Agent Of Peril. Don Pendleton

jaw clenching could have just been another symptom of the obsessive-compulsive disorder that drove him to be the perfect officer, and kicked him through the ranks of the Egyptian military.

      “Sinbal took three of our fucking tanks out of the country?” Idel asked.

      “We gave him the tanks. Any money he’d get selling them would be pure profit,” Tofo answered.

      Idel stood and walked to the window. Sunlight burned outside, flaring off the almost white sands surrounding his base’s compound. He took a deep breath, then spit out his gum, lighting a cigar to chew on. Grinding his teeth into the fat tobacco roll made him feel better, the sponginess cushioning his aching jaw muscles.

      “Do we have anyone who can do a wet operation on Sinbal when he returns to Lebanon?” Idel asked.

      “Affirmative,” Tofo stated.

      “Make sure Sinbal doesn’t spend an evening more in Beirut without a bullet in a major part of his anatomy.”

      “A pleasure.”

      “That said, how did the three tanks do?” Idel asked.

      “Reports have 375 dead so far, 250 missing, and thirteen hundred injured,” Tofo reported. “The border between Egypt and Israel has been locked down, and the Gaza Strip and West Bank are under heavy military patrols at this time. Combat aircraft are on constant patrol, too.”

      “Their armored divisions?”

      “They’ve brought up two divisions, in the north and the south to cut off access to their coastal settlements.”

      “Only two?”

      “Others are in motion, and a third is passing by Nitzana and has set up temporary camp across the Nitzala River.”

      Idel smirked. “They’re wondering if Cairo had anything to do with an attack on their stolen territories.”

      “Or they’re simply not taking chances. Israel might be outgunned by her enemies, but she makes up for it by not fucking around.”

      “Good. Good.”

      “Have we been given any green light by Cairo, sir?” Tofo asked.

      Idel looked over his shoulder, pulling the cigar from between his lips and stretching out his jaw. He let his ears pop before continuing. “Would it make you feel better if we had our benighted leaders’ support?”

      “I’m already dedicated to the cause of getting back Egypt’s lands from the Israeli thieves. I merely worry that…”

      “We will be seen as traitors and thieves if we are caught. I understand, Pedal,” Idel said, clapping his aide on the shoulder. “We won’t be tied to the events that turn the cold peace between Egypt and Israel into a hot war. But we will be there at the forefront when it is time to be heroes and take back what is rightfully ours.”

      Tofo nodded. “I do not doubt you, or this plan.”

      Idel smiled and took a drag on his cigar.

      But if Tofo truly didn’t doubt the success of the plan, he was the only one in that room.

      THE STRAPPED FOR COMBAT SH-60 Seahawks tore over the landscape, penetrating deep into Pakistani airspace. Captain Carlton Hofflower perched in the doorway of the lead chopper, eyes sweeping the horizon for an angry response coming over the horizon. Nothing, however, was turning its attention toward the quintet of helicopters this day.

      The message from HQ was quick, simple and terse.

      “Retrieve Colonel Stone. Bring lots of explosives. Coordinates to follow.”

      “Captain. We have smoke,” Lieutenant Charles Ellis, the pilot, reported.

      Hofflower’s hazel eyes focused like lasers on the spiraling rub of charcoal smearing upward into the blue over the rolling hills. He didn’t need a map to equate the billowing smoke to the location of Colonel Stone. “That’s our guy, GPS be damned.”

      Ellis glanced back at Hofflower, and then returned his attention to guiding the Seahawk.

      In moments, the sharklike chopper was splitting the sky over the smoldering battlefield, and Hofflower could see a conflagration. Two major blast craters, and a half dozen minor smoking pits plumed smoke skyward, while one man stood with an old-fashioned bolt-action rifle over an injured man.

      “That’s Stone?” Ellis asked.

      Hofflower nodded.

      “Who’s the wounded?”

      “I don’t know, but he doesn’t look like a friendly. Tell the other choppers to land in a diamond around this airfield,” Hofflower said.

      Hofflower gave Ellis’s helmet a tap, and the SH-60 dropped to the ground, landing with a light bump. As always, the six-foot-six Marine captain “unassed” first, hands resting on the M-249 hanging from his neck and massive shoulders.

      “I have a present for you,” Bolan stated in lieu of a greeting.

      “I see. Middle Eastern, Lebanese by chance?” Hofflower asked.

      “Yeah,” Bolan returned.

      “Bidifah Sinbal. Works for Hezbollah,” Hofflower said. The Marine grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Colonel Stone, this is a wonderful gift.”

      “I want to know where Sinbal got his tanks from, and if it was his people that were behind Nitzana,” Bolan said.

      An interesting question, the Marine thought.

      He intended to make Sinbal squeal and spill his guts.

      IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES for a medic to clean and dress all of Bolan’s injuries, but during that time, the Marine Force Recon platoon was busy wiring up the M1 Abrams tanks with enough explosive power to chop them to splinters.

      Inside, even more insidious devices were being planted. The insides of the tanks would be able to survive the destruction of the hull and engine section. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon would pulverize every component of the tank in one shot, and even then, the M1s were designed during the Cold War. Their very design was meant to get the massive steel beasts through a nuclear-explosion blasted war plain and continue fighting, even as atomic artillery shells created football field-sized craters all around them.

      The Marines were putting miniature Fuel Air Explosive charges inside the tanks. The mini-FAEs were designed for house clearing the easy way. First, a burst would spread a cloud of fuel through a space as large as a single floor of an apartment building. With the air saturated with explosive fuel, a second burst would spark and ignite the atmosphere. Everything within the space would be vaporized.

      Bolan had seen entire mountainsides crumbled with a Fuel Air Explosive device improvised from a simple propane tank.

      The mini-FAE would smash every ounce of valuable electronics and design inside the M1 to useless pulp. The last thing the world needed was a reverse-engineered version of the U.S. Army’s best tank.

      The Marines were meticulous in setting the charges on the armor, though. That was the one thing that Bolan was most concerned about. Abrams armor, indeed any modern tank armor, was a secret design, and each nation had its own proprietary formula. Having that secret drop into the lap of even an ally was considered a disastrous development.

      “I’m done,” the medic said. “You can stop the Zen meditation.”

      Bolan managed a weak smile. “I was just thinking about the tanks.”

      “How the hell did these get here?” the medic asked. “I mean, Pakistan uses old Soviet T-72s.”

      “They were brought by the Hezbollah, and the Hezbollah somehow got them from Egypt,” Bolan answered. “How they got them, I intend to find out as soon as I get some intel.”

      A gunshot rang out and Bolan turned his head. The sudden reflex action filled his head with sloshing, hot liquid