Final Resort. Don Pendleton

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      EMRE MANDIRALI UNDERSTOOD his mission, but he found it difficult to keep a low profile, moving among his fellow passengers as if he was another drone on holiday, smiling and nodding foolishly at strangers, when he longed to let them see the mini-Uzi he carried in his gym bag, or the pistol tucked beneath his baggy, floral-patterned shirt.

      To let them hear his weapons, better yet.

      How sweet it would have been to rake the decks with automatic fire, watching his targets twitch and fall. Or tossing hand grenades into the restaurants where they lined up to gorge themselves like pigs at the trough.

      But Mandirali had his orders, and despite his grueling months in prison, his abiding rage against those who’d caged him, he had discipline enough to do as he was told in combat situations. He could wait, knowing that it would soon be time to kill.

      Barring disaster, Mandirali knew his leader, who had liberated him from vile captivity, had to now control the Tropic Princess. He would issue the demands they had agreed upon, and Washington would solemnly announce its policy against rewarding terrorists. Sohrab Caspari’s deadline would elapse, and then the killing could begin in earnest.

      Mandirali harbored no illusions where his future was concerned. While in prison, he had prayed to Allah for a chance to strike out once more at his enemies and be avenged, before he claimed his place in Paradise.

      He knew there would be no release of prisoners, no ransom payment, certainly no helicopter sent to carry them away. While Mandirali couldn’t guess precisely how he’d die, he guessed that members of some military hostage-rescue team would storm the ship, sparking a chain reaction of events that would be seen as tragic in the Western world, while warriors of the one true faith proclaimed another stunning victory.

      With any luck, he thought, the final body count might well exceed the famous 9/11 raids.

      Mandirali himself would achieve no such triumph, but he was a part of the team. By now, his comrades should have C-4 charges planted at strategic points below the waterline, where they would detonate in sequence, gut the Princess when her would-be saviors came aboard.

      Ideally the event would be broadcast on live television.

      As soon as any would-be rescuers appeared, his orders were to fire at will, inflict as many casualties as he could manage in his brief remaining time on Earth.

      The plastic explosives would do the worst damage, trapping hundreds belowdecks as seawater flooded the vessel, starting fires that would ignite the ship’s fuel stores, turning the whole vast hulk into a sunken tomb and smorgasbord for scavengers.

      It was enough to make him smile in earnest as he passed among the sheep, nodding in mock friendship and wishing they were already in hell.

      3

      Under other circumstances, Bolan might have appreciated the scenery passing below the Bell JetRanger, but part of his mind was on board the Tropic Princess with her passengers and crew, the rest trying to work out where the other team of terrorists would strike.

      Nine prisoners had broken out of Camp X-Ray, with an estimated six surviving raiders. Sohrab Caspari, speaking for the Tropic Princess hijackers, had demanded a chopper with seating for seven gunmen and an equal number of human shields. That left eight targets unaccounted for.

      Where would they surface?

      Were they still in Cuba? And if so, what worthwhile targets were available?

      Brognola would be puzzling over that in Washington, together with the Pentagon, the CIA, the State Department—anyone, in fact, who could provide a hint of insight on the problem and anticipate the next move by their enemies.

      He was too late to help the Tropic Princess, and it preyed on Bolan’s mind, but maybe he would be in time to stop the other team from acting out whatever bloody drama that its leaders planned.

      The bad news was that Caspari’s team had already escaped from Cuba. If Asim Ben Muhunnad’s strike team had also fled the island, they might turn up anywhere. Each passing hour gave them greater range.

      And if they surfaced somewhere outside Cuba, Bolan’s visit to the island would be a colossal waste of time. He would be sidelined once again, waiting for transport to the battle zone or relegated to a spectator’s position, while the action went ahead without him.

      Eyes sweeping the horizon, he resigned himself to wait and see what happened next. He couldn’t force the confrontation, couldn’t read his adversary’s mind and force Muhunnad into some act ahead of schedule.

      Bolan preferred proactive strategy, whenever possible, but in the present situation he could only bide his time, reacting to the moves made by his enemies. The best that he could do, in terms of preparation, was to stand in readiness and hope Muhunnad’s fugitive guerrillas chose a target close enough for Bolan to respond in a timely fashion, without placing any innocents in needless jeopardy.

      “Another twenty minutes, sir,” his pilot said.

      Bolan responded with a nod and focused on the journey still ahead.

      Cuba

      ASIM BEN MUHUNNAD WAS NOT accustomed to a life of luxury. But nothing in his wildest dreams had prepared him for Bahia Matanzas.

      The five-star resort was located СКАЧАТЬ