Clive Cussler - Treasure

Ismail's inexperience was showing through. At the initial stage of the mission he was coming unstrung. He suddenly wondered if the hated Americans somehow knew or suspected his presence. Nervous and afraid, his mind began to lose its ability to make hard-and-fast decisions.

0759. One quick glance at the van just above the entrance to the road.

Shifts were alternated every four hours between the guards in the warm lodge and those huddled inside the van. Two relief men were due to make the hundredmeter walk from the lodge at any time.

He turned his attention to the guard walking a well-beaten path through the snow around the grounds. He was slowly approaching Ismail's tree, his breath coming in clouds of vapor, his gaze alert for any sign out of the ordinary.

The monotony and the bitter cold had not slackened the Secret Service agent's vigilance. His eyes swept back and forth over the area like radar. Less than a minute remained before he would see Ismail's trail in the snow.

Ismail swore softly under his breath and pressed more deeply into the snow. He was, he knew, exposed. The pine needles shielding him from view would not stop bullets.

0800. Almost on the dot, the front door of the lodge opened and two men stepped out. They wore stocking caps and down-filled ski coats. They automatically scanned the snowy landscape as they moved down the road in quiet conversation.

Ismail's plan was to wait until the relief party reached the van and then take Out all four guards at the same time. But he had misjudged and moved into position too early. The two men had only walked fifty meters down the road when the guard circling the lodge spotted Ismail's footprints.

He stopped and raised the transmitter to his lips. His words were cut off by a loud series of cracks from ismail's Heckler & Koch MP5

submachine gun.

Ismail's amateurish plan had gotten off to a bad start. A pro would have snuffed the guard with a single shot between the eyes from a silenced semiautomatic. Ismail stitched the guard'S COat in the chest area with ten rounds; a good twenty others sprayed the woods beyond.

One of the Arabs frantically began lobbing grenades at the van while another pumped bullets through the sides. Sophisticated assault was beyond the scope of most terrorists. Finesse was as foreign to them as liquid soap. Their only salvation was luck. One of the grenades found its way through the windshield, bursting with a loud thud. The explosion bore no similarity to motion-picture special effects. The gas tank did not go up in a fiery ball. The body of the van bulged and split as if a cherry bomb had gone off inside a tin can.

Both occupants were killed instantly.

Excited with blood lust, the two assassins, neither older than twenty, kept up their attack on the mangled van until the magazines of their rifles were empty, instead of concentrating on the Secret Service agents on the road, who took cover

behind trees and unleashed an accurate fire from their Uzis that quickly cut them down.

Correctly figuring their fellow agents inside the van were beyond help, they began retreating toward the lodge, running in a sideways motion back to back, one of them exchanging fire with Ismail, who had found cover behind a large mossy rock.

Ismafl's strategy was blown away by the confusion.

The other ten men of the terrorist team were supposed to rush the rear door at the sound of Ismad's gunfire, but they lost valuable time wading through knee-deep snow. Their assault came late and they were effectively pinned down by the agents inside.

One Arab managed to gain temporary safety under the north wall of the lodge. He pulled the pin on a grenade and flipped it at a large sliding window. He misjudged the thickness of the double panes, and the grenade bounced back. His face had only time for an expression of horror before the blast blew him apart.

The two agents scrambled up the steps and leapt through the front door.

The Arabs laid down a barrage of fire that caught one of the men in the back, dropping him with only his feet showing across the threshold. He was quickly dragged inside and the door slammed shut at the exact instant a dozen shots and a grenade blasted it into splinters.

The windows disintegrated in showers of glass but the heavy log walls easily withstood the onslaught. The agents dropped two more of Ismad's men, but the rest dodged in closer, using the pines and rocks for cover.

When they had moved within twenty meters of the lodge, they began hurling grenades through the windows.

Inside the lodge, an agent roughly shoved Hala into a cold fireplace. He was in the act of pushing a writing desk over the hearth to shield her when a hail of fire through a window ricocheted off the stone mantel, of the bullets smashing into his neck and shoulder. Hala could not see, but she heard his body thump as it made contact with the wood floor.

Ibc grenades were taking deadly effect now. At close range the shrapnel was far more damaging to human tissue than a rifle bullet. The agents'

only defense was a sharp and precise fire, but they had not counted on a heavy assault and theirsmall stockpile of ammunition was down to the last few clips.

A call for assistance had been transmitted immediately after Ismail's opening shots, but the emergency plea went to the Secret Service office in Denver and precious time was lost before the local sheriff's department was notified and their units organized.

A grenade exploded in a storeroom, igniting a can of paint thinner. A gas can used for filling the tank of a snowblower went next, and one entire side of the lodge soon crawled with flames.

The gunfire died as the fire spread. The Arabs cautiously tightened the net. They formed a loose circle around the lodge; every automatic rifle was trained on the doors and windows. They waited patiently for the survivors to be flushed out by the blaze.

Only two Secret Service agents were still on their feet. The rest were sprawled in bloody heaps among the mutilated pieces of furniture-The full fury of the fire raced into the kitchen and up a rear staircase, spreading to the upstairs bedrooms. Already it was far beyond any hope of extinction. The heat swiftly became unbearable to the defenders on the lower floor.

The sound of sirens echoed up the valley from the direction of town and drew closer.

One agent pushed away the desk protecting Hala in the fireplace and led her on hands and knees to a low window.

"The local sheriff's deputies are arriving," he said quickly. "As soon as they draw off the terrorist fire, we'll make a run for it before we're barbecued to death."

Hala could only nod. She could hardly hear him. Her eardrums hurt from the roar of the grenades. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she pressed a handkerchief tightly against her nose and mouth to filter out the thickening blanket of smoke.

Outside, Ismail lay prone, clutching his H & K automatic, torn by indecision. The lodge had swiftly become a blazing inferno, smoke and flame were rolling through the windows. Anyone still living had to escape in the next few seconds or die.

But Ismail could not wait it out. Already he could see red and blue lights flashing through the trees as a sheriff's car sped up the highway.

Of his original team of twelve men, seven were left, including himself.

any wounded were to be killed rather than left behind to be interrogated by American intelligence officials. He shouted a comnand to his men and they pulled away from the lodge and hurried off toward the entrance road.

The first deputies to arrive slid to a stop and blocked the road to the lodge. While one reported on the radio, his partner cautiously eased open his door and studied the van and burning lodge, holding his drawn revolver. They were only to observe, report and wait for backup.