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  She turned her face, which was streaked with patterns of dirt, and nodded. "We use it only if we have to."

  "We've got at least a company out there with machine guns and mortars. They'll cut us into pig food."

  As he spoke he heard more explosions on the field. A Syrian jet began to take off just as a shoulder-fired missile hit it. The erupting jet fuel tanks and missiles under the wings roared for almost a minute.

  "Is there going to be any Israeli air?" Bolan asked.

  She nodded.

  "We could use some help with that bunch to the south. Do we have any marker flares?"

  Luana brought up a handy-talky-type radio and punched the send button.

  "Bumblebee, this is Attila," she said in Hebrew. "Request close support, near truck at north end of field. Will mark with red flare. Soonest!"

  She told him what she asked for. Bolan took the red flare and fired it into the section where the company-sized Syrian army troops continued to advance.

  "I'm going to the top of this next bunker mound," the combatman said.

  "I'm coming with you." The look in her eye told him not to protest. He knew she could take care of herself.

  They edged up to the top of the dirt mound and looked over. From the thirty-foot height they could see more of the situation.

  The truck would not be able to move out to supply the five Syrian jets with the canisters. The flat front tire had taken care of that. But the Syrians were starting to fan out, to encircle the area.

  Before others than scouts could move, Israeli jets rocketed not more than fifty feet above the air base. They were American-made F-4 Phantom jets with Israeli markings. One did a tight turn of about three miles and came back. Six wing rockets thundered into the spot where the red flare still burned. One 60mm mortar and crew disintegrated in a direct hit. A machine-gun crew was blown away from its weapon by shrapnel and dumped into a trench.

  "Thanks, Bumblebee. Find a new target. Attila is happy."

  She told him what she had said in Hebrew, and Bolan grinned as he kept his AK-47 busy harassing the retreating troops. It was nearly dawn. They could see marginally through the dusky light.

  "They'll be back with help," Luana said, "unless this was a dummy truck."

  To the south more Israeli jets slammed rockets and bombs into the military buildings, barracks and planes on the ground. Bolan could see half a dozen Syrian jet aircraft on the ground burning. The surprise had been total.

  Two Syrian half-tracks, with heavy machine guns chattering, rolled into view around ammo bunkers farther down the field. They riddled the tops of the bunkers where the small Israeli force lay.

  "Stay down!" Bolan shouted, and someone repeated the warning in Hebrew. Before Luana had time to summon the Israeli air, one of the Phantoms lashed out of the sky and caught a half-track with a direct hit, exploding ammunition inside and rolling it over twice, leaving it lying on its top, burning fiercely. The second half-track scurried behind another ammunition mound.

  The Israelis moved forward until they were on two sides of the big truck trailer that held the canisters. It was now only a mopping-up exercise as the disciplined attackers moved with caution and skill, clearing the mounds and their entrances, which were locked.

  Bolan and Luana stared over the earth mound at the Utility trade-name label on the aluminum trailer.

  "Cover me," Bolan said. "I've got to make sure this is the right trailer."

  19

  Bolan felt hot lead bite his thigh. Only a scratch. He dived behind the big truck and was out of sight of the defenders. The big handle was held in place by a heavy padlock. The Executioner backed off and put a burst of parabellums into it, shattering the hasp. He flipped the handle and swung open the door that took up half the opening.

  Inside he saw the five sleek canisters. They were spread over the floor of the forty-foot trailer, each carefully braced and padded for a quick move. It would take a forklift to unload them. The Executioner backed out and closed the door, fastening a bolt through the remainder of the big hasp.

  The Israeli jets slammed overhead again, one gunning the remainder of the company that had been defending the trailer. While the troops were occupied, Bolan sprinted back up the slope of the ammo bunker and slid over the top.

  "That's the real thing down there."

  Luana nodded, and below Bolan saw a final Israeli assault on the trenches. It came after twenty grenades had exploded in the slits. Sixteen Israeli commandos surged from behind the humps of earth and charged the trenches. There was one brief flurry of answering fire that ended with a scream.

  Bolan motioned and they ran down the slope and into the trenches a dozen feet in front of the tractor. As they jumped into the four-foot hole, one Syrian, only wounded, raised a rifle, his finger on the trigger.

  Luana was faster, slamming a 5-round burst from her Kalashnikov into his chest. She jumped forward, kicked the rifle from his dying hands. Bolan watched her and when she was sure the man was dead, she looked at him. He nodded grimly and they checked the others, making sure all were dead. They gathered the rifles and stood the extras beside each man in the trenches. Some of the Syrian bodies were thrown out of the trenches to the rear.

  "We can't drive that rig out of here. How do you figure to get the canisters to Israel?"

  "The plan is to airlift them if we make the right connections." She picked up the radio.

  "Big Bird, the area is secure. I repeat, the area is secure. Can Big Bird fly? This is Attila."

  The radio sputtered, then came to life. "That's a negative, Attila. We have hornets still active. Will advise."

  Two more Israeli Phantom jets thundered overhead, but did not fire. They climbed in a graceful arc and headed southwest.

  "Is that the quickest way to Israeli territory?" Bolan asked.

  Luana nodded. "How far do you think it is?"

  "Three hundred miles?"

  She laughed. "We're in the Middle East now, not the plains of Texas. Actually it's a little less than fifty miles to Metulla, a little village in the finger of Israel that juts into Syria and Lebanon. We need a fifty-mile air corridor free of Syrian jets before we move."

  "Trouble!" the Executioner said. He had been watching south and now saw the half-track that had earlier retreated nose around an ammo bunker five hundred yards away and turn toward them. The heavy machine gun chattered and Bolan ducked. The rounds dug into the dirt and Syrian corpses on each side of the truck, but none hit the trailer.

  "Wish we had about three LAWs," Bolan said. "Where are those friendly jets? This guy can wade right over us."

  "Some of that good Israeli planning," Luana said with a wry grin. "The trouble is we should have brought one of the shoulder rocket launchers with us."

  She tried the radio again, but got no immediate response from Bumblebee. The half-track ground closer, and Bolan could see Syrian soldiers crowding behind the protection of the mechanical fort.

  "Flank him," Bolan said. "Get me four men and a machine gun. Plenty of ammo at this end of the trench. Fast!"

  She ran down the trench bent over, calling out orders.

  Exactly three minutes later Bolan and his team waited for the covering fire from the troops in the trenches, then went over the top and stormed toward the nearest ammo bunker to the left. They had forty yards to go and spread out so no lucky burst could get more than one. One man groaned and went down halfway to safety. The others charged ahead.

  One of the Israelis looked back. Bolan barked at him as they ran around the bunker and raced down two earthen humps, then another, falling into position behind an underground storage area. They heard the half-track coming abreast of them, rushed up the back of the slope to the front, set up the machine gun and went prone.

  Bolan told them not to fire before he did. They could see the half-track pulling past them, thirty yards away, with twenty Syrians crowding the safety alley behind the armored rig.

  When the infantry were past and the vulnerable back of th
e half-track was exposed, Bolan nodded.

  "Now!" he said and put a burst into the cab of the half-track. Each man had a target: two on the infantrymen, the machine gun and Bolan on the halftrack.

  Their first salvo cut down ten men, but Bolan saw thirty or forty rounds punch into the cab of the halftrack without effect. They moved their firepower to the side of the motor area and fired burst after burst until the engine belched smoke and the rig slowed to a stop. Then the motor sputtered, started, stopped, started and gunned, and the half-track moved ahead again at half speed.

  As the half-track coughed, the ambushers concentrated on the men behind it, who now raced for cover. None made it.

  The four on the ammo bunker earth mound fired at the lumbering half-track. No one was on the outer heavy machine gun. Bolan lifted the grenades that remained on his belt. He waved the men with him.

  "Grenades!" he said. They ran around two of the ammo mounds and came up even with the slowly moving rig.

  All four charged the side of the machine. There was no firepower there. At twenty yards they threw the bombs and hit the dirt. Two landed short, one hit the rear of the rig and the last penetrated the canvas cover over the driver's compartment. All exploded.

  When the shrapnel stopped flying they ran forward and threw again. This time when the four grenades went off the big machine coughed and stopped. Bolan's AK-47 blazed at the cab of the halftrack until he ran out of rounds. Then another man picked up the target.

  Slowly they advanced on the machine. No one was in the back. Bolan jumped up on the tracks and vaulted into the rig, his automatic rifle primed and ready. He kicked aside the tarp over the front and found two men slumped over the controls, both riddled with bullets.

  A few minutes later Bolan and his team dropped back into the trenches around the trailer.

  "Did you get our wounded man?" Bolan asked.

  Luana looked up and nodded. "We couldn't save him."

  "Sorry. How many have we lost?"

  "Four dead, three wounded, not seriously."

  "Where is Big Bird? We can't hold this spot all day."

  "Coming. We just got clearance on the air corridor. Big Bird will be here in four minutes."

  "How do we load them? Those canisters must weigh a ton each."

  "We don't unload them, Mack. You'll see."

  A friendly jet came at them from the north like a speck in the sky and flashed over them before they heard the sound.

  "We own the air, at least for a while. We need to control it for another hour."

  "But it takes a jet about three minutes to go sixty miles. If it's traveling at 1,200 miles an hour, that's what — twenty miles a minute?"

  "Our bird won't move quite that fast."

  A minute later he understood. A huge CH-54 Tarhe Sky Crane throbbed into sight. The rig looked like a flying skeleton with a cabin on the front and a long skinny framework body under a big rotor where 105 howitzers, trucks or shipping containers could be picked up and flown away.

  "Beautiful!" Bolan said. "Let's get that tractor unhooked from the fifth wheel." Two men helped detach the tractor and crank down the front legs of the trailer so they supported the front half of its weight. Then they pushed the tractor forward until the fifth wheel connection was free.

  By then the big chopper hovered overhead and tie-down slings were lowered. They were reinforced by chains. A specialist descended a rope ladder and supervised.

  Down the field Bolan saw dust from two vehicles coming toward them. "Half-tracks," he said. He grabbed the machine gunner. "Can you work that heavy MG down there on that dead half-track?"

  "Yes."

  "Let's go." He looked at Luana. "You get out of here on this chopper. You're blown now. Nobody in Damascus will trust you again."

  She nodded and he ran.

  They got to the half-track and primed the heavy gun. It had been hit by rifle fire but was undamaged. In the rig they found two boxes of belts of ammo. By the time they got the weapon turned around the other half-tracks were in range.

  The Israeli commando chattered off a 10-round burst into the lead half-track. It spun to one side and the gunner put another ten rounds into the tracks.

  The second half-track returned fire and missed. The Syrians hovered behind the crippled rig, but Bolan's team kept peppering the area around it with rounds, until the other half-track approached with the heavy MG blazing. They were still three hundred yards apart, and before the far weapon had the range, the Israeli gunner blew the Syrian half-track's tread off and it went in a circle. A final burst of rounds came from the heavy weapon. One hit Bolan's gunner in the neck and tore off his head. Another caught Bolan in the right shoulder and spun him around, dumping him off the half-track.

  As nearly as he could tell, he didn't lose consciousness, but as he looked up he saw the Sky Crane lifting gently away from the ground with the trailer. Wheels and all sailed higher and higher into the air as the strange-looking chopper and its dangling cargo of deadly nerve gas turned once and headed southwest.

  As it left, a smaller helicopter swung in to land. It looked like a UH-1D as used in Nam. It could hold fourteen men and a crew. Through a pinkish haze Bolan saw the dust billow as the chopper landed. Blinking, he made out figures getting inside. Fourteen. He tried to count backward. They lost four, fifteen left. Then lost one more here, fourteen, came out even. No, Luana was fifteen. Might get her on board. His mind buzzed and whirled and for a moment it was midnight dark. Then he could see again.

  He shook his head, saw the bird finish loading and surge upward and slant southwest much faster than the Sky Crane. She was gone. Good. Luana must be away and safe.

  Bolan looked at his shoulder. Bad. Blood all the hell over his arm and sleeves. Get back to the fence and through. Get away. Get away!

  He stood and the roadway moved, then steadied. He began to walk toward the truck trailer. For several steps he sidled to the left, the way he used to when as a child he was swung around in a circle, and then tried to walk. At last the ground stopped moving.

  Blood. Blood dripping down his fingers. Too much blood. He had to stop it. Damn fifty caliber smashed an arm all to hell.

  Bolan sat down in the dirt and fumbled for the first-aid pouch on his web belt. He broke it open and dumped the powder over the wound. But he couldn't wrap it with one hand. He unrolled the bandage, bunched it up and pressed it into the wound.

  The flood of pain made him cry out. Blood red blinded him again. The big red ball in front of his eyes faded slowly. It had blotted out his vision for thirty seconds. His sight and the world slowly came back into focus. He shook his head, looked at the dead truck tractor sitting a hundred yards ahead. It looked like a hundred miles. He stood and walked toward it.

  Beat down the pain. Use mind control. Dammit, the game wasn't over yet!

  Mack Bolan still held the AK-47 as he stumbled the last few yards to the trenches.

  No one there.

  No one alive.

  Then he saw a man wave. An Israeli. The man ran up. He didn't speak English. He made motions that the others had left. Bolan nodded and sat down in the trench. The Syrians would be coming soon. A second wave would come with many rockets and tanks and machine guns.

  He turned and from the other way in the trench he saw someone running toward him.

  Luana!

  He saw tears in her eyes as she rushed up. At once she was working on his shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She told him quickly that the chopper could hold only fourteen and the wounded took up more room, so she stayed with one man. They were about to come looking for him.

  Bolan nodded. He thought he saw some movement from the south but when he blinked and looked again he saw nothing. Had it been a man running around one of the ammo bunkers or just his imagination?

  Luana bandaged his shoulder, gave him a drink from her canteen.

  "Easy on that, it's straight bourbon," she said, her dark eyes serious, worried.

  He took two swallows of th
e straight whiskey and shook his head. That would do something — he wasn't sure what.

  The Israeli jumped out of the trench and said something to Luana in Hebrew. A second later a burst of rifle fire rattled in the still Syrian morning air and the Israeli commando hurtled back into the trench, his chest splattered with blood from five bullet wounds. He was dead.

  Luana grabbed a rifle and peered over the parapet. She frowned, seeing nothing.

  "Stay down!" Bolan shouted, his voice sharp.

  She looked at him and the enemy rifle spoke again, a single round that hit Luana's head and slapped her backward into the trench. Bolan stared at the woman, her eyes closed, the whole side of her head bloody.

  He roared in anger and fury, grabbed his AK-47 and two extra magazines and hurried toward the point where the shots had been fired. It had been one man doing the firing, a single man. And now it was between the two of them. To fight, and to live or to die.

  20

  Bolan went over the top of the trench, emptying the AK's magazine in a wild rage. He stormed up the side of the nearest ammo bunker. It was on this side of the bunker where the rifleman had been. Who was the man? Why the solo attack?

  The top of the bunker was a low crown so he could lie out of sight and see down the far side. No one had come around the next bunker yet. He held the high ground for the moment.

  Again a wave of red spots appeared before his eyes, blinding him. He tried to will them away, mind over matter. He fought them off until he could see clearly again. It had taken thirty seconds, maybe more. His shoulder throbbed and ached but he could use it. He could command it to perform.

  The enemy. Where was the enemy?

  Movement! At the far end of the bunker he saw a man slip around, look at the earthen mound where Bolan lay. He did not look up.

  Clear shot!

  His enemy was in the open. Bolan put the rifle on full automatic and leveled in. His shoulder stabbed him with tremendous pain as he moved his arm up to hold the rifle.

  He had to fight over pain.

  Again he brought the sights in on the man just as he began to run forward. Bolan sprayed him with fifteen rounds. The climb of the Kalashnikov was minimal. The Executioner saw the rounds striking around the man, but he did not go down. He saw the bloody wound on the man's upper left arm.