A couple of grass-skirted beauties were shaking the hay nearby for the benefit of a cluster of hard-eyed torpedoes who were laboring 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-colored 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 lingerings 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 Center, 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.”
“How do you know that?”
“I understand the language and I overheard the instructions. I’m to be given the opportunity to swim the Kaiwi Channel, I take it. Swim or sink, you know, with the emphasis on sink.”
She was a hell of a gal. Calm, cool, pro all the way.
Bolan said, “Okay, keep moving. Start running at the next grove north. My vehicle is parked just off Ohua street. I’ll cover the withdrawal and meet you here.”
“Huh-uh. We don’t get off that easy.”
One of the torpedoes with the hula girls had swung away from the rest of the group to gaze at Smiley, hands on his hips, watching her with a contemplative smile. Bolan warned her, “You’re being watched. Spill it quick and careful.”
“They’ve decided that your overt attentions at Kalihi could be the crack in their dam and they’re worried now about the exposure. So they’re cutting losses and moving the headquarters. Wang is top dog. He transferred a portfolio of sealed documents from a safe in his house, has them now chained to his wrist in an attache case. I caught a remark he made to his chief of staff. It translates to, ‘This is where the body is buried’—but he was speaking figuratively. I believe there’s political dynamite in those documents. We need them, in case this thing blows into an international confrontation.”
Bolan said, “Okay, beat it. I’ll get the damn documents.”
“You can’t do it alone!” she hissed. “I’m here. Use me, dammit.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not much. We’re supposed to push off in the outriggers. Rendezvous with a yacht somewhere out beyond the coral reef.”
“So what are they waiting for?”
“The yacht, I guess. They’re watching for it.”
Bolan pondered the situation for a moment as he studied the torpedo who was watching Smiley. The guy seemed about ready to amble over.
“Go wiggle your butt at that gorilla,” Bolan decided. “Get a scene going, anything with lots of excitement. Get those people off the beach. And stay the hell away from those canoes.”
“What’s the move, after that?”
“Just play it to my cues. Go on. The guy’s moving this way.”
Smiley got to her feet, turned languidly toward the approaching bruiser, and said to him, “What a drag. Aren’t you just bored to death?”
“I was,” the guy replied, grinning.
Smiley laughed and tossed her hips. “Who needs a grass skirt?” she cried, and threw herself into the routine that had stopped shows from San Juan to Las Vegas.
And, yeah, she was something else—something very special. Bolan was reminded again of what that girl had sacrificed to this grim game of cops and robbers. It was a talent which did not appear spontaneously upon every stage in the land—and she very quickly had that entire assemblage of hoods thoroughly captivated by the sensual grace of her dance. The movements carried her off the beach and into the grove with the roasting pig. The show of the hula girls had come to a confused halt as their audience flowed into the grove behind the insinuating motions of their competitor. There was no one to watch them now but the guy in the faded loincloth, and even he was edging closer for a view into the picnic grove.
Bolan had removed his hardware and cached it when he heard Smiley call out, “Give me a beat, come, on, with the hand, like this.”
The guys were clapping their hands in time and whooping it up when Bolan slipped unnoticed into the water, a small plastic bag gripped in his teeth. He went straight out for depth and circled back, body surfing and allowing the natural motion of the rollers to work him over toward the beach party.
Fifteen seconds at the prows of those canoes was all he wanted—and he got it.
Twenty seconds later he was returning quietly into the concealing foliage at his point of departure and whispering a thanks to his brother, the Pacific.
Those war canoes were now gooped for doomsday, ready to blow upon command from a tiny electronic detonator which rode his ready belt. Small charges, sure, but enough to rip off a couple of bows.
And not a moment too soon.
A large boat with a deep-water hull and pennants flapping from the flying bridge was moving along the coast from the direction of Ala Wai, still a good distance north but within clear sight from Kuhio.
Another one, smaller, sleeker, was moving several points astern and a quarter-mile or so farther out; the SOG boat, was Bolan’s hopeful reading.
Someone at the party had noticed the event, also. A sharp command rang out and the revelry came to an abrupt halt.
Bolan had a glimpse of Smiley Dublin, struggling to get a bikini top adjusted and hovering at the side of a tall Oriental in a flowered Hawaiian shirt. They were moving toward the beach. Another glimpse between the trees provided the identification: it was the toothy one, also wearing a wrist chain attached to a thin briefcase.
Bolan circled to their rear and came in through the trees, a machine-pistol assembled and ready. The Detroi
t hood, Pete Rodani, was leading a group to one of the outriggers; Martin Pensa, the Cleveland rep, was urging another group toward the other canoe.
Wang Ho and three other Chinese were paused stiffly at the edge of the grove, Smiley in their midst.
It was going to be a hair-splitter, for damn sure.
Bolan stepped into the open and cut sand at their feet with a burst from the chattergun.
The girl took a dive to the side, yelling something at the hula girls as she did so. The Chinese whirled into the confrontation, the realization of doom pulling at those not-so-inscrutable features. A bawling and milling erupted from the water’s edge, with a brandishing of arms and a confusion of alarmed commands.
In that split-second of realization, though, hovered the certain knowledge of a stand-off situation. The Chinese were framed directly on the high ground between Bolan and the others.
“Nobody moves!” Bolan yelled, adding emphasis to that situation.
Rodani yelled from the boats, “Cool it! Everybody cool it! Whattaya want, Bolan?”
Bolan yelled back, “You can all go but the lady stays!”
“It’s okay, Mr. Wang! Do it! Come on, let’s go!”
Smiley yelled something in Chinese. The tall guy with teeth turned surprised eyes on her, then moved stiffly toward the boats. The others followed, walking backward, eyes on Bolan.
Smiley roled into cover in the trees and hissed, “The papers, Mack!”
“A moment,” he replied quietly.
And a moment was all it took. The Chinese delegation split themselves between the two canoes and moved quickly to the bows as the mainlander crews launched them into the water, then quickly tumbled abroad, many anxious eyes cast into the past rather than toward the future.
But then there was no future; perhaps all knew it.
Bolan held cover behind a tree at the edge of the grove and gave them to the first swell before fingering the little gadget at his belt.
They went together, the two explosions coming as one just as the canoes lifted into the swell. Bolan saw the twin flash and glimpsed hurtling fragments before the outriggers disappeared beyond the wall of water.
Smiley, kneeling beside him, gasped, “My God!”
“Their God,” Bolan murmured.
At next view, both boats were afire and foundering, people were threshing about out there and screaming while beyond the coral reef their pickup vessel was coming about in a fast landward turn.
“They can’t get in there,” Smiley observed.
“No way,” Bolan agreed. He was shedding his weapons. He thrust the chattergun on Smiley and said, “Cover me,” then took a running dive toward that pandemonium out there.
The hoods from streetcorner America should have spent more of their time in the Hawaii surf and less in the bars and niteries of Waikiki during their sojourn there; most of them seemed to be spluttering and screaming for help.
The water actually was not all that deep in the flats, but it could be a panic situation for a guy who wasn’t familiar with ocean surf.
These were the least of Mack Bolan’s worries. He sought a Chinese gentleman who’d last been seen chained to a briefcase—probably a dead one, considering his position in the doomed boat—and he found the guy, half-submerged and drifting landward. Bolan nudged the body on in, tugging at the chain and rolling the guy onto his back in the frothy surf at water’s edge.
A wild-eyed Martin Pensa came lunging at Bolan from the flow of a heavy roller, clawing at an empty holster and grunting insane threats. Smiley stepped coolly down from the grove with the chattergun spitting, cutting Pensa down at the knees and flopping him screaming into the foam, then raising the firetrack to chop at two others who’d found standing room close to shore. These promptly disappeared beneath the waves, reappearing cautiously an instant later to paddle toward a landfall farther down the beach.
“Hell with them,” Bolan panted. “The chain, Smiley! Cut the chain!”
She did so with a brief burst from the chattergun, then tossed the weapon to Bolan and snatched up the goods.
A police siren was wailing along Kalakaua, very close.
“Let’s split!” she cried. “There’ll be a cop for every tree before long!”
Bolan was catching his breath and looking the other way.
The big yacht was running slowly along the coral reef to the seaward side.
“That’s Chung,” Bolan said.
“Can’t win them all, Slugger,” Smiley told him. “Come on!”
“Haven’t lost a damn thing yet,” Bolan argued. He ran up to the grove, sat down with the AutoMag, steadied himself, and took a cool sighting on the yacht.
Smiley pranced beside him, pleading. “Mack, this is crazy! Let’s get out of here!”
“Too late already,” he said. “Patterson’s quick-reaction boys will already be sealing the area. I can’t fight those guys.”
“Who the hell is Patterson?”
“A new non-enemy. Stand aside, Smiley. Let’s give Chung one for the road.”
The girl flopped clear. Bolan promptly unleashed Big Thunder, squeezing off twice and pausing for evaluation, then letting go in rapid fire until the clip was empty.
He didn’t know what he’d hit, but the effect was apparent. The big boat promptly showed its tail in a quick surge toward open sea.
Bolan muttered, “There you go.”
“You’re wild, wild!” Smiley cried.
Bolan strapped on his gear as he replied to that. “Sure, but with method. That’s my only exit. I had to clear it.”
“That’s nutty! You can’t swim out—”
“Who’s swimming? I’m going surfing. Ever try it?”
“Sure, but …”
“You’re a free agent. It’s your decision, but it’ll have to be a quick one. Stay here and meet the cops or join the party beyond the reefs. What say?”
“What party?”
He pointed to the second boat and handed her the radio. “That one. See if you can raise them while I get the boards.”
She said, “Nutty—nutty!”
Police sirens were now screaming in from every landward direction.
Bolan jogged down to the surfboard rack and selected a pair, then dodged into the grove and began hurling smoke cannisters.
“Let’s move it,” he called to the girl. “This won’t slow them much, but it’ll help.”
“Carl’s standing by!” she called back exultantly.
Bolan returned to the beach and tossed the boards out.
“Lady’s choice,” he said, smiling solemnly.
Smiley took a clean run into the surf, the handle of Wang’s briefcase clamped between her teeth. Bolan followed, moving expertly onto the board and extending a hand to steady the girl as she boarded hers.
The chemical smokescreen was moving on the wind, filling the groves with dense black clouds and scudding along the beach in both directions.
Mack Bolan and his lady, their barks launched firmly upon the breasts of the water, paddled quietly out to sea, on an angling course toward the head of the coral reef.
The Kuhio beach party, out of time and place, was over.
King Fire, and all that name portended, lay in the immediate future.
18: Showdown Hand
The Honolulu cops were a well-disciplined, professional outfit. In most any other situation, it would have been a genuine pleasure for Harold Brognola to observe their operation. In the present context of personal interest, the observation was almost painful.
These people knew their business.
Patterson was out there somewhere in a chopper, directing the operation from the air. A layered police line had been established along the inland perimeter of the park, with specially equipped tac teams poised for a penetration into the sealed area. Backup units prowled the streets and manned roadblocks on all escape routes. Several helicopters were in the area, and in direct communications with the ground forces.
If that was not enoug
h, Brognola’s Line One units were on their way from Schofield Barracks to add their heft to the situation.
Brognola himself was seated in a comfortable armchair at the edge of the communications turret in the tactical center, listening to the radio monitors and building an image in his mind of the scene out there.
The initial problem, the smoke, had dissipated. A pincers movement was closing along the beach from each end, tac teams had penetrated from inland, and choppers were moving continually above the tactical zone in methodical search patterns
It was a sweet net the guy was weaving.
Meanwhile, hordes of interested spectators had gathered to add a note of complication to the proceedings. Also, several outriggers and a dozen or so youngsters on surfboards were lying just off the beach, dispersing when ordered to do so by PA from one of the choppers, then immediately regrouping and continuing the vigil.
The first sour note, from the police viewpoint, came about ten minutes after the alarm had gone down. The drag line of combat-equipped officers had completed a sweep from inland to the beach sands, without contact.
Brognola slid to the edge of his chair and listened alertly to the radio conversation reporting that event.
Greg Patterson, his gruff voice muffled in the background of helicopter noises, was fit to be tied.
“Go through again!” he ordered. “Beat every bush, move every rock. The guy couldn’t have slipped through.” Then he turned with a fury to his airborne units. “Choppers two and three, extend your patterns by a thousand yards! Chopper four, take another run along those reefs! If you see as much as a floating stick, you go down and check it out!”
Brognola lit a cigar and cheerily commented, “Well, well.”
A communications technician turned to him with a diffident smile. “I think the guy was gone a minute after the alarm went down,” he confided. “I bet the first chopper on the scene could have nailed him—if they’d known what to look for.”
“What should they have been looking for?” the fed asked, interested.
“A swimmer. Or a surfer.”
Out of the mouths of babes. Brognola grinned, remembering several past adventures in which the redoubtable Mack Bolan had evaded the clutch of the law via daring escapes in the sea.
Hawaiian Hellground Page 11
