War Drums. Don Pendleton

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.