AK-74 up and ready to blast, twin mags taped together for a quick flip and load, he was running hard past the final row of tents when he heard the massive explosion. The fireball climbed high above the large tent where he knew the Americans were gathered. Another blast rocked the night, and Houdta, recognizing voices bellowing in English, figured they were just around the corner of the stone ruins to his nine o’clock. A check of the sky around him on the fly, and he didn’t find any gunships in the vicinity, no rockets streaking past telling him the motor pool was being decimated by an aerial bombardment. Then what? Or who? With luck he hoped the North Koreans came to the same conclusion that the American dogs of war had duped them.
There was always room ready to be made for new buyers.
Houdta ran on, hopeful he could make the North Koreans see reason.
THE BATTLE GOING STRAIGHT to hell began to live up to Bolan’s grimmest expectations.
Two Hummers and a Ford Bronco were pulped to flying scrap by his opening 40-mm missiles, the soldier dumping another HE round into the M-203’s breech when a second warring faction began unloading weaponsfire on the group he assumed belonged to Baraka. As he grabbed cover behind a mound of rubble from some forgotten dwelling, he glimpsed three North Koreans hurling themselves back between the tents, wreckage winging out for their falling shapes, a sharp cry echoing from their drop site. Hindsight being for losers and the dead, Bolan determined he’d gut it out until they began to board the vehicles.
“Give us the suitcase nuke and we let you go your way!”
“Up yours!”
“You will die! We have you outnumbered four to one at the very least!”
“Then we take as many of you jackoffs to hell with us as we can!”
In the fire and kerosene light, the Executioner made out the swarthy, bearded faces poking out from the sides of tents and piles of rubble, AK-74s and AKMs now silent as whoever the terrorist in charge again shouted his demand. If nothing else, Bolan knew the suitcase nuke was within his grasp. His problems getting his hands on it, though, were obvious, and damn serious. Forty, maybe fifty shooters, fueled on anger, hate, greed and adrenaline, were hell bent on going the distance.
So be it. He’d been here before. What he could use was a little help from friendlies.
Tachjine and troops, he found, were still blanketing the campsite with heavy gunship fusillades, waves of debris and mangled mannequins that were once human beings now airborne and skydiving closer to this Moroccan standoff at his end. Somewhere he made out the heavy metal thunder of Russian DshK machine guns he’d seen on Tachjine’s aerial photos, big monsters, he knew, that could pound out 12.7 mm armor-piercing rounds in that could chew up a chopper in seconds flat. The warrior was scouting the action in the air when one of Tachjine’s Cobras was suddenly enveloped in a boiling fireball. In that direction he saw dozens of flaming fingers, autofire raking the other gunships, no doubt an RPG or two wielded in the hands of the extremist snakes.
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