He glanced across at her. Danny gazed back into those pale blue eyes, awed by the strength of his commitment as she now perceived the broader perspectives of the Executioner's endless war.
"There was a journalist once, back in Nam, who tried to write me up as some sort of commie-hating psychotic. Well, I don't hate anyone for merely believing in Marx or Lenin — although, considering their theories have been thoroughly discredited by the events of this century, I'd certainly have to say their faith was misplaced."
Danny had to smile at this last remark. She'd come across several true believers in the Marxist-Leninist line at university.
She had heard otherwise intelligent professors, often indulging in the most affluent of lifestyles, mouthing all the usual platitudes of communist brotherhood. Her thoughts were interrupted as Bolan continued. "But it's in the name of those same beliefs — even masquerading them as a scientific theory — that the Soviets have murdered, what, thirty or forty million people... in their war to first seize power, by a deliberate policy of famine, in slave labor camps, in the treacherous way they conducted themselves both with and then against Hitler, through surrogate terrorist armies, and now with the rape of Afghanistan... The list of their atrocities is endless.
"But their goal is simple: they have to dominate the whole world. They've warned us on enough occasions that that's what they're up to — it's our own fault if we don't listen. And that's what makes the Soviets, not the ordinary Russian man in the street, my enemies. Particularly the KGB. I oppose them because of the horror they inflict in the name of their outmoded beliefs."
Danny recalled the nightmare scenes she had witnessed in Southeast Asia and knew that in his worldwide campaigns Bolan must have seen ten times worse.
"It's the same now with Hassan Zayoud. I don't care if he kneels five times a day toward Mecca. It has always seemed obvious to me that this power, this universal life force we call God must, by definition, be beyond our own limited comprehension."
"Of course," agreed Danny. The detailed study she had made of the past had led her to much the same conclusion. "I'm sure that the great religions are all worshiping different facets of the same limitless source — each formulating their faith in different ways."
"Exactly," said Bolan. "But Zayoud wants to be the new Sword of Islam, spreading his personal beliefs in a bloody Crescent Revolution — and to do that he'll kidnap kids or gather an army of hired killers, build a bomb or murder his own brother, given half a chance. When he ordered his men to snatch Kevin Baker in Florida, Hassan Zayoud called down a sentence upon himself with that action. That's where I come in... Hey, talking of enemy troops, look at that dust!"
"They're coming this way," said Danny.
"Quick, over there... we can hide behind those rocks." Bolan slipped the Hog into the depression behind the boulders. They were less than two hundred yards from the edge of the sand and still slightly above it. The long sweeping crest of the nearest dune had protected them for the few vital moments that were needed to reach safe cover.
A Jeep with four men aboard clambered into view and rolled down the banked sand. The driver, in a khaki shirt and red-checkered burnoose, was one of Hassan's troopers, as was the man who sat next to him; the two guys in the back were mercenaries. They were carrying Uzis, too — the weapons had been on Ruark's "shopping list." Bolan recognized the bullet-headed giant with tattooed forearms as Bull Keegan.
Danny held her breath, wondering if the new arrivals were going to inspect the trail down from the Jebel. Bolan took his gun off safety. He was taking no chances.
The Arab jumped out of the passenger seat and cast around for a sign, while Keegan checked the bottom edge of the hillside through glasses. Bolan and his companion were close enough to pick up the conversation.
"Waste of goddamn time coming out here. C'mon, let get back and find some shade," Bull Keegan said.
Zayoud's men hopped back inside. The driver let out the clutch too quickly, jerking forward before stalling in a pothole. It almost threw Keegan overboard. He started berating the driver. "You stupid... haven't you learned anything? Jeez, your boss figures he's going to take over the country with dumb bastards like you to back him? Huh, I dunno... Jim, you take the wheel."
The other merc climbed down into the driver's seat.
They pulled away with Keegan still swearing at the native soldier until they were out of earshot.
The Jeep vanished through a dip between two massive dunes and soon even the sound of the engine died away.
"That," said Danny, "was uncomfortably close."
"Best thing that could have happened," Bolan contradicted her.
She looked at him curiously.
"We'll give them twenty minutes head start," he explained, "then follow them back to the fortress." Bolan noticed that the desert floor of the Forbidden Zone was not quite the uniform sea of sand that it had first seemed from the craggy heights behind them.
For many square miles the unimpeded wind had indeed built up great transverse dunes — frozen waves in a burning ocean — but there were harder patches, too, and here the sand had been pushed into the crescent shapes of barchan dunes, all neatly pointing downwind. In other places the desert had been stripped to almost naked rock. With utmost caution Bolan followed the scouting patrol toward the target. He and Danny paused often, the Hog's hull down behind a crest, waiting for the right moment to slip safely across. Once, they spotted Keegan waving his fist as he ripped into Zayoud's men for their stupidity. The sun climbed toward its zenith. Danny used a towel to fashion a head cloth to protect herself. It was not unendurably sticky; out here perspiration simply evaporated as soon as it appeared. They had stopped for a water break when Bolan spotted a truck approaching from the right. It rendezvoused with Keegan's Jeep and, after a brief conference, the two vehicles proceeded in convoy back to the base. The double tracks were easy enough to follow. Bolan memorized what markers he could in this repetitive landscape: once it was a peculiar star-shaped dune, and in another spot he noted a rust-colored rock; often he glanced back to take his bearings from the notch they had crossed atop the jebel.
The powerful 600 horsepower V8 engine that Chandler had fitted in the Sand Hog throbbed quietly as it propelled them over the shifting terrain. Bolan checked his watch frequently against the speedometer and odometer. "Stay here," he finally instructed Danny, and stalked up the slope ahead to double-check their position. He remained there some time. When he came back he told Danny, "We'll have to go very carefully now... we're almost there."
Her pulse was racing with excitement but Danny was determined not to let it show. She wondered if Mack felt anything at having got this far, for being so dangerously near Zayoud's headquarters?
If he did, it didn't show; he seemed so calm and self-assured.
Bolan turned more to the south for this final leg, leaving the churned-up tracks of the patrol vehicles, as they kept low in a long trough behind another golden barricade of sand. There was a barren ridge of rock beyond it, cracked by the brutal elements and sculpted into a labyrinth of weirdly shaped protrusions.
He drew in beneath the shadowy underside of a giant stone mushroom, parking tight against the windscoured pillar.
"This should be safe enough," he said, switching off the engine, then adding realistically, "well, as safe as anywhere around here can be. First things first, let's rig the netting, then wipe out our tracks." There was little sign of their presence on the hard rock surface.