Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River

by Pendleton, Don

  It was not necessary for the guide to point out the location of Shoba Well. About six hundred yards from where they lay, a large fissure in the rock provided a natural cistern that was constantly replenished by a mineral-rich spring. The few bushes and a fringe of tough grasses that ringed the well were the only signs of greenery they had seen all afternoon.

  They were looking almost directly into the setting sun, but Ohara's sharp eyes could make out movements around the life-giving pool.

  "Not men." Mulanda shook his head. "No, they are creatures of the desert. They come for their evening drink."

  "All we can do now is watch and wait," Bolan said. "Try to get a little rest. You've all got a spear and a knife?"

  They each nodded, but Ohara asked, "Are you sure they're going to stop here?"

  "They've had an even longer drive across the desert than we did. I'm confident they'll rest here for a while."

  "After all, where could be safer?" Encizo grinned at the irony of his own remark.

  "Yagoda and Scarr have got to figure they'll be secure out here in the middle of nowhere," agreed Bolan. "Remember, when we move in we want them to think it was the work of Bushmen. So no fancy tricks. Just grab what weapons you can, slash some tires, steal their food . . . . "

  "What about the men?" Ohara asked, running his thumb along the well-honed blade.

  "Use your handguns only if you're absolutely forced to. Hit and run! Rendezvous at the vehicle... and we're away. That ravine back there should muffle the noise of our engine."

  Mulanda tapped the commander's shoulder and jabbed his finger at the faint dust haze in the distance.

  "Okay, this is it," said Bolan, "spread out and take cover."

  Ohara melted behind a boulder about ten feet away. Encizo and the tracker lay down in a gully just below Bolan's position.

  The next move was up to Yagoda.

  The small animals drinking by the pool scampered away at the drone of the approaching engines. In the brief transition of twilight, the three Star trucks pulled up in formation on the gravel pan beside the track. Bolan watched through his binoculars as the men piled out—it was his first chance to view the enemy.

  There were eight men in each vehicle, plus the driver and a guy in the passenger seat: thirty soldiers in all. They were uniformly garbed in jungle-camouflage fatigues. And, unless there were an unusual number of black Cubans mixed in, the team seemed evenly divided between Angolan troops and Castro's mercenaries.

  Bolan slowly panned the milling group below. Suddenly he stopped, moving the binoculars back an inch or two to focus on two men taller than the others, one checking his map case, the other talking and pointing to the north. Probably Scarr and the Russian discussing their situation.

  Even in the failing light, Bolan could make out the Afrikaaner with his reddish gold hair. He was wearing a sweat-stained bush shirt that looked two sizes too large. The diet in Quita prison was not calculated to put on weight. Yagoda listened carefully, then issued his own instructions to the Cuban sergeant. The man from Moscow was calling the shots.

  Sentries were posted near the trucks and at the four corners of a perimeter line. One of the guards was facing the hill, but it was too gloomy now for him to make out much more than a dark silhouette against the spangled backdrop of the African night. Other men were detailed to light a fire and brew up.

  The rest of the platoon flopped on the ground and waited for the rations to be distributed. Some were smoking and a couple of them just flaked out for a nap. It had been an exhausting ride.

  Curses, laughter and orders in Spanish drifted up the hillside. Encizo gripped his spear more tightly. He knew precisely why the colonel had picked him for this nightprobe. It was a tactical decision.

  Rafael Encizo, survivor of the Bay of Pigs invasion, was a Cuban patriot. He spoke the same language as some of the men standing watch down there. But it was the only thing left that he had in common with them. Fidel Castro had mortgaged his beloved island to the Kremlin. But tonight—in a place so far away from the lush Caribbean—he had another chance to work toward evening the score.

  Rafael Encizo had not chosen this killing ground. Those troops down at the well had come here before him—men who allowed themselves to be used as the whores of an alien ideology.

  Soon it would be time to strike. He waited for Phoenix to give the signal.

  THE SCENT WAS CARRIED on the sluggish night air. The wary cat froze in midstride at the base of the hill and listened and sniffed again. It was the unmistakable smell of danger: man smell!

  If the leopard had not been so hungry she would have retreated, but she needed meat, any meat. Head low and jaw open, the big carnivore stalked silently through the rocks to the crown of the hill.

  Tonight she would eat . . .

  9

  David McCarter casually strolled along the village street, the FLN balanced lightly on his shoulder.

  "Evening!" He touched the soft brim of his jungle hat as he greeted the old lady who was smoking a clay pipe in the doorway of her hut. She gave him a gap-toothed smile in return.

  The girl they had seen grinding flour turned away and vanished before he could address her. McCarter shrugged—she certainly was a looker! He saw the shadowy figure of Katz circling past the end of the street. "Yakov! It's just about time for me to spell you. Anything happening?"

  "No, it's as quiet as the grave. Have they finished fixing the truck?"

  "I think Gary's about through with it. Seems to have been a bitch of a job."

  "I'm sure he's done the best he can. But I cannot tell whether Rawson is more of a hindrance or a help . . ."

  McCarter screwed up his nose in obvious distaste.

  "Watch out when you patrol past those acacia trees," Katz cautioned him. "There's a narrow gully running right along behind the huts over there. I almost fell into it in the dark."

  "Thanks for the warning." McCarter sauntered away, but then turned. "You watch out for Kambolo's curried chicken—at least, that's what he claims it is. If this were the Savoy I'd have sent it back to the chef."

  The older man smiled. McCarter might play the clown at times, but he was as good as they came—which was a lot more than he was willing to say for their guide.

  Rawson was already tackling his second plate of Kambolo's dubious cuisine when Katz got back to the forge. Gary Manning was trying to wash himself off in a rusted oil drum half-full of stagnant water. After the long afternoon's struggle to repair the truck with the blacksmith's inadequate tools, the two men did not appear to be on speaking terms.

  As Katz helped himself to a deliberately small serving of the chicken concoction, Rawson watched closely to see how the Israeli would manage with his artificial hand. Finally, curiosity got the better of him. "Did you lose it in the fighting down here?"

  "No. In the Six Day War."

  "Must have been a tough break."

  A wistful look crossed Katz's face as he thought of his only son who had died in the same antipersonnel-mine blast that had ripped away his arm.

  He shrugged—his personal contribution to his country's victory was small enough when compared to the sacrifice others had been called upon to make. Then he spoke.

  "What about you, Mr. Rawson? Where do you come from?"

  "Jo' burg, originally. Came up here on a three-year contract—nearly twenty years ago. Too late for me to go back now."

  "And you've worked for Afric Ore all that time?"

  "For one INGOT division or another, yes. Surveying, track laying, supervising mining operations, you name it, I've done it. Sure I've compromised, but then we all have to at some time or other, don't we?"

  Katz seemed to nod in agreement, but the tilt of his head was quite perfunctory—compromise was not something he was familiar with. "You stayed on after the coup. What happened?"

  "At the time, I didn't know any more about it than Bambabele himself. He was out of the country at an All-African Economic Summit when Mumungo grabbed power. And I was u
p in the bush—in fact, it was near where we're heading for—I was trying to get a derailed train back on the tracks."

  "Got back to the city to find Kuranda had a new leader. That's the way it happens in these countries. The shift of power is swift. Here today, gone tomorrow. But I stayed on—somebody had to look after things. You know, those bastards haven't given me a raise in five years. That's gratitude for you!"

  "You ever had any trouble with Mumungo's men before?"

  Manning, who had joined the group after his clean up, looked interested in Rawson's answer, but not enough to join in the conversation.

  "Not personally. But I've seen enough of it. Like this morning. They're mean bastards, the Leopard Patrol. Well named, too—the leopard is the most vicious and dangerous wild animal in Africa. Personally, I wouldn't want to run into either, men or beasts . . . . "

  Rawson had a few questions of his own. While Katz leaned back against the mud wall and chewed on his supper, the surveyor took the initiative. "Why doesn't your boss set up an ambush for Scarr's mob in the desert? It would be a good place to catch them on the way back from Blood River."

  "I suppose there's a chance they might try a different route out," Katz told him. "Anyway, who can tell what'll happen up in the high country? Once Scarr has led them to the cache, his usefulness is expended."

  "I'm sure he was the first to figure that out," added Manning.

  "So he might try anything to stay alive. No, Mr. Rawson, we've got to hit them just as soon as they've recovered the loot. The timing is critical."

  "Your only worry is to get us out," the Canadian said to Rawson. There was a thinly veiled threat in his words.

  "I've got one of the old company float planes waiting for us at Baruka. It's a small lake about forty miles northwest of here." Rawson returned Manning's stare quite evenly. "I'll get you out."

  Rawson tossed the remains of his supper in the dirt. "I think I'll turn in," said their guide, not inquiring if he might take a turn standing watch. He belched and hurried away to fetch his bedroll from the back of the truck.

  "Are you sure it'll get us the rest of the way?" Katz asked the engineer, once Rawson was out of earshot. It was an unfair question and he knew it even as he spoke.

  "I've done what I can," replied Manning. "We'll see in the morning. I'm going to get my head down, too."

  Katz sat alone in the darkness, smoking a last cigarette. Sitting in the soft glow of an oil lantern, he observed how pitch-black it looked out there. Colonel Phoenix was right. It would be crazy to risk pushing on through the night.

  He still couldn't put his finger on precisely what it was that nagged at him. Was it Rawson? If he had no particular company loyalty or political conviction, then what the hell was he doing here? Was it the bad luck they had had with their transportation? Or was it just Africa?

  He knew it would be a long night, waiting for the others to get back.

  THE FIRES HAD BURNED LOW. The sentries had been changed after supper. And the men were now bedded down. It was still early but there was nothing else to do but sleep, for Yagoda would surely have them up before dawn.

  Bolan decided to wait another couple of minutes before issuing his final orders. Encizo would take the point. He and Ohara would be close behind. Mulanda would watch the left flank.

  Physically, mentally, Bolan prepared himself. It was time for The Executioner to take his nightwalk.

  The men asleep at Shoba Well did not know how close Death would brush past them this night. But for the lucky ones it would be only a temporary reprieve. None would escape the appointment they must keep on Blood River.

  Every sense was now alert . . . and some survival instinct far below the level of consciousness compelled Bolan to turn. The alarm bells were screaming in his brain as he whirled to face the ridge behind.

  He was half sitting, his back to the boulder, when the hungry cat sprang . . . one hundred twenty pounds of whipcord sinew, taut muscle and slashing fangs smashed into him.

  The spear was knocked from his hand. There was no time to scramble for the weapon in the split second he had to defend himself.

  Panthera Pardus is one of the most efficient killing machines ever evolved by nature. But, like all the big cats, it has one structural deficiency: no collarbone! As Bolan struggled to one side, the leopard twisted the other way and Bolan was able to loop his arms under her powerful forelimbs. Exerting every ounce of strength, he splayed open her legs and began pulling them back against her neck. The cat snarled viciously as she felt her shoulders begin to dislocate under the relentless pressure.

  Mulanda crouched wide-eyed and immobile, transfixed by the struggle of man against wild beast. Encizo felt helpless. Any light, any sound, any further action on their part would give them all away.

  Although the sharp hind claws had raked his leg in the first attack, Bolan did not cry out—not even for help from his comrades.

  His whole being, body and soul, was focused on the defeat of the writhing, snarling maneater. It was those claws he must avoid. With a lightning-fast maneuver, Bolan managed to straddle the great cat. Crushing her pelvis in a scissors grip, Bolan hooked his own legs between the beast's and levered them open.

  Ohara dared not jab out blindly with his spear. He might wound the colonel. With unerring accuracy, he threw his heavy knife into the ground about a foot away from the struggling pair.

  With its front paws still clawing wildly at the air, Bolan could not relax his grip on the creature for one moment. It writhed and twisted, snarling, trying to shake off the heavy weight of its intended victim. Still Bolan clung for his life.

  He managed to keep the predator's head tucked forward with the choke hold, but he could still feel its fetid breath as it gave a low grunting cough.

  Each agonizing second lasted an eternity. The hungry leopard found some hidden reserve of desperate strength and began to squirm out from under him.

  It was now or . . . . Bolan snatched the knife up faster than a striking snake. The leopard twisted about, ready for its revenge, but it was too late. Ten inches of razor-sharp steel sliced through its rib cage, and the tip of the blade cut through its aorta.

  Seizing the creature by the throat, Bolan rammed home the point a second time, and this thrust skewered its heart. A crimson flood gushed back along the blood run in warm, heavy spurts. The cat fell on its side, shuddered and lay still.

  The nightmare struggle was over.

  Ohara was the first one to wriggle forward. The naturally rank smell of the cat now mingled with the hot stench of its lifeblood still puddling in the dirt.

  "Are you hurt?" he whispered urgently.

  "No, not badly," replied Bolan. He was still trying to catch his breath. "Are they on the alert?"

  The tall Japanese peered round the side of the boulder. The sudden flare of a match lit up two faces as they poked their cigarettes in the flame. A couple of the guards had heard the sounds. "They probably think it's a hunting animal on the prowl."

  "That's all it was." Bolan shook his head. It was terrible to be forced to kill such a magnificent creature. "There's no way they'll risk coming up here in the darkness to investigate it."

  Mulanda looked down at the body of the cat. It was more than five feet long. His friends would never believe him. He could hardly believe it himself: he had seen a man take on a full-grown leopard and win. This American warrior truly was The Powerful One.

  "Bwana Mukubwa!" he breathed, his head lowered in respect. Gone was his slightly sarcastic "baas"—now it was "Great Master!"

  "Rafael, you lead. Keio and I will be right behind you. Mulanda, move out to the left." This was no time for hero worship. "Let's go. We've got some hunting of our own to do!"

  THE MOON was barely more than a discarded fingernail among the myriad stars that twinkled over the African plain, but the midnight sky was bright enough for Encizo to pick out the solitary sentry hunched in the bushes to his right.

  His frogman training stood him in good stead,
even here—whether landing at night on a Caribbean beachhead or creeping across the sands around a water hole in Africa, the Cuban could move as silently as a sidewinder. And he was every bit as deadly. Yagoda's watchdog was in for a surprise.

  Encizo moved swiftly past the picket, turned and straightened up. Now he sauntered toward the guard from the one direction the guy was not expecting trouble.

  Still the man turned. "Quiet?"

  "Tomas. Esta bien," Rafael quickly reassured him. One of the squad had to be named Tomas. "iQue Nora es?"

  The guard checked the luminous dial of his watch. "Son las dace y cuarto. zQue pasa?"

  Encizo stepped closer, apparently fiddling with his fly. It was obvious to the sentry what "Tomas" was about to do.

  Satisfied, the sentry turned away with a chuckle. He was still grinning when Encizo's hand clamped around his mouth. From left to right, the razor edge of the knife sank deep, through skin, muscle and gristle, to open up another wider, bloodwet grin . . . it slashed through everything vital. There was only a soft gurgling sound as Encizo gently lowered the corpse of his ex-compatriot to the ground.

  Bolan and Ohara hurried through the unguarded gap in the perimeter. They could see the dark shape of the Cuban nightfighter crouchwalking across the open patch in front of them. Ohara veered off to the right, toward the bundled forms of the sleeping soldiers. Bolan followed fast on Encizo's heels.

  Over on the far side, the Angolan guard was pacing nervously back and forth, AK-47 held ready, still wondering what dreadful creature was prowling out there on its nightly hunt. He never saw Mulanda. The assegai flashed out of the darkness, split the sentry's sternum and erupted from his back.

  He swayed for a moment, then fell to his knees grasping the decorated shaft, too surprised to even call out. Before he could summon the last of his strength to shout a warning, the Mussengamba tracker was upon him. A blade glittered cold in the starlight as the fallen man's throat, too, was slit from side to side.

  Mulanda picked up the AK-47 out of the grass. In his opinion not much of a weapon, but for booty it was all right.