Armed Response

“I sent extra patrols out. Some men saw something fall out of the sky. They went to look.”

“Fall out of the sky? A bird?”

Haddad glowered. The man was a powder keg; the slightest perceived insult would provoke him. Qutaiba tried to keep his mocking tone in check.

“Perhaps. Or it was a spy or a robot drone. I sent them to look.”

“Yes, Hakim, you did well. Keep me informed.”

Haddad’s demeanor didn’t change as he turned and left the hut. The hate stayed in his eyes. Qutaiba closed his own eyes. It was so debilitating to work with these people, but it was a necessary evil. They were nothing more than cannon fodder. They would all be dead and gone within the next few days; maybe even he would be dead. There was an escape plan, one the pawns did not know about, but Qutaiba didn’t know if he wanted to use it. That empty aching void was dragging him down. The plan would kick into action soon, an attack against the hated enemy, one that would not be forgotten. And during that attack, he would make his peace with Aya and Ajmi, begging their forgiveness as he rushed to join them. It would happen soon.

Nothing could stop it.

* * *

MACK BOLAN, LYING on his stomach, observed the comings and goings of the terrorists from his vantage point atop a large sand dune. Even in the predawn gloom he could clearly see that the men were no normal villagers. Armed with AK-47s, they kept up a loose, sloppy guard. These were men not expecting trouble. They seemed more excited about something than keeping an observant lookout. Bolan could occasionally hear their enthusiastic conversation, even from three hundred yards away, the words too indistinct to discern. He had found this outpost an hour earlier and been in position ever since. It was obvious from the ground that this was no true village. Not one of the mud-brick buildings had been finished, there was no main road leading anywhere, and there were no animals of any kind, not even a chicken.

Situated as it was between the hills and sand dunes, Bolan could conclude that the village had been constructed for only one reason: a hiding place for terrorists. They would know that drones regularly flew overhead, so hiding out in the open made perfect sense. But this place wasn’t yet completed, and that ruined the illusion. Plus, the buildings were too uniform, ten in total, five facing five, with a dirt track between them. No, the village wasn’t complete. They should have waited before occupying the buildings. Yet they didn’t wait, which meant to Bolan that an operation was being planned.

He had counted ten men so far, but no doubt there were more. He managed to identify the barracks building. It was the largest at the end away from him, and most of the activity was focused there. Qutaiba would not be there, being too important too mingle with the common troops. The building opposite was equally large, designed to house vehicles. There was a slight glow emanating out of the darkness, the only unnatural light to be seen. The soldier thought that he could make out a fender of one vehicle but was too far away too be sure. The other buildings were much smaller; the smallest was closest to him. It could contain only a single room, and he had just witnessed a large man enter for a few moments before leaving again. An outhouse, maybe?

Dawn was approaching. He needed to quickly scout out the village, a quick in and out before the morning sun truly arrived. The activity down below seemed to be increasing, and Bolan suspected that the enemy would move out soon, assigned missions to kill and destroy. Time to pay them a visit.

Bolan waited for the two-man patrol to return. In the darkness they had passed him, supposedly on duty but in reality discussing a whorehouse in Aden. He had learned rudimentary Arabic some time ago as part of his ongoing war against terror, and while tough local dialects were hard to follow, these two had spoken clearly enough to be understood.

They were fast approaching, eager to return to the barracks, discussing something about boats and trucks and laughing quietly to themselves. Bolan pushed himself back into the sand as he quietly raised his Beretta 93-R. Once again they passed by Bolan, paying him no heed. He couldn’t wait much longer. In seconds they would be in sight of the village.

With the Italian pistol cupped in both hands, he settled himself on his elbows. Using the luminous dots painted onto the iron sights, he pointed and fired, once, twice, a quiet sneezing of the sound-suppressed weapon that would be inaudible in the village. A red hole appeared in the first man’s head, followed by a hole in his partner’s. There was barely time for a look of surprise before both terrorists collapsed onto the sand, dead.

Bolan waited a moment to see if the sound of the dying men had been heard. It hadn’t. He holstered the pistol, crawling over to the two corpses. Both had stopped twitching. He quickly removed the two AK-47s, examined them, checked the corpses for extra magazines. One rifle was scratched, pitted, uncared for, and Bolan discarded it after removing the banana-shaped magazine. The other weapon was better. One corpse gave up a single, half-full magazine. The other had nothing.

Seventy-five rounds. Not enough to kill a terrorist group with.

But enough to make a start.

The second of the two corpses was the larger of the two, and Bolan began to strip the dead man of his clothing, intending to masquerade as an Arab in the predawn gloom. His appearance might survive a glance, but if somebody stared for more than a few seconds, the flimsy cover would be blown. Bolan pulled the long garment over his head, only to find it was too tight in several places.

Using his knife, he cut several large holes along the seams, under the arms and down around his legs. When it came to combat, the robe would have to be quickly discarded. Replacing the knife in its sheath and slinging the AK-47, Bolan slouched as he made his way down to the village, hopefully looking like a sentry who was bored and tired to anyone who happened to glance his way. The sand shifted under his feet as he trudged down the side of the dune. Would they notice his combat boots under the robe? One of the dead terrorists wore running shoes, while the other had on flip-flops.

His plan of action was foolhardy in the extreme, but he wanted to know if Qutaiba was there. The drone’s Hellfire missiles would blow the place to kingdom come, and if there was no body left to identify, then Qutaiba could very well be elsewhere. Besides, Bolan was also more than a little curious about what the terrorists were plotting.

He fully intended to find out. The hard way if necessary.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_15b6df35-47f1-58d4-b1ff-a3baa2c1ea1c)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

It was ten o’clock in the evening when Barbara Price returned to the Computer Room in the Annex. Other business had taken her to the farmhouse. She found Hal Brognola—liaison between Stony Man and the White House and joint founder of the Farm—sitting next to Aaron Kurtzman, peering bleary-eyed at the cyberwizard’s monitor. The drone’s-eye view showed Bolan’s location in real time.

Brognola looked up and gave Price a weary nod. She handed him a weak, tired smile before sitting. Kurtzman transferred the image to the main wall screen.

“Status?” Price queried.

“While you were away, Striker eliminated a two-man patrol and is now circling the village. My guess is that he’s making his way toward this building.” Kurtzman used a laser pointer to indicate which building it was. “We believe that it’s a vehicle pool. Striker probably intends to disable anything he finds there.”

“How much longer can the Reaper drone stay in the area?”

“It will stay as long as needed,” Brognola stated. “The President has given this op special consideration—the pilots at Cannon are aware of that.” The Reaper’s pilot was operating the drone out of Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, New Mexico.

“I sense a but,” Price said. “A big one.”

The men looked at each other briefly before looking back at Price. “Striker may be in a lot of trouble within the next few minutes.” Kurtzman sighed. “We’ve been monitoring this patrol hurrying back to the village. We believe that they’ve found the lost bag.”

“So security will be suddenly increased. That will be awkward. And?”

“And two trucks are rapidly approaching the area. One is full of warm bodies. The other less so.”

“More troops and increased awareness. Can we take out the trucks?”

“The drone could do it, but the explosion will alert the camp. Cannon is on hold, waiting for instructions. There is an Air Force colonel itching to take the place out, man on the ground or not.”

Price grimaced. The military was always looking to fire its guns at anything that moved. She eyed the situation, watching as the figure believed to be Bolan slipped into the largest building.

“The Yemeni army?”

“Is on standby, just outside Aden. The government has been protesting being kept in the dark about foreign incursions on their sovereign soil,” Brognola stated.

Price grimaced again. There were elements in the Yemeni army that would love to send a warning to their terrorist friends. So far the Yemenis had been told nothing, only to keep a focus on a certain direction, the opposite from which Bolan now operated.

She watched the large screen as the terrorist patrol entered the village, the sudden gathering of men around them, of Bolan slipping out of the building, working his way around the back to the smallest hut, stopping, moving in, waiting…then a bright flash where the group of terrorists were. Flickers of light, probably muzzle-flashes from Bolan’s position.

Engagement!

“Instruct Cannon to take out the truck with the most terrorists. Hold back on the other Hellfire missile. Striker might need it later.”

Kurtzman hurriedly relayed the orders; hopefully a pilot would be able to engage the truck in time. Then all three watched as the Executioner went to war, fighting overwhelming odds. Again.

Yemen

FIRST LIGHT.

The garage was to be his first destination. Bolan decided to disable all the vehicles, bar one, which he would commandeer for his extraction.

The soldier had surreptitiously worked his way around the village, avoiding the men who would shoot him on sight. None of them were Qutaiba, of that he was almost certain. None of the terrorists showed any deference to a leader. They seemed satisfied with talking among themselves. Bolan was now content that this was a transit camp. There was no litter, no animal dung, nothing to suggest previous habitation. When the drone strike came, no civilians would be injured or killed.

The soldier worked his way around the back of the mud-brick buildings, crouching, head down. He passed through a narrow alley, more of a gap, between the fourth structure and the garage, taking in the main street, two clusters of men, the closest twenty feet away. Bolan slipped into the garage unobserved.

He found three 4x4 vehicles, all identical. One was parked slightly forward of the rest, its fender protruding slightly outside the building. All three were dark green UAZ-3151 all-terrain vehicles, sometimes referred to as GAZ-69, former Soviet Union. Bolan hadn’t seen this type of vehicle for a while. The UAZ, like the AK-47 rifle, was known for its easy maintenance and reliability. With the collapse of the USSR years earlier, many had been sold off. It was the perfect transport for the terrorists: old enough not to be noticed and reliable enough to get them quickly around the desert. All three showed their age, both inside and out, but that did not bother Bolan. What did interest him was the ignition key in the first vehicle’s slot. Bolan smiled grimly. At least something would go right on this mission. The only question was would the vehicle start?