Executioner 022 - Hawaiian Hellground

by Pendleton, Don

  "Don't pull that national security bull on me, bub," Patterson said huffily. "And don't try to pull rank on me, either. My salary is paid by the city and county of Honolulu. I'm not here to defend the country but to uphold the law in this political subdivision. You come clean with me or get your ass out of here."

  "You're a tough bastard," Brognola commented, grinning.

  "You don't make it in this department any other way," the lieutenant retorted. "I tried it the other way with you, mister."

  "I could pull rank, you know," the fed quietly pointed out. "One phone call would put your ass on the sidewalk looking in and wondering what happened. But I don't operate that way."

  "How do you operate?" Patterson asked, glowering at his visitor.

  "To the fullest extent possible toward non-interference. To the maximum extent allowable toward complete confidence and cooperation. But don't get tough with me, Greg. I'll tell you what I can. You carry on with that, or I'll get someone in here who will."

  "So maybe I'm a paper tiger," the lieutenant said with a grimace. "What can you tell me?"

  A uniformed cop interrupted the set-to with a type written report which he placed in Patterson's hands. "Came in a minute ago," he said, giving Brognola a sidewise glance as he went out.

  "What is it?" Brognola inquired, interested.

  "Another page in the open book," Patterson replied. "Patrol unit just found a bullet-riddled Cadillac in a ravine just off Likelike Highway

  . Two miles west of you-know-where." He passed the report to the fed, adding, "Plus six cremated bodies. This boy of yours plays mighty rough games . . . or somebody does."

  "Chase car, maybe?" Brognola commented, reading the report and probing Patterson's reading at the same time.

  "Sounds that way, doesn't it?"

  "Set it up for me," Brognola requested.

  "Okay. The guy hits the joint in the valley—with or without accomplices. There's a—"

  "Let's say without."

  "Okay, the guy hits. There's a hot pursuit. The guy sees this. He comes onto a blind curve with a good lead, quickly pulls over, leaves the car and runs up a ridge, meets the pursuit at the curve with a blazing machine gun. End of chase."

  "That's my read," the fed said. "No identification of the victims, though. We're assuming a lot, maybe. Could just as easy be the other way. A chase, catch, chastisement. End of the guy plus accomplices."

  "You don't really believe it, though," Patterson said.

  "No. Just trying sizes."

  "But you are worried just a little," the lieutenant said, doing some reading of his own.

  "Maybe," Brognola admitted. "Just a little."

  Patterson depressed an intercom button to growl, "I want the registry make on the Likelike Cadillac as soon as you have it." Then he reminded Brognola, "You were about to tell me something—the earlier discussion."

  "Not much, I'm afraid," the fed replied, his eyes still exploring the police report. "You're going to have to take a lot on faith. I've told you all I can with regard to General Loon. And now you know that I have people working the problem. The curtain falls right there. It's a mere coincidence that Bolan has blitzed into the picture. My superiors want Bolan as bad as you do. But we cannot allow the Bolan hunt to interfere with our Loon problem."

  "Loon, spoon—I don't give a shit," Patterson growled unhappily. "We've got a police problem on this island. If I find out that your people are aiding and abetting a fugitive who is already a mass murderer in this jurisdiction, then I'm going to come down hard on them."

  "Why would you think such a thing?" Brognola asked mildly.

  "Look, Hal, dammit—Honolulu is not exactly Timbuctu. We're a part of the Fifty, remember. We get the usual magazines and syndicated columns. The whole damn country is wondering if Mack Bolan isn't operating under some secret government sponsorship. Your credibility is a matter of public discussion, Mr. Brognola. If you are backing this guy, and you do have operators on the island—and it appears that the Kalihi Valley hit was more than a one-man operation--now tell me, federale, why would I think such a thing?"

  "You're a tactless shit, aren't you," the fed said glumly.

  "I try very hard to be."

  Brognola sighed and said, "Push that telephone over here." He produced a card from his wallet and placed a call. Then, his eyes steadily on the HPD lieutenant throughout the exchange, he announced; "This is Justice Two. Connect me with the duty officer, NSC Urgent."

  Patterson nervously lit a cigarette while Brognola awaited the connection.

  "Duty officer? Give me your identity number, please."

  The fed jotted a number on a pad, eyes still fixed on Patterson.

  "Thank you. This is Justice Two. Please record this NSC authority number: one Geneva six delta alpha three. This is an activate order, file Justice thirteen four twenty-one, authentication zebra zebra seven zero. Will you check that, please."

  Brognola continued to gaze at the Honolulu cop while awaiting some response from the other end of the phone connection. Patterson puffed on his cigarette and stared right back. "So I'm impressed," he growled.

  Brognola winked solemnly and immediately resumed the telephone conversation. "Very good. This is an Activate. Line One. Ten CID, five-zero Military Police, two helicopter units on ten-minute alert. More to follow. Stand by."

  He covered the transmitter with a hand to ask Patterson, "Anything you want?"

  The cop sneered and dropped his gaze.

  Brognola chuckled. "Captain? Yes. Line Two. Stand by Alert. One Air Tactical squadron, one naval amphibious support unit, one company airborne infantry. Line Three Immediate and continuous electronic search, all non-military radio channels, intercept and monitor per File Justice thirteen four twenty-one for intelligence evaluation, immediate report all positive results. Line Four negative, Line Five negative. That is all. Please repeat."

  Brognola listened attentively to the verification read back, then he gave the number of the phone from which he was calling and added, "If I am not here, contact me via Lieutenant Greg Patterson, Honolulu Police Tactical Force. Right. Thank you, Captain."

  He hung up, again caught Patterson's eye, and said, "Credibility gap, eh. Get screwed, Lieutenant. That was a Kill Order. And the name at the top of that file is Bolan, Mack Samuel, Master Sergeant, USA. And the best damned man I've ever known."

  "Sorry," Patterson murmured. "Whoever said police work was for tea drinkers."

  "Nobody I've ever heard," Brognola agreed. "NSC," the cop mused. "National Security Council, right?"

  "Right."

  "Is it on the level?"

  "Do you have an undercover general from Peking in your town?"

  Patterson sighed. "So I've gotten used to wearing iron pants. I apologize. But . . . how come you? Why not the FBI or the CIA or some other roseblush outfit?"

  "It's a long and sordid story," Brognola said. "Remind me to tell you some time—say, in about the year nineteen-ninety."

  "Things are getting sticky in Washington, aren't they?"

  "Sticky you never dreamed of," the fed replied. Speaking of tea drinkers ... You wouldn't have any stashed about, would you?"

  Patterson chuckled, opened a drawer, and replied, the best PanAm has to offer. Name your poison."

  "Plain rotgut would do."

  The lieutenant slid over a single-service bottle of bourbon, then selected a vodka for himself. "I guess this makes us drinking buddies," he said, then tossed it down raw. Without so much as a recovery breath, he asked, "When do you loose the dogs on Bolan?"

  "Soon as you give me a relative fix on him," the fed replied. He belted the bourbon, made a face, and commented, "Maybe tea would be better, at that," then soberly added: "When you drink a man down, though, it doesn't seem fitting any other way."

  "You really like the guy, don't you?" Patterson commented quietly.

  "Yeah."

  "I could see it. Out in Kalihi a while ago. It shows."

  "How'd it look a cou
ple minutes ago?"

  "Oh, official. Brutally official."

  "I was bleeding inside," the fed admitted. "Still am. Yeah. I like the guy. Very much."

  The uniformed cop re-entered with another formal report and handed it over to Patterson.

  "Maybe I do, too," the lieutenant said, folding the paper and dropping it to the desk. "The Cadillac is registered to Lou Topacetti."

  Brognola grunted, "As mean a hood as ever left the Windy City."

  "Right. So that was a gun crew, all other bets off. Bolan whacked them. I don't get it, Hal. This angle on General Loon, I mean—Chung. What are these guys trying to pull here?"

  "God, I don't know, I really don't," Brognola replied wearily. "I betcha I know a guy who does know, though. And here we are, you and me, plotting to whack him back."

  "You want to talk to Oliveras?"

  "Not even through your mouth, no. Fuck that guy. Why didn't Bolan finish him, huh? One will get you ten that he never spends a whole day in jail. Why didn't Bolan take him clean?"

  "Said he was saving him. Even tipped me about one of our own cops, who Bolan says has a contract from Chung to finish the job."

  "Maybe that's the guy we should be talking to."

  "Don't think I wouldn't like to. He's blown off somewhere. I have a detail looking for him. You're such an expert on Mack Bolan. Why would he be saving a misery merchant like Fatty Oliveras?"

  "I couldn't say," the fed replied. "Unless he figures the guy to know something important."

  "Which means," Patterson deduced, "that Bolan could be figuring to hit his pigeon again."

  "Could be," Brognola agreed. "I'm sure you're covering that possibility."

  "I am."

  "Still priming the pump, aren't you," Brognola said, smiling. "You think I'm holding out on you?"

  "Sure you are."

  The fed laughed. The cop laughed.

  Only because it beat the hell out of crying. Brognola said, "I am bone weary."

  "Tie it up," the cop suggested. "Have a hotel?" "No. Don't want one. Couldn't sleep, anyway. All the little phantoms come out and begin their dance soon as I close my eyes. Haven't slept well for a long, time, Greg."

  "Like I said," Patterson commented, sighing, "it's no business for tea drinkers." He opened the drawer slid another bourbon to the man from Washington.

  Put the phantoms to sleep," he suggested. "Works for me every time."

  "Won't work on Bolan," Brognola said. "Nothing works on that guy. He's out there, right now—somewhere—drinking blood by the buckets. And it's that blood, friend cop, that you and I should be drinking instead of this rotgut."

  "Knock it off," Patterson growled. "You'll have me doubting my own deepest convictions. Mack Bolan may be a great guy in your book—but he's wrong. You know that. He's wrong. That's not the way to go."

  "Never said it was," Brognola muttered. "But it's his way. And it's a lot more effective, friend cop, than yours and mine."

  "Bull."

  "He's never shot a cop. Never hurt an innocent party. Never asked for a damn thing from the likes of you and me—and doesn't expect anything. Turned down a license, even."

  "That's true, then."

  "Oh, yeah. Most of what you hear is true. The proud shit! Lives in perpetual hell. Can't let down for a second, no rest—I don't know how the hell he does it. You have any idea what it must take just to keep putting one foot after the other that way—day after day, week after week, on and on and on? Who can he trust? Who can he depend on? What's the guy got? Can you tell me that? What the hell has he got?"

  The lieutenant was silent for a moment before gruffly commenting, "He called it, man. He can call it off, just as easy."

  "On-and-off switch, eh?" Brognola said. "Sure, it sounds easy. When's the last time you turned your switch off, cop?"

  "Bull."

  "Sure. Bull. No switches, right? We're going to get that guy, Greg. You or me, or both together. We're going to whack the one guy who has the handle on the mob situation in this country. Makes a lot of sense, doesn't it."

  The lieutenant heaved to his feet and went to the window.

  Brognola smoked silently for a minute, then picked up a clipboard of tac bulletins and began going through them.

  The hands of the big clock on the wall moved slowly but relentlessly toward the countdown on the life of Mack Bolan.

  Reports continued to arrive. Brognola read them aloud and added them to the accumulation on the clipboard. Patterson remained at the window, silent, hands shoved deeply into pants pockets.

  Then the big one came. Brognola read it in a flat voice: "Sustained gunfire reports, vicinity Kuhio Beach. Patrol units responding. Tac Force alerted, all units in Sector Four proceeding under extreme caution."

  Patterson wheeled away from the window. "That could be it," he growled. "Coming?"

  "Not in person," Brognola replied in a saddened voice.

  He had the telephone to his ear—had evidently been placing the call during the reading of the report.

  "This is Justice Two. Connect me with the duty officer, NSC Immediate,"

  Patterson ran out.

  To hell with the phantoms.

  The big cop from HPD had a Kill Order of his own to fill.

  17: Beach Party

  In generalizing the location of Chung's beach home away from home, Smiley had said "between Waikiki and Prince Kuhio Beach, over near Diamond Head."

  It was quite a generalization. Actually, the entire shoreline from Ala Wai to Diamond Head presents an unbroken, graceful crescent of beautiful beach, and the entire stretch is usually referred to as Waikiki Beach. Down beyond the sprawl of luxury hotels, restaurants, bars, and other trappings of the tourist trade, though, lies that section of Waikiki which has been preserved, more or less, for those who make their homes on the island. Kuhio Beach Park and Kapiolani Park are there with their lovely groves, zoo, aquarium, natatorium, bandshell, public baths, and other facilities for the general public. Inland from Kuhio, across Kalakaua Avenue

  , are residential streets with exotic names such as Kealohilani, Lilioukalani, and Paoakalani, intertwining with such down-to-earth streets as Cleghorn, Cartwright, and Mountainview.

  There are no beach houses per se in this area. The entire stretch of beach is publicly owned and protected from private exploitation or lockouts. Smiley evidently had in mind one of the homes which line the inland streets and which conceivably could be regarded as beach houses since they do border and are within shouting distance of the public beaches.

  In such a jumble, it would have been unlikely that Bolan's electronic box could have led him to the exact house in which he was hoping to find Smiley Dublin alive and well. As it turned out, such precision was not necessary because the radio course led not to the back streets but to the public beach itself—and Bolan found Smiley Dublin, alive and apparently well, strolling the water's edge near a palm grove and abundantly filling the tiniest bikini it had been his pleasure to see in quite a while.

  She was not alone, however.

  Something that was probably meant to pass as a congenial beach party was in progress there.

  A couple of grass-skirted beauties were shaking the hay nearby for the benefit of a cluster of hard-eyed torpedoes who were labouring unsuccessfully to look like innocent tourists having a carefree time.

  Back off the water's edge, twenty feet or so into the grove, a roasting pig was turning slowly on a spit above glowing coals, tended by a small group of Oriental gentlemen in gaily-coloured shirtsleeves.

  A pair of huge outrigger canoes were pulled partially onto the sand, their prows afloat in the surf and moving gently in response to the constant ebb and flow of the Pacific. A Chinese guy wearing a faded Hawaiian loincloth, trying and failing to look like a beach boy, stood guard over the outriggers and a rack of bone-dry surfboards.

  At most any other time, the scene would have been set rather well. But not at this time of the morning—not even for the most disorganized of tour
guides. It was too late for the solemn assembly to pass as the fingerings of an all-night party and much too early to qualify for the luncheon special.

  The park seemed otherwise deserted.

  Farther north, toward Waikiki Beach Centre, a few surfers were taking a go at the early-morning action while here and there could be seen an occasional stroller.

  Bolan had armed himself for heavy combat and left his vehicle far to the rear, making his approach through the groves. At the moment, he was crouched in the foliage not twenty yards from where Smiley played idly with foot impressions in the wet sand at the surf line, studiously willing the girl to look his way.

  Giving up on this unproductive line of contact, he waited until the grass-skirted gyrations of the dancing girls shifted gears into muscular destruct, thereby assuring the undivided attention of the would-be tourists, then he tossed a bull's-eye cross on a dead-drop course for the girl in the bikini.

  It struck her on the thigh and fell to the sand beside her. She gave no outward reaction whatever, except to step on the medal and press it into the wet sand. A moment later, though, she began moving slowly toward him, keeping to the surf line, continuing to dig playfully at the sand with her toes.

  Smiley reached a position directly opposite Bolan's and dropped to one knee, her back to the "party," to make designs in the sand with a finger. "Wow," she declared quietly. "Am I glad to see you."

  "What's the gig, Smiley?"

  "A small deviation. The general is not coming. We're going to him."

  "I'd gathered that much."

  "Apparently this has been planned since last night, since just after your first little blast at the general. Your dawn strike advanced the timetable a bit, that's all. It did cause quite a stir here."

  "How'd they get the word?"

  "I brought it. Then, a few minutes later, one of Chung's men called from someplace in town. We're to rendezvous at sea."

  "Who is we?"

  "Wang Ho, his staff, and me. Wang's the one with the teeth. I believe he's a rat. I do know he's not planning on taking me all the way."