Don Pendleton - Full Blast

“It only begins here,” he said. “If you persist, I will allow these men to continue and in the end you will tell me everything I want to know. No man can resist torture forever. I know this because I have conducted such sessions many times. In the end you will tell your most secret things. You will betray all your friends and your country because it will be the only way to end your suffering. If I ask, you will even betray your mother and offer me your wife just so it stops. Think about this, because the next time I turn these men on you there will be no end to it.”

The American focused his gaze on Khariza’s face. He worked his jaw painfully, finding it difficult to speak because it had been pushed out of its sockets.

“I know…about the bombs…we’ll stop you…I passed on the details…people know…”

Khariza barely managed to hold himself back from striking the American. He stared at the beaten figure on the dirty floor, lying in his own blood, and felt anger rage through him. He exhaled forcibly, pushing himself upright. He pointed at the iron ring set in the wall.

“Bind him to that ring. I want him on his feet. Keep him alive but make certain he is uncomfortable. Do what you need to make him speak. I will come back later.”

Khariza turned to leave the room. Behind him he could hear the American moan as he was dragged to his feet. The Iraqi stepped outside, turned his face to the sky and breathed in cold air.

Was it true? Had the agent found out about the nuclear devices? If so, where had his information come from? Someone within Khariza’s own organization perhaps?

More problems to add to those already plaguing him. Khariza shook his head.

What had he done to deserve such punishment? Was this God’s way of testing his faith?

He though about his final strike. The single, most powerful statement Khariza could make. It was to be the make-or-break operation in his bid to regain control over Iraq. If it failed—if he failed—then what followed wouldn’t only resolve many matters, but would reduce Baghdad and areas of Iraq to a wasteland.

It was to be the final word.

If he, Razan Khariza, was pushed to the limit, his retaliation would echo throughout the region. No, it would be heard all around the world, and America would be left with the bloody destruction of a nation on its hands.

DUSHINOV GLANCED up as Khariza entered the stone house being used as their headquarters. The Chechen rebel watched as Khariza crossed to join him by the log fire burning in the open hearth.

“Drink?” Dushinov asked.

He raised the bottle of locally brewed alcohol. Khariza helped himself to a mug of the dark tea brewing in a smoke-blackened pot. Dushinov, grinning, added some of the alcohol.

“So?”

Khariza drank before he spoke. “He hasn’t said anything yet except for…”

“Except for?”

“He claims to know about the nuclear devices.”

Dushinov grunted. He took a long swallow from the bottle. “Interesting. If he does, you need to consider who led him to this information.”

“That has already crossed my mind. I will contact my people and have them do some checking. Maybe we have a traitor in our ranks.”

“Do you think this American knows what you intend to do with the bombs?”

Khariza shrugged. “I do not know. But we will find out.”

“It will help to pass the time.”

The Iraqi stared into the flames, his attention wandering for a time. Dushinov sat, drinking, watching the man and wondering what was going through Khariza’s mind.

“You have one irritating fault, my friend,” he finally said.

“That is?”

“You think too much. It’s a mistake to keep going over everything. Create your plan, decide how to make it work, carry it through. Simple. It works for me. Once I make my decision, I send it off and sit down to have a drink. You should try it.”

The door opened and Abdul Wafiq entered. He spotted Khariza and went to stand beside him.

“We have had a communication from our people back home. They are asking when the next shipment of weapons is going to arrive.”

“Tell them to contact the Syrian base. I had confirmation the weapons were delivered two days ago. We have to be careful. The Americans are concentrating on the border area heavily now. There are patrols. Air surveillance. We have to alter the routes and will only be able to move small consignments for the present.”

“They have asked about air-drops. I told them that would be difficult with the Americans and British maintaining patrols.”

“I understand their frustration, Abdul, but we have to proceed with caution. We are not in a position to mount a large-scale assault. Our brothers must understand this. Impatience will not serve us in the long run. As long as we continue our isolated attacks, we will still achieve results. Over time, even the Americans will begin to feel the pain we cause. With all their might and their superior firepower they cannot defeat a mobile hit-and-run force. We can deliver telling punishment and be gone before they can find us. Remember this. We are fighting on our own ground. We know the country well, better than they ever will. We have a thousand places to hide. We have support. And we have the will to continue as long as it takes.”

Wafiq turned to leave.

“Wait. One more thing. We may have an informer in our group. This American appears to have some knowledge about the nuclear devices. Have an investigation carried out, but make certain it is done carefully. Use only those people you can trust fully. If there is a traitor, it will do no good to alert him. You understand?”

Wafiq nodded and left.

“I must go to the training area to see how the volunteers are coming along,” Khariza said, voicing his thoughts.

“It won’t do any harm,” Dushinov agreed. “Tell them they are important to the cause. That they are going to make a valuable contribution.”

“They are helping to shape Iraq’s future.”

“That sounds a little cynical considering your final solution. It’s not as if they know about that.” Dushinov raised his bottle, teeth showing in a wide smile. “But tell them how important they are anyway.”

“Be honest, Zoltan. Am I being rash? Going too far with this nuclear blackmail? Will it even work?”

“My mistake was not putting enough of this in your tea,” Dushinov said, waving the bottle in Khariza’s face. “Here, have some more.” The rebel leader topped up Khariza’s mug.

“We live in changing times,” he continued. “To achieve what we desire means taking chances. Ignoring all the rules and challenging the way things are. We can’t do that without drastic measures. If we sit around and bleat like mangy goats, nothing will change. Only we can do that. If it takes a nuclear bomb to make the Americans realize they will never be masters of Iraq, then so be it, my friend.”

“Would you do such a thing?”

“If it was guaranteed to piss off the Russians, I would press the button myself. Ah, listen to me, Razan. In the end you have only yourself to satisfy. I love my country as you love Iraq. The last thing I would want would be the Americans tramping all over it. Telling me what to do. All they want is to get their hands on the oilfields. Under their control. To put Iraq under their boots and bleed the country dry. They don’t care about Iraqi freedom, only U.S. wealth and power. Deny them their oil and see how long they stay then.”

KHARIZA’S INSTRUCTOR was a broad, giant of a man called Bertran. He was a mercenary. French-born, he had served in Algeria, but now sold his expertise for a price. A high price because he was good. Khariza had used the man before, in Iraq, to train his own combat squads. Bertran didn’t care about religion or politics. He liked his work and the rewards it brought.