Bolan risked uprooting the M-60 and taking it down from the back. More shots sprayed dirt around the Jeep.

"Here!" Bolan balanced the gun on a smaller stone in front of Danny. The patrol held the high ground and were in a good position to keep the intruders pinned down until they had a chance to pick them off. Bolan bobbed up once more to grab a couple of items from between the front seats, and this drew more fire from the ridge above. The noise of the wind was increasing.

"I don't think you'll be able to control the gun without a mount," Bolan told Danny, "but I'm not expecting you to hit anything. Just aim it that way and fire a short burst every ten seconds or so."

"I can keep their heads down," she said.

"You keep your heads down!" Bolan ordered them.

He put on the goggles he had retrieved from the Hog, then began to wind the burnoose around to completely cover his face.

"There's a dust devil building up." His voice was muffled. "And it's going to hit us at any moment. It's the only chance we've got."

"You can't go out there!" protested Danny.

But Bolan was gone. Danny fired two short bursts to provide some initial cover for Bolan.

The heavier particles had formed a low-lying fog rippling across the desert; the lighter dust was boiling up in a twisting mist. The sun was reduced to a molten disk obscured by the thick haze.

Burning-hot granules stung Bolan's skin as he worked his way around the side of the hillock. Some of the sand had penetrated inside his face mask. He could feel it crunching in his teeth. The droning sound was rising in pitch.

He caught only a glimpse of the hilltop between the blasts of wind. Loose stones and grit were being whipped up from the ridge like storm-tossed spray from a wave.

Bolan slipped over the shoulder of the hill. There was a little respite here from the weaker gusts, but it still felt as if the hot breath of hell was blowing over him as he clawed his way through the sand-filled gloom. The revolving currents of broiling air reached a roaring crescendo. Bolan was being pelted with flying gravel, but he paid little attention. He was more concerned with finding the border-patrol detail and taking them out. He had no misgivings about what these desert police would do to the three Americans if they were found.

Bolan did not like the odds, but with the mounting sandstorm he had the element of surprise.

He would strike first.

A lumpy outline just ahead turned out to be two camels crouching, their long necks stretched low on the ground, waiting for the chaotic storm to blow over them. The small bump beyond the animals was the first KDP patrolman. He turned to try to quiet his mount, when he saw the Executioner. His cry dissolved into the shrieking fury of the twister as Bolan's blade found its mark. The second target was crouching with his back to the wind. The Executioner's knife sank deep.

The fury was abating as the devilish column of dust began to drift away. Bolan had only moments left before his cover was literally blown. The KDP captain gave away his position by shouting an order to his comrades. He had found shelter in a small dip near the top of the ridge.

Bolan slid in beside him, stabbing hard with the knife.

It must have glanced off an ammunition belt or something the man was wearing under the shroud of his cloak.

The border cop twisted around, and with a bellow of rage, rushed Bolan.

The big warrior sidestepped and stuck his leg out, tripping his adversary. The man stumbled, impaling himself on Bolan's knife before he had a chance to recover.

The sky was clearing. The twister was moving rapidly northeast. Bolan saw the other three men huddled along the hilltop. He could not hope to reach them unseen.

One of the men glanced over to where the captain had sheltered, awaiting fresh orders, and realized something was terribly wrong. He was shouting a warning to his less vigilant companions when Bolan tossed the grenade. Two men took the full force of it, their mutilated bodies being flung back across the dirt.

The sixth man miraculously escaped unscathed. He jumped up, cursing the sheikh's enemies and started to charge down the hillside, loosing a mad volley from his rifle.

Danny watched him coming and pulled the trigger.

Calmly she kept on firing. The big weapon bucked and shuddered, shredding the lower slope with looping arcs of white-hot death. The last patrolman was halfway down the incline before he was hit once, twice, three times. His knees buckled and he sprawled forward. The dead body skidded headfirst to the bottom. Bolan waved that he was all right. Then it was still, almost eerily quiet. The sudden storm had moved on. But the soldier knew the danger was not yet past.

"How much farther do we have to go?" asked Kevin.

His face looked ashen even beneath the pale mask of sandy grime. He had been shaken up by more than the rattling, bumpy ride.

Bolan checked the instruments. "Twelve miles, maybe less."

Each of them was riding alone with his or her own thoughts. That fracas with the police patrol had cost them more valuable time. Bolan was pushing the Hog as fast as he dared, taking his bearings whenever they crossed the higher ground.

They skirted the cracked, crystalline surfaces of the dried-out mineral beds, raced down a wadi, then churned through a patch of looser gravel.

As they climbed out of a dip, Danny looked back over her shoulder — the rugged heights of the Jebel Kharg were now a dark, jagged line on the horizon, obscured by the glare of the afternoon sun. She turned her head slowly, scanning the horizon. "Look at that smoke!"

Even at this distance three distinct columns of oily smoke were belching up from the direction of the airfield. Bolan nodded to indicate he'd spotted it, too, but said nothing.

He figured Zayoud's men had obviously struck their blow for the Crescent Revolution, but there was no point in alarming the others with speculations as to its outcome. Bolan wondered where Grimaldi was at that moment. The rest of the team involved could be counted on to play their parts, right on the button; it was up to him to stick to the schedule.

Still, the fighting around the airfield must be fierce.

Bolan pushed the pedal hard and the Hog hammered down the track.

The sand was softer here, pitted with pebbles. Other vehicles had come this way before, leaving twin sets of tire ruts to follow. Suddenly the left front end of the Hog sagged, and Bolan fought the wheel as he braked. The dust settled around them.

"We have a blown tire." Bolan jumped out onto the track. The rubber was torn open. "Kevin, grab the jack." Bolan loosened the spare wheel from its mounting. "See if you can find a couple of flat stones, Danny. We'll need to build a firmer base under that jack."

Danny swung down over the back. She was aware that every second they lost jeopardized not only themselves but the guys who were staging the retrieval operation.

She saw some larger stones that had been smoothed into flattened disks, half buried on the far side of a clear patch of sand. They looked suitable and Danny ran over to get them.

Fifteen feet away from the track the earth seemed to give way under her. The ground was dry, but Danny suddenly fell like she was running through molasses.

The sand, powdery fine, was sucking at her feet.

She stumbled to a halt, unable to make headway.

"Mack! Help me, I'm..." The thought froze in her throat. She was being inexorably dragged under.

"Don't struggle, Danny! I'll get you out," shouted Bolan.

He dropped the wheel wrench; he had only started to loosen the first nut.

"Chip, can you drive?"

Kevin was staring wide-eyed at Danny's predicament. The sand had already swallowed her up to the thighs. He jerked his head to show that he could manage the Hog.