Don Pendleton: War Drums

“This one has also been listening to Ali’s words, as well,” one of the Bedu said. “His praise slides off the tongue like honey from a bee.”

There was more laughter from the group and the Bedouin rode their camels around Bolan, bowing and saluting him with great affection. Later, as they strung out again, moving silently across the desert, Sharif moved his camel alongside.

“You have become one of them. What you did back at the camp will be long remembered. The Bedu respect courage and loyalty and above all they honor friendship, Cooper. You will always be welcome in the camps of the Bedu.”

“Thank you, Ali. I will treasure that above all else.”

TOWARD NOON OF THE following day they came within sight of the camp. Sharif had brought them to a place where they could sit concealed by sweeping sand slopes and ridges. A hot desert breeze sifted fine sand across their path, drifting in fine clouds, and they pulled the folds of their keffiyahs over their mouths to protect themselves.

“Cooper, come with me,” Sharif said, dismounting.

Bolan followed him and they climbed to the top of the steep ridge, going prone and looking across the open stretch of sand that led up to the campsite.

Sharif produced a battered pair of binoculars. The outer casing showed extreme wear and the original leather carrying strap had been replaced by a hand-braided cord.

“These are English glasses. My family acquired them from a British officer during the Second World War. Since then they have been passed down through the generations of my family.”

The Bedouin raised the glasses and focused on the distant camp.

“Three vehicles. The helicopter. I see much activity, Cooper.”

Sharif handed the binoculars to Bolan. The magnification was impressive. As he brought the camp into sharp relief, Bolan saw armed figures taking down the tents and loading equipment onto trucks. Even as he watched he saw a third truck move up to park near the stone building housing the weapons cache.

“Looks like they’re moving out,” Bolan said, “and taking the weapons with them.”

“Then we have little time to wait,” Sharif said. “We must strike now.”

Bolan had the same feeling. If they allowed Kerim to leave, it would prove difficult to deal with the group banded together to protect their cache of weapons. Kerim would also have his armed helicopter as his main deterrent. Machine guns and missiles would present a deadly threat to Bolan and his mounted allies.

As they returned to where the other Bedouins were waiting Bolan saw their main chance lay in a fast strike. Sweeping in out of the desert they might gain the advantage and inflict heavy casualties before the terrorist group could retaliate. It was a calculated risk, which was accepted by Sharif’s Bedouins when the suggestion was put to them. In battle there was no such thing as a cut-and-dried victory. Any plan, no matter how carefully set out, could change during its execution. Mack Bolan, better than any of them, could agree to that. He only had to recall the times when intended soft probes of an enemy had turned hard, more often than not when a small change kicked in the warning alarm. Simple things, incidental to the big picture, but happening at the wrong time in the wrong place. Risk came with the job, Bolan knew, and this time would be no different.

“Did you see the ridge that curves in around the east side of the camp?” Sharif asked. “If we ride behind this ridge, we can bring ourselves close to the camp before we show ourselves.”

“I saw the ridge and had the same thought. But remember, Ali, they have automatic weapons, too. And they’re not about to stand by when we hit them.”

“If Allah decrees some of us must die, then it is written and will be so,” one of the Bedouin said.

“Then it will be my honor to fight beside you,” Bolan said.

Sharif placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had darker skin I would believe I had just listened to a Bedu speaking.”

Weapons were given a final check and spare magazines placed for easy availability. Bolan’s own check was done automatically, his mind on something else.

The bioweapon.

Conventional weapons were one thing. The very presence of the bioweapon notched up the threat rating. It needed erasing fully. Bolan could only see a single, reliable way to achieve that.

Fire. The cleansing power that would consume and nullify the terrible weapon.

Bolan’s first thought was fuel. There had to be some kind of fuel dump within the camp. Gas for the vehicles and the helicopter.

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