War Drums. Don Pendleton
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“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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