Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  The chopper climbed another hundred feet, then banked in his direction. Bolan cursed and pushed on the wheel as if that would make the boat go still faster. The chopper was closing fast, and he still had two miles to go before the tangled swamps of the south Florida shoreline would offer him some protection.

  The warrior kept glancing back over his shoulder as the chopper narrowed the gap. It was a Huey and could belong to anyone. It was little more than a black shape in the air, a smear on the grayish sky. He couldn't see any markings in the quick glimpses and couldn't take the time for a longer look.

  When the chopper was five hundred yards behind him, he heard a low thump and turned to see a puff of smoke ripped in the prop wash. Without thinking, he jerked the helm, and the boat nearly capsized as it sawed through the ragged swells.

  The 2.75-inch rocket slammed into the sea less than fifty feet away. It went off with a muffled roar, hurling a column of water high into the air. Bolan goosed the boat again, this time zigzagging to keep the chopper guessing. A second rocket sailed over his head, slicing into the water without detonating, leaving a dull silver spout behind as it sank out of sight.

  As it drew closer, the chopper's engine began to roar even louder than Bolan's own. It climbed higher and swerved to the left. Bolan could just make it out, hovering like a giant insect over his left shoulder. Juking to the right, he opened the throttle and drove for the shoreline. The first burst of machine gun fire sailed high over his head, and he spun the wheel desperately, trying to keep the gunner off balance.

  Recognizing the distinctive sound of an M-60, he was convinced now that it wasn't a Coast Guard ship, and it seemed unlikely that it could be local police, who didn't usually resort to such impressive firepower, preferring to let the Feds handle the heavy combat offshore. Bolan had only a hundred yards before he'd reach the tangled undergrowth of the shoreline.

  Slowing a bit, he searched for an opening to one of the swampy channels that crisscrossed the marshes. Mangroves and cypresses grew farther inland, away from the brackish water, and they were thick and covered with fronds of moss. But he'd have to find a way inland before they would do him any good.

  Bolan spotted a break in the underbrush as a second burst of 7.62 mm gunfire sprayed the tail end of his boat. The heavy slugs ripped at the fiberglass hull, and the warrior had a sinking feeling as he jerked the wheel to the left. The speeding boat leaned way over, slipping sideways on the water as it skidded toward the opening.

  Branches and leaves whipped the hull as he narrowly avoided running aground. Righting the boat with difficulty, he slowed, jerking the launch back toward the center of the channel. The undergrowth grew ten or twelve feet in the air on either bank, offering him some cover. The chopper would have to fly right over his head to keep him in sight.

  He could hear the chopper somewhere behind him, its engine straining as it climbed higher to look for him. A quarter mile inland, the swamp forest took over, and he could hide.

  But first he had to get there.

  A sunken log slammed into the hull, sending the boat into a skid. Bolan jerked it back toward the center of the channel. Water spurted through a crack in the hull. He could feel his pants getting wet, but he pushed the boat harder.

  A few scraggly trees hung over the bank on the left-hand side about fifty yards ahead. He could just make them out against the dark gray sky. He thought for a moment of trying to conceal the boat under their dangling branches, but if he tried to stop, he might overshoot the cover. The channel was too narrow for him to turn, and he decided to bypass the opportunity.

  Bolan considered taking to the land, but the swamp was treacherous and the footing all but impossible. And he couldn't abandon his cargo, at least not until he knew what it was. Evidence hadn't been that easy to come by, and he'd be damned if he'd let a boatful get away without a fight. Since his Uzi was no match for the chopper's firepower, flight was the only viable option. As much as it galled him to turn tail, there were times — and this was clearly one of them — when it was better to stay alive to fight another day than to make some showboating gesture and stand ground. He didn't need to fight a battle he knew he couldn't win.

  The warrior pushed the boat into a sharp turn, feeling the hull slide toward the far bank. The trees were only thirty yards ahead, and the chopper was right on his tail. The machine gun opened up a third time, this time tearing hell out of the rear end of the boat. He killed the engine and let the boat coast the last twenty yards, jerking the wheel toward the spongy bank. The boat struck at an angle, glanced off, and Bolan fought to hold his course as the trees closed over him. The chopper climbed straight up, probably waiting to see which way he ran.

  Bolan climbed onto the bank, hauling a rope after him and wrapping it around the nearest sturdy bush. He quickly tied the back end to a second shrub, then backed away, keeping under the thickest foliage.

  He could still hear the chopper's rotor thumping overhead. After a minute, when it was obvious he wasn't going to cut and run into the open, the Huey swooped down, the M-60 opening up and tearing into the forest canopy. The gunner emptied a belt, paused to slap another one home, then sprayed left and right. Bolan could hear the slugs chewing into the boat's hull as he crawled into a tangle of vines draped over a fallen tree. The trunk was rotting, but offered him a little cover. He couldn't afford to be choosy.

  Then the thunder stopped as the chopper climbed again. Bolan realized he was holding his breath. The sound of the rotor gradually died away, and the warrior crawled back into the open. He was lucky there hadn't been a place for the Huey to set down.

  The boat was useless. It lay on its side, canted away from the bank. Water geysered through the shattered hull, and as the boat filled, it listed even farther. Bolan climbed aboard and went through the courier's pockets, tucking a wallet and some loose papers into his shirt. Then he secured the man's corpse in the small forward cabin.

  Hoisting the canvas sacks over his shoulder, he glanced at the sky for a moment, then stepped onto the spongy shore. It was going to be a long walk home, but he was still alive. And in Mack Bolan's line of work, that was success.

  Chapter Two

  Gil Hoffman had seen worse troops before, but not lately, and never with so little interest in what they were supposed to be learning. He shook his head in exasperation. It was too damn hot to have to put up with this, and he cursed under his breath. Then, as if the whispering had been a trial run, he shouted the same insults at the top of his lungs. "You pussies look like a bunch of assholes. You want to get your head shot off? Stay the hell down."

  He turned to Ricardo Vargas, who watched him with a curious smile. Hoffman rolled his hands, indicating that Vargas should translate for him. "And I want it word for word."

  Vargas grinned, repeated the taunts in Spanish, then waited for his superior's next move. The men grumbled, glaring at Hoffman while lying prostrate on the broken, yellowed grass.

  "Tell them to take fifteen. We'll start all over when I recover from the shock."

  When Vargas repeated the instructions, he turned back to Hoffman, watching him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Hoffman, kicking dust with every step, walked out of the harsh glare of the sun and flopped down under a tree. He gestured for Vargas to join him.

  "How long they been here, Ricky?"

  "Four weeks tomorrow."

  "Four weeks? Are you kidding me? Four weeks, and they can't even keep their butts down? Jesus…"

  "You want miracles, amigo?"

  "No, just soldiers."

  "Maybe you're in the wrong country."

  "No maybe about it. I'm getting too old for this shit. I just don't have any patience anymore."

  "You better find it, Gil. This is about as good as it gets."

  "Shit!"

  Vargas laughed again. "What do you want? It's your first day. This isn't like the old days. This is a whole different thing. Shit goes on down here you wouldn't believe. They hate the Sandinistas, call them beggar d
ogs, which is a lot bigger insult than you might think. I'm telling you, man, you won't believe it, even when you see it."

  "Ricky, there's nothing I haven't seen. You oughta know that by now. Hell, this is what, our fourth gig together?"

  "Fifth."

  "There you go, fifth. So you should know nothing surprises me."

  "Just wait. This is the worst. These guys hate the Sandinistas, but they won't fight them, because the brass sits on its ass in Tegoose while the campesinos grunt and sweat. Then they get fed up, they go home pissed off, and they hate everybody."

  "I thought Angola was bad. Remember that?"

  "You just don't understand the Third World, Gil."

  "What's to understand? They're people like anybody else."

  "Not really. You're too damn American to see how different it is."

  "And you're not?"

  "I was born in Cuba."

  "Big deal. I was born in Wisconsin. So what? You got farms. So do we. You got cows. We do, too. Your problem is you romanticize everything. As long as it's not American."

  "Just remember what I said," Vargas said. His grin faded for the first time. He leaned closer. "Something's screwy here, Gil. I've only been here a month, but I can smell it. It's there all the time, like a dead rat in the basement. It stinks."

  Hoffman waved it away. "We're getting old, amigo. Too damn old for this crap. You know how I can tell?"

  "How?"

  "I miss my wife. Every place I've been — Laos, Angola, all the way back to Guatemala, before the Bay of Pigs — I never missed her. Not that I didn't love her. But there was all this stuff out there, you know. And I wanted some of all of it. A piece here, a piece there. Not just the broads, either, although that was part of it, but the excitement, man, that was the real kick. It was like I was gonna live forever. Now I don't think so. Now I know I could buy the farm anytime at all. The thrill is gone, Ricky. I'm not immortal anymore."

  "If you feel that way, Gil, you shouldn't be here. Especially not here."

  "Here's not so different, Ricky."

  "Yeah, amigo, it is. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It is different. You wait. You'll understand. Then we'll talk about it."

  Hoffman ripped at the handful of grass with his teeth, chewing at the blades with a thoughtful expression. "Maybe I think too much. Maybe that's what it is. I didn't use to do that. There wasn't time."

  "There was time, Gil. But we weren't interested. Things were going so fast and we went right along with them. Now we know better. It's like a pitcher, you know? The great ones, they lose a little off the fastball, they find some other way to get you out, like Seaver did, and Guidry. We can't all be flamethrowers all our lives like Nolan Ryan. The trouble is, you start thinking, you start understanding. You think too much, you second-guess yourself, Gil. That's what's happening. But that might not be so bad, huh? Maybe we'll be lucky. Maybe we can bail out before it catches up with us."

  "Maybe." Hoffman chewed another mouthful of grass. "Maybe we better get these assholes started again. What do you say?"

  "Beat's thinking, amigo." He wasn't kidding, and Hoffman knew it.

  * * *

  Hoffman was flirting with disaster. He sensed it but kept trying to push the thought away. The day's heat had drained him, sucking the life out of him as surely as the mosquitoes sucked his blood. He sat under a tree looking up at the stars. The constellations weren't familiar. Guatemala was a long time ago, and he hadn't been in this part of the world much since then. As he stared at the sky, trying to make sense of it — and of his life — it occurred to him that he was fighting a losing battle. There was no sense to either, not at the moment. He was exhausted, and he was too close to the edge.

  He couldn't understand why he kept making the same mistake, trying to take social misfits, torturers and criminals, mix them with green recruits who would rather be sitting under a tree somewhere, and make an army out of them. And it was always the same thing. Always the snakes took over. The poison ran too deep, and boys will, after all, be boys. There was no way fighting for some elusive idea of freedom would change a man who was used to murdering for profit and raping for fun. But that was what they gave him to deal with, time after goddamn time.

  He knew he needed sleep, but he also knew there was little chance of getting any, even if he tried to force himself. Things were too much out of his hands at the moment. The sound of a distant engine caught his ear, distracting him for a moment. At first he thought it might be a truck, but that seemed unlikely. This far out, so close to the border, nobody in his right mind moved very far from camp. Then, as the distant buzz saw whine drew closer, he recognized it as the sound of an airplane. He didn't know about any scheduled delivery, but the Sandinistas weren't likely to launch a night raid, not with a single plane, anyway. They might be infuriating, but they weren't stupid.

  Part of him wanted to go and check it out, and part of him just wanted to get some shut-eye. Maybe, he thought, fate would settle it. He climbed to his feet, brushed off his clothing, then reached into a pocket of his fatigue pants and fished out a coin.

  Hoffman held the coin close to his eye for a moment, recognized it as a half-dollar, then tossed it into the air. "Heads I go to sleep, tails I walk over to the airstrip." He whispered it, but his voice startled him in the quiet night. "Tails it is."

  He glanced at the sky for a moment, then shuffled across the dry ground into the hundred yards of forest between the main camp and the airstrip. When he reached the far side, he noticed a jeep, its engine running, sitting against the trees at the far end of the runway. The plane was close now, and coming in low from the east. The headlights of the jeep blinked once, then twice and stayed dark.

  The plane banked to the left, and its engine noise was almost swallowed by the forest for a minute, then it snarled back, again from the east, this time touching down. The pilot handled the small Cessna push-pull easily, keeping it steady as it bounced over the rough strip. He taxied to within twenty yards of the waiting jeep, spun the plane around, then throttled back.

  Hoffman eased through the trees, keeping just inside the underbrush until he was at a point almost even with the plane. As he watched, the cabin door swung open and the pilot jumped down. He waved to the jeep, and someone sprinted toward him. Together, the pilot and the jeep driver lugged a heavy canvas bag toward the plane.

  The driver climbed in, tugging the bag as the pilot pushed. A moment later the driver reappeared, and the cabin door closed. Hoffman was baffled. What could possibly be in the bag that required a night landing on an unlighted strip in the heart of the jungle? It didn't make sense. Especially since whatever it was was being shipped out, not in.

  The plane started to roll, bounced back down the runway and lifted off, a fine haze of dust trailing behind it. Hoffman watched the jeep driver, who hustled back to his vehicle and started the engine. Moving quickly, Hoffman sprinted through the trees toward the motor pool. The camp kept its fifteen vehicles under a thatched roof supported by raw saplings, and Hoffman was sure the jeep was one of theirs.

  The driver had to run the length of the runway, then loop around to get back to the motor pool, and Hoffman waited in the shadows as the jeep, using only its parking lights, coasted toward him. The vehicle rolled to a stop just under the roof, and the driver killed the engine. Hoffman waited until the driver climbed out, then whistled. The man stopped in his tracks.

  "Who's there?" he whispered.

  Hoffman recognized him now, a tail, sinewy ex-Green Beret named Chuddy Johnson.

  "What's in the bag, my man?" Hoffman asked.

  "Who's there?" Johnson repeated.

  "Does it change what's in the bag?"

  "Shut the fuck up, man. Who the hell are you?"

  Hoffman stepped toward him, reached into the jeep and clicked on the headlights. "Recognize me now, buddy?"

  "Oh, it's you, Hoffman."

  "What's in the bag, Chuddy? I'm not going to ask you again."

  "Same old shit."


  "Which is?"

  "Why don't you ask ol' Vinnie? He knows all about it."

  "I'm asking you."

  Johnson sighed with exasperation. "Look, Gil, you're new here."

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "It's a long story."

  "I can't sleep anyhow. Why don't you tell me a long story? It might help."

  "I doubt it."

  "Try."

  "All right." Johnson sat on the jeep's rear bumper. He fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. After a long drag, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "It's coke."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "Hell, man, where does anybody get it? Colombia."

  "How'd it get here?"

  "Cardozo brings it in from Choluteca on the coast."

  "Where's it headed?"

  "Miami."

  "And?"

  "And what?"

  "Tell me the rest of it. The money. Where's the money go?"

  "Hell, I don't know. They turn it around, buy ammunition and shit. Hell, half the stuff we use, we pay for with the dope."

  "You mean to tell me we're smuggling dope to pay for weapons?"

  "Pretty funny, isn't it?"

  "The hell it is."

  "Hey, man, I don't make the rules."

  "And you're telling me Vince Arledge knows all about it?"

  Johnson nodded. "It was his idea, I think. I mean, he's the one who told me about it when I first got here. Shit, everybody knows. No point in gettin' your nose all out of joint. It's covered. The shit flies into Homestead Air Base. We've got permanent clearance. It turns into cash overnight. Five days later we've got more ammo, more guns, you name it. And the taxpayers don't even have to pick up the tab."

  "You think it's that simple, do you?"