Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

Hassim spat on the floor in disgust as Haithem unrolled both tarps to reveal the extent of the torture on their compatriots.

  “They will be avenged,” he said with a snarl. “This place—we raze it. All these fuckers die.”

  “What about Cooper and his two men?” Haithem asked.

  Hassim shook his head. “We let him take them—they are victims like our men. But no matter what he says, everyone else dies. Yes?”

  He looked down on his friends. He had grown up in the same village as Aref, had known him all his life.

  “All of them,” he said softly.

  * * *

  VLADIMIR HAD TRIED to impose some kind of order on the chaos. He had seen the first of the invaders and snapped off a couple of shots before a volley of fire had forced him back. The guards had rushed around in panic and confusion—and had no idea of how to fight back. He had caught one of them, hit him hard across the face and yelled at him to shape up, get a team together and form a defensive ring. The man had just looked at him as if he was insane and babbled something about having no idea of what was happening as there was no voice in his ear.

  Vladimir cursed and turned the man loose. The idiot Libyan ex-general must have panicked. Vladimir felt as though he was working with amateurs and cowards. He made his way toward the OP tent. If the Libyan was there, he would have words with him—at the very least. If Vladimir was not, then he would try and establish some kind of order before hunting down the dog and putting him to a deserved death.

  The Berretta in hand as he strode through the tent flap, he froze in his tracks as he came face-to-face with Gabriel and Hoeness. The older man was still cowering, his nerves shot. The younger man looked scared, but there was a determination about him.

  More importantly, Vladimir’s attention was taken by the Desert Eagle in the scientist’s grip. His hand was trembling, but not enough to ensure that he would miss.

  The primary mission was still in the Russian’s mind, and he was loath to shoot down the scientist unless it was a matter of life for life.

  It was then that he noticed the dead body of the Libyan on the groundsheet.

  “Well, well,” he said calmly, bringing up his own pistol so that it was leveled at the scientist. “Perhaps you have more guts than I gave you credit for. Question is, can you do it again? And would it be wise to try?”

  Chapter 14

  Osterman had an apartment that served as his home when he was in Washington. It was functional rather than luxurious. Living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen—that was all. It was in a brownstone block twenty minutes’ drive from his office. His normal routine was rise early, pound the pavement for thirty minutes to warm up for the day and follow this with a shower, coffee, juice and bran before hitting the office. It was a healthy lifestyle, a regular routine, and just lately that was all that had been keeping Osterman sane.

  This morning was different. He rose sluggishly, having hardly slept, and didn’t bother to take his run. He showered, hoping to wash off the fog of torpor, and did without all except the coffee, which was black and piping hot, to try and stir his brain cells.

  No matter what, he kept coming around to the same thing—there was no way he could keep sending a detachment of Marines into Libya under wraps. Equally, there was no way he could prove who had put him under pressure to do this. No way, either, that he could save his career. He was screwed.

  He had no idea that fate was about to step in and hand him a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  Preoccupied as he was, he didn’t hear the lock on his front door softly click. Neither did he hear the entry of the man whose appearance in the kitchen, seemingly out of nowhere, made him start.

  “Who the fu—” Osterman reached for his gun as he spoke, halting when he realized that he was not wearing the weapon—another consequence of his distraction.

  “That would not have been a good idea, Colonel,” the tall, heavy-set man standing over him said softly. He held a SIG-Sauer P229 in one hand, and a dossier in the other. He laid the dossier down on the kitchen work surface. Osterman looked at the folder, then up at the man who loomed over him. There was something familiar about him.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Osterman said with an air of resignation.

  “Not personally. I don’t believe we’ve ever actually been introduced. But you’ve probably seen me around. I’d be very surprised if you hadn’t. I’ve certainly seen you. Although I have to say, I didn’t know much about you until recently. Very recently.”

  Osterman’s eyes went back to the dossier. “It doesn’t look that way,” he said mildly.

  “It’s surprising how quickly you can pull information together when you have a real need,” the stranger said. “All you need are a couple of threads, and then it all kind of comes together of its own accord.”

  Osterman’s mouth puckered. “It’s never that simple, is it?”

  “No, maybe not. You’re a smart man, Colonel. It’s not entirely your fault that circumstances got the better of you. Blackmail is an ugly word, but it’s possible that in doing your duty, and in defence of your country, you found yourself painted into a corner where whatever action you took would compromise you in some way. If that were the case, then it could also be true that someone may be able to use that unwitting compromise to gain leverage on you.” The stranger sighed. “The trouble with that kind of action is that it never ends there, does it? Leverage leads to further compromise, which leads to further leverage, and so forth. It becomes a spiral that could go on ad infinitum.”

  “You, of course, being part of that process,” Osterman said softly. “I do recognize you. I was made aware of you again only recently, as I’m sure you could tell me. As I’m sure is in here,” he added, placing his hand on the dossier. “You’re Brognola, and it’s your turn to put the pressure on me,” he added in a resigned tone.

  “Yes and no,” Brognola replied with a shrug. “I am putting pressure on you—hell, breaking into your apartment first thing in the morning and keeping a gun on you could hardly be construed as anything else. But I can end the spiral. I only want one thing from you.”

  “That is what they all say,” Osterman said wryly. “It always begins that way.”

  “Of course,” Brognola replied. “But this really is about the one thing. That UN flight you sanctioned. It had a detachment of Marines on it. I know where they are going, and I know why. And I want them pulled out. Now.”

  Osterman looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Local time? I’d say it was too late. They should already be in position, if not in action.”

  “Even if they are, I want the mission aborted. I want them out of there, so my man can fulfill his mission.”

  “Man?” Osterman looked up, surprised. For a moment he had forgotten his own situation. “You have just one man in there?”

  Brognola smiled. “He’s got a little local help, but yeah—just the one man.” He caught the expression on Osterman’s face. “If you knew him, you’d understand.” He grinned. “Now listen, Colonel. In this dossier we have full documentation of your involvement, and evidence to back up not only your coercion, but also that you were acting on behalf of my department as a mole, and that your depth of involvement is down to your service—on my behalf, again—to your country. I also have honorable discharge papers that bring your retirement forward to tomorrow. You’ve still got work to do today, providing you agree and that you sign on the dotted.”

  “What about Chronos?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “And Senator—”

  Brognola cut him off. “The senator won’t be causing anyone any problems after today, Colonel.”

  Osterman looked Brognola in the eye. He nodded, and held out his hand. “Give me a pen,” he said. “Then hand me that phone.” He indicated his phone, in the living room. “It’s
a secure line.”

  “I know it is,” Brognola said flatly as he watched Osterman sign. “Now call,” he added, handing the Colonel his own cell.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD BEEN caught in the middle of the initial firefight, pinned down as guards rushed to meet the oncoming Arabs. He had taken out one man who had come too close, using the Stryker once more as he did not wish to bring the whole weight of the camp upon him. The sounds of their clashes were deafeningly loud around him as he tried to keep out of sight, moving back toward the OP tent.

  Hassim and his men were fulfilling their function well. He could identify the fire as it rang out, and the sound of the Russian-made BXP 10, almost identical to the MAC-10 it copied, was erratic in frequency and timing while the bursts of fire from the assorted SMGs and assault rifles of the Arabs was more assured and regular.

  He knew that he could trust Hassim’s men to clean up the guards while he returned and secured both the targets and also a means of getting them off location. The latter was becoming more urgent, as he could hear the sounds of a firefight between the other attacking force and the detachment of guards sent to face them.

  It was getting closer, and from the sound of it, the camp guards were not faring too well in that battle, either. Ideally, he wanted to get the targets and get out just ahead of the fresher, possibly larger force on the approach.

  Ideally.

  As he reached the OP tent he knew that it was not going to be that easy. Even with the sounds of battle around him, he was close enough to hear voices from within the tent. Close enough to hear that one of them was Russian.

  Cursing under his breath, his stealth carried him undetected to the threshold of the OP. He was able to peer through the semi-open tent flap and take in the scene. The older scientist was cowering near the back of the tent, while the younger one had the Desert Eagle raised, trembling, against an armed man who was speaking to him. One who had his own weapon—a pistol, though Bolan could not identify it from this angle—leveled on the young scientist.

  The tall, shaven-headed Russian was undoubtedly the man he had seen on the Syrian gunboat. He was speaking in a heavily accented, but level voice.

  “If you stop this idiocy and hand me that gun, I will not have to shoot you. You have not the skill or the nerve to shoot me, my friend. If I, on the other hand, shoot you, it will be in the gut. Have you ever seen anyone shot that way? No, probably not. It is a very slow and painful way to die. I would leave you here, and by the time your saviors find you, presuming they defeat us, it will be too late for them to save you. If you come with me, however, you will live. Those who are our paymasters will think we have perished with the rest, and you will be able to go free.”

  He was smart. Bolan had to give him that. As irrational as it sounded—indeed, as irrational as it was—in his traumatized state the young scientist almost believed it. His arm began to drop. Simultaneously, the Russian’s shoulder tightened as he began to squeeze the trigger on his own pistol.

  Shooting him would not deflect his aim, but Bolan was only a couple of yards from him. He leapt across the distance, his momentum carrying the Russian with him as he careened into his back. The Beretta barked, its discharge flying at an angle through the roof of the tent.

  Bolan and Vladimir grappled on the ground. Bolan’s fingers sought pressure points to black out his enemy as he rolled beneath him. The Russian dropped his weapon, preferring to rely on his own hands in close. He countered as they rolled, Bolan now on top, by attempting to pry the soldier’s hands loose, slipping his arms under Bolan’s in order to force them apart. At the same time he brought his knee up and into the soldier’s groin.

  A sharp pain shot through Bolan’s groin and thigh, although he twisted to avoid the worst of the impact. In so doing, he relaxed his grip and rolled away from the Russian, propelling himself to his feet and unsheathing the Stryker as he did so. Vladimir scrambled toward his Beretta, allowing Bolan the chance to kick him in the ribs, the heavy desert combat boot driving the air from Vladimir’s lungs and knocking him sideways. As he rolled, Bolan was on him, forcing him onto his front with a knee in his back to pin him down before lifting him under the chin and delivering the final blow with the Tanto steel blade.

  Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet, checking as he did that the two scientists were still in the tent. They were standing, watching, dumbstruck. Bolan figured that the Russian had decided to cut his losses. There was no doubt that he had intended to kill them, regardless of his orders. The man had gone rogue.

  As for these two, he thought as he looked at them, let’s just hope it’s worth getting them out of here; at this moment they looked like they wouldn’t be much use to anyone. In fact, it might just be an achievement to actually get them out without their sanity snapping.

  “Come on,” he barked. “Forget him. You want to get out alive? Follow me and do what I say.”

  He led them out of the OP tent and into the fray beyond.

  * * *

  THE MARINES HAD taken up offensive positions and were steadily advancing on the camp. The guards that had been sent out to meet them had started the firefight, but were unable to stand up to the onslaught that they had unleashed. The Marine force included better tactical thinkers, had greater firepower and in terms of numbers also had an advantage. Although the Marines had been in the open and thus at an initial disadvantage, it had been only a matter of seconds before they were able to make their superiority felt.

  Driving the guards back toward the cover of the camp, the Marines fanned out and kept up a covering fire that allowed them to advance in twos while pinning down their enemy. The guards either had to risk their cover in order to fall back or be overtaken. Left with little option other than to retreat, they were being picked off, their numbers slowly decreasing as they moved back. And while the guards were yelling into their headsets, receiving no orders, no intel and no feedback from their OP, the Marines were in constant communication through their headsets, handing them yet another advantage.

  Before the guards had any real opportunity to take stock of what was happening to them, they found that half their number had been taken out by the stream of suppressing fire, while the rest found themselves retreating into a camp that was in itself a hostile fire zone.

  * * *

  HASSIM DIRECTED HIS men without the need for comms; the group had fought together too often, knew each other too well to need anything other than the barest of orders. They were men who knew not only how to fight in confined areas, but also how the others thought as much as fought. Using the narrow spaces between the tents as corridors of death, they stalked their opponents, taking cover in the folds of the canvas and the dark spaces between before stepping into the open to deliver short taps of death that gradually ate into the numbers of their opponents.

  It was not a full-fledged firefight like the one that was taking place out on the sands beyond the camp, but was no less debilitating to the opposition. Not, however, one that left Hassim’s men without casualties. Amin and Abd, the young brothers in blood if not by birth who watched each other’s backs throughout the combat, were caught out by a guard who, frozen with terror, was lurking near the area where the three Hueys were berthed. The two Arab fighters had been detailed to secure the choppers, whose crews were still with them and had remained within their confines, hoping to avoid the fray. The crews had been hired to fly, not fight, and had every intention of sitting this one out.

  Hassim had other ideas. One of the three choppers would be the route by which he would ship his men—perhaps Cooper and his targets, if they were alive—out of the area, so he sent the two fighters to flush out the crews.

  The two Arabs had taken cover on the edge of the berthing area, and had started to tap out short bursts designed to drive the crews into the open. They did not want to substantially damage the choppers, so their blasts were carefull
y aimed at taking out the ports and creating an environment inside that the crews would not wish to stay within.

  It seemed to work at first; there was no initial return of fire, and the Arabs stayed in cover as the crews reluctantly vacated their crafts, taking whatever cover they could find in order to return fire. Their shooting was that of pilots rather than hardened fighters, and with careful taps the two Arab fighters were able to pick off four out of the six crewmen, driving the remaining two back toward the sand dunes on the edge of the camp area. As Amin and Abd advanced, one covering the other as each moved in formation, the lurking guard was able to emerge from the cover in which he had cowered, picking them off. It was little consolation that the one-eyed Haithem avenged their death by taking out the guard. He spat on the corpse of the guard, cursing his late arrival on the scene, before taking out the remaining two chopper crew members, who used the cutting down of their attackers to try and get back to their machines.

  The Hueys were now free and fair game for anyone who could fly them. Haithem and Hassim knew that they had the skills in their group. Could any of those left out of the opposition force say the same?

  This force was reduced to the few guards who were left in the auction tent and the delegates and bodyguards who had arrived for the auction that had been so drastically terminated.

  The Arabs had left this tent alone, content to lay down a suppressing fire that confined the parties within the canvas. With only one obvious point of exit, Hassim stationed Shadeeb at the front, in cover, with orders for the fighter to blast the hell out of anyone who poked their head or gun out, and if they tried to break to just use his RPG-7 and blow them out of the desert. The older Arab had looked askance at his leader when told this; any kind of shrapnel grenade at this close range and in a confined camp risked collateral damage to his own men. But seeing the light of hate and anger in Hassim’s eyes, and knowing what this kind of mood engendered, he merely agreed while deciding to put his trust in his 5.56 mm M4 carbine.