Fireburst. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
tanks, Gazelle gunships and BM-25 multiple-rocket launchers. However, it had all proved useless against the laser-guided missiles, smart bombs and robot drones of the hated Americans. Within only a few hours, the armored might of the Iraqi army had been obliterated, most of the battle tanks and MRLs destroyed without firing a single shot.
But revenge was coming soon, the major thought smugly as the Hummer passed the burned-out shell of a Gazelle attack gunship. Everything of any value had been removed, leaving only the fire-blackened frame and twisted landing rails.
“I hate the sight of those,” Nasser said in a husky voice. “They always remind me of a carcass the beetles have devoured.”
“You’re getting better at that,” Armanjani said, looking out the window. “If I did not personally know better, I would swear that you were a man.”
“Fuck you, too, sir,” Nasser replied in a deep gravelly rumble.
“Much better,” Armanjani stated. “Just remember to scratch your balls every now and then. Not under your damn breasts.”
“My new bra itches.”
“Too bad. The people we are dealing with do not like women, except as a vessel for their pleasure.”
“Vessel. As in a toilet.” Her voice was neutral, but her hands went white on the steering wheel. “Yes, I have met such men before.”
“Just don’t let them take you a prisoner and find out personally,” he warned.
“I will have your back, cousin,” Hassan growled, cradling the massive Atchisson autoshotgun.
Just then, the loose sand shifted on top of a nearby sand dune, and a lone figure in a tan ghillie suit stood, the loose material falling away.
As Nasser stopped the Hummer, the major made a complex gesture in the air.
With a nod, the armed figure went back into the hole, vanishing like a scorpion from the noon heat.
“Mark that spot,” Armanjani commanded, as the Hummer started forward once more.
“He is already dead,” Hassan replied, staring directly into the blazing sun.
“Not yet, my friend,” Armanjani advised. “First we must talk with his masters.”
Hassan only nodded in reply, his gloved hands tightening slightly on the deadly Atchisson.
“Do you really think that we can deal with al Qaeda?” Nasser asked in her real voice. It was soft and gentle, almost girlish, as if she were a child wearing the clothing of an adult. “They’re animals! Not soldiers.”
“We can deal with them,” the major said. “And do not speak again until we are far away from here. These people have a very low opinion of women.”
“They’re fools.”
“True. But rich fools who hate the same enemy that we do. Let us hope they will deal honestly, and we will drive away from here millionaires!”
“Billionaires,” Hassan corrected hesitantly.
“Not after the split, no,” the major said, checking the clip in the 13 mm Magnum pistol.
Settling back into the seat, Hassan grunted in grudging acceptance at that. Then he asked, “Why can we not simply sell our device directly to the Saudis? They are the real masters of the Middle East.”
“Because their prince wishes to pretend that he is not a criminal, and thus keep the Americans from bombing his palace,” Armanjani answered curtly. “As they did to Saddam and so many others.”
“Bah, the Saudis are fools,” Nasser snorted. “All men are fools!”
“Most women, too,” Armanjani added with a chuckle.
Obscured by her kaffiyeh, Nasser’s expression was unreadable, but the skin around her sunglasses crinkled as her cheeks rose in what might have been a smile.
A few miles later, they reached an intersection and took a left turn. There were no street signs or mile markers. It resembled ten thousand other such intersections, ordinary and easily forgettable.
“Get hard,” Armanjani commanded. “We are here to deal, but I trust these back-doors Muslims less than a UN negotiator.”
As they crested a low hill, a shimmering expanse of blue appeared in the distance. Soon, they were driving along the shore of a small lake. In the middle was an artificial island with a white marble palace of domes, towers and spirals.
Once, this had been a minor palace owned by President Hussein, a paradise on earth. Now it was a burned-out hovel, barely able to stand against the evening breeze. Weeds filled the gardens, every window was broken and vile graffiti covered the outer walls in garish neon colors.
Parking the vehicle a safe distance away, Armanjani and the others exited the Hummer and did a quick recon around the palace before venturing through the sagging front doors. Their footfalls echoed off the bare walls as they walked into the shadowy mansion.
With their weapons at the ready, they eased across the spacious foyer, keeping apart from one another to prevent unseen snipers from getting a group shot. It was dark inside, the only light coming from a stained-glass skylight that had somehow escaped intact.
The palace had been stripped bare, everything of value removed, sometimes forcibly. Even marble columns and the electrical outlets had been yanked from the walls. The walls and ceiling were pockmarked with countless bullet holes, delicately carved doors had been reduced to jagged splinters, and there were dank piles in the corners that looked suspiciously like human waste.
Removing his sunglasses, Armanjani frowned in disapproval. This was sad. Saddam Hussein had been a father to his nation. A stern father, yes, but that was how you raised children—with the closed hand and the open heart. He simply couldn’t understand the raw hatred his fellow countrymen harbored for their fallen leader. Our father is dead, can we not at least honor him in the grave? the major wondered.
Proceeding along the main corridor, the three people swept past a library, steam room, billiard room, armory and movie theater before reaching the living room.
Laid out in overlapping circular patterns, the cavernous room rose and fell in random patterns, giving it a rather unearthly feel. All of the furniture and artwork was gone, of course, and the waterfall had been turned off, leaving only the mosaic on the bottom of the basin. Some of the tiles had been removed, but it was still easily recognizable as President Hussein with several busty American movie stars clustered around him. He was in full military uniform, with a scimitar and a gold crown, while they were clothed in diaphanous veils.
Splintery wooden bridges crossed over empty swimming pools, and curved niches lined the walls where there had previously been antique suits of armor from around the world. What might have once been a throne occupied a central location, but it had been used for target practice so much that that was only a theory.
Moving to the pile of riddled lumber in the center of the room, Armanjani and his people looked up to see five men in nondescript military uniforms on the second-story balcony. A decorative banister of iron lace edged the platform, and there were rows of raised seats for spectators to look down into the living room as if it were a sports arena.
All of the men were heavily armed with assault rifles, pistols and knives. One man actually had a Russian RPG strapped across his back, while an elderly man with a bushy beard was carrying a battered leather briefcase.
“You’re late,” the man with the briefcase stated loudly.
Instantly, Armanjani and his people swung up their weapons and clicked off the safeties.
“That is not the correct greeting,” the major stated, leveling the Tariq.
With a sneer, the old man waved that aside. “Bah, foolish games.”
“Then we go,” the major declared, backing away.
“Nicholas!”