Agent Of Peril

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 pain, but it was dying down and his equilibrium swiftly returned to normal. It took a moment for his brain to register the sound as a .45-caliber pistol. Captain Hofflower was returning, stuffing his MEU (SOC) custom 1911 into its holster with one hand, holding a small black box with the other hand.

“I recorded everything,” he said, tossing over the digital recorder. Bolan caught it with one smooth motion.

“Make sure that someone sends me a new recorder. With all the features,” the Marine captain said.

“How much did he have? Nutshell version,” Bolan said.

“Well, he helped load the van with explosives for the 1983 Marine barracks attack.”

“That was more than two decades ago.”

“He’s forty-three. And he’s been Hezbollah since he was a teenager,” the captain explained.

“The tanks?”

“Given to him by his commander. He doesn’t know exactly where they came from.”

“Who’s his commander?”

“A creep named Faswad.”

Bolan closed his eyes and reviewed his mental files. Imal Faswad moved into the Bekaa Valley after Bolan rampaged through to take out a terrorist-backed drug cartel. He’d been behind some major counterfeiting of American hundred-dollar bills, approximately fifty million worth, before the U.S. Mint updated to the new bills. The Hezbollah headman was someone who was never quite on the top of the Executioner’s “to do” list because he was mostly attacking people who could, and did, fight back. Bolan’s previous interest in Faswad was derailed when the guy’s headquarters was blasted to atoms by an Israeli air strike and a dozen thousand-pound bombs.

It looked like it was time for the Executioner to pay Mr. Faswad a visit to find out why he was suddenly selling off tanks.

“Who did Sinbal come to sell the tanks to?” Bolan asked.

“Somewhere in the piles of grease you left littered all over the place, there was a party of Filipinos who are, er, were with Abu Sayyaf.”

Bolan’s jaw clenched for a moment. Abu Sayyaf was aligned with al Qaeda. Another case of unfinished business that the Executioner would have to get to.

“You sure I got them?” Bolan looked around. “A lot of guys just took off running.”

“Well, give me a good DNA lab, we’ll know for sure,” the Marine replied.

“All right. I’m lucky I got a single prisoner for you to interrogate,” Bolan conceded.

“Thanks for helping bring a little justice to the Corps,” Hofflower said, putting out one beefy paw.

Bolan took the hand, remembering what felt like a lifetime ago, his own incursion to avenge Marine blood. He could feel the bond with the fighting man before him.

“It’s time to unass and blow this Popsicle stand,” Hofflower called out, pulling Bolan effortlessly to his feet. “It’s good to have you aboard, Colonel.”

“Thanks,” Bolan answered. They got into the Seahawk and Lieutenant Ellis pulled the chopper into the sky, rising a half mile before stopping.

Hofflower handed over the radio detonator to the Executioner. “Your prerogative, Colonel.”

Bolan accepted the detonator, flipped up the safety cover on the firing stud and thumbed it down. Even through the rotor slap and vibrations of the SH-60’s powerful turbines, the shock wave from detonating the tanks was palpable. Concentric rings of smoke, indicating the rippling forces that devastated the armor, were still visible down below.

That was just the opening salvo to the scorched earth process being undertaken.

The four orbiting Marine Seahawks were armed with artillery rockets and Hellfire missiles. Pilots and gunners opened fire instantly on the ground where the terrorists sought to sell the Devil’s tools. Explosions formed a scouring cloud of devastation that swept from the four corners of the auction ground toward the middle, shredding and splintering anything in its path. Stomped flat as if under the feet of giants, the hodgepodge mixture of surviving jeeps, guns, helicopters and low-speed jets, as well as various missiles and other explosives, disappeared in a cacophony of devastation that Ellis yanked the SH-60 out of just in the nick of time.

Bolan could almost reach out the side door and touch the blossoming mushroom of smoke from the hell blitz.

An explosive start to a mission that promised more such devastation ahead.

3

It was time for the weekly mail drop, and J. R. Rust, posing as a journalist, stepped up to the cage, smiling.

“Your new cameras and printer are here, Mr. Russel,” Rudiah, the mail clerk, notified him. He was wrestling a box onto the counter.