Predator Paradise

by Don Pendleton

  “So you hope—not that I doubt your ability—but you’re talking eighty-plus targets between Collins’s and Salaan’s killers.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing along the Spectre. And believe me, I’ve got one angry heart.”

  “The Man is giving you two hours on the ground, Striker, remember that. You don’t nail it down by then…”

  “You told me. They send in the Special Forces.”

  “For now, it’s your show.”

  “Fear not, Hal.”

  “Bring back the head of this Collins snake, if you feel so inclined.”

  “I’m not planning on leaving him that much.”

  “If I was a betting man, sounds like I can make book on that.”

  “I’ll be in touch when I’m in the air.”

  And the Executioner signed off, so close to the enemy now he thought he could damn near hear Collins chuckling, Cobra Force in the clear, money in the bank.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Pavi Khalq no longer bothered to concern himself over the sanity of the great leader. The ayatollah, as far he was concerned, was either truly insane or he was blessed by God with an extraordinary vision for the future of Islam, a savior of the Muslim world perhaps, gifted with insight into the deepest corners of the hearts and souls of all men, and devils in human skin. He could perhaps even see the future, a great victory for all Muslims. The ayatollah, he believed, was leading the global jihad to glory, their enemies trampled underfoot, snakes that they were.

  He was merely a foot soldier in jihad, after all, and decided to leave the bigger questions of madness or genius to the will of God. Time, he knew, always sorted out the mystery, showed to the world at large what mortal men—and great men of vision—were really all about.

  He had a job to do right then, barking out the orders for the demolition team to hurry and mine the length of the C-130, stem to stern. As he looked at the banks of computers and other high-tech wonder machines, he was stabbed by regret that such magnificent and ultrasophisticated tracking and intelligence-gathering tools were destined to become scrap when the massive bird was blown apart. They could sorely use this equipment, he thought, and the infidels would teach them how to use it, before, of course, they were killed. Again he was in no position to question orders.

  His men found two more bodies of dead Marines, stashed in the com center, which would make four total for the bonfire that would be filmed outside. But it was the two Muslims, executed and left on the floorboards where they had been slaughtered, that drew his ire. It galled him, just the same, that Ayatollah Salaan had chosen a path that cost the lives of so many fine Muslim warriors.

  Revenge, though, was soon in coming.

  Again he decided to not question the wisdom or the sanity of his ayatollah, as his men dragged the bodies down the ramp, into the lengthening shadows of dusk.

  He was down the ramp, saw the main camera mounted on its tripod in the distance, the four corpses hauled, jouncing and bumping over broken ground, for several hundred yards, then dumped on the ground. He saw them next, the armed devils, climbing the rise of the hill near their quarters, looking his way, wondering. He hoped they enjoyed the show. In the distance to the north he made out the faint cracks of rifles as his snipers capped off more rounds. All of them were training nearly around the clock these days, a number of operations in the wings, only they were mired in limbo, waiting for the infidels to fulfill the rest of their bargain. When? He only hoped it was soon.

  Back to the task at hand, he told himself.

  Mentally he reviewed the message as he stepped up before the camera, the statement written by the ayatollah committed to memory.

  “Is it on?”

  “Yes, Pavi.”

  He waited until the bodies were settled behind him, an American flag draped over the corpses, then stared into the camera. He felt the smile harden his mouthline, aware how ominous he looked in his black hood, assault rifle canted across his chest.

  “WHAT THE HELL?”

  Collins topped the rise, wondering what was going on himself, following Bramble’s stare toward the activity near and inside the Herc. The Cobra leader pulled up, his own men, Falconi and his Predator Five surrounding him.

  The second CIA man, Mr. Cooper, cursed. “I really didn’t want to have to see this. Those are American Marines, after all.”

  “So I’ll find you a vomit bag,” Collins snapped. “Toughen the fuck up. This is the home stretch.”

  “This isn’t good, Collins,” Falconi groused, jumping into the bitch session.

  Collins glanced toward the firing range, took in the sniper activity, men in black hoods blasting away at dummies seated in parked SUVs or mounted on stakes. Looking around, he found they were clear of eavesdroppers, four hoods left with the prisoners, then watched the scene on the plateau floor. They had set up film school, a black hood in front of the main camera, other hoods dousing the American flag over the bodies with gasoline, then a pack of matches flared up and the fire was started. Two more fanatics toted video cams, one of them aimed toward the Herc.

  “I guess Al-Jazeera,” Collins said, “will be getting a special delivery from the ayatollah. Jihad on prime time, only I can’t imagine they have any gals that look quite like what you see on CNN. I can’t see their own version of Paula Zahn wrapped up in a chador.”

  “You think this is funny, Collins?” Falconi growled.

  “Hardly. It will be damn painful if your Russian comrades don’t come through.”

  “And if they don’t?” Cooper said.

  “Then we blast our way out of this shithole country.”

  “And do what?” Falconi said. “That’s the rest of the demo team coming out of the Herc now.”

  “What?”

  Collins peered harder, wondering what those packages were, and the cord…

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah, Collins,” Falconi said. “They’re getting ready to blow our ride clear across the border and dump it all over Iraq.”

  “We’ve been sitting in that stone hovel for a week now,” Bramble said. “Shit in a hole, a few scraps of bread and a bowl of water every day. Maybe you noticed how your Muslim cargo was whisked away to the palace? Right now they’re sipping tea and cooling their heels in a hot tub.”

  “What he’s saying,” Cooper snarled, “is I somehow don’t think we were ever meant to leave Iran. We’re going to end up having our nuts fed to us in front of a camera just like the head shed and those Marines you brought to the ayatollah.”

  Collins didn’t want to believe that, but instinct warned him it was set to come unraveled. “Fuck ’em. If I have to, I’ll kill them all my goddamn self and let Allah sort them out.”

  TOUCHDOWN FROM ten thousand feet up jarred Bolan to the bone. The Starlifter had sailed in from the northwest, jamming whatever radar and surveillance works the enemy had, using whatever available cloud cover near the DZ, three Tomcats riding the wings, but set to peel off and join in lowering the boom with the F-15E Strike Eagles. The weapons bin was off the ramp seconds ahead of Bolan, opening up from the static line, then he was on the ground, stripping off his chute pack.

  The new Beretta 93-R with attached sound suppressor was out, scanning the ridgeline, but his infrared heat monitor coupled with the Starlifter’s screens had already turned up no sign of life in the general vicinity. If the situation on the screens of his flight crew changed, or sat recon showed the prisoners had been moved to the palace, White Eagle One would patch through, as he fixed the com link around his head. The black cosmetics stung a little where his flesh had been stitched up, but this was no time to sweat out the pain.

  He moved, silent and swift in a northwest vector, melting into the darkening shadows, GPS module in hand, the so-called House of the Holy 2.5 klicks beyond the rise and planted on the plateau. The transponder was painting him on the screens of his fighter jockeys, and he knew he was on their clock.

  Thirty-eight minutes and counting to be exact, the soldie
r punched in the homing beacon for his weapons bin. Five hundred yards later he found it, keyed it open.

  The Executioner hustled up as he loaded himself down for war.

  It was game time, and the soldier put on his battle face. The enemy didn’t know it yet, but the House of the Holy was about to go up in flames.

  “WE ARE the holy warriors of the global jihad.”

  Pavi Khalq paused, his senses swarmed by the sickly sweet stench of cooking flesh. He listened to the flames, staring into the camera, allowed the silence to linger a few more moments. This was his moment to shine.

  “Behind me are American Marines, evil instruments of the Great Satan who would further impose its will on all oppressed Muslim people the world over. The Great Satan and its Zionist pawns will soon be unable to continue to rape the earth of its natural resources, force their will on the Muslim world, carry on with their greed and their lust. They will know horror and great suffering and sorrow for their sins. In the name of God, who is all-powerful and all-wise we are issuing a global fatwa to our brother Muslim freedom fighters to kill infidels around the world. Wherever an infidel is found, the infidel must die. These Marines came to my humble country to murder Muslims and their fate is now the fires of Hell, as you see behind me. In the days to come the infidels will taste the terrible scourge of the wrath of Islam for all the atrocities they have committed against Muslims. America will perish soon in fire, and their Zionist boot lickers will be annihilated in the weeks to come. America and Israel and their demonic allies will soon cease to exist. Your judgment is at hand.”

  DUGULA FELT the air of rising anticipation mingled with anxiety as the ayatollah stepped into the large parlor room. They had just finished praying, lifting themselves off their mats now, facing the massive opening as one force where the small Iranian stood, barefoot and running a curious look over the group.

  It was the Sudanese colonel, Ayeed something or other, who began firing off the questions. “This is what your emissaries promised us as the big event? Capture by American commandos, my compound razed, my soldiers massacred? Do you know how many of us have died in the interests of your big event? Are you aware they executed Muslims on the plane and before our eyes? That the Americans you appear to be in league with displayed hatred toward all of us, would murder any of us without blinking an eye?”

  “Are we your guests or your prisoners?”

  Dugula watched as an inscrutable smile framed the bearded face.

  “Both. Neither. And I am aware of everything that has transpired. You have had an arduous journey, I grant you. You have kept the faith of Islam, and God will reward you your faithfulness. You will be fed well—you will be my guests here. I suggest you rest, for the times ahead will be perilous. There is much work to do, a jihad, a war to win. Should you wish to remain and join the ranks of global jihad, that is your choice. If not, I will return you to your country of origin.”

  Dugula wasn’t sure he cared much for the sound of those last words. He was certain they were being issued an ultimatum. Over the years he had heard a lot about this ayatollah, a reclusive and mysterious figure who sold heroin to finance his empire. He had never once even seen a picture, even heard a description of the spiritual leader. Now he found himself somewhat amazed how the small Iranian—who looked more Western than Muslim—could wield such power, send out men who would so willingly go to their deaths for him.

  Habir Dugula found himself craving to return to Somalia. Whatever madness went on under the roof, he wanted no part of it.

  He wanted to go home.

  He was wondering how he might broach the subject of return to Somalia, about to step up when a black hood materialized beside the ayatollah, whispering in his ear. The snow-white complexion seemed to darken with rage.

  “I will return.”

  Dugula heard the murmuring of questions, sensed a volatile presence in the ayatollah ready to explode, but Salaan was already gone.

  The Somali warlord suddenly feared the future, and even if he was among his own, it looked and felt dire.

  “GODDAMMIT!”

  Collins watched in horror as the C-130 belched apart in thunder and flames. Stem to stern, something like close to a billion dollars’ worth of America’s most highly advanced radar, tracking, sat interceptors, deception relay…

  Gone. Blown all over the desert, vanishing in a cloud of fire.

  “Is there any doubt now, Major, what the future holds for us?”

  Falconi again, the worrywart. A terrible rage boiled up in Collins as he watched the contingent of black-hooded fanatics marching away from the holocaust, some bastard still filming the destruction for Al-Jazeera or whoever. Was that laughter he heard down below?

  This was it, he told himself, but it was far from over. They still had nine hundred million, already electronically dispersed around the globe in various numbered accounts. The Russians were on their own.

  Hell, everybody was on their own. He—his men—had come too far, killed too many, risked too much to stand on the sidelines, watch it all go up in fire and smoke like the Herc without getting some say—and some bullets—in with the ayatollah and his black-hooded thugs.

  Collins took the HK subgun off his shoulder. “All of you with me. Time to go have a few choice words with the ayatollah. I’ll be damned I sit here two days, sweat it out whether our lives are numbered in hours.”

  “Are you nuts, Collins?” Bramble asked. “We’re outnumbered seven, eight or more to one, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking…”

  “Show some balls,” Collins rasped. “You want to stay here, I’ll make sure those of us who do the killing and maybe the bleeding walk out of here in one piece, help themselves to a slice of your pie.”

  He heard Python and Mamba chuckle, knew his guys would go the distance.

  Collins wheeled, marching down the incline, the domed mosque and series of minarets rising from the palace little more than blurs in the tunnel vision of red rage. It took a few moments, adrenaline pumping so hard he wasn’t sure what he saw, then he spotted the contingent of black hoods rolling their way, another five or more fanatics stepping away from the walled courtyard. He slowed his pace, heard one of the hoods call out, “The great leader wants to speak with you. There is news. I am afraid it is not good.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to talk to his turbaned holiness.”

  Collins looked skyward, would have sworn he heard the distant but rapidly growing scream of fighter jets, then spotted the black shapes of warbirds streaking in, missiles already flaming.

  The Cobra leader found the black hoods turning toward the first series of eruptions, briefly wondered what bad news they were bringing, then cut loose with his subgun. All bets were off, he heard his mind laugh, and what was another hundred million at that point anyway?

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  They were as brazen and willful an evil lot as the Executioner could recall coming across in either recent or distant memory.

  And they had only just begun to pay the price.

  Bolan was racing against the clock, under sixty ticks, knew Dragon Squad was en route and ready to cut loose the Sidewinders and Sparrows and begin to bring down the roof on the House of the Holy when the C-130 blew up across the plateau.

  It signaled the beginning of the end for the damned on two fronts.

  The soldier was moving out and down a rocky incline, guided by firelight and cutting a wide berth on the six of the hardforce in black hoods, when the fireball lit up the night with all the sudden swollen and blinding force of the sun exploding. Moments earlier he had spied the group of maybe twelve or thirteen on the distant northern rise, arms flapping, mouths working overtime, guys bent out of shape over the devil only knew what. Bolan had been tempted to take a peek through his infrared binocs, then the dazzling umbrella of firelight clearly illuminated the unmistakable angry face of Collins. Warlock, Cyclops, the snake-handled survivors of Cobra Force, the newcomers and Predator Five were embroiled in a serious discus
sion among themselves, then turned their anger on a contingent of black hoods marching their way.

  Twenty-two pounds of firepower in his hands and leading his charge into the night—two hundred rounds of 5.56 mm full-metal jackets good to go in the Squad Automatic Weapon—and the Executioner was beelining a straight north vector for the prisoner quarters.

  First the prisoners, freed and moving, Rescue One in the form of an oversize high-tech Gulfstream III built to NSA specs, five minutes and counting to touchdown to the west…

  Then the gloves were off. At a time like this, outnumbered, outgunned and relying on the shock factor of saturation bombing, the Executioner fought back the 1001 “ifs” that could snafu the play, leave him broken and bloodied on the battlefield before the first Sidewinder was cutting wind. Two more box mags clipped to his webbing for the SAW, an M-16/M-203 combo hung from one shoulder and a multiround projectile launcher with twelve 40 mm frag bombs down the chutes—couple that with his standard side arms, another ring of 40 mm hellbombs in the instant-release ring clip, a dozen hand grenades in a bevy of flash-stun, incendiary and fragmentation…

  If it wasn’t enough he knew was in a world of hurt.

  He sensed the first leg might go off without a hitch, hitting the south side of the prisoner quarters, the enemy none the wiser to his near invisible advance on their rear, then he heard the hollering and cursing to his far one o’clock. The black hoods who had blown the Herc were jogging up the blind side of Cobra Force when something snapped inside Collins and all hell broke loose in that direction. The savages on both sides went at it, point-blank autofire, howling and dying on their feet. If nothing else, Bolan figured they would shave the odds in his favor by flinging themselves into a mindless Wild Bunch routine.

  The Executioner was carrying a heavy load of killing power, but figured the only way to lighten his burden was to start using up ammo. With plenty of targets to spare he figured that shouldn’t be much of a problem.