"You hear that plane?" Rawson jerked his thumb toward the screen of trees behind them. "Mumungo's after us!"
Oduka shook his head, wondering what the INGOT surveyor was involved in, but changed it to a nod. "Anyone who is an enemy of Mumungo is a friend of mine."
He even managed a grin for McCarter, whom he recognized as the man who had smashed his window earlier.
The Englishman was still thinking about that DC-3. They were not here to intimidate innocent civilians. He turned to Bolan. "What if someone objects to us borrowing their plane?"
Bolan tapped the nearest of the metal bank boxes. "I'd say we've got enough here to buy that old crate. Now give Rafael a hand and toss this lot in the caboose. Mulanda, hide the truck in the trees over there! It might buy us a few minutes if that plane has to check out the road looking for us."
ODUKA automatically reached for the whistle as they set off. Bolan gently restrained him. "Not this time, my friend."
Manning was working as the fireman on this trip. He gave Bolan a grime-streaked grin as he bent to shovel on more coal. He hadn't had this much fun in ages.
The railroad tracks ran parallel to the road for four or five miles, then veered away to the east. The train picked up speed as it started the long gradual descent to the Mabuti plain. Here the tropical forest was thick and undisturbed. Somewhere ahead, a troop of chimpanzees chattered excitedly, warning each other of the approach of the steaming, straining monster.
Bolan left Manning and Oduka to work the engine. As he climbed back over the coal tender he wondered how long it would be before the plane spotted the thick puffs of smoke that lingered above the trees, marking their escape route.
"How's he doing?" Bolan tipped his head toward Ziemba.
"He'll be fine, bwana." The Mussengamba tracker's smile needed no translation. "He thanks you and the gray-haired one, you do not desert your men."
The two blacks were sitting propped against the mound of firewood, enjoying the sunlight flickering through the trees that lined the tracks. Ohara squatted at the other end of the flatcar, checking how many grenades they had left. Rawson sat close by in sullen silence, staring blankly into the forest.
"You guys okay?" Bolan shouted to Encizo and McCarter, who were perched on top of the caboose.
The Englishman patted the machine gun and gave the Phoenix commander a thumbs-up signal.
Bolan tapped Katz on the arm. "Let's go take a look at what we've got. Have you still got the case?"
The Israeli nodded, picked up the square canvas pack and headed for the rear coach.
The trees were thinning out, the gradient becoming less steep. They could see more of the sky now. But there was still no sign of the plane. Bolan stared down at Rawson and offered him the M-16. "Here, take this, we'll need every gun if there's trouble ahead."
Inside the caboose, Katz opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out a silver-colored case. It was made from an alloy developed for the space program, lightweight but virtually indestructible. He laid it flat on the floor and threw the lid open. Six chamois leather pouches nestled in the thickly padded lining. "Let's hope we've got something to put in them."
Bolan reached for his ankle sheath, remembered it was empty and accepted the heavy combat knife Katz offered him.
He shook the first of the bank boxes. Nothing. It sounded quite empty. He tried another. This time he was rewarded with a metallic rattle. Bolan stuck the blade under the lip of the lid and began to pry it open.
Katz started shaking each of the boxes in turn. If it sounded promising he shoved it into the pile near Bolan's leg. The others he pushed away for now against the wall of the caboose. "None of them sound as if they have papers inside. . . . "
"Look at this!" Bolan had forced the top off the first container.
He pulled out a dozen gold wafers and a crumbled sack of gold coins. Bolan poured their find into the special carrying case. The next box held seven small nuggets and a loose assortment of minor gems.
"We've reached the open plain," warned Katz, glancing out of the dust-coated window. "I still haven't found . . . . "
"I have," cut in Bolan. He tilted the deposit case so his comrade could see the contents for himself. "Vandergriff's little nest egg!"
There must have been fifty stones in the bottom of that tray. They were roughly shaped and still coated with a cloudy film of dirt. But as Bolan turned the case, pinpricks of light danced in the brilliant depths of the precious gems.
The American poured them into one of the soft leather pouches, silently weighing it in his hand for a moment. He could understand fighting for a cause, sacrificing oneself for a deeply held principle . . . but murdering for a handful of transparent stones . . . . He dropped the pouch into the silver case and started on the next black container.
More diamonds, perhaps forty this time. Plus rings, necklaces and six more thin gold wafers.
Katz shook one of the safe-deposit boxes and lifted it to his ear. He was sure he heard a faint rustling inside. Was this the real treasure? The one they had come so far and fought so hard for, the papers that Scarr never knew he had stolen?
"Mack, I think . . . ."
There was a sharp rap on the roof as McCarter stamped out a warning. His voice was a tinny echo through the ventilator. "Here comes the army!"
Damn, so Mumungo was taking one last stab at stopping them!
"Yakov, you check it out," said Bolan. "I'll finish here."
Katz hesitated only for a moment, fighting to stifle his curiosity. Mack was right. Colonel Phoenix was the one who had to transfer the rest of the loot to the carrying case, ready to jump off as soon as they got close to the airfield. But the men outside were Katz's primary responsibility. They bore the Phoenix name, but they were his team. "I'll see what's happening."
He had to brace himself against the sway of the coach as Oduka piled on more speed. Katz cocked the Uzi for action and stepped outside.
Bolan reached for the box that Katz had indicated might contain the papers and jammed the knife under the edge of the lid. The lock snapped and Bolan pushed the top open with the blade.
What he saw hit him like a punch in the gut. His breath was expelled in a short, disgusted grunt. So this is what they had risked their lives for . . . .
"Stay right where you are!" Rawson ordered harshly from the doorway. He slipped inside the caboose.
Bolan looked up to see that his own rifle was now trained right at his chest. But he still reached out to grip the case. "You've come to collect your payoff?"
"I may be leaving Kuranda," the surveyor said, nodding, "but I've got my own way out. And I'm not going empty-handed."
He jerked the barrel of the gun, indicating Bolan should push the silver case toward the door. The American ignored him. "You weren't after that plane back there, were you. You wanted to take out as many of my men as possible, before the time came to turn on me."
"Maybe that's the way it was. Now, gimme the case!"
"What are you going to do with these stones? How do you think you can dispose of them without being caught?"
"I've got my contacts. You can't be in my line of work for twenty years without making some." Rawson risked one quick glance out of the window. "They'll be sold in Antwerp by the end of next week."
"You've already got a buyer?"
"Right from the start, Yank. INGOT said you just needed a guide. But Van Roon called long-distance. He was the one who told me what this deal was all about. He'll take the stones. He specializes in hot property and hard-to-dispose-of merchandise."
"And how the hell did this Van Roon know what we were after?"
Rawson looked momentarily taken aback. Was this Colonel Phoenix trying to put him on? Who else would have set up the deal? "Come on, you should know that! He was already set to buy them, but realized it was to his advantage to deal directly with me."
Bolan paused, his mind pursuing the implications of what Rawson had unwisely admitted. INGOT would have sold off the st
ones through official channels. They would never have resorted to dealing with a backstreet fence in Amsterdam. That only left one person who could have set this up in advance—someone greedy enough to keep it all to himself.
"So Van Roon pays out a lower purchase price, which you're willing to settle for because you get to keep it all."
"Right. We're both winners. You're the loser, Phoenix, now pass that case over here."
Bolan shook his head. "You'll have to come and get it."
There was more stamping on the ceiling. Katz shouted down, "The plane's coming.back, too!"
Bolan glanced up, but Rawson didn't—he was not going to be tricked. "Hurry up! We'll be at the bridge in a few minutes and that's where I'm getting off."
He raised the gun until Bolan found himself staring into the black void of the muzzle. A smile creased the corners of his mouth, as if he were amused at some private joke. "After what you did, you don't think I'd give you a loaded rifle, do you?"
Rawson froze. Hell, it had been Phoenix who pressed the gun in his hands!
That moment's hesitation was all The Executioner needed. He hurled the case upward and deflected the gun. It went off with a deafening roar in the confines of the caboose. But the sound of the M-16 firing was lost amid the defiant fusillade unleashed from the roof above and out on the flatcar. Phoenix Force had two trucks, a jeep, and three armored cars to contend with. The road ran right beside the railway track and Mumungo's men had nearly caught up with the train.
The bullet tore a hole in the wall, but Rawson still had a grip on the rifle. He brought the butt up hard and clipped Bolan on the side of the head, then parried the knife curving it from the left.
Bolan grabbed the barrel, twisting the rifle away, but Rawson now had hold of his wrist. The two men smashed each other into the wooden walls of the caboose, and they both sought the final decisive advantage.
Angered at his own stupidity for talking too long; frustrated by years of unrewarding service; fearful that his last chance to make good was slipping from his grasp, Rawson fought like a man possessed. He was as tough a foe as the Executioner had ever faced in personal combat.
The surveyor kneed him in the groin and dragged his heel down sharply on the wounded leg. The M-16 was pressing lengthwise across Bolan's throat as
Rawson hammered the back of his head against the hard planking.
One of the windows shattered. A bullet from outside splintered into the ceiling. The sound of more shots and engines racing to keep abreast of the train accompanied the private duel within.
Rawson was leather tough and utterly without scruples. He may have made a mistake in letting the American make him talk, but he was not about to fool himself again. He knew this fight was to the finish. Only one of them would be getting off this train.
For one second, Bolan let go of the rifle. Rawson sensed he had the upper hand and tried to flatten the other man's windpipe. He did not see Bolan's hands stiffening into axheads of hardened flesh before both slashed inward at Rawson's trunk. The surveyor's breath was suddenly knocked out of him. Bolan rammed a kneecap in Rawson's groin. He staggered back to the center of the car, doubling over as fiery needles of unbearable pain stabbed through his in-sides.
The Executioner tangled his fingers in the man's hair, dragging him forward, keeping him facedown as the other iron fist rearranged his features.
Blood was spurting from his nose and a corner of his mouth as Bolan spun him around and sent him crashing to the floor.
But the agony was not finished. His body flipped over to slam into the floorboards; Bolan was still holding his arm. Rawson felt the tendons separate, the muscles tearing as the grim-faced warrior methodically broke the South African's arm at the shoulder.
The pain was still building to–a-crescendo when he lost consciousness.
BOLAN LEAPED ACROSS THE GAP onto the flatcar. A truckload of black soldiers was almost level with them. Ohara was bent low behind a makeshift barricade of Oduka's firewood. He waited for the precise moment and threw two grenades, then two more.
One landed in the back of the speeding vehicle. Another blew the left front wheel clean off the axle. The truck slewed sideways, then rolled over to crush the few troopers who had not been wounded by the first explosion.
McCarter was concentrating his machine-gun fire on an armored car, which swerved to avoid the wreckage of the truck.
One man, miraculously not hurt, had been thrown clear. He staggered to his feet, stumbling in confusion—right in the path of the armored car. It went straight over him. This time he stayed down.
"The jeep! Get that jeep!" Katz was rallying the men to concentrate their firepower on the machine that was racing away on their flank, trying to draw ahead of the train.
Clutching the silver case, Bolan worked his way forward.
"Can you give us more speed?"
Oduka shook his head. Tembo could go no faster. Bolan touched Manning on the shoulder. "There's a bridge up ahead where the road crosses the rails. If they get there first they'll blow it down and block the rails, but if we can beat them, can you rig the caboose?"
"Sure. Let's go!"
Crouchwalking, they reached the flatcar.
"Give me two minutes," yelled the engineer.
"You've got about ninety seconds," Bolan told him, checking the curving track ahead and seeing the bridge in the distance. "Rafael! Yakov! All of you, get back down here!"
Mulanda and Keio provided a steady stream of covering fire as the other three members of Phoenix Force clambered down from the roof.
Bolan threw a couple of grenades, straddling the road with smoking gouts of dirt and grit. The second armored car rocked high onto two wheels, then crashed back down, but too late for the driver to regain control before it smashed into a power pylon at the side of the road.
The spotter plane was approaching low and fast.
Oduka was glancing back from the side window to catch Bolan's signal when he had to brake. It would only be for a moment, just long enough to ease the tension on the coupling that held the caboose.
Encizo was ready to unhitch the rear coach.
Leaping over the crouching figure of the Cuban, Manning landed on the flatcar. "The fuse is lit!" Bolan signalled the driver.
The bridge was just ahead now. The men had piled out of the jeep. Two of them pointed their rifles at the approaching train; the others were unloading the explosives.
The young officer was still feverishly trying to connect the detonator wires when tempo flashed past beneath them.
Encizo had already snapped open the coupling. They began to pull away from the caboose. Manning grabbed Bolan's attention. "You know Rawson was lying inside there?"
"Yeah," Bolan said, nodding, "he said that's where he wanted to get off."
The last armored car reached the bridge at the same moment the caboose exploded.
The center of the span peeled upward, huge slabs of pavement being blown sky high, while the tattered ends of the bridge collapsed into the smoking gap.
MUMUNGO SCREAMED an oath and punched the pilot in the shoulder. Both men were looking down at the large dust-filled crater stretching between the buckled rails when the Pilatus Porter flew straight into the high-voltage wires of the uncompleted hydro project.
The plane blew apart on impact, orange red flashes within a rumbling oil-black smokeball. Phoenix Force gave Mumungo a last rousing cheer. No one would follow them to the airfield.
FIVE SMALL STONES bought the Goony Bird.
Matuka, who sold it to them, did not own the plane. He did not even know what it was worth. He was just the security guard.
They were airborne within ten minutes. McCarter could not resist a brief victory waggle as they circled once over the shattered ruins of the bridge.
Through the address system he kept them amused all the way back to Kalambasse.
The Englishman was in the middle of a long-winded and very off-color story about an archbishop and a young actress wh
en he pancaked across the dark surface of the lake.
Hohenadel and Sorbara were standing by for them.
16
The snow lay thick and fresh. It had only stopped snowing at 4:00 P.M. the previous day—two hours before Bolan and Katz flew into Toronto.
In the street outside the hotel it was piling into grimy slush. But out here beyond the city it was still a soft white blanket.
"Pontiac, blue. Two men," reported Katz, as he spotted the surveillance car.
They said nothing else as they approached the sprawling mock-Tudor mansion. The silver case lay cushioned on the back seat.
Bolan could see no sign of the horses. The stables looked shut up. But a Ferrari Berlinetta Boxer sat parked in the gravelled driveway. They pulled to a halt in front of the stately house.
The two men stood in front of the heavy wooden door, and exchanged one resolute glance; then Bolan punched the bell.
Malakesi opened the door. "Do come in, Colonel Phoenix."
The distinguished aide led them through to the same lounge where Bolan had first heard of Scarr's treasure and the River of Blood.
Malakesi offered the visitors some refreshment.
Bolan asked for a Scotch. Katzenelenbogen took a vodka and tonic. The ex-justice minister smiled as he handed them their drinks. "We heard General Mumungo was killed in an unfortunate air accident while he was inspecting a new hydro project . . . ."
Malakesi's words were cut off by the sound of a door being shut. Bambabele entered the room. He wore a gold turtleneck sweater, light tweed jacket and a very business-like expression.
"We were expecting you to call us first, Colonel." Bolan gave an indifferent shrug. "But you were expecting us."
Bambabele averted his eyes and caught sight of the metal case by the side of Bolan's chair. For the first time he smiled. "You found them!"
"No," Bolan corrected him, "we had to take them."
"Of course, of course. But the diamonds, they were there?"
"Aren't you interested in the papers?"
It was Malakesi who nodded, not the ex-prime minister. "Well, have you retrieved the documents?"
Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Page 13
