Ramrod intercept, p.18
Ramrod Intercept, page 18
A round of good luck was issued, but Bolan had already signed off. Gone, Brognola thought, in a few short hours to burn down any number of savages and hammer the last nail into the coffin of DYSAT treason in the Sudan.
Brognola sat, alone in the War Room, heard a few questions fired off by the team over the speaker, but he was in a world of his own for a long moment. The big Fed felt as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Truth was, he knew he did.
It was good, he thought, no, it was something of a sweet comfort to have friends close by to share the crisis, and the burden of all the somber weight of living on the edge.
Sudan
BOLAN WORKED on his second cup of coffee, indulged a rare cigarette as Taylor laid it out. The soldier and the CIA man sat on the divan while Nhoubaff was hunched up in a chair he’d pulled from the kitchen. Pen in hand, Taylor sketched a rough layout of the warehouse complex and the pier. Stone structure, two stories. He informed Bolan of the route they would take to what he called an industrial wasteland.
“These men are brazen,” Taylor said. “Security is lax. Nothing by way of cameras, sensors, the like. The barrel of the gun, they believe, is all they need to keep away trespassers. Or, in our case, a three-man invading force. Just to the north is where we will park. It’s open ground, marshy, with a drainage ditch where we can change into blacksuits, load up and head out.”
Bolan listened as Taylor said he and Nhoubaff would climb an access ladder on an office building that rose near the target area. They would cover Bolan from the roof when the soldier stated he intended to go in, and place whatever charges he had left at strategic points around the warehouse. As was Nhoubaff, Bolan discovered Taylor was a man of pleasant surprises.
“In case you’re running low on plastique, I have an additional twenty pounds, with timers, I can ‘lend’ you,” he said, a grim smile cutting his mouth. “I also have com links. I think communication between the three of us is vital.”
Bolan cut to the heart of the matter. “You understand that when the shooting starts there may be no way out.”
They nodded.
“I’ve come this far with you,” Nhoubaff said. “I don’t think I could look myself in the mirror tomorrow if I bailed now.”
“Now,” Taylor went on, “his name is Malahkan. Approximately one and a half kilometers to the north of the drainage ditch, he’ll be waiting for you in the ruins of a long dead and forgotten sultanate. In a narrow inlet, he will have an outboard ready to take you five miles out to sea. There, I have arranged for a cigarette speedboat to take you to Jiddah. Once you land in Saudi, my man on the boat will instruct you where you can go to call your people and make whatever necessary arrangements you see fit.”
“You’re staying behind, then.”
It wasn’t meant as a question born from suspicion, but Bolan both knew and respected the risk these men were taking to go into the fire beside him. To stay behind might drop a certain death sentence down on their heads.
“I have much work yet to do in the Sudan,” Taylor said. “I sense you ask me this question, not because you distrust me, but because you are concerned about my—our—continued well-being in the Sudan. That was, and will never be guaranteed.”
Bolan could well understand that much, and dropped it.
“I’ve gotten you this far,” Taylor added. “I’ll see you make it out of here.”
“That’s assuming a lot once the fireworks start,” Bolan said.
“Indeed. Two, now three,” Taylor said, and flashed Nhoubaff a grin, “can play, or attempt to play the sort of deadly game you do. You’ll need our help, no matter how good you’ve proved yourself to be in this business of killing.”
“From the sounds of it,” Bolan said, “three guns will most certainly be better than one.”
“Then it’s settled,” Nhoubaff said, as if he were concerned Bolan was set to protest and order them to sit out the curtain call in Port Sudan.
“Any idea on what’s stored in the warehouse?” Bolan asked.
“My sources tell me,” Taylor said, “it is nothing short of one of the largest armories in the country. So, once those charges go off…”
Bolan matched the man’s graveyard smile.
“Okay,” the soldier said, “let’s go over it one more time. Firepoints, movements, the timing. Just to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The phone, he thought, had become his second-worst enemy, almost as lethal as the dreaded madman still on the loose in the city—or wherever. The instrument itself, of course, couldn’t kill him. But the comrades and counterparts of the dead men, scattered—some of them nothing more than smoking black mummies—from the city proper all the way to the fiery ruins of Abu Said’s home on the outskirts to the desert wasteland of the Nubian beyond, could come hunting for his scalp.
And would, he knew, if he didn’t come up with concrete answers, preferably a mangled body that had seen hours of torture. Preferably the lunatic responsible for the belly full of anxiety that threatened to cut loose his bowels any moment.
And the news was getting worse by the hour. More killing. No firm ID still on the lunatic.
Nothing.
Any minute he expected someone in his own circle would reach out and touch him with more than just an irate phone call. As in kicking through the office door, gunning him down where he sat. Not caring if he was responsible, which he wasn’t, for the rampage that had stormed into Sudan.
Right then, the Iranian’s man in-country was airing his own suspicions, doubts, anger, a whole diatribe that bellowed on in Bhoutami’s ear without relent, leaving him to wonder if Abed Hajmin was superhuman, able to keep ranting without the first sign he was even drawing a breath or blinking.
“How could this happen, Colonel? I had an arrangement with you. I had thirty-some freedom fighters, guaranteed your protection in the desert. All of them dead, slaughtered, as incredible as it sounds, by one lone gunman! And you tell me you have no clue who he is, who this maniac works for?”
It galled Bhoutami, for one thing, to know someone had informed the middleman of the disaster in the desert. That meant someone had spoken out of line, behind his back, when his intention had been to keep the murderous fiasco a secret, not wishing to rattle anyone’s already fragile psyche, leaving Iranians scurrying about, threatening, worried the whole deal would blow up in their faces. That left him wondering, naturally, whom he could trust. Not only that, but there were rumblings coming out of Khartoum that very hour, specifically dire words issued from those in power he was working against in the shadows with the suddenly vanished Arakkhan. Important movers and shakers the two of them had plotted to remove who were calling for a face-off, front and center, if the initial rumors were true. That meant explanations, solid answers as to the identity of the mystery attacker. A veritable endless stream of questions fired off, all manner of threats in his face.
“I understand you are holed up in your office, sitting there, doing what? Sweating it out? Fielding phone calls from subordinates who have only more bad news? While some lunatic runs around shooting up recruitment centers, radio stations, training camps. What I am saying is who can I trust at the moment?”
No, Bhoutami thought, clearly reading between the lines on that brusque note. The Iranian wanted to know if the colonel could be trusted.
“All I can tell you,” Bhoutami said, hoping he kept the tone of desperation and strain out of his voice, “is I am hard at work on the matter. I have men on the streets, questioning witnesses, roadblocks, searches, grilling informants.”
“And still this madman is at large. And what of the transaction? What is to keep us safe?”
“We are. I will have twenty-five soldiers on hand. I am sure you will bring an equal number to the pier.”
“You can be absolutely certain that many, and then some. I have been ordered to stick to a timetable. There are certain developments happening, under way, as we speak, that need to see the conclusion of our business this evening.”
“And so we shall finish the transaction. Unmolested, I assure you.”
“I will meet you at the pier shortly. I understand the ship is two, maybe three hours from docking. Be there.”
The click jolted Bhoutami in his chair.
He went to the wet bar, shaking hands somehow pouring a glass of whiskey. It went down the hatch, harsh and fiery, but it seemed to smooth out the knot in his gut.
Temporary relief.
And the phone rang again. He considered not answering, then knew that would only make the messenger of yet more bad news and veiled threats possibly seethe it out to the point where rage and paranoia would get the better of him.
Whoever it was, Bhoutami had just about reached a breaking point. The walls were closing in, and he needed to break out. Somehow. Some way. In some anticipated grim fashion it would be a relief to get out of there, make the pier and nail the deal down. Send the Iranians on their way.
One more shot of whiskey and he went to his desk, snatching up the phone. He heard the note of shrill fury in his voice, didn’t care, as he snapped, “Yes!”
“Colonel, perhaps you heard.”
Shalibah.
“Said was attacked in his home. He is dead. His house burned to the ground.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“There are many troubling questions, a mounting tidal wave of concern, if you will.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I do not threaten. I, together with your help, arranged this deal. To say I am concerned it may fall through…”
“Be there. The deal is still on.”
“If this madman is not soon captured, I think your troubles may have only just begun.”
“I am working on it. Goodbye!”
He slammed down the receiver. He went to the far corner of his office, punched a button and the panel slid back, revealing his small arsenal. He took the AKM, grabbed four spare clips. They wouldn’t quite squeeze into his waistband, certainly with no degree of comfort, considering his ample belly, so he decided he’d hand them off to one of his security people on the way out. Which he intended to keep close enough to reach out and grab a clip if the need arose.
If that was the case…
He didn’t even want to dwell on the possibility, but if the lunatic was still running amok when the deal went down?
Bhoutami decided it was best to stay put in the office, a few more whiskeys under the belt in the meantime to solidify his resolve. Wait it out, until he fielded the call the Thai Princess had docked.
All systems go.
He couldn’t quite shake the feeling, even as another drink burned down the hatch, but he sensed that Port Sudan had yet to see the worst.
If the deal suddenly came under fire, Colonel Bhoutami knew it would be better if he found the nearest tree, lamppost, whatever, and hung himself.
BOLAN READ the look as Taylor set the phone back in place.
Show time.
“My man says Bhoutami just left his office headquarters. A motorcade, twenty-five gunmen strong. The great colonel has come out of hiding and is on the way to the waterfront.”
They took the cue, as Bolan hauled up the war bag, stuffed with every last necessity he would need to nail it down. When they had their own war bags in hand, Taylor loading up the police scanner in a satchel, Bolan ran one last look over their faces. They were good to go, he knew, prepared to finish it out, see it to its conclusion, one way or another.
Even if they went down to a man, they would go out roaring. It was something he could see, like a neon sign, flashing in their eyes. They were with him, all the way to what would surely be a bitter end.
It was simply a question of who would swallow the poisonous fruit from the tree of death.
“Let’s go to work,” the Executioner said, and led them toward the door.
Three men, warriors, he knew, marching on, into the great and very ugly unknown.
Death was the only game left in Port Sudan.
BHOUTAMI FOUND the Iranian hadn’t been joking when he claimed he’d bring as many guns to the gathering as he could round up. Not that the colonel doubted the man at his word, but the show of potential force was more unsettling than he anticipated, especially now in light of the fact his own contingent was outnumbered. A roving head count, and he guessed thirty-five, maybe as many as forty Iranians, scattered around the motor pool, all of them armed with assault rifles, faces etched in stone, watching his approach.
As if he was the biggest SOB the Sudan could ever vomit forth.
Sitting in the back of his Mercedes stretch limo, his luxury vehicle leading the convoy around the corner of his warehouse, rolling in from the south, Bhoutami felt his nerves on fire, burning almost out of control, the closer they drew to the small army. Suddenly he found himself staring out to sea, the vast darkness flaring, here and there, with the lights of a passing ship. It was only a fleeting thought, aware he needed to conclude this serious business, but he found himself longing to be on a boat far out to sea, safe from the madness that had torn up Port Sudan like a cyclone.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought.
On his order, since he was in charge of the military in the city, the waterfront was shut down, smothering the transaction with the kind of secrecy and privacy required to conclude this business away from any curious eyes of dock workers, ships’ captains, deckhands and whoever else didn’t belong here.
Meaning he was all alone with the Iranian force. Not only that, but he caught a view of Shalibah, the Sudanese middleman likewise with an assault rifle slung across a shoulder, a squad of maybe a dozen of the man’s own goons standing ready in something like a circular phalanx, near the ramp leading up to the Thai Princess.
All there, grouped on the sprawling dock, small shadows tucked up against the mammoth bulk of the freighter. The crane had already off-loaded the wooden crates, Bhoutami saw, a steel container that housed what the Iranians had paid for getting lowered to the concrete.
And still, as the hours passed in agonizing anxiety, no word on the nameless gunman. It was almost as if the lunatic had vanished off the face of the earth, gone, vanishing like smoke in the wind.
Which was Bhoutami’s most fervent hope at the moment.
For one thing, he clearly read the faces of suspicion and distrust framed in the headlights as his luxury ride closed in, dark looks silently spelling out to him the many questions still uppermost in their thoughts. Perhaps they wondered if he was simply incompetent, that he hadn’t brought the madman to rough justice. Or maybe they believed the mystery gunman was part of some conspiracy he had long since engineered, maybe to help seize the merchandise for himself. If they were thinking along those deluded lines, then they were fools, riddled with paranoia to the point of madness. The lunatic had, after all, slain his own soldiers, unless, of course, they believed he wasn’t above any amount of treachery.
Bhoutami suddenly felt the weight of the AKM in hands, slick with perspiration. He told himself the fear was understandable, given all the mystery and unanswered questions dogging him here. And most certainly he detested the fact that events of the day had spiraled out of control, beyond all his reach and reason, leaving him hung out there, a scapegoat to be skinned alive in the event anything else went wrong.
He stepped out of the Mercedes, his soldiers falling in, the colonel wondering who would be the first to voice some displeasure or suspicion.
Hajmin volunteered himself to speak for the group. “You’re late,” the Iranian rasped.
“I assume you’ve inspected the merchandise.”
“Not yet.” Hajmin snapped his fingers, the engines on two nearby forklifts rumbling to life, rolling ahead, as if on cue.
Bhoutami sensed some threat in the dark cloak of night beyond the warehouse, as he searched the grounds, if nothing else than to tear his eyes off the glaring daggers of Hajmin’s orbs. Or was it simply his nerves talking to him? Who could say? The day had been so troubling already.
The massive warehouse doors were already open, light spilling from the vast interior, as he noted still more armed Iranians in the maw behind him. It galled him for a moment that Hajmin had marched right in, taking charge, issuing orders all over the place, in short, seizing his warehouse.
“I will do that inside.”
“I would imagine,” Bhoutami said, “that you would be anxious to load them on your own vessel on Pier 1 and be on your way.”
The Iranian’s smile reminded Bhoutami of a shark before it lunged for the kill. “There’s been a sudden change in plans, due to the day’s unfortunate events. I will be flying the merchandise out of here from a location only I know. Once we are over the island, I will send the merchandise off by parachute while flying on for Tehran. I assure you, Colonel, someone from my country will be coming to speak to you about what happened in the desert.”
And there it was. The threat. Unless he hunted down the human storm responsible for all the mayhem and carnage, came up with answers and showed the blood of the madman on his hands…
Bhoutami started wondering if he had any friends left in Egypt, even Somalia who might grant him shelter, comfort, and, of course, loan him a small army of first-class shooters, for a negotiable, nonrefundable fee.
THE EXECUTIONER WAS cautiously pleased with progress so far, but the biggest moment of danger before the shooting started was getting the three of them in place, situated, set to drop the hammer.
Nhoubaff had navigated the Volvo to the designated no-man’s-land of rusted-out pipes, abandoned vehicles, assorted garbage while Taylor monitored the police and military bans on the drive in. It struck Bolan as incredible to the point of idiocy—or perhaps it was plain arrogance on the part of the enemy—but the way in was free and clear of any blockades, guards, the perimeter on the north and west edges of the targeted warehouse all but vacant of sentries.
That didn’t mean the enemy’s brazen philosophy that all trouble boiling up their face could be settled by the barrel of a gun.
