Agent Of Peril. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ will be seen as traitors and thieves if we are caught. I understand, Pedal,” Idel said, clapping his aide on the shoulder. “We won’t be tied to the events that turn the cold peace between Egypt and Israel into a hot war. But we will be there at the forefront when it is time to be heroes and take back what is rightfully ours.”

      Tofo nodded. “I do not doubt you, or this plan.”

      Idel smiled and took a drag on his cigar.

      But if Tofo truly didn’t doubt the success of the plan, he was the only one in that room.

      THE STRAPPED FOR COMBAT SH-60 Seahawks tore over the landscape, penetrating deep into Pakistani airspace. Captain Carlton Hofflower perched in the doorway of the lead chopper, eyes sweeping the horizon for an angry response coming over the horizon. Nothing, however, was turning its attention toward the quintet of helicopters this day.

      The message from HQ was quick, simple and terse.

      “Retrieve Colonel Stone. Bring lots of explosives. Coordinates to follow.”

      “Captain. We have smoke,” Lieutenant Charles Ellis, the pilot, reported.

      Hofflower’s hazel eyes focused like lasers on the spiraling rub of charcoal smearing upward into the blue over the rolling hills. He didn’t need a map to equate the billowing smoke to the location of Colonel Stone. “That’s our guy, GPS be damned.”

      Ellis glanced back at Hofflower, and then returned his attention to guiding the Seahawk.

      In moments, the sharklike chopper was splitting the sky over the smoldering battlefield, and Hofflower could see a conflagration. Two major blast craters, and a half dozen minor smoking pits plumed smoke skyward, while one man stood with an old-fashioned bolt-action rifle over an injured man.

      “That’s Stone?” Ellis asked.

      Hofflower nodded.

      “Who’s the wounded?”

      “I don’t know, but he doesn’t look like a friendly. Tell the other choppers to land in a diamond around this airfield,” Hofflower said.

      Hofflower gave Ellis’s helmet a tap, and the SH-60 dropped to the ground, landing with a light bump. As always, the six-foot-six Marine captain “unassed” first, hands resting on the M-249 hanging from his neck and massive shoulders.

      “I have a present for you,” Bolan stated in lieu of a greeting.

      “I see. Middle Eastern, Lebanese by chance?” Hofflower asked.

      “Yeah,” Bolan returned.

      “Bidifah Sinbal. Works for Hezbollah,” Hofflower said. The Marine grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Colonel Stone, this is a wonderful gift.”

      “I want to know where Sinbal got his tanks from, and if it was his people that were behind Nitzana,” Bolan said.

      An interesting question, the Marine thought.

      He intended to make Sinbal squeal and spill his guts.

      IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES for a medic to clean and dress all of Bolan’s injuries, but during that time, the Marine Force Recon platoon was busy wiring up the M1 Abrams tanks with enough explosive power to chop them to splinters.

      Inside, even more insidious devices were being planted. The insides of the tanks would be able to survive the destruction of the hull and engine section. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon would pulverize every component of the tank in one shot, and even then, the M1s were designed during the Cold War. Their very design was meant to get the massive steel beasts through a nuclear-explosion blasted war plain and continue fighting, even as atomic artillery shells created football field-sized craters all around them.

      The Marines were putting miniature Fuel Air Explosive charges inside the tanks. The mini-FAEs were designed for house clearing the easy way. First, a burst would spread a cloud of fuel through a space as large as a single floor of an apartment building. With the air saturated with explosive fuel, a second burst would spark and ignite the atmosphere. Everything within the space would be vaporized.

      Bolan had seen entire mountainsides crumbled with a Fuel Air Explosive device improvised from a simple propane tank.

      The mini-FAE would smash every ounce of valuable electronics and design inside the M1 to useless pulp. The last thing the world needed was a reverse-engineered version of the U.S. Army’s best tank.

      The Marines were meticulous in setting the charges on the armor, though. That was the one thing that Bolan was most concerned about. Abrams armor, indeed any modern tank armor, was a secret design, and each nation had its own proprietary formula. Having that secret drop into the lap of even an ally was considered a disastrous development.

      “I’m done,” the medic said. “You can stop the Zen meditation.”

      Bolan managed a weak smile. “I was just thinking about the tanks.”

      “How the hell did these get here?” the medic asked. “I mean, Pakistan uses old Soviet T-72s.”

      “They were brought by the Hezbollah, and the Hezbollah somehow got them from Egypt,” Bolan answered. “How they got them, I intend to find out as soon as I get some intel.”

      A gunshot rang out and Bolan turned his head. The sudden reflex action filled his head with sloshing, hot liquid pain, but it was dying down and his equilibrium swiftly returned to normal. It took a moment for his brain to register the sound as a .45-caliber pistol. Captain Hofflower was returning, stuffing his MEU (SOC) custom 1911 into its holster with one hand, holding a small black box with the other hand.

      “I recorded everything,” he said, tossing over the digital recorder. Bolan caught it with one smooth motion.

      “Make sure that someone sends me a new recorder. With all the features,” the Marine captain said.

      “How much did he have? Nutshell version,” Bolan said.

      “Well, he helped load the van with explosives for the 1983 Marine barracks attack.”

      “That was more than two decades ago.”

      “He’s forty-three. And he’s been Hezbollah since he was a teenager,” the captain explained.

      “The tanks?”

      “Given to him by his commander. He doesn’t know exactly where they came from.”

      “Who’s his commander?”

      “A creep named Faswad.”

      Bolan closed his eyes and reviewed his mental files. Imal Faswad moved into the Bekaa Valley after Bolan rampaged through to take out a terrorist-backed drug cartel. He’d been behind some major counterfeiting of American hundred-dollar bills, approximately fifty million worth, before the U.S. Mint updated to the new bills. The Hezbollah headman was someone who was never quite on the top of the Executioner’s “to do” list because he was mostly attacking people who could, and did, fight back. Bolan’s previous interest in Faswad was derailed when the guy’s headquarters was blasted to atoms by an Israeli СКАЧАТЬ