War Drums. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
get clear, we reorganize and come back.”
“If we can reach my camp, there are others there who would help.”
“Let’s do it, Ali.”
BOLAN MADE A FINAL SCAN of the camp, seeing the tented area off to the right, the parked vehicles across to the left. Between the lockup and the vehicles the ground was open, uneven, a rocky stretch that would offer little in the way of cover. It was far from ideal but there was no alternative. If he and Sharif were going to make their escape they needed a vehicle. On foot they would be an easy target if one of the helicopters came looking for them.
The only thing in their favor was the fact that being the middle of the day, the occupants of the camp had retreated to the comparative coolness of their tents. Bolan silently thanked the collective thinking that had created this siesta-like observance. Apart from an unfortunate sentry on the far perimeter and a second man standing in the shade provided by one of the helicopters, there was no sign of the camp occupants.
“Ready, Ali bin Sharif?”
The Bedouin shrugged, a fatalistic gesture that expressed his feelings. “As ready as I will ever be.”
“We won’t have a better opportunity. Go.”
Bolan slipped out through the door, picking up the pace as he moved away from the lockup. The black-clad figure of Ali bin Sharif stayed close behind him. The ground beneath their feet offered minimal resistance and they made little sound as they made their dash for freedom. Bolan made frequent checks on the two sentries, hoping neither glanced in their direction.
They traversed a low rise of ground, skirting one of the tents, dust rising from their passing, over the top of the rise and along the final stretch, closing in on the parked vehicles.
As always, it was the unexpected that posed a challenge as Bolan angled in on the truck he had chosen. A lean figure in khaki pants and shirt, wearing a long-billed baseball cap, stirred from his resting place in the rear of the truck. As he sat up, the man saw the approaching figures, mouthed a few words and fumbled for the AK-47 resting across his lap. He leveled the weapon and opened fire. His instincts were sharper than his aim—the stream of 7.62 mm slugs pounded the ground yards away from his targets.
Bolan came to a dead stop, raising his own AK. He targeted the shooter who had raised himself to a kneeling position, finger stroking the trigger, sending a single shot into the guy. It cored deep into his chest, spinning him sideways. He struggled to stay upright but a second shot from Bolan’s rifle laid him flat.
“Get him out of there,” Bolan called to Sharif as he climbed behind the wheel.
The Bedouin dragged the body out of the rear of the truck, commandeering the man’s rifle, and scrambled into the passenger seat next to Bolan. The engine burst into life as the soldier pressed the button. He worked the stiff gears, released the handbrake and floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, dust billowing as Bolan swung it away from the camp and headed for the desert beyond.
“Any suggestions on our direction?” Bolan yelled above the howl of the engine.
Sharif pointed. “To the north for now. That way.”
The crackle of autofire rose over the engine noise. Slugs snapped through the air, some clanging sharply against the metal sides of the truck.
“I think we have upset them,” Sharif shouted, his face creased in a smile.
Bolan concentrated on driving. The truck had little in the way of sophisticated suspension. Every bump and ripple in the ground was transmitted through the vehicle’s framework. Bolan had to fight the shuddering wheel as they bounced and lurched across the uneven terrain. His arms and shoulders began to ache. There was nothing else he could do but keep going, using whatever cover he could find. He gave up that maneuver when he became aware of the rising dust trail they were creating. It hung in the hot air long after they had passed.
“If they get those helicopters into the air, we will be spotted easily,” Sharif said.
“Tell me about it.”
Minutes later Sharif twisted in his seat, searching the sky behind them.
“I see one,” he said.
“Has he picked us up yet?”
The Bedouin studied the distant aircraft. “I think he is turning this way, Cooper.”
“If he starts firing, we abandon this vehicle. Understand?”
Sharif nodded. “I understand.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I want them dead. No questions. No excuses. Track them down and kill them. That American has caused us too much trouble already. I can’t afford to have him running around wreaking more havoc.”
Kerim’s tone warned his men he was in no mood for compromise. They retreated from the tent, checking weapons and communication equipment, heading for the remaining truck to take up pursuit. One of the helicopters had already taken to the air.
“Do you think they will catch them?” Salim asked.
Kerim caught the light taunt in the other man’s tone. “Yes, they will, because if they fail, they will know not to return. Do not underestimate us, Salim. My brothers do not play the fool’s game.”
“The thought was not on my mind, Kerim. Forgive me, my friend.”
Kerim shrugged off the apology. He turned back to his deliberations, mulling over the charts spread across the table. There was so much to deal with. The upset caused by the American had left Kerim with a bad feeling. Not of defeat, more of a sense of being made to look weak within his own camp, the secret place that the Jordanians had promised him would be safe. Now even that sanctity had been broken and one man—one man—had already killed three of his loyal fighters.
The sting of embarrassment made him lose his concentration. He found he could barely make any sense of the information spread out before him. Kerim concealed his bitterness, not wanting to exhibit it in front Salim. He was aware that Salim had drawn his own conclusions from the incident. Like it or not, Kerim had been made to look foolish. He couldn’t trust that Salim would keep the matter to himself. The man had a loose mouth. Though he had proved useful during negotiations, acting as a go-between, the man had always struck Kerim as slightly untrustworthy. Salim had a way about him that indicated he was forever on the look-out for himself. There was that slyness about him that Kerim had always found disagreeable. And knowing his greed when it came to money, Kerim didn’t doubt he would be prepared to offer what he knew about the incident at the camp.
Loyalty wasn’t a word Salim understood, apart from loyalty to himself. He wouldn’t hesitate to let Razihra know what had happened if the chance came up. One mistake could ruin Kerim’s future, maybe even threaten his life. Failure, in any form, was frowned upon and the camp fiasco wouldn’t be seen in a favorable light. It would matter little to Razihra that Kerim had been strongly instrumental in setting up the camp by making a deal with the Fedayeen and their Jordanian sympathizers. He had also helped to broker the deal with the Russians to obtain the consignment of bio weapons. Kerim, not Salim—nor even Razihra—had done any of that. Their contribution had been to supply the cash, then sit back in safety and let someone else do the work. There was a bitter irony for Kerim when he thought about Ayatollah Razihra gathering all the praise if the operation was a success. He knew without a doubt that Razihra would claim it all as his own work. That realization had become apparent to Kerim quite some time ago.
Kerim glanced across the tent at Salim’s back. The man was lighting a cigarette, his actions slow and deliberate as he sat gazing out through the open tent flap. So calm and all-knowing. Kerim felt his anger rise. Why should his word have so much influence? Enough that it could destroy all that Kerim cherished. There was no one with as much loyalty to the Ayatollah’s cause. No one. And it could all be wiped away by idle gossip. Salim’s whispered words would be carefully chosen so as to lay full blame on Kerim.