Ted Bell - Warlord

He doused his lights and took a hard right into a narrow, darkened, dead-end street. At the cul-de-sac stood a crumbling four-story warehouse, unoccupied for decades, with blacked-out windows. He couldn't see them, but he knew snipers were on the roof watching him and ready with rocket-propelled grenades affixed to the muzzles of their weapons should the Red Crescent ambulance ever be followed. An unseen electric eye caused a garage door in the warehouse to begin rising.

Imran drove inside the cavernous space and the three-inch-thick steel door closed swiftly behind him.

Fluorescent lights above automatically illuminated, revealing the Sheik's unique collection of antique and modern ambulances, plus a brand-new silver Rolls-Royce Phantom and a red Ferrari Italia. All of them, which were maintained by a staff of excellent mechanics, were always filled with petrol and ready to roll at a moment's notice.

Imran and Ali climbed out, went to the back of the vehicle, pulled open the rear door, and removed the gurney and its occupant. Ali unzipped the bag and a smiling al-Rashad sat upright and brought up a laugh from deep in his belly.

"Fooled the bastards, didn't we, my brothers? Americans. Or Brits. Or both. How in God's name do you suppose they found us?"

"Someone betrayed you, sir," Ali said, voicing his conviction.

Imran smiled. "Indeed we did fool them, however, sir. Which vehicle would you like to use for the continuation of the journey north to the mountains of Chitral?"

"The Battlewagon."

"We may well need her tonight, sire. A wise and inspired choice."

The Battlewagon, a nickname given the mechanical behemoth by the wily Englishman known only as Smith, when he made good use of her in Afghanistan some years ago, was a huge, heavily armored 1958 black Cadillac Landau hearse weighing nearly six thousand pounds. Its original V-8 engine had been replaced by a Mercedes-Benz 5.5-liter twin-turbocharged V-12 engine rated at 500 horsepower.

Powered by the same engine as the modern Maybach limousine, the hearse topped out at a shade less than 150 miles per hour and ran a 0-to-60 time of under twenty seconds. It was also equipped with all-wheel drive and the Range Rover air-suspension system for off-road driving.

It was heavily modified in other ways. Its armament included twin.50-cal machine guns invisibly mounted behind the dummy plastic chrome front grille, two gun ports for shooters on both left and right sides, and a wide rear door that dropped down from the roof to form a rock-stable battle platform.

On that platform, a swivel-mounted Dillon M134 Gatling gun could easily be mounted.

This state-of-the-art, lightweight, revolving six-barreled machine gun fired at a rate of three thousand rounds a minute. It could change the nature of any firefight in a heartbeat. It was this very weapon, the Sheik liked to tell close friends, that was turret mounted inside a special U.S. Secret Service Chevrolet Suburban. "You know, the one always trailing behind the American president's limousine like an intern in heat," he said.

The ambulance-mounted Gatling gun was the Sheik's favorite range weapon, and he longed desperately to use it on a real foe. Perhaps tonight his wishes would come true, he thought, dozing off as the miles reeled away, lulled to sleep by the hum of the big tires.

Imran kept his speed low and the hearse's lights doused for the initial hour of the journey. Reaching the main road north without being stopped at a single checkpoint, he snapped the headlights on and sped up. Fast, but not fast enough to attract unwanted attention. In front of him lay a long hard way over very bad roads, climbing thousands of feet from Islamabad toward the Sheik's impregnable mountain stronghold near Chitral in the mountains of northern Pakistan.

His secret mountaintop redoubt, called Wazizabad, had existed for centuries; honeycombed with miles of tunnels and cavernous caches of weapons and outfitted with twenty-first-century communications technology. All within a few days' ride of what had once been the scene of one of the most devastating defeats in the history of British Army warfare.

In 1838, an army of twenty-one thousand British and Indian troops had set out from the Punjab to take control of regions in Afghanistan. Four years later, in full retreat, the remaining British 16th Lancers force of sixteen thousand was caught on open, frozen ground and the treacherous gorges and passes along the Kabul River. In that single massacre, the British Army was reduced to forty men. Harassed by Ghilzai warriors, only one Briton survived. They let him live for one reason: he was sent back to tell the tale of what happens when foreign armies invade Afghanistan.

Occupying the top of one of the tallest peaks in all Pakistan, the exact location of the Sheik's fortified position known as Wazizabad still remained unknown despite countless attempts by the Sheik's countless enemies to find it.

Meanwhile, the great one rested, secure inside his dead man's bag, with some foodstuffs and a large bottle of water with a long tube to keep him hydrated as they climbed into the higher altitudes. He made not a sound from the rear of the hearse and Imran concluded he'd imbibed one of his special potions and fallen fast asleep, as was his wont on long journeys. Who could blame him? The fact that he was sleeping in extremely close proximity to a weapon of mass destruction would never even occur to him, much less keep him awake.

An hour later, they were well enough away from civilization to stop worrying about police roadblocks. All the driver Imran feared now was the appearance of American drones, gunships, and helicopters out looking for an unusual vehicle speeding northeast into the mountains bordering Afghanistan. If the Battlewagon happened to catch the attention of a Predator drone on the prowl, or a C130 Spectre circling at twenty thousand feet, the three men's lives would end in a spectacular fireball.

Five minutes later he crested a steep hill at high speed. Waiting at the bottom of the hill he saw a brightly lit Pak Army barricade across the road. There had to be fifty heavily armed soldiers surrounding the concrete barrier, their searchlights already trained on him, army M-113 armored vehicles with heavy machine-gun turrets already swiveling in their direction.

Imran thumbed his microphone and informed Sheik al-Rashad to prepare himself for an army stop and possible search. He slowed the vehicle, giving Ali time to scramble into the open space behind the front seat and be ready at the gun ports with his semiautomatic assault rifle. Under a blanket on the seat beside him, Imran had the most lethal battlefield weapon in the world today: an AA-12 automatic shotgun capable of rapid-fire 12-gauge shotgun shells or fragmentation grenades. It gave him a good feeling in close combat situations.

Imran slowed the Battlewagon to a crawl as he approached within a hundred yards of the barrier. Then he rolled to a stop, invoking the old warrior's rule "let them come to you." Twenty soldiers, assault rifles at the ready, approached the ambulance.

"Here they come. Fifty yards and closing," he said over the vehicle's intercom system. "Ready?"

"Ready," he heard the two men in the rear say, almost in unison.

"They're splitting up, ten to a side. Surrounding the vehicle. One soldier approaching me on the left, driver's-side window. Ali, cover my left, I've got the right side."

"Got it."

Imran smiled as he lowered his window. "Yes, sir, Sergeant," Imran said. "How can I help you?" The man had his weapon leveled directly at Imran's face. He had a powerful SureFire light attached to the lower rail of his weapon, using it to peer inside the front seat.

"Lower the other window," the sergeant said.

"Of course, sir," Imran replied and did.