Ramrod intercept, p.20
Ramrod Intercept, page 20
“Move! Go after him!”
He waited until the lines of his men were rolling ahead, picking up some momentum down the aisles now, obviously gathering courage since the lunatic had stopped shooting them up.
Why? he wondered. Where was he?
He was falling in behind two stragglers, AK-74 gripped and ready to fire at the first sight of even a shadow popping out of nowhere, when something caught his eye.
He was edging ahead, his men gathering in crouches and hunches near the back door when he saw the glob of white-gray…
The red light was on!
“Fall back!” Hajmin shouted.
Then the world exploded in his face.
“HIT THE DECK!”
Bolan made the edge of the office building, the radio remote in hand. Twisting, he triggered off a long burst of autofire, pinning them inside the doorway. The distance to ground zero wasn’t much, but Bolan had spread the plastique in areas where he hoped enough crates and steel containers would buffet the blast, confine it to the bulk of the hardforce, chew them up from the inside, while taking down only a portion of the warehouse.
Bolan found a hole, about six feet deep, where, he guessed, some roving band of thieves had helped themselves to the air-conditioning unit.
The soldier jumped down into the trench provided by fate, hit the doomsday button, and rocked their world all the way to oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He didn’t see the start of the conflagration, eyes shut, stretched out on the roof and hugging the low wall, but Nhoubaff heard it. To him it sounded as if the sky had opened up, the wrath of God coming down in one endless peal of thunder, one gigantic bolt of lightning striking half of the city, shaking the whole works to the core of the earth. The next thing he knew the sky was, in fact, falling. He flinched, covering his head, holding on as rubble hammered the roof, grateful when only a few chunks went pelting off his shoulders.
A little discomfort he could live with right then, since they were dying hard and ugly inside the warehouse. They were screaming from some distant point beyond the ringing in his ears, and Nhoubaff shuddered, taking in the destruction, braving the falling storm, now petering out to a jagged sprinkle of rubble.
A few bodies came sailing out the gaping wound in the warehouse, then he glimpsed the pummeled shells of what looked like fifty-five-gallon drums, riding a forked serpent’s tongue of fire through the massive smoking hole. Pools of airborne chemicals, fuel for boats, he guessed, were ignited in midair, turned into flying bats of fire.
Doomsday on the waterfront.
He was about to go back to his butcher’s work, when he saw the last of maybe ten shadows charging the office from below.
“They’re coming up!”
He didn’t need Taylor to urge him to get it in gear. He was dropping a 40 mm frag bomb down the M-203’s snout when they burst out the stairwell housing, screaming devils with automatic weapons already blazing. Nhoubaff hit the M-203’s trigger, the frag missile streaking on and true, impacting to vaporize the stairwell housing, launching the pointmen off the roof in screams and missing body parts.
Still they came, more howling demons, crazed with fear, pumped on murderous rage.
This was it, Nhoubaff knew. The end.
So be it.
He was up and rolling ahead, holding back on the trigger of his assault rifle, the stutter of his weapon joining Taylor’s blazing line. They marched ahead, side by side as dark shadows, flaming tongues leading their surge out of the smoke, charged across the roof.
Nhoubaff felt the first of several fires racing down his body as bullets tore into his upper chest, spraying his lips with the bitter salty taste of his life’s juices. The lead wall nearly stopped him in his tracks, bowling him over, but his own war cry ripped the air, the sound of his death knell urging him onward.
He figured he dropped two, maybe three, with Taylor churning up the flesh, matching him, body for body, when he felt himself lurching, shoved back.
He was falling next, floating down, it felt like, saw the sky going fuzzy. For some reason he thought of the big American, wished Cooper well, and hoped the stranger who had come to this bloody unholy land would make an accounting for the deaths of his comrades.
And finish the job they helped start.
Then Mohammed Nhoubaff said, “God have mercy on my soul.”
And the lights dimmed, faded to black.
BOLAN NEARLY ATE the dirt when it happened. He rode out the firestorm, slabs of giant shrapnel flying by, dangerously close, a few of the larger hunks skidding past, clawing out whole tracts of earth. He’d cut it close, no doubt. But judging the billowing mushroom clouds of fire shooting from where half the side wall was missing, a nick proved far easier to accept and manage than a full slice across the old jugular.
He found a flaming demon thrashing all over the no-man’s-land between the buildings. The Executioner spared the guy a burst of lead compassion, kicking him down, his screams still hovering in the air a full second after he was dropped, as if the shrieking call were some sort of goodbye tune for his sudden funeral.
Then the soldier made out the rattle of autofire, above, from the roof, cracking in stuttering waves through the ringing in his ears.
Nhoubaff and Taylor, under fire.
He was out of the hole, fresh clip up the M-16, a 40 mm bomb down the hatch, and peering around the corner. Nothing but jagged fangs there, the side of the structure having been pounded by the blast, but he caught sight enough of the action downrange to know his comrades were in a world of hurt. The last of the armed shadows poured into the building when he unleashed a quick burst, tagging the rear hardman, and sent him flopping to the ground.
Bolan knew he had to act quickly, spare no moves. The stock of his assault rifle took out a window several paces back, beyond the ditch. If he could cut them off…
Three gunmen were framed in the firelight, and Bolan hit them with a scything burst, flinging them away from the stairs. The real grim problem, he believed, was the heart of the charge appeared to have landed on the roof.
Damn!
The soldier squeezed through the window, a shooter lagging behind at the foot of the steps pivoting his way, squeezing off a few rounds. They flew high and wide, peppering stucco behind Bolan, and the soldier didn’t miss a beat.
He couldn’t afford to.
The sound of weapons fire roared on from above, mingled with men screaming out their rage, giving it up, knowing they were going down but hell-bent on taking as many of the opposing side as they could on their ride to oblivion.
Bolan chopped the straggler down in the next heartbeat.
Surging ahead, he saw two shadows toppling through the boiling smoke where one of his partners had blown the stairwell housing off the roof.
The Executioner gave the sheen of firelight washing the grounds beyond the door a quick search, found it clear of invaders at the moment and hit them from behind, holding back on the trigger. He aimed the stream of lead upward, sticking on a straight line of flesh-eaters pounding them through the smoke, his rounds stitching up the staggered line of hardmen on a rising burst. Rubber limbs led the tumble back down the steps, bloody dominoes rolling up at his feet. It burned up another clip, but if he helped turn the tide, saved…
Cracking home another 30-round mag, the soldier bounded up the stairs, stepping over sprawled forms on the way up. He hit the roof, M-16 fanning the whole area, and he spotted them, stretched out, midway across.
Already gone.
Three strides along, and their empty stares sought him out, eyes shining still in the umbrella of the firestorm.
He knew it was pointless, but he crouched beside them, felt and found no pulse.
The faintest bleat of a distant siren told Bolan the time to grieve, offer up a prayer for Nhoubaff and Taylor, had to be dumped on the back burner.
Even still, the Executioner intended to steal a few minutes below, tidy up the mess if any survivors, wounded or otherwise, were meandering about or looking to exit.
BHOUTAMI ALMOST CHOKED on the sob. He couldn’t believe he was still in the land of the living, if he could call what he found when coming to anything other than a vision of hell on earth.
He staggered about, checking his limbs. All there. Now the sob rang in his ears, loud and clear, at once chastising him for his cowardice and urging him to get moving. Now what?
He looked around, stunned still, nearly vomited as the full force of every stench imaginable, the scorching heat from any number of swirling firestorms slammed his senses.
He stole another second to gather his thoughts, searching the carnage, sucking wind. Nothing but bodies, strewed all over the dock, heaped in the warehouse doors, with a few charred corpses, some of the dead burning to black mummies where they fried near flames lapping from overturned or pulverized shells of vehicles.
Next, the sight of the Thai Princess moving out to sea, gathering steam as it headed on a southerly course, further urged him to seek his own avenue of flight, his limbs oiled and loose now, motivated by fear to flee.
Beyond this, he told himself he’d find a way out of Sudan. There was cash, numbered accounts spread around Khartoum. Get to those, clean them out, and someone, anyone with a hunger for quick money would take him in.
Money talked.
First get the hell out of there. Bribes later.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune, viewed it as a miracle, in fact. But there it was! His Mercedes, unscathed, sitting there, just beyond a ring of fire, calling out to him.
Sweet mother of freedom!
He nearly ran to the vehicle, ignoring the searing flames dancing at him as he made his way to his Mercedes, reached it, threw open the door. Another stroke of good fortune greeted him, finding the keys were in the ignition. He fired up the vehicle. Back it up, he told himself, reverse it from the graveyard of wreckage, the sea of bodies, the joining bands of fire that would block, even threaten his escape. It had been some time, years, in fact, since he’d driven himself, always relegating those menial chores to lackeys who were paid to obey and to serve. Thus it took a full few seconds, and ten yards shooting ahead, before he realized his blunder. He was hitting the brakes, slamming the gearshift in reverse, when a tall figure emerged, stepping out from behind the fiery hulls of pulped machinery.
He couldn’t be absolutely positive, but it was something in the eyes of the big shadow, as if the figure were judging him, the shape dressed in some sort of black-suit. He was jolted by fresh currents of fear coursing through every limb.
The lunatic was still alive!
Bhoutami heard himself croaking out the terror, flooring it, swiveling his head, back and forth, as he screeched it in reverse, clipping a burning wreck on the way to desperately craved freedom. He felt compelled to look back, hoping the horror of the night was merely creating illusions of some bogeyman. But he was still there, marching ahead, slow and in command of himself, some demon clearing the fires, eyes burning at him through the windshield. Then Bhoutami heard his squawk coming out in a shrill scream.
The lunatic had raised an assault rifle, what looked like an attached grenade launcher already spitting smoke and flames.
Bhoutami stomped on the gas, gathering speed, but the missile seemed locked on, homing in, streaking for his face. In a nanosecond a cloud of fire was in his face, incinerating him where he sat.
“I AM Malahkan.”
“Cooper.”
The Executioner held his ground on the bank, not sure of the moment, since the dark, bearded man in the turban didn’t seem certain himself whether to lift his AK-47 at a point any higher than his hip. Any more rise with the weapon, and Bolan would just as soon gun him down, leave him floating in the water. How many cigarette boats could there possibly be five miles out in the Red Sea?
Malahkan settled the assault rifle in the outboard, tugged on the starting cord, the engine grumbling to life.
“We must hurry!”
Bolan didn’t need any more urging, as he stepped into the outboard. South, he saw the grim handiwork, climbing for the sky in licking mountain peaks.
All done down there.
A few mercy rounds for the wounded, and the growing sirens had chased him north, to the crumbling ruins of that forgotten sultanate Taylor mentioned.
As his driver headed the outboard from the inlet, pumping up the knots and moving them out at rapid surge to sea, Bolan felt his heart grow heavy. He couldn’t be sure, but Malahkan had to have read his thoughts.
“Taylor?”
“He didn’t make it,” the Executioner replied as he settled on a narrow bench, finding nothing but a maw of blackness ready to swallow them up the deeper they shoved out to sea.
“Nhoubaff?”
“He didn’t make it, either.”
The silence weighed down on Bolan, as Malahkan seemed to consider something, then said, “They were my friends.”
The Executioner nodded, looked away from the man. “They were mine, too.”
Saudi Arabia
“LET ME BE crystal clear on something, gentlemen. I am from the old school of combat. I prefer eyeball confirmation of an enemy kill. I prefer the up-close-and-personal touch. I am warmed to my bones by the sight of enemy blood spilled by my own hands. I am no fan of smart bombs, cruise missiles, Tomahawks, all that high-tech, long-distance, Ma Bell reach-out-and-touch-someone chickenshittery. I do not read Tom Clancy. Thou shalt not even mention the name of the used-car salesman in my presence. Thou shalt not even utter the idea of using Ma Bell high-tech, that is if you wish to ride with me into battle. That said, let us move on. The hour of doom for our enemies is at hand.”
David McCarter wasn’t quite sure whom the good Major Sabol was addressing, but gathered from the gist of it some sort of personal battle line was being drawn between the Special Forces black ops and Phoenix Force, tagged, going in by the Farm, as the X Squad.
Whether the major resented their presence, their attachment to this, what he knew would be the mother of all surgical strikes…
Well, they were there, and that came straight from the President of the United States, who had been briefed by Brognola on how they would maintain both their cover as covert commandos and define their own role in the mission.
Phoenix Force took up the last row of metal chairs in the massive tent at the Saudi air base near the shores of the Persian Gulf, a few klicks northwest of Bahrain. Down the line they were known only to the major and his troops—platoon strength, times three, as McCarter took a head count of the Special Forces warriors, all of whom were togged in blacksuit and sitting rigged at attention—as follows: McCarter, Commander Mac; Encizo, Mr. R.; Manning, Mr. M.; James, Mr. J.; Hawkins, Mr. H.; Grimaldi, also taking up the last row, accompanied for the final briefing with the blacksuit crew of the Spectre, was tagged as Mr. G., with crew being numbered two and on.
According to both the Farm and the major’s initial earlier brief, McCarter understood the extreme urgency of this strike against the Iranian island strongholds in the Strait of Hormuz. Once again, the major, using his remote to click through the slide show, pointed out the gunboats, docked in a small harbor of Qeshm, that were packed with explosives. All ship traffic had ceased to exist in the Persian Gulf in the past twenty-four hours. Gunboats in question were under constant satellite surveillance. If they had moved out before then, the mission would have already been under way.
McCarter and company listened as the major laid it out. The man was cut from the old blood-and-guts school of warriors, and McCarter, despite initial reservations about linking up Phoenix with unknowns, liked what he heard and saw. The major was all iron and sinew packed into a broad-shouldered six feet, with a lean face that looked carved from a razor’s edge, his shaved head seeming to shine in the overhead lights powered by the generator outside the tent. One look in the man’s eyes, and McCarter knew he had both the talent and the experience to back up the tough talk.
When the major explained the program’s onslaught, detailing the mass air saturation of the islands, pointing out the antiaircraft batteries, the gunboats, the airfields, the radar and tracking stations, McCarter started having visions of Armageddon.
Air saturation, times the Apocalypse, he thought. He could damn well believe it was going to go down just like a glimpse of the end of the world. Outside, the air base seemed to go on forever, cutting runways and tarmacs and hangars clear out into the Saudi desert. When landing and handing off their terrorist cargo to what he assumed was a team of spooks, he had seen more F-15Es, more Apaches, more Stealth fighter F-117s…
Add on two B-52 Stratofortress winged monsters, leaving him to wonder if they were nuke ready, throw in theirAC-130 ride, now refueled and rearmed to the gills…
The mother of all air saturations, he knew, Armageddon from above, and then some. He had to wonder if there would be any leftovers when they dropped in by parachute to mop up.
Well, McCarter was a Stony Man warrior, first and last. Even still he had to wonder about the political fallout when the smoke of the coming conflagration died and the fanatics of the Islam world were screaming for revenge. The bottom line was that the fundamentalist world had called the shots here. They were arming suicide boats to send out to sink American warships, oil tankers in the Gulf. If that happened, the entire oil market around the world could bottom out, creating anarchy, wholesale panic in the West; oil prices off the scale; lines of motorists, stacked twenty blocks deep at the pump, or stampeding ahead to grab up what little fuel was left.
The collapse, he believed, of Western civilization.
Preemptive strike, right, McCarter then concluded, with more than a few of the notable terrorist garbage on hand for the show to come.
The only option he could see.
He was proud to be there, no matter what, even if he was playing second fiddle to the major. No problem. Duty called. There was a job to do.
