Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  They could hear vehicles—one was at a ninety-degree angle to their location and seemed to be coming from the desert. Closer were two smaller vehicles. Motioning his men to take cover, Hassim watched as two jeeps sped out from the camp. As they approached the stationary vehicles he had just left, the two enemy jeeps pulled up, and after a short pause discharged their loads.

  “Come on, just a little closer,” Hassim breathed.

  There were eight guards. They fanned out, their standard-issue BXP-10 SMGs leveled. They were uncertain, hesitant—they had expected to meet a moving target head-on, and were instead faced with two deserted vehicles.

  Don’t get suspicious.... Not until it’s too late, thought Hassim, hoping that they were just off guard enough to make a fatal...

  Mistake—something that one of the guards realized just as one of his colleagues stepped forward. Perhaps it was the glimpse of something in the sand; perhaps it was that he had just figured out what he would do in these circumstances. Whatever it may have been, he yelled to the rest of the guards to hit the ground.

  Not quickly enough for them to react. As the words left his mouth they were drowned by explosions triggered by the motion sensor. Both jeeps exploded simultaneously, the Semtex in them causing body parts to spray out with the heat and flame.

  More damaging were the Claymore mines that they had planted with the explosives. Shrapnel and ball bearings shot out from the charges, spraying the immediate area with molten metal at high speed. The action of the mines caused a spread of metal that left no escape. Not a single one of the guards, no matter what kind of evasive action they took, could avoid the deadly load.

  Hassim put his head down into the sand, covering it with one arm while pressing Gamal’s head into the sand with the other. For one panicked second, as sand rained down on them, he wondered if they had actually distanced themselves enough.

  Only sand—there was no metal to pierce their flesh, and when he looked up the sight before him was like a charnel house. All eight of the enemy were down, and their vehicle was reduced to a smoking wreck. The men lay at unnatural angles across the sand, blackened and bloodied, torn by the shrapnel and ball bearings. It was unlikely that any of them could have survived, but caution was a necessity. Hassim scrambled to his feet and motioned to his two men to follow.

  Quickly they scanned the eight prone guards. Six were dead. Two were breathing. It took a tap on his MP5 in the face of each to end their suffering.

  He looked at his watch. “Time is tight. Let’s get moving.”

  * * *

  VLADIMIR WAS IN the auction tent. He sized up the men before him. Soft. And that was just the bodyguards. He wouldn’t have given them five minutes in a real firefight. Piotr had allowed the Libyan to allot too many of their meager forces to these idiots. They may be needed elsewhere.

  That thought was only reinforced by the sound of an explosion—no, two, close together—in the desert. The babble in the tent increased immediately, the delegates looking nervous, the bodyguards looking tense, trying to seem cool but betraying their nerves by the way their hands twitched uselessly for their weapons.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Vladimir said. There was no pleading in his tone—rather, it was icy and commanding, his voice cutting through the hubbub.

  “What is going on? We are supposed to be having a secured meeting,” one of the bidders shouted, rising to his feet. He was Jordanian, and Vladimir reflected that the man was possibly more nervous because he would have preferred the sale to have gone ahead in his own land.

  “We are having a secured meeting,” Vladimir returned. He gestured for the man to be seated, indicating with a flicker of the eye for one of his men to cover the Jordanian’s increasingly jumpy bodyguard. “The fact that there is some attempt at intrusion is only to be expected. That is why we have a secured zone. That is why you hear our men eliminating the threat. Now, if you will...”

  He had no idea if that last statement was accurate. He hoped so. He needed to get out of the auction tent and see what was happening. He was relieved to see Piotr appear at the far end of the tent.

  He was, until he caught his partner’s expression.

  Chapter 13

  Bolan waited. The confusion surrounding the explosion gave him just the cover he needed. He would have preferred to lay down his distractions first, but that could wait. There was, from what he had overheard, now just the one guard in the trailer that stood before him.

  Checking that it was clear before he broke cover, he made the distance to the trailer door in a couple of strides. Figuring that the door was probably unlocked, he tried it. It yielded easily to the touch, and he flung it open.

  In one glance he took in the interior of the trailer. To the left of the door, standing toward the rear, were two men in suits. Both looked beaten and cowed, and stood mouth agape at the sudden movements. No threat there. The right-hand side of the trailer was another matter. An Arab guard stood, half turned toward the noise of the opening door, SMG pointing down but moving up as Bolan took a stride into the trailer interior.

  The Arab was closer to the door than the two men in suits. His half-turned stance left him with legs spread. Bolan took advantage of this by taking his next stride and bringing up his heavy desert boot so that it caught the man square in the crotch.

  The shock took the breath from him, the guard’s mouth forming a silent O as wide as his eyes. He bent forward involuntarily, and Bolan followed his movement through to make the most of this, grasping the man by the back of the neck and thrusting him down to the floor. The guard’s face was ground into the floor as Bolan lifted the Stryker. Shifting his grip so that it was on the man’s hair he tugged it back, bringing his neck into view.

  Before the guard had a chance to scream—either in fear or in warning—the sound bubbled in his throat, drowned by the blood as Bolan sliced across the throat. Blood spurted briefly before the jet was stifled as Bolan thrust the guard’s face down into the floor once more, counting as the life seeped out of his enemy.

  He stood after wiping the knife on the dead guard’s uniform. The two suited men were staring at him. One of them, the older one, looked like he was going to burst into tears.

  “No time to explain. I’m here to get you out and back to the U.S.A., then you’ll be returned to your own land. Follow me.”

  He turned to leave, but halted when he saw that they were frozen to the spot. They had been through an ordeal, but this was not the time for sympathy.

  “Now! Unless you want to die here,” he snapped, beckoning them.

  Almost reluctantly, they followed him out. First thing he would have to do was find them cover until the firefight was done. Pity. The trailer would have been ideal if not for the fact that it was the first place any enemies would look for them. Cursing this, an idea suddenly came to Bolan. It seemed crazy, and under any other circumstances, it would have seemed funny, but it might just work.

  He beckoned the two men to follow him as he wound back the way he had come. The Stryker was holstered again and the HK G3A4 was off his shoulder and ready to fire. He didn’t want to use it yet, as he figured his compatriots were still closing on the camp, and he was heavily outnumbered. But if he was spotted, close hand-to-hand would not be an option. Circumstances wouldn’t leave him much choice. He could only hope that his luck held. With the panic that was now starting to take hold in the camp, he expected to see at least one guard stumble blindly into them as they made the short distance to the OP tent.

  Bolan felt like someone wanted him to complete this one—they made it without sight of anyone. Considering he was carrying these two traumatized passengers, it was nothing short of a miracle. He pulled back the flap of the tent and stepped in. The Libyan was sitting with his back to the flap, leaning over his laptop. He was wearing a headset but was not speaking. He was so absorbed that he did not
notice Bolan’s silent entry. Bolan checked his watch—only a couple of minutes. The risk was that the Libyan’s absence would be noted before the attack began in earnest. This would leave the targets exposed.

  But he had no time to waste. He hadn’t as yet laid down the diversions, and this needed his immediate attention. He would have to take the chance.

  Stepping forward, he shouldered the HK G3A4 and took his knife from its sheath. Still, the Libyan, absorbed in his task, did not hear him. It was only at the last footfall that he began to turn—too late to help himself as Bolan grasped him firmly with one arm in a headlock and slicing his throat.

  The two scientists had followed him in to the tent, and seemed either too hardened or too traumatized to take notice of the bloodied corpse slumped on the groundsheet.

  Bolan took the Libyan’s pistol—a Desert Eagle .357, once much favored by himself and a common handgun in this region—and handed it to the younger scientist, who seemed to be the more together of the two.

  “You know how to use this?” he asked. The young man shook his head, and Bolan gave him a twenty-second crash course in handling a weapon. “Stay here, and only use this if you have to. I’ll be back,” he finished, feeling uneasy at leaving the two men alone. However, he had other urgent matters that needed his attention.

  Bolan carried C-4 and Semtex with detonators—small charges, so that they would cause disruption but not collateral damage and threaten the targets. Moving swiftly around the compound, he laid charges on a ninety-second timer before returning to the OP tent. As he entered, Gabriel leveled the Desert Eagle at him. For a moment, Bolan thought panic might make him jerk off a shot. Chances were it would miss, but it was more the attention it would draw to the OP tent than any risk to his own safety that concerned the soldier.

  Gabriel let out a sigh of relief and held the Desert Eagle downward. He was about to say something when he was cut short by the first of the charges going off.

  “Showtime,” Bolan told him with a grin.

  * * *

  HASSIM, GAMAL AND SHADEEB were in cover, half buried in a sand dune, when the charges detonated. Hassim had been listening to the approaching truck. From where he was, it was out of sight. But it sounded big. He wondered how many extra men they would have to take on.

  No matter. Bolan was alive, and he had laid the diversionary charges. Hassim was on his feet and running toward the camp before the echo had died in his ears, his men at his back. He knew that, from their respective points around the circumference, the rest of his men would also be on their way.

  * * *

  IT TOOK VLADIMIR some time to reassure the bidders that they were safe. Then, seeing his compatriot’s grim mien, he had rapidly made excuses and left the auction tent. Outside, Piotr began to tell him about the truck that had breached their sensors.

  “Never mind that shit, what were the explosions? Our men taking out those ass pains or—”

  “I don’t know. I was out of the OP before they went off. But never mind that. This new intrusion—”

  He was cut off by the first of the diversionary charges as it went off on the far side of the camp. Before either man had a chance to react, another charge went off.

  “Shit— They’re in here?” Piotr asked.

  Vladimir pulled his Beretta 93R from its clamshell holster in the small of his back. “Some of them, all of them, I don’t care. I’m sick of them fucking with us,” he snarled and stormed off through the compound, Piotr watching him as guards rushed seemingly without aim across the gaps between the tents.

  * * *

  BOLAN LEFT THE two scientists in the OP tent once more. He was uneasy about leaving them, but in truth there was too much to be done before his men swooped down on the compound. They would still run the risk of being outnumbered when the other force arrived. Anything he could do to even the odds would help.

  Since the charges had gone off successfully, there was no need for subterfuge; he racked the HK G3A4 as he strode between the tents—there were two others beside the OP and the auction tent, which was by far the largest. Taking care to keep himself hidden for as long as possible, he surveilled both tents. One had served as a dorm tent for the guards who were off watch, and was empty. The second carried the camp’s ordnance, and Bolan could see that they were carrying a firearms rather than rocket or grenade armory. It was light, and designed purely for a twenty-four to forty-eight hour stay. There was nothing here that he could use against them.

  He paused. Ordnance was not the only thing in the tent. There were two tarps wrapping cylindrical shapes. He knew what was in them even before he stooped to look. Pulling back the tops of the rolled tarps, he saw that one held Rafik’s corpse, the other that of Aref. He had not known them long, but Rafik in particular had been a good man, a good soldier. Hassim’s boys would want blood for this. Bolan, his face set hard, knew how they felt.

  Covering the faces of both men as he stood up, he shook the feeling from him—it would serve no purpose.

  He stepped out into the camp once more. Two tents empty. Another with the targets, and one more containing the auction bidders. Everything else was in the open. That should even the odds. How many of the enemy, he wondered, were occupied with the parties in the auction tent?

  * * *

  “GENTLEMEN, I WOULD ask you to take your seats.” Piotr’s voice rang out over the clashing voices of the panicked throng. The bidders rose from their seats, their security men facing off against each other as they jostled for the exit, ignoring Piotr. There was no thought of the sale anymore—only getting out of a disintegrating situation as quickly as possible.

  Piotr sighed and gestured to the guards at the tent flap. There were two on each side.

  One of the guards leveled his BXP-10 at the crowded interior, while the other raised his to the ceiling of the tent and ripped through the canvas with a short burst designed to focus the attention of the crowd.

  The babble of voices died away, the bidders silenced, shocked and also scared that they would be treated this way.

  “That is much better. You will be safer in here.” Piotr spoke calmly, trying not to think of his paymaster’s response to this tactic. “For your own security, we ask you to stay calm and seated while our men on the outside deal with this small problem.”

  At least, he hoped it would prove to be small.

  * * *

  GUARDS FROM THE CAMP met the oncoming truck as it jarred and bumped over the sands. Falling into defensive positions they opened up with their BXP 10’s, the SMG fire shattering the windshield and causing the truck to veer sideways on the sand, slipping down the incline of a dune so that the men in the rear were thrown across the interior.

  This just served to make them mad. Responding to the yelled orders of their sergeant, the Marines disembarked and took up positions of their own in the sand, responding to the offensive fire with shots of their own. They were also better armed—expecting much more of a firefight—than the hired security. A couple of grenades spread shrapnel among the guards, killing two and maiming three others, putting them out of effective action. A blanket of CS or KooKol-1 would have been a usual procedure for securing target personnel in this situation, as the Marines were armed with breathing apparatus, but the open conditions reduced any effectiveness. The only thing to do now was go in, and go in hard.

  The guards who were left standing began to move back toward the camp, in search of cover and backup. They laid down suppressing fire that pinned the Marines into the cover they had made for themselves, but did not claim any casualties, and those guards who were able to pull back had a feeling already that this was a losing battle.

  As they attained their cover, the Marines started to form up and split into groups that would spread and attack in a pincer movement.

  They were proving to be just the diversion that Bolan would have want
ed for his men, but at the same time they had the same target.

  This could prove problematic.

  * * *

  THOSE GUARDS LEFT in camp and not assigned to the auction tent were unprepared for the attack from Hassim’s forces. The diversionary charges—large enough to cause a big bang but too small to cause any real damage—had taken them by surprise, and their reaction had not been that of disciplined men. It didn’t help that they had nothing coming through their headsets, and so were unaware of what was going on around them.

  They didn’t expect the Arab mercenaries to come from many directions. Hassim’s men were experienced desert fighters and had kept themselves low and under the radar as they advanced, until they were on top of the camp itself. It was only then that they rose up and attacked in force.

  Their first-wave assault took the mercenaries into the heart of the camp. The guards were uniformed, making them easy to pick out, so several of them fell immediately to efficient taps of three-shot bursts. The Arabs were as much concerned with finding their missing compatriots as they were with locating Bolan’s targets; their fury at longtime comrades being taken had obscured the paid objective.

  It was Haithem who found the two corpses in the ordnance tent. His cries brought Hassim to the enclosure. Outside, the remaining guards had fallen into defensive positions, and had entrenched themselves in the auction tent, which was surrounded.