Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River

by Pendleton, Don

  "Do you think he's right about these papers, Hal?"

  "Yes, I do. Damn right. Even if Asiwa's lists and information are old hat, the KGB and their unwitting friends among the Western media will have a heyday exposing our past connections in Africa."

  "Not to mention what it'll mean for the future."

  "Quite. There'll be another bloody purge and then we'll have lost our one best chance of gaining an ally in central Africa. And it's quite in the cards that we could be drawn into another 'peacekeeping' role—this time on the Angolan border region. Sure, it's a low-intensity conflict area right now, at least officially . . . but it could explode at any moment. And any chance the Reds have to stir up shit in that part of the world will not be wasted."

  "So the papers are more important than the diamonds—to both sides?"

  Brognola was silent for a moment. "Yes, we must get those documents. But you'll get no orders from the top. If any of you get caught inside Kuranda . . . well, you're on your own. Any connections would be denied."

  That was standard operating procedure. Bolan knew that. But Brognola felt uneasy enough to emphasize the point.

  "You'll be branded as international adventurers. And Washington will have to agree."

  "I understand."

  Phoenix Force would be on their own in the Congo hellzone.

  But this time The Executioner was leading them.

  5

  Bolan ground out his cigarette in the dirt. He stood there silently savoring the last of the tropical twilight. The suddenness with which it melted into velvet darkness amazed him.

  The moon was young: just a cold crescent of silver hanging over this ancient land. Bolan took a deep breath—satisfaction mixed with anticipation. Tomorrow night would be perfect for the drop.

  The twin beams of Sorbara's jeep probed along the dusty track around the far perimeter of the field. McCarter and Ohara would arrive shortly. Then all the members of Phoenix Force would be here.

  Bolan strode back toward the hangar and pushed open the wicket door. The cavernous building was harshly lit by four work lamps. For a moment their direct glare was shielded from him by the shadowy bulk of the aircraft parked in the center of the oil-stained floor. The venerable Otter seemed improbably large within these confines.

  Bolan reached up to pat the wing strut as he walked over to the workbench where most of the weaponry was laid out.

  Gary Manning was sitting cross-legged on a patch of canvas, reassembling the detonator he had just checked out down to the last screw.

  Rafael Encizo, the deadly Cuban contribution to Bolan's team, was inspecting each primer closely before placing it securely in a protective case.

  Steve Hohenadel, the pilot, heard the sound of the vehicle pulling up on the tarmac outside and nodded at the American leader.

  Only Katz did not look around. He remained staring at the map of central Africa that was tacked over a schedule of flying lessons on the large bulletin board. A cigarette smoldered in the corner of his mouth; its ash had acquired a perilous droop. Bolan thought he looked weary and bitter in the brightness of those naked bulbs, and he watched as Katz rubbed the back of his glove as if his right hand was still encased by it.

  Chris Sorbara came in first, followed by David McCarter and Keio Ohara.

  "Any problems?" Hohenadel asked Sorbara.

  "No. Johnny Scarlip was a little curious about what I was doing back in town, but I took the scenic route out and left him behind."

  Hohenadel seemed satisfied. It wasn't too hard to shake off the customary Central Intelligence Organization—CIO—tail, especially a lazy bastard like old Johnny Scarlip. Nkomo himself was no longer a threat, but Zimbabwe's leader still had his hands full trying to put down the challenge presented by the followers of his rival, Matabele. There were too many so-called allies ready to eat his Marxist ass for Mugabe's secret police to follow every white businessman or tourist who stopped off in Salisbury.

  Each member of Phoenix Force had entered the country under a different tailor-made cover; in each case, preventive measures had been taken to ensure no snoop from the CIO would track them to their rendezvous at the bush airstrip, two hours drive from the capital.

  "Colonel, you have my undying gratitude," announced McCarter. "Your summons has saved me from a fate worse than death!"

  It was Manning who raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," explained the Englishman.

  "Well, since we're trading clichés," replied Bolan, "you might be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire."

  McCarter grinned. It was precisely the kind of action he looked forward to; in fact, the ex-SAS officer thrived on it.

  "Yakov, how are you?" McCarter's gesture was part wave, part salute, and wholly respectful. He had never forgotten the lesson that the older man had taught him at their first encounter, when McCarter had churlishly addressed him as "dads."

  Keio Ohara seemed to almost glide across the floor. Years of self-discipline and rigorous training in the martial arts had given him a self-assurance and grace of movement that few men ever achieve.

  The lighthearted banter with which the warriors greeted each other belied their utter dedication to the cause Mack Bolan had rallied them to; for beneath this casual veneer they were fighting men devoted to the destruction of evil wherever it might be found.

  "There's still much to do, gentlemen, and no time to waste," said Bolan, stepping in front of the map. He pointed to the area of the airfield and then traced a course to the northwest, across Zambia and up along the eastern border of Angola. His finger stopped its path and he tapped a spot on the map.

  "This is our target: Kuranda. A patrol of MPLA troopers, probably with some Cuban surrogates riding herd, is about to enter Kuranda and attempt to reach this region, the headwaters of the Makala River. The patrol is under the command of one Colonel Yagoda, fresh from Moscow if our intelligence is correct. He is guided by a South African called Brendan Scarr. The object of their expedition is to retrieve a cache of loot that Scarr left behind years ago. Our objective, men, is to take it away from them."

  McCarter's teeth flashed in a tight grin—yes, this was going to be right up his street!

  Bolan signaled to Katz, who now stepped forward.

  "Because of my familiarity with the region," began the ex-Mossad agent, "Colonel Phoenix has asked me to say a few words about the terrain we'll be operating in, and about the guide Colonel Phoenix mentioned before, Brendan Scarr. Quite honestly I'm not sure which is more dangerous."

  There was a venom in his tone that made even Manning stop wiping his hands on the rag he held.

  "Basically this eastern edge of Kuranda can be divided into three regions. In the south, where we'll be landing, it's rolling grasslands. It used to be a pocket of big-game country and it's still relatively unpopulated. The only feasible point of entry for Scarr and his gang is through the Mbanja Gap. Heading northeast they'll hit a long strip of very hostile dry-lands. It's a small desert caused by the rainshadow of the Mambosso Range. I warn you, it isn't known as the Devil's Forge for nothing."

  Bolan caught Hohenadel exchanging an uneasy glance with his partner. The two pilots were obviously glad they had only the delivery and pick-up details to attend to—there was no way they wanted to trek across the Forge.

  "Here in the top corner of Kuranda," Katz continued, "the land rises quickly. Steep hills and gorges are clad in semitropical rain forest. Difficult country. And this is where the Makala begins. It's where Scarr is probably heading . . . he buried the loot somewhere in that godforsaken jungle."

  Bolan scanned each of the men who made up Phoenix Force. They were concentrating entirely on Katz's preliminary briefing.

  "Some years ago-1964 to be exact—during one of the many crises in the Congo, Scarr deserted the post he'd been entrusted to defend for a little private enterprise of his own. He was willing to profit at the cost of other men's lives. It's up to us to write the final figures on the balance
sheet."

  There was no mistaking Katz's intention: this time Brendan Scarr was going to end up in the red!

  Bolan spoke next. "I'll fill in further details with each of you later, and we'll discuss specific assignments. Right now I want to introduce you officially to Steve Hohenadel and Chris Sorbara--they'll be flying us in and out on this job."

  Hohenadel put down the half-empty bottle of beer he was holding, ambled to the front and touched the long peak of his Five Star Oil baseball cap. He and Sorbara had been picked by the Stony Man computer as the best local men for the job. Both of them were highly experienced African bush pilots who had shown exceptional dedication to the cause of civilized order in the protracted war for Rhodesia.

  "Hi, I'm Steve... this is my partner and copilot, Chris. He's coming along to spell me at the controls and shut the hatch after you've jumped. Behind you is the Amelia. She's a De Havilland DHC-3. Amphibian, as you can see. Ex-Ghana air force. Ex-mail plane running the Mozambique Channel. Now she belongs to Chris and me—or at least she will after three more payments."

  Although the two fliers obviously had a vested interest in the safe return of their craft, McCarter had an important question. "The only time I flew an Otter, I remember its range was limited to under a thousand miles."

  "Normally that's correct but longer-range fuel tanks were added," explained Hohenadel. "It should be able to cover around fourteen hundred miles with this payload aboard."

  McCarter glanced at the map, then back to Hohenadel. "Ah, yes. But that isn't going to get us to Kuranda, is it? Are we supposed to walk the rest of the way?"

  "We'll take it in two legs," replied the pilot, pointing to a spot a little more than halfway to the intended drop zone. "We'll touch down here: Lake Kalam basse. It's been arranged with friendlies to refuel us there. After you've jumped, we'll return to Kalambasse and wait there for you. Seventy-two hours is the time limit. You've got to be in and out within three days."

  "And how do we accomplish that?" asked Ohara.

  "Ground support has been arranged through the facilities of a large mining consortium." Bolan picked up the briefing. "No names, no pack drill. But we'll be met at the drop point by Luke Rawson, a surveyor, who'll bring us transport and act as the local guide. After we've hit Scarr's mob, it'll be up to Rawson to get us aboard a float plane to fly us out to Kalambasse and our rendezvous with the Amelia."

  STEVE HOHENADEL opened the throttle smoothly. The Otter rolled forward. He gave it just a touch of right rudder, felt the elevators come alive, trimmed the plane, and then rose so effortlessly that they were in the air before his passengers had noticed the liftoff.

  McCarter was impressed. Each man had his own special contribution to make. It would be up to McCarter to fly them out of Kuranda. If they made it.

  The rest of Phoenix Force were thinking of their individual responsibilities. Encizo and Manning were discussing tricks for setting explosives. Katz and Bolan were looking at a larger-scale map of the drop zone, a deserted stretch of bush several miles north of a village named Shogololo.

  "Kuranda will be a better place when Bambabele's back in power," mused Katz.

  "I'm not going for Bambabele," said Bolan. "It's the papers that are important."

  The older man paused for a moment before wondering aloud: "I wonder what sort of a cut INGOT are going to get from the diamonds."

  Bolan shrugged. They had to get them first.

  Encizo leaned forward: "Why don't we land right there on the river?"

  "The Makala?" Katz shook his head. "Impossible. It's a roaring torrent through those upper gorges. Thick with copper-bearing sludge. The natives call it the 'River of Blood.' Couldn't get the plane down there."

  "Besides, we don't know exactly where Scarr is heading for," added Bolan. "No, we have to cut their trail here in the south, playing Tail-end Charlie while they lead us to the cache."

  "Think there could be any trouble from the Kuranda Air Force?" asked Encizo.

  "It's not worth spit," Bolan told him. "And the latest reports indicated that Mumungo has all his forces concentrated in the western sector anyway, mostly around the capital. He needs a show of air strength to stay in power."

  Manning scanned the sky off the port wing. "What about along this border, Colonel?"

  "Mugabe's got troubles of his own. Saboteurs have wiped out nearly half his air force. A dozen Hunters, Hawks and a Cessna all got blown up on the ground. Zimbabwe doesn't have enough air power to check out every tourist flight."

  Hohenadel steered a course west by south, as if they were on a routine overflight of Victoria Falls, but then he swung ninety degrees to starboard and cut across the corner of Zambia. Sometimes rising for cloud cover, but mostly using his extensive knowledge of the ground contours, the Rhodesian pilot flew on toward Kuranda undetected.

  "Want some coffee?" Manning offered the thermos to Encizo, who shook his head. The Canadian passed it back to Ohara, who also declined.

  Hohenadel and Sorbara had proved as good at quartermastering as they were at flying. Years of internal strife had left Africa awash in arms. Guns were expensive, but they had managed to supply Bolan and his men with more than adequate firepower.

  Bolan had a familiar M-16, fitted with a sniper scope. Ohara took the Armalite with a grenade launcher attached. Manning and McCarter both had FNs, and Encizo cradled a Czech-made Skorpion.

  The Uzi was left for Katz. It was an older model with a scarred wooden stock, but well cared for; the Israeli soldier felt comfortable with it. Anyway, Katz was always armed. Built into the titanium steel finger of his artificial hand was a single-shot .22 Magnum. Very effective at close range.

  The team carried an assortment of .45s and .357 handguns, explosives, fragmentation and smoke grenades and enough ammunition to start a small war.

  THAT UNEASY MOMENT before jumping into the unknown darkness was relieved by the fact that each man was glad to be getting out of the cramped quarters of the aircraft.

  It had been a tedious flight. They had stopped on the placid waters of Kalambasse no longer than it took to refuel the Otter. But still they were twenty minutes later than Hohenadel's estimated time of arrival. The two pilots would be lucky to make it back to their lakeshore hideout before it was light.

  Bolan took a deep breath to steady himself. A static line had been rigged for the low-level jump, but there had been no point in fixing up the customary green and red lights for this jump. Keio, who had taken para-commando training, was the jumpmaster. He would be the last to drop through the floor hatch. Bolan was going first.

  "Three . . . two . . . one," Hohenadel called out from the controls.

  Sorbara tapped Keio on the shoulder. "This is it." Ohara's narrowed eyes glinted with excitement. "Go!"

  Bolan levered himself forward and dropped through the open hatch.

  The clear cold wind stripped away the stuffiness of the flight. Bolan could hear the chute streaming out above his head as the plane droned steadily away from him.

  There was no sickening lurch as the dark silk umbrella mushroomed above him, just a gentle tug as he swung upright, his hands automatically reaching for the toggles. Against the glittering starry backdrop, Bolan could make out the other black silhouettes billowing down.

  He spilled a little air from the chute, turning into the breeze to cut his lateral speed. There were no lights below to pick out the landing zone. Even as he scanned across the pitch-black grassland for a sign of Rawson, Bolan's feet struck the ground and he rolled forward.

  Within seconds the commander was gathering the parachute's fabric into a tight ball. The equipment would have to be buried here. No sign of their arrival must be left visible for some inquisitive native to report.

  Click-clack!

  The sharp metallic sound off to his right was from Katz. A second signal followed from farther away. The team was gathering together.

  Manning loomed out of the darkness, carrying his chute bundled under his arm. Encizo and Ohara, lugging
the supplies container, closed in on Bolan.

  "No reception committee," grunted the Canadian. "Hope to hell we're in the right place."

  "Think we must be." McCarter's voice was surprisingly close. "I landed right in the middle of the bloody road!"

  The "road" was nothing more than two closely parallel tracks beaten into the dry earth.

  The Amelia had vanished. Bolan and his men had landed in the very heart of the African killing ground. And they were quite alone.

  6

  Dawn broke with the same startling shock as the tropical twilight had vanished. The night sky split apart along the seam of the horizon. A faint gray lilac smudge was momentarily streaked with pink, then the red gold rim of the sun erupted over the distant folds of the withered savannah.

  The rainy season should have begun already, but the climate of the African wilderness had become erratic in the past few years. There was a bright yellow flash overhead as a weaverbird flew southward in search of a water hole.

  "I knew we'd end up walking!" said McCarter. "The exercise will do you good," Manning shot back. "Quit grumbling and give me a hand."

  The ordnance had been distributed. Their ammo pouches were full. The explosives and detonating equipment stood on the grass in their cases. And the parachutes had been bundled together into the empty container.

  Hearing McCarter's good-natured gripe, Bolan looked across as the two men lowered the capsule into the pit they had dug. Manning was dressed much as he had been for Clayton's war game. But this time, thank God, it was for real. The others also all wore some combination of jungle-patterned fatigues.

  Katz was staring down the track that eventually joined the Doushasi road outside Shogololo. He knew why he had come back to the Congo, but he was still uneasy. This whole damn operation had been mounted in too much of a hurry.

  "If we don't get transport soon we're going to lose them," he said. Katz hadn't come this far to miss Scarr. "Unless there was a mistake—maybe they haven't crossed the border yet."

  Bolan shook his head. There had been no mistake. He had listened to the message himself, patched through to the radio shack at the airstrip. It was brief and to the point: "The visitors have arrived." One of Bambabele's spies had spotted the Angolan unit approaching the Mbanja Gap. His report had crackled through static halfway around the world and back again.