Bolan forced a drowsy smile. "Nothin'. I just gotta tap a kidney."
"Hey," DiSalvo said, as if on cue, "I need to see the Indian myself. Let's go."
Bolan drained his beer and stood slowly, letting his shadow lead the way this time. Once in the crapper, he could take out DiSalvo and make his exit through a window, find a way to reach his backup… but the problem would be magnified if Bolan made his move too soon. A deviation from the game plan now might ruin everything. Instead of folding up their tents, the plotters would regroup, ride out the coming storm and cut their losses by discarding various subordinates. He could begin to tag them, of course, but he was sure to miss a few.
And nothing less than a clean sweep would satisfy the Executioner. Somehow he had to find a way to reach his backup without jeopardizing everything that he had worked for in the past five days.
The impact of a reeling body staggered Bolan, jostling him against a nearby table and rattling the beer mugs held by four marines. He pivoted to find a khaki-clad soldier staring at him, then recognized Calvin James instantly and knew that he was saved.
"Watch where you're goin', man," said the Phoenix warrior.
"You watch it, boy."
"I ain't your boy."
"That's obvious. I would've taught you better manners."
"Honky bastard!"
James came at him in a rush, fist cocked, and Bolan sidestepped just enough to save his face, big knuckles grazing past his cheek as James collided with him. Both men went down together, flattening the nearest table beneath their weight. Marines and beer mugs scattered with a crash, eclipsing the imitation rock and roll, the lame band limping to a halt as things began to come apart.
They rolled together on the gritty floor, which was awash with beer. Bolan pummeled Calvin, pulling punches, wincing at the impact even though his adversary did the same. He felt someone groping at him, struggling to separate the two combatants when a fist came out of nowhere, flattening the would-be peacemaker.
"Gotta make this look good," Calvin muttered, breaking free and scrambling to his feet. The Executioner was right behind him, dodging as a kick was fired in the direction of his face. He caught James's ankle, twisted sharply and brought him down. Already breathing heavily, he made it to his feet before the black man could recover.
Suddenly DiSalvo had him by the arm. "Let's shake it, Frankie. Leave the jig. We gotta split."
Bolan shook off the watchdog and waded into James as he rose in turn, fists flailing. One of those big hands connected solidly with Bolan's cheek, the jarring impact lighting flares of pain inside his skull. He staggered, found his footing once again and bored ahead, ignoring blows that landed on his arms and shoulders.
Bolan knew he might not have another opportunity. He had to pass the message, beneath the watchful gaze of Rafferty and friends before it was too late. He tackled Calvin, wrapped his arms around the newest member of the Phoenix team's waist and toppled with him to the floor.
James twisted under Bolan, his free hand scrabbling at the wooden floor, his brand-new uniform smeared with dirt and beer. The Executioner had one arm locked around his throat, a simulated choke hold bringing Bolan's lips in line with Calvin's ear.
"Tomorrow," Bolan whispered above the shouts and jeers of patrons grouped at ringside. "San Felipe. Airborne strike."
He gripped a table leg and made as if to swing it overhead, but lost his grip before he could complete the move.
"What time?"
One of the big guy's hands was splayed across his face, as if to gouge his eyes. "Don't know."
It was the best he could do. James whipped an elbow into Bolan's ribs, and Bolan doubled over, gasping, showing more reaction than the impact merited. James seized the opening and wriggled free, already on his feet when one of the marines came charging at him from the sidelines.
"Nigger bastard!"
James ducked the clumsy roundhouse, thankful for the opportunity to throw a solid punch this time. A big right hand impacted on his adversary's nose and upper lip, releasing crimson jets from flattened nostrils. Following the right with a destructive left, he dropped the leatherneck and swiveled back to look for Bolan in the spreading melee.
All around him men in uniform were squaring off by race or branch of service, throwing punches in a general free-for-all. A bottle of cerveza whistled past his ear, and Calvin ducked, arm raised to shield his eyes as it exploded into fragments on the wall behind him. An air force pilot stumbled into Calvin, took a stunning elbow in the chops and staggered out of range again, hands cupped around his lacerated face as blood drooled between his fingers.
Somehow Bolan had been swept away in the confusion. Calvin spent no more time pondering it. He sought an exit, conscious of the fact that he couldn't afford a confrontation with MPs just now. He had to deliver a message of the utmost urgency, and nothing must prevent his carrying the word to Katz and the others.
James was heading for the John when suddenly his path was blocked by Bolan's former escort. Snarling, reaching down for what could only be a boot knife, he was primed to strike when Calvin's heavy boot exploded in his groin. The weasel folded, instantly forgetting all about the blade as he collapsed to hands and knees. The Phoenix member kicked him in the ribs, then scrambled past him toward the sanctuary of the rest rooms.
He was alone, the other tenants having emptied out to join the spreading melee in the barroom proper. Crossing to the nearest window, Calvin cranked it open with an effort, rusty hinges chattering in protest. Standing on a filthy sink that groaned and shifted underneath his weight, he punched the screen aside and scrambled through into the alleyway outside.
His uniform was a mess, but it didn't matter now, unless the MPs spotted him before he cleared the scene. Somebody in the dive was bound to call for reinforcements, if they hadn't called already, and Calvin didn't plan to stick around and meet the cavalry. He had to contact Katz as soon as possible and pass on Bolan's message.
San Felipe.
Airborne strike.
Tomorrow.
It was more than they had going in. James only hoped that it would be enough to see them through.
* * *
Bolan drove an angry fist into the face that popped up before his eyes like a target in a shooting gallery. He hadn't seen the man before, had no idea who he was or what he hoped to gain by rushing at a stranger in the middle of a barroom brawl. The meet with James had been an unexpected bonus, but it might be a disaster if he lingered any longer and got arrested at the scene.
He glanced around for Vince DiSalvo and found him crawling through the fray on hands and knees, head hanging like a beaten dog. He reached the fallen soldier, dropping two more strangers on the way, and helped him slowly to his feet.
"Who was that nigger?"
Bolan shrugged, one arm already looped around DiSalvo. "Never saw his ass before."
"I think the bastard ruptured me."
"You'll be all right. Let's shake this dump."
The others caught up with them halfway to the exit with DiSalvo slowing Bolan down. As Broderick and Steiner took the limping soldier off his hands, Rafferty seized Bolan's arm. "We didn't need this shit tonight," he growled.
"We didn't need to make the rounds at all," the Executioner replied. "Would you prefer I let some drunken shithead put me in emergency receiving?"
"Frankie didn't start it, Jase," DiSalvo said. "It was the shine."
"I see that spook again, he'll wish I hadn't," Steiner vowed.
"Forget him. He's long gone."
DiSalvo snarled, "I'm not forgettin' anything."
They hit the sidewalk running, Broderick and Steiner carrying DiSalvo between them, his arms around their shoulders. They were half a block away and flagging down a taxi when the first carload of helmeted MPs pulled up outside the bar, disgorging burly figures armed with riot sticks.
"That's too damned close for me," the sergeant grumbled, settling in beside the taxi driver.
"What about t
he senoritas?" Vince DiSalvo asked.
"Forget it, man. What were you gonna use, your good intentions?"
"Hey, he didn't kick me that hard."
"Hang it up, all right? You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow as it is. And we've all got a busy day."
The Executioner slumped back, relaxing. He had passed the word, and for the moment that was all that he could do. The rest of it was up to Calvin James, the other men of Phoenix Force and Able Team. If all of them were still intact and there was time for them to organize a hot reception for McNerney's team at San Felipe, fine. If not, then it was back to Bolan, battling the odds. He still had no idea how many guns were going on the raid; for all he knew, McNerney might have armed a full battalion. He was counting on a smaller force — the larger numbers made for more severe logistics problems — but he would have to play the cards as they were dealt this time. There would be no more opportunities for Bolan to improve his hand.
Tomorrow… and he didn't even know what time. They might be setting out at dawn, but Bolan doubted it. The sergeant's casual insistence on a night of drinking indicated that the strike was timed for later in the day, perhaps tomorrow evening. Whatever, any time his allies gained was time in which they could prepare themselves to meet the enemy. He didn't envy Katzenelenbogen or the others, bracing for a confrontation with a hostile force of unknown numbers, coming at them out of nowhere, with the crucial zero hour still unspecified. With any luck at all, Politician might have gathered further details from his post inside the local Contra movement, but the Executioner couldn't afford to count on luck tonight.
He had already used his up. Meeting Calvin James had been a fluke, and Bolan knew from grim experience that flukes didn't repeat themselves. Whatever breaks the warrior got from here on out, he would be making for himself. And anything his adversaries wanted from him, they would have to take.
The Executioner had done as much as he could do, without reverting to combat mode, and there was enough time for that once they were in the field. There would be ample time for killing at San Felipe.
25
It was going to be a great day. Michael John McNerney could feel it in his bones. This day was etched into his destiny… but he would take precautions all the same. A visionary might put his faith in destiny and fate, but only idiots forgot to keep their options open when their hopes and dreams were on the firing line. Whichever way it went today, McNerney would be covered fore and aft. He liked to think it was impossible for anyone to take him by surprise.
The plan was virtually foolproof, but he knew from experience that anything could happen. You never knew where the next hard break was coming from, and no amount of advance planning could ever totally eliminate the factors of coincidence and chance. If things blew up at San Felipe, McNerney would be ready with his alternate contingencies.
None of the orders or arrangements for the San Felipe strike were written down, so there would be no files to shred or burn in case of a disaster. Half a dozen loyal subordinates could link him with the strike, but none of them would be in any shape to testify if things went sour. It was those above him, his "superiors," who worried Mike McNerney most. Experience had taught him that the higher ranks were only theoretically composed of better, tougher men. In fact, he thought his allies on the general staff might fold if pressure was applied, and once the dominoes began to fall, no one was safe.
He had prepared himself for flight from the beginning, recognizing human nature, understanding that no man was absolutely worthy of his trust. Betrayal was an ugly fact of life in military and clandestine service; every war had seen its traitors, and in peacetime anyone could play the Judas game. McNerney's cash was in a numbered Swiss account, untouchable by Justice or the IRS; he owned three passports and kept his bags perpetually packed and ready. If he couldn't disappear on a moment's notice, he could come damned close, and once he shed his uniform, McNerney was prepared to lead pursuers on the wild-goose chase of a lifetime.
They could never hope to second-guess his backup plan. The scheme was too audacious, straining credibility. If his own participation was exposed, they would be waiting for a bug-out, counting on a run for parts unknown. A counterthrust would never cross the enemy's collective mind, and that was why McNerney knew that it would work. The sheer audacity would see him through, and in the end, when the dust had settled, when a grateful nation heard the call to arms, he would be recognized at last for what he was: a hero and a true American.
Ironically his nominal superiors in Washington had never grasped the full potential of the plan they had conceived. They were content to topple the Ortega forces and reinstate a pro-American regime, but they refused to take the plan a bold step toward its logical conclusion. They wouldn't acknowledge the necessity of minimizing amateur, civilian oversight of military operations in the field. When pressed, they shied away from any implication of dramatic shifts in government, the relocation of supreme authority in military hands.
McNerney, on the other hand, wasn't intimidated by the thought of taking swift, decisive action to eliminate civilian enemies. Regardless of their offices and salaries, their mandate from the people, they were men of flesh and blood. They all had weaknesses, and they could be removed in an emergency without a cumbersome resort to ballot boxes. Never one to think in revolutionary terms, McNerney saw himself as a conservative, committed to the preservation of original American ideals. If Washington and Jefferson had meant the nation to go Communist, they never would have called America one nation under God.
McNerney had the will and the power to save America from her elected leaders. Traitors, every one of them, betraying God and country in the name of liberal ideals, conspiring openly with Third World scum to weaken the foundations of Western civilization. In her darkest hour of need, America still had a hero waiting in the wings, and he would save her yet. If the raid at San Felipe came off as planned, it would be easier, of course. But if the strike team failed, McNerney was prepared to forge ahead toward his final goal. He didn't crave the Oval Office for himself, but if a grateful population should demand it, he would serve. It was a soldier's duty.
He finished packing documents into his briefcase, locked it and retrieved a bottle from his desk. The bourbon scorched his throat at first, but he was used to it, and soon the sweet, familiar warmth was spreading through him, easing tension, building confidence.
McNerney would succeed because he had to. It was necessary, even preordained. The general was hardly a religious man, but he believed in a guiding hand behind the scenes. That hand was guiding him today; that great, omniscient mind was interested in America, in Mike McNerney. For the moment it would be enough. A single, dedicated man could do the rest.
* * *
Yakov Katzenelenbogen pushed the wide sombrero back on his forehead and scanned the village square of San Felipe. At a glance, the marketplace looked normal, even though the crowd was smaller than expected for a Saturday. It would require a closer look, some thought, to figure out precisely what was wrong, and Katz was counting on his adversaries being in a hurry, dropping from the sky without benefit of any reconnaissance. If they had time to scrutinize the drop, they would be sure to realize there were no women shopping in the square, no children darting in and out among the market stalls.
A call to Washington had put Brognola on the line to State, from whence had come a limited approval to involve Honduran military personnel. The explanation Katz had offered to authorities was sanitized — a group of mercenaries with Americans aboard was prepared to strike at San Felipe and create a border incident for purposes unknown — but he had managed to secure cooperation in removal of the village's inhabitants. Some twenty families altogether, they were safely quartered at a government facility outside Tegucigalpa. Troops had scoured the surrounding countryside, alerting farmers and their families to stay at home this Saturday, postponing any errands to the local market.
Checking out the plaza now, Katz scrutinized the soldiers in their peasant garb wi
th rifles hidden underneath serapes, submachine guns hidden under tables in the market stalls. On such short notice they had gathered only eighty men, two-thirds of them now "shopping" while the others posed as vendors, trading produce, yard goods, tools, the bare necessities of rural life.
He was informed that on a normal Saturday as many as five hundred persons might be crowded into San Felipe's central plaza, and the gruff Israeli worried that the present token turnout might alert his enemies. Even if they failed to note the lack of women in the "crowd," McNerney's raiders might become suspicious of the tiny gathering and pull back until they could investigate. His only hope lay in the firm belief that they were working on a deadline, which could be lost forever if the mission was postponed. If Katzenelenbogen's enemies were racing with the clock, they might be careless, eager for a go regardless of the target's dwindling size.
Without a firm idea of hostile numbers, Katz was ill at ease with the security arrangements, but he had no time for new provisions now. They had the date and target for McNerney's strike, but zero hour was a mystery. The strike force could appear at any moment, or the day might turn to darkness while they waited, chafing at the silence of the forest. Katz believed the raiders would attack by daylight — it made sense, logistically, and most of their intended targets would have left the marketplace for home by sundown — but he could be wrong just as easily. The waiting game wasn't his favorite, but he had no choice. And while he waited, he couldn't afford to risk their marginal advantage of surprise by shuffling his troops around the square in public view.
Of course, the troops weren't precisely his. There were proprieties to be observed, but the commander was an officer who knew his limitations, and he had been courteous to Katz, amenable to the Israeli's plans for distribution of his troops. The men of Phoenix Force were salted here and there around the plaza: Manning at the table of a produce booth, a Colt Commander primed and ready in his lap; McCarter drifting through the crowd, a slouching peasant with an M-16 and frag grenades concealed beneath the folds of his serape; Rafael Encizo lounging in a doorway on the far side of the square, a wicker basket at his side containing two LAW rockets and an MM-1 projectile launcher. Above Katzenelenbogen's head, Calvin James was seated in the village's only second-story window, commanding the plaza with an M-60 machine gun, ready to begin the dance of death.
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