Beirut Payback te-67

by Don Pendleton

  Beirut Payback

  ( The Executioner - 67 )

  Don Pendleton

  Mack Bolan learns that archenemy Greb Strakhov is in Lebanon. The Executioner has a personal vendetta with the KGB terror merchant.

  Bolans mission is twofold: to settle the score with Strakhov, and to avenge the 240 U.S. Marines who lie dead in the wake of a suicide-bomber attack. A single life lost is unacceptable to Bolan.

  But not even the combat-hardened Executioner is prepared for the utter carnage he finds in Beirut. There, Death respects no barriers.

  In a conflict in which none of the warrior factions seem to want peace, Bolan knows what he has to do. Make sure that the savages instigating the strife are silenced — forever!

  Don Pendleton

  Beirut Payback

  1

  Mack Bolan melded with the violent shadows of war-torn midnight. A night of hellfire for Beirut. Golden-hued strobe flashes seared the dark Mediterranean sky like heat lightning, punctuating the steady rumble of impacting mortar and artillery shells inside the city not far to the north. The Executioner waited, togged in combat blacksuit. "Big Thunder," the stainless-steel .44 AutoMag, hung in quick-draw leather strapped low to his right hip. The silenced Beretta 93-R nestled snug in its speed rig beneath his left arm near a sheathed combat knife. Canvas pouches worn at his waist carried extra ammo for the handguns. A wire garrote, cigarette-pack-sized high-frequency radio transceiver and a lightweight array of hard punch munitions, plastique and grenades completed his gear, none of it cumbersome. Bolan crouched silently, restless for action, in a grove of jasmine and olive trees along an uninhabited stretch of road. He had been waiting there for the past thirty minutes. Too long, he decided abruptly.

  He started to move out soundlessly on foot at a fast clip through the brush, parallel to but well in from the road, toward the city.

  He would find his own transportation. Traffic past this rendezvous point had been sparse during the wait: a rumbling government tank on its way into the fray; two troop carriers hurriedly redeploying Lebanese soldiers into Beirut from the mountains; an occasional civilian vehicle daring to travel on a night like this to escape the holocaust Beirut had become after another fractured ceasefire in this country's ongoing civil strife. Tonight's hard punch into Lebanon held a very special meaning for Bolan. Too many American lives had been sacrificed for this raging hellground in the quest for an elusive peace. One U.S. serviceman lost would have been unacceptable to Bolan. The figures on the balance sheet were written in red the blood of U.S. Marines. And The Executioner had come to settle the account with the cannibals who ran wild in a country less than four-fifths the size of Connecticut. But even the gnawing gut urge to do something where his nation's military presence and diplomacy had failed took second priority to the mission's immediate objective.

  He was ready and willing to risk it all on the line one more time.

  And Bolan the realist did not kid himself for a single instant that this could not well be the last time, considering the odds.

  But, yeah, call it personal. All the way.

  A shabby five-year-old Fiat with one headlight approached Bolan's position. The car braked off to the side of the road five hundred feet away and across from the grove of jasmine and olive. The driver killed the engine and headlight and waited.

  Bolan paused in his withdrawal, remaining in deep shadow, and unleathered the AutoMag. Man and weapon probed the night for danger.

  In the near distance, the noisy bombardment of Beirut continued unabated, as it had for hours. The ground trembled with the fury of war, even out here beyond the suburbs.

  Nothing moved. Bolan and the car had the stretch of country road to themselves. Or so it seemed.

  The nightfighter approached the vehicle with all the noise of a specter.

  The driver concentrated on a point several hundred yards up the road from the grove where Bolan had waited.

  The nightblitzer had not intended to meet his contact as planned. Too much danger of a trap. While the man at the steering wheel watched the point where Bolan should have been, the specter reached the driver's side of the car and pressed the muzzle of the awesome AutoMag against the man's left temple.

  "There are two ways to die," Bolan growled.

  The man registered no outward reaction. He continued to stare straight ahead, beaded sweat pearled along his hairline, but it could have been the warm night. The guy looked like a seasoned pro.

  "There is only one way to live," came the reply.

  The code exchanged, Bolan holstered Big Thunder. He tugged open the driver's door.

  "Glad you made it, Captain. Slide over, please. I'll take the wheel." The civvies-clad contact clambered into the passenger seat, not releasing the Uzi submachine gun cradled in his lap, his right finger resting on the trigger below the car's window level.

  "My apologies for being late. I was slowed by a Lebanese checkpoint that had gone up since yesterday."

  Bolan climbed in, kicked the Fiat to life and pulled a hard U-turn, gunning the vehicle back toward the city.

  "Will the checkpoint give us trouble on the way in?"

  "There are many ways into Beirut, and I know them all," grunted the Israeli. "We stand a fifty-fifty chance of getting in without trouble. Those are good odds on a night like this."

  The guy's rough-hewn features reminded Bolan of someone he knew well.

  This Mossad man, Chaim Herzi, was a nephew of Yakov Katzenelenbogen, the former Israeli intelligence boss who now headed a covert U.S. antiterrorist combat unit called Phoenix Force, which until recently had been under Bolan's command. Captain Herzi looked like the spitting image of a younger Katz.

  The Fiat jolted along with less speed than Bolan would have liked, the single headlight pointing the way past occasional deserted-looking clay houses and nothing else. Scars of mortar shells pockmarked the road and countryside.

  The two men encountered no military traffic and none of the sporadic fighting that peppered the night, only a few vehicles and pedestrians heading the other way, refugees from the holocaust. The thunder and lightning of war grew fierce as the Fiat drew closer to the city. Flares arced into the sky and cast night into surreal day two miles ahead.

  "It is difficult to believe," commented the Israeli, "that Beirut was not long ago regarded as the Paris of the Mediterranean."

  Bolan eyed the night beyond the windshield.

  "It looks like Nam." His review of last-minute intel prior to arriving in Lebanon fired to vivid life as the Fiat rattled along.

  Lebanon's latest civil war, a vicious struggle pitting Arab Christians against Druse and Shiite Muslims aided and armed by Syria, raged out of control, threatening the very existence of the Christian president's fragile pro-Western government.

  Fighting between the bloodthirsty factions flared all around the city.

  Supply columns traveling the Beirut Damascus highway enabled the Druse to move Sovietmade artillery and mortar placements into the Shouf mountains overlooking Beirut. Druse forces pounded Christian positions with artillery and Katyusha rockets. Lebanese army tanks and troops fought Shiite militiamen in the city's suburbs.

  The Druse, joined by Syrian-backed Palestinian guerrilla forces, hoped to link up with the Shiite leftists on the outskirts of Beirut in a drive to take over the capital. The objective of this uneasy alliance: to topple the duly-elected government and existing political systern at the price of a bloodbath.

  Artillery fire had rained down on the city throughout the week, hitting hospitals, forcing schools to close, setting homes ablaze.

  As always the civilians, caught in the middle, paid the real, terrible price for conflicting political and religious ideologies run amok.

&nb
sp; Opposing forces accused each other of conducting massacres.

  "Turn right at the next road, coming up beyond those trees, was instructed the Israeli with a gesture. "We'll be in the thick of it in another mile. There is a Muslim residential neighborhood beyond this turn. Or there was before the inhabitants fled. Those were probably the last of them we passed back there on the road. The situation now is very fluid, not only with the army and the insurgents, but also bandits. Anyone can get his hands on a grenade launcher and do what he likes with it."

  "Then let's cover this fast," growled Bolan without taking his eyes from the night. He approached the turn. "You know why I'm here?"

  "Strakhov. That's all I know. Except that my uncle has many connections in Mossad from his days there. That is how you got here. My orders are to obey your orders. I don't even know your name, but I am at your disposal."

  "Where is Strakhov right now?"

  "I am afraid we don't know that."

  "Have you been able to learn why he's here? This is a hot spot for a ranking KGB commander to put in an appearance."

  "I'm hoping the informer we're on our way to see will shed more light on the subject," said Herzi. "Her name is Zoraya Khaled." He told Bolan the address of the woman's flat not far from the Avenue des Frangais in central Beirut.

  Bolan committed the address to memory.

  "You have no clue as to why Strakhov has set up shop in Beirut?"

  Strakhov.

  The top priority.

  The Executioner had come to Beirut to track down the elusive Soviet terror boss, destroy whatever the cannibal had going for him and terminate the KGB major general once and for all.

  "It could be assassination," said the Israeli.

  Bolan wheeled the Fiat into the turn.

  The Muslim suburb up ahead looked deserted under the flickering illumination from the flares and distant fires.

  Bolan could hear the sounds of automatic weapons in the distance from several sources, noneaimed at the Fiat.

  "The president?" The Israeli nodded.

  "Possibly to assassinate him and replace him with an Arab who is Christian but in fact a dupe of the rivals. As you can see, there is anarchy. A successful revolution? It could backfire. Israel could rush in to assist the Christians the Maronites. Your country would help. The government would prevail."

  "Where is the president now?"

  "Safe enough. He is under tight security at the presidential palace in Baabda, just outside Beirut. Now you know all that I know. Probably a great deal more. Zoraya will be able to fill you in, I'm sure. Is there anything else?"

  "Yeah, there is, Captain." Bolan's voice warmed. "Good work. Your Uncle Yakov sends his greetings."

  Herzi started to grin and say something above the din of warfare around them, but at that instant a piercing whistle needled through the other noise.

  "Incoming," Bolan snarled. His right arm propelled Yakov's nephew down roughly but effectively.

  "Get ready to move!" Bolan punched off the Fiat's headlight and accelerated, veering.

  Too late.

  The world exploded in a deafening clap.

  The Fiat, escaping a direct hit, caught enough of the blast to be lifted up and over. For several heartbeats, reality existed to Bolan as a tumbling kaleidoscope, crunching car metal and shattering glass.

  When the vehicle stopped its roll, Bolan felt relief that his body responded to the mental command ordering it to seek cover well away from the car. He experienced another surge at the sight of his companion scrambling from the opposite side of the Fiat as approaching footfalls came up on them. In the arcing glow of overhead flares, Bolan counted four men, civvies-clad snipers wearing the red armband of the Shiite militia.

  Bolan and Herzi sought the cover of darkness and undergrowth beyond the road.

  The soldiers approached, laughing among themselves.

  One of them carried a grenade launcher. They all toted Soviet-made Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifles.

  Then one of them spotted Herzi, who had not sought cover fast enough. The militiamen opened fire on the Israeli.

  Bolan saw Herzi dive away from the line of fire an instant before two of the Shiite gunmen opened up on him.

  Bolan straightarmed the mighty .44 AutoMag and triggered a couple of hammering rounds that blew apart two gunners' heads, pitching their corpses backward. Then The Executioner tracked on the third sniper, who was bringing up his AK in Bolan's direction.

  Bolan's survival instincts flared too late at the rustle of attacking movement from behind. He knew this Beirut hit could end for him before it had even begun. The sniper down below him was in his sights, sure, but The Executioner had been outflanked with no time to turn.

  A 3-shot stutter erupted from Captain Herzi's Uzi from the shadowy clearing across the road.

  Two more Shiite bandits tumbled into death sprawls: the last Muslim fanatic, who was carrying the grenade launcher that blasted the Fiat, and a street fighter coming in behind Bolan, stopped forever by the burst from the Mossad agent.

  Bolan and the Israeli joined up moments later to survey the now useless Fiat surrounded by the fresh dead and rapidly widening pools of blood.

  "I owe you one, Captain. Let's move out." They jogged away from the scene, traveling parallel to the road for a while in the direction of the buildings on the outskirts of Beirut, a half mile away.

  "This far from the fighting, those men could only have been out for themselves," Herzi opined.

  "Kill crazy," snapped Bolan.

  2

  There appeared to be a lull in the shelling of the city.

  Beirut pulsed with the panic of its civilian population in the fires and devastation that assaulted the senses wherever one looked. Small-arms fire and the grumble of tank fire continued here and there.

  A flare arced, partially blotted out by thick clouds of smoke from a fire somewhere nearby, but it cast enough light for Chaim Herzi to openly appraise the American in blacksuit as the two of them jogged along.

  "As you can see, my friend, you will not stand out moving through the streets of Beirut tonight in your combat suit and weaponry. Tonight belongs to Death."

  They passed a haphazard pile of four entangled bodies. PLO. Ropes had been tied around the dead men's necks, the heads almost torn loose from the bodies.

  "Dragged behind trucks," Herzi explained as they continued past. "No one takes prisoners here." Bolan lifted a hand to silence the Israeli and Herzi got the message.

  Both men fell farther away from the road.

  An army tank rumbled into sight from behind a row of two-story, battle-scarred buildings. The war machine clanked by, never slowing as it passed the spot where Bolan and the Mossad man took to cover.

  "On their way to investigate our firefight," Bolan noted.

  "They will find nothing but dead Muslims, which is what they want to find," whispered Herzi. "The Fiat cannot be traced."

  "How far are we from Zoraya's apartment?"

  "Quite frankly, considering the situation in Beirut tonight, we could probably get there on foot in the same amount of time it would take to drive. There is heavy fighting between here and where she lives."

  "All the better to be on foot then," Bolan remarked. He looked in the direction of the Lebanese army tank that had been swallowed by the night.

  "Let's move out. They'll be back when they find out there's nothing over there to shoot at." They left their cover and continued on, cutting across an alley.

  Automatic weapons stammered in the distance two or three blocks away. Bolan heard people screaming.

  "The soldiers are not our main concern," Herzi warned. "The Maronite Phalangist militia... they will shoot at anything that moves."

  Bolan knew of the Phalangists, the radical military arm of a powerful political party in Lebanon.

  It had been Phalangist militiamen who slaughtered those hundreds of unarmed Palestinian refugees following the assassination of a Lebanese president a couple of years back.<
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  Herzi led Bolan from one deserted back dirt alley to another, moving ever deeper into Beirut, toward the worst of the devastation.

  Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the near distance.

  Bolan caught vivid glimpses of pure havoc each time he and the Israeli darted across a side street that bisected the alleys.

  Everywhere he looked, Bolan saw chaos: walls of buildings disintegrating from the shelling; families, residents standing around numb with shock; automobiles flaming, trashed in the streets; dead bodies sprawled everywhere — Muslim and Christian soldiers and civilians, men, women and children fallen in awkward positions on the sidewalks, in the gutters.

  A pack of drunk Phalangist troops were too busy looting a Muslim store to see Bolan and Herzi slide by behind them. The cries of the wounded and others mourning their dead echoed throughout the ravaged city.

  I have arrived in Hell, Bolan thought.

  The farther they penetrated via the network of alleys, the worse it became.

  A frightened family rushed past them on foot, heading in the opposite direction. The father watched the two armed men dash by and muttered a warning in Arabic that Bolan could not understand. Then Bolan and the Israeli passed the family, cutting toward another side street.

  "He says we are crazy," Herzi explained, "and perhaps he is right. But our luck is holding out." At that moment they left the cover of the alley in a beeline through the darkness toward an opposite alley that bisected the first block. They were in a neighborhood of Beirut's distinctive multileveled limestone housing projects, many punctured here and there by gaping holes from the artillery bombardment.

  Bolan and the Israeli each scanned a different direction up the side street before leaving cover of the alley, as they had done at each cross street during their penetration of the war zone.

  The street looked empty enough. Two bodies of dead soldiers were sprawled down the way — nothing more.

  The Executioner and Herzi hotfooted across that street and were caught in the open by the abrupt tramp of dozens of running feet from one end of the block as a group of men in the garb of Druse militia charged into view.