Maybe.
If the general was right. But he had to be. They wanted him to be right. He was, after all, their hero, a man they admired. Rivera was their kind of soldier, just as they were his. They all felt it; they all believed it. As they slipped into the jungle around the camp, squad by hastily organized squad, they were high. They smelled blood and cordite, and they loved it.
The advisers weren't so sure. They had seen it all before. There had been too many duds masquerading as live rounds, too many saviors who turned out to be clowns. But this was Rivera's show, and the least they could do was watch. Captain Thomas Robbins, the commander of the unit, watched quietly, his hands folded behind his back, a parody of parade rest. But it was Rivera's parade, not his.
While Rivera outlined his plans, Robbins seemed to be bored, nodding once in a while, shaking his head slightly when he disagreed. Or was he just chasing a mosquito? Bolan watched him and wondered.
When the last unit had been deployed, Rivera turned to Robbins. "Captain," he said, "I'd appreciate it if you and your men stayed on the sidelines. Keep them out of the way. They're not to shoot unless directly threatened."
"You're the general, General," Robbins said. He didn't bother to conceal the smirk. His men chuckled, but Rivera ignored it.
"Very well, then. Shall we?"
Robbins nodded. He took his men up a steep slope overlooking the rear of the camp. Bolan and Rivera were alone now in the center of the camp. "I'm taking a great chance, here, Mr. Belasko. If this turns out to be a false alarm, I'll look foolish in front of these men. I can't afford that."
"You can't afford not to take the risk, General. At least the men will know that summer camp is over. This is the real thing, and their lives are on the line. I doubt if they realized that before."
"I hope you're right. But, God forgive me, I hope there's an attack. I'm afraid that I'm rusty. I need to know, and I need to know now. If I'm not fit to command these men, then there's no point in carrying this charade any farther."
"Charade?"
"You know very well what I'm talking about, Mr. Belasko. My reasons for being here are much more complicated than these men can understand. But I'm tired of deceiving people, using them. It's not how I was raised. I can't do it any longer, and I won't."
"General," Bolan said, "I think your reasons for being here are more complicated than you understand. But I can appreciate that. I've been there."
"Something tells me there are very few places you haven't been."
Bolan didn't answer right away. The general was on target, and nothing he could say would make any difference. "Watch your back, General."
"I don't have to. That's why you're here." Rivera laughed softly. "At least I can count on that." He turned and walked into the jungle opposite the approach road. He would soon see just how serious he was. And he was frightened that the answer might be one he hadn't expected.
Bolan looked around the deserted camp. It seemed pathetic that governments could stand or fall because of what happened in places like this. But they did just that, and he knew that there was no shortage of men like Rivera or Pagan willing to endure such humble beginnings for a chance at the brass ring. Few, if any, gave much thought to what they would do once they grabbed the prize, and that was the problem. Whether Rivera was any different remained to be seen. Despite his growing admiration for Rivera, Bolan didn't expect much. If he'd learned one thing over the years, that was it. Do your job and forget about it. Whatever happens happens.
He followed Rivera into the trees.
They didn't have long to wait. Bolan spotted them first. He tapped Rivera on the shoulder and pointed across the deserted camp. A handful of shadows moved among the trees. Rivera looked through his field glasses but couldn't make out any detail.
"Five, maybe six," he said, "but I can't tell if there are any more behind them."
"They'd have to be crazy to attack with only a handful," Bolan whispered.
"They'd have to be crazy to attack with this much moonlight," Rivera answered. He passed the word to; hold fire, then used the glasses again. For a quarter of an hour nothing moved. Rivera handed the glasses to Bolan. "Here, you watch, I can't stand the waiting."
Bolan scoped the hillside where Robbins had gone. It seemed deserted. The mouth of the road glowed softly, but he couldn't tell whether it was moonlight or something else. Then he spotted movement among the trees again. More men were filtering in behind the advance unit, but it was impossible to gauge their strength. Rivera had opted for aligning his men on one side, leaving the forest on the far side free. He wanted to lull the attackers, hoping they would commit themselves. Taking them out would be a clear signal that he wasn't to be trifled with. It looked as if it was going to pay off.
"I make it at least thirty so far," Bolan whispered.
"What the hell are they waiting for?" Rivera snapped.
The warrior was about to answer when he heard the chopper. Suddenly it burst over the hilltop, opening up on the tents as it came down, hugging the slope. As soon as they heard the chopper's M-50, the men in the jungle on the far side opened fire. The chopper swooped down toward Rivera's tent and hung in the air while the door gunner tore it to pieces.
"Wait," Bolan urged, grabbing Rivera. "Let them go at it a bit."
"This is our chance," Rivera said, tearing free.
"No. That chopper gives them the edge. Just wait." He moved forward until there was a single line of trees between him and the edge of the camp. The chopper pivoted on its rotor, and Bolan caught a glimpse of the pilot. But first he wanted to shut down the M-50.
He waited patiently for the aircraft to make another half turn. The gunner was hanging back behind the doorframe, but if he were patient…
The Executioner slammed a burst from his AK-47 through the chopper's door. The M-50 tilted skyward, sending a stream of tracers off into the moonlight, then went silent. Bolan cut loose again as the gunner tried to crawl away from the open door. The troops on the far side had begun to move in. They seemed dazed and disoriented. It still hadn't dawned on them that there had been no return fire. They seemed confused, but kept coming, one reluctant step after another.
Bolan turned his attention to the chopper pilot as a grenade went off in the middle of the camp. "All right, General," Bolan snapped, "go get them."
With the door gunner down a big problem was solved. The rocket pods slung under the chopper nose were still trouble, but nothing Bolan couldn't handle. As Rivera's men moved into the open, the warrior snared a grenade launcher from one of the men.
Fitting the grenade in place, he moved sideways. The pilot seemed aware that his gunner had stopped firing and spun the chopper in a tight circle, then started to climb. Bolan held his breath, waiting and suddenly there it was, the opening he needed. The grenade just slipped through the open doorway and slammed into the rear of the helicopter. It went off with a muffled thud. A burst of white light seemed to spill out of the aircraft as it split open. The tail rotor was gone, and the pilot could no longer control the ship. The more he gunned his engine, the more the main rotor torque took command. The chopper fell straight down. Trailing burning fuel like the tail of a comet, it plunged into the center of the camp. Men scattered as the rest of the fuel went up, sloshing over the tents and the milling soldiers.
Bolan rushed toward the wreck, looking for Rivera. The genera! was up front, alternately sprinting and stopping to sweep the ground ahead of him with a burst of gunfire. Several of the tents were ablaze now, and grenades thrown by both sides were hurling clods of earth into the air. Bolan glanced up the hill and saw Robbins watching through binoculars. He was talking to a man beside him, but the warrior didn't have a chance to see who it was. The smoke and dust half obscured the combatants, and Bolan turned his attention back to Rivera.
He raced after the general and grabbed him by the arm. "I think you should back off. Get out of the fire," Bolan shouted.
Rivera laughed. "I know I should."
&nbs
p; "Then do it," the warrior snapped.
Rivera looked at Bolan in surprise. "You really mean it, don't you?"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hoffman slipped through the trees. He felt his feet sinking into muck past his ankles, but this was it. There was no time to lose. He pushed the branches aside, tripping on underbrush and half stumbling toward the small gleam on the far side. As he neared the far side of the trees, he caught the glimmer of moonlight on water. Breaking through the last line of underbrush, he found himself face-to-face with a broad expanse of standing water. Patches of tall grass dotted the smooth surface, but it stretched away as far as he could see.
An engine roared into life, and he turned toward the sound with a startled jerk of his head. The engine noise gradually diminished and was swallowed by a hum like the wings of a giant insect. He moved out toward the water's edge to look around a clump of head-high bushes. The sound was coming from somewhere ahead of him, but he saw nothing.
He shoved his way through the bushes and broke into the open as the engine started to whine again. It was still too dark to see clearly, so he swung the Starlite up and swept it along the waterline as the humming grew louder.
Then the scope picked out the source of the sound. An airboat, its huge propeller a blur in the pale moonlight, sat at a bare wooden dock. A figure was bent over the side of the boat, his hands full, busily lowering something onto the small platform behind the bench seat. He knew without seeing the face that it had to be Vince Arledge. A second airboat lay idle behind the first.
Hoffman started to run as the man turned back to a thatched lean-to at the other end of the dock, but he slipped and fell to his knees, landing with a tremendous splash just past the waterline. He stumbled getting to his feet as the blurred figure turned toward him. Hoffman swung the rifle up, but lost his footing again as the mucky bottom slipped out from under the soles of his boots.
The figure fired a shot, but it sailed harmlessly over his head. With nothing to stop the sound, it seemed to fade slowly away, then came back from a great distance, sounding like a handclap in the darkness.
"It's over, Vinnie. Give it up."
"Fuck you, Gil!"
Arledge fired again, but he couldn't see Hoffman any better than Hoffman could see him. And the handgun was less than accurate at that range. Hoffman struggled onto the bank and started to run again. Arledge turned and ran toward the airboat, bending to untie the rear line, then scrambling forward. Instead of working on the bow line, Arledge snatched a rifle from under the seat. He crouched on the end of the pier and fired a short burst. The slugs swarmed around Hoffman, kicking up spouts of water on the lake side and snapping twigs and branches on the land side.
Hoffman hit the deck.
"You should have left it alone, Gil," Arledge shouted. "It was none of your business, man."
"Couldn't do that, Vinnie. You know that."
Arledge cut loose again, a shorter burst this time, as if trying to buy himself some time. "You're a fool, Gil. I knew that or I would have offered to cut you in."
"It isn't worth it, Vinnie. No way is it worth it."
"You have no idea just how worth it is, man. Millions, that's what it's worth."
"To Pagan, maybe. But not to you." Hoffman, aware that Arledge couldn't see him clearly, squirmed forward every time the man spoke. It was slow going, but he wanted him alive if it was possible. Somewhere deep inside he knew it wasn't, but he had to make the effort.
"Screw Pagan. He's an animal like all the others."
"Then help me bring him down."
"No can do, Gilly. No can do. It's too late for that. The wheels are in motion, man. You, Belasko and Rivera, even Bartlett, you're all history, man. Smoke."
"Bartlett? What about Bartlett?"
"What do you think? Pagan wants to waste him. I set it up. It might already have happened."
"He never did anything to you, Vinnie. Why Bartlett?"
"Hell, why not? All those pipe-smoking assholes sitting there in their nice little offices. What the hell do they know? What do they know about the real world, Gilly? They don't know shit. They push us and push us and push us. Then they throw us away."
"Bullshit. They have a job to do. So do we. We both do what we can."
"Save it, Gilly. That's a crock, and you know it." He fired a single shot, then started yelling again. "Ever stay up at night and count your dead friends, Gilly?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Me, too…"
"It goes with the territory. You knew that when you signed on."
"Maybe. But how come all your dead friends don't include a single Langley asshole? Why are they always grunts like us? You ever ask yourself that?"
"No."
Arledge laughed.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing. I was about to say maybe you should. But what's the point? You aren't walking away from this one, Gilly. No way. I can't afford it. I can't let it happen."
"It's not too late. You can call it off."
"I don't mean Bartlett, man. It's Pagan. I burned him for more than a mil. Took out his right-hand man. No way he'll let me walk, and there's no way to take him down. He's got too many friends. Friends in high places, man. Higher than Bartlett even."
The wheels started turning in Hoffman's head. Why wasn't Arledge running? He seemed anxious to talk, too anxious. Why? And then it hit him. The second airboat. Why was it there? Who was it for? He heard the noise behind him at the same instant. He started to roll even as understanding dawned. Then he rolled again to his left. The ground beside him exploded as he rolled, and he swung around the M-16. He heard footsteps behind him, and Arledge was running toward him. The figure in the trees lunged forward as Hoffman squeezed the trigger. The M-16 stuttered, bucking in his slippery hands.
The shadow zigzagged sideways, and he cut loose with a lateral slice. This time he found his mark and the shadow slumped forward. It landed with a soggy thud, and Hoffman rolled again, this time landing on his stomach and starting to scramble to his feet.
"Forget it, Vinnie. The cavalry's not coming, man," Hoffman shouted.
The thudding steps stopped for a moment, then began to recede. Hoffman still wanted Arledge alive. Now more than ever. If Bartlett was at risk, he had to find out the details. He raced toward the dock. He could see Arledge bent over the bow, his arms pumping as he struggled to untie the line.
Hoffman fired a burst in the general direction. Arledge winced as two slugs slammed into the propeller blades, scattering sparks in every direction. But the engine continued to pulse and the prop to spin.
Then Arledge was on the boat, kneeling in front of the bench. He banged a pair of shots from a handgun in Hoffman's direction. Hoffman dived to avoid the slugs, and Arledge gunned the engine and swung the boat around. The engine roared and the terrible hum grew thunderous.
The airboat started to edge away from the dock. Arledge wasn't skilled in its use, and it kept swerving too far left and too far right as he overcompensated. Hoffman raced toward the dock, the mud on his boots slowing him down. His legs felt like lead, but he was closing the gap.
"Vinnie, stop!" Hoffman tried to shout, but he didn't have the strength. It came out as a croak, and he knew Arledge didn't hear him. But he also knew Arledge would ignore him, anyway. The boat started to speed up, and Arledge swung the rudder, still on his knees and staring back into the near darkness through the propeller.
Hoffman fired again, aiming low to avoid hitting Arledge. He chopped at the waterline, trying to riddle the hull and sink the airboat before Arledge got too far from shore. If Arledge had to swim for it, he'd never make it. Already the angry bull gators were grunting, and a series of splashes along the shoreline past the dock signaled the entrance of several of the big animals into the water.
Hoffman hacked at the airboat until his clip ran out. He jettisoned it, slipped another clip home and opened up again. This time he aimed a little higher, going for the engine. Bullets spanged off the metal and snarl
ed off into the night. Sparks showered in gentle arcs away from the whirling prop, but the engine continued to roar. Then a small flame popped up just about deck level. It grew larger, and Hoffman could see smoke.
"Turn it around, Vinnie," Hoffman bellowed. The engine coughed and sputtered. The hum of the prop rose and fell, then wound down as the engine died.
"Come back before it's too late," Hoffman shouted.
"Forget it, Gilly," Arledge answered.
Hoffman worked his way along the shoreline, back toward the fallen gunman. He found the body facedown in the muck and knelt to turn it over. It was Felix Vasquez.
The boat was drifting his way, and Hoffman watched through the scope. Arledge worked feverishly at the engine, then pushed the ignition button. The engine coughed and sputtered. A spurt of burning fuel geysered out into the water. In its glare Hoffman saw Arledge freeze. He'd made a mistake, and he knew it, but it was too late.
Hoffman pulled his eye away from the scope as the boat caught fire. Orange flames sprouted in every direction. Arledge was etched like a lump of coal against the brilliant light, then cartwheeled through the air as the fuel tank blew, outlined in bright yellow where the burning gasoline coated his body. He landed with a splash, one among many as bits and pieces of the boat started to fall back into the water.
Then a series of explosions rocked the night as several grenades went off. High in the air an oblong shadow disintegrated, and Hoffman watched in fascination as rectangular confetti spilled out of the oblong. Some of it fell into the water and some fluttered away on the current of heated air above the burning hull. Hoffman turned away as the first grunting gator reached the body.
He wanted to do something, but there was nothing he could do. He thought for a moment about taking the other airboat and trying to recover the body, but he knew there would be nothing left by the time he got there. So he stood quietly on the shore, sadly shaking his head. The body disappeared underwater with a burst of bubbles. A tail swished in the water, and then it grew quiet. The flames had begun to die down, and the water lapped at burning wood, hissing and sputtering away to silence. The sky was getting brighter now, and he could see the charred hull floating quietly. The wind was picking up, and it felt cool on his neck and face.
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