War Drums. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or passing a genuine comment. He closed his mind to Sharif’s muttering and concentrated on getting the chopper on an even keel.
“So which way do we go?”
“Toward those hills,” Sharif said.
Bolan’s handling of the helicopter settled down within a few minutes. His confidence grew, familiarity allowing him to keep the aircraft on an even keel and maintain height and speed. He promised himself an intensive refresher course once he returned to Stony Man and got Grimaldi on his own. Even Sharif relaxed, ceasing to grip the frame of the seat so tightly. He began to scan the terrain below. Some minutes into the flight he leaned to peer through the side canopy.
“We are being tracked, Cooper. It looks like one of the trucks from the camp.”
Bolan took a look. He could clearly see the vehicle following them. The configuration of the truck matched that of the ones at the camp.
“How far before we reach your people, Ali?”
“Less than an hour.”
“We need to deal with that truck. I’m not going to risk leading it right into your camp.”
“Then send a missile. Like the one that hit our truck.”
Bolan checked the missile configuration. The readout told him the pod was empty. “No more missiles, Ali.”
“Can you fly this machine lower? Close enough to bring the machine gun back there into range?”
“Just make sure you use the harness. I’d hate to lose you now.”
Sharif clamped a strong hand on Bolan’s shoulder as he clambered out of his seat. “I have faith in you, my friend.”
“And put the headset on so I can talk to you.”
While Sharif made his way through to the cabin section Bolan pulled on the pilot’s headset. He began to maneuver the helicopter in a wide circle, intending to come up on the truck’s rear, at the same time losing some height.
“Cooper? Do you hear me?”
“Ali, you don’t have to shout. That microphone is sensitive.”
Sharif lowered his voice. “Is that better? Good. I am ready. The machine gun is loaded and also ready.”
Bolan leveled off behind the truck. The driver had anticipated what Bolan intended and had started to swing the truck, removing it from a direct line of travel. The soldier heard the door-mounted machine gun as Sharif fired a test burst. His volley fell well short. His second was better, still off target, but closer.
“Can you not keep this machine steady?” Sharif yelled into the headset.
Bolan settled the controls and managed to hold the chopper on a smooth line. This time Sharif managed to lay down a burst that tore at the truck’s rear body section. Even Bolan saw the debris that flew out from the damaged area.
“Steady enough for you, Ali?”
All he received was a flow of what he took to be Bedouin curses. Then the machine gun crackled again.
The line of slugs hammered the truck cab and the vehicle swerved. Sharif then hit it with an even longer burst that punctured the driver’s door and window and blew out the windshield from inside the cab. Sharif’s final volley sent slugs through the hood into the engine and it began to die.
In the same space of time someone opened up from the canvas-topped rear of the truck, a stuttering volley from a lighter SMG. The moment he heard the clatter of shots Bolan banked the chopper away, but not before he heard the metallic clang and ping of bullets striking somewhere along the helicopter’s fuselage. As the chopper pulled up and away, the truck lurched to a jerky stop.
“Cooper? Did I hear bullets hit us?” Sharif’s tone was urgent over the headset.
“I think so, Ali. You’d better come up front and strap yourself in.”
By the time Sharif strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat Bolan had the helicopter back on track. He had already become aware of a slight, irregular beat to the sound of the engine. Adjusting the power he coaxed the aircraft along, keeping the helicopter at a lower altitude than before.
“Is this bad, Cooper?”
“I’d be happier without it.”
“Will we reach my camp?”
Bolan smiled. “Time will tell, Ali.”
CHAPTER NINE
The helicopter quit on Bolan just as night started to spread across the desert. He had been aware of the increasingly uneven sound from the engine and discovered that power was reducing. He tried to compensate but it made no difference.
“Looks like we get to walk the rest of the way,” was his only comment on the situation.
“Then it is providential I know how to reach the camp,” Sharif said.
Bolan took the Lynx down. Before he and Sharif left the aircraft, Bolan ripped out the wiring from beneath the control panel and did the same after he had raised the engine cover. Disabling the machine would reduce its use against Bolan and the Bedouin.
“Perhaps one day we will come back and salvage what we can,” Sharif mused. “The Bedu are the best traders in the area.”
He led the way into the dusk, sure of his path, walking steadily without pause. Bolan followed, making frequent checks on their back trail. It was almost 8:00 p.m. by Bolan’s watch when Sharif signaled for him to halt. Bolan joined him and they looked down a long, sandy slope to where a small camp had been set up around a well.
“Your people?”
“Welcome to my camp, Cooper,” Sharif said, and made his way down the slope, calling out as they neared the camp.
Bolan saw the erected tents. A short way off tethered camels grumbled softly to themselves. Glowing cook fires glowed in the shadows and robed figures, alerted by Sharif’s voice, moved out to meet him.
There was much conversation, hands slapping Sharif across the shoulders once he had been recognized. Bolan stood to one side, waiting to be invited into the camp. The Bedouin were a proud people who clung to the customs of their past, and he had no intention of offending them.
Eventually Sharif himself turned and gestured to the American. “I welcome you to join us, my friend. Welcome to the home of the Rwala.”
It was obvious that the Bedouin had regaled his brothers about Bolan and what he had done. The members of the group clustered around the tall American, greeting him in their own tongue and parting to allow him to pass. Sharif watched him, nodding his approval as Bolan acknowledged his invitation with small bows of his head, to the delight of the Bedouin tribesmen.
“Tell your brothers I am honored to be invited into their company.”
“Tell them yourself, Cooper,” Sharif said. “They all understand some English.”
Bolan repeated his gratitude. It was greeted with a chorus of approval, his words translated for those who had difficulty understanding. With Sharif at his side and slightly behind, Bolan was escorted into the camp. A rug was spread before one of the tents and Bolan was invited to sit. While the majority of the group sat in a semicircle around him, others brought utensils and placed them in the warm sand. Bolan watched as coffee was prepared in smooth worn copper pots over a small fire of red-hot glowing embers. The rich brew, spiced with cardamom, was served in small ceramic cups.
Bedouin custom decreed the first cup be tasted by the host, to satisfy the guest he wasn’t being offered anything suspect. When Sharif had done this, he indicated that Bolan himself pour the next cup and taste it. On the third filling Bolan was allowed to drink the full cup. Bolan raised his cup to his hosts before he drank.