Hellfire Crusade

15

Jack Grimaldi was still far out over the sea when he spotted the black smoke smudge.

It did not stop him from proceeding with the final approach. Everything had to be by the book. He tried raising the tower — but only got some garbled Arabic and an earful of static. As he lost altitude over the gulf shallows he could pick out a ragged convoy beating a hasty retreat toward the airfield. There was more fighting along the coast road.

Grimaldi knew he was only a diversion, a means of distracting Hassan's attention, but right now it looked as if the rebel forces were already on the run. Of course, he would not put it past Bolan to have routed all of them single-handed.

Wheels down. Grimaldi adjusted the flaps.

He was perfectly positioned above the runway.

Jack was already pulling back on the controls. It did not look as if Mack needed him to stage a fake landing; these dogs were running off with their tails between their legs.

Grimaldi lifted off.

Bolan and his two companions could see the low, square outline of Abdel's house and the electrified compound fence beyond it. The dog came running across the scrub, yapping madly and chasing after them as Bolan drove around the corner to the gate.

The company watchman waved at Danica and hurried over with the key. Hamad, his brother, stood in the doorway, barring it with his arm to prevent the women and children from leaving the safety of the house. The little girl clutched at her uncle's trouser leg, peering around to watch what was happening.

"You're back! You'll be safe here, Professor Jones," promised Abdel, who apparently thought they had come to claim sanctuary in the Allied Oil storage depot.

"What's happening?" asked Danny. "Have you any news?"

"Terrible trouble," said Abdel, casting an apologetic look toward the heavens, "even if it is the will of Allah. There's been an uprising in the city. Hamad was driving the truck in... he had to turn back. The radio station has changed hands three times already."

"Has anybody been up here yet?" Bolan demanded as he strode over toward the top of the gravel track.

"No, sah'b. Some soldiers went past below." Abdel grinned. "I cheered for Zayoud... one of them must will."

Bolan examined the coast road through his glasses. The dark blob of a fast-moving car snapped into focus. It was another Rover — dark blue this time — fleeing the city and heading straight for them.

Since they had not showed at the airport, it should not have been too difficult to figure out their likely whereabouts. Bolan was not going to hang around to find out if Hassan wanted to settle a personal score with him, or if he wanted to use the boy as a hostage. He probably had both in mind.

"Abdel, get your family under cover. Don't show yourselves. Don't leave them, understand?"

"Yes, sah'b, but..."

"Just do it."

Bolan ran back to the Hog. The guard had left the gates open for him. He drove into the compound, swung past the stacked pipes and crates and drew up outside the shed.

"Help me with that other door."

Danny and Kevin tugged open the door on their side as Bolan pulled back the right-hand door. The air inside was stifling. Danny gasped — it looked almost comical. Sitting in the center of the floor was the ultralight aircraft Bolan had assembled from Red Chandler's kit. The tubes and fabric he had claimed were tents made up the wings and open frame of the specialty designed plane; the so-called generator was its power plant. Bolan tested the controls. He flipped the switches exactly as memorized.

"Hop in, Kevin."

There were only two canvas bucket seats.

"You're going to have to sit on Danny's lap."

"Can this carry all three of us?"

"That's what we're about to find out."

The plane started forward with a jerk, then began to roll more smoothly down the incline. Bolan risked one quick look back through the dust cloud they were blowing out across the yard. The Rover came swinging through the gates. Its body was streaked with grime and pockmarked with half a dozen bullet holes. The driver aimed to smash them sideways.

Bolan coaxed the last reserve of power from the little engine. Danny shut her eyes. They were twenty feet from the sheer drop at the end of the bluff.

Zayoud leaned out the window, firing a pistol wildly at the spindly aircraft. A couple of slugs flew through the skeleton framework. Bolan cased back on the stick. The ultralight ran off the edge, lurched downward for a sickening second and then, borne on an updraft, it leveled out.

The sheikh was shouting for his chauffeur to turn away, but his warning came too late. The crumbling cliff edge collapsed and the heavy car plunged down.

Mack Bolan and the others were clear of the coastal road when Hassan's car struck the concrete and exploded. The trio in the small aircraft were already out over the sea. Fishermen looked up from the deck of their dhow, and Bolan could see the amazed expressions on their faces as the strange flying machine skimmed over their mast..

"We're losing height, Mack," said Danny, then wished she hadn't — the comment was superfluous.

"We're not going to get too far in this contraption," added Kevin. He did not care who knew it: he was scared. They were about a mile from shore and barely thirty feet above the waves.

"You can swim, can't you, Chip?"

"No, I never learned how."

It had not occurred to Bolan that a boy living in Florida might not have learned to take care of himself in the ocean.

"Well, you can just tread water. Hang on to me, it won't be long..."

Danny glanced in the direction Bolan had indicated. A big, beautiful seaplane — with Steve Hohenadel and his partner at the controls — was coming to pick them up. She was still watching it when Bolan pancaked the ultralight into the warm water of the gulf.