Bean stuck out his hand. "Good luck, sir."

  "And to you," Buddy replied, taking his hand. "As soon as Corrie can tell Ben what we've found out, I'll be on my way."

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  Abdullah El Farrar slammed the microphone down on his desk and muttered a curse under his breath in Arabic.

  Muhammad Atwa and Farid Zamet, who were sitting nearby, glanced at each other. It was unlike their leader to lose his composure so openly.

  Usually, his volatile temper was hidden under a sarcastic demeanor.

  "What is troubling you, Abdullah?" Zamet asked in a deferential tone.

  When El Farrar was in such a mood, it was best to be very circumspect lest his murderous attention fall on the wrong person.

  "That son of a Babylon whore Ben Raines is attacking our positions in Saudi Arabia and Iran," El Farrar answered hotly.

  "Perhaps if we explode a bomb or two, it will dissuade him from continuing to provoke us," Atwa offered.

  "I am afraid it is already too late for that. I fear he has taken control of the oil fields in those countries away from us."

  "Oh?" Zamet asked, a worried frown on his face. Saudi Arabia and Iran represented the largest oil fields in the region, outside of Kuwait, which had never been under their control. Loss of those countries as bargaining chips would indeed put a crimp in their plans of world domination.

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  "Yes. I was cut off while talking with Baltazar Garzon in Tehran, and I have been unable to reach Abdul Muttmain for the past two hours. I fear the worst."

  "What about Al Hazmi and Taha al-Alwani in Riyadh?" Atwa asked, struggling to keep the sound of fear and defeat out of his voice.

  El Farrar shook his head. "They too have been un-reachable." He slammed his hand down on his desk and glared across the room at his two confederates. "The good news is that from what Garzon said before he was cut off, the invading forces are but small contingents, and my sources in Kuwait tell me the larger reinforcement brigades are stuck in Kuwait City due to deteriorating weather in the region."

  "What about our forces that were sent days ago?" Farid Zamet asked.

  For the first time in hours, El Farrar gave a small smile. "They are even now landing at the ports of Dhahran in Saudi and Khorramshahr in Iran."

  Atwa pursed his lips, visualizing the region in his mind. "Then our forces should be in Riyadh in three or four hours and in Tehran in ten or twelve," he said.

  "Exactly," El Farrar exclaimed. "Long before the weather clears enough to permit Ben Raines to reinforce his troops in either area."

  Zamet stroked his beard. "Perhaps our men would benefit from your leadership in the area," he said.

  El Farrar nodded. "I believe you are correct, Farid."

  He picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a number. "Have my personal jet readied for takeoff," he said when it was answered. "We are flying to Dhahran as soon as you can get it ready."

  Atwa tried to keep the fear out of his face when he asked, "We, Your Excellency?"

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  El Farrar's expression turned to stone. "Do you have any objections to going into a battle zone, Muhammad?" he asked, his voice as cold as his face.

  "Uh, why, of course not, Abdullah," Atwa answered, though it was clear from the worried look on his face that he was in fact not at all happy about the turn of events.

  "Good, because I will need the wise counsel of both you and Farid during the upcoming engagement."

  "You have but to ask, my leader," Zamet said, his eyes alight with the fervor of a true fanatic.

  Atwa, on the other hand, was fervently wishing he were back in his room with his fingers curled around a straight scotch whiskey.

  Ben had his radioman contact Bartholomew Wiley-Smeyth in Riyadh.

  "Hey, Bart, this is Ben."

  "Hello, General," Bart said.

  "I have some news, but none of it is good," Ben said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

  "That seems to be the case lately, doesn't it, General?" Bart answered with a chuckle, betraying not the slightest amount of fear.

  "Buddy managed to interrogate one of the officers he captured in Tehran.

  It seems the troop strength of the terrorist reinforcements numbers about ten thousand each in Saudi and Iran."

  "A little over a hundred to one," Bart mused. "Not too bad odds at that."

  "Bart," Ben said, "you cannot stand against ten thousand troops with eighty men. It'll be suicide."

  "Not to worry, old chap," Bart replied, still sounding 185

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  as if in good humor. "The SAS are brave lads, but we're not stupid or suicidal," he added. "I don't intend to make a stand, as you call it."

  "Oh?"

  "No, sir. I'll divide my men up into groups of four or five each, and send them out into the desert between here and the port. The weather here is so bad that visibility is virtually nil, so the transport vehicles bringing the troops toward us will of necessity be moving very slow and will be confined to the major roads between here and the port."

  Ben gave a low laugh. "Absolutely perfect for ambushes and hit-and-run tactics."

  "My thoughts exactly," Bart replied. "We'll be like the mongoose going up against a king cobra. The cobra is much bigger and his poison is very deadly, but the mongoose is much quicker and never stays in one place long enough for the cobra to get at him."

  "By the way, Bart," Ben said.

  "Yes?"

  "My people will be brought in by airdrop, so you don't need to spare the roads, if you get my meaning."

  "Certainly," Bart replied. "We have plenty of high explosives left here by the recently departed terrorists, and if we get right on it, time to mine portions of the road to slow the convoy down quite a bit."

  "Good hunting, Bart," Ben said seriously.

  "Thank you, sir," Bart responded crisply, and broke the connection.

  He turned from the radio and looked at Major Hugh Holmsby, who'd been listening. "You have your orders, Major," Bart said. "Let's get the men cracking. We only have a few hours to get set up."

  "Yes, sir!" Holmsby said, snapping off a salute and stamping his heels on the floor as only British soldiers do.

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  * * *

  At that very moment, Abdullah El Farrar's plane was landing at the airport next to the port city of Dhahran. His troops were lined up in a caravan almost four miles long and waiting for his arrival. Most of the men were being carried in two-and-a-half-ton trucks, called deuce-and-a-halfs by Americans. There were also numerous light tanks and armored personnel carriers, and other motorized assault vehicles of various names, depending on which country they'd been purchased from.

  The leader of his Saudi contingent, Jamal Ahmed, stood at rigid attention as El Farrar and Farid Zamet and Muhammad Atwa deplaned.

  "Excellency," Ahmed said, saluting, "it does us honor for you to be here to witness our great victory over the infidel dogs."

  El Farrar nodded. "Thank you, Ahmed. I will set up headquarters here in Dhahran and monitor your progress as you take our oil fields back from the interlopers."

  "I have already arranged quarters for you, Excellency. Radios have been set up on our frequency so you can stay in constant touch with the field commanders when we get to Riyadh and start the assault."

  "Remember, Ahmed," El Farrar said, pointing his finger at his commander.

  "The city itself is a secondary target. Your primary mission is to gain control of the oil fields. Only after that has been accomplished are you to attack the city."

  "Yes, sir. I understand," Ahmed said, bowing his head.

  El Farrar covered his mouth as he yawned widely. "I haven't had any sleep for twenty-four hours, so I am going to go to bed. By the time I wake up, you should be

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  in control of the oil fields ... do you understand me, Ahmed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good," El Farrar said harshly, "because your life and the life of your family in Afghanistan depends on your success today."

  Ahmed swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips. "Of course, Excellency,"

  he croaked.

  He turned on his heel and waved his arm in a circle over his head, signaling the trucks to begin the four-or-five-hour journey to Riyadh.

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  The road from Dhahran to Riyadh was a little over 150 miles, and was a fairly good road as roads in Saudi Arabia go. Jamal Ahmed hoped to make the journey in three to four hours, but the weather was so bad, with visibility reduced to fifty meters or less, his trucks were only able to travel at twenty miles an hour or less.

  He radioed El Farrar back at his headquarters building that due to the weather, his expected arrival in Riyadh would be sometime in the midafternoon.

  El Farrar was furious, but even he couldn't change the weather. Muhammad Atwa reminded him that he shouldn't curse the weather, since it was the only thing keeping Ben Raines from sending reinforcements to his troops around Riyadh, which didn't help El Farrar's mood any at all.

  Meanwhile, Bartholomew Wiley-Smeyth had divided his men up into fourteen groups of five men each, and stationed them at various points along the winding road from Dhahran to Riyadh. Though the terrain held few hills or mountains, unlike much of the Middle East, there were plenty of sand mounds and small hillocks to give his men cover, and the blowing sand and gravel kept visi-189

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  bility low enough that they could attack with little fear of being seen.

  Major Hugh Holmsby, along with the ever-present Davidson brothers, took the point position, and was among the first to encounter the long convoy of troops and equipment headed by Ahmed.

  Heading the column were a pair of ancient used Bradley Attack Vehicles.

  The Bradley, designed to haul small assault teams, carried five men: a crew of two to run the vehicle, and three men that could exit quickly and attack on foot. They were armed with a 120mm cannon and a

  .50-caliber machine gun, and were capable on good terrain of speeds in excess of fifty miles an hour.

  Holmsby and his men were behind a small rise in the ground less than fifty yards from the road just around a bend. They'd armed themselves with two Stinger missiles and a CPAD Tech rocket grenade launcher with a case of twelve fragmentation grenades.

  Holmsby held up his hand as the first Bradley came into view around the bend. "Hold off a minute and let him get a little ahead of us," Hugh ordered, peering at the road through sand-encrusted goggles. He and all of his men had wet bandannas over their noses and mouths, looking much like old-time stage robbers.

  Following the two Bradleys was an old Russian tank, of uncertain parentage. It was well used, and had been scraped together out of so many old used parts, it was impossible to tell what model it was.

  Hugh pointed at the tank. "Take out the tank first with the Stinger," he said. "That'll block the road right at the bend, and then we'll use the rocket grenades to destroy the Bradleys."

  John Davidson, with the Stinger launcher on his shoulder, nodded once and squeezed the firing trigger. A loud

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  whoosh sound was followed by a whistling wail as the Stinger missile shot toward the tank.

  It hit just under and to the rear of the turret, exploding in a giant fireball as the ammunition in the tank, along with its fuel supply, exploded. The tank jumped fifteen feet in the air, and then came apart like a cheap suit in the rain, sending molten shrapnel in all directions.

  The man driving the lead Bradley made the mistake of stopping his vehicle and opening the door to take a look behind him to see what had happened.

  David Davidson, with a perfectly still target, fired off the CPAD and launched a fragmentation grenade directly at the lead Bradley.

  It was a perfect shot. The grenade hit the front of the vehicle, bounced once, and then exploded with a loud bang. The hood of the Bradley was blown completely off, and the men inside were shredded into mincemeat as the shrapnel entered the open door and killed them all.

  The driver of the second Bradley gunned his engine and tried to drive around the disabled lead vehicle, running off the road in the direction of Holmsby and his men.

  All of the SAS troops opened fire with their Uzis, and David Davidson jammed another rocket grenade onto the CPAD and fired again.

  This one wasn't as accurate, and it exploded harmlessly behind the Bradley as it raced across the gravel next to the road and then disappeared from sight.

  A deuce-and-a-half, directly behind the tank that had exploded, tried the same maneuver, but its tires dug into the soft gravel and it got stuck as it tried to go around the tank.

  Holmsby and his men raked the truck with machine-gun fire, emptying clip after clip into the canvas cover

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  over the back of the truck. Four terrorists managed to jump clear of the truck, but in the blowing sand they couldn't see where the attack was coming from, and ended up firing wildly in all directions. The wounded men in the back of the truck filled the air with their screams of pain and horror as Holmsby and his men continued their firing, until all of the men from the truck were dead or wounded.

  No other vehicles appeared around the bend. Evidently, they were afraid to go any farther until they could see what was happening up ahead.

  "Come on," Hugh shouted. "Time to get the hell out of here before that Bradley figures out where we are Mid comes back."

  "I've still got another Stinger left," John Davidson protested.

  "Save it," Hugh ordered. "We'll have plenty of chances to use it again."

  They backed down off the small rise, jumped into one of the terrorists'

  jeeps they'd used to get there, and drove off into the desert away from the road as fast as they could considering the limited visibility in the storm.

  As luck would have it, they almost sideswiped the Bradley, which was coming back toward them. Bob Foster, who was driving the jeep, jerked the wheel to the right so hard the jeep almost tipped over, and the Bradley zoomed by with inches to spare.

  "Jesus, that was close!" Foster yelled as he floored the accelerator to escape.

  Hugh, riding in the front passenger seat, leaned over and hollered in his ear, "We can't outrun a Bradley! Our only hope is to lose it in the storm."

  David Davidson, who was looking back over his shoulder, yelled, "He's turning and coming after us!"

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  Hugh grabbed a handful of grenades from a box at his feet and said to Bob Foster, "We'll bail out over the next ridge and try to get him with these grenades."

  As the jeep jumped over a small rise in the desert, Bob slowed enough for Hugh and the Davidsons to dive out of the jeep, leaving one man and Bob to remain with the jeep as it sped away.

  Hugh and John and David spread out, each clutching a grenade in each hand, and hunkered down, trying to become invisible in the blowing sand.

  The Bradley crested the hill and let go with its 120mm cannon at the jeep fifty yards ahead. The shells must have hit the gas tank, for the jeep exploded in a huge ball of fire just as Hugh and the Davidsons threw their grenades under the wheels of the Bradley.

  One went off in front, two underneath, and the others to the side, flipping the Bradley over onto its side and throwing it twenty feet away.

  Two men, their faces blackened by soot and smoke, stuck their heads out of the crumpled door, and were cut down by Hugh and his comrades.

  Once they'd made sure all of the men in the Bradley were either dead or out of commission, the three men ran to where the jeep lay in a smoking, shattered ruin. The flames were so intense they couldn't get close enough to see the bodies of Foster or the other S AS man, but it was clear they couldn't have survived the explosion.

  Hugh's body slumped and he shook his head. "Damn!" he muttered, his face turning red from the heat of the fire.

  John Davidson put his hand on Hugh's shoulder. "At least it was quick, Hugh," he said, his eyes smarting from the smoke and heavy odor of gasoline and charred flesh.

  Hugh got out his GPS instrument and clicked in their 193

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  position and the position of Riyadh. He looked up and pointed. "We go that way," he said, and began to walk toward the town over a hundred miles away.

  After a few steps, David said, "You think we can make it that far on foot in this storm?"

  Hugh gave a grim smile. "I don't intend to try. With any luck, the boys will slow the column down enough for us to find another way home."

  "Yeah?" John asked.

  Hugh looked at him. "You ever do any goose hunting, Johnny?"

  "Uh, not to speak of. Why?"

  "When you're hunting geese and they fly over in a line, you shoot the last one so as not to spook the others," Hugh said.

  David laughed. "I see what you've got in mind. We'll catch up to the terrorists and take out the last vehicle in the column."

  Hugh nodded. "Sounds better than walking a hundred miles or so, doesn't it?"

  "Damn straight!" David said.

  "What if we can't catch up to them?" Johnny asked, wiping sand out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

  "Then you'd better hope these boots the quartermaster gave us have thick soles," Hugh replied.

  "Oh, my feet will hold out," Johnny observed. "It's my lungs filling up with sand I'm worried about."

  "That's easy to fix," David said, punching his brother in the shoulder.

  "Just don't breathe so often."

  Hugh laughed. "Reminds me of a saying I read about the Mississippi River in school. They used to say it was so muddy, it was too thick to drink and too thin to plow, kinda like this air. Too thick to breathe and too thin to walk on."

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  Jamal Ahmed instructed the driver of his large armored personnel carrier to move around the stalled convoy and go to the head of the line.

  Ahmed, never one to take a personal risk needlessly, had been riding in the middle of the line of trucks and tanks and other equipment. He'd realized early in his career that taking point was the job for someone far less valuable than he.

  As Ahmed's vehicle pulled up to the crushed and ruined Bradley Attack Vehicle and the scorched and still-smoking Russian tank, he slammed his hand down on the dashboard of his car. He looked out through the windshield to make sure all of the hostile forces had gone, and then he exited the vehicle and strutted up next to the wrecks.

 

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