Don Pendleton - Stealth Assassin

They reached the first portion of the crumbing barrier and paused for another perimeter check and a sitrep with Doerr.

“Everything’s looking quiet so far,” Doerr radioed. “There appears to some kind of vehicle parked under the overhang on the north side.”

“What type of vehicle?” Bolan asked.

“Unknown at this time. Possibly a pickup truck.”

Bolan acknowledged, told him to maintain observation and motioned the team forward. He estimated that they were more than a few minutes behind schedule, which meant they had to pick it up. They got to the edge of the wall, and the angular confines of the fortress lay about fifty feet away.

The fort had been constructed of mud and stone, and Bolan thought it had to have once shone a bright yellow in the midday sun. But that had probably been close to a century ago. Years of neglect and sand and wind had etched a pitted surface into the stones and mortar. Several sections of the wall had worn away, leaving piles of jagged and uneven rocks that slowed their progress.

The grinding noise of a vehicle engine starting mixed with another milder, but continuous, droning that pierced the stillness of the night.

Bolan raised his fist, signaling a full stop. He listened. The engine caught and settled into a rough idle. The sound was loud and deep, like a truck.

Voices, speaking in Arabic, were audible among the rumbling piston noise. Twin beams of headlights illuminated the darkness perhaps forty feet away, and Bolan saw the flat, macadamized surface of the winding road he’d seen depicted in the drone photos. The front end of a quarter-ton pickup truck pulled forward from the pillars of an overhang, its headlights washing over the curving dirt road. He raised the night-vision goggles to his eyes and pressed the button to enlarge the image. The bed of the truck was covered by a black tarp, so the contents could not be seen. From the look of it, the vehicle was heavily laden with something. It swung around and began driving away from the fortress. He was unable to tell how many occupants were inside.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Jack, we’ve got a pickup moving away from the target. Possibly moving southeast toward the seaport road.”

“Roger that. Want me to light ’em up?”

“Negative. We’re not sure who it is. See if you can swing back and maintain surveillance.”

Grimaldi answered with a click.

The chopper would use up more fuel, so that meant the time factor had just been diminished. Bolan pointed to the entrance and began a rapid, but cautious trek toward the archway from which the truck had come. What intelligence they’d gotten indicated that Sharif had come into possession of a stockpile of sarin nerve gas, most likely from one of the factions in Syria. If he planned to use it again to launch an attack against the Saudis, some or all of it could be in that pickup. Or it could be unrelated. Bolan was willing to bet on the former rather than the latter, and wasn’t going to take any chances. He’d instruct Grimaldi to take the pickup out as soon as they’d finished the interior work. He had to be certain that Sharif was definitely accounted for, if possible, and the sound of a missile taking out the truck would surely sound the alarm inside the fortress.

He motioned for Johnson and Washington to move down the slope first, angling toward the perpendicular wall of the jutting building that was adjacent to the archway. Bolan then followed with Vargas and Miller behind him. Johnson was at the edge now and took a quick peek. He held up his left hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Bolan stopped behind Washington and patted the man’s shoulder. The ranger repeated the contact on Johnson’s arm and he moved around the corner with Washington taking his place. Once Johnson had secured his position at the next cover point, the others followed, two at a time in rapid, yet stealthy, movements.

Bolan saw the archway extended a good twenty yards or so along the front of the building, then abruptly ended in an immense pile of stones. He could also see a large opening on the right side that led into the building itself. Light shone around the top and bottom of a long, black curtain that was perhaps twenty feet long. The stuttering, whining sound of a portable generator could be heard within the confines of the structure.

Bolan took the lead and went to the curtain, crouching and peeling back the edge. It was made of a black, silky material, almost like a dark parachute, and suspended from a metallic pipe wedged in between the stones. Inside he saw a group of ten men sitting around smoking, and drinking from tin cups. A bronze kettle, tea most likely, was on a nearby stove. The generator sat in the far corner, and three large lights illuminated the room. Beyond them the room narrowed into a corridor perhaps twenty feet wide which extended into darkness. A gray forklift was parked off to the side, and next to it stacks of what appeared to be wooden pallets. Bolan recognized one of the men as Ali Sharif. The man rolled a swath of greenish leaves into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.

Khat, no doubt, Bolan thought.

He knew the drug was omnipresent in Somalia, and frequently used in Yemen, as well. The substance induced an amphetamine-like energy, but also dulled the senses and could make the user both paranoid and jumpy. Each man had an AK-47 across his lap or within easy reach. This wasn’t going to be a simple extraction after all.

Two single wooden pallets sat on the floor to the left of the group. Each one contained a braced, vertical row of white-tipped artillery shells with “GB Gas 105 mm” stenciled across the front. That was the NATO designation for sarin gas. Bolan counted the shells. Twenty on each pallet.

Intel had estimated that Sharif was in possession of between sixty and eighty. This appeared to be half of them. Bolan wondered if the departing truck held the rest, but there was no time to try to verify that. Grimaldi was definitely going to have to knock it out. He moved back and briefed the others on what he’d seen.

“I’m going to instruct the Black Hawk to take out that pickup in two minutes,” he whispered. “It’s most likely loaded with sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”

The faces of the four men remained grim.

“Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”

“Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.

Bolan shook his head. “No time.”

“How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.

“He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”

Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.

“What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.

Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.

“Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”