Path To War

Dexter was drawing a bead for a shot between the eyes when Smithson suddenly went limp. He stood, watching as they checked his pulse. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

One of the whitecoats nodded, a defeated look on his face. “Cardiac arrest would be my best guess, but we’ll need an autopsy.”

“Forget that. You failed.”

“No, we haven’t.”

Dexter wheeled, found Teetel on his back. “You haven’t, huh? I suppose you have a good explanation.”

“We injected him with too large of a dosage. Our mistake.”

“Your mistake? You didn’t know the risks?”

“We did, and he did, too. Understand, too, this man came to us, a lifelong alcoholic. His kidneys were weak, he had cirrhosis of the liver, two previous heart attacks, and there were indications he was in the first stages of lung cancer.”

“And still you went ahead?”

“He insisted. He needed the money. Or perhaps…”

“Perhaps what? That he was looking to commit suicide?”

Teetel shrugged. “Well, a man with his…lifestyle…that’s a distinct possibility.”

Dexter stowed his weapon. He gave what Teetel told him consideration; decided what the good doctor told him could well be true. For the most part, the soldiers he knew who pledged allegiance to the Consortium were young, figure in prime physical condition, and with a smaller dosage…

Without a word, Dexter brushed past Teetel, anxious to give his report to the shadow men overseas.

TWO POSSIBILITIES for enemy lightning response flashed through Bolan’s mind. One—the shooter had simply been standing post near the door. Two—the enemy had known he was coming. Either way, the Executioner knew there was only one option available.

Bulldoze and blast.

Spoon released, he pitched the steel egg, a sideways whipping motion that sent it flying through the smoking hole. Another thunderous retort all but obliterated what remained of the door. Bolan pulled farther back down the hall, covering his ears as the flash-bang erupted. A million candlepower going off like a supernova along with noise that could match an artillery barrage would have all but shattered the shooter’s senses, but Bolan needed his human barrier waxed, deaf, dumb and blind or not.

The soldier was up, bell slightly rung by the concussive retort, another flash-bang filling one hand as he went low around the corner, Uzi poking through the smoke. He found his man in jig step, backpedaling down the foyer, a big figure swathed in smoke, a massive SPAS-12 auto-shotgun coming up to draw blind aim. Holding back on the trigger, Bolan hit him with a rising burst, crotch to sternum, the SPAS-12 roaring one more time as he toppled back, a section of the ceiling coming down in a rain of dust and plaster.

That left four, if intel was on the money.

Combat senses torqued to maximum overdrive, Bolan bulled through the jagged teeth, caught the commotion around the corner. He hugged the wall, spotted an AK-74 swinging around the corner, flaming away. A short burst of autofire from a snarling figure in a katfiyeh, lead wasps zipping past the soldier’s ear, and the soldier drove the hardman to cover with an extended Uzi burst, lobbing the flash-bang grenade in what he assumed was the general direction of the living room. Bolan dropped back into the hall, autofire chasing him around the corner. They were shouting and screaming for all of two seconds when number two brain-cleaver sounded off, sure to knock them around every which way, senses on the verge of winking out.

There was no choice but to end it quick and hard. The soldier charged back in, tagged the howling demon with the AK-74 as he hopped around the corner, firing a brief spray and pray. The Executioner hit the edge low, peered around the corner to find the living room a smoking whirlwind of debris, three targets reeling around the couch. A live one would be nice, but the Asians were going for broke, firing deaf and blind with machine pistols, the corner above Bolan’s head shaved off with wild rounds. The Executioner dropped them both with a quick burst of 9-mm Parabellum rounds, left to right, hot lead eating up their fancy threads. They were falling when the last one brought an AKM to bear, hollering something in Arabic. Bolan chopped him off at the knees, a hideous shriek flaying the smoke-choked air.

Time for all due haste, he knew, as he kicked all weapons away from the Arab stretched out on the floor, one eye on both bedroom doors. As good fortune had it, he was looking at Mousuami. A one-two sweep next, kicking in both doors, and he found both bedrooms clear. He went back to the moaner, who was clutching at his mangled knees. It would have been a small coup, as he glanced at the mauled remnants of a laptop, but even still there might be a way for some cyberwizard to access the hard drive. Then he spotted the briefcase, pocked with shrapnel, but since it had been hidden behind the couch, settled on the floor, it had been spared the brunt of the blast. The Uzi stowed, he hauled out the Desert Eagle, opened the briefcase and found stacks of U.S. currency. Figure somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars, and it was a safe bet he had interrupted a nasty deal.

Bolan crouched beside Mousuami. A viselike grip to the throat, squeezing hard, and as the extremist’s mouth opened, eyes going wide, the warrior rammed the hand cannon’s muzzle into the man’s mouth. “Nod if you can read lips and speak English.”

Gagging, Mousuami nodded.

“Who were your guests?” Bolan asked, likewise mouthing the words, removing the weapon from the Arab’s mouth, releasing some pressure on his throat.

Mousuami choked, then sputtered, “North Koreans.”

“What was the deal here?”

A feral hatred, defiance cleared the glaze in Mousuami’s eyes. “It does not matter now. You are too late.”

Bolan placed the muzzled between the fanatic’s eyes. “Last chance. The deal.”

Mousuami was bleeding out, lapsing into shock. Bolan slapped his face.

“A dream for us. A nightmare for you.” Mousuami laughed, eyes bulging with fanatic hatred. “The Suitcase from God.”

“Is it here in Casablanca?”

“We have it.”

Bolan felt his blood race hot. Beyond a biological attack, a backpack nuke with a wallop of anywhere from five to eight kilotons would prove the Western world the worst nightmare. Say anywhere from five to eight city blocks wiped out, and with fallout, or a strong wind blowing radiation…

“Where is Al-Jassaca? And don’t tell me you don’t know who they are.”

Mousuami grinned, eyes rolling up in his head. “Try…Pakistan…if you know so much.”

The game here was dead, Bolan knew. Before he left he would take the briefcase and laptop, the bundle of cash at least destined to fatten covert coffers for the war on terror if any information on the computer couldn’t be retrieved.

The Executioner stood, sensing he would get no more information out of Mousuami who was retching and moaning, set to pass out. Cold-blooded killing normally wasn’t part of his SOP, but the enemy was proving itself more vicious and savage with every attack, every abduction, showing not a scintilla of mercy or compassion, especially when it came to noncombatants. Besides, if he let Mousuami live he could reach out and warn his comrades in Casablanca, perhaps see yet another day where he could plot mass murder.

Bolan gathered in the briefcase and laptop, tucked them under one arm. Then the Executioner drew a bead between Mousuami’s eyes, his finger taking up slack on the trigger to remove one more scourge from the planet.

RON BARAKA CAUGHT a bird’s-eye view of the Gulf of Naples along the Amalfi Coast as he was escorted to the villa by two men in black wielding HK MP 5 subguns. After his report on the Madrid incident, he had been summoned to Italy by the men of the Phoenix Consortium. He had a few hours’ downtime in the Learjet from Madrid to the private airfield they controlled outside Naples, the local authorities greased, he was sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy a few moments of the breathtaking view following the long ride in the van along the winding, treacherous cliffside roads. He figured they were several hundred feet in the air, high above blue-green waters sprinkled with fishing boats and pleasure craft, the compound perched on the edge of a cliff, ringed by native vegetation. It was a fleeting sensation, the sudden longing he felt to be in a cabin cruiser, stretched out in a chaise longue, drink in hand, the lassies at his beck and call.

Someday, he told himself as another black-clad sentry opened the ornately carved teak doors, allowing him entrance to a marbled foyer, the walls fairly splashed with frescoes, the corridor lined with statues of what he guessed were Roman and Greek gods and goddesses. For the foreseeable future it was all business, grim and savage, he considered, to the point of…

What? Madness?

The good news, as far as he could tell, was that he’d been allowed to hold on to his twin Beretta M-9 piston in shoulder holsters beneath his Italian silk sports jacket.

As his escort led him down another frescoed corridor, chandeliers the size of small automobiles hovering above him, he briefly considered the past, what had led him to man the helm of what would prove the most ambitious undertaking—in terms of conquering foreign land—since the Nazis blitzkrieged across Europe and into Russia. He was now “retired” from active duty, but his track record as assassin, saboteur and leader of covert operations for the CIA, from West Africa to the Far East, had shot him to the front of the employment line at present. No wife, no family of any kind, there was only himself and his work to consider. That, and the monumental task set before him.

And what was he? he wondered. Black bag operations was all he’d known, but was he simply their cannon fodder? An errand boy? A hired gun? For damn sure, he wasn’t like the Consortium, these men who called the shots from behind the front lines, never getting their own hands dirty, never having to dodge bullets or to worry about stepping on a landmine that could amputate on the spot. Hell, he couldn’t even begin to count all the men—and women and children—he’d killed. At times, when he felt the wear and tear of the years, it seemed as if an army of ghosts was marching behind him—or the dead were eagerly waiting for him to check out to the other side, anxious to take back their pounds of flesh. And what were his motives at present? he wondered as another black-clad sentry opened the door to the room where the men waited. On that score, he wasn’t one hundred percent certain. Money, lots of it, shot to the top of the list. Beyond basic greed, though, he couldn’t say why he had agreed to lead the charge into a New World for the Consortium. Where they wanted power, were perhaps looking to dictate whatever their terms and conditions to the rest of the world, he simply wanted to secure whatever was left of his future, retire for good. They wanted Africa, all of it, and Angola was the springboard. Madness? he wondered again. Or was it?

They had the means, he knew, to pull it off.

And that, he thought, should have scared him into a sprint for the setting sun.

Striding toward the long mahogany table, Baraka ran a look over the five men seated on the other side. He didn’t know their names, figured in the long run that was for the best, if it hit the fan and he was forced to go for number one. Considering their clout—the endless parade of contacts in the intelligence world, the way they could access intelligence and arms on the spot—clued him in they were former big shots. CIA? DIA? NSA? Pentagon honchos? He wasn’t about to ask or to go digging around for information. In his mind, their ambition—delusional or not—made them every bit as dangerous as he was. Even if they only drew the battle maps in the safety of this cocoon, they knew enough bad folks around the globe to yank his ticket if he became insubordinate, careless or didn’t perform to expectations.

There was no chair for him to sit, so he was forced to stand at attention, as usual. Mentally, he tagged the men according to appearance or vice, giving each one a look as they chewed on their own thoughts. Quickly, then, he gave the circular, whitewashed room a once-over. Other than a wet bar, there were two black-clad men manning what he knew was the Consortium’s supercomputer. It was above and beyond NSA quality, he had once been informed, with multiple processors linked and connected to a massive memory by a bus called a hyperchannel. Not only did it monitor all the world’s hot spots, capable of hacking into the mainframes of every intelligence and law-enforcement agency around the globe, it controlled the Serpent Tank. In fact, when one of the many tank’s accounts was electronically manipulated, cash could be ready and available in any Bank of America for any operative in about a dozen countries.

He knew. He’d seen cold cash in the six figures dumped in his hand in Luanda, Casablanca and Madrid to finance the ongoing operation.

Goatee got the ball rolling. “What is your take on the Madrid situation?”

“Renegade operation. One man going for himself. I have the diamonds in the van. Quite a sizable haul. I’d say he had about five, six million in uncut stones.”

“Good,” Pipe Smoker said, tamping fresh tobacco in his bowl. “There is no room in the Consortium for loose cannons.”

Baraka found that statement somewhat ironic, since their army was made up of mostly mercenaries, disgruntled ex-Special Forces with a smattering of criminal rabble in it purely for the buck. “Wilders lost a man.”

Cigar Man spoke up. “We will handle Wilders. Several of their executives are aware of the coming situation and they will accept the loss of one man who, as it would appear, wasn’t a team player.”

“We have other investors,” Whiskey Man chimed in, “who are most anxious for us to proceed. Once your operators in Morocco have acquired the package, we will launch the operation within forty-eight hours. Do you see a problem with that?”

Baraka did, but he’d come this far, what was he going to say? “As long as we have the backing of our contingent in the Angolan Armed Forces—FAA—and UNITA, there should be no problem taking down the palace. I’m assuming you will want the sitting president executed?”

“We will hand him over to his shadow adversaries,” White Suit said, “in the Angolan Armed Forces. According to our intelligence, there are some officers under our command in-country who have had family members ‘disappear.’ They believe the sitting president and some of his rabble are responsible.”

“And they will want answers,” Cigar Man said, “or retribution.”

“What we need,” Goatee said, “is to seize complete control of the diamond fields and as soon as the smoke of battle clears.”

“And,” Whiskey Man said, “the oil fields. Including the offshore platforms. Your men and trusted FAA officers will take charge of that area of responsibility. It will be difficult, considering we’re but a few hundred strong, but not impossible. Once the situation is explained and passed on to their army, with cash incentives being distributed, we should be able to bring the army under our control.”

Should, Baraka thought. Why did that make him so nervous? Loyalty wasn’t a common trait among West African grunts, unless, of course, cold hard cash was distributed and they were promised a slice of the pie. All things considered, it was going to be messy, dangerous, with his own neck in a noose that could tighten at any time.

“As you know,” Pipe Smoker said, “Angola is capable of pumping out two billion—count that—two billion barrels per day.”

Cigar Man shrouded his grizzled face in smoke. “But they are presently only producing six hundred thousand.”

Goatee cleared his throat. “In other words, we need to take the hands of the savages off the spigots.”

“This is common throughout all of Africa, sadly even South Africa,” Whiskey Man said. “When the Europeans bailed and the United Nations stepped in, anarchy swept the continent, complete meltdown of infrastructures, but, of course, you already know that. We need to regain control, even if it’s by way of strategic genocide. Should we prevail then…”

“The world could be ours,” Goatee finished.

“Eventually, we will leave the petroleum situation to our people in Gemini, Inc.,” Cigar Man stated. “Naturally there will be an uproar from the world community, sanctions and so forth, but the North Koreans need oil, too. Likewise a few other nations who are willing to do business with us. As for the NKs, they have guaranteed delivery of three more packages once the situation is under control.”

“We’re hoping for a fairly bloodless coup,” Pipe Smoker added.

“Meaning,” Cigar Man said, “we’re hoping to avoid riots throughout the country and such. Should this happen, you will have at your command death squads, Russian gunships, both fixed wing and rotary, at your disposal to quash any unrest. If a massacre, say, in the six figures is required, then so be it.”

“As for neighbors Namibia, Zaire and Zambia,” Goatee said, “they will be issued an ultimatum, should they feel so threatened they feel an invasion is warranted.”

“How is the general holding up?” White Suit suddenly inquired.

Baraka gave General Asabba Katanga a moment’s consideration, choosing his next words carefully. Branded a war criminal by both the United States and the United Nations, forced into exile by Angola’s president, the general, Baraka thought wasn’t the man for the job. “I’m not trying to sound flippant, but if you keep the man swimming in booze and whores, he’s happy as the proverbial pig in slop.”

Goatee lifted an eyebrow. “I hear disapproval of our selection in your voice.”

Baraka felt the frown tug at his lips. “One thug is as good as another, I suppose, all things considered. Problem is, I have to wonder if the man will become an asset or a liability down the road.”

“Meaning?” Goatee asked.

“Meaning can he be trusted? He’s just like any other megalomaniacal sociopath who’s ever controlled a country in Africa. He wants it all and for number one only. Money. Power. Pleasure. The way I read Katanga, he could make Idi Amin look like an altar boy. What I’m saying, down the road, what’s to keep him from kicking us out of Angola?”

Goatee chuckled. “Try nuclear blackmail.”

And there it was, Baraka thought. He was hardly shocked, but just to hear it said out loud sent a shiver down his spine. They were serious. They would do it.

“And the same goes if America wants to counterattack?” Baraka asked, looking ahead to the possibility he might want to be far away from Luanda in the event the U.S. decided to send in the troops.

“It will be their decision,” Goatee answered. “I mean, how would it look to the world if Uncle Sam tried to remove us by force and we pull the plug by turning Luanda into a radioactive crater?”

“At present,” Cigar Man said, “the United States is on the thin edge of the pond in the eyes of many of their own allies. We do not think they would want to be responsible for igniting a nuclear holocaust.”

Baraka cleared his throat. “If I may?”

“Something troubling you?” Pipe Smoker inquired.

“Our so-called jihadist comrades.”

“What about them?” Goatee asked, a slight edge to his voice.

“I’m not questioning your judgment, but I’m not so sure how wise it is to include them in our plans for phase two.”

“But you are questioning our judgment,” Goatee said, his voice rising a decibel toward anger. “We’re using them, do you understand, as a way in to phase two. We have already paved the way into Yemen, bought power players, contacts, have practically financed an entire fundamentalist army, and they are waiting at our disposal in the desert as we speak.”

“For what exactly?” Baraka pushed.

“As cannon fodder,” Pipe Smoker answered, “in the event of just such an American response as you suggested. They’ll be more than willing to attack and kill American soldiers. By the time Angola is a wrap, Yemen will be under our control. Again, nuclear blackmail.”

“I was more or less referring to the deal in Morocco.”

Goatee leaned up, his gaze narrowing. “Without our contacts in Morocco it is unlikely the package would have been delivered. They were paid…”

“By me,” Baraka stated.

“Yes, by you,” Goatee said, “to give the NKs a down payment. A show of good faith that all would go well. It is their country. Should we have cut the top extremists in Morocco out of the picture it would have only made our task more difficult. And considering the proximity of Morocco to Angola I would state, with no hesitation, that it was a wise decision.”

“And the North Koreans were the only ones available,” Cigar Man said, “and willing to deliver what we need.”

“At what cost?” Baraka asked. “I mean, what’s their angle?”

Goatee chuckled. “Simple. They hate America. They’re already stamped as part of the Axis of Evil, they figure why not go all the way?”

“They want a piece of the action, in other words, once we’ve taken control of the oil and diamonds?”

Baraka wanted to know.

“Why not?” Pipe Smoker said. “They can deliver all the WMD we need. I know, before you say it, it was too risky to seek out our Russian contacts. Their black market is under too much scrutiny to risk involving them.”

“Is there anything else troubling you?” Goatee asked.

“Yeah. What about this Z-Clops? This speed that’s supposed to turn my men into supersoldiers? I’m sitting on a batch of it, but none of my men has used it yet. I was waiting for the nod from you gentlemen.” Baraka watched them closely as Goatee cleared his throat and Pipe Smoker exchanged a look with Whiskey Man.

“You and your men will be in the field, under extreme duress for possibly great stretches,” Goatee said.

During the pause, Baraka sensed they were holding back. “So? They’re professional soldiers. They’re not a bunch of junkies who can’t cut it. I’m standing here, thinking there’s a problem with this stuff.”

“No problem,” Pipe Smoker said. “I would recommend using it, though. It has been tested and approved. I’ll explain it very simply. Before Z-Clops, a man hits a baseball just clearing the fence. After Z-Clops he can reach the upper deck. Superstrong. Supertough. Superenduring.”

“Aftereffects?”

“None,” Goatee said.

“Hey, we’re talking about something that’s not exactly FDA approved.”

“It’s approved,” Whiskey Man said. “As long as your men are in top physical condition, they will suffer no side effects. It is designed to sharpen your senses, your reflexes to near superhuman. Picture the soldier who needs no sleep, no food, can fight all day and all night without relent.”

“The Terminator.”

“If that comparison pleases you,” Pipe Smoker said. “But, judging the report we received, it sounds as if that’s a very close comparison.”

Baraka didn’t like using his men as guinea pigs, but decided he’d leave it up to each soldier whether he wanted to use it. “What about stateside?”

Goatee sounded irritated as he said, “What about it?”

“Our backs covered?”

“They are, indeed,” White Suit said. “The situation has been resolved. Those who were aware of our dipping into the Serpent Tank are no longer among the living. We’re in complete control of the tank. As for the three exterminators, they are, we understand, safely back in Peshawar.”

Baraka didn’t feel one hundred percent reassured. Perhaps it was because he would be the spearhead, out there risking it all while these guys hunkered down in these posh digs, waiting on the final outcome. He watched as Goatee settled a briefcase on the table.

“Now,” he said, “if you will step up, Mr. Baraka, we will go over the final battle strategy and then, sir, you are on your way.”

To what? Baraka wondered, moving toward the table. Glory, riches or death? These men, he considered, were hell-bent on creating a New World Order in their image, one built on the blood and suffering of what would prove to be thousands of men, women and children.