When the vessel was within a hundred yards, Mack took out the bullhorn.
"You are ordered to cut power and go dead in the water for inspection! Cut your engines now!"
A rifle shot cracked the soft night air, followed by a stuttering machine gun. None of the rounds came anywhere near the blacked out attacking boat.
"You have one more chance. You will be blown out of the water if you do not come about and cut your engines."
Again the rifles and machine gun fired.
Bolan looked down at Johnny who had his eye on the sight of the Armbrust rocket launcher.
"Do it, Johnny."
The young man fired. He sensed that he had missed. The upward surge of the Stamas on a swell lifted the round over the target. It exploded harmlessly, just past the fisher, and the shouts came from the craft.
Johnny flipped off the empty tube and slapped a new one on, going into his firing position, seated, knees spread supporting his elbows.
He judged the regular movements of the boat this time and fired. The rocket launcher, with no back blast, sounded like a pistol shot. Johnny kept the fishing craft in his sights.
The commercial fishing boat erupted into a fireball, lighting up the sea.
A secondary explosion ripped the fuel tanks on board.
Ten seconds later the forty-footer was going down.
Johnny lowered the Armbrust, picked up his Ingram as his brother nosed the Stamas toward the sinking boat.
A lone figure on the stern waved for help. Johnny brought up the Ingram and fired a 5-round burst at him. The volley pinned the man to the deck, then dumped him into the swirling water as the bow slid slowly into the Pacific.
Johnny looked at Bolan. "No survivors, no prisoners," he said grimly.
The Executioner nodded.
The Stamas 32 nosed ahead. Johnny moved to the bow, and sat astride the anchor board. Each time he heard splashing and cries for help, he turned the spitting Ingram on the position, hosing down the floundering crewmen.
"Die you bastards!" Johnny screamed as they circled the area for five minutes.
"Now the freighter," Bolan said.
They turned south again, found the big ship chugging along at ten knots. The Stamas slid in quietly with lights out beside the rusty freighter. Bolan would not need the scuba gear. He set three of the limpet mine detonators for ten minutes and waited as Johnny nosed the little craft within two feet of the black plates on the big vessel.
The Executioner hung over the side of the steel rail of the Stamas and reached down as far as he could. He placed the limpet three feet off the waterline and saw it cling to the freighter's steel plates. There was no noise. He motioned Johnny to work forward a little more.
Bolan was about to push the second mine toward the hull when a rifle cracked from above. The lead slug hit the railing two feet from him and ricocheted off into the night.
He drew the Beretta and fired at the rail above where the rifleman had been. Then he grabbed the limpet mine again and motioned for Johnny to edge in closer. At two feet, Bolan leaned down and placed the mine only a yard from the slapping waterline. The strong magnets held it in place.
"Now let's get out of here!" he muttered. They raced into the night, pursued by rifle shots, then Johnny circled a quarter of a mile away, watching the big ship.
It was five miles off the coast and somewhere west of Imperial Beach when the first mine exploded, lighting up the side of the ship like a billboard. The mine shattered plates and opened a ten foot split in the outer skin, extending two feet below the waterline.
A siren began to wail on board the freighter.
In reply the second limpet exploded. The big freighter listed to port almost at once. More sirens wailed. Men scrambled across the slanted decks. Lifeboats swung out from davits.
Deep in the bowels of the big ship the cold saltwater hit the boilers.
A roaring, muffled thunder shook the whole ocean. Nothing showed above water.
"Blew the whole bottom out of her!" Johnny said.
Two minutes later half the ship was under water and she was going down quickly.
"We have to find the yacht," Bolan said. "That freighter has enough lifeboats in the water. Most of the men are probably innocents, but we don't have time."
The Stamas raced for the San Diego harbor. Bolan took the wheel and made large «S» turns across a bearing for the harbor entrance, but found no yacht.
"They could have been listening to the radio reports from the fishing boat," Johnny said. "When it went sour they might have headed south at flank speed."
He slid both used Armbrust tubes over the stern and watched them sink. Then he and Mack climbed the ladder to the little flying bridge. Johnny sat in one of the soft cushioned chairs behind the console. He was still pale, like death had kissed him.
"We hurt them tonight," Bolan said. "They must have been moving thirty to forty million dollars' worth of cocaine off that freighter."
"What's the next target?" Johnny stared at his brother.
"We must get back on dry land. Bring the Armbrust. We'll need it."
Johnny Bolan Gray took a deep breath. He nodded. Round one was over, round two coming up. He closed his eyes and thought of Sandy, not as he had last seen her, but as he remembered her laughing and running along the beach.
He would always remember her hair blowing in the wind, her smile, her concern for other people. That was the Sandy he would always remember. Johnny knuckled wetness from his eyes. He would never see her again. He turned away in the seat, looked aft and let the tears come.
35
It was a little past 2:30 a.m. when Bolan and his young brother parked the Pontiac half a block from the fence that surrounded Marcello Trucking. They had moored the sleek powerboat at the dock where they'd found it. The Executioner had taken out a heavy barracks bag and put it in the car. Now he opened the bag and showed Johnny the contents.
There was an M-16/M-203 grenade launcher-rifle combination and a sack filled with 30 grenades for the tube. He also pulled out a compact hand-held M-60 Army machine gun that fired 7.62mm rounds at 550 a minute, no tripod needed. There was a variety of other weapons and ammunition.
"First we take out a warehouse in here. My intel points to it as the major terminal for incoming dope." He referred to the police data supplied to him by the crippled, fiercely loyal Bolanist he called The Bear — Stony Man Farm's Aaron Kurtzman.
They left the car and faded into the shadows along the eight-foot-high chain link fence. Three strands of barbed wire ran along the top, angled outward.
They walked to the main gate. It was spotlighted and wide open, waiting for late-night trucks arriving from all over the country. A guard with a clipboard and a.38 on his hip came toward them.
"What can I do for you guys?"
"Manny said to come right down," Bolan said. "He here?"
"Mr. Marcello? No. What's that tube thing your friend's carrying?"
"Special nightscope for seeing in the dark," the Executioner replied. "We're looking for those sneak thieves who been ripping off the merchandise."
"You'll need authorization to come in at night," the guard said. "Besides, I didn't hear about no sneak…"
"This enough authorization?" Bolan asked, drawing the Beretta from his shoulder holster. Johnny came around behind the guard and pulled the guy's revolver from his belt. "Down this way, man, and you won't get hurt," Mack said.
They left the guard tied up fifty yards away behind some parked trucks. The two Bolans walked toward the far warehouse. It was half the size of the other huge storage barns. This building was made of concrete block, with security lights around it and only one door.
"There must be a backup guard somewhere," Bolan whispered. They were crouched in the shadows beside an International highway diesel tractor. Bolan pointed to the left and Johnny began scanning the darkness and shadows that way.
"Got one," Johnny whispered. Bolan's gaze followed Johnny's pointing finger.
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"Yeah, he's no civilian. Wait here."
Johnny crouched on the macadam as Bolan vanished into the night. Two minutes later Johnny saw a black shadow hurtle toward the man, a soft rustle and then silence. A minute later the Executioner knelt beside Johnny.
They came around the far end of the big truck talking in normal tones. Another guard appeared at the single door in front of them, wielding a double-barreled shotgun. Security was edgy; the marksman's medals of the last few days had fanned day-to-day fear into paranoia of epic proportions. But inevitably, not every sector had told the truth about the Bolan visits, in order to protect certain individuals from the wrath of the head honchos. So security everywhere was too jumpy — misinformed, underorganized, and when it came right down to it, based on nothing more than each man for himself.
They stopped in front of the guard.
"Stow that scattergun or I'll ram it up your ass," Bolan said quietly.
The guard started to pull up the shotgun.
The Executioner fired twice with the Beretta. The slugs slammed the man against the chair, the shotgun flying out of his hands. He slid to sitting position. It looked like he was stealing a nap.
Bolan checked out the door. There was a padlock on it.
Two more silenced rounds from the Beretta destroyed the lock with little noise. Johnny pulled the door open and they entered the building.
Bolan felt along the wall just inside the entrance until he found a switch. He flicked it on. There were no windows.
Two long tables in the center of the room were stacked with neat bundles of plastic-wrapped cocaine and heroin.
To one side were precision scales protected with dust covers, ounce sized plastic bags and sealing machines. In a big bin behind the table lay labeled blocks of mannitol for cutting.
Bolan looked around and saw a fire hose neatly coiled around a hanger on the wall.
"Slash the bags open," Bolan said. He unwound the hose and turned on the valve. An inch-wide jet of water gushed out the nozzle, and Bolan directed the spray on the slashed bags of white powder. In five minutes several million dollars' worth of drugs dissolved into a chalky liquid.
The Executioner shut off the water and motioned to the door. Outside he pointed to Johnny's Armbrust, then at the concrete wall.
They walked fifty yards away and Johnny lifted the Armbrust. He pushed off the safety and sent the AP round slamming through the block wall.
For a silent moment nothing happened. The explosion, when it came, was sharp and rumbling. The roof lifted several inches off its supports, the wall crumbled, and the whole structure sagged, then collapsed inward. Johnny shouldered the Armbrust and they walked back toward the front gate.
A fire siren wailed. A dozen men ran around in confusion, not certain what to do. Fire crackled at the far side of the building that was now some of the most expensive rubble in the world. Security had gone all to hell. This was not a hardsite but a lab and storage facility, so manpower was at a minimum. Lies and false estimates about Bolan's return would continue to stymie the guncocks as they attempted to close ranks against the new Bolan onslaught. Tonight, at the warehouse, it was a lost cause. The wandering, confused rifleman didn't even catch a glimpse of the two brothers as they slipped back to their car with unnecessary stealth.
As they drove away Johnny looked at Bolan. "Now we go for Marcello himself, right?"
Bolan nodded. "Before he has a chance to bring in more soldiers."
"The La Jolla hardsite?"
"That's the target."
Half an hour later they had infiltrated the backyard of the house next door to the Marcello mansion. They were still an immense distance from the house. The rear lawn of the Mafia chief looked like a golf course.
An all-night party was in progress. The Executioner advanced, finally looked through binoculars over the top of a six-foot-high brick wall and checked the pool, which was covered by a «floating» type roof, and patio area.
A dozen men sat around the pool with drinks in hand. Several charts on easels stood nearby.
"Conference of some kind," Bolan reported back to Johnny. "They wouldn't have a party this late without women.
Johnny had the Armbrust over one shoulder with the last tube-round locked on the firing mechanism. Over the other shoulder he carried the M-16/M-203 hybrid. At his feet sat an olive drab bag filled with thirty of the 40mm grenades.
The.44 AutoMag rode the big guy's hip, with the Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather and the M-60 machine gun in his hands.
Quickly they retreated to the darkness of the trees that edged the huge lawn and laid out the attack plan and synchronized their watches. Bolan faded back through the trees and around toward the direction of the street.
Three minutes later Johnny loaded the grenade launcher and dropped the first 40mm round into the patio area.
The first hit the pool itself and went off with a subdued blast.
The second landed a few feet from a patio table. The head of an obese Mafia hit man disintegrated in a puff of smoke as the round exploded.
The dozen men fanned out in all directions, one falling into the pool. They stormed into the house and raced to the sides of the estate, wildly seeking safety.
Johnny followed three men with rounds into trees at the far side. An air burst riddled two of the men, the third raced for the front of the house. Shortly Johnny heard the M-60 chattering its death message to any who tried to escape by the street entrance.
Johnny loaded and fired. Quickly he was out of targets, so he moved his grenading to the patio and under it, trying to get rounds inside the house. He leveled the barrel, hoping to bounce a grenade through the open door.
His hand scraped the bag for the last round, which he sent into the far corner of the estate, wounding a man who dived behind a tree.
Johnny dropped the M-16 hybrid and picked up the Armbrust. He aimed at the ground floor beside the patio and fired the AP round. It ripped through a picture window into what he guessed was the living room. The shot leaped from the tube and exploded with a roar, the concussion shattering all the windows in the rear of the house.
Time to move. Johnny scaled the wall, taking the M-16 with him. He had four 30-round magazines of the high-velocity 5.56 hailstones of death.
He pushed the safety off on the M-16 and sprinted through the edge of the shrubs to the lawn. One man left the protection of an overturned table and ran for the house.
Johnny lifted the M-16 and sprayed six rounds at him, dumping the Mafia hoodlum's lifeless body in the grass. He checked the others in the patio. All of them were dead. He ran to the back of the house where the door had been. Now a gaping hole opened to the living room.
Furniture littered the room, walls shattered, mirrors on the floor, plaster still falling from the sagging ceiling. A fire burned in the far end of the living room. Johnny checked the room carefully. No one there.
Smoke and cordite hung in the air like an omen. He charged through the room into a hallway leading toward the front of the house.
Someone looked out a door, then fisted a.45 and sent a wild shot into the floor in front of Johnny. He triggered a 4-round burst through the door, heard the man groan and fall facedown into the hallway, blood pouring from his chest into the thick carpet.
Johnny could hear the stuttering M-60 at the front of the house. Mack was taking care of business there.
Johnny remembered Angela saying something about her father's office being on the second floor. He ran down the hall, saw a man on the floor look up at him in anger and terror. The left side of the man's face had been seared by an explosion, his left arm hung in broken tatters.
Johnny lifted the M-16 and sent a mercy round through the man's forehead, then ran forward to the stairway.
Mack Bolan came through the door to the left, the M-60 tracking. He realized it was Johnny just in time and the machine gun wavered off target. Johnny led the way up the steps, peered over the top step and saw two men standing guard outside a pa
ir of double oak doors ahead, their guns level and ready to fire.
Johnny cut both of them down with 5-round bursts from the M-16 and charged ahead. Just as he reached for the door he heard machine-gun fire behind him. He spun around as one of the guards jolted backward, a big.45 falling from his hand. Johnny looked at his brother in blood, offered a quick, silent thanks for saving his life, and then kicked in the big doors.
It was Manny the Mover's inner sanctum, his den and home office. Marcello stood behind the big desk, holding an old-fashioned Army grenade in one hand. He held the safety pin and its ring in the other, showing them to Johnny. Only Marcello's fingers kept the arming spoon in place to prevent the grenade from exploding.
Mack Bolan ran into the room and stopped beside Johnny, who had lifted the muzzle of his M-16, centering it on Marcello's chest.
"You ordered Karl Darlow killed, you piece of human-shaped shit," Bolan said.
"Yes, it had to be done."
"Did you order them to torture Sandy Darlow?" Johnny said, his voice quavering.
Manny smiled evilly. He knew who these two men were. "Sometimes, little boy, a man's got to do things he doesn't especially like."
Johnny took a threatening step forward.
Marcello lifted the grenade. "I drop this, we all die."
"I'm ready, Marcello. After what they did to Sandy I want you to die slowly."
Johnny put a 5-round burst into Marcello's knees. He screamed and fell to the floor.
"Honest, kid," the mobster cried. "It was nothing personal. It was just business."
Thunk!
The metal spoon sprang away from the grenade, arming it as it rolled over the rug toward Johnny.
In 4.2 seconds it would explode.
36
The two men dived to the right as soon as they heard the arming spoon fly off the grenade. They hit the floor and rolled away from the death ball moving across the carpet. They ended up behind the heavy cherry wood desk just as the bomb went off.
The noise was almost unbearably painful. Johnny shook his head to clear it and felt his left leg throbbing. He looked down and saw a slash in his pantleg and a bloody stain where a piece of shrapnel had sliced a half inch through his calf. Somehow it hurt very little.
Resurrection Day Page 24