Don Pendleton - Full Blast

He was putting the group through their paces when Khariza arrived. When he recognized his visitor, Bertran put one of the men in charge and made his way over to where Khariza was climbing from the battered Toyota pickup.

“How are they doing?”

Bertran glanced back at the group. “When they leave here they will know everything there is to know about the AK-47, how to set explosives, the best way to kill a man without making a noise. What I can’t give them is experience.”

“We all have to go through our first taste of combat. Didn’t you?”

“I was born ready for it,” Bertran said, smiling. “Razan, this is not going to be an easy campaign. You understand what you are going to be facing?”

“And what is that?”

“The most powerful military machine the world has ever known. From a country with so much wealth and material it can sustain this for years.”

“And yet they are unable to defeat my people. We use small strikes. Here and there. We worry at them like a small dog nipping their heels and running away before they can respond. Bertran, my friend, what good are a hundred battle tanks and an electronic airforce against a car packed with explosives driven into a building? Or an innocent-looking young woman walking into a crowd with explosives beneath her clothing?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Khariza shook his head. “Nothing of worth comes easily. This is a war that cannot be won by usual tactics. It is intended to wear down the Americans. I will hit them in Iraq. Anywhere around the world American interests are vulnerable. They are easy targets. And most of all, I will hit them on their own soil. These warriors you are training will be my army. I will send them wherever they are needed to carry out the struggle. Here and at home, the American government is going to have to live with the bitter taste left by its foul actions against us. We will see how long the American people and their allies are prepared to suffer as we have suffered.”

A chill wind blew in from the north, coming off the timbered peaks and sweeping in over the high cliffs and down into the isolated valley. It brought with it the smell of rain. Khariza huddled into his thick coat.

“We need to step up our attacks. When can you have people ready?”

“Give me two more days with this group and you can ship them out. Razan, are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look tired. Take time to rest or you’ll not be able to think straight.”

“It would be pleasant. But there is so much to do, and I need to be in Syria now that my delivery from North Korea has arrived.”

“Your special cargo? Do I get to know what it is? Or should I keep my nose out?”

“When the time comes, Bertran, you will be told. I promise.”

“Good enough. Now, let me get back to see if they have remembered everything I’ve told them.”

“I will talk to them before I leave.”

Khariza stood and watched Bertran return to the group, taking back his command. His raised voice drifted across the rocky landscape. The wind was increasing, tugging at the canvas of the tents where the group was housed when they were not training. It pulled at Khariza’s coat. The first cold drops of rain stung his face and he raised it to the sky. The clouds, heavy and dark, were moving in across the valley.

Razan Khariza saw them as a warning.

There was a storm coming and when it arrived they would all feel its destructive power.

New Mexico

General Chase Gardener took the thick tumbler of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and made his way across the polished wood floor of his spacious study. At the far end of the long room a panoramic window looked out across the ranch and the immense spread of the New Mexico landscape.

Beyond the rolling grass meadows and timbered slopes he could see the jagged march of the mountains clawing its way to meet the blue of a clear and empty sky.

No matter how many times Gardener looked on this view it made him tight in the throat. The sheer magnificence of the high country always took his breath away.

He sat in the massive leather armchair facing the window and sipped his drink.

Whenever he needed to think things out, to work them over in his mind, Gardener would come to this room, with its book-lined shelves, racks holding his collection of pistols and rifles, where the smell of polished wood and leather mingled with the aroma of the mellow whiskey he took.

Across the ranch yard, close to the creek that meandered across the property at this point, he could see the preserved cabin that the first Gardeners had built. They had sheltered under their wagon while they’d constructed the crude cabin, moving into it exactly one month to the day of their arrival. That had been back in the 1800s. Taking residence in the cabin had been their first move in establishing the Gardener dynasty. From that day on they had staked their claim to the great valley, spending the next years putting down roots, fighting and struggling against men and the elements. They had carved an empire out of the raw wilderness, winning and losing along the way, but they had emerged victorious. Wealthy and powerful. A force to be reckoned with.

Always ready to diversify, the Gardeners had moved with the times, changing course on many occasions, and they’d survived while many of their contemporaries had fallen at the wayside. They spread across the country, seeking new ventures. Always ready for a fresh challenge: cattle, mining, oil, manufacturing. In the mid-1930s Gardener Global was formed, a powerful parent company that reached out and took on America and eventually the world. Gardener Global now had affiliates in countries across the globe.

The Gardener clan had always been patriotic, faithful to the country, and their name had always been connected with the military in all its forms. They had served in every branch of the services, being present in every major conflict, and a great many lesser ones.

Chase Gardener, one of the surviving career soldiers, had a distinguished service record. Twice wounded, he carried every major military award there was. Over the years he had fought and won his battles, rising through the ranks by his own efforts. It had been no secret that his journey would have been made easier if he had ridden on the backs of former Gardener warriors. He had known that and because of it he had to prove he could do it on his own. He was respected because of that decision.

He made general early in his career through his determination and his innate military skills. No man under his command would have denied him any of his plaudits. He treated every soldier with respect, never expecting any of them to carry out an order he wouldn’t perform himself, and he was known as a commander who refused to even consider using his men for anything that smelled of sacrifice beyond normal expectations. His stubborn defiance in the face of higher authority had earned him a reputation as a tough son of a bitch. His men loved him. They would do anything he asked without hesitation, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t betray them or send them to their deaths on a whim or a political ploy.

Which was why, now, he was struggling with his conscience, attempting to win himself over to the possibility that he was asking his men to follow him into a struggle that went against everything he had previously believed in.

He had committed himself and his small group of immediate people to a course of action capable of bringing them to their knees. They could all end up in prison.

Or at worst, dead.

And above both those things was the ultimate punishment, something Gardener tried to close from his thoughts.

They could all be branded traitors.

Traitors to the nation they had sworn to protect and defend—the United States of America.