Hellfire Crusade

11

Somewhere, far out in the silvery phantom shadows of the desert night, a jackal cried for its mate. The mournful sound echoed on the midnight air.

Bolan padded forward — another hunter on the prowl — slipping from the cover of a boulder, then seeking the shelter of the scrub that lined the shallow ditch surrounding the rock of Hagadan. The ancient fortress now loomed above him, the walls glowing ghostly pale and blotting out the heavens.

His pack was heavy with specially prepared explosives, and spare mags for the Uzi were carried in long pockets at the sides of his trousers. A rope was coiled around his shoulder, and he carried a padded grapnel in his left hand.

The hook came in handy to steady himself as he mounted the steep slope at the bottom of the cliff. There were small fans of loose scree in places. Every handhold had to be tested; every footstep carefully planted.

Bolan followed the rough outline of the ascent route he had picked out earlier that afternoon. He came to the first overhang. It was tougher than it had looked through the glasses; perhaps he could squeeze past this obstacle at the far end.

He continued to traverse, reaching out to grab hold of the wizened shrub growing in a crack beyond the ledge he was balanced on. His fingers circled the tough stem and Bolan pulled himself along. There was a fissure in the rock face that he climbed for thirty feet. He had almost cleared the top of this natural chimney when his hand dislodged a loose pebble. It dropped away into the darkness. Bolan remained frozen where he was.

The small stone landed in the sand below with a dull thunk. He waited for a sentry to stick his head over the battlements. Nothing.

No one had been alarmed.

Nearing the top of the cliff he saw the faint trace of a match end being flicked carelessly from the wall. Again he waited, hands straining to hold himself tight against the cliff, wondering if the smoker would casually lean over the edge and glance down. He stayed in position longer this time. Every second was increasing the strain. Bolan reached the final bulging lip of granite below the huge foundation stones. This, too, had been deceptive. He weighed his chances of making it with the hefty pack in place. They didn't look good. If he failed to pull himself up and over on the first attempt, the pack would sure as hell drag him down. And it was a long drop to the bottom. This called for some delicate maneuvering.

First, he shrugged the coil from his shoulder. Then, bracing his feet, he freed his hand long enough to secure the end of the rope to the rucksack shoulder strap. The pack had a special quick release that freed it from his back. There was a spot over to his right, a small shelf wide enough to balance the load.

Bolan set it down.

With one palm pressing firmly on the ceiling of stone above his head, Bolan stretched back with the other arm and felt for a hold with the grapnel. It took three tries to find a narrow chink in which to jam one point of the triple hook.

Bolan pulled hard on the shank. It seemed secure, but there was only one way to really test it and he could not put it off. He transferred his weight, jumping out from the ledge. His other hand smacked against the rock, fingers scrabbling to find that second hold.

His bleeding fingertips closed round a granite knob and he levered himself bodily around the overhang.

There was an uneven ledge, about a foot wide, at the very bottom of the wall. Bolan lay there resting sideways for a moment, then he pulled the bag up after him. As he straightened up, a screeching, flapping ball of feathers and claws struck him on the forehead. He was slapped across the nose as the startled bird beat its wings in a frantic attempt to scare off the intruder.

Bolan brushed it aside; and with a final indignant squawk, the bird flew off to find another perch. He wasn't sure who had been more surprised — him or the sleeping bird.

Leaving the pack secured to the end of the rope, Bolan relooped the line, leaving a long leader free for the swing it was going to take. The pendulum made a faint whoosh with every pass. Bolan twirled it completely and let go.

This was the worst moment; the biggest risk of all.

And he had no choice but to take it.

The hooks and shank were sheathed with highdensity foam sleeves. The grapnel made little sound as it lodged in a gun port high above Bolan's head.

He tugged on the rope. The tips were trapped on the sill up there. Bolan gradually increased the pressure of his test pull... still it held. He glanced back once at the desert — out to where Danny was hiding with the Hog — then up he went, hand over hand, rubber-soled boots walking up the weathered facing.

His muscles ached from the effort required to pull himself and the added weight of the equipment he carried up the wall. Bolan was almost two-thirds the way to his goal, perhaps at the forty-foot mark, when he heard someone chuckle behind the window slit slightly to his left. The murmur of small talk drifted indistinctly by him. It was riskier to hang there dangling by a thread than to proceed. Bolan hauled himself up the rest of the way.

He wriggled through the defenders' firing slot and huddled close to the wall, catching his breath and his bearings at the same time. The nightstalker was on a flagstone walkway, repaired in places with wooden planking, about twenty feet from the nearest corner tower. A lookout up there was stamping his feet to stay awake and ward off the chilly night breeze.

Bolan wiped the sweat from his forehead, crawled back into the man-size slit and dragged up the rucksack.

He lugged the loaded pack across the stonework. A few small chips, broken off by the point of the grapnel hook, were swept back off the ledge.

They hit the walkway with a rattle.

Bolan heard the sound of boots on the worn stone steps within the tower. He pushed the pack against the wall and bundled the rope behind it. The door at the end opened with a creak. Dim lighting from inside briefly streaked the flagstones as the Arab guard stepped out into the cool air. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward, puzzled to find one of the foreign soldiers up here on duty.

Bolan waited, outwardly casual but internally poised to spring, until he noticed the trooper stare curiously past his legs. He'd seen the pack... The man twisted to unsling his rifle.

Before he could shout a warning, Bolan was upon him with the silent ferocity of a nocturnal predator.

He clamped a hand tight across the Arab's mouth, swung him around and smashed the sentry into the low wall. Apart from the grunt of suddenly expelled air, the man was too winded to call out for his comrades.

The Executioner cracked the guy's skull hard against the inside edge of the battlements. The senseless guard released his grip on the rifle. Bolan set down the weapon quietly, lifted the body to the slit and shoved it into space.

There was no scream before the man's broken body struck a soft patch of sand a hundred fifty feet below.

The guard's burnoose had fallen off in the brief one-sided scuffle. Bolan scooped it up and put it on, now disguised like some of the other mercs he'd seen. He moved the bag into the deepest shadows behind the door.

He had barely got the gear hidden from obvious view when he heard the sound of footsteps quickly mounting the tower staircase. Bolan picked up the rifle and was leaning nonchalantly on the wall when the second man appeared, still puffing from the climb.

"Thought I heard something..." There was a lazy Southern drawl in the newcomer's voice. He was one of Ruark's men.

"Yes, so did I," said Bolan. "But there's nothing happening. These old places give me the creeps."

"Yeah, you can say that again. Give me the bush any day." Sounded like this guy had seen action in Africa.

Bolan pulled the cigarettes from his pocket.

He offered one to the Southerner. They lit up and Bolan knew the other man was watching him over cupped hands. He was counting on the fact that there were too many mercs, with fresh recruits still arriving, for himself to be recognized as an outsider.

"Haven't seen you before — you come with that mob yesterday?"

"Nah, the one before that." The guy might be testing him: maybe nobody came yesterday. Bolan needed an identity he could use and fast. He picked the name of a dead man, a merc he knew had got killed in a former mission to Africa. "Scarr's my name. Brendan Scarr."

"Billy Joe Hooker — that's me. You're here just in time for the shooting match. Keegan reckons we'll be on the move within forty-eight hours."

Allyeah, well, what does Bull know?

"Ruark's calling the shots on this contract and I'll wait till I hear him say it," bluffed Bolan.

"Right. Still, I'll be glad to get out of this oven," said Hooker. He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'd better check the tower. Those boys are probably asleep up there." Hooker did not notice the pack lying in the corner as he slipped back through the doorway.

Bolan ground out the butt beneath his heel. It was time for the one-man strike force to sow a few seeds of destruction. Bolan lingered in the shadows, listening to Billy Joe Hooker running up the final flight of stairs. He could hear the muffled chitchat as the merc passed the time of night with the soldiers on duty up there. Bolan stayed motionless as two small figures crossed the courtyard below. He had to get off these narrow walkways, where at any moment he might be challenged by somebody more suspicious of him than that Southern kid. Moving now, he passed through the empty upper chamber of the southeastern tower complex and moved swiftly along the top of the adjacent stretch of wall until he reached the next corner tower.

The door was standing ajar. Bolan ducked inside and saw that this top story was as deserted as the last one. The wooden trapdoor in the ceiling was wide open. The sentry snuffled as he dozed at his post.

The second step down was chipped and loose.

Bolan pulled the slab back carefully and, after setting the digital timer for 09.30 hours, he slipped the first deadly package into the hollow underneath and replaced the cracked step.

He could not risk wiring the main gate. The guards there were bound to be more alert, even at night, so he couldn't place another charge. But, more importantly, if the slightest thing went wrong with his timing, if he had not gotten hold of Kevin by zero hour, then the explosion would end up sealing him inside the castle, rather than stalling the pursuit.

This tower, the one he was now in, was the most important one to blow, for it directly covered the ramp road below it. With the first charge in place, Bolan quickly descended the steps into the courtyard. He hugged a darkened patch by the wall, squeezing in behind a Jeep to survey the new dangers that faced him.

The cleanest hit would have been to snatch Kevin while the boy was asleep and spirit him out of Hagadan. Zayoud was not about to make it that easy for him. The main doors leading into the central keep were floodlit and Bolan could see two big mercs lounging on the steps outside. And they were flanked by four more of the sheikh's own bodyguards. Bolan knew there would be more trusted men stationed right outside the sleeping quarters. He decided the inner sanctum was effectively barred to him. He could not risk a shooting match with Kevin stuck in the middle.

Bolan figured he'd have to wait for the boy to come outside. However, Bolan could still use the remaining hours of darkness to his own purpose... these guys were going to think they were being hit by an artillery barrage!

Zayoud himself could be counted on to be awake for prayers at sunrise. As Bolan attached a smaller charge, set for 09.32, to the underside of the Jeep, he hoped the Baker boy wasn't planning on sleeping in.

The Executioner checked around the long courtyard for the next target of opportunity.

A radio sprouted from the top of the northwestern tower, the corner of the fortress Bolan could not see clearly from his earlier vantage point among the rocks. Too risky. Three men were posted outside the lower entrance, and the guys upstairs were wide awake — at least, slivers of bright light showed through the slit windows near the top. And he could hear the chugging sound of a generator in that direction.

Two things were of paramount importance to him now: transport and ammunition.

At the far end of the yard, the motor-pool sergeant and a couple of his men were still servicing a dark green Land Rover; it had to be Zayoud's own car for them to be working this late. A row of six trucks were parked neatly in line against the courtyard wall.

Two half-tracks and four more Jeeps were aligned at right angles to the other vehicles. The naked bulbs of the work lamps lit the whole area at that end with a harsh yellow glare, which would spotlight Bolan carrying the bulky rucksack.

Two more wooden sheds had been built against the inner wall, about thirty feet farther along from where he was hidden. The first structure was a stable — Bolan could tell by the slightly pungent odor carried on the breeze. He slipped into the narrow alley between the two buildings. The outer shack, with a tar-paper roof, had a small back door hidden from the view of the guards inside the compound. It was padlocked. Bolan removed the multitool from his belt and unscrewed the clasp.

The huge stone walls of Hagadan gave a completely false sense of security to the troops boxed up inside.

Bolan gently pushed the door inward.

The place was stacked from floor to roof with wellmarked crates: there were smoke grenades, frags and incendaries; boxes of 7.62 mm ammunition, 9 mm and even some old British .303's; feed belts and a couple of mortars; half a dozen containers stenciled in Russian held greased AK-47's. Everything Zayoud needed to launch his treacherous coup. And Bolan's actions had forced his hand — he had to strike soon or lose any advantage of surprise. Bolan left three more charges strategically placed deep within the ammo dump. He timed them all for 09.33.

He was locking himself into a tight schedule.

He shut the door and replaced the clasp. A loose plank in the side of the stable gave him access to the hiding place he needed. The big white stallion, the one he had seen in the satellite photographs, snickered softly in the shadows.

Bolan stood at the end of his stall and whispered, "Easy, boy." The horse quieted down.

Bolan tested the ladder for noise, then climbed into the warm scented darkness beneath the sloping roof. Within moments both he and the stallion were resting easily.