“WE’RE COMING OUT, Colonel. Hold your ground!”
It was Python doing the shouting again, the tone edged up and harried, striking Bolan as if he were being warned to sit tight. Something smelled, he thought, and it wasn’t the stink of death in the air.
Bolan spotted the Black Hawk touching down for evac to the south edge, inside the fencing. Cobra commandos were now shuffling in a backpedal formation toward the dust storm, preparing to board, weapons fixed and sweeping the ruins for hostiles. No takers to be found, and Bolan watched, slow but moving ahead, as Python and Diamondback reared up over the rubble. They came down the hill, their SAWs aimed in opposite directions. There was something different in their eyes, but Bolan wasn’t sure if he read relief or concern.
“Major says to hop aboard! We’re outta here, Colonel! Company’s on the way!” Python shouted over the rotor storm, not looking at Bolan as the two commandos passed by the soldier.
Standing his ground, Bolan saw Collins pop into view. The assault rifle slung around his shoulder, the Cobra leader worked his way down the rubble in a clumsy descent. The briefcase stoked the soldier’s curiosity, the major glancing his way while he barked into his com link. Another intel gift from Heaven, Bolan figured, had mysteriously dropped out of the sky and into his lap.
“Hit ’em hard! Yeah, yeah, the same run you did here, all of you! I lift off, I want to see the bastards blown clear out into the Mediterranean! When it’s done, peal off and cover my Black Hawk. Do it! Out!”
“Problems?”
Collins pulled up beside Bolan. “Only an armored Syrian convoy on the way.”
“General Salidin?”
“Yeah, guess all the noise shook him out of his wet dream.”
“Your aces have enough juice left?”
“Four T-72s, two APCs, three Hummers and a couple of raggedy-ass open troop transports, they might as well bend over and ask how deep.”
“What did you turn up?” Bolan asked, nodding at the briefcase.
Collins smiled. “The holy grail of jihad.”
“The holy grail, huh? For some reason, Major, you don’t strike me as the religious type.”
“An expression, is that okay with you? By the way, what happened to Wallbanger?”
Bolan gave Collins the short and bitter.
“You took point, huh? The kid wouldn’t fall back?”
“You don’t believe my version, ask Gator. I just gave you chapter and verse.”
“I didn’t say that, Colonel. Where’s his body?”
“Down in the wadi right where your team bailed.”
Collins was moving, hesitated, then scowled back at Bolan. “What’s with the tone? Oh, I get it. You saw my goodbye kiss to our Lebanese contact. What? You want an explanation?”
Bolan shrugged.
“He was dirty. It had come to my attention, Colonel Stone, he was playing both sides. It had come to my attention he had assassinated two CIA operatives in Beirut recently and my orders were to use him like a Kleenex and throw him away. Yeah, if that’s news to you I can’t help it. Anything else troubling you?”
“I’ll let you know.”
BOLAN HEARD the distant thunder, the world strobing beyond the black ridgeline to the west. Again that strange dreamlike haze of adrenaline meltdown and bone-numbing fatigue weighed in, body, mind and soul, all one and the same, it felt, flowing together. That floating sensation was back, but stronger than before.
He was numb, but not comfortably so.
The Executioner stood near the starboard M-60 gunner, glimpsed Collins shaking free a cigarette, lighting up as Gator lumbered aboard, Wallbanger draped over his shoulder.
“Get us outta here, ace!” Collins hollered into the cockpit.
Bolan emptied his mind of all thought, grateful, if nothing else, for a moment of silence despite the roaring of the aerial bombardment, the curtain call and reminder that still more bad men were dying. Gone to meet…
What? Reward? Punishment?
Bolan knew it wasn’t his place to make that call.
They were up, nose down, and soaring south for Lion Base. The holocaust consuming the Syrian patrol was a shimmering veil in the corner of Bolan’s eye. He watched as Collins admired the view, puffing, a strange relaxed smile freezing his expression.
The soldier looked away from Collins, ran a gaze over the others. They were either smoking, staring straight ahead or slumped back with eyes shut, all of them chewing on their own thoughts, most likely, just glad to be alive.
Natural and understandable. They were all warriors, Bolan knew, would go the distance in battle, but only the reckless fool or the suicidal really wished to die. Even the savage clung to life.
The air was solemn, just the same, another of their teammates going home in a rubber bag. The wind whipping through the cabin did little to wipe away the heavy fumes of sweat and cordite and smoke residue pasting their skin and blacksuits.
“What’s in that briefcase, Colonel,” Collins said, “has more than likely just preempted a full-scale jihad from Tel Aviv clear to the U.S. West Coast. I’m not sure if we got lucky or…You say you think I’m not a religious man, but I’m thinking—if there is a God—he was on our side tonight.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I took a look?”
“When we hit Camp Zero, you can plow through it all you want. There’s going to be at least two to three days of debriefing by the head shed. SOP. Interrogations of prisoners, like that. Unless, that is, you’re in a hurry to get back to the States?”
“No rush, when this is wrapped. I’ll take you up on your offer.” Bolan paused, then said, “When we get there, Major, who gets to play Torquemada of the Grand Inquisition?”
Collins lost the smile, and Bolan felt the man measuring him, something savage again lurking behind the eyes. “You’re a funny guy, Stone, and you know what, you’ve sort of grown on me.”
How come, Bolan thought, he felt as if the man were saying so long, no longer needed his services, visions of getting tossed out with no parachute flaming to mind?
Bolan chuckled. “I was thinking of Mo, Larry and Curly.”
“Mo—as you call him—is gone, as you know. I’ll keep the other two under control, trust me. What happened on the Herc…”
“An aberration?”
“Exactly. Get some rest, Stone, if you can. One more stop to lend our Israeli friends a helping hand with their Palestinian headache…hell, it’s fourth and goal on the one-yard line. Another touchdown, we’re in the wind.”
Bolan turned away and stared into the passing black heart of night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The Compound Intifada? They might as well hang out a shingle—Terrorists ’R’ Us. Oh, gentlemen, I can tell you now, I’m going to leave the promised land a little more hope than it had before.”
They were in the war room at Lion Base. Bolan had done a brief tour with Colonel Yehudin and the Cobra major, both given pass and magnetic swipe cards, but granted access only to the main and second levels. Bolan knew they hadn’t seen every hidden nook and cranny. They were now one floor below main, one of several nerve centers, the operation here striking Bolan as similar in terms of computer banks, radar and tracking stations, digital wall maps and video screens; the works, supertech, gizmos and gadgets. He was certain, that only the best and the brightest need apply to handle. He had been informed by the Israeli colonel the base came complete with tunnels, armory, bunkers, certain there was much more than the eye could see. Pretty much all of it—down to the long table in the war room that could fit twenty or more comfortably at a time—reminded Bolan of the Farm, but on a much larger scale. The narrow elevator door with keypad in the far corner told Bolan there was at least one more level belowground, a combination bunker and command-and-control center. At one time Yakov Katzenelenbogen—Stony Man Farm’s former tactician and both a former colonel in the Israeli army and intelligence operative—had told him there were seven such fortress-command centers housed at str
ategic intervals around the country. If the small nation came under siege by ballistic missiles packed with chem, bio or nuclear capability, the military, intelligence and political elite could live in what were small cities far beneath the earth’s surface, enough provisions for six months, twelve tops if rationed properly. There were also silos with nuclear missiles in each of these compounds, enough thermonuclear megatonnage on tap, Katz had told him, to vaporize the entire Middle East, North Africa and Central Asia.
That, unfortunately, included hanging a radioactive cloud over the promised land if the megaton arrows began flying.
When choppered into Lion Base, Bolan had seen that, unlike the Farm, the Israelis didn’t bother to conceal SAMs. Entire batteries of missiles were in full view, machine-gun nests choking a perimeter sealed off by electrified twenty-foot-high fencing. When marching into the building, it had been pointless to count all the main battle tanks—American M-1 Abrams—F-15s, Apaches, Black Hawks and APCs, tracked carriers with rockets ready to fly and God only knew what punch they packed. All told, there was enough on hand to hold back and counterpummel whatever wanted to strike the compound, hardware, he was sure, that could reach well beyond the borders.
Shaved, showered, fed and with a thirty-minute combat nap behind him, Bolan and the other Cobra commandos—together with a squad of Israeli shooters—were gathered at the table. Collins and the short, stocky, bald Colonel Yehudin shared the head of the table, both of them having clicked through a series of mug shots of the bad guys in question and their Compound Intifada.
The initial brief was forty minutes under way, coffee all around, Collins chain-smoking up a storm. Blueprints of the CIQ had been thoroughly detailed on the wall screen, the strike plan laid out. On the surface, it looked and sounded solid to Bolan, but, as usual, once the shooting started it was a roll of the dice. This time they were going in with a squad of Israeli commandos. For the Gaza hit, Bolan and Cobra had togged themselves in the standard-issue light brown of the IDF. Same hardware as before, Collins having already informed Bolan they would simply re-up on ammo.
Bolan was perusing his intel package when Collins growled out the remarks.
Yehudin nodded, the old warhorse striking Bolan as a soldier who knew what he was doing from firsthand hard experience.
“Yes,” the Israeli colonel said, “they are becoming more brazen with each mass murder they commit. Sad but true, we are a nation that might never know peace. Not even I am sure what the solution is. All I know, as a soldier and a Jew, I cannot allow my people to continue to be murdered by terrorists. We will never be safe until every last one of these criminals is exiled, imprisoned or killed.”
There was argument on that score to spare for both sides, Bolan thought, and against his better judgment. He always left the politics, religion and diplomatic currying of favor out of his equation. Right was right; wrong was wrong. Yes, sometimes there was gray, sometimes compromise could work. For Israel, he didn’t see that happening. The killing had gone on throughout the ages, both Jews and Arabs the same blood, the offspring of Abraham, each side vehemently staking their own claim to this ancient land. Revenge against each other, though, had become a never-ending cycle, the only constant hatred and intolerance. They claimed it was a complicated situation, but in Bolan’s mind it was very simple, at least in terms of conflict. It all boiled down to one side telling the other side that if they did what they wanted they could all get along. Pretty much, he knew, the way of the world.
Sad but true.
“Yeah, well, that said, all I want to know, Colonel,” Collins said, blowing a thick cloud over the table, “are my suspects inside?”
Like a deck of cards, Collins flipped out five 8x11 mug shots in front of Yehudin. Yehudin rattled off the names of the terrorists, stamping them as two Egyptians, two Syrians, one top Palestinian lieutenant supposedly in line to replace Chairman Asshole, as Collins called him.
Bolan looked at Collins, read something darker, harder and meaner than ever in his eyes. They might be in the home stretch, but the Executioner knew this strike would be no stroll through the park. Again they were going through the front door, square up the gut on the enemy’s turf. This time, however, the opposition was ready, knew they were coming.
Yehudin clicked on a shot of the compound.
It was a two-story white building, scarred by bullets, a gaping hole from a 105 mm at the far west edge. As more shots, both ground and aerial snapped by, Bolan counted at least six M-1 tanks, the armor having encircled the compound. Other shots displayed buildings, some completely demolished, others simply gutted empty shells from either air strikes, 105 mm M-1 pounding or both.
“We have had the compound under siege for four days,” Yehudin said. “Electricity, water cut off. This mess splashed all over world headlines, we—the Jews, defending our homeland—are the ones at fault, pity the poor Palestinian butchers. My men have come under sniper fire from the second floor. I’ve lost two soldiers already. Starving them out does not appear to be a viable option. We have the UN attempting to insinuate themselves into the situation, demanding to take food, water and medicine inside to these criminals. The usual nonsense heard by diplomatic paper pushers who know nothing and understand even less about the situation. These terrorists have already stated they will fight to the death, to the last murderer. We know several of them are directly responsible for the recent spate of suicide bombings, marching out young boys—no older than ten—to do their bloody work. We suspect they even have a bomb-making factory in the basement.”
“Saying they might take us and them out in one big bang?” Collins asked.
“It’s always a possibility.”
Collins scowled. “I’ve seen a few shots of the usual howling mob and stone-throwers in the neighborhood,” Collins said, lighting another cigarette off the end of his gnawed butt. “That going to be a problem?”
“Not if we have to spray them with rubber bullets or hit them with tear gas,” Yehudin answered. “When we attack, I assure you, my men can and will hold them back.”
“I like your style, Colonel,” Collins said, grinning through his smoke.
“To answer your question, Major, there are twenty-one terrorists inside. My orders were to hold off with an air strike until you arrived. At first, I must confess, I had reservations.”
Collins lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You have changed my opinion with your work. The intelligence you brought to me from Lebanon will greatly help us. Perhaps we may even turn the corner against these criminals.”
“Glad I—we—could be of such invaluable assistance.”
“Speaking of that intelligence, Colonel,” Bolan said.
“I promised Colonel Stone,” Collins jumped in, “a copy of what I gave you.”
“It shall be done.”
“Okay,” Collins said, “full-frontal assault, front and back, top to bottom. Colonel Stone hits the roof, he moves down, we pinch them in. Me and my guys, we take point, Colonel Yehudin. Since you’ve been so kind as to give me free rein, I’d like twelve of your best shooters at my disposal, I’m talking room-sweepers, to go in behind us. Standard peel off, seal ’em up, room-by-room clearing. Frag ’em, go in blasting. If my targets want to come along for the ride, fine. If not, they die where they stand. They live, we get something from them, you’ll get it back.”
Yehudin nodded. “Understood. And the men you see here before you are some of my best.”
“I’ll take Tsunami and Gator,” Bolan said, “with me.”
“Just the three of you?” Collins said.
“I’d like to keep my end of it as simple as possible. That a problem?”
Collins seemed to ponder something, then nodded. “I can live with that.” Collins paused, shook his head, then turned philosophical. “You know, I’ve been thinking, Colonel Yehudin, there seems a simple solution to the Palestinian problem.”
Bolan watched Collins, couldn’t wait to hear this.
“Whi
ch is?” Yehudin said.
“The other Arab countries cry about the deplorable, oppressive conditions the Palestinians live under,” Collins said. “If they’re that concerned, why don’t the Lebanese, Saudis, Jordanians, Syrians just open their borders, let them in?”
Yehudin’s brow furrowed.
“If,” Collins went on, “they’re some sort of…wandering plague, a displaced and disenfranchised blight on Israel, why don’t the other Arab nations throw down the welcome mat? Why not give their Arab brethren the shot at the good life they claim the Israelis are denying them?”
“Good question,” Yehudin said. “But I already have the answer. Remember, though, at one time the children of Israel, of Moses, dispersed to the four corners of the earth, were likewise viewed as this wandering plague you mentioned. Well, to answer your question, the other Arab countries want the Palestinians kept right here. They want them to wreak havoc, they want to kill us Jews, all of us, or drive us into the sea. They will not be satisfied until they have taken everything we have. Yes, I could stand here all day, tell you the history between us, the sibling rivalry between the first offspring of Abraham, how he cast out those of Arab heritage who can trace their roots back to him. I can talk about Moses, how the children of Israel have returned to the promised land as it was deemed by God.”
Yehudin fell silent, end of discussion.
“This is your home, and you’re going nowhere,” Collins said. “I can respect that. Okay, how about we all meet back here at 0900 for a final brief? Gentlemen. Stone and the rest and my team are dismissed—they can grab some rest in the meantime, Colonel Yehudin. I’ve got some calls to make.”
Bolan saw Collins pick the aluminum briefcase off the floor, motion for Python to follow him up the stairs. Something, Bolan sensed, was eating at Collins, had been, in fact, since he reemerged from the demolished C and C area in the Bekaa.
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