Blood Tide

by Don Pendleton

  Blancanales whirled his staff as he was attacked. Steel rang as Du’s double butterfly knives wove a web of steel around him. Calvin James cut the throat of the Mahdist before him, and two more charged in to take the fallen man’s place. Isah and Pedoy fought shoulder to shoulder, thrusting and parrying with their bayonets. The team’s only advantage was that in the close quarters the Mahdists couldn’t all swarm in at once to surround them.

  Bolan skirted the melee and ran for the main cabin. Jusuf grinned and watched him go. The Indonesian made no move to stop him.

  Bolan kicked in the door to the main cabin. The salon was huge and richly appointed with teak panels and brass furnishings. The stench of hashish and fertilizer was overpowering. All of the furniture had been removed except the wet bar on which sat several burning water pipes. The salon was stacked to the ceiling with propane tanks and bags of fertilizer. Nestled in the middle was a small fortress made of bricks of C-4 plastique. Nestled at the center of the bomb were ten six-foot-long metal cylinders. They had been crudely hacked open with power saws.

  Bolan’s stomach sank as he looked at the exposed yellow-green rods of uranium 235 nuclear fuel that formed the heart of the bomb.

  He turned as the Mahdi’s sword bearer came up from belowdecks. The huge man had to stoop to enter. In his hands he carried an ax that looked more suitable for killing water buffalo than men. The giant’s eyes were a web of hashish-inflamed veins. He hefted the ax. “Infidel.”

  Bolan lunged.

  Their blades rang. For all his rolling bulk, the huge Sudanese moved with the speed of a wrestler. Bolan’s sword clanged as he blocked a wild swing that sent a shivering ache down his arms. There was no room to maneuver. Bolan blocked a second, sledgehammer blow and his injured arm nearly buckled. Their weapons crossed and locked together momentarily. The Mahdi’s man hurled his shoulder into Bolan, crushing his bad arm and bouncing him off the bar.

  Bolan rose shakily. His arm spasmed as he tried to bring his hand to his sword. He let it fall limp as his opponent went for the kill. The giant swung, and Bolan put up his blade to block. Steel rang and the force of the blow staggered Bolan. He was thrown over the bar. His sword left his hand as he fell in a cascade of breaking bottles and glasses.

  The Sudanese behemoth raised his ax and chopped the bar in two. He grabbed the shattered wood in one hand and ripped it away to expose Bolan. The soldier threw a whiskey decanter into the giant’s face. The Sudanese snarled and swung his ax like a baseball bat. Bolan ducked, and the bar mirror shattered as the ax head smashed through it and sank into the wall.

  Bolan’s fingers found the hilt of his sword.

  As his opponent tugged on the haft of his ax, Bolan swung and lopped off his right arm at the elbow. The Sudanese screamed and staggered backward, leaving his ax in the wall and clutching his spraying stump. He screamed again and fell back into the nest of high explosive in the middle of the room. Bolan took a ragged breath and followed him.

  The scream rose as the bleeding man regrouped. He came at Bolan wielding a five-foot rod of uranium in his remaining hand. The metal rod whooshed through the air in a wild swing at Bolan’s head. The soldier ducked, and the soft metal bent around a propane tank with a clang.

  Bolan’s sword blade sank into the Sudanese giant’s skull with grim finality.

  The Executioner pulled his sword free and staggered over to the bomb to look for the receiver. He figured it had to be buried somewhere within the mass of material. Bolan noticed the sound of the melee outside had stopped.

  “Makeen!” Jusuf shouted from out on the deck. “Come out!”

  Bolan looked at the bomb wearily. He didn’t have the strength to pull apart the mountain of fertilizer bags, propane tanks and piled plastique. Every second he spent in this room ramped up his exposure level.

  “If you do not come out in five seconds, I will detonate the bomb!”

  Bolan knew Jusuf was going to detonate it no matter what happened.

  Mei screamed in pain.

  Bolan staggered toward the door. He noticed that the shattered mirror behind the bar had concealed a hidden compartment. There were two shelves. One was filled with stacks of money. A cell phone, a bag of white powder and a gold plated N-Frame Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver sat on the other.

  Bolan grabbed the pistol and opened the cylinder. It was loaded with Winchester Silvertip 125 grain hollowpoint bullets.

  He snapped the revolver shut and thrust it in the back of his sash. “Coming!” he shouted.

  The Executioner took up his sword.

  He walked slowly back onto the deck. The Mahdi stood with his massive sword across his shoulder. Jusuf stood beside him. Both the Mahdi’s and Jusuf’s swords were caked with blood to their hilts. The cultists were all dead.

  Bolan’s entire team was down.

  Ming lay on the deck. The handle of Jusuf’s cleaver still stuck up out of his right shoulder, and his waistcoast was ripped open where he’d been run through. Mei lay curled in a ball clutching an ugly wound in her side. Du groaned and held the right side of his face. Blood streamed between his fingers where his eye had been cut out. Blancanales was propped against a deck locker. His bo lay a few feet away. He’d been pierced through both shoulders. Isah lay on his side and clasped his hamstrung right leg. Pedoy had jammed the stumps of his wrists into his armpits to staunch the bleeding.

  Calvin James leaned against the rail. He looked up at Bolan and shook his head helplessly as he pressed his hands against the bloody wounds in each of his thighs.

  Jusuf surveyed Bolan’s hanging arm critically. “I left your people alive. I want them to watch this.” The Indonesian held up a black plastic box. “I want them to watch you try.”

  Bolan looked at Ming. Blood bubbled over the gangster’s lips. “I tried.”

  Bolan nodded. “Seven Triple Bursting technique.”

  Ming blinked. The Executioner’s eyes met the Mahdi’s and then Jusuf’s.

  Jusuf beckoned Bolan with his blade. “Come, Makeen. I have waited for this for some time.”

  “Take me.” Bolan stepped forward and let his sword slip from his hands. The dadao clanked to the deck. “But let Marcie go.”

  “Jesus, Matt!” Marcie said.

  Jusuf spit in disgust as he raised his saber. “You disappoint—”

  Bolan slapped leather.

  The gold-plated pistol flashed from behind the Executioner’s back. He squeezed the trigger, and the .357 Magnum revolver thundered like dynamite in his hand. Jusuf staggered as the hollowpoint round hit him in the chest and mushroomed to three times its normal diameter. The gun rolled in Bolan’s hand as he fired and fired again. The gun hammered Jusuf. His sword fell from his hand with the fourth shot. He raised the detonator before him like a charm, his thumb spasming for the button, but Bolan’s fifth and sixth shots toppled him over the rail.

  Smoke oozed from the muzzle of the empty revolver.

  Bolan waited for Armageddon.

  All that came was the splash of Jusuf’s corpse hitting the water.

  The Mahdi screamed, the sound rising from a howl of inconsolable loss to a shriek of hatred. His massive sword rose to slice Bolan in two.

  Ming’s left hand clamped around the Mahdi’s ankle.

  Bolan stooped and picked up his sword.

  The Mahdi shrieked and drove his sword down into Ming, pinning him to the deck. Ming grinned up at the Mahdi through bloody teeth as he held him in a death grip.

  The Mahdi’s head whipped up as the Executioner’s shadow fell across him.

  He screamed in naked fear as Bolan swung his sword with all of his might.

  The curved blade sheared diagonally through the Mahdi’s collarbones, shattering his ribs and finally coming to a stop against his spine. Bolan ripped the sword free, and the little man fell.

  Bolan thumbed his com link. “JG we need immediate extraction. Radio the Corpus Christi and have them tow the yacht away from shore. Advise CIA Sumatra station we have seven b
adly wounded and need medical teams ready.” Bolan watched the chopper come thundering in even as Jack Grimaldi spoke.

  “Inbound, Striker. Will advise Corpus Christi. Sumatra station will have medical teams ready on arrival.”

  Bolan knelt beside Ming. “Sifu.”

  Ming lay motionless. His huge hand was still clamped around the fallen madman’s ankle. Even in death, a ghost of the old light seemed to haunt his eyes. His death mask was a bloody smile.

  “You said no guns.” Calvin James shook his head and smiled.

  “I had to improvise.”

  “How’s the arm?”

  Bolan tried to move his hand and found that his limb would obey him. The painkillers had long worn off. The feeling came as a searing ache that emanated out of the bones. The ache turned to fire as Bolan made a fist.

  The Mahdi hissed at Bolan from the deck. His huge eyes bored into Bolan’s sustained by some terrible vitality. “Infidel…I shall rise again.”

  Bolan picked up the Mahdi’s sword.

  The ancient blade was an invaluable antique. The Mahdi claimed it had been forged for the first Mahdi. It was the symbol he had carried in his unholy jihad to bring radioactive fire to the world.

  Bolan took the ancient sword in both hands and snapped it across his knee.

  The madman’s mouth went slack with shock as Bolan tossed the broken pieces into the sea. The Mahdi’s eyes glazed over. His chest sank with a bubbling sigh and did not rise again.

  “Nice,” James said approvingly. “Now can we get out of here? We’re getting microwaved every second we sit around on this tub.”

  “Yeah.” Bolan picked up his sword and slid it back into its sheath. “Let’s get out of here.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-7410-8

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Chuck Rogers for his contribution to this work.

  BLOOD TIDE

  Copyright © 2006 by Worldwide Library.

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