"No. Except last night, outside his stronghold, he was talking to this guy Wang. They were enjoying some private joke. Chung said something about beheading ten thousand Italians."
Brognola threw up his hands and declared, "Hell, it gets worse and worse instead of better and better. I have to lock it up!"
Bolan said, "Consider this first. There's a concealed missile site somewhere in these islands. We've identified them as IRBM's, which gives them a striking range of three thousand miles. Regardless of who intends to use them, the fact remains that they are there for use. Point?"
"Point," Brognola agreed. "Go ahead."
"We're all agreed that it's a nutty scheme. So isn't that what the thinking heads of the world are trembling in their dreams about these days?—nutty schemes from faulty thinkers that could launch the whole world into nuclear holocaust?"
"Point. Keep going."
"Take the best case. The mob owns the missiles. They plan to use them, in one mad scheme or another. Can we take any comfort in that?"
"None at all. Go to the worst case."
"Chung owns the missiles. Not the Chinese government. Chung. For some mad scheme of his own. Comfort?"
"Christ no," Brognola said, shivering.
"Suppose," Bolan mused, "a renegade Chinese general wanted to embarrass the hell out of somebody back home. Suppose he couldn't stomach all these recent wavings of olive branches and talk of detente. Maybe he even fears it, in a paranoid sense. Suppose this same guy knew how to smuggle a few of his country's precious missiles to a secret site within range of his would-be enemies. Then suppose he sat back and lofted one into San Francisco, one or two into Los Angeles, maybe one into Seattle or Portland or San Diego—with nuclear warheads aboard. That would sure as hell mark the end of detente, wouldn't it?"
"To say the least," Lyons quietly agreed.
"It would take a madman," Brognola growled.
"That's right," Bolan said. "Do you have a recent psychiatrist's report on General Loon Chuk Wan—or on Secretary Wang Ho?"
"Goddammit!" Brognola said, and repeated it. "What does it take to launch these IRBM's?" Lyons wanted to know.
"It's a sophisticated system," Bolan assured him. "But if they can bring the birds in and plant them, they sure as hell can bring in the technicians to fly them."
"It comes down to this, doesn't it," said Lyons, "—intent."
Bolan nodded. "Add that to present circumstances —which are probably at this moment panic. We've been leaning on the guy, hard, deliberately hoping to find his button. If I'd known it was a nuclear one . . ."
"That's what I mean," Brognola said. "It's no game for amateurs."
"What is a pro, Hal?" Bolan asked him.
"Hell, they're . . ."
"People like you and me," Bolan agreed. "Sitting off the firing line, pushing options into a cocked hat and fishing for them blindfolded. Okay." His gaze swung to Smiley Dublin. "We've asked everybody but the right body about this problem. You lived with the guy for a month, Smiley. You've warmed his bed and shared his food. You know his language and probably his nightmares. You've read his mail and—I wouldn't be surprised—his diary. What's the guy up
"I've been telling you," she said quietly. "World War Three. His version, anyway. The general is a fanatic hawk, like most of the others in the military over there. Father Mao is in his eighties—he's sick—he's dying and he knows it. He's trying to handpick his own successor, and the hawks know that. The general staff has -become very standoffish. They're lining up factions in the struggle for power—and they're winning But Mao is still the power—will be until he dies. The generals all know that. They're scared to death he's going to sell them out, just to strengthen his own hand: They don't give a whooping damn for the so-called revolution. Politics, for them, is simply the means to an end. And it doesn't take a China expert to tell you that hawks do not thrive on a diet for doves."
"Out of the mouths of babes," Brognola said quietly. "Thanks," she said, "but I'm no babe. Mack said it. I'm a pro."
"You are that," Brognola conceded.
"What about Chung the man?" Bolan asked her. "How do you read him? Right now?"
"Right now?—you've said that, too. He's running scared."
Bolan said to Brognola, "You can't lock me up, Hal. You can shoot me, but you cannot lock me up."
The man with the NSC mandate had arrived at his decision. He said, the voice barely audible, "We'll play both games. I'll get this stuff into Pacific Command and set up a roundtable. You people forget that you saw me today. I wasn't even here."
"We may need your chopper," Bolan told him. "And if we find the joint, we may need more than that."
"I'll send the chopper back. And I'll send you whatever else I can, as you ask for it. But for God's sake test the water before you leap in."
"Pele water," Bolan murmured.
"Huh?"
"No need to test. The temperature out there is preordained. It's the hellgrounds, Hal."
The chief fed shook hands all around, went to the doorway, then turned back with a weary smile. "So what's new?" he asked the hellbenders.
20: Infinite Zero
Brognola was true to his word, but it was a different bird that returned for them. This one was a fully armed and crewed UH-1 D "Huey" gunship—pilot, copilot, two gunners—with plenty of troop space.
A fifth man descended to take custody of the cruiser and return her to Ala Wai.
The pilot was Chief Warrant Steve Richards, an army veteran with many Vietnam missions under his belt, a no-nonsense guy who had apparently already been sketchily briefed on this present peace-time mission.
Brognola also sent a care package for the airborne commandos—maps, a xeroxed profile sheet of known Chinese weaponry, jungle survival kits, a miscellany of tools, gadgets, and weapons, and a change of clothes for Smiley Dublin—OD pants, shirt, jacket, cap, boots.
Skipper Richards asked for "Stryker," shook hands, and told him, "My orders are to take orders, any orders—from you." The guy was looking Bolan up and down as he said this, and it was obvious that he knew the name was not Stryker.
Bolan placed Smiley with her new clothing in the co-pilot’s seat and assigned her the task of developing communications with the chase plane. Anders was put to work collating the stuff from the care package and putting together combat sets. Bolan and Lyons sat down with the maps and intelligence data, Bolan concentrating on Chinese missile developments while Lyons studied terrain conditions on Hawaii.
The co-pilot brought back headsets with radio and intercom hook-ups.
The gunners were checking and arming their weapons.
Lyons, looking around with admiration, commented, "This is a hell of a fire platform."
"Beats the old 1 B's," Bolan agreed. He was studying the profile sheet of a Chinese missile. "New wrinkle here, too."
"What is that?"
"Looks like the PRC's have a mobile IRBM." "Mobile?"
"Yeah. Can be mounted on wheels or rails. Similar to the Russian SS-XZ Scrooge."
"What's the range?" Lyons wondered.
"About equal to the Polaris A3, says here. That's 2,880 miles. Packs a warhead of one megaton." Lyons whistled softly through his teeth. "You were right. They could pop them right into L.A." Lyons had a family in Los Angeles.
Bolan said, "Not if we don't allow it."
"Do we actually know that they have those things?"
"I guess. This sheet isn't even marked secret." He glanced forward and saw that Smiley and the skipper were hitting it off. He poked the intercom button and asked, "Any contact, Smiley?"
"No contact. I'm afraid she's out of range." Richards advised, "Better reception up top if you want to lose the time for the climb."
"Let's do it," Bolan replied.
"Right. Here we go."
"I'm worried about her fuel range," Lyons fretted. "She can't fly circles forever."
"Probably riding high on them," Bolan guessed. "Try to keep the sun behind her.
And you're right. She's flying two or three miles to their one."
"That's what I mean. She could fly dry."
"Toby's a good pilot," Bolan said. "The worst is yet to come. If those guys drop low across the island, it could be nip and tuck. You could lose a whole squadron of choppers in those mountains."
The two lost themselves in quiet thought.
A moment later, the pilot advised, "I believe your lady is getting a contact. Punch in channel three."
Bolan made the switch in time to hear Toby Ranger's faint voice reporting. " . . . to death about you. Is everyone okay?"
"Fat and sassy," Smiley's jubilant tones boomed. "We're airborne, forty minutes to your rear. What's your situation?"
"Normal," came the faint reply. "Some navigator this guy is. Island hopping. We've overflown Molokai and the northwest tip of Maui. Now running the Kealaikahiki Channel due west, about ten miles south of Lanai."
Lyons was furiously running a plot line on the chart.
"Roger," said Smiley. "Stand by. I believe the man wants in."
Bolan radioed, "Good show, Toby. What's your fuel situation?"
"Hi, Captain Thunder. Caught your fireworks display back here. You ever think about social security?" "All the time. Fuel report, please."
"I have enough, unless this guy wants to touch every landfall in the damned ocean."
"It's a break for us, Toby. Maybe we can play catch-up. Play it cool, don't spook them. The game has changed. It's gone terminal."
"Oh, wow. Okay. Is the gang all here?"
"Gang's all here, right. Meet you at the picnic. Keep us advised, but let's also keep it radio minimal." "Right. See you at the games, James."
Bolan chuckled solemnly and switched back to intercom. "Skipper, set a dead course for Mauna Loa, and let's highball it all we can."
"Wilco. You ready to tell me what we're doing?" "Hunt and Kill, Skipper."
"Aha! Uh, I was at 'Nam about the same time you were. Flew some missions with the Pen Teams Which one did you have?"
Yeah, sure, the guy knew.
Bolan replied, "Able Team."
"Ah. Yeah. Well, it's oldtimesville, isn't it. You going to give me a fire assignment?"
"I hope so, Skipper."
Yes, Bolan hoped so. The big UH-1 D gunships carried impressive armament, including several machine guns, twenty-millimetre cannon, and a pod of eighteen 2.75 rockets. Bolan had tremendous respect for their firepower; he would most likely need everything the Huey could deliver.
Bolan's thoughts drifted, recalling the invaluable role of the big birds in Vietnam. Such a shame, also, that the military excellence of that age should have become so eclipsed by the nation's thunderous revulsion for the war itself. Nobody liked wars—especially the guys fighting them. But there was such a thing as pride. Mack Bolan was proud of the military excellence displayed in Vietnam. Those Hueys, now. There had been times when he had seen as many as seventy-five of them swooping in simultaneously to disgorge troops
in an area no larger than a football field—marvelling that they could get in and out without collision. Guys like Richards had guts of iron and the steady hand of a brain surgeon. Once, his team encircled in an impenetrable, enemy-held rain forest, Bolan had been rescued by one of the big birds. She'd come in to hover above the treetops, guns spitting defiance in all directions, dropped her lifelines through the trees, and lifted that trapped team out of there as smoothly as an eagle snatching field mice.
Yes. Mack Bolan could take pride in human excellence—whatever the situation,
And, yeah, Richards. Oldtimesville. Time had a way of circling back on a guy. Infinite zero.
He hoped that Chief Warrant Steve Richards had not lost the sharply honed cutting edge of human excellence that was developed in Vietnam; it would be needed, here, now.
Other thoughts crowded his mind during the time of relaxation before the storm. Carl Lyons, there. What a guy. Human excellence? Damn right. Very human, too. Not like Bolan, not a walking dead man. A wife and kid in L.A. How did he square his responsibilities to them with this weird life he had chosen? Or had it chosen him? Lyons hadn't been exactly honest with Bolan. Which was okay. As Brognola said, it was a paranoid business. What about Carl's professed naiveté with regard to the Mafia-China angle? Paranoia? On a near-deathbed in Vegas, the guy had told Bolan that he was chasing a Chinese connection. An L.A. cop? Chasing ChiComs? Early on here in Hawaii, he'd poo-poohed a Mafia-China alliance. How long had Carl Lyons actually been chasing the Chinese connection?
And Smiley Dublin—now there was a study. Female excellence,--no matter how you turned it. Was it mere coincidence that a talented showgirl turned undercover fed was also an accomplished linguist—and, no less, a China expert? How did these people come together? Infinite zero? Maybe.
The hottest comic, ethnician Tommy Anders: now there was a case for wonderment. How long before Vegas, actually, had he been playing Brognola's wild games? He'd told Bolan back then that the mob had been laying on him for refusing to play their games on the night-club circuit. True or false? Probably false. So what led a national personality like this guy into the cloak-and-dagger game? Infinite zero, sure.
Toby Ranger—mouth of solid brass and heart of gold, not to mention those delightful other dimensions. She could fly anything with wings, could outshoot the average cop, had the courage of a lioness with cubs. Where the hell had she hatched from? From infinite zero?
Lyons broke into Bolan's introspections with pithy summation. "This one could be for all the marbles."
Bolan smiled wearily and replied, "Watch the store, Carl. I've got to crash. Eyes haven't closed for two days and nights."
It was like turning a switch, that transition from alert wakefulness to restorative slumber. It was another trick he had learned in the death jungles of Vietnam—"combat sleep"—eyes and ears half open and alert to any suggestion of peril, the thinking mind at rest and gathering strength for the trials that lay ahead.
He did not even hear his friend's reply, so it must have been an assent. And he had no awareness of the routine events of that flight, no sense of time passing. He was, however, jolted back by the faint, distressed voice of Toby Ranger deep in the earphones.
"I can't believe it! They just disappeared—right over the crater! Going down for a closer look!"
Smiley cautioned, "Be careful."
Bolan asked Lyons, "What is it? Where are they?" "Sounds like the home stand."
Bolan punched his button to tell Toby, "Get a marker down and get away from there!"
"You don't understand," came the faint reply. "One second they were there and the next second they weren't. They simply disappeared, zot! I'm on it now. It's a--uh oh, ground fire! I'm hit!"
He waited a moment for further word, then prodded for it. "Toby! How bad?"
There was no response.
Smiley screamed it, rattling Bolan's phones: "Toby! Toby!"
Lyons groaned, "My God."
Richards reported, "I had her on radar, Stryker. She blipped out. She's down."
"Do you have a position fix?"
"Affirm. Twenty minutes out. And that's mighty rough country down there."
Twenty minutes.
For those living on the heartbeat, that could be an infinity of eternities.
And for Mack Bolan, especially, it was a circle-back to nowhere . . . to infinite zero.
21: King Fire
The X on the skipper's chart marked a chaotic jumble of rock outcroppings--great hollow depressions with jagged sides rising to imposing ridges, and all interlaced with seemingly impenetrable jungle growth—wild country for sure, the legacy of the violence which accompanied the birth of this volcanic island.
Smiley shuddered. "Oh! If she's down in there . . ."
Bolan touched the skipper's shoulder. "I just saw a flash of something at two o'clock—there it is again!" "Right, I have it."
"That's it!" Anders cried.
That was it, all right—the crumpled wre
ckage of a small plane, perched near the top of a steep slope and all but hidden in dense vegetation.
"Recent crash," the pilot judged. "Otherwise the jungle would have covered it over."
They were almost directly above the spot now. Bolan said, "It's a bad angle, isn't it?"
"We can lower you in, if you're game."
Bolan was. He went to the waist and got into the personnel rig.
A moment later, he was swinging free and descending into the trees. He was on the ground for just a few minutes, and his face, when it reappeared at the personnel door, held a mixture of defeat and hope. The crewmen pulled him aboard and he reported to the anxious team: "I don't know how she could have survived that, but maybe she did. Bit of blood in the cockpit, that's all. Someone took her out. Vehicle tracks nearby, I'd say a jeep or some sort of ATV. Steel mesh fence about fifty yards from the impact point--can't even see it from up here. The sign says Pan Pacific Geological Laboratory. It also says to keep the hell out. I didn't like the feel of it. I think it's pay-dirt."
Smiley was biting her knuckles. She said, "God, Mack. If she's . ."
"No, wait," Lyons said, rubbing his forehead in concentration. "We checked that place out two weeks ago. It's a scientific research group, doing volcano studies."
"Were you in there?" Bolan asked him.
"No. But we ran a paper check. They're even partially funded through a U.S. grant. It checked out solid. Uh . . . tectonic studies."
"What's that?"
"Beats me. Something to do with geological evolution, formation of earth layers, something like that. They have an extinct crater back in there somewhere, and—wait a minute!"
"Right—Toby said the chopper disappeared over a crater."
Smiley said, "Well, you wouldn't expect them to put up a sign saying missile site, would you? What the hell?—cover groups are a dime a dozen. Let's go take a look."
Anders was working another line of thought. "Pele Phoenix," he said. "Fits like a hand in a glove. From the ashes of an old fire, a new one arises."
"And rises and rises," Smiley added. "Clear to California."
"Sure. That's got to be it."
Executioner 022 - Hawaiian Hellground Page 13
