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.
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