Don Pendleton
The Iranian Hit
There are plenty of devices for shunning death in every kind of danger if a man sticks at nothing in word or deed. But... the difficulty does not lie so much in avoiding death as in avoiding dishonor. For she runs faster than death.
Dishonor is, in itself, a form of death; in the end, the worst form, because it degrades the soul. We take to God only what we give to Life. I will not give it dishonor.
Prologue
There were times when it would seem to a rational man that the whole world had gone crazy. But Mack Bolan knew that it had not. There were a lot of crazy people, sure — and even a few lunatic nations; these could not, however, state the case for the planet earth. The state of the planet was complexity, not insanity. Complexity, Bolan knew, was a natural consequence of growth. As the world's human population increased, and as individuals within that population continued to expand and evolve into smarter and more perceptive humans, then the problems of living together on this crowded earth increased geometrically — sometimes with quantum leaps.
The problem, as Bolan saw it, is that we do not all expand in the same direction, at the same time, or from the same stimuli. Equality between individuals was a political idea — and one not in conformity with natural law. The jungle knew better. All of man's great social inventions were, after all was said and done, a mortal attempt to repeal the laws of nature.
Anomaly. There was a word popularized by the space scientists (who had their own ideas about how to deal with natural law). Anomaly. It had to do with events that had not been planned, or intended....things existing outside the established order, something irregular or abnormal.
Abnormal was another word for crazy. So maybe that was why so many people were arriving at the conclusion that the world was headed that way. But it was not. Actually, the world was anomalous, a natural product of abnormal expectations in the human mind. The world of men was not a fixed system. It was not of a single piece but composed of many individuals and diverse elements, classes, types. Therefore, anomalous — because everyone expected everyone else to think and feel and view the world precisely as (or within narrow limits, the same as) he or she did. The world was not crazy, nor was it endowed with a natural sameness. And that was the problem for mankind. In complexity, things were never equal.
Men who could discuss learnedly the chemical composition of a distant star occupied the same time and space as aboriginal peoples who believed that star to be a tiny light imbedded in some celestial web suspended just beyond the earth. Men who right now were devising exotic environmental systems for human colonies in space share the planet with others who devoutly insist that man's adventures upon the moon were actually filmed in Hollywood as some godless hoax upon the world.
Anomalies, sure. They sprang naturally from the conflicting world views held by individuals who were not, in any sense, equals. If a man or woman is the sum total of all his or her experiences, how then can there be any claim of sameness between a Nobel physicist and an Australian bushman — or, for that matter, between a Beverly Hills housewife and her counterpart in Karachi. How do you get these widely disparate individuals to share a common world view when their basic thought processes do not follow the same track? More than a difference in language, or even in social cultures, the difference that divides is a conceptual chasm: the one simply cannot communicate with the other except toward the most elemental biological needs.
So... back to Square One. The world is not crazy. Its parts simply do not understand one another. And these parts need not be geographical divisions, particularly. The parts may exist side by side within the same city or village — within the same family, even. The parts are called human beings — and each is awfully isolated from everything else that exists, totally alone in the jungle of survival and crying out that "the world" has gone crazy because anomaly is the order of the day.
An anomaly can occur only where some specific expectation exists. An expectation is a human invention, usually born somewhere outside the jungle. It often finds form as an attempt to repeal some natural law while clothing itself as conventional wisdom.
Now and then, however, the expectation is no more than jungle law masquerading as moral order — and here is where anomaly ends and "crazy" begins.
Mack Bolan knew all about crazy, too. He did not live in the anomalous world. Bolan had dwelt all his adult life in the jungle of survival... and he knew its ways.
1
He sensed something about to happen from the moment his peripheral vision caught movement in the shadows shrouding the base of the high brick wall.
Bolan slowed the black Corvette to coasting speed and glided past, trying to discern exactly what had caught his attention. Then he saw her. A woman, moving furtively in the twilight, carefully picking her way along the wall that surrounded this estate in Potomac, Maryland.
The lady was a looker; it was clear even from amoving car on an evening road. Bolan registered shoulder-length blonde hair that seemed to shimmer even in the gloom, and a damn fine set of curves wrapped in a belted leather jacket against the October chill.
Then he was past her.
The woman moved at a quick clip in the opposite direction, still hugging the shadows of the wall. Still furtive.
Uh huh.
Mack Bolan sensed something. Something ominous. Coupled with the fact that this wall bordered and protected the forty acres of ground that was Mack Bolan's destination...
He let the Corvette roll another twenty feet, then steered to the shoulder and killed the engine.
Mack Bolan (a.k.a. Colonel John Phoenix) was togged for night work. The heavy dark sweater and navy pea jacket, worn over a nylon-weave Kevlar protective vest, were complemented by dark jeans and shoes. The silenced 9mm Beretta Belle was leathered under his left armpit beneath the jacket. Big Thunder, the mighty .44 Magnum Autoloader, rode low on his right hip, western-style. A leather attache case within easy reach beside him carried a variety of hard-punch munitions and a full set of belted knives and garrotes. Snug in the compartment behind the Corvette's bucket seats were an infrared Startron spotting scope, an Uzi 9mm submachine gun, and a M1 match rifle sheathed in its leather case. Bolan was loaded for bear.
But he was not pleased with this latest mission, and it hadn't even begun yet. He was in civilian territory with all of this hardware. The peaceful environs of upper-class rural Maryland dozed around him in the evening stillness.
Bolan hated bringing his war near civilians and avoided it at all costs. But this time the choice was not his. This hellground had been chosen for him. And so here he was, tooling through the darkening byways of the Potomac, loaded down with implements of death and destruction for the battle royal that was due to commence amid this quiet, rustic backdrop.
Within the next few hours.
That was the time element that Hal Brognola had passed on, and the initial intelligence data had been confirmed.
A few short hours. But Bolan knew that a hell of a lot could go down in much less time. The complications seemed to be starting already. Right. It promised to be that kind of mission. It was the only type of mission that a man of Bolan's capabilities ever drew.