Path To War

Pygonyang had its eye toward the future, and tomorrow, even years after, conquest of other nations fueled the hopes and dreams of a country feared and snubbed by the rest of the world.

Grim concern number two was the fact that the superiors of the American mercenaries had arranged the delivery and sale of the nuclear suitcase, had found operatives from his own country, stationed in Myanmar, Cambodia and other Southeast Asian nations, who could pull strings with Pyongyang. Yes, the United States was well aware of his country’s nuclear proliferation, but the risk that American operatives were luring them into a trap with, ostensibly, their desire to purchase a suitcase nuke, was always foremost in his thoughts. When too many individuals knew too much about any covert operation, there was always plenty of room for anxiety.

At the moment, as the sound and fury of battle raged around the camp, Kimsung was furious that the plan looked to be in danger of unraveling into the dreams of dead men.

He was on the heels of Baraka, one of his insolent soldiers lugging the eighty-pound suitcase. Their subguns were fanning the chaos as Kimsung spotted the gunships, perhaps five total, scissoring above the camp. For the moment they appeared content to unleash miniguns and rockets on the north edge, but the manner in which the fireballs rose into the black sky, with saffron flashes that hurtled torn stick figures into the air on bright mushroom clouds, warned him the assault would find its way to the motor pool.

“You and your men get to the motor pool, Colonel! We’re bailing!”

Kimsung, flanked by his two top lieutenants, Unsan and Horyin, bared his teeth at Baraka. Armed with nothing but a Browning Hi-Power pistol, delivered to him by the fanatics when he landed at their airstrip, Kimsung found the mercenaries breaking open crates, unzipping large duffel bags. “Give us something more than these pistols we carry!”

Baraka wheeled, his eyes bugged with anger. “The hell you say. I can’t risk you and your guys getting chopped down here!”

“We protect ourselves!” Kimsung shouted above the clamor of explosions, autofire and the general pandemonium of distant shouts and screams.

“This is business, Colonel. You leave the shooting to us!”

“Yes, this is business that you do not seem to be handling all that well at present! Give us weapons! I will not place my safety and the safety of my commandos squarely in your hands! I will stand here and be shot down before that happens, do you understand me?”

Baraka cursed, but gave the order. One of the mercenaries began tossing HK MP-5 subguns their way as the other Americans hauled out bazookas or shoved spare clips for their weapons inside their wastebands. Kimsung demanded and received a few extra magazines. He slapped the magazine home, cocked and locked, his lieutenants likewise armed and prepared in the event the fighting tore into the vicinity. He held his ground, aware his men would protect the suitcases, stuffed with cash, with their lives, watching as the sky strobed with more explosions, tents all but wiped off the face of this desolate earth.

Listening as Baraka barked orders at his men, the gist of it being several of them would be left behind to guard their rear, Kimsung thought he saw a big tall shadow, armed with an assault rifle, there then gone as the weapon blazed, cutting down four or five Arabs. Whoever he was, he appeared to be moving in their direction, from the southeast, using the tents to leapfrog and conceal. A quick but hard search of the area and he didn’t find any other shadows on the move. He wasn’t sure why—perhaps it was the cold way in which the big shadow had mowed the Arabs down with such lightning deadly proficiency—but a warning bell clanged in his head.

“Get the hell out of here, Colonel!”

Flashing Baraka a scowl, Kimsung began navigating a swift course between the tents as he heard autofire erupting too close for his comfort. Looking back, he spotted two of the mercs taking hits, bloody divots gouged in their upper chests, Baraka flailing about, cursing and triggering his subgun at adversaries he couldn’t see. Gathering momentum, he was closing on the motor pool when the first blast ripped through the vehicles.

KHALIFAH HOUDTA SUSPECTED treachery. Supposedly, the Islamic jihad in Morocco was both approved and protected by officers high up in the military. Naturally, they were paid handsomely, a few politicians who leaned more to the radical side of Islam likewise receiving fat envelopes on a biweekly basis. In short, they were granted refuge, allowed even to bring in fighters from neighboring Algeria or farther east from Libya and Somalia, cannon fodder for the jihad, but Muslim recruits, just the same, who could be shipped out to launch suicide missions. And with operations on the drawing board, days away even from being launched, simultaneous attacks in Casablanca and Saudi Arabia…

Why, then, were they being attacked?

The only possible answer, he believed, was that the Americans and their North Korean counterparts had called in a strike. But why? Had he and his brothers outlived their usefulness to the infidels? Had they been used as cover for the deal for the suitcase nuke, the infidels now prepared to flee, perhaps having aimed the authorities here, a smoke screen to seal the backs of a sudden vanishing act? Whichever it was, he would leave the questions hanging for the time being, as he shouted at his warriors to go after their alleged guests, sounding the orders for the big shots to be taken alive, if possible.

As he ran, heading south, navigating his path through the maze of stone dwellings and tents, a large contingent of perhaps twenty-plus warriors surrounding him, he considered that, by all rights, the suitcase nuke should belong to the Islamic jihad. After all, it was their country, and without the arrangements his cousins in holy war had negotiated with both the Americans and the North Koreans there would have been no deal. He passed on the order to find and seize the suitcase nuke, relaying that for the ones who took it back they would receive a cash bonus. Even among the holiest of warriors, he knew money still commanded steely determination.

AK-74 up and ready to blast, twin mags taped together for a quick flip and load, he was running hard past the final row of tents when he heard the massive explosion. The fireball climbed high above the large tent where he knew the Americans were gathered. Another blast rocked the night, and Houdta, recognizing voices bellowing in English, figured they were just around the corner of the stone ruins to his nine o’clock. A check of the sky around him on the fly, and he didn’t find any gunships in the vicinity, no rockets streaking past telling him the motor pool was being decimated by an aerial bombardment. Then what? Or who? With luck he hoped the North Koreans came to the same conclusion that the American dogs of war had duped them.

There was always room ready to be made for new buyers.

Houdta ran on, hopeful he could make the North Koreans see reason.

THE BATTLE GOING STRAIGHT to hell began to live up to Bolan’s grimmest expectations.

Two Hummers and a Ford Bronco were pulped to flying scrap by his opening 40-mm missiles, the soldier dumping another HE round into the M-203’s breech when a second warring faction began unloading weaponsfire on the group he assumed belonged to Baraka. As he grabbed cover behind a mound of rubble from some forgotten dwelling, he glimpsed three North Koreans hurling themselves back between the tents, wreckage winging out for their falling shapes, a sharp cry echoing from their drop site. Hindsight being for losers and the dead, Bolan determined he’d gut it out until they began to board the vehicles.

“Give us the suitcase nuke and we let you go your way!”

“Up yours!”

“You will die! We have you outnumbered four to one at the very least!”

“Then we take as many of you jackoffs to hell with us as we can!”

In the fire and kerosene light, the Executioner made out the swarthy, bearded faces poking out from the sides of tents and piles of rubble, AK-74s and AKMs now silent as whoever the terrorist in charge again shouted his demand. If nothing else, Bolan knew the suitcase nuke was within his grasp. His problems getting his hands on it, though, were obvious, and damn serious. Forty, maybe fifty shooters, fueled on anger, hate, greed and adrenaline, were hell bent on going the distance.

So be it. He’d been here before. What he could use was a little help from friendlies.

Tachjine and troops, he found, were still blanketing the campsite with heavy gunship fusillades, waves of debris and mangled mannequins that were once human beings now airborne and skydiving closer to this Moroccan standoff at his end. Somewhere he made out the heavy metal thunder of Russian DshK machine guns he’d seen on Tachjine’s aerial photos, big monsters, he knew, that could pound out 12.7 mm armor-piercing rounds in that could chew up a chopper in seconds flat. The warrior was scouting the action in the air when one of Tachjine’s Cobras was suddenly enveloped in a boiling fireball. In that direction he saw dozens of flaming fingers, autofire raking the other gunships, no doubt an RPG or two wielded in the hands of the extremist snakes.

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