Hellfire Crusade te-87, page 4
part #87 of The Executioner Series
"I've come to talk to you about Khurabi."
"You're a historian?"
"No. No, I'm not — my name is Bolan. Mack Bolan." He decided to be as truthful with her as he could; after all, he expected no less from her. "Carl Brunton recommended that I speak to you."
She tilted back in her padded swivel chair, appearing to weigh his introduction carefully; indeed, it seemed as if Dr. Jones was trying to recall ever meeting Mack Bolan before, perhaps in a different context.
"I'm sure you don't know me. I'm not in the academic field. Let's say that, well, I have connections to Washington. Can I leave it at that?"
Danica Jones pursed her lips for a moment and then shrugged in acceptance. "Sure. What do you want to know?"
"Just about everything," admitted Bolan. "I understand you spent quite a while out there."
"Work on the Haufari dig was the basis of my dissertation," she answered. She went on to explain that the Westfield expedition had excavated the ancient and long-abandoned port of Haufari, about thirty miles southeast of Khurabi.
Bolan noticed that her face became quite animated as she spoke. Danica Jones obviously liked talking about her work. Twice she got up to point out details on the map. Bolan took the opportunity to observe her both as a knowledgeable lecturer and as a woman. She was five-seven, maybe five-eight, weighing around one-eighteen. Her long legs, trim waist and taut stomach all accentuated the firm swell of her breasts. Neat blond hair framed an oval face, with a wide sensual mouth. Danica wore barely a trace of makeup. Bolan liked that.
She didn't need it.
Her vivid green eyes seemed remote, as if beneath the cool surface there was some deeply felt, long-ago hurt. Even when her features were animated with the evident enthusiasm for her archaeological adventures, she still concealed this secret vein of sorrow. Perhaps it was guilt or doubt. No matter, Bolan thought, dismissing it.
The telephone interrupted her account of diving for the wreck of a trading vessel.
"Hello... yes, this is she... oh, hi, Patricia... no, I'm not lecturing this term, it's my research semester... well, not now, no, I have a visitor with me... yes, I'll call you later... by." She was polite to her colleague but slightly distant. "Where was I? Oh, yes... we received a lot of help from the local pearl divers. And Allied Oil were very good about lending us their facilities."
"Bill Patterson?"
"Yes. Bill. Do you know him?"
"Not really." Bolan switched topics. "How did the Zayoud family react to your expedition?"
"The sheikh was very amenable. Carl, Professor Brunton, remembered to take some of the latest software as a gift. Harun Zayoud is very easily won over! And he saw to it that Salim Zakir, the Minister of Culture, made things go smoothly for us." She pointed to a photograph on the shelf behind her. Danica was posed next to Salim, who appeared to have more than a diplomatic interest in the American scholar.
"And what about Hassan Zayoud?"
Danica arched her eyebrows. "He's not at all like his brother. He's only interested in Khurabian history insofar as it reflects the glory of Islam. He once invited us to excavate at Hagadan, the Fortress of the Rock, to furnish him with proof of how powerful were the Tamal sheikhs. They were fundamentalist rebels who holed up at Hagadan in the fifteenth century."
Bolan could feel the tumblers clicking into place. "Tell me more about this fortress, Dr. Jones."
"I'd rather you called me Danny," she said, unrolling a large-scale map of Khurabi on the desk between them. "Okay. Khurabi occupies less than four thousand square miles between the barren ranges of the Jebel Sutaq, here, and Jebel Akzam in the south..." she began, tracing out the facts with her fingertip. The country was the shape of an irregular oblong, with about forty miles of coastline on the gulf, and running nearly a hundred miles deep. The interior was partially bisected by the steep rocky slopes of the Jebel Kharg. The population of little more than one hundred thousand lived in the coastal capital or in small fishing villages scattered farther to the south.
"The interior is a sun-baked wilderness, some of the harshest desert terrain in the world. Hagadan is here, in the southwest corner, quite close to the disputed border. The fortress was built around the only freshwater wells for miles."
"What's it like? Did you go there?"
"It's in the forbidden zone." Danny shook her head. "That whole quarter of the country is strictly off-limits. Of course, we could have gone out there under Hassan Zayoud's protection, but we had more than enough to do at the Haufari site. If you'll pass me that book, there's a picture of the castle at Hagadan in it."
Bolan quickly retrieved the volume. Danny found the photograph; it had been taken by a British traveler in the 1930's.
"I don't think it will have changed much," she joked. The fortress had been standing on the bare outcrop of the Hagadan Rock for many centuries. It was a formidable encampment.
"It seems to incorporate several styles," noted Bolan.
"You're right. Alexander the Great sent a garrison to Khurabi; one of his detachments is said to have laid the foundations. Randall de Lacey, an eccentric knight, brought his followers eastward instead of returning home after the Third Crusade. They built up the inner ward and towers. The Tamal sheikhs took over Hagadan and extended the walls and outer bastions. Defenders have been starved out, but the castle has never been breached by force."
Bolan didn't have that kind of time. Or manpower. If Kevin Baker was being held prisoner in the Hagadan fortress, then the Executioner would have to get in there alone, rescue him and get out again fast. "Are there any other features of note in the interior?" asked Bolan. The map did not reveal any, but he had to cover all the possibilities. "Do you know of a modern army camp, a training base maybe, even an old cave system?"
Danny could not see where this line of questioning was leading to; she shook her head emphatically. "There's nothing else out there that I know of — just quicksand, mineral pools, unmapped wadis — as I said, this is one of the most forbidding deserts in the world."
The outline of a plan was forming in the back of Bolan's mind... but it would first need the trust and willing cooperation of this striking young professor.
Bolan pulled out the gold locket and handed it to her. Danny stared at the boy's picture, and Bolan thought she might be searching for a family resemblance.
"No relation," he informed her. "His name is Kevin Baker."
"Isn't he the kid who was..."
"I'd better tell you the whole thing... at least as much of it as I've managed to put together."
Danica Jones had enjoyed talking with Mack Bolan. He was intelligent and attentive. She had assumed from his guarded introduction that he was gathering information for a diplomatic briefing, or perhaps that he had some interest in Middle Eastern espionage. She was not ready for the story he now told her.
She did not interrupt or challenge Bolan's explanation of what seemed to have happened.
"Let's go for a walk," was all she said when he had finished. "I need some air."
They followed the willows down to the creek that flowed lazily along the edge of the college grounds. The harsh realities of the modern world seemed very far removed from this peaceful sanctuary. The archaeology scholar stared down at a leaf drifting past. Bolan wondered if he had misplaced his confidence.
"What makes you think it's Kevin's knowledge of nuclear devices they are after," she asked, "and not his talent for breaking into top-secret computers?"
"The bomb makes more sense in the political and military context of the struggle for the Middle East. If the Soviets are or become involved, then they well might be interested in Kevin's computer know-how. Either way it's dangerous — for him and possibly for all of us."
"And why should Kevin cooperate with them?" Danny tossed a twig into the water and watched it swirl away.
"They could threaten him, scare him into going along with them. Or they could intimidate Kevin with threats of what might happen to his parents. They might find some weakness to exploit, some means of bribing him. And then there's always drugs. Brainwashing."
"Okay, I get the point. And I can see why you're concerned. There's any number of ways they could force Kevin into helping them, whether he wants to or not."
"That's why I have to get into Khurabi quickly and pull him out," said Bolan.
"And for that you need my help?"
Bolan nodded. "I know I'm asking a lot."
"Maybe it's time I stepped back into the real world for a while." Danny linked her arm loosely through his as they strolled back toward the arts complex.
Originally she had trained as a nurse, she told him; one day she saw a news photo of a soldier carrying a child out of a burning village. They were both wounded and in need of aid and so, a few months later, Danica Jones was serving in Nam.
She sketched out her career there in a few terse phrases. Little more was needed. Bolan, too, had shared that nightmare. Now it all made sense to him.
He knew full well the pain she shielded from others who had no understanding of what had happened out there, those who could not comprehend what that meat-grinder war did to people.
For him, of course, it had never ended... One day he had been stalking Charlie through that stinking undergrowth, the next he was tracking soldiers no less cunning and ruthless through the twisted jungle of the underworld. Sergeant Mercy became the Executioner, born of a necessity for justice, not out of a lust for killing.
Others had needed to start afresh. It was not difficult to sympathize with this woman. He could see why she had chosen to immerse herself in books, to seek refuge in a study of the past and to find solace in the peace and quiet of a small college community.
"So I guess it was at Da Nang that I first heard of you," she finished softly. "I think you must be the same Sergeant Mack Bolan."
He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.
"Do you remember Leo Cameron?" she asked him.
"Yes." How could he forget? Three good men were lost on that mission. A small squad under the command of Captain Nile Barrabas had been sent deep into the jungle to rescue Cameron from a Vietcong stockade. They were to bring him out alive — or dead.
Those were the orders. Bolan, Barrabas and the badly wounded Cameron were the only ones to get back.
"I looked after Leo. I nursed him. We became friends," explained Danny. "He never told me what he was doing or why he was so important. He didn't say much about what they did to him in prison, but you didn't need to be a medical expert to guess. But he did tell me about the guys who risked everything to pull him out. You were quite a hero! And I don't think he was exaggerating. I'm glad you told me your name."
"So am I," admitted Bolan. Very glad.
"Then we'd better get back to my office. This is going to require some careful planning."
5
"I could only trace two references to the so-called Crescent Revolution for you," said Kurtzman, after Bolan had reported on his meeting with Danny Jones. "It's been mentioned by advisors close to Khomeini. And an inside contact reports that Hassan Zayoud referred to this coming revolution in a speech he made to a meeting of senior ministers within the Pan-Arabic League."
"Zayoud! It's all coming together."
"Yeah," said the Bear. "And I've got a feeling we're all going to hear a lot more about this unless you nip it in the bud." Kurtzman was not a field agent — he was a genius with those computers — but Bolan could still sense his colleague's frustration at being trapped in the mobile prison of his wheelchair.
"I need some up-to-the-minute surveillance on Khurabi," requested Bolan. "Specifically, I want pictures of the fortress at Hagadan."
There was a long pause at Kurtzman's end.
"That's a tall order, Mack. I'm going to have to pull strings with the National Reconnaissance Office, the NSA, the Pentagon and I don't know how many other agencies."
"If you can't twist enough arms, then use those smart machines of yours. If Kevin Baker managed to break into the Defense Department's system, then I'm sure you figured out how to penetrate the NRO network long ago."
"Okay. Don't ask me for the details," said the Bear, chuckling, "but I'll get it done somehow. Anything else?"
"Grimaldi." Bolan would have to call on the best pilot around if he was to get in and out of Khurabi in one piece. "Ask him to stand by. I'll need a longrange cargo. No official markings."
"What about equipment?"
"I'm going down to see Red Chandler."
"He's a crazy man!"
"Yeah... like a fox."
* * *
The vehicle bounced across an empty ditch, then the engine gave a muffled snarl as the tracks dug into the sand and propelled it up the steep slope beyond. As they slithered over the rise, Chandler shouted, "Target at two o'clock!"
Bolan scanned right, spotted the plywood cutout of a battle tank and tracked forward twenty degrees with the tube balanced on his shoulder. Chandler slowed for a second as they chewed their way across a gravel flat. Bolan, legs braced, let the cross hairs settle on target and unleashed the projectile.
The detonation shattered the desert calm as plywood splinters, cactus pulp and sagebrush erupted in a choking cloud of sand. Chandler was off and running again.
"So what do you think of my little Tiger Cub?" he shouted. "Hey, troops at ten o'clock!"
Bolan had already spotted the cardboard cutouts half concealed in the creosote bushes. His assessment of Chandler's machine was drowned out by the staccato roar of the M-60.
Bolan pivoted the gun in its mounting as Chandler slewed the Tiger Cub broadside to the targets, before accelerating away in a spray of flying grit.
With the targets so ably disposed of, Red Chandler headed back down the range toward the main compound well pleased with the performance of his latest invention.
The Tiger Cub, as Chandler had dubbed this new creation, was a lethal hybrid between an ATV, a miniature half-track and an armored golf cart.
It could carry two men and a full complement of firepower across the toughest terrain to knock out advancing tanks, scouting platoons and even aircraft.
Red Chandler, a staunch individualist, could not compete head-on with the huge military-industrial conglomerates that got the billion-dollar contracts for ever more sophisticated tanks, missiles and computerized weapons systems.
But Chandler knew that if the bombs were not used — or even after they had gone off like — then the outcome of the next major conflict would likely depend on small, highly mobile units that could still hit and run with maximum force and effectiveness. He had converted an unprofitable ranch in the Southwest into a private testing ground, complete with its own airstrip and firing range, to try out his high-tech approach to the traditions of guerrilla warfare.
He wasn't getting rich, but he made a living. Delta Force had contracted Chandler to supply them with some of his unconventional weaponry.
And the Rangers were interested in a lightweight, long-range glider he had developed. Bolan had come to depend on Andrzej Konzaki, the brilliant weaponsmith for the Stony Man operation, to supply his special needs. But Konzaki had been taken out by Lee Farnsworth's bloody conspiracy to destroy the Phoenix team.
Another fallen comrade.
Bolan had learned of an addition to the Phoenix program, a replacement for Konzaki called John "Cowboy" Kissinger. But the soldier was reluctant to tie up the services of the new Stony Man armorer. Perhaps on another mission.
Gary Manning had been the one to recommend Red Chandler. He had a reputation for being eccentric, but Bolan quickly appreciated Chandler's unorthodox imagination.
"You're asking for some very expensive pieces." Chandler scratched at his ginger stubble. "I mean, they're prototypes... I couldn't put a price on them."
Bolan stared at the undulating haze that smudged the horizon. What could he say? The chance that he would be able to return any of Chandler's equipment was extremely remote.
Red Chandler had laid down the rules.
Despite the urgency of the situation, Bolan played the game Chandler's way. First they tried out Red's latest toy — the Tiger Cub. Then they discussed tactics, military history, the latest developments in the weapons market... finally, Red Chandler conducted a monologue on the merits of doing business with Bolan. "That Sand Hog you want is one of a kind. And as for the ultralight..." Chandler knew that Bolan's credit was good — for virtually any amount. And he was also certain that this taciturn warrior would not ask him for these items unless Bolan was playing for the highest stakes imaginable. "And on top of everything else you want all this stuff crated up to look like anything but what it is!" Chandler rubbed his hand over his close-cropped coppery hair. It was already turning grayish white over the ears — helping Mack Bolan was going to complete the process.
"I really need it, Red," said the soldier. "By tomorrow morning."
"And they call me crazy!" retorted Chandler. Then he stuck out his hand, saying, "Okay, but I want a full report on how each piece performs under battle conditions."
"It's a deal. I'll have Grimaldi fly in tomorrow."
* * *
Forty-eight hectic hour's after leaving for Florida, Bolan was back at his base.
Danny Jones flew in from Westfield to join him.
"Any problems getting away?" he asked her.
"No. This is my semester off. I'm supposed to be doing writing and research. What could be more natural than my going back to the Haufari dig for a short visit?"
"Did you call the Minister of Culture?"
"Salim Zakir was in a meeting with the sheikh. But I left a message with his office."
Danny poured them both strong coffee. The table was littered with notepads, equipment checklists, maps — the Executioner's order of battle. Despite the speed with which this operation was being mounted, Danny appreciated just how thoroughly Bolan prepared for action.
