Blood Tide

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan lay beside Suja in their hut while the victory party raged outside on the beach. Her fingers drifted across his ribs. “You should be among them.”

  Bolan was in no mood to party. “Who’s the Chinese man?”

  Her nails trailed down Bolan’s stomach. “His name is Chien Tien. Why?”

  “He was giving me the evil eye on Kouprey.”

  “It is understandable. You killed his friend, Yaqoob.”

  Bolan had figured that, but now he had confirmation on the other PRC agent among the Mahdi’s men. The question was how should he play it. He suspected Yaqoob and his partner had to have had a way to communicate with Beijing, but Yaqoob had died before Bolan could get any information. Unfortunately, both Yaqoob and his partner had orders to kill anyone who discovered their identity.

  Bolan really needed to get a message out.

  The music pounded on the beach. Men shouted and clapped, drunk on hashish and intoxicated with victory. “You should be among them,” Suja repeated.

  She was right. If only to maintain his cover and gather intelligence. Bolan heaved himself up to his feet. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Bolan took a deep breath. He was exhausted. Half his riflemen were dead, and the survivors were men he might very well have to kill with his own hands. It was possible he might have to kill the woman he had just lain with. It wasn’t a question of the lines blurring. The lines were crystal clear. They were just as ugly as hell, and getting uglier, and he saw them every time he looked in the mirror.

  The Executioner looked at his reflection in the shaving mirror nailed to the wall.

  His black hair was getting shaggy and falling across his brow. His beard and mustache had come in. His skin was ruddy bronze from exposure to the equatorial sun. Only his size and the blue eyes staring back in the mirror betrayed him. Bolan wound a red head wrap over his hair and slung his sword over his shoulder as he stepped out onto the tiny balcony overhanging the surf.

  “Makeen!” Pedoy spotted him. His left arm was in a sling, but he waved his good one enthusiastically. “Makeen!”

  A score of men looked around and happily took up the shout. “Makeen!”

  Bolan scanned the torchlit crowd and saw that Jusuf and Chien were not chanting nor looking particularly pleased. The beach fell silent as Bolan drew his sword and held it high. “Abu.”

  The men on the beach bowed their heads in respect. Everyone knew the story of Abu’s sacrifice. All of them had intended to run juramentado and martyr themselves to the cause, but Abu had martyred himself to save his fellows. They nodded, and the fallen young man’s name murmured among them like the incoming tide.

  Bolan broke the somber moment and pumped his sword into the air. “Allah Akhbar!”

  The men on the beach roared. “Allah Akhbar!”

  The hemp smoking and goat-gorging began again in earnest. Bolan sheathed his sword and descended the ladder down to the beach. Pedoy clapped him on the shoulder and shoved a smoking hot joint of goat into his hand. “Mak!”

  Bolan circulated among the warriors congratulating his own men and the juramentado alike. He was a hero and the young men pressed around him, praising him and basking in his fame, hoping some would rub off on them. Every man carried one or more bladed weapons, but all the firearms had been collected and put back in the armory save for Jusuf and a squad of his personal guards.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Jusuf and Chien strode through them to Bolan.

  “Come with me,” Jusuf said.

  Bolan stripped the remaining meat from his haunch of goat and tossed away the bone. He smiled at Jusuf as he wiped the grease from his chin with his fist. “Sure.”

  They walked along the beach until the lights of the bonfires grew dim, and several of Jusuf’s personal entourage fell into step with them. All of them carried rifles. Bolan saw a lonely light in the distance ahead. Once again his main target was in sight, and again he was outnumbered and outgunned.

  He was being granted another audience with the Mahdi.

  The Expected One sat on a small rug contemplating the sea with a pair of tiki torches lighting his meditations. His huge sword bearer knelt behind him, and a half a dozen riflemen stood back discreetly.

  Jusuf halted and held out his hand. Bolan unbuckled his sword and handed it over before kneeling in the sand.

  “Imam.”

  “Makeen.” The Mahdi turned his head and smiled. Bolan saw that he was not contemplating the sea, but the heads of Rustam and Isfan Megawatti. “You have exceeded all expectations. Even Jusuf has praised your ability and your bravery.”

  Bolan turned. “My thanks, Jusuf.”

  Jusuf nodded curtly. Bolan had no doubt that Jusuf had spoken well of him. The man was too smart to be the naysayer in the face of total victory. But he could feel the Indonesian’s eyes on his back. He had no doubt Jusuf wished him dead, and by ordering him and his riflemen to take the lead in the attack he had been trying to engineer it. Instead, Bolan had walked out alive and a hero and the most popular man in camp. Jusuf also had to be intensely aware that there were twenty riflemen on the island who were unswervingly loyal to Bolan.

  The Mahdi beamed. “How is Suja?”

  It had turned out that Bolan was the most qualified battlefield surgeon on the island. He had stitched Suja’s torn flesh with thread. The scar would be ugly, but the wound was clean and little more than a painful inconvenience. “She will be ready to fight within the week.”

  “Ah, good, good.” The Mahdi’s face shone like the sun, and again Bolan felt the power of the tiny man’s personality. Again, Bolan wondered what was truly going on behind the facade of Jesus-like understanding in the huge brown eyes. “You bring so many blessings, Makeen. And Pedoy?”

  Pedoy had not been so lucky. Isfan’s bullet had broken the long, thin collarbone in a nasty fashion. They had hemped up Pedoy until he was feeling no pain, and then Bolan had probed and teased shards and bits of pulverized bone out of the wound before setting the shattered scapula. Bolan believed the bones would knit, but the scapula was shortened and some tendons in the shoulder had been cut by the bullet’s passage.

  “It will take some months before the wound is completely healed, and even then he will have to learn to wield a blade with his left hand.”

  The Mahdi nodded and gestured to Jusuf. The thin man brought Bolan’s sword and laid it before the Mahdi. The little man drew the sword. It was clear the blade gave him great pleasure. He looked up and grinned impishly. “Have you seen my sword?” He nodded to the human mountain behind him. “Taiaishi.”

  The man rose with an ease surprising for his bulk and proffered the hilt of the Mahdi’s sword.

  Six rifles came just a little bit closer to pointing directly at Bolan.

  Bolan drew the sword. The hilt was fashioned from the foot of a crocodile. Bolan felt the scaly hide of its ankle forming the grip against his palm. The clawed foot was sewn around a concealed pommel of steel. The blade was incredibly heavy. Well over three feet long with a simple diamond cross section. It was old, with some pitting and discoloration in the steel, but both edges were honed to razor sharpness. It was a blade designed to split shields and helmets and chop through armor of iron and steel. It was completely out of place among the short, sinuously curved slicing blades of Southeast Asia.

  Despite its ridiculous length and weight it was incredibly well balanced.

  “It is a kaskara.”

  Bolan had done some research when the word Mahdi had first been bandied around. The kaskara was the traditional sword of the Sudan. Some believed the design had been stolen from the invading Medieval Crusaders. Everyone who had historically fought the Sudanese commented on the size of their swords and spears, and the horrific wounds they inflicted.

  The Mahdi sighed as he looked at the massive blade in Bolan’s hands. “It was forged for the hand of first Mahdi.”

  The original Mahdi, who had fought the Egyptian and English armies in nineteenth-century Sudan, had
been the son of a lowly, boat-building carpenter, though his father claimed to be descended from the Prophet Mohammed. Bolan handed the massive sword back to the tiny man before him. He was struck by how unnaturally large the little man’s hands were. The Mahdi’s spatulate fingers closed around the hilt and lifted it as if it weighed little more than a willow wand.

  “Always have we carried it. Throughout the generations.” The man seemed almost in rapture. His eyes snapped down and locked with Bolan’s. “You and I are much alike, Makeen.”

  Bolan allowed surprise to show on his face.

  “Both of us carry the sword of our ancestor.” The Mahdi’s brown eyes were huge. They bored into Bolan with hypnotic force.

  Bolan let his brow crease. “You are the descendant of the Mahdi?”

  “I am the Mahdi.”

  Bolan stared.

  The tiny man’s eyes shone as if lit from within. “I am his reincarnation.”

  Traditional Islam was going right out the window, but the riflemen knelt at the Mahdi’s words.

  “I have returned.”

  “The Expected One,” the men murmured.

  “Once more I hold my blade in my hand. Once more I make war upon the infidel. Will you join us, Makeen?”

  Bolan stared very steadily into the madman’s eyes. “I will.”

  “Good, Makeen. Very good. You have brought so many blessings, and so many more shall you deliver.” The Mahdi’s religious fervor disappeared in an eye blink that caught even Bolan off guard.

  “May I ask you a question?” His tone was blithely conversational.

  Bolan nodded. “Of course, Mahdi.”

  The little man nodded toward the darkness. Two men came forward carrying a rolled Persian rug. It was lumped and swollen, and Bolan could see that something large was concealed within it. The two men knelt and laid the carpet in the sand. They grasped the fringed border of the carpet and heaved. The rug unrolled across the sand toward Bolan, and the fringe brushed his knees as it lay open and disgorged its contents.

  The carpet lay like a bridge between Bolan and the Mahdi.

  Marcie Mei’s eyes rolled up at Bolan. Duct tape sealed her mouth. She lay before Bolan trussed like a chicken.

  The Mahdi cocked his head inquisitively. “Do you know this woman?”

  16

  “She is my sister-in-law,” Bolan said. “Her name is Mei.”

  The Mahdi nodded. “The sister of your wife, who was slain by soldiers in Mindanao?”

  “Yes, Mahdi.”

  “She tells the same story as well.” The little man looked at Bolan steadily. “She has been going from island to island, mosque to mosque, asking of Makeen Boulus. It came to our attention. She says she is alone. The rest of her family is dead. She has sold the land and received little for it and has used that to search. She says she has no one but you.”

  “I should have married her. It would have been the correct thing to do after what happened, but…” Bolan stared out onto the starlit tide. “I was soul sick, and I took my boat and drifted instead.”

  “Indeed, it would have been charitable. Though your failure is understandable.” The Mahdi raised an amused eyebrow. “And what are you prepared to do about it now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are a lion, and yet, your status among us is…uncertain. Ties of marriage might, how may I put this delicately…cement you…among us.”

  Bolan let out a long breath. “A man who intends to run juramentado has no business marrying, Mahdi.”

  “Indeed, that is true.” The Mahdi cocked his head once again in amusement. “But what if I told you that you have become too important to me to send you forth against the infidel with only the naked blade?”

  “I would consider myself honored, but…” Bolan looked back meaningfully toward the camp and his hut above the surf.

  “Ah, well.” The Mahdi sighed innocently. “The Prophet Mohammed allows a man four wives….”

  Bolan marveled again at how the man could instantly change from father figure to friend to the voice of God in the blink of an eye. Bolan looked down at Marcie and allowed genuine discomfort to come into his voice. “I believe Suja would tear my testicles from my body.”

  The Mahdi laughed and his men joined in it. Mei’s eyes narrowed over her gag in an unmistakably hostile expression. The tiny man shrugged. “It is possible I could speak with her about the matter.”

  “You do not seek to make life easy, Mahdi.”

  “Life is never easy.” The Mahdi looked back toward the hut and then at Mei. “But some might call you doubly blessed. Wives to work and domestic tranquillity. What greater blessing could any man ask?”

  The Mahdi’s eyes were twinkling.

  THE SOUNDS OF BATTLE were escalating. Streams of sizzling Indonesian were met by equally insulting Tagalog. Suja’s voice kept dropping into an evermore guttural, snarling alto. Marcie Mei’s rose into ever shriller shrieking. The reed walls shook.

  Bolan sat in the sand beneath his hut basking in his domestic tranquillity.

  The entire population of the island stood outside their huts and watched with great interest. A few of the men gave Bolan sympathetic looks. Most simply looked on in great amusement. A few appeared to be laying bets. All kept a prudent distance from Bolan and his double blessing.

  The floor of the hut creaked with sudden footfalls, and Mei began screaming in earnest. The thud of blows could be heard all the way down the beach. Mei ran out onto the tiny balcony clutching her head. She flew down the ladder and ran shrieking and weeping into the trees.

  Suja stepped out onto the lanai.

  The onlookers all suddenly found something else to do.

  The woman stood on the porch like a bloodstained valkyrie. Her hair was in wild disarray. She had ripped her stitches, and her shoulder was bleeding through her blouse. She shook as she pointed at Bolan accusingly. “You bring her into my hut? I will not be second wife!”

  Bolan ducked as a two-foot length of rattan sailed past his head. Suja stormed back into the hut screaming. Bolan’s bedroll flew out a moment later followed by his clothes and his sandals.

  Bolan rose and walked through the camp after Mei. No one would meet his eye, though a number of men were grinning. Money exchanged hands.

  Bolan followed Mei’s trail into the jungle. He found her a few hundred yards in. She had slipped off her tunic and sat by a stream soaking her headcloth in the cool water and applying it to her shoulders. Magnificent welts were rising up across her back in purple stripes.

  She looked at Bolan with anger. “Tell me you’re not sleeping with her.”

  “Well…” Bolan shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Jesus…” Mei grimaced and shook her head. “You know, I’ve never taken a beating from anybody outside of a sparring match. She’s lucky I didn’t kill her.”

  Bolan knelt beside the CIA field agent. “Don’t underestimate her. She’s a trained martial artist.” Bolan continued, “You did a good job maintaining your cover.”

  “Cover, hell. I didn’t sign up to be second wife to that psycho-whore.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to be.”

  Mei glared.

  “Listen, no one knew if you’d be able to insert or not. Suja was an in, and she happened. We have to deal with it. You can go places I can’t go and listen in on things I can’t. If you’re in my hut, you can cover for me when I need to go on a recon. For that matter if things go south, no one here knows you earned a marksman’s medal or that you know which end of a kris is which. You’re my ace in the hole, Marcie, and if that means you have to be second woman in the hut, deal with it. For the time being you are second wife and subject to her every whim. If you can’t take it, I’ll tell Jusuf to send you away.”

  Mei flinched. Bolan continued mercilessly. “You’re a woman, and they think you’re Muslim. There’s a good chance they’ll just dump you in some city rather than killing you. No shame. No blame. But in or out, Mouse.” Bolan
locked eyes with her. “I need to know right now.”

  “In.” Mei spit out the word between clenched teeth. “You know I’m in.”

  “I know.” Bolan nodded. “I just need you frosty.”

  “Frosty, hell.” Marcie suddenly grinned. “I am ice cold.”

  Bolan took the cloth from her, and applied the cool compress to her bruises. She gave Bolan a long look over her shoulder. “She’s in love with you, you know.”

  “I know.” Bolan let out a long breath. “You called her a psycho-whore. Just so you know, she was sold into prostitution as a child. By her father.”

  Mei’s smile dimmed.

  “She has issues,” Bolan said. “Tread lightly.”

  “All right.” Mei paused in thought. “She doesn’t hang out with the women, does she?”

  “No.” Bolan shook his head. “She doesn’t.”

  “Then I’m a meek little second wife. Fresh from the farm, wide-eyed, terrified and obedient.” Mei’s eyes turned cunning. “And in a week I’ll be her closest confidant.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “I’m not the one sleeping with her.” Mei’s lips quirked. “And don’t get any wild ideas.”

  “A man can dream.” Bolan changed the subject. “What can you tell me?”

  “Not much. I went asking for you from island to island, mosque to mosque. I got kidnapped one night in Tapul. I was at sea for about four days. No idea in which direction. Your buddy, The Bear, and I decided that it would be safer to go in without a tracking device and I’d try to make contact once I was settled in. What have you got on your end?”

  Bolan kept the narrative short and to the point, culminating with the attack on Kouprey Island. “Then we hit the Megawatti residence.”

  “Oh, we heard about that.” Mei shook her head. “That raised one hell of a shitstorm all over Southeast Asia. The Bear said that had to be you. What else you got?”

  “The PRC is here. I had to kill one of their agents, but there’s another named Chien Tien. You saw him last night. He shows up and disappears with Jusuf. He knows I killed his partner. Neither he nor Jusuf have that loving feeling for me.”