War Drums

Kerim glanced across the tent at Salim’s back. The man was lighting a cigarette, his actions slow and deliberate as he sat gazing out through the open tent flap. So calm and all-knowing. Kerim felt his anger rise. Why should his word have so much influence? Enough that it could destroy all that Kerim cherished. There was no one with as much loyalty to the Ayatollah’s cause. No one. And it could all be wiped away by idle gossip. Salim’s whispered words would be carefully chosen so as to lay full blame on Kerim. The reprisal would be swift and without mercy. Kerim had no doubts as to that. He had seen it happen to others under Razihra’s command.

Without turning his head Salim said, “It would be a pity if my bringing the American here came to nothing. At great personal risk. Would you not agree, Kerim? A chance to find out who had sent him and what he might already have learned. Now we may never know.” Salim paused, letting his words hang in the silence. “I am sure the Ayatollah wouldn’t be pleased if he was to hear of this. Of course I am only thinking of you, Kerim. The Ayatollah holds you in great esteem. My own small part in this is insignificant against your position of great authority.”

Kerim had been waiting for that. The thinly veiled threat of exposure to Razihra. No doubt, if told by Salim, the error would be exaggerated out of all proportion. And once primed with this, Razihra would do his own search for what had happened. Kerim saw this as nothing more than a threat against his very life. If he waited, Salim would reach out the hand of friendship, pledging to help Kerim bury the matter. However, there would be certain matters to be dealt with and money would need to change hands.

So it comes down to one life against another, Kerim thought. If Salim speaks with the Ayatollah, I am finished. It will be as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

His life was under threat. When that happened was not a man allowed to defend himself against the perpetrator? Kerim turned and picked up the AK-47 that was resting against the leg of the table. He raised it, turning the muzzle in Salim’s direction as he snapped back the bolt to arm the weapon. Salim heard the sound, pushing up off his chair and turning. He stared at the black muzzle, eyes suddenly glistening with unconcealed terror.

“Kerim? What is this…?”

“Self-preservation,” Kerim said, and pulled the trigger.

The burst hit Salim in the chest, throwing him backward. As he fell, Kerim followed his body, still firing, the muzzle rising up to Salim’s throat and head. Kerim kept firing until the AK fell silent, its magazine exhausted.

Armed men crowded the tent opening, staring down at the bloody, lacerated form at their feet. The savage volley had reduced Salim’s head and upper torso to a bloody wreck.

“Get that thing out of here and bury him,” Kerim shouted, seizing the moment. “He spoke treason against Ayatollah Razihra. He wanted us to turn against him. To betray our brothers and the cause. This I will not stand from any man. Now drag the dog out of here and bury him with no marker. Let him lie in a traitor’s grave.”

One man pushed to the front, confronting Kerim.

“They have spotted the truck,” he said.

THE HELICOPTER MADE A LONG, low sweep, approaching the truck from the side. Bolan threw a swift glance in its direction and spotted the stubby pod attached to the lower fuselage.

Missiles.

“Ali,” he yelled, “missile incoming.”

The Bedouin followed his gaze and saw what the American meant. There was a sudden whoosh of sound as the slim missile erupted from the pod. It began an erratic flight that looked as if it might terminate at the truck. Bolan swerved violently, the missile slipping by and exploding yards ahead.

Not a heat-seeker, Bolan realized.

The helicopter zoomed in behind the truck, the pilot realizing his error. His second shot was fired at minimum range.

“Jump!” Bolan yelled.

They exited the truck together, hurling themselves clear of the vehicle and hit the dusty ground, rolling and staying low.

The missile impacted against the rear of the truck. The explosion threw up a mass of sand and rock, tearing the vehicle apart in a searing flash of fire. Smoke followed, billowing thick and acrid. The explosion sent out shock waves in a rippling effect that battered at Bolan and Sharif, shoving them farther across the ground. They were lost in the dust and the rain of debris that dropped back to earth.

THE LYNX HELICOPTER SURGED closer, rotor wash swirling the dust and smoke in eccentric spirals. The pilot stayed high until the explosion faded, then dropped to a position where the scene below could be examined. The truck was a blazing wreck, torn apart by the missile, blackened and skeletal, tires smoldering and sending out black, bitter fumes.

“Where are they?” The question came over the pilot’s headset from the door gunner.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe the missile blew them into little pieces.”

The gunner grunted. “I’m sure I saw them jump clear just before it struck.”

Easing the helicopter down, the pilot cut the power, reaching for the AK on the deck at his feet. “We had better make sure. If we go back and say we think they’re dead, Kerim will make it hard for us.”

The gunner’s sigh was audible over the headset. “I know.”

They exited the helicopter and walked to view the wrecked truck.

“They went out on the far side,” the gunner said, checking his AK again, nervous and hoping it didn’t show.

The thick smoke from the wrecked truck had laid an opaque curtain across the immediate area, denying them a clear view beyond the vehicle.

“The blast could still have hit them. Knocked them unconscious.”

It was a hope; one the pilot was depending on.

IN THE MIDST OF THE SWIRLING smoke Sharif was slapping at his scorched robe, trying to put out the smoldering fire. In any other situation it might have offered a moment of light relief, but Bolan had picked up the sound of the descending helicopter and knew for certain that the attack was far from over.

“Ali, the chopper is coming in for landing. They’re still looking for us.”

The Bedouin snatched up his assault rifle, checking the action to make sure it hadn’t been clogged with dust. “Then I hope they find us.”

“Go around that way,” Bolan said. “I’m taking the rear of the truck.”

He moved out quickly, conscious of the helicopter engine winding down now that it was on the ground. He used the smoke as an effective shield, hiding his movements until he was able to determine he was well clear of the demolished truck. As the smoke began to thin out, Bolan moved forward, seeking his targets, and in a few seconds when the hot breeze dispersed the smoke he saw one of two figures turning in his direction, registering Bolan’s presence. The man tried to gain target acquisition, but the Executioner took a swift two-step to one side, crouching slightly as he brought his AK in line, finger already pressuring the light trigger. The assault rifle jacked out its deadly fire, and the other man shuddered as the 7.62 mm slugs struck him in the chest. He fell back, making an attempt to push to his feet. Bolan cut him down with a second burst that ripped into his left side, shattering ribs and spinning the man facedown into the bloody sand.

More autofire caught Bolan’s attention. It came from the area Sharif would have been approaching. Bolan sprinted around the wrecked truck, eyes searching for the Bedouin. He spotted him moments later. The man was bending over his downed target, taking the man’s weapon from him and removing the magazine. He glanced up at Bolan’s approach.

“These are not fighters,” he said. “Any Bedu child would defeat these idiots.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Ali.” Bolan glanced at the helicopter. “Could you guide us to your camp from the air?”

“You can fly this thing?”

“I’m no ace, but I can make it stay in the air.”

Sharif grinned and said dryly, “Then, indeed, Cooper, we will take your Western magic carpet.”

Telling himself he would have to buy Jack Grimaldi a drink, in fact a couple of drinks for the flying instructions he had given, Bolan settled in the pilot’s seat and went through the routine of adjusting the controls, boosting the idling power up to speed. He watched the instrument panel. His takeoff was steady, with only a little side slipping as he worked the controls.

“One thing about the desert,” Sharif said. “At least there are no tall buildings in the way.”

Bolan wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or passing a genuine comment. He closed his mind to Sharif’s muttering and concentrated on getting the chopper on an even keel.

“So which way do we go?”

“Toward those hills,” Sharif said.

Bolan’s handling of the helicopter settled down within a few minutes. His confidence grew, familiarity allowing him to keep the aircraft on an even keel and maintain height and speed. He promised himself an intensive refresher course once he returned to Stony Man and got Grimaldi on his own. Even Sharif relaxed, ceasing to grip the frame of the seat so tightly. He began to scan the terrain below. Some minutes into the flight he leaned to peer through the side canopy.

“We are being tracked, Cooper. It looks like one of the trucks from the camp.”

Bolan took a look. He could clearly see the vehicle following them. The configuration of the truck matched that of the ones at the camp.

“How far before we reach your people, Ali?”

“Less than an hour.”

“We need to deal with that truck. I’m not going to risk leading it right into your camp.”

“Then send a missile. Like the one that hit our truck.”

Bolan checked the missile configuration. The readout told him the pod was empty. “No more missiles, Ali.”

“Can you fly this machine lower? Close enough to bring the machine gun back there into range?”

“Just make sure you use the harness. I’d hate to lose you now.”

Sharif clamped a strong hand on Bolan’s shoulder as he clambered out of his seat. “I have faith in you, my friend.”

“And put the headset on so I can talk to you.”

While Sharif made his way through to the cabin section Bolan pulled on the pilot’s headset. He began to maneuver the helicopter in a wide circle, intending to come up on the truck’s rear, at the same time losing some height.

“Cooper? Do you hear me?”

“Ali, you don’t have to shout. That microphone is sensitive.”

Sharif lowered his voice. “Is that better? Good. I am ready. The machine gun is loaded and also ready.”

Bolan leveled off behind the truck. The driver had anticipated what Bolan intended and had started to swing the truck, removing it from a direct line of travel. The soldier heard the door-mounted machine gun as Sharif fired a test burst. His volley fell well short. His second was better, still off target, but closer.

“Can you not keep this machine steady?” Sharif yelled into the headset.

Bolan settled the controls and managed to hold the chopper on a smooth line. This time Sharif managed to lay down a burst that tore at the truck’s rear body section. Even Bolan saw the debris that flew out from the damaged area.

“Steady enough for you, Ali?”

All he received was a flow of what he took to be Bedouin curses. Then the machine gun crackled again.

The line of slugs hammered the truck cab and the vehicle swerved. Sharif then hit it with an even longer burst that punctured the driver’s door and window and blew out the windshield from inside the cab. Sharif’s final volley sent slugs through the hood into the engine and it began to die.

In the same space of time someone opened up from the canvas-topped rear of the truck, a stuttering volley from a lighter SMG. The moment he heard the clatter of shots Bolan banked the chopper away, but not before he heard the metallic clang and ping of bullets striking somewhere along the helicopter’s fuselage. As the chopper pulled up and away, the truck lurched to a jerky stop.

“Cooper? Did I hear bullets hit us?” Sharif’s tone was urgent over the headset.

“I think so, Ali. You’d better come up front and strap yourself in.”

By the time Sharif strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat Bolan had the helicopter back on track. He had already become aware of a slight, irregular beat to the sound of the engine. Adjusting the power he coaxed the aircraft along, keeping the helicopter at a lower altitude than before.

“Is this bad, Cooper?”

“I’d be happier without it.”

“Will we reach my camp?”

Bolan smiled. “Time will tell, Ali.”

CHAPTER NINE

The helicopter quit on Bolan just as night started to spread across the desert. He had been aware of the increasingly uneven sound from the engine and discovered that power was reducing. He tried to compensate but it made no difference.

“Looks like we get to walk the rest of the way,” was his only comment on the situation.

“Then it is providential I know how to reach the camp,” Sharif said.

Bolan took the Lynx down. Before he and Sharif left the aircraft, Bolan ripped out the wiring from beneath the control panel and did the same after he had raised the engine cover. Disabling the machine would reduce its use against Bolan and the Bedouin.

“Perhaps one day we will come back and salvage what we can,” Sharif mused. “The Bedu are the best traders in the area.”

He led the way into the dusk, sure of his path, walking steadily without pause. Bolan followed, making frequent checks on their back trail. It was almost 8:00 p.m. by Bolan’s watch when Sharif signaled for him to halt. Bolan joined him and they looked down a long, sandy slope to where a small camp had been set up around a well.

“Your people?”

“Welcome to my camp, Cooper,” Sharif said, and made his way down the slope, calling out as they neared the camp.

Bolan saw the erected tents. A short way off tethered camels grumbled softly to themselves. Glowing cook fires glowed in the shadows and robed figures, alerted by Sharif’s voice, moved out to meet him.

There was much conversation, hands slapping Sharif across the shoulders once he had been recognized. Bolan stood to one side, waiting to be invited into the camp. The Bedouin were a proud people who clung to the customs of their past, and he had no intention of offending them.

Eventually Sharif himself turned and gestured to the American. “I welcome you to join us, my friend. Welcome to the home of the Rwala.”

It was obvious that the Bedouin had regaled his brothers about Bolan and what he had done. The members of the group clustered around the tall American, greeting him in their own tongue and parting to allow him to pass. Sharif watched him, nodding his approval as Bolan acknowledged his invitation with small bows of his head, to the delight of the Bedouin tribesmen.

“Tell your brothers I am honored to be invited into their company.”

“Tell them yourself, Cooper,” Sharif said. “They all understand some English.”

Bolan repeated his gratitude. It was greeted with a chorus of approval, his words translated for those who had difficulty understanding. With Sharif at his side and slightly behind, Bolan was escorted into the camp. A rug was spread before one of the tents and Bolan was invited to sit. While the majority of the group sat in a semicircle around him, others brought utensils and placed them in the warm sand. Bolan watched as coffee was prepared in smooth worn copper pots over a small fire of red-hot glowing embers. The rich brew, spiced with cardamom, was served in small ceramic cups.

Bedouin custom decreed the first cup be tasted by the host, to satisfy the guest he wasn’t being offered anything suspect. When Sharif had done this, he indicated that Bolan himself pour the next cup and taste it. On the third filling Bolan was allowed to drink the full cup. Bolan raised his cup to his hosts before he drank. Rich and spicy, the coffee burned its way down into Bolan’s empty stomach.

At his side Sharif spoke quietly. “They greet you as a brother warrior. The coffee is their way of acceptance.”

“I have been told the Bedouin are great warriors,” Bolan said to the assembled group. “Now I see that their hospitality is as justly praised.”

Bolan’s words were well received. There was much talk then, some of it directed at Bolan. He kept his replies short and respectful.

“Now they will bring food, Cooper. What is ours is yours. We apologize it is not as sumptuous as we would like to offer you, but as you may see, this is a small group. We were on a hunt for food when my brothers and I stumbled into the hands of those dogs.”

Bolan had observed the way the Bedouin settled themselves to eat. Left leg tucked beneath them and the right raised so the arm could rest on it. He adopted the same position as his hosts, and remembered the custom he had read somewhere that the Bedouin ate with three fingers of the right hand only.

The food when it arrived on a circular flat dish consisted of a deep layer of rice cooked in samn, a form of clarified butter. It was accompanied by roast mutton. Around the edge of the dish was a sprinkling of pine nuts. There was also cooked bread made of flour, dates and samn. The dish was placed centrally and Bolan felt all eyes on him. As the guest he was given the first choice from the communal dish. He obliged, taking rice and mutton in his fingers, tasting the spiced food and nodding in appreciation. Once Bolan had made the first move it was open for the gathering to join in. Bolan ate along with the Bedouin, listening to their conversation, sometimes in Arabic, while English was also used as a gesture of respect to their American guest. He joined in when a question was put to him. The Bedouin were excellent hosts, making Bolan feel at home in their midst. When the meal was over and more coffee was passed around, the business became serious.

“I have explained to them about the camp where we were captive,” Sharif said. “About our murdered brothers and the terrible weapon those criminals intend to release on the Israelis.”

Bolan was aware of the silence that had fallen as Sharif spoke.

“I have to go back, Ali. One of the reasons I came here was to destroy whatever the Iranians and their Fedayeen allies have stored. Now that I’ve learned about the chemical, it is even more important I stop them.”

Sharif nodded. “This I understand. And what I said before I will honor. I will go with you.”

“And I,” called one of the gathered Bedouins.

His offer was picked up by the others.

“We have a duty also to avenge our slain brothers,” said another.

“It is Bedu tradition that those who are wronged must be avenged. It has always been this way. We would be betraying our own if we did nothing,” Sharif explained. “You understand this?”

Bolan nodded. He understood only too well.

“We will leave in the morning. Tonight we rest. Will you share my tent, Cooper?”

“Thank you, Ali.”

THEY ROSE EARLY, THE BEDOUIN leaving Bolan as they said their morning prayer. Breakfast was dates and Bedouin coffee, following which the camp was broken up and packed on two camels. The Bedouin then prepared their weapons, checking and loading the assault rifles they carried. Bolan noticed they were all armed with AK-47s. Sharif explained that the weapon was the common denominator in the region. It was readily available wherever they traveled and could be purchased easily. The Soviet Union military complex, if it was remembered for little else, had sustained a legacy that would survive forever. Some of the men carried handguns and they all, to a man, wore sheathed knives.

Sharif was leading Bolan across to the camel herd when the American paused, looking in the direction of the slope that had brought them into the camp. There had been a single Bedouin on sentry duty since first light. The man had gone.

“Ali, has the guard been relieved from the ridge?”

“Of course not…” Sharif said. He followed the line of Bolan’s gaze, stared at the empty spot, and was immediately galvanized into action, shouting orders to the others.

Bolan had already picked up the rising throb of an approaching vehicle. “They found us.”

The truck appeared above the rim and swooped in toward the Bedouin. The crackle of a machine gun sounded, flat and brittle, sending a line of hot slugs that chewed at the sandy ground then hit a couple of the tethered camels. Blood sprayed the air as the animals staggered, bellowing in pain as they fell. The action galvanized the tribesmen into movement, some turning to reach for their weapons, others running in shocked panic. The firing continued as the truck sped down the sandy slope, the heavy burst ripping into flesh. Two men went down, spinning in stunned agony, disbelief in minds unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.

Sharif stumbled as he neared the cover of the trees, his anger making him turn to see what had happened. On his knees he fumbled with the AK-47, his dark eyes fixing on Bolan.

“You see what these dogs are doing to my people? This will be slaughter.”

Bolan was watching the circling truck, his unwavering gaze fixed on the vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said quietly.

“What are you thinking, Cooper?” Sharif asked. “To attack that truck?”

Bolan’s next act gave Sharif his answer as the tall American moved quickly around the stand of palms, taking cover by the thick trunk of the last in line. He leaned around the palm, settling the AK-47 as he tracked in on the moving truck. He made no indication he had noticed when Sharif joined him, watching in silence as Bolan studied his intended target.

The armed truck spun wildly as the driver worked the gears. The machine gun opened up again, the barrel sweeping back and forth, raking the area with further blistering bursts. The weapon was swung out at an angle, flexible on its universal mount, allowing the gunner plenty of latitude when it came to widening his field of fire. There was a cold efficiency as he targeted more of the Bedouin’s camels. The helpless animals were cut down ruthlessly.

Sharif sighed in despair. The camel was a prized possession within the Bedouin tribes. They allowed the roving tribes to move whenever and wherever they wanted, providing them with far-ranging freedom and independence. Killing them was a direct insult to the Bedouin, showing contempt for them and their age-old traditions.

A half-strangled scream of defiance came as one of the tribesmen ran into view, shaking a clenched fist at the attackers. The robed figure took a stance, raising the assault rifle he carried to his shoulder and opening fire. It was a pointless exercise. The man fired without aiming, allowing his anger to dictate his actions rather than employing cool logic to the situation. All he did was waste his ammunition and present himself as an easy target for the truck’s gunner. There was a chill finality in the way the gunner eased his weapon around, lining up on the Bedouin. The machine gun crackled briefly, directing a white-hot stream of 7.62 mm slugs into the Arab. His body jerked awkwardly as the bullets hammered into him and tore open his yielding flesh.

Bolan fired, taking his cue from the slowing truck as the driver watched the gunner’s handiwork. The AK’s 7.62 mm slugs hit the windshield, shattering the glass. The driver threw his hands up at his pierced face, screaming as keen shards penetrated his eyes. The out-of-control truck made a sudden turn, spilling men from the rear. Bolan raked the hood, sending slugs into the engine compartment, and the vehicle stalled as the power was cut.

The dazed men were hastily climbing to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons.

“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped.

Sharif realized Bolan’s intention, and though he responded quickly he was steps behind the big American as Bolan ran toward the truck, the AK tracking and firing. His first burst took down two of the strike team, knocking them off their feet in bloody disarray. Others returned fire as they found themselves caught by the autofire from the rest of the Bedouin. Bolan kept moving forward. There were enemies to deal with and there was no other way than to maintain the advantage.