"Roger that," David answered, a gleam in his eyes that would make a saint's blood run cold.

When the five minutes were up, Bart rose up off his knees and began sprinting for the well, holding his silenced Uzi in front of him.

A sentry standing next to the metal struts of the well straightened and stared at the apparition running toward him. He couldn't believe his eyes. He'd heard no warning from the others. He grabbed for his Kalashnikov, which was slung over his shoulder, and opened his mouth to yell.

Without breaking stride, Bart squeezed the trigger on his Uzi. A string of holes appeared in the man's chest, starting at his navel and running up to his throat.

The guard was thrown back against the strut and slid down it to the ground, blood pumping from his ruined lungs.

In the background, Bart heard a strangled yell cut short by the blade ofan a.s.sault knife, and then he was at the well. He took a small flashlight from his belt and shined it around the base of the well, until he saw a box affixed to the pumping mechanism. It had a red switch protruding from the metal, with some Arabic scribbling underneath it that Bart could not read.

As he took out his knife and began to pry the top off the box, a man rose up from the other side of the pump and aimed his rifle at Bart's face.

Not having time to pick up his Uzi, Bart flipped the knife around in his hand and prepared to throw it at the guard.

A single cough from behind Bart, and the man's forehead exploded in a fine red mist of blood and brains.

147.

Bart glanced over his shoulder and saw David Davidson grinning at him.

"Go on with what you were doing, boss," he said. "I'll make sure no one else bothers you."

Bart returned the smile and went back to opening the black box with his knife.

Imad Yarkas stomped his feet to try and restore circulation in them.

This place is as cold at night as Afghanistan in winter, he thought to himself. He decided to make the rounds of the sentries he'd posted to guard the well. He was very proud that the leaders had entrusted him with this very important job, and the bonus he'd been promised would keep his family back home in food for many years.

When he found a young boy of no more that seventeen leaning against a truck sleeping, he slapped him hard across the face, bringing him instantly awake. "Ya.s.sir," Yarkas growled, his face up next to the boy's, "if I find you sleeping while on guard duty again, I will cut off your left hand as a warning to others. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" the boy replied, his eyes full of fear.

Yarkas grinned to himself as he strutted off. That son of a camel won't fall asleep again any time soon, he thought to himself.

Fifty yards farther along the sentry line, he saw another guard slumped on the ground, his Kalashnikov cradled in his arms. "Allah preserve me!"

Yarkas snorted, angry to find yet another of his sentries asleep on the job.

He stepped over and kicked the man roughly in the stomach, and was surprised when the man didn't even groan in pain.

Yarkas bent down and grabbed the guard by the shoulder and rolled him over, gasping when he saw the gaping 148.

wound in his throat and the puddle of black-looking blood on the sand underneath him.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up when a soft voice behind him said, "Sorry, old chap. I don't think he's gonna wake up."Yarkas whirled around, his finger searching for the trigger on his rifle.

A man dressed all in black with an equally black face was standing there, grinning at him.

As Yarkas brought the barrel of his AK-47 up, he saw the man's hand move and felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. When he doubled over, he saw the hilt of a large knife protruding from the man's hand against his abdomen.

The man grunted and jerked upward, slicing Yarkas's stomach open from groin to rib cage. Yarkas dropped his rifle and grabbed at his entrails as they flopped out of the gaping wound.

Yarkas dropped to his knees with his head bowed, and didn't see the gleam of the blade as the soldier buried it in the back of his neck, killing him instantly.

Things didn't go as smoothly for Major Hugh Holmsby at the first rig he attacked. One of the sentries managed to get a round off before Sergeant Major Tommy Gifford shot him through the heart.

The other sentries opened fire, pinning Holmsby and his men down long enough for the terrorist in charge to make it to the bomb affixed to the well.

He jerked the red switch down just as Gifford dove onto his back and plunged his a.s.sault knife into the man's throat. As Gifford and the dead guard fell to the ground, Holmsby hurriedly ripped the bomb casing off the well 149.

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and bent over it with his knife, trying desperately to open the case before the minute he had was up.

Gifford rolled the dead guard off and got to his feet. He watched as Hugh finally managed to pop the top on the bomb casing. He looked over Hugh's shoulder into the box. Lying at the bottom, under a maze of wires and batteries, was a green-paper-wrapped brick of what looked like C-4 plastique.

Attached to the side of the box was a small lead container that had been spot-welded to the metal bomb container.

"That's got to be the plutonium," Hugh said in a whisper, as if the very sound of his voice might cause the bomb to explode prematurely.

He glanced at Gifford. "We have no time," he said.

"h.e.l.l with that, boss!" Gifford exclaimed. He grabbed the metal box from Hugh, stuck the point of his a.s.sault knife under the smaller lead box on the side, and pried at it until it popped off and fell to the ground.

He gave Hugh a quick wink, said, "See ya," and sprinted off away from the well, the box containing the C-4 under his arm like a football. He'd run about fifty yards when he stopped and hurled the box away from him high into the air. It exploded seconds later, the force of the blast andthe metal fragments of the box blowing Tommy head over heels to lie still on the desert floor.

Hugh, his ears ringing and his face covered with black soot from the explosion, ran toward Tommy's body. Somehow, the shrapnel from the bomb had missed Hugh entirely.

He knelt in the sand and grabbed Tommy by the shoulder, rolling him over onto his back. Tommy's face was blistered and cracked from the heat of the explosion, and there were several small holes in his cheeks and forehead 150.

from the shrapnel. Hugh shook him back and forth. "Tommy . . . G.o.dd.a.m.nit . . . wake up!"

After a few moments, Tommy opened bloodshot eyes and looked around, as if amazed he was still alive. "Hey, boss, did you see that throw? I should'a been a professional football player in the States."

Hugh smiled, tears of relief in his eyes. "Yeah, Tommy, but you held on to the ball a little long for my taste."

Tommy coughed, and then groaned from the pain it caused him. "Hugh, you got a cigarette?" he asked.

Hugh frowned in puzzlement. "But Tommy. You don't smoke."

Tommy grinned. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Those things'll kill ya."

151.

Once the SAS troops had all of the b.o.o.by-trapped wells under control, Bart and Hugh made the rounds of the wells, separating the small lead containers containing the plutonium from the metal boxes holding the C-4 plastique bombs.

The bombs were carried off into the desert and detonated, minus the plutonium. After that was accomplished, all of the plutonium containers were placed in a trunk and buried out in the desert where there were no trees or rocks to mark the place. Bart checked his GPS receiver, and made a note of the exact location so it could be found later and the plutonium properly disposed of by experts Ben Raines would fly in.

Bart stationed his men around the wells, and asked Hugh to accompany him back to the terrorist headquarters in Riyadh.

"Sir," Hugh asked, "why are you stationing men around the wells now that the bombs have been removed?"

"Because the terrorist reinforcements are due here at any time. When they arrive, they won't know that we've disarmed the bombs and hidden the plutonium. The longer we can keep them from finding that out, the longer we'll have before they decide to try something else, or 152.

even bring in more plutonium bombs. With luck, they'll think the plutonium is still at the well sites, and will waste valuable time trying to retake control of the wells to bolster their bargainingposition with the United Nations."

"That's all well and good, sir, but from what I hear, the terrorist reinforcements headed this way number in the tens of thousands. Do you really think we can hold them off with a handful of men?"

Bart's expression was grim when he answered, "That's what we're going to find out, Hugh. Remember, we're SAS and these terrorists are little better than camel jockeys." He sighed. "In any case, Ben Raines should be able to get us some help by first light in the morning."

Hugh glanced around at the small number of men guarding the wells and shivered in the frigid desert air. "Can't come soon enough for me, boss."

When they got back to Riyadh and entered the terrorist headquarters building, the first thing Hugh did was arrange for a medical corpsman to take a look at Tommy Gifford, who'd been carried in on a stretcher.

After a brief examination, the corpsman reported to Hugh and Bart.

"The sergeant major should be all right after a couple of weeks of rest, sir," he said, speaking to Hugh. "He's got a couple of ruptured eardrums, some minor contusions and abrasions, and his left arm is broken in two places." He grinned. "Nothing that will keep a sergeant major off duty for more than a fortnight."

Hugh nodded, greatly relieved that his friend would suffer no permanent ill effects from his act of heroism. "Thank you, corpsman. Take good care of him," Hugh said.

As the corpsman was leaving, Bart's radio officer burst 153.

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into the room Bart was using as his staff office. "Sir, there's some important traffic on the terrorist radio I think you should hear."

Bart and Hugh followed the man down the hall into the communications room. A continuous chatter of Arabic was coming out of the speaker attached to the radio the terrorists had been using.

"You understand any of this, Riley?" Bart asked the radioman.

"A little sir. I took a second in Middle Eastern languages in college, but the accent is different from what I studied."

"What's going on?" Bart asked.

"What I can make out seems to indicate the terrorist reinforcements are arriving at the port of Dhahran right now. If I'm correct in my reading of this message, they're saying they should arrive at the city in about four hours, just before dawn. They keep asking for this Hazmi guy to answer their radio calls."

Bart slammed his hand down on the desk. "d.a.m.n!" He looked up at Riley.

"Get me Ben Raines in Kuwait City on the SOHFRAD as soon as possible.

We're going to need some help, fast!"

Ben, who'd had a cot installed in his command post, was lying in it butnot sleeping when his communications officer knocked on the door. "Yes, come in."

"Sir," the man said, "Commander Wiley-Smeyth is on the SOHFRAD in the communications room."

Ben jumped to his feet and ran down the hall to the radio room. "Put it on the speaker," he ordered, and Riley complied.

"Bart, Ben here. What's your situation?"

154.

"The good news is we've captured the terrorist headquarters in Riyadh and all of the b.o.o.by-trapped wells with almost no casualties," Bart answered.

Ben grinned at the radioman. "That's great news, Bart!" he said. "And the bombs?"

"Separated from the plutonium and detonated. The plu-tonium is at the following GPS coordinates," Bart answered and read off the location where the plutonium had been buried.

Ben jotted the numbers down on a pad next to the radio receiver, and then asked, "And the bad news?"

"We have reliable information the terrorist reinforcement troops are landing right now and will be here in Riyadh before dawn."

"s.h.i.t!" Ben exclaimed.

"My thoughts exactly," Bart answered dryly.

"Listen, Bart," Ben said. "I haven't heard from my troops yet over in Iran, but the meteorologists tell me there's a big storm moving into the entire area from the desert. They say the sand will be so thick in the air, we won't be able to fly anyone in to relieve or reinforce your positions for at least twenty-four hours."

There was a short silence on the radio, and then Bart said, "That is disturbing news," with a voice so devoid of emotion it was as if someone had just told him the cook had burned his breakfast toast.

"Perhaps it would be best if you and your men beat a retreat back into the mountains," Ben said.

He heard a short chuckle over the radio. "Not the SAS way, I'm afraid.

We'll hold our positions as long as possible and hope for a break in the weather, Ben."

"How are you fixed for weapons and ammunition?"

"We should be all right, with what we captured from the terrorists and what we brought with us."

155.

"Hang in there, pal," Ben said. "We'll get some help for you as soon as we can.""I know," Bart answered. "See you soon, Ben."

Just as Ben disconnected the radio, Jackie Malone strolled into the office, drinking a cup of what looked like black syrup in a chipped mug.

Ben arched an eyebrow. "What the h.e.l.l are you drinking, Jackie?"

She stared down into the cup for a moment. "It's supposed to be coffee, but it tastes more like crankcase oil," she replied.

"Pour that c.r.a.p out and have some of my coffee," Ben ordered, pointing at his coffeemaker in the corner of the office.

"Best offer I've had all day," Jackie replied. She walked to the window and pitched the dark liquid in her cup outside. "I'm afraid to dump this stuff down the drain, it'd probably stop it up," she explained as she filled her mug from Ben's machine.

"What's the latest news?" she asked, perching on the corner of his desk on one hip.

"I haven't heard from our troops in Iran yet, but Commander Wiley-Smeyth and his SAS chaps have taken control of the wells near Riyadh."