“I have been told the Bedouin are great warriors,” Bolan said to the assembled group. “Now I see that their hospitality is as justly praised.”
Bolan’s words were well received. There was much talk then, some of it directed at Bolan. He kept his replies short and respectful.
“Now they will bring food, Cooper. What is ours is yours. We apologize it is not as sumptuous as we would like to offer you, but as you may see, this is a small group. We were on a hunt for food when my brothers and I stumbled into the hands of those dogs.”
Bolan had observed the way the Bedouin settled themselves to eat. Left leg tucked beneath them and the right raised so the arm could rest on it. He adopted the same position as his hosts, and remembered the custom he had read somewhere that the Bedouin ate with three fingers of the right hand only.
The food when it arrived on a circular flat dish consisted of a deep layer of rice cooked in samn, a form of clarified butter. It was accompanied by roast mutton. Around the edge of the dish was a sprinkling of pine nuts. There was also cooked bread made of flour, dates and samn. The dish was placed centrally and Bolan felt all eyes on him. As the guest he was given the first choice from the communal dish. He obliged, taking rice and mutton in his fingers, tasting the spiced food and nodding in appreciation. Once Bolan had made the first move it was open for the gathering to join in. Bolan ate along with the Bedouin, listening to their conversation, sometimes in Arabic, while English was also used as a gesture of respect to their American guest. He joined in when a question was put to him. The Bedouin were excellent hosts, making Bolan feel at home in their midst. When the meal was over and more coffee was passed around, the business became serious.
“I have explained to them about the camp where we were captive,” Sharif said. “About our murdered brothers and the terrible weapon those criminals intend to release on the Israelis.”
Bolan was aware of the silence that had fallen as Sharif spoke.
“I have to go back, Ali. One of the reasons I came here was to destroy whatever the Iranians and their Fedayeen allies have stored. Now that I’ve learned about the chemical, it is even more important I stop them.”
Sharif nodded. “This I understand. And what I said before I will honor. I will go with you.”
“And I,” called one of the gathered Bedouins.
His offer was picked up by the others.
“We have a duty also to avenge our slain brothers,” said another.
“It is Bedu tradition that those who are wronged must be avenged. It has always been this way. We would be betraying our own if we did nothing,” Sharif explained. “You understand this?”
Bolan nodded. He understood only too well.
“We will leave in the morning. Tonight we rest. Will you share my tent, Cooper?”
“Thank you, Ali.”
THEY ROSE EARLY, THE BEDOUIN leaving Bolan as they said their morning prayer. Breakfast was dates and Bedouin coffee, following which the camp was broken up and packed on two camels. The Bedouin then prepared their weapons, checking and loading the assault rifles they carried. Bolan noticed they were all armed with AK-47s. Sharif explained that the weapon was the common denominator in the region. It was readily available wherever they traveled and could be purchased easily. The Soviet Union military complex, if it was remembered for little else, had sustained a legacy that would survive forever. Some of the men carried handguns and they all, to a man, wore sheathed knives.
Sharif was leading Bolan across to the camel herd when the American paused, looking in the direction of the slope that had brought them into the camp. There had been a single Bedouin on sentry duty since first light. The man had gone.
“Ali, has the guard been relieved from the ridge?”
“Of course not…” Sharif said. He followed the line of Bolan’s gaze, stared at the empty spot, and was immediately galvanized into action, shouting orders to the others.
Bolan had already picked up the rising throb of an approaching vehicle. “They found us.”
The truck appeared above the rim and swooped in toward the Bedouin. The crackle of a machine gun sounded, flat and brittle, sending a line of hot slugs that chewed at the sandy ground then hit a couple of the tethered camels. Blood sprayed the air as the animals staggered, bellowing in pain as they fell. The action galvanized the tribesmen into movement, some turning to reach for their weapons, others running in shocked panic. The firing continued as the truck sped down the sandy slope, the heavy burst ripping into flesh. Two men went down, spinning in stunned agony, disbelief in minds unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.
Sharif stumbled as he neared the cover of the trees, his anger making him turn to see what had happened. On his knees he fumbled with the AK-47, his dark eyes fixing on Bolan.
“You see what these dogs are doing to my people? This will be slaughter.”
Bolan was watching the circling truck, his unwavering gaze fixed on the vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said quietly.
“What are you thinking, Cooper?” Sharif asked. “To attack that truck?”
Bolan’s next act gave Sharif his answer as the tall American moved quickly around the stand of palms, taking cover by the thick trunk of the last in line. He leaned around the palm, settling the AK-47 as he tracked in on the moving truck. He made no indication he had noticed when Sharif joined him, watching in silence as Bolan studied his intended target.
The armed truck spun wildly as the driver worked the gears. The machine gun opened up again, the barrel sweeping back and forth, raking the area with further blistering bursts. The weapon was swung out at an angle, flexible on its universal mount, allowing the gunner plenty of latitude when it came to widening his field of fire. There was a cold efficiency as he targeted more of the Bedouin’s camels. The helpless animals were cut down ruthlessly.
Sharif sighed in despair. The camel was a prized possession within the Bedouin tribes. They allowed the roving tribes to move whenever and wherever they wanted, providing them with far-ranging freedom and independence. Killing them was a direct insult to the Bedouin, showing contempt for them and their age-old traditions.
A half-strangled scream of defiance came as one of the tribesmen ran into view, shaking a clenched fist at the attackers. The robed figure took a stance, raising the assault rifle he carried to his shoulder and opening fire. It was a pointless exercise. The man fired without aiming, allowing his anger to dictate his actions rather than employing cool logic to the situation. All he did was waste his ammunition and present himself as an easy target for the truck’s gunner. There was a chill finality in the way the gunner eased his weapon around, lining up on the Bedouin. The machine gun crackled briefly, directing a white-hot stream of 7.62 mm slugs into the Arab. His body jerked awkwardly as the bullets hammered into him and tore open his yielding flesh.
Bolan fired, taking his cue from the slowing truck as the driver watched the gunner’s handiwork. The AK’s 7.62 mm slugs hit the windshield, shattering the glass. The driver threw his hands up at his pierced face, screaming as keen shards penetrated his eyes. The out-of-control truck made a sudden turn, spilling men from the rear. Bolan raked the hood, sending slugs into the engine compartment, and the vehicle stalled as the power was cut.
The dazed men were hastily climbing to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons.
“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped.
Sharif realized Bolan’s intention, and though he responded quickly he was steps behind the big American as Bolan ran toward the truck, the AK tracking and firing. His first burst took down two of the strike team, knocking them off their feet in bloody disarray. Others returned fire as they found themselves caught by the autofire from the rest of the Bedouin. Bolan kept moving forward. There were enemies to deal with and there was no other way than to maintain the advantage.