Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

Helping Carol Nazarour was another matter entirely.

It was, yes, a personal matter.

Due both to the fact that Bolan had expressly promised his assistance to the lady, and to the fact that he could not help but see Carol Nazarour as a living symbol, if there ever was one, of just what this whole "new war" was about.

Mack Bolan did not see himself as a do-gooder, crusader, or zealot of any sort. He was a man who simply could not coexist peaceably with flagrant human savagery. Bolan's high-school yearbook showed a picture of an intense young man, captioned: "He can because he must." Hindsight revealed a basic misunderstanding in the mind of the caption writer. The caption should have read: "He must because he can." Mack Bolan's entire existence was based on commitment. It was his reason for being. Commitment to ideals, to doing something in service to those ideals, to making some contribution to the human estate, to the evolutionary process, to living to his full potential — these were what gave his life meaning.

His commitment was based on a simple philosophical stand.

The savages — Yazid and all of these other merchants of terror everywhere — had to be fought back. The baseness and inherent self-destructiveness of aggression could not be endured by a civilization that had dreamed of touching the stars and had made those dreams come true, and had the potential for reaching so much more.

Yet, ironically, only force could subdue savagery. Force, used with discretion and conviction.

In Bolan's sharp perception of the situation, his own expertise and combat capabilities not only qualified him for the task but made mandatory his commitment as a champion of the human cause.

There were times, sure, when the spirit lagged. When he longed for the freedom of irresponsibility. When he would have liked nothing better than to just kick back and let go and let the world find its own level without his input. But Mack Bolan understood that the world was not made for people but by people. He was responsible for the world in which he found himself. And there was no rest for such a man.

A heavy concept, sure.

But simple also. The new war was a war between evolution and devolution.

Bolan swung the Corvette's padded steering wheel, cutting off Goldsboro Road onto the blacktopped approach to the landing field. The naval hospital towered in the distance.

It was 6:30 a.m.

The open expanse of ground sitting in this residential area made Bolan think of a playing field of some sort. The autumn grass separating the short runways was burnished to a coppery gold by the morning sunlight.

There was no gate barring entrance. The Vette passed the chain-link fence that ran the perimeter of the field.

Bolan lifted his foot gently from the gas pedal. His gaze took a quick survey of the acreage — four hundred yards by three-quarters of a mile — that engulfed him.

He spotted the STOL and General Nazarour's group immediately.

One hundred and fifty yards to the east.

The craft, a Sky Terrier, all wings and stubby fuselage, quivered on the tarmac like an arrow drawn tight against its bow, ready to be fired. From the look of the pilot and crew, dimly visible from where Bolan was, the craft had been hired or otherwise appropriated by a team of Arabs, presumably in league with Nazarour.

The general's Mercedes had entered the field via an entrance opposite the Goldsboro Road access that Bolan had used. The Mercedes was midway between that opposite entrance and the waiting plane. The driver was in a hurry.

Bolan's mind rapidly computed his chances of intercepting the Mercedes before it reached the STOL. Once the Mercedes made the plane, there would be no screwing around. It would be out of the car and onto the plane and gone.

Yeah.

Gone.

Just like Bolan's promise to Carol Nazarour that he would help her.

But even as Bolan's foot coaxed more fuel into the car's engine, accelerating for a dead run across the field to intercept the Mercedes, movement from the periphery of his vision brought Bolan's attention to some forty yards behind the Mercedes.

A blue panel van had come barreling along the tarmac through that opposite entrance, in hot pursuit of the Mercedes.

Karim Yazid. Amir Pouyan. The Iranians.

Bolan was faced with a decision of the damned.

Now it figured why the Mercedes was in such a hammer-down hurry.

The occupants of the Mercedes knew they were being pursued.

The Iranian assassins were closing in for the kill.

The van didn't speed more than a few yards onto the field. Then it swerved into a sideways skid and shimmied to a halt.

Bolan saw two men leap out from opposite sides of the van. The two were still togged in their nighttime commando gear, as was Bolan. He couldn't make out every detail from this distance, but he could see that the two men were lugging equipment behind them, which they hurriedly began setting up alongside the van, facing the Mercedes and the plane. Some hundred and thirty yards separated them from their target. But the two didn't seem concerned about that.

Of course.

They had the RPG-7 rocket launcher that had wrought such destruction last night in the hell-ground in Potomac.

Back for an encore.

The driver of the Mercedes apparently hadn't seen Bolan yet. He had eyes only for what was happening in his rearview mirror back by the van. The Mercedes picked up speed, moving even more rapidly toward the waiting STOL.

Bolan floored the gas and sent the sleek sports car hurtling toward Yazid and Pouyan.

The final stretch of pavement between the Mercedes and the awaiting STOL curved and ran parallel to the van parked across the field.

The general's car presented a perfect target as it sped past the blank white faces of a row of hangars.

Bolan's Corvette was reaching maximum speed. The machine's powerful engine screamed in his ears as it thrust him across the golden turf toward the van.

The two men had completed setting up the RPG-7. They were sighting and preparing to fire.

For the first time they heard the approaching sports car and in unison swung startled glances over their shoulders.

Bolan could feel the steering wheel furrowing his palms, just as the tires were digging furrows into the grassy ground beneath him.

It would be tight, yeah.

Yazid and Pouyan exchanged frantic words.

The Corvette came on relentlessly.

Bolan spared a sideways glance.

The Mercedes also was eating up time and space. Bolan calculated its present distance from the STOL at about thirty yards and closing fast.

Real tight.

Seconds flew by like the last grains of sand dropping through an hourglass — impersonal, oblivious to human drama or even life itself.

As Bolan's vehicle swallowed up the distance between him and the van, the big soldier reached across and grabbed the Uzi from where it had been riding on the seat beside him.

He was practically on top of the men by the van now.

They, too, had readjusted their priorities. The general and company seemed temporarily forgotten. The two Iranians in commando black hurriedly began shifting the RPG-7 around in an arc to line up on the approaching car.

When he was about seventy feet from the van, and while the two were still hassling with their gear, Bolan wrenched the Corvette off course yet again.

The car swerved in a wide half-circle, bringing Bolan abreast of the two men and still sailing.

With his right hand only, he continued steering while with his left he swung the Uzi up until its stubby snout was pointing out the window at the two men like an accusing finger.

The Iranian on the left moved faster than his buddy. He took a dive away from the rocket launcher and fell loosely into a roll that continued under the van and out of sight. Bolan had guessed from watching the two that this was Yazid. He had been giving the orders. And he moved with the grace of a desert snake.