan gasp. He turned back, looking over the shoulder of the ex-general at the laptop screen. The image of a large truck, played in real time, appeared.

  “Who—” Piotr cut himself off. The question was irrelevant—the Libyan would know no more than he did. From the intel they had, the whole force that had followed them was concentrated in those two vehicles that had earlier crossed the cordon. This truck—with its unknown number of men—was an unknown quantity in all ways and could only be considered as hostile.

  Perhaps Vladimir would not have the chance for revenge that he wished. Perhaps he would be too distracted by what was to come.

  “They will be on top of us in no time. How many men do we have free?”

  The Libyan looked at him, confused. “None. Why would we? I sent half out to deal with the enemy—the enemy we knew about,” he corrected himself. “The rest are concentrated on the auction and guarding the merchandise.”

  Piotr stared at him. “We have no circulating guards?”

  The Libyan shrugged. “I deployed as seemed appropriate.”

  Piotr swore softly in Russian. With that kind of sense, it was little wonder that the colonel’s men had fallen so easily.

  “Take them off the merchandise—just leave one. Take half off the auction tent—let those idiots try to blow each other away if they are that stupid. If we do not stop this, then whoever is incoming will do it for them.”

  Piotr hurried from the tent in search of his comrade, leaving the Libyan barking orders into the earpieces of the guards scattered between the camp and the desert beyond. He passed within a couple of yards of Bolan, who had been listening from his concealed position.

  Bolan let the Russian go—time enough for him later. What he had heard suited him well. Spreading the confusion by taking out the Libyan and the communications center would be useful, but
the timing was wrong. It would alert them too soon to an intruder right inside.

  The merchandise—his target—was to be guarded by just the one man. Good. His job was to secure them and then set up a diversion. Not necessarily in that order.

  Bolan moved on, leaving the Libyan to issue orders, unaware of how close he had come to his own death.

  Bolan had to find the location where the scientists were being kept. If it was anything like the last encampment, they would be housed in a trailer until such time as they were brought before potential buyers. Moving between the layers of canvas, he heard footsteps approaching at the double and stepped back into cover as a guard ran past, muttering in Arabic into a mic.

  Bolan’s grin broadened—the guard had been taken off the merchandise. All he had to do was retrace the man’s footsteps and he would have reached objective one.

  A distant sound told him that it couldn’t have been better timing.

  * * *

  HASSIM DIVIDED HIS men into four teams and sent them on their way. They would skirt the circumference of the camp, moving in as they did, so that they would be in position for the moment of attack. The signal for this would come from Cooper. If there was no signal by the designated time, then they would assume he was man down and proceed regardless.

  But first, before Hassim, Shadeeb and Gamal would proceed, he had a little something for the guards to remember him by.

  He had chosen Shadeeb to accompany him because the man was still less than fighting fit, and if anyone needed carrying, then Hassim—as leader—would do this. And Gamal was his protégé—the son he never had, as the cliché ran. But the orphan had been more or less adopted by the mercenary chief and his wife, and had shown himself to be a strong fighter even at his early age. Between them, Gamal and Hassim would cover any shortfall caused by Shadeeb’s combat strains.

  There was something else the boy was good at. While Hassim busied himself on one vehicle, and Shadeeb kept lookout, Gamal went to work on the other. Jared was happy to sacrifice the vehicles, since if they survived this firefight they could take their opponents’ wheels. If they didn’t survive, it hardly mattered anyway. Hassim and Gamal worked quickly, wiring up the vehicles to Claymore mines and Semtex. The detonators on each were wired up to receivers for motion detectors, which the two men rapidly placed just a couple of yards from the vehicles. Taking care to set them so that they had time to withdraw, the two men and their lookout then began their passage toward the encampment, being careful to keep out of sight as much as possible.