Because what he had been through was nothing to what now faced him, Bolan set to it with the professional soldier's understanding and frame of mind.
In combat, more than in garrison, an infantryman is more packmule than fighting man, until the fighting starts. An infantryman carries all he owns, all he needs, on his own back — his chow, his water, his ammo, his weapon, his dry socks and sleeping bag; he is, and he is supposed to be, a self-contained unit with his own life-support system. If he happens also to be a gun crewman, he has the additional load of mortar or bazooka or machinegun ammunition added to his personal load.
Bolan was all of these and more.
With the albumin blood replacement, the antibiotics, the high-energy vitamins and concentrated chocolate steadily revitalizing him, Bolan set to work.
He took the mortars out of the mine shaft first, set the baseplates, sunk the spike-ended bipods in place, laid the tubes. He made another round trip and came back with the ammo and aiming stakes. He unpacked the ammo, laid out all the bomb-shaped, finned shells, and put maximum propellant charges on each shell. These were small bags of gunpowder that fit at the base of the fins and were ignited by the primer, the primer fired by the weight of the shell when dropped down the mortar tube, striking the fixed firing pin. Besides the flesh-shredding HE — high explosive — shells, Bolan had flare shells and one William Peter, a WP, white phosphorous, for marking. The William Peter not only caused casualties, burning fiercely, but it marked targets with a dense white cloud of smoke.
Bolan went back to his cache and brought the M79 grenade launcher up with a case of grenades. He rested then, and listened.
Some of the soldiers had not yet given up; they still stalked him in the night. But their training had been either inadequate or their discipline lousy. They sounded like cattle moving around, and what they thought were low-voiced commands or questions came to Bolan atop the hill as shouts. Had he been capable, Bolan might have felt some pity for them.
He went down and got the Browning, and the ammo.
During his years as a professional soldier, more than ten years including two extended tours in Vietnam where he first became known as The Executioner, Mack Bolan had seen, fired, experimented with, learned to field strip and reassemble, virtually every type of small-arm known to man. As a pro, it was his business to know weapons.
He had seen them all, from the most primitive copies made in China and North Vietnam, which were as likely to explode in the gunner's face as kill an enemy, to the most highly sophisticated, particularly including the vastly overrated Swedish weapons. After years of experimentation, and thousands of rounds of ammo fired in practice and combat, Sergeant Mack Bolan arrived at the same conclusion that most combat men eventually did....
Nothing, nothing, could beat the BAR.
Range, accuracy, dependability, mobility, every way from dawn till dark and all night long.
Yeah, the BAR had its limitations.
Call them faults, if you're of a mind. So?
The son of a bitch is heavy, sixteen pounds, empty.
Put in a twenty-round magazine and you've got close to twenty pounds, including a stout leather sling. It's long, just an inch short of four feet — forty-seven-inches!
And it shoots .30 caliber ammo, the damned brass big around as your ring finger, and the steel, springload magazines aren't exactly weightless.
But the only thing about it is, Jack, when your ass is in a jam, whether in desert grit and grime, or jungle mud and slime, all you have to do is pull the trigger on a BAR and it will shoot exactly where it's aimed. On full-auto, high-cyclic rate of fire it cranks off 550 rounds per minute. On slow rate, 350 rpm. A man with the touch can shoot it one, two, three, rounds at a time.
The goddam weapon was invented in 1917 and used in World War One!
But nothing yet had ever beat it. Any dogass soldier could pick up a BAR and knock down men at 500 yards. Mack Bolan could bullseye men through the torso at 1500 yards. The BAR's maximum range was 3500 yards, roughly two miles.
Long ago, when Mack Bolan set out on his war against the Mafia and "burglarized" a weapons dealer's warehouse (leaving money to pay for his "purchases") it had not been by accident, but by deliberate design that Sergeant Mac Bolan, late of the U.S. Army, chose Browning Automatic Rifles and several thousand rounds of .30 caliber ball and tracer ammo, and a whole sack full of extra magazines, among his primary arsenal.
Bolan could hear the more persistent stalkers now, clearly in the vast, quiet stillness of night atop the Sicilian mountaintop.
It was tune to give them something new to think about.
He picked up a heavy HE mortar shell, pulled the arming pin, placed the fins down inside the tube, then let it drop, covering his ears tightly so the firing would not deafen him.
When it hit bottom, the shell primer fired, ignited the increment charges, and with a solid chuonk! the round went.
A voice called out. "Hey! Franco, what the hell wasa that!"
"I don't know. I think I saw a flash, up above a little."
Bolan squatted on his heels and waited, counting.
He didn't care where the first round hit, all he wanted was the effect, the mental, emotional, personal effect.
He counted down, and when his lips silently mouthed zero, he saw far below him the bright orange blossom, a gush of smoke, but no sound. He dropped in another round just as the noise of the first explosion washed up the mountainside.
"What the hell was that," the same voice shouted again.
"Some kinda explosion. Christ in all His mercy! Look!"
The second round hit and blossomed, like hell rupturing through a fissure in the earth.
"Son of a bitch, he slipped past us and got back inside!"
"No, no, wait. I know that sound. It's a mortar. He's up here, firing a mortar."
"You know shit!" Franco answered. "He's back down there. Come on!"
"I know what I'm saying, goddammit. Go if you want but I'm staying. I know."
Bolan thought, you know too much, asshole; so lie down and stop breathing, you're already dead."
He could hear the one man going downhill, fast, crashing through the brush, tumbling stones, calling out, "Come on, come on."
Bolan dropped another round down the tube.
Each time he fired, Bolan not only clamped his hands over his ears, but ducked away and clamped his eyes tightly closed. That a mortar threw no muzzle flash at all was fiction. It blazed enough to blind a careless gunner, and enough to be spotted by a careful observer who knew where to look.
Night vision unimpaired, Bolan drew the silenced Beretta, sat with his elbows locked on his knees and waited for smartguy Franco. He saw the bulky shape appear, and heard the man panting like a hospital case dying of asthma. Bolan let Franco have his small victory. Let him see the firebase Bolan had established. Let him turn, even let him shout, a shout unheard as the third round's explosive noise came rebounding up the mountainside.
Then Bolan shot him three times through the chest, for insurance, not completely certain he'd adequately protected his night vision.
Bolan got up and walked over to Franco and rolled him over and saw he'd wasted two bullets. He dragged the body back to his firebase, laid him down carefully, then unwrapped another chocolate bar and ate it.
18
Reversal
From Journals, Mack Bolan, The Executioner:
Many times when 1 go in, I never know how I will get out, or if I will. More than once in these pages I've declared myself already dead. All I care about is accomplishing the mission. Beyond that nothing matters.
The central piazza of Agrigento was but three miles inland from the seaport of the same name. Around the town square, as in most cities throughout the world, stood offices of the local, provincial, and federal governments. In the office of the Night Chief of Police, sat a man of great bulk and substance. He wore a uniform, and polished cavalry style boots actually equipped with small spurs. He wore a S
am Browne style waistbelt and shoulder strap, and a tiny automatic pistol. Above the left breast pocket of his nicely tailored uniform the man wore an ornate solid gold, silver inlay, blue and green enameled badge.
The door to the man's office was locked and his telephone off the hook.
It required considerable concentration, but the Night Chief did not heed the pounding on his door, the shouts of the door pounders, or the thin high-pitched squawk issuing from the earpiece of the telephone. Instead, the man read with some relish the latest scandal among the cinema actresses, and licked his lips lasciviously when he looked at highly revealing photos of Sophia Loren.
The Night Chief of Provincial Police was not only aware of what seemed to be happening a few miles outside his city, but had been aware of it for at least thirty minutes before the townspeople. A policeman relied heavily upon informers. Policemen who wished to live good and satisfying lives, grow old, retire gracefully, die in bed of such reasonable ailments as heart disease or other disorders brought on by a lifetime of dissipation did not foolishly rush off into the night when any damned fool with ears knew there was a war in progress at Don Cafu's.
The Chief was fully aware of who and what Don Cafu was and represented. It was, in fact, with the don's blessing, combined with certain arrangements, that the Night Chief got his job, which did not include interfering with happenings of any land whatever upon Don Cafu's estate. If, upon the morrow, Don Cafu emerged victorious, the Chief had less than nothing to worry about. He would, in fact, be rewarded for not intruding himself into Family matters.
On the other hand, if he learned that Don Cafu had gone down in defeat, the Chief still had nothing to lose. Certainly, the new don would see how wise and provident the current Night Chief of Police was, and would therefore have no reason to wish for a replacement. Certain understandings and arrangements would be made, and things would go on as they had always gone on in Agrigento, Mafialand.
Of course, certain base and faithless persons might jeer at the Chief behind his back, and others possibly find a printing press to run off cowardly caricatures; and without doubt some vile creature would shit on his doorstep or call his wife to accuse him of being a secretive homosexual, but a policeman's lot, as the saying goes....
The one thing the Night Chief was totally unprepared for was the arrival of a sleek turbojet helicopter, letting down directly in front of the police station. At the authoritarian command that he unlock the door, the Chief did so at once. Of course he recognized Signor Brinato at once, but not the smiling youngster who followed the most esteemed Signor Brinato into the office, like a shadow.
Brinato spoke with a voice that sounded like his throat was filled with crushed ice. He complimented the Chief on his behavior. He complimented the Chief upon his willingness to let Family matters sort themselves out. He introduced himself as the new, ah, resident — possibly in absentia— of what was formerly known as the Cafu estate. And, of course, all previous, ah, arrangements would continue in effect, until some more convenient time for renegotiation. Did the Chief have any objections?
"Absolutely none and let me be the first to welcome you."
"I thank you. Now, perhaps you could clear this rabble from the streets. The helicopter is extremely expensive, extremely so, and easily damaged."
It was done in minutes, and so was the Chiefs personal Rolls Royce Silver Cloud brought around so Signor Brinato might ride to the Cafu — the new Brinato, formerly Cafu, estate.
Bolan heard the chopper pass overhead, and was plainly startled to see it circle, then hover, and slowly begin descending over the city.
His first thought was: "Cops!"
His second thought came a fraction of an instant later. It's time to strike. I'm not killing any cops.
He checked the positions of the mortar baseplates, adjusted the sights, dropped the parachute flare round down one tube, and the William Peter down the other.
The flare lighted the whole island, it seemed. The stark bare hills lay naked, the outposts' foxholes, the trails, the old mineshafts. Farther down, he saw the buildings of the malacarni camp, and beyond it the big stone house. The WP smoke shell landed sixty yards long. Bolan adjusted the tube, then ignoring his ears, he pulled the safety pins and dropped shells down both mortar tubes one after another as fast as he could. He had twenty rounds in the air before the first hit, landing beside the cookshack door. The explosion tore the whole end off the building. The remainder of the flimsy structure swayed and buckled, swayed, then caved in. Other rounds fell in, crunch! crunch! crunch! and an air-whapping wave of sound came up the mountainside, whipping dust into Bolan's eyes.
Small, antlike men ran in all directions. Bolan saw one mortar shell hit a running man in drawers square in the top of the head, and the man vanished.
19
Take-down
Bolan worked the sighting screws on both mortars, then again pulled pins and fired as fast as he could, once more putting twenty rounds into the air before the first hit. For a moment he thought the big house was beyond maximum range, or maybe the powder in all the increments was old and he was getting short rounds, because the first three hit along the road between the camp and the house.
Then the others rained down like shooting fish in a rain pond, all seven direct hits or such close misses they whapped the stone walls. But the goddam house refused to fall.
The flare died out and Bolan sat back resting. He lit a cigarette and puffed. He wanted them to think that was it. That it was over, all clear, okay to come out of your holes now, boys.
He rolled over and pulled the BAR to his shoulder, slapped the bottom of the magazine to see it seated firmly, cocked the automatic rifle, and ran off the first magazine, five bursts of three rounds each and a final burst of four, all tracers. He adjusted for a slightly higher angle, changed magazines, then poured it on three, three, three, three, three, four. Changed magazines and repeated it again, and again.
In military terminology it was plunging fire. To the men down there, the bullets seemed to be coming from the sky, coming straight down on them.
Bolan fired his last flare shell from the mortar.
Even as it left the muzzle, he began firing the BAR once more, professionally, methodically. The flare burst open in a hellish green light, and he saw men reeling, frantically rushing in every direction, knocking each other down. A few were shooting, in every direction. Two men seemed to hear gunfire at the same time, wheeled around, and shot each other.
Hellground.
Slaughter in Sicily, right in the Mafia's womb. Where the bastard fathered by terror and birthed by a bitch named expediency had grown to monstrous size and strength, so it could wipe out the family of a professional soldier fighting in Vietnam.
Bolan pulled the bagful of remaining BAR magazines to him and looped the strap around his neck. He slung the M79 grenade launcher across his back. He got the bagful of frags and hefted them on his other shoulder. He pulled the pins on two frags but held the spoons tightly, then dropped them down the mortar tubes. When the surviving malacarni came up the mountain and found the mortars, unless they knew their business, there would be more deads. When they tipped the tubes up from the baseplates the grenades would fall free, flip their spoons, and detonate.
But as he dropped the frags down the tubes. Bolan went fast and low down the steepest part of the hill from his fire-base. Those tubes could be hot enough to cook-off the frags and Bolan didn't want his ass full of hot steel.
Bolan skirted the malacarni camp, hardly bothering to conceal himself except to stay in the shadows. The camp lay in ruins. The stunned survivors staggered about in a state of shock. No one had made any effort to mount a counterattack.
Bolan still had three objectives before calling the mission accomplished.
Well, perhaps four ... if he counted on getting away.
But three for sure, first. Then see about getting out.
He found a place offering concealment and good cover behind large boulde
rs, stopped and dropped his heavy load. He unbagged the shotgun-shell propellant charges for the M79 and laid them out in a row on the ground in front of his knees. He loaded the grenade launcher, sighted, and put one into the counterfeit documents shop, then another. The frame building went up in a sheet of flaming kindling.
Calmly, Bolan reloaded, shot down the door of the ammo dump with the first round, laid the second inside, and then he crouched behind the boulders and waited for the secondary.
The ammo dump went like the start of World War Three. When earth, wood, metal, and parts of bodies stopped raining down, Bolan looked over the boulders and saw the armory also flattened and afire. Only a large smoking hole where the ammo had been.
He gathered the remaining gear and slipped on through the shadows. It was beginning to get light. He realized he could see farther, make out distinct shapes rather than darker masses in the dark.
If he wanted to get out, he should go. But he could not stand the thought of leaving without a complete takedown. He wanted to see that goddam house — that. . . that castle, yeah, ruler of Agrigento, the late Don Cafu. Bolan wanted nothing left for the sons of bitches to look at but rubble, junk. It's hard to build a legend on trash, difficult to worship the residue of destruction.
He stopped again near the place he had first approached the house. He could see the white shape of Riarso's naked body.
The house was a gutted, still flaming ruin; but it also still stood, big, blocky, stone and mortar, and looking too goddam much like a monument.
Sicilian Slaughter te-16 Page 13