Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  Stunned by what he had just heard, and not knowing what else to do, Hoffman answered the question. "No, I'm all right."

  "Good… now, will you please sit down?"

  "You don't believe that garbage, do you?" Hoffman demanded, beginning to recover.

  "How can I know what to believe, Gilbert? I have, after all, just heard a most extraordinary set of allegations. You're accused of an interesting variety of crimes. And by a man in my employ. What am I to think?"

  "I'm in your employ, as you put it, too. The question, it seems to me, isn't what, but whom?"

  "Fair enough. Why don't you let me hear your side of things? But first let me ask you one question."

  "All right…"

  "Did you or did you not leave Honduras without authorization?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "And I assume your reason for doing so is at least one of the reasons you've come to see me, as well?"

  Hoffman nodded.

  "Very well, Gilbert." Bartlett sighed, then collapsed into a chair. "Get on with it."

  Bartlett leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. He listened intently, nodding from time to time, but he didn't interrupt. When Hoffman concluded, Bartlett stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You say our proprietary is being used to smuggle cocaine?"

  "Yes."

  "And that Guillermo Pagan is masterminding the scheme, with help from Vincent Arledge? That's a pretty tall tale, Gilbert. Do you have any proof?"

  "Only what I saw. Just my testimony. And, of course, Chuddy Johnson's body, and that of the man at Homestead."

  "It may interest you to know that Johnson is simply missing, according to the official version. And there has been nothing at all on this other business."

  Hoffman shrugged. "What can I say? I know what I know."

  Bartlett paused to light his pipe. He hummed softly while he packed the tobacco, then lit it with a wooden match. When the first real curl of smoke spiraled over his head, he said, "Do you know a man named Donald McDonough?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "I suppose not. It just seems odd that he's now dead, that he's a former contract agent, and that he was killed while attempting to deliver a rather large quantity of cocaine from a freighter offshore. Odder still are the rumors that hint at a connection to Señor Pagan."

  "But, of course, Vince Arledge is COS in Miami," Hoffman said. "So…"

  "Exactly. I want you to do something for me, Gilbert, if you will. Unofficially, of course. I want you to talk to a man named Byron Wade, a Miami policeman."

  "What about?"

  "I'll give you all the details. But I want you to understand that this doesn't mean I'm totally convinced of the truth of your story. Although, in all fairness, I must tell you I'm inclined to accept it. And bear in mind that, as far as the Agency is concerned, you're absent without authorization, so be careful. No matter what happens, report to me, and only to me."

  Hoffman shook his head. "I don't suppose I have, any choice in the matter?"

  "No, Gilbert, I'm afraid you don't. By the way, you don't know anything about an attack on Señor Pagan's home, do you?"

  "Only that it sounds like a good idea."

  "I'm beginning to think the same thing. Convincing our esteemed interloper is another matter, however. But that's not for you to worry about. Now here's what I want you to do."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The C-47 looked like an early casualty in a demolition derby. The only things new about the plane were the freshly painted logo on both sides of the fuselage and the registry number low on the tail fin. But Allpoints Transport didn't exist and the number wasn't real. That didn't bother Tony Gregory. He'd been living in a surreal world for fifteen years. It was the only place where he was comfortable.

  He sat on an oil drum and watched the cargo roll aboard. A dozen men in fatigue pants and khaki undershirts wrestled the wheeled pallets up the cargo ramp and into the hold. Gregory had no idea what was in the crates, and he didn't want to know. The less you knew the better off you were. He'd decided that early on, and the intervening years had done nothing to change his mind.

  Gregory waved to Juan Corona, one of the two kickers who were making the flight with him. Corona stumbled toward him through the dust cloud kicked up by the freight handlers, a crooked grin not quite at home under his bushy mustache.

  "You're late," Gregory accused.

  Corona laughed, even though he knew Gregory wasn't joking. It was what Juan did; it was how he got along in the world. He stuck a big cigar in under the mustache and clicked his lighter. He tugged on the flame, sucking it into the cigar for a few seconds, then tucked the lighter into his pant pocket. He took a couple of puffs, then sat down next to Gregory's barrel.

  "It's just a job, amigo. You shouldn't be so serious all the time."

  "The day I'm not serious is the day we don't come back, amigo."

  Corona shrugged. "Fine, then you be serious. I want to come back here, for sure. I'd miss the lavish appointments, the luxurious accommodations, the elegant dining. Most of all, I would miss the beautiful señoritas lounging around the pool. I guess you would, too, eh, Tony? I guess that's why you're so serious."

  "Fuck you, Juan."

  Corona glanced at his watch. "We still lift off at eleven?"

  "Supposed to."

  "No way. These guys are too damn slow. More like noon."

  "You got something else to do, Juanito?"

  "Sure, amigo. I've always got something else to do. I'm only here for the money. Just like you."

  Gregory laughed. "Money? That what you call it?"

  "Don't kid a kidder, Antonio. You think I don't know what you do when you get back here? You think I don't know what goes on the plane before you go back to Miami?"

  "I think you better not know. That's what I think. And I also thing you should keep your lip buttoned. This isn't like that. This is special. This shit isn't for the contras, amigo."

  Corona seemed interested all of a sudden. "What, then?"

  "I don't know. But it's different. Something's shakin', and I can't figure it. Besides, you're not supposed to know about the other shit, either."

  "Why shouldn't I know what everybody else knows?"

  "Because everybody else has sense enough to pretend they don't know. But not you. You have to flap your gums to every fucking whore in Honduras. You have to hang out with newspapermen and tease them. You think you're smarter than they are, but you're wrong, amigo. You drop one damn stitch and they pull the whole fucking sweater apart with you inside it. And you know what that leaves you, amigo?"

  "What?"

  "It leaves you naked, buddy. And nobody, especially not politicians, wants to help a naked peon. Not you, not me, not any of us. Believe it, Juanito, if the shit hits the fan, we take it all."

  "You're too cynical, Tony."

  "You think so? Just wait."

  "Wait for what?"

  "For somebody to turn on the fan."

  Gregory stood and stretched. At six-two and 210, he was carrying more weight than he was used to. It was solid weight, but he felt slow, sluggish. Under the tan, he felt as if he were slowly melting, turning into that worst of all relics, a hard man gone soft. And he had a bad feeling that it was about to catch up with him.

  He ran one thick finger across his upper lip, feeling the raspy stubble of his vanished mustache. It itched, and he thought about letting it grow back, but he needed to see something different in the mirror for a while. "I'll see you later," he called over his shoulder. "I'm gonna try to build a fire under these clowns."

  Gregory shuffled through the dust until he found the chief of the freight crew. The two men argued, and Corona watched with detached amusement. Then Gregory waved a finger pointedly under the chiefs nose and stormed off. Corona closed his eyes and lay back on hands clasped behind his head.

  The next thing he knew, Gregory was back, kicking the soles of his boots. "Come on, Juan, let's move it."

  Corona shook his head to clear i
t, then scrambled to his feet. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

  "Noon."

  Corona grinned. "See, I told you, amigo."

  Gregory walked toward the open bay of the C-47 and climbed the ramp. Pedro Ramirez, the other kicker, waited just inside the bay door, sitting on a pallet. When Corona climbed the ramp, he pushed a red button to close the door. The whine of the servo made the plane vibrate, and the skin of the plane seemed to hum. A transport version of the DC-3, the C-47 had been around for more than forty years. But it was a good plane and, if you treated it fairly, a reliable one. This one had seen better days, but he'd rather be in a worn-out plane he knew than a classy-looking fraud with bells and whistles.

  Gregory walked forward to the cabin and dropped into the pilot's seat. He draped the headset around his neck and set his controls before kicking over the plane's twin engines. The old Douglas looked like a piece of crap, but the maintenance was halfway decent and the engines were in good shape. As soon as the engines caught, and the stuttering cough settled into a steady rumble, Gregory felt the tension drain away. This was where he was happiest. It made all the rest of it bearable.

  The plane started to roll over the grassy strip, and he barked a warning over the intercom. Corona and Ramirez were pros, and they would take care of themselves, but Gregory liked to follow a routine, and a warning was part of it. The strip was short, and Gregory had the engines going flat out. Even so, they barely cleared the trees at the far end of the tiny airfield.

  He remembered somebody telling him that it cost a 150 dollars a yard to clear a jungle strip. For this particular job they must have been on a tight budget. Another hundred yards would have made it a lot more comfortable.

  But they cleared the canopy, and he made a tight circle around the strip before setting a course toward San Mateo de la Cruz. It was his first flight to that particular base. In fact, he'd never even heard of it until two days ago.

  The rolling terrain beneath the plane was a challenge. As with all clandestine flights, the primary concern was avoiding detection. Gregory knew that it was even more important than getting the freight to its destination. Better that it not arrive than that its existence be discovered. The problem with flying under the radar was that it brought the plane within range of dozens of potential hazards. Even a lucky rifle shot could bring down the aircraft.

  Gregory liked to go for the direct route. Instead of heading along the coast and then zigzagging back inland to his drop, he made straight for it. He worked on the theory that the less time you were in the air, the less likely you were to get shot out of it. It was a hazy day, and little wisps of morning fog still clung to the high canopy. The absence of bright sun was a blessing, making it easier on the eyes, easier to see whatever might be happening below.

  He couldn't use his own radar, because it would betray his presence, so he was forced to rely on instinct and eyesight. Patches of jungle jutted up higher than the surrounding canopy, and as he broke over the Montanas de Colon, the trees thinned and he could see the forest floor. The dozens of streams and lakes looked like patches of gray. An occasional village flashed by, animals scurrying in fright. Used to the bizarre traffic just over their heads, the villagers no longer bothered to look up.

  The cabin door opened, and Corona dropped into the copilot's seat.

  "Easy flight, huh?"

  "So far."

  "Relax, amigo. Today is like every other day. Someday soon you'll retire with a fat bank account. You'll find some chica with big tits and buy a house in Brazil or someplace, eh?"

  "I already have a family."

  "Me, too. So what? A little change never hurt nobody."

  "Juan, you're one callous son of a bitch, you know that?"

  "Hey, I do my job. I don't hurt nobody. That's all a man can be asked to do, right? Leave other people alone? I'm entitled to have a little fun once in a while."

  "You and Pedro ready?"

  "What's to be ready? We open the door and kick the shit out. Nothing to it. This isn't rocket science we do, amigo. We're burros, that's all. Except that the pay's good."

  "I take it you're ready, then?"

  "We're ready. How long?"

  "Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. We just passed Santa Rosa. I just hope I can find the drop. There's supposed to be three fires in a triangle three miles downriver."

  "They'll be there. If not, we dump the stuff, anyway. It's not our fault if they fuck up, no?"

  "We have to. We don't have enough fuel to get back with a full load."

  "So…" Corona lifted his leg and flexed the knee. "See that, already warmed up, amigo."

  "Oh-oh."

  "Don't kid around, amigo."

  "I'm not kidding, Juan. Look…" He pointed dead ahead. "There, see them?"

  "No man, I don't see… wait, yeah, yeah. Holy shit!"

  "I don't like it. We haven't even gotten to the Rio Segovia. The border's five miles past that. What are they doing here?"

  "Maybe they're Honduran."

  "No way. Wrong profile. Those are Russian-made choppers. Got to be Nica."

  "So what? They won't do nothing, man. They know better."

  "Sure. Just like we know better, right?"

  "What are you gonna do?"

  "I don't know. You better go tell Pedro to nail his ass to the floor."

  Corona left the cockpit, and Gregory jerked the plane into a sharp bank, heading west. The two choppers must have seen him, because they climbed up off the canopy. In the gray-white sky it was easy to peg them as MI-24s. They changed direction, also heading for the coast. Gregory knew he could outrun them, and he could outclimb them. But if the choppers carried air-to-air missiles, he could do neither.

  The pilot of one of the choppers tried to raise him on the radio, but Gregory ignored the question, opening the throttles to eighty percent. The old engines grumbled, and the plane shuddered under the strain. So far he could still see the choppers, and he'd seen nothing to indicate hostile intent. In another minute he'd be far enough ahead that he could no longer see them through his canopy. The trailing chopper was almost out of sight already, the lead Hind a little closer.

  A small bright flower grew toward him on a long gray stem. The missile streaked across the jungle, and he jerked the stick, trying to haul the C-47 into a climb. But the freight was heavy and the plane sluggish. There was no way he could outrun the missile.

  He heard the explosion, and the plane shook like a rat in a terrier's jaws. He tried the intercom, but got no answer. His controls were gone; the plane no longer responded to his directions. He clicked on the autopilot, but nothing happened. Climbing out of his seat, he opened the door to the cabin and pushed through. A small hole — no more than a foot across — in the left of the fuselage was echoed by a much larger hole on the other side.

  For some reason the missile hadn't detonated on initial impact. It didn't blow until it was inside the plane. Corona lay on his back, one arm flapping out of the plane. Pedro was nowhere. The explosion had taken him — and the pallet he'd sat on — right out of the plane. Only the jumbled cargo crushing his legs had kept Juan Corona from following Pedro out into the wild blue yonder.

  "Holy shit!" Gregory shouted. He sprinted to where Corona lay, but knew, even before kneeling, that the kicker was dead. He checked for a pulse, found nothing, then raced to the far wall for a parachute. He slipped it on as the plane nosed into a shallow dive. One engine coughed, and a plume of black smoke waved along the fuselage, shrouding the hole in a dense cloud.

  Gregory clicked the chute harness closed, then threw several heavy crates aside to get Corona's body free. Picking the dead man up by the arms, he clasped the body to his chest and staggered toward the hole in the fuselage. Gripping the rip cord in one hand, he jumped, dragging Juan with him. Choking on the black smoke, his eyes burning from the oil, he jerked the cord.

  He only hoped they'd gotten far enough above the ground for the chute to open. The wind whipped at him, and his vision, still blurred, gradual
ly returned enough for him to see the canopy below him. He turned as the chute opened and watched as the plane broke up, the tail tumbling end over end, the rest of it skipping like a flat rock on water, trailing a long, thin stream of black smoke behind it.

  The chopper came out of nowhere. He could see the pilot waving to him, and he shifted his grip on Corona's body. The two men, one living and one dead, broke through the leaves and plunged into the jungle. What he first took for a distant clap of thunder was the first fuel tank of the C-47 rupturing.

  He didn't hear the other.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bolan answered the phone with a curt "Hello."

  "It's me, Wade. I've got a man here I think you ought to talk to. Seems like you're both tryin' to wear the same pair of pants."

  "They fit him?"

  "Yeah, I think they do."

  "Bring him over."

  He hung up and walked to the bathroom. Splashing some cold water on his face, he rubbed at his eyes, heavy with lack of sleep. They looked bloodshot, but he was used to that. There were times when the mirror was his worst enemy. He could see the toll his crusade was taking.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he finished cleaning his guns. The Beretta was already reassembled. He had the Desert Eagle broken down. The springs seemed sluggish to him, the action a hair too loose. He tinkered with the bigger gun, replacing one spring and oiling it carefully. As he locked the slide back in place, he heard a car roll up to the motel. It's lights splashed through the flimsy curtains.

  Bolan walked to the window, slipping the .44 into its holster. At the window he kept his hand on the pistol butt and leaned forward to look between the cloth and the window frame. He recognized Wade as the dome light went on. The lieutenant puffed his cheeks out as he climbed out of the car, then leaned back into say something to his passenger.

  The warrior let his hand slide off the pistol and walked to the door. He stood there, as was his habit, back against the wail, with one hand on the knob. At the first knock he turned the knob and pulled the door open. Wade stepped in, glancing around the room as if he'd never seen it. Bolan watched his eyes. The way they danced was something that couldn't be taught. Only the best cops had it, checking a room once, then again, then a third time, every time seeing something new. Three cops for the price of one. The best bargain in public safety.