War Drums. Don Pendleton

was impressive. As he brought the camp into sharp relief, Bolan saw armed figures taking down the tents and loading equipment onto trucks. Even as he watched he saw a third truck move up to park near the stone building housing the weapons cache.

      “Looks like they’re moving out,” Bolan said, “and taking the weapons with them.”

      “Then we have little time to wait,” Sharif said. “We must strike now.”

      Bolan had the same feeling. If they allowed Kerim to leave, it would prove difficult to deal with the group banded together to protect their cache of weapons. Kerim would also have his armed helicopter as his main deterrent. Machine guns and missiles would present a deadly threat to Bolan and his mounted allies.

      As they returned to where the other Bedouins were waiting Bolan saw their main chance lay in a fast strike. Sweeping in out of the desert they might gain the advantage and inflict heavy casualties before the terrorist group could retaliate. It was a calculated risk, which was accepted by Sharif’s Bedouins when the suggestion was put to them. In battle there was no such thing as a cut-and-dried victory. Any plan, no matter how carefully set out, could change during its execution. Mack Bolan, better than any of them, could agree to that. He only had to recall the times when intended soft probes of an enemy had turned hard, more often than not when a small change kicked in the warning alarm. Simple things, incidental to the big picture, but happening at the wrong time in the wrong place. Risk came with the job, Bolan knew, and this time would be no different.

      “Did you see the ridge that curves in around the east side of the camp?” Sharif asked. “If we ride behind this ridge, we can bring ourselves close to the camp before we show ourselves.”

      “I saw the ridge and had the same thought. But remember, Ali, they have automatic weapons, too. And they’re not about to stand by when we hit them.”

      “If Allah decrees some of us must die, then it is written and will be so,” one of the Bedouin said.

      “Then it will be my honor to fight beside you,” Bolan said.

      Sharif placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had darker skin I would believe I had just listened to a Bedu speaking.”

      Weapons were given a final check and spare magazines placed for easy availability. Bolan’s own check was done automatically, his mind on something else.

      The bioweapon.

      Conventional weapons were one thing. The very presence of the bioweapon notched up the threat rating. It needed erasing fully. Bolan could only see a single, reliable way to achieve that.

      Fire. The cleansing power that would consume and nullify the terrible weapon.

      Bolan’s first thought was fuel. There had to be some kind of fuel dump within the camp. Gas for the vehicles and the helicopter.