Cold Fusion Read online

  WAR GAMES

  A deadly auction is about to take place as two scientists put their prototype for harnessing cold fusion on the market. Scheduled to be sold to the highest bidder in a secret Syrian location, the knowledge of how to harness cold fusion would give great and dangerous nuclear power to its owner. As Mack Bolan races to intercept the exchange, he discovers he’s not the only one intent on crashing the bidding party. A group of Russians have hijacked the proceedings and disappeared with the scientists.

  The Russians expect an even higher price for the brains behind the scientific breakthrough, and Bolan must track the ex-KGB kidnappers across the desert from Syria to Libya and stop them from trading their human merchandise. Access to technology is low, so the Executioner will have to resort to WWII desert warfare strategies to put these Russians out of business—permanently.

  Get in, cause chaos, locate and secure the target

  Hardly a detailed battle plan, but it would suffice. Bolan crouched and watched intently, not flinching as the blast went off forty-five degrees to his right. His attention was focused entirely on the encampment.

  The guards broke formation and began to rush toward the explosion. He could see the two Russian bosses yelling and trying to establish some kind of order.

  Bolan couldn’t let that happen. He triggered another explosion a little less than 180 degrees opposite.

  The complete force congregated at the sound of the second blast. Sighting, he tapped off four short bursts and two men dropped, one with his face blown away and the other losing half the side of his head.

  Having given away his own position and attracted return fire, he needed to move. He triggered an explosion only fifty yards from him to throw up a cloud cover, then Bolan crawled at double speed in the opposite direction.

  As he circled, he wondered how he would progress from here. He could try to pick them off. But the Executioner was running short of charges...and the Russians would soon catch on. If they hadn’t already.

  Mack Bolan: The Executioner

  #336 Homeland Terror

  #337 Tropic Blast

  #338 Nuclear Reaction

  #339 Deadly Contact

  #340 Splinter Cell

  #341 Rebel Force

  #342 Double Play

  #343 Border War

  #344 Primal Law

  #345 Orange Alert

  #346 Vigilante Run

  #347 Dragon’s Den

  #348 Carnage Code

  #349 Firestorm

  #350 Volatile Agent

  #351 Hell Night

  #352 Killing Trade

  #353 Black Death Reprise

  #354 Ambush Force

  #355 Outback Assault

  #356 Defense Breach

  #357 Extreme Justice

  #358 Blood Toll

  #359 Desperate Passage

  #360 Mission to Burma

  #361 Final Resort

  #362 Patriot Acts

  #363 Face of Terror

  #364 Hostile Odds

  #365 Collision Course

  #366 Pele’s Fire

  #367 Loose Cannon

  #368 Crisis Nation

  #369 Dangerous Tides

  #370 Dark Alliance

  #371 Fire Zone

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  Don Pendleton

  Cold Fusion

  The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of thinking... the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. If only I had known, I should have become a watchmaker.

  —Albert Einstein

  The most dangerous weapon of all is the human mind. Of this there is no doubt. Luckily I have a very sharp one of my own.

  —Mack Bolan

  The Mack Bolan Legend

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurelywhen he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast,and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolanhad broken society’s every rule. That same societystarted gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the systemagainst terrorism. This time, as an employee of UncleSam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—wagedrelentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the handsof the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties withEstablishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions inhis Everlasting War.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Andy Boot for his contribution to this work.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  “It’s too cold,” Asif Bhayat complained as he shifted on the surface of the sand. Loose grains blew in the cold night air and got in his hair, nose and mouth. Yet the hard-packed sand beneath him made him shift uncomfortably as he shouldered the HK PSG1 that he had spent so long learning to use.

  “It’s always cold at night. And too hot in the day,” Hussein Ali murmured. “If you don’t like it, then go home and leave the fighting to those who can take it.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Bhayat muttered.

  “You always are,” his companion replied.

  The two men fell into an uneasy silence while Bhayat nestled the semi-automatic rifle into his shoulder and sighted through the Hensoldt ZF6x42PSG1 telescopic sight. Its illuminated reticle made the distant camp seem as clear as in the glare of the midday sun.

  They were fifteen klicks to the west of Jaghbub, one of the few oases that eased the aridity of the desert. When Bhayat had first been told that he was being sent to Libya and that he would be in the desert, he hadn’t bothered to look it up and learn about the area. A bit of sand and a few days between waterholes—easy.

  Bhayat had been an urban boy, fired up by the talk of jihad and intent on playing his part in the holy revolution. The closest he had come to sand and heat was the occasional coastal holiday in a specially designed resort. He’d had no idea what it would really entail.

  Through the sight he could see guards moving along the perimeter of the small encampment. There were two, moving clockwise and counterclockwise around the four tents. The circumference of their orbit encompassed the tents and the three vehicles. All three were jeeps, which—doing the math quickly—meant that the party was probably a dozen men in total: fifteen, sixteen at most, and that would be unlikely given the equipment they carried.

  Th
ere were eight in this raid party. Bhayat and Ali as one pair, and three others who had slowly worked their way into position around the camp. It had taken most of the night. Communication was kept to a bare minimum as it was likely their enemy had the tech to intercept. Distance was also a factor—the enemy had guards, but they may also have motion detectors. Though it was unlikely that such tech would work efficiently in this environment; too much shifting in the sand could trigger reactions all night. Briefly, Bhayat smiled at the thought of their enemy having interrupted rest because of the sands and the insects that crawled within.

  Regardless, this was not the time to take chances. Intel had told them that the enemy included an American—one who had been observed with the enemy and whose demeanour had demanded caution.

  Bhayat flexed his finger on the trigger of the PSG1. One of the guards was in the center of the sight, a head shot that would be safe and easy.

  Two problems. First, it was too soon. He could tell by the way that Ali was holding himself against the sand that the time was not right. Second, the sight was accurate to nine hundred yards. Even with no way to measure, he could tell that he was more than a thousand yards away.

  Bhayat relaxed his finger and took his eye away from the sight. He turned his head and saw Ali looking directly at him.

  “You’re learning,” the older man murmured.

  * * *

  “WHY NOT EGYPT?” Jared Hassim asked the American. “Why the move to here?”

  Bolan grinned mirthlessly. “It’s harder to hit a moving target. Especially if it moves one step ahead all the time.”

  “But I don’t understand.” The older man sighed. “They are, after all, merchants. They wish to sell. Why do they make it so hard for those who wish to buy? Surely they should set up their stall, make their sale and run with the money. They messed up first time, yes? Then why not make the second time easier? If what they are selling is so wonderful, why do they wish to make it so hard for those who will flock to them?”

  The two men sat on the tarp floor of the tent. A lamp lit the interior dimly. Between them sat a small table, with Bolan’s iPad dead center. The soldier swung it around so that it was right way up for Hassim.

  “Take a look at that,” he said simply.

  The older man looked at the screen for a few seconds, then up at Bolan, shrugging. “Tell me what I am seeing. I am a simple man.”

  Bolan chuckled. “Simple is one thing you’ve never been, Jared. You forget how long I’ve known you. It’s a good act, but I remember you at West Point.”

  “So I spent too long in deep cover before finally going rogue. So shoot me.”

  “I probably should. And maybe you have spent too long out here to see the obvious. Look at this sweep here...” Bolan indicated an area of the map of Northeast Africa that was displayed on the tablet. His finger traced a line as he spoke. “Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Libya. One hell of a sweep and none of it settled in recent times. When there is civil war and unrest, it gives those with an agenda plenty of room to hide. Intel told us they were in Syria, but you know what happened there. Since then, it’s been about trying to play catch-up. You know they passed through Jordan, and you told me yourself they would skip over Israel and Lebanon—”

  “No one wants to come under the hand of Mossad,” Hassim muttered, kissing his teeth.

  “Not if they have any sense,” Bolan agreed. “So it was either Egypt or Libya. You had your bet, right? The former is a good land for merchants, but Libya...”

  “Libya has space to hide,” Hassim nodded. “Desert. A lot of it.”

  “Ninety percent of the country, by most estimates. All bar a few oases inhospitable—not a place to spend any amount of time, but if your buyers are ready to get in and out quickly, a good place to have an auction.”

  Jared raised his eyebrows. “Must be big buyers...bigger than I first thought. And so it must be a good piece of merchandise...”

  “It is,” Bolan affirmed simply.

  * * *

  THE PATROLS CROSSED again, without a word. Both men were cold and tired, and were determined to keep whatever focus they had firmly upon the darkness beyond the low-level ambient light around them.

  When Bolan and Jared had determined to pitch camp for the night, they had chosen this remote section of oasis. They were on the tip of the Qattarra Depression, and far from the largest of the oases. Even given that anyone traveling—for whatever forsaken reason—through the desert would wish to stay close to the oases within the Depression, choosing this one lessened their chances of being stumbled upon by any party other than one searching for them. Anyone else was almost certain to be an enemy.

  The two guards crossed for a reason. Although it meant that the rear of their patrol would be exposed for a time, it enabled them to check that each was still active without breaking radio silence. The almost flat, gently undulating sands stretched out before and behind them. The distance an enemy would need to cover made it almost impossible for any to reach the camp before they would be spotted.

  The war party had kept the light from their camp to a minimum—each thick tent was lit only by a lamp that was dimmed. Any light that escaped was negligible. Despite the clear and star-spangled sky above them, the ambient light of the desert was almost zero, and beyond a short distance it was impossible for either guard to see anything with the naked eye.

  As well, then, that both men wore monocular night vision headsets, using the infrared setting only. Heat at this distance would be too low to truly register. The monocles looked strange and alien as they covered the top half of the face; their lower faces were covered by kaffiyehs that kept out the worst excesses of the night cold and the sand that was carried almost as the air. Rather than the usual check pattern, these were black, woven to lend camouflage in the night. Similarly, the camo worn by the guards was dark rather than daytime light. Only their heavy desert combat boots stayed the same whatever the hour.

  So dark against a background of black, both men felt that they could not be visible to any enemy by the naked eye—but who needs a naked eye?

  * * *

  HUSSEIN ALI’S BREATHING was slow and shallow. His body felt at rest on the unyielding sands. He would soon need all the energy and speed he could muster, and so was only too pleased to be resting—unlike his companion. He cast a sideways glance at Asif Bhayat. The man was about a decade younger, and soft. One of the weekend warriors stirred up by rhetoric, yet ill-prepared for the realities of war. Some of them toughened up, learned what they needed. Some did not. They fell by the wayside, either casualties of action or discarded. Bhayat would probably go that way. But there would be no return home if discarded, and Ali would not be averse to settling the matter himself. He neither liked nor disliked the man who lay beside him. He saw him simply as a liability. Liabilities were costly, and Ali did not wish to pay with his own life.

  He could see that the young man was itching to move. So much so that he was poised, wound tighter than a coil. Chances were that when the moment came, he would do something stupid. He was learning, but not quickly enough for war. As Ali watched, Bhayat used the Hensoldt to sight one of the guards again.

  “Too far,” Ali murmured.

  “I know. Just keeping my eye in,” Bhayat replied in an undertone.

  Beneath the folds of the robe Ali had swathed around his body was the sound of a crackling. Without taking his eyes from either Bhayat or the camp in the distance, Ali extracted a battered and ancient walkie-talkie from his swaddling.

  “Code Three,” a thick voice said indistinctly.

  “Affirmative,” Ali replied carefully. The walkie-talkies were over twenty-five years old, as ancient in tech terms as the ways of the Berber, Bedouin and Tuareg who still used them. They broke down, they were unclear, and they were unwieldy. But more than any of this, they were so old that they mig
ht as well have been flags and smoke as far as the sophisticated sensors of the modern military were concerned. Under the wire, under the radar—there were many terms to describe it. It didn’t matter—it worked.

  Ali grinned at his younger partner; even in the dark, Bhayat could see that the grin was not mirrored by the glittering ice of the eyes.

  “Now we go...”

  * * *

  “SO, WHAT CAN they have that is so important that representatives of every government in Asia, Africa and China—not to mention a few from the Steppes and beyond as well as some of your boys who would rather remain anonymous—would scurry across Northeast Africa at their very whim? What do these men know? Some kind of chemical weapon, maybe? Warheads, perhaps, with atomic capability that have somehow disappeared from one inventory, to appear just as mysteriously on another?”

  “Nothing like that,” Bolan shook his head. “Not even weaponry in the conventional sense.”

  “Then, why would so many be so keen? You’ve never really explained what we’re chasing. Who, yes...but not what. A cache of armaments, maybe something new to give an edge. That’s usually the only thing to make these people move.”

  “Ordinarily,” Bolan agreed. “But not this time. Not in itself. But the implications of having it—”

  “Must be something worth the odd shekel or two, eh?” Hassim rubbed his fingers together in the traditional gesture. “Or bonded securities, at least.”

  Bolan smiled. “Guess it’s time to do the big reveal. Ever hear of a thing called cold fusion?”

  Chapter 2

  Ali moved over the sand, keeping to his belly and crawling like a sand snake. He could hear Bhayat struggling in his wake, and though he cursed, he did not look back. There was little time to waste as it was. The dark would only be cover as long as they stayed beyond the range of the night vision monocles worn by the guards. In the vast silent tract of the desert he knew that it would be impossible to mask the sound of their advance. The sand that moved through the night air did not carry with it the moaning of desert storms. He knew that the grunting young soldier would betray them before too long.