Executioner 022 - Hawaiian Hellground

by Pendleton, Don

  Bolan and Lyons were topside, searching for silver wings in the sky and plotting a casual course past Diamond Head in the distant wake of the Pele Phoenix.

  "Isn't that guy something else?" Anders asked her in a quiet voice.

  "If you're speaking of Mack the Ripper," Smiley replied wearily, "then that has got to be the understatement of the century."

  "What happened back there?"

  "Oh, the usual this and that. Blew a couple of boats out of the water. Depleted the criminal population of Hawaii by about one-third. Slew a brace of high-ranking foreign crooks. Made a screaming fool of the Honolulu Police Department. Let's see is that all?"

  Anders was chuckling "Sometimes I just can't believe that guy," he said, believing it nevertheless.

  "No—that isn't all. Toss me that briefcase, will ,you."

  Anders picked up the case and set it on the table, fingering the shattered chain and running a hand along the closure. "There's an interesting story here, I’ll bet," he said. "You better hope the box is watertight, though."

  "Didn't get too wet," she said, smiling. "Carried it in my mouth, like a great she-cat. As for interesting stories, would you believe I shot it off a man's arm?"

  Anders clucked his tongue. "Better watch the company you keep, young lady. That guy is contagious."

  Smiley shivered at the memory. "That's not all I shot," she murmured. "Somehow, though, it ... well, it has no meaning. Know what I mean? No meaning."

  Gently, Anders told her, "The meaning, maybe, is in that case. Want me to open it?"

  She nodded her head. "Please. Do you have a cigarette?"

  He lit a Salem and passed it to her, then went to work on the briefcase with a pocket knife.

  Smiley smoked with studied deliberation and watched the operation through narrowed eyes.

  "Hope it's not booby-trapped," Anders said. "How would I know?"

  She gave her head a vague toss and assured him, "It's not. I saw him put the stuff in there."

  "Him who?"

  "Him who Wang Ho."

  "Who the hell is Wang Ho?" Anders asked, laughing delightedly. "This is getting ridiculous, you know. Loon, Chung, Wang chatty bang bang. I never heard such outrageous damn ethnic . . ."

  "He's dead. The others, too. And I have the awfullest feeling that . . ."

  "What others?"

  "Wang's cadre. Those men, Tommy—they were here on deadly serious business."

  "Well . . ." Anders was trying to comfort her. "It got them dead, didn't it. And you're seriously alive. Can I tell you, beautiful lady, how very happy we all are that this is true?"

  She touched his arm and said, "Thanks, Tom. Tell it to that big bloody bazoom up there, will you? But for him, I'd be a candidate for shark food right now."

  "Hey, it was a squeaker, eh?"

  "In spades. I get so furious every time I think of these damned cops . ."

  "Hey. They have a job, you know. Like us."

  "Sure, but why don't they go do it somewhere else? Of all the men to be combing that island for—well, I guess I'll never understand it. Tommy, I think I'm in love with that damn guy."

  Anders chuckled as he replied, "Well, join the club. So'm I."

  "No, you know, I mean . ."

  "Sure, I know what you mean. Try me instead, kid. I'm a lot safer and my insurance costs less."

  "I love you, too, Tommy "

  "Yes, I know, you mean . ."

  The girl laughed and kissed his hand. The tightness was leaving her chest. The self-styled wop comic affected her that way—and she was properly grateful. "Do you want me to open that, Tom?"

  "I about have it. Here we go . ahhh. Your box, ma'am."

  She gave him an appreciative bat of the eyes and took possession of the contents of Wang's lockbox. The papers were dry, hardly affected by the moisture of that wild escape from Kuhio.

  "That's all wing-wang lingo," the comic observed, peering over her shoulder. "I never could figure out —do you read top to bottom, bottom to top, or kitty-wampus?"

  Smiley's hands were suddenly shaking. She turned a page, then another.

  "Hey, what is it?" Anders inquired excitedly, noting her reaction.

  "Get Mack down here, please," she requested in a quivery, barely audible voice.

  "Come on, Smiley, dammitt What is it?"

  "Would you believe," she said quietly, "another Cuba?"

  "What? You mean . . . missiles?"

  "I don't mean beards!" she said. "Get Mack! get him down here!"

  The man himself appeared in the cabin doorway at that moment, the rugged features set in grim lines. "A chopper just picked up Chung," he reported.

  "Toby's on them. But it looks like the end of the trail for me. You guys hang in there. Live large, dammit!" He was gone again before the startled reaction set in.

  Smiley cried, "What's he talking about?"

  Anders was scrambling toward the door. He halted there and turned a sick face toward the girl.

  He did not need to explain.

  The thump-whump of `copter blades directly overhead told the story, loud and clear, and the amplified voice floating down from up there served as mere punctuation to the dismal truth.

  "This is the police. You are ordered to lay to, and prepare for boarding."

  "Oh God no!" Smiley wailed.

  "He won't fight them," Anders said woodenly.

  The Executioner had been dealt the showdown hand.

  And he could not even call the opener.

  19: Fire Line

  Two helicopters were hovering in the airspace above the cruiser. The police craft had been joined—no, challenged—by a larger military version and the two were standing off about fifty yards apart, apparently communicating with each other via radio.

  It was very obvious to those below that an argument was going on up there, and it continued for several minutes. Then the military craft yielded a bit of airspace and the police job came back to stand directly above the cruiser.

  The PA announced: "This is Lieutenant Patterson, Honolulu Police. I'm coming down for a parley. You people down there stay loose."

  Lyons waved an acknowledgment.

  A door opened up there and a rope ladder slithered out. A large man in a gray suit began slowly descending.

  Smiley bumped Carl Lyons with her hip to get his attention and, yelling to make herself heard above the racket from the chopper, told him, "Remember, he's our prisoner!"

  Lyons gave her a hopeless flash of the eyes and stepped up to give the guy a hand.

  Bolan moved to the rail, turned his back to the whole thing, and consigned his fate to the hands of the universe.

  The big guy was standing stiffly on the flying bridge, weapons sheathed, hands casually gripping the rail, the face grim and sort of sad but not belligerent. He wore a skin-tight black outfit with belts running in all directions about that hard torso, supple moccasin-style half-boots on his feet.

  Patterson, said to him, "So you're the guy." "I'm the guy."

  It was a good voice—clear, vibrant, but not defiant —a trace of New England accent clinging to it.

  "You seem to be the center of a jurisdictional dispute. Or so it says here. But I could still take you in, mister. What do you say? Ready to hang it up?"

  "I'm always ready. But—thanks, I'll stay."

  The cop gestured toward the guy's weapons belt. "Quite an arsenal you carry there. You could have shot me off the ladder. Why didn't you?"

  "You're not the enemy," the damned guy told Patterson in that good voice.

  "So I've been told." The lieutenant jerked a thumb toward the shore. "Eleven hundred good badges over there, with no cracks showing, say otherwise. You come back to our town, mister, for any reason, and we'll say it to you loud and clear. Understand me?"

  "It's a good force, Patterson. Be proud."

  "I am proud! Who the hell are you to—" The cop caught himself and turned it off, electing to accept it gracefully. "Thanks. I'll take that from one who sh
ould know. But it still goes! Don't come back!"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Keep it that way. What about Oliveras?" "What about him?"

  "What does he have that I could use?"

  "Plenty. The local infrastructure, the pay-off network, some surprises in your tour industry. Lean on him and he'll break." The damned guy actually grinned at him. "Use my name if you'd like. He fears it more than omerta."

  Patterson felt his own face cracking in a returning smile. It surprised him. He said, "I'll bet he does, at that. Thanks, I'll remember it. How are your phantoms?" "My what?" "The ghosts of past regrets. Don't tell me you don't have them."

  "I have them." , "I'll bet."

  The cop signalled his chopper for a return. He had studiously ignored those other three down here, the woman and the two other men. Now he looked at the woman and said, "Relax, honey. How's the surf this morning?"

  "Splendid," she replied coolly.

  Patterson chuckled and reached out for the ladder. One of Brognola's boys steadied it for him. He climbed aboard and turned a final gaze on the big guy at the rail.

  "I wash mine down with vodka," he yelled above the rotor racket.

  The guy nodded and said something in return, something that was lost in the clatter.

  The ninety-nine and 44/100 percent cop did not need to hear it. He knew what the big guy chased his phantoms with.

  "Have a bucket on me," he muttered, and went on up the ladder.

  The military chopper lifted away and climbed to a holding altitude. Brognola shook hands with the man in black as he advised him, "That's one you owe me, soldier. And don't think it came easy."

  "I know the cost," Bolan replied in a solemn voice.

  There would be no "thanks" between these two friendly adversaries. Obvious respect was there, and mutual admiration. It was enough.

  "As for you people," Brognola said, his gaze flicking toward the other three, "you'd better have some damn hot business going here or we're all going to be behind bars."

  Bolan abruptly wheeled about and went below.

  Brognola took Smiley by an elbow and steered her in that same direction. "Come along, SOG Thirty-two," he said, "I'm very anxious to hear what you've been doing these past four report less weeks."

  The girl planted her feet and told him, "I'll have to ask you to formally identify yourself, Mr. Brognola."

  He said, "Well, I'll be damned."

  "I'm serious."

  "I can see that." He dug for his wallet and produced the necessary proof.

  The girl smiled soberly and said, "We figured you for SOG Control—but who would know, in this nutty business?"

  "Nutty, indeed," he agreed. His gaze flicked to Lyons. "Carl? What's happening?"

  "Chung is off for Hawaii in a helicopter. Toby's tailing in a chase plane. Bolan flushed the guy and we've been nudging him toward his secret place. Close to pay dirt now, we think. We had to team up, Hal. The situation was simply too critical. There was no alternative."

  "I figured that. You did right. Just don't ever put it in writing."

  "Oh hell no."

  Smiley's gaze had been alternating rapidly between the two. Her face was now reflecting a dawning revelation. She said, "Thanks for your confidence, guys."

  Lyons seemed embarrassed. He said, "Smiley, I..."

  The chief fed took it onto himself. "The world is full of strange secrets, Miss Dublin. Don't stub your toe on any of them."

  "Don't worry, I won't," she replied, and flounced off below.

  Brognola sighed. "Do you know?—my wife never believes a thing I tell her. I wonder why."

  Lyons suggested, "Let's go below, Hal. I'll update you."

  "Somebody better run the boat," Anders said, over a handshake with Brognola. "Go ahead. I signed for it, I'll swing for it."

  The comic remained on the bridge while the other two joined Bolan and the lady in the cabin.

  The big guy was seated at the mess table, staring perplexedly at Smiley's Chinese papers.

  Brognola inquired, "What the hell is this?"

  "One of those strange secrets," the girl replied. "Watch your toes, boss."

  "Come on, knock it off," he said irritably. "What is it?"

  "Try World War Three," she groused.

  "I hope you're not serious."

  "Fifty-fifty serious, anyway. According to this top document, the man who was wearing it on a wrist manacle is high in the party hierarchy. He—"

  "Wang Ho," Brognola said quietly.

  Smiley flared, "So what the hell do you need with me!"

  "Hey, now—"

  "Hey hell! Do you know where I've been these four report less weeks?"

  "Look, if an apology will help, you've got it. I'm sorry. It's a paranoid business. I can't help that. Nobody's underrating your value or your contributions. I'm tired, cranky, and suffering jet lag. I just mortgaged my office to that Goddamned cop up there. And, to top it all, I'm so damned thrilled to see you all alive and well . . ." The chief fed paused and swiped at his eyes. "Aw, fuck it," he muttered.

  Smiley was crying. She put her arms about his neck and kissed him.

  "I'm a dope," she said. "Forgive me."

  Brognola's face was several shades of crimson. He patted her bare back and said something gruff and unintelligible.

  It could be an emotional business as well as paranoid.

  Smiley stepped into the galley and wet her face from the water spigot.

  Bolan snared a wrinkled cigarette pack and quietly lit one.

  Lyons said to Brognola, "I guess you got my report."

  The chief nodded and cast a reflective gaze toward the girl. "Wang was a lucky guess," he told her. "Carl's report reached me on the plane, coming across this morning. Or whenever that was. God, it seems ages. Anyway, I simply added the pieces together. Our China watchers have been wondering for some time about the connection between Wang and General Loon. When I got the make on Chung—well, it was just two and two."

  "Wang is dead," Bolan quietly advised him. "Oh. Damn. I hope you burned the body." "I'm afraid not."

  "Doesn't matter," Smiley put in. "He left us his coffin." Her eyes flicked to the papers on the table.

  "One of those documents is a deployment order." "Deployment of what?" Brognola asked. "Missiles."

  That one startled him. He said, "Hell, they don't have—tactical missiles?"

  "Strategic," she said. "Intermediate Range Ballistic Missiles."

  That one froze him.

  He shuffled the documents together and placed them in the briefcase. "This is a lock-up," he declared, all warmth gone from that voice now. "You'll play the three monkeys routine." The official gaze fell on Bolan. "Make that four monkeys. The fourth sits on his hands."

  Bolan said, just as coldly, "If I was a monkey, maybe that's what I'd do. But I'm not, and I can't." "The hell you can't!"

  Bolan was not arguing the point. He was simply laying it out. "It's too late for that, Hal. The guy's running toward his toys right now. You've got the best tracker in your stable on his tail. She'll run the guy to where the marbles are. And this could be the only chance to pick them up. This is not a problem in international diplomacy. It's not an act of aggression by a foreign power. It's simply—"

  "That's for someone else to decide!"

  "There's no time for someone else."

  "I still think . . ."

  "Okay, lay it out. Would the official Chinese government sponsor something as wild as this? Against the strongest nuclear power in the world? The PRC's don't have more than twenty-five or thirty IRBM's in their whole arsenal. They have no air force, no navy, no strategic strike capability whatever. Balance that against our arsenal. More than a thousand ICBM's that can go wherever we want to send them. Half that many strategic bombers with nukes. Maybe a hundred attack submarines, also with nukes. A fantastic fleet. World War Three, Hal? No way. Not from here, not with a few lousy IRBM's planted at our back gate. Their best range is three thousand miles."
>
  "I have to go with Mack," Lyons said.

  "Me, too," from Smiley. "Except . . . knowing the Chinese mind as I think I do . . . they wouldn't back down much if we started rattling weapons at them. And that's what worries me. I keep remembering how close we came to nuclear war with the Russians over Cuba."

  "China is not technically classified as a nuclear power," Brognola mused. "Not yet."

  "So why an insane deployment of what little they have?" Lyons wondered.

  "That's what I keep saying," Bolan told them. "This is not an official act of the Chinese government."

  "Who signed this deployment order?" Brognola asked the girl.

  "Loon Chuk Wan. Countersigned by Wang."

  Bolan was probing her eyes. "What was it you were telling me . . . something Wang said, about the papers . . . you said it translated to—"

  "This is where the body is buried."

  Brognola asked, "Whose body?"

  "It's a figure of speech," Smiley explained.

  "This is very messed up," Lyons said. "How does the mob fit into all this?"

  "Maybe not at all," Bolan quietly decided. "And maybe all the way. We'll have to sift that out later. The boys could be simply patsies. They've been ripe for something like this, with their own crazy schemes for the Big Thing. I'm reading it as a con job until I have something more definite to read."

  Brognola asked, "You're saying the commissione doesn't know these guys are bringing in missiles over here?"

  Bolan nodded. "Or else they've been led to believe that they are defensive emplacements."

  "That's possible, I guess. Or maybe it's a double con. You know how the boys operate. They'll let them bring in the stuff, then they knock it over for their own uses."

  Lyons said, "Okay, let's play with that for a minute. How could the boys make use of IRBM emplacements?"

  "I could give you a couple uses right off the bat," Brognola said. "In two words: blackmail and extortion."

  "On an international scale," Lyons added. "It could fit with their Big Thing."

  "It could," Bolan agreed. "But right now, the power here is Chung. The question is: is he acting as a Chinese general or as a mob enforcer."

  "Can you answer the question?" Brognola asked him.