"There has been a change in plan," he said.
The captain turned toward him for the first time, and his mouth dropped open as he saw the pistol. The first officer recovered first, his voice shaky as he spoke.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Our destination has been altered. We'll be turning east."
The captain found his voice, and with it something of his nerve.
"You don't want to use that thing in here," he cautioned. "Hit or miss, you're bound to cause explosive decompression—send us all right down the chute, yourself included."
The gunman swung the Browning slightly to the right, squeezing off a round as he made target acquisition.
The pistol roar was deafening in the confined space, expelling a hollowpoint at 1,400 feet per second. The slug impacted on his cheek below his left eye. At that range, the BAT projectile struck with 327 foot-pounds of energy, expanding to a massive .60 caliber, destroying everything before it. Face and skull imploded, and the co-pilot’s lifeless form began its liquid slide toward the cockpit floor.
The BAT slug, designed with the protectionof bystanders in mind, spent its energy within the human target, and did not exit. No single fragment of the copper-nickel round escaped to damage windscreen or instruments.
The gunman swung the pistol back to a neutral point between the two surviving crew members.
"Now, if there are no further questions or objections . .."
He began speaking rapidly, snapping out directions and coordinates, taking charge. He was in control, and he planned to use the power that he held—with a vengeance.
3
"RENDEZVOUS SEASIDE at preassigned coordinates. Stand by for further contact soonest."
The coded order ran through Bolan's mind as he drove the Citroen sedan along the winding coastal highway. He was still puzzled by the order's sense of urgency, but there was no question in his mind about the designated point of rendezvous.
Every Phoenix mission—if possible—included built-in contingency plans, allowing for the unanticipated. Bolan approached each campaign with confidence, and with the realist's admission that anything could go wrong at any time. In the event of unforeseen disaster or diversion, he would be supplied with secondary systems of retreat and points of contact with his support troops.
In this mission he was heading for Six-Fours-la-Plage, a coastal town south of Toulon and twenty-five miles southeast of target zone Marseille.
He powered through the sleeping streets toward the sea, past homes and shops where the inhabitants had just begun to stir. He instinctively found the sea and nosed the Citroen against a low retaining wall. He killed the engine, set the brake and lit a cigarette.
In front of him, breakers tinted bloody by the dawn were relentlessly rushing in toward the sandy beach.
Bolan took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it out the window, shifting in his seat. Movement in the rear-view mirror had caught his eye. He turned toward the source, automatically reaching for the silenced 93-R in its armpit sheath. His cold blue eyes narrowed into target recognition.
A long sleek motor home, painted gunmetal blue with a gold stripe all around it, was cruising along the beachfront road. He had never seen the rig before, and yet there was something very familiar about it.
Bolan kept his hand wrapped around the cool Beretta as the big motor home turned off the pavement, rumbled over gravel in the parking lot and slowed to a halt against the seawall twenty yards to his left. The driver and any passengers were invisible behind smoked glass.
A door slid open on the vehicle's starboard side. Nothing had prepared him for the sightof the figure that appeared in the doorway.
Four thousand miles from home, standing in the first light of dawn, April Rose looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her. Her sparkling eyes met and locked with his. Her smile was hesitant, expectant.
He got out of the car, moved toward her and swept her into a strong embrace. April's warmth and softness reminded Bolan of another life—one worth fighting for, and dying for.
"Sorry about the red alert, Striker."
Bolan turned toward the familiar voice and found Hal Brognola framed in the open doorway of the motor home. The big Fed's smile was weary, and as usual he looked like a man with bad news on his mind.
Bolan returned the smile and moved toward his old friend, April Rose following in lock-step, holding his arm.
"Nice wheels," he said. "I didn't know you were the nostalgic type."
Brognola shrugged.
"Just a little something we threw together. Come aboard."
Bolan mounted the folding steps with April in tow, and the dark blue door slid shut behind them. He scanned the roomy interior, taking in the banks of electronic hardware with workshop and living quarters in the rear.
The warrior was impressed, and he did not try to hide it.
"It feels like home," Bolan said.
Hal grinned.
"She's got everything you had on the original, and then some," the man from Washington, D.C., replied. "Our friends have added all the latest laser weaponry and optics."
Bolan experienced an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He had owned such a vehicle in another life, and he had ridden it to victory in phase one of his war against the cannibals.
Constructed by aerospace engineers and dubbed a "terrain module" the prototype had first seen action in his death struggle with the New Orleans troops of Don Marco Vannaducci. From there, it had served him well in a dozen other campaigns against the Mafia.
And finally, with April Rose at the helm, the War Wagon saw him through his bloody six-day "Second Mile" against the mob. Its fiery self-destruction on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Central Park had paved the way for Bolan's own rebirth as Colonel John Phoenix.
Memories.
The new war machine was a twenty-six-foot GMC motor home with extras the designers in Detroit had never dreamed of. As modified by Stony Man technicians, it wasself-contained, a battlefield command center that was virtually as mobile as the man himself. With a 450-cubic-inch power plant beneath the hood, front traction and the tandem rear wheels with air-bag suspension, the vehicle was capable of both evasion and pursuit. A secondary generator handled all unique electrical requirements of the combat systems.
Conventional wraparound windows had been supplanted by a system of replaceable panels with strategically positioned one-way-vision portholes. Amidships, the mobile war room featured a central combat-scenario command console whose computerized functions could be performed by remote control from the forward deck when he was driving. The weapons lab and armory provided ample storage space for weapons and munitions; the living quarters aft included toilet, shower and folding bunks for four.
The heart of the electronic intelligence-gathering unit employed computerized selection and switching circuits built to handle radio pickups, plus sensitive audio and optic scanners that functioned within the telemetry systems being fed into the console for synchronizing, editing and sorting, time-phasing, re-recording and microstoring of accumulated data.
The navigation system utilized a "shared-time" concept with the other electronics, allowing for complete instrument control in zero-visibility surroundings. Hidden rocketry provided Bolan with a heavy-punch capability. The system operated from the driver's seat with night-bright optics, laser-supplemented infrared illuminators, and with an automatic target acquisition via audio and video sensors.
The system could also be operated by remote control for extra-vehicular activity, allowing Bolan even greater combat stretch.
And those were just the features he could see, the ones he knew about. If Hal had turned the government designers loose, with all the laser weaponry available today . . . the potential was nothing short of awesome.
It was not just the War Wagon anymore. It was a new sophisticated Laser Wagon—with horsepower, firepower, striking power.
He found a seat at the communications console and April settled in beside him
. Hal Brognola was watching him intently, and Bolan broke the ice.
"We're a long way from the showroom. What's the action, Hal?"
Brognola's mouth turned downward in a scowl as he answered.
"The action's Paradine."
Bolan was stunned. The name recalled vivid images of carnage on a Turkish battlefield early in his terrorist wars. Bolan had believed that the mercenary known as Paradine was dead. But apparently he had been mistaken.
"Go on."
Brognola cleared his throat and started from the top.
"Paradine has picked off a diplomatic flight en route to Switzerland. He's got a dozen hostages, plus crew. There were Americans aboard, with Egyptians and Israelis, bound for a top-secret summit on the Middle East."
"Sponsorship?" Bolan asked.
Hal shook his head.
"No intelligence available. Defense suspects the Soviets, or any one of a half-dozen Arab splinter groups. All of them would profit from disruption of the talks. Who knows, Paradine could be going independent."
"Are they down?"
"The plane was found abandoned near the village of Tolmezzo in Italy, near the Yugoslav border. Nervy bastard put it down on a highway, if you can picture that. Landed on the only long stretch of straight tarmac for hundreds of miles around. The man himself has got to be in the vicinity."
"What's the going price these days?" Brognola's scowl deepened.
"I'll let you listen for yourself. We found this tape aboard the plane .. . beside a murdered member of the crew."
He plugged a cassette into the console, adjusting the volume as blank leader tape hissed through the wall-mounted speakers. Another moment, and a cold, atonal voice surrounded them.
"This is Paradine. As leader of the People's Revolutionary Front, I have taken into custody the representatives of three imperialist nations. They will each be executed if their governments do not concede to the following demands within forty-eight hours.
"First, they will arrange for the release of certain soldiers of the people's army, presently incarcerated inside the Turkish and West German police states. Names and all particulars shall be transmitted at a later time.
"Next, they will deliver one billion dollars’ worth of flawless gem-quality diamonds to the place that I direct, as partial reparations for their exploitation of the masses."
Paradine's voice hesitated, letting that demand sink in, and when he spoke again the voice had grown even chillier.
"Delivery of the diamonds shall be made by the agent code-named Phoenix. This isnonnegotiable. If he is unavailable, evidence of death must be presented with the reparations payment. His head will be acceptable." April Rose shivered perceptibly. Bolan sat impassively, waiting for the disembodied voice to finish.
"Acceptance of these terms should be communicated hourly until received on Radio Free Europe. Delivery instructions will then be telephoned to the U.S. embassy in Paris. All power to the people."
Momentary silence reigned inside the van, broken finally by Bolan.
"Any thoughts on how he made the name?"
"Negative, Striker. They're climbing walls around the Oval Office, but so far everybody checks out clean. My best guess would be a rumble in the underground, maybe a survivor with a grudge and a tale to tell. He can't know anything for certain."
"He knows too much, Hal!" April snapped. "If we bite on this, we'll be jeopardizing everything."
Bolan felt the tension between Hal and April, and he realized that they were in the middle of an ongoing argument. He took April's hand, addressing her directly.
"No way to pass it up," he told her. "I should have done it right the first time."
Brognola cleared his throat.
"I knew you'd see it that way," he said. "We sent the word at three o'clock this morning."
"Any feedback?"
"It's confirmed," Hal answered. "They want to check you out, make sure that you're alone and all that. Paradine plans to walk you through some checkpoints before delivery's finalized. There's a contact waiting in Monaco, and you'll get the rest from him. I have the details for you when you're ready."
"What's the time frame?"
"Tight and counting. We've used a quarter of those forty-eight hours already."
"No time to waste, then."
"Well, Striker, I thought you might find some use for the battle buggy here. Take it on a little shakedown cruise, you know?"
"Too conspicuous," Bolan said. "The shakedown will have to wait."
Brognola seemed about to argue when April chimed in, taking Bolan's side.
"He's right, Hal. We need to keep a low profile. The two of us—"
Bolan cut her off.
"Forget it, April. No room for passengers this time around."
Her eyes flashed with anger.
"I can pull my weight and you know it"she said. "You're going to need all the help you can get with that animal waiting for vou."
"Not this time," he repeated, soft but firm.
April stared hard at him, fists clenched. "Dammit!" she said as she stormed out of the Laser Wagon, sliding the door shut loudly behind her.
Bolan watched her go, remembering the times when they had fought together, side by side against the savages. The lady could pull her weight and then some. But he refused to risk her life.
Hal's voice distracted him from private thoughts.
"You just kicked a hornet's nest, guy. I'm going to catch hell for this."
Bolan managed a weary smile.
"You can take the heat," he said, "and she'll get over it. Let's get down to business."
Ten minutes later, selected ordnance and a heavy satchel full of diamonds had been transferred from the wagon to Bolan's Citroen. He had memorized directions and coordinates for his first checkpoint.
With the transfer completed, two old friends spent a parting moment. Hal shook hands with Bolan and wished him well in a solemn voice, clearly reluctant to see him go.
"Watch this bastard, Mack," he cautioned. "He's got a hate for you that won't quit, and he meant that crack about your head on a platter."
"I'll watch it" Bolan said.
Hal nodded, left him by the Citroen, then disappeared inside the motor home. Bolan was turning toward the rented car when April reappeared beside him, reaching out to touch his arm. Her eyes were moist, but her voice was firm.
"You're making a mistake, soldier."
April saw that her man could not be swayed from his decision.
"Hey . . . I love you," she told him.
Bolan smiled and pulled her close.
4
BOLAN GUNNED THE CITROEN along the coastal highway. Intent upon his mission, he ignored the beautiful view of the Mediterranean. He would leave the scenery to the tourists.
The man called Paradine was a living mystery—only sketchy information about him existed in the Stony Man files. Bolan's team possessed a composite likeness of the man, constructed from a knowledge of his physical dimensions, and his age was estimated to be thirty-five. The rest was blank—no photo-graphs or fingerprints available, no date of birth or nationality. Nothing, except for the bloody trail he left behind.
Paradinewas a mercenary terrorist, offering his lethal talents to the highest bidder without regard to politics or creed. Despite persistent stories of liaison with the Soviets, he never seemed to serve the same cause twice. His name had been connected with a dozen of the worst terrorist atrocities in adecade marked by ceaseless revolutionary warfare. Rumor placed him in the neighborhood of a grisly massacre in Rome, the demolition of the U.S. embassy in Beirut, Lebanon, the sniper slayings of American diplomats in Paris. The list went on.
Bolan had seen the bastard twice—at the scene of a massacre in Beverly Hills, and again at a training center for the Turkish People's Liberation Army, in the rugged Kara Mountain country. The Executioner had scuttled Paradine's designs on the latter occasion and attempted to kill the terrorist.
There had not been any time to confirm th
e kill. Evidently Paradine had lived. Bolan was determined not to miss a second time.
Experience had taught him that a viper will retain its lethal potency until the venom-bearing head is severed and obliterated. So it was with evil. Paradine cared nothing for the soldiers in his "people's army" neither those Bolan killed nor the survivors rotting in their prison cells. His demand for their release was a sham, obligatory window dressing, disguise for his primary purpose. Even the ransom payment, while significant, would be secondary in the terrorist's mind.
Delivery of the diamonds was simply a device to place the living target within range, to let Paradine avenge the pain and humiliation of their Turkish encounter.
Bolan did not know his enemy, but he knew the type. Stoic in the heat of battle, Paradine would be relentless in pursuit of vengeance to soothe his wounded ego.
The lion's share of Paradine's destructive energy would be channeled toward retaliation for its own sake, a compulsion to get even, to destroy and humiliate the object of his rage. He would never rest until he paid Phoenix back for the defeat in Turkey, or until he died.
Vengeance was a pitiful motive to Mack Bolan. Anyone who spent their campaigns avenging every defeat would continue to lose. Anytime whatsoever spent in jealously avenging losses and humiliations was time ill spent. Such time would eat at the future with all the corrosive rust of the past, and no progress could be made—only further failure.
Bolan would be acting from very different motives. He had to free the hostages, and he had to rid the world of a certified monster, to destroy the viper's head and its rotten body.
His were forward-looking motives. Paradine was a job unfinished, incomplete, and Bolan never did anything halfway. He wasgoing for scorched earth, total destruction of the mercenary terrorist. The warrior would succeed this time, or he would spend all his blood in the attempt.
"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE SAID" April snapped. "He needs help, even if he won't admit it."
Hal Brognola watched her through the haze of smoke rising from his cigar.
"Is that the head talking, or the heart?" April frowned.
"They go together," April insisted. "Listen, Hal, you know Mack feels responsible for Paradine. He won't rest until he makes it right."
Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Page 2
