Miami Massacre te-4
Page 15
"We have learned the identity of this big boat, the floating home of your enemies," he further explained. "We have thought perhaps that El Matador would highly desire this information and -" He swept his arm in a half-compass of the little vessel. "— and the facilities of our navy."
Bolan smiled, genuinely affected by the offer of military aid. "Thanks, Toro. You risked your navy to pull me out of a tight spot, and that's plenty enough. Besides, I guess the Miami War is over. If you'll just put me ashore somewhere. . . ."
Toro's face clouded. He pointed through the cabin porthole to faintly winking lights in the distance. "She lays there, senor, this boat. Soon she will be forced to seek refuge in a safe harbor."
"The sea, Matador, is angry. A tropical storm approaches from the south. We are no more than . . . perhaps ten minutes removed from your enemy's position. You will reconsider?"
Bolan was staring glumly at the distant lights. In a gruff tone, he replied, "The price has already gone too high, amigo. It has become a lousy war."
"Porque? Margarita?"
Bolan nodded. "That's porque, Toro."
Toro sighed and reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a folded paper. "Did you know that our Margarita was a poetess?" he asked quietly.
Still gruff, Bolan replied, "It wouldn't surprise me."
"She left this for me, Matador."He shrugged his shoulders and gently added, "As an explanation, perhaps. Can you read Espanol?"
Bolan shook his head and took a heavy drag on the Cuban-style cigarette. "And I don't believe I want to hear it, Toro. I don't believe in grief, and I really can't afford it."
Toro protested, "This is not for grief, Matador. It is for courage, and for remembering a shining light in the darkness. You will allow me to read it for you?"
Bolan sighed, nodded, and closed his eyes.
"It will not sound the same, maybe, in English, but this is how it would translate:
The world dies 'twixt every heartbeat,
and is born again
in each new perception of the mind.
For each of us,
the order of life is to perceive and perish and perceive again,
and who can say which is which-
for every human experience builds a new world
in its own image...
and death itself is but an unusual perception.
Live large that you may experience large
and thus, hopefully, die large."
Toro's voice broke as he added, "That is it, amigo."
Bolan sat silent for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes and crushed out the cigarette. "Margarita wrote that?" he quietly inquired.
"She did. Tell me, Matador, did the little soldier die large?"
"Yes, Toro," Bolan assured him, "she died very, very large."
"She was muy angry with me, senor. Because I would not offer you assistance with your war."
Bolan sighed. "Well, Toro, you've got those snakes to worry about."
"There are snakes, senor, everywhere." He looked out at the distant lights. "Shall we live large, Matador, for a little while — together?"
The Executioner smiled. "What sort of weaponry do we have, amigo?"
"We have the magnifico Honeywell, also personal weapons."
Bolan got to his feet and tested his sea legs. "Does this thing always buck like this?" he asked.
"Si, she is a Yanqui buckaroo."
"You'll have to get the Honeywell mounted."
"This is done. The Honeywell is deck-mounted, Matador."
Bolan said, "Show me."
Toro led the way just above and behind the cabin to what had originally served as a mount for a fifty-calibre machine gun. A small wooden platform had been added, and the Honeywell was bolted to this. Bolan nodded and ducked back into the cabin to escape the stinging spray which was now constantly flaying the main deck. He said, "Okay, I'm manning. I'll need another two men to crew me. How do you have the belts configured?"
"Your shoulder, amigo. Will this not-?"
"It's all right," Bolan assured him. "What's in the belts?"
"High-explosive only. For war at sea-"
"Okay that's fine, but have some flares ready just in case. And make up a belt of double-ought." He grinned. "We might want to do some deck-raking."
Toro grinned back. "And we shall largely live."
Bolan turned away quickly, so that Toro could not see the surge of emotion across his face, muttering beneath his breath, "And a little soldada shall lead them."
The Merry Drew was underway and moving sluggishly in the general direction of Biscayne Bay. The PT crossed her a hundred yards astern and heeled into an upwind run. Soldados with light machine guns were lashed to the deck, some were poking up from the cabin, others took positions around the hatch to the troop compartment. Toro was in the conn, just above the cabin. Bolan, standing grimly spraddle-legged at the Honeywell in a constant wash of spray, shouted up to him, "What's our speed?"
The Cuban's voice, lashed back by the wind, announced, "Revolutions at 40 knots, Matador."
Bolan yelled, "Let's run by once and confirm that identification."
"Si! We identify on the upwind run!"
Bolan tied himself to the gun mount and tried to estimate the correction he would need in view of the shuddering, heaving platform, the relative speeds of the two vessels, and the howling gale-force winds. They were quickly closing on the larger vessel and beginning to run alongside.
The cruise boat was brightly lighted from stem to stern. Bolan could make out people standing in the protected overhang of the boat deck, and an interested crowd was gathering at a brightly lighted window which he presumed to be the main lounge. The Merry Drew was not quite a passenger liner but she was, at worst, a junior edition of one. She seemed a stable mass beside the plunging PT boat, her bow cutting smoothly through the wild waters in an undisturbed transit. The bridge was high and sleek, and the pilot house was dimly illumined behind a row of square windows reaching from one side of the vessel to the other.
Her passengers were inspecting the PT with considerable interest. One of them waved, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Ship ahoy!" Others around him were laughing and pointing at the PT as it plunged and bucked through the cresting waters, obviously amused by the wild ride being experienced by those upon her.
A man in a white uniform stepped to the wing of the bridge, a megaphone in his hand, and called over as they passed abeam. "Do not attempt a transfer of passengers. Suggest you follow us into the harbor."
Toro lifted his own bullhorn and replied, "What we transfer, capitan, can be accomplished at sea!" The PT lunged forward in a sudden acceleration and quickly slid ahead of the Merry Drew, heading off into a wide arc and coming about for the downwind run.
Toro swivelled about to grin at Bolan and shouted, "We go! Vamos!"
The running lights were extinguished and the little craft leapt into a full power run, barely fifty yards abeam the other vessel. With the wind now at his back, Bolan settled into the harness and angled the latest thing in gatlings to several points off his starboard bow. He made motions with his hands to forewarn his crewmen as to the proposed swing of the gun as they swept past the target . . . and then they were back and speeding along the target area and Bolan was cranking the firing handle . . . and the war at sea was enjoined. He raked the vessel from stem to stern with a walking line of brilliant explosions along the main deck level, while the machine-gunners opened up in a steady drumfire, and pandemonium arrived aboard the Merry Drew. Men were running and shouting even above the shrieking wind and continuous explosions, in a quick exodus from that side of the ship. Then it was behind them and Bolan's crew was feeding in another belt of large living, the PT was swinging wide in a rapid encircling maneuver, and Toro was laughing lustily into the wind.
The next downwind run was to the Merry Drew's port side and there were no hands on deck. Lights were being extinguished throughout and there were no catcalls or hoo
ting cries of good humor to greet Bolan's raiders. Automatic weapons spat at them from the bow, the boat deck, the bridge, and handguns were being unloaded from every point. Standing tall against the withering fire, Bolan cranked the Honeywell into a stunning assault upon the bridge, maintaining his fire into that limited area for the full run. As they swept into the turn, two of the PT's soldados were being hastily helped into the troop compartment for treatment of wounds and Bolan was urging his crew into a rapid reload.
"Bring her in to a hundred meters on the upwind!" he shouted to Toro.
The Cuban nodded and the PT whirled back for a stern-to-bow sweep. Again the Honeywell transmitted a walking line of thunderstorms, this time along the boat deck and into the lounge, then into a concentration of men at the bow. A halfhearted crackling of return fire was noted but not actually experienced aboard the PT, and they were swinging once again into the jouncing return circle for another downwinder.
Bolan's wound was bleeding again and his left arm virtually useless. The Merry Drew was afire in numerous places, most notably upon the bridge deck and wheelhouse, the crackling flames revealing men in frantic motion all about. She was pursuing an erratic course and obviously foundering.
Toro called back, "I think you have knocked out the pilot house, Matador! She wallows in the troughs!" He cut back on the power, maintaining just enough forward motion to assure control, and pointed off into the darkness. "Sound the trumpets, senor, the cavalry approaches!"
Bolan swiveled about to gaze into the direction of new interest. From out of the darkness, perhaps five hundred yards behind, two sets of varicolored lights were moving rapidly toward them.
"Police boats?" Bolan yelled.
Toro shook his head, "Not this far out, amigo. We have played the games with these ones many times also. These are your Coast Guard!" The PT was beginning to pick up speed again, and they were roaring along across the heavily troughing waters.
Bolan looked back to the Merry Drew. She was brightly lighted now by leaping flames which seemed to extend from bow to stern. A group of men were crowding about a boat davit, frantically trying to lower a lifeboat. Bolan found the scene holding less and less interest for him. He raised his gaze to the skies, now flashingly illuminated by both the flames from the Merry Drew and an almost continual display of heavenly fireworks.
"The storm has found us, Matador!"Toro shouted.
Bolan nodded, warmly patted the shoulders of his crewman, unhooked himself from the gun, and joined Toro at the conn. Toro was grinning into the pelting spray and pointing behind them. One of the cutters had apparently dropped off to assist the Merry Drew. The other was still behind the PT. Bolan asked, "So what happens now, amigo?"
Men were moving about excitedly down below, in the cabin, and the Honeywell crew were calmly dismantling the weapon. Toro said, "We play hide and seek with the radar, Matador. Maybe we will lose them in the storm, maybe they will run us out of fuel." He shrugged. "Do not worry, we will elude them, at least until we have gained the appearance of peaceful fishermen."
Bolan was looking at his clothing.
Toro laughed and said, "I do not think we can make you into a fisherman, Matador. We will run you ashore near Hollywood, my friend. You can make it safely from there, no?"
"I hate to leave you this way, Toro. Maybe we will meet again some day, and stomp snakes together."
"This I would greatly like, Matador."
Bolan went below then, and made his farewells to the rest of the soldados. This was a group he would never forget. He put a fresh bandage on his wound, had another quick cup of jolting rum, and returned topside to conn the ship with Toro the Spanish Bull. They had lived largely together. Now they stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, enmeshed in the atmosphere of that largeness. Some minutes later, when the boat had reached its nearest safe distance from the shore, they still had not spoken. Then Toro clasped his friend's hand and said, "Adios, El Matador."
"Adios, El Soldado Grande," Bolan murmured, and then he stepped over the side and joined the seething waters, carrying with him large memories of a very large people.
Some ten minutes later, he floundered ashore and knelt there panting in the surf and in the presence of another type of large people. Bolan had crashed a skinnydipping party of young people, and a startled girl with blond braids and an entirely unembarassed smile exclaimed, "Oh wow! This Aquarian makes it by land, sea, and air!"
Bolan was immediately surrounded by naked, curious youths. In the background, some distance inland, stadium-type lights melted the darkness and the crashing amplified sounds of mod music drifted across the intervening area to compete with the growing sounds of the storm coming in from the sea.
Bolan struggled to his feet and stood swayingly holding a burning arm tightly against him. Just as he was about to topple over, a nude boy with a luxurious beard stepped forward to support him and softly said, "Sure man, I'll carry your bod."
Epilogue
John Hannon knew with a certainty that he would never have all the details of that most fantastic day in Miami police history. What he did know was perhaps enough, he philosophized. A Mafia convention in his town had been busted, the county morgue was overflowing, and the police ward at the receiving hospital had been extended to cover two full floors. The surviving and the walking wounded, while probably in no danger of long-term incarceration, had at least suffered the embarrassment of arrest and exposure, and Hannon was thinking that there would be drifting snow upon Miami's beaches before the mob returned again. He had not caught so much as a glimpse of Bolan, of course, but there were some mysteries that a career cop enjoyed taking into his retirement, and Hannon would certainly have a lot of heady things to contemplate. In a secret corner of his mind, John Hannon was entirely satisfied with the way things had gone, massacre or not.
And, at this time, the Dade force skipper had not even been apprised of the Coast Guard report on one MV Merry Drew. According to this report, the cutter Oswego Bay had gone to the assistance of the cruise ship, finding her in flames and foundering in heavy seas. The ship's officers had insisted that the Merry Drew had been set afire by lightning, which had ignited a large case of fireworks brought aboard to entertain the passengers. The officers could not or would not explain the shrapnel and bullets found imbedded throughout the vessel's superstructure, nor could they explain the combat-type wounds of some 52 of her passengers.
A closely connected report, filed by the cutter Jarvis, indicated that a party of Cuban "fishermen"
[Missing text]
Executioner would joint the international jet set. Maybe he would try a sweep through Europe.
The blond was gigglingly whispering into his ear. He patted her bare back and made room for her, and she crawled in beside him. The dirt floor of the tent was awash and her feet were muddy. A weird kid with a fright wig for hair was just across the tent, strumming a guitar and singing a mournful song about injustice in the world. Bolan relaxed and tried to forget the girl's muddy feet. From the beginning to the very end, it had been a most incredible day . . . as were most days in the life of The Executioner.
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