Don Pendleton - Fireburst

“Sandstorm!” the colonel bellowed as, in the background, the horizon rose like a wave at sea.

Billowing and churning, the stormfront swept toward the army battalion. In only a matter of seconds it engulfed the makeshift base and visibility was reduced to only a few feet.

A deafening howl dominated the picture as dozens of soldiers were slammed to the ground, and every loose item was sent hurtling about into the turbulent brown air. Then lightning flashed, and a truck exploded, the concussion slamming other trucks aside and sending a dozen men flying away into the building storm.

“Say again, Fireball, where is your location?” the Pentagon operator demanded, the volume bar sliding all the way to maximum. “Do you need assistance?”

The colonel said something about northern mountains when the lightning appeared again, going straight into the open hatch of an Abrams tank. The armored machine seemed to bulge outward for a moment before erupting, the hellish corona of shrapnel, corpses and broken machinery spraying outward to decimate a group of soldiers and flip over both of the Black Hawks.

“Get in those caves,” Brognola whispered, both hands clenched into fists.

Again and again, the lightning lanced out, destroying one tank after another, then the bolts began walking along the ground, leaving behind rivers of steaming lava. Screaming soldiers burst into flames, their weapons discharging, grenades mercifully ending their ghastly torment.

Feeling physically ill, Brognola wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch, filing away every detail of the savage attack. It lasted less than five minutes, then the lightning abruptly stopped, and there was only the howling wind. The dry sand quickly covering the tattered remains of what had once been a full battalion of men and women.

“Fireball, respond!” the Pentagon demanded. “Is there anybody still alive? Hello, is anybody there?” But the only response was the howling wind and the crackle of countless small fires.

The view froze and shrank, as the President returned.

“When did this happen?” Brognola asked, flexing his hands.

“Twenty minutes ago,” the President stated grimly, sitting back in his chair. “Search and Rescue teams are already on the way, but there’s little hope of finding anybody alive.”

“After that? I would hardly think so,” Brognola replied, fighting a rising wave of helplessness. An entire battalion destroyed in five minutes. Five minutes!

“Have you made any progress on finding these people? Or at least what they want?” the President asked. “These attacks are coming more and more often, and at bigger targets. Soon they’ll start on cities, and then…” His voice trailed off, his face a mask of repressed fury. “We have got to do something!”

“Our best man is in the field, sir,” Brognola said. “But Striker hasn’t reported anything so far.”

“Nothing at all?”

“There’s not much to go on yet, sir. It’s all happening so damn fast! These snake charmers…I mean…”

The President held up a palm. “I understand the reference, Hal. It helps to give the enemy a name, that makes them less intimidating.”

Brognola scowled. “Anyway, sir, these snake charmers have obviously planned out every detail far in advance, including all of our possible responses.”

“Are there any preventive actions we can take?”

“Not at the moment. This isn’t some fanatic with a truckload of dynamite,” Brognola continued. “These are cool, calculating professionals. Right now, we’re still just trying to catch up!”

“Accepted,” the President said. “Granting the assumption that we fail to ascertain their ultimate goals, what happens then?”

Unexpectedly, thunder rumbled overhead.

“They win,” Brognola stated in brutal honesty, as a soft rain began to patter against the window panes.

Miami, Florida

THE SUN WAS WARM ON THEIR faces as Bolan and Kirkland strolled along the boardwalk, the air full of the smell of saltwater mixing with delicious aromas wafting from nearby Cuban and French restaurants.

A steady stream of cars zoomed along the shorefront highway while crystal-blue waves crested on a smooth white shore. Colorful beach umbrellas dotted the sand like psychedelic mushrooms, the small circles of shadow mostly empty, aside from the very young or the very old. The dichotomy of beachlife encapsulated.

There were numerous families playing in the shallows, while small children built sand castles. Standing alert on a centrally located wooden tower, a burly lifeguard dabbed zinc oxide on his nose to prevent unsightly peeling.

Teams of armed police officers in T-shirts, shorts and sneakers, pedaled their speed bikes along the boardwalk, voices crackling from the compact radios clipped to their gun belts. Safely out of the way, a group of muscular young men lifted weights in the glare of the noon sun, while countless dozens of young women in bikinis lounged on oversized towels and spread suntan lotion on their bare skin in a lazy, almost sensuous manner.

All along the length of the beach and boardwalk, smiling vendors pushed along wheeled carts and sold hot dogs, ice cream, cold beer, sandwiches, sunglasses, cell phones and shark repellant.

Trying to blend into the crowd, Bolan and Kirkland were wearing civilian clothing, loose white slacks, and Hawaiian shirts of multicolored orchids. Bolan had the Beretta holstered behind his back, a water bottle in a nylon-mesh sling disguising the telltale lump. Kirkland had the same, a leather camera case masking the presence of his big bore Webley.

Leaving the boardwalk, the two men turned inland and crossed the street. Pausing for a traffic light, Bolan suddenly took out his cell phone. “Cooper here,” he said, using a favored alias.

Watching the ebb and flow of humanity, Kirkland waited patently until Bolan finished the call.

“What was hit?” Kirkland asked, waving off an approaching taxi.

“An army battalion in Afghanistan,” Bolan replied. “Everybody was killed, and even the vehicles were destroyed—trucks, tanks and gunships.”

“The sons of bitches are getting bold,” Kirkland growled, glancing at the fleecy white clouds in the blue sky.

“There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be,” Bolan replied, taking a sip from the water bottle.

“Think the strike was advertising?” Kirkland asked with a scowl. “Show the world what they could do to the mighty United States?”

“Unlikely. Afghanistan is too remote to receive proper TV coverage.”

“Now, we could go there in person,” Kirkland suggested, as a group of kids in tight formation zoomed by on roller skates. “But there are far too many terrorist groups in that part of the world for us to question. It would take years.”

“I have something else in mind,” Bolan said.

“Hey, there it is!” Kirkland said suddenly, pointing across a busy intersection.

Nestled among the rows of T-shirt emporiums, yogurt shops, hair salons and bars was a three-story building that occupied half of the block. A sign on top merely had the single word Montenegro.

“Let’s go,” Bolan said, starting across the street.

“Why did she paint the building pink?” Kirkland asked. “That doesn’t really seem her style.”

“Look around, brother. Most of the larger buildings are pink or blue,” Bolan said, waving a hand. “I think the mayor wants the city to look the way it does in movies.”

“Bloody tourists,” Kirkland growled, as if expelling a piece of rotten fruit from his mouth.

Bolan laughed. “This from a man who runs a casino hotel?”

“Hey, my dice and wheels are honest! Tourists pay a lot for nothing. That just doesn’t make any sense to me.”