Bolan looked down the hill, a line of worry creasing his forehead. Several figures seemed to be moving directly toward Norwood's house while others went to the other homes.
"We might need to move away from here," Bolan said.
"N-not yet," Norwood said painfully. "Let me rest for a moment."
Bolan nodded, trying to hurry the scientist's story. "The people you met here, were they Sonnojoi?"
Norwood looked surprised. "Yes," he said. "The symposium was just a front. I was flattered by these people, and I gave a great many lectures about nuclear power and nuclear armaments. Then one day they showed up with stolen plutonium and ordered me to make them bombs..."
"Bombs!" Bolan said. "Nuclear bombs?"
"Hydrogen bombs, to be exact," Norwood replied. "When I refused, they kidnapped me and took me to a laboratory." The man looked sadly at the ground. "I... I'm not a very strong person, I'm afraid. They beat me and deprived me of food and water. Eventually I made their bombs for them. The conditions were hardly clinical. I became contaminated. When my own safety no longer factored in my feelings, I then began to worry about what kind of monsters I had unleashed with my own hands. I began to wonder exactly what they intended to do with those bombs." He coughed again.
"We must get you to a hospital," Bolan said. "Let's get out of here. I'll help you."
Norwood waved him off. "It's too late for that," he said. "Look." He rolled up his left sleeve to show Bolan several black splotches, like bruises, on his skin. "Broken blood vessels, Mr. Reeves. I'm a dead man, a fool."
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Bolan said. "Almost anyone would have done the same thing, given the circumstances."
"Would you have?"
Bolan stared at him. "How did you escape?" he asked after a moment, his attention shifting once again to the men circling the house. He looked around. They were out in the open but quite a distance from the house. If they were to move, they'd be spotted. Bolan decided that it was best to just try to wait it out. But how had they found him?
"My assistant, Mr. Maruki, snuck me out in a laundry cart and then into the trunk of his car. It was him who brought me here, to Jukai." He made a sweeping motion with his arm toward the dense forest.
"Jukai?" Bolan asked.
"Sea of Trees," Norwood said. "The forest is impenetrable. People from all over come here to commit suicide by losing themselves in it. I will do this when my time comes."
"Where was the laboratory where they forced you to build the bombs?"
"I'm not sure. I was either blindfolded or in a car trunk. The Sonnojoi had a name for it. though. They called it chikatetsu."
That word again, the same one Prine had used in La Bomba before he died. "I'm going to need names," Bolan said, watching down the hill. Several figures had left the house and were moving slowly up the hill toward them. "Damn. We're going to have to..."
The Executioner's last words were swallowed in the huge explosion that turned Norwood's house into a black-and-orange ball of destruction that billowed into the crisp air, leaving behind a small fire storm and screaming neighborhood children.
Bolan was up, helping Norwood to his feet. "The forest!" he yelled. "Make for the forest!"
They were moving up the slope toward him now, eight, no ten of them, dressed in black and still wearing their black helmets. Before they had been moving dots against a placid landscape. Now they were the enemy — targets.
Norwood ran toward the woods as Bolan pulled Big Thunder and took long aim at one of them. He squeezed one off, and it kicked mud at the man's feet. The Executioner adjusted, sighting higher, and took the man out, dead center, his body tumbling backward and rolling down the slope.
The men charged him, blasting with their shotguns as they came. Ground churned near him, but the Sonnojoi were definitely at a disadvantage — running uphill and trying to fire at the same time. Bolan crouched and picked another target, a man who had stopped to aim. He hit him in the head, and the man spun around on one foot in a comical dance, then fell straight backward.
They kept coming, only a few meters separated them. Bolan kicked the legs out from under another. The man fell forward and slid downhill in the slick mud.
"Reeves!" Norwood called, and Bolan turned toward the sound.
A black unmarked helicopter, which looked like a surplus Huey, set down near the forest, blocking Norwood. Several Sonnojoi had jumped from the machine and were charging Norwood. Bolan swung Big Thunder in that direction, but he couldn't get a clear shot.
He turned back, blowing out the two men farthest up the hill, then jumped to his feet and ran toward Norwood.
Too late.
The Sonnojoi had grabbed the scientist and were running him back to the chopper. Bolan turned on the heat, running as fast as he could to close the gap between them.
They lifted Dr. Norwood into the open bay. Bolan emptied the clip into the rotors in an effort to disable the chopper, but it didn't work. As the Sonnojoi began returning fire from the open door, the squat bird rose into the morning sky. The Executioner holstered his now silent weapon and ran a serpentine course toward the bird as . 12-gauge shells kicked the hell out of the ground around him.
He reached the chopper as it was still hovering just above his head. In desperation he leaped for the aircraft, grabbing one of the skids and holding on for all he was worth. The ship floundered with the uneven weight as the pilot tried to adjust. The Sonnojoi on the ground were catching up and began shooting at the man who dangled from the underside of the Huey.
Bolan locked an arm on the skid and drew his Beretta, returning fire, sending his pursuers ducking for cover. Men began leaning out of the bay and firing down at him, forcing him back and keeping him from swinging up onto the skid.
He looked down. They were already at tree level and still on the rise. Bolan knew that his left arm wanted to stiffen up on the skids. His hand was still weak and bleeding from the stitches of two days before. This wasn't going to work. They were nearly fifteen meters off the ground. If he was going to get down, he'd have to do it quickly or...
The chopper veered sharply, heading toward the forest. They had made his decision for him. They were going to try to scrape him off.
So be it.
He holstered the Beretta, grabbing the skid with both hands. A tall pine was coming at him quickly, but its height meant its branches were too thin to do him any good. He hoisted himself at the last second, and the tip of the tree just scraped him as they passed it.
He looked down at the mammoth expanse of forest, a veritable ocean of green and brown stretching thickly as far as he could see. He frantically searched the underside of the helicopter for any markings. Everything had been erased except for a small set of Japanese characters stenciled on the skid he was holding. He did his best to commit them to memory.
They were coming up on a stand of thick firs, and Bolan had to make his decision. As the Sonnojoi dipped the helicopter to try to lose him, he let go, dropping into that green sea.
He fell, crashing through the first several layers of high, thin branches. The splintering wood tore at his clothes and skin. He grabbed instinctively, just as a baby would. His hands locked and then lost hold of a thick branch.
He crashed through another, pain searing the ribs he'd hurt in the shoot-out in Junko's car, and his mind screamed that he should give up, that he should give over to the seductive darkness and let somebody else worry about it all. But Bolan's instincts were stronger, and as he blasted through a thick, dry branch with a loud crack, he was able to get his right hand out and grab hold of the stub of the limb.
His falling weight swung inward, and he hit the trunk hard, nearly losing his grip. But he held on and was able to wrap his arms around the trunk.
Bolan stayed put for a minute, taking stock, twelve meters off the ground. His body was sore, and some of his cuts had reopened, but as he systematically checked each limb and muscle, he realized that nothing was numb or broken.
The
n he heard voices. The ones on the ground were coming for him. He hadn't gone deeply enough into the trees. From the sound of it, they weren't far off. He thought of staying put, simply hiding in the tree, but one look at the ground convinced him otherwise. A good-sized pile of branches and a large limb lay at the bottom of the fir. They had been knocked loose when he fell and would draw the enemy like a beacon.
He climbed quickly down the tree, jumping from limb to limb the way he had done when he was a kid. The Executioner reached the ground in a crouch, the Beretta in his hand as he scanned the terrain for targets.
The forest was not a good place for a firefight. There was too much cover for the opposition. Trees were jammed together so tightly that nothing grew at ground level, and sunshine was only able to penetrate in small dazzling sabers. Because of the density he couldn't see more than three meters from his position at any given time. It was not the place to make a stand.
He reached into his jump suit and pulled out a new clip, using his thumb to flick a bullet into his hand. Discretion at this time was by far the better part of valor. He turned from the sounds of their approach and ran deeper into the forest, dropping a bullet on the ground to mark his return path. Thirty feet later he did the same. They wouldn't be able to chase him too far; the authorities would show up soon. When the punks turned back, he wanted to be able to do the same.
* * *
The Executioner let the receiver rest on his hunched-up shoulder, using his free hand to replace the bullets in the spring clip.
"That's right, Sergeant. I'm holding for Lieutenant Ichiro and I don't have much time," Bolan said.
The voice on the other end sounded far away and spoke very poor English. "Lieutenant Ichiro in very important meeting, sir. He can no come to the phone."
"Tell him Mack Bolan's on the line. And tell him to hurry."
"Meeting very important..." the man began.
"You just tell him," Bolan said. "He'll come."
The phone booth was located at the end of the covered train platform at the Fujiyoshida Station. Bolan could look out across the sloping ground and see the smoking ruins of Norwood's house on the mountainside. The black smoke was still billowing into the morning sky, spoiling the view. A number of police cars were parked around the house's charred skeleton.
Bolan looked at his watch. He was going to have to hump it to get back in time to see Hashi-san's operation in action. It was already afternoon, and it was a two-hour ride back to Shinjuku and another thirty minutes back to Yokota.
"Bolan?" came Ichiro's voice on the other end.
"Miss me?" Bolan asked. He finished reloading the clip, then jammed it into the butt of the AutoMag and holstered the weapon.
"Where are you?"
"Never mind that," Bolan replied. "There was an explosion out by Lake Yamanaka today. You need to pull your people away from it and get experts in nuke technology out there with their instruments. There's a high level of radiation at the site."
"How do you know that?"
"I was there. You're wasting time."
There was a pause on the line as Ichiro considered his options, finally settling on his gut feelings about Bolan. "Will you hold while I make the call?" he asked.
"If you promise not to try and trace this line."
"You have my word."
"Fair enough."
Bolan was put on hold, and he listened to a musical version of "Sukiyaki," which seemed to be the national song of tourist Japan, playing in the background. Within two minutes he could see the police cars pulling back from the scene of the fire and driving to the other houses to evacuate them. Once again Bolan found himself impressed with Ichiro.
The lieutenant came back on the line. "What's it all about, Bolan?" he asked.
Bolan quickly filled in as much detail on what had happened as he could without interfering with any of his other plans.
"You could have told me this the other night," Ichiro said when Bolan was finished.
"But I didn't," Bolan replied.
"We have been searching for Dr. Norwood for a long time."
"The Sonnojoi have him. Do you have a line on their meeting places?"
"Unfortunately, no," Ichiro replied. "We haven't been able to crack them yet."
"It makes no sense. A group like that would have to go public eventually. How would they gain converts?"
"It's a mystery," Ichiro said. "And I have a question for you. How did the Sonnojoi know to come to Yamanaka today, the day that you go there?"
"I don't know," Bolan replied. "I'm worried about that."
"You seem to at least have enough sense to worry," Ichiro said in exasperation. "Come in, Bolan. Give yourself up. Together we may be able to solve this thing."
"From behind bars?" Bolan said. "No, thanks."
"Without you we have nothing. No doctor, no mysterious helicopter... the Sonnojoi even took the bodies of their dead with them. I'm going to get you one way or the other, anyway. Come in now and share the information."
A train whistle blew, and Bolan used his hand to cover the mouthpiece so that Ichiro wouldn't get any ideas. His train was being announced. He'd have to go.
"I'll give you a word," Bolan said. "I think it's a key to these bastards. Chikatetsu."
"What? Bolan, I..."
The Executioner hung up the phone and ran to catch his train. On the platform he watched the crowd of Japanese faces all around him. Was one of them there to watch him, to follow him? Ichiro had all but said it on the phone, the same thing that had been bothering him. Perhaps Bolan himself had been responsible, through negligence, for what had happened to Dr. Norwood. The thought nagged him all the way back to Yokota.
8
Bolan walked down the line of Japanese in their khaki uniforms. They stood at attention, M-16s strapped to their backs, extra ammo dangling from their bandoliers. They wore black berets. Just like the Seals, the Executioner thought, then realized that he was going into a Nam-like conflict, only this time the jungle was all sharp edges and etched in concrete.
"Who trained them?" Bolan asked Dr. Mett, who strode beside him, dressed in the same uniform.
"I did," Mett said proudly. "They've all been through my equivalent of your boot camp and have distinguished themselves at one time or another."
"You've done this before?"
"Several times," Mett said. "But this is the biggest operation we've undertaken yet."
"Where did you pick up your knowledge?"
"I was a merc in Korea, Nam, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Nicaragua..."
"A businessman, eh?" Bolan replied.
"I've always believed in a cause, Mr. Bolan."
"As long as the money was right."
"Everybody has to make a living. I have a doctorate in philosophy but the pay that goes along with it isn't so good."
They reached the end of the line. Junko stood there, dressed as the others. Bolan had begun to take her dual responsibilities for granted. He looked into her eyes and was met with the same blind intensity he'd seen from her in combat situations.
It was chilling and in many ways exciting.
Bolan turned and strode back to stand at the center of the formation. His black nightclothes and combat harness stood out in stark contrast to the uniforms of Hashi-san's men, the security force of Asano Corporation. Only in Japan could a man command the power and loyalty of his employees to such an extent. Only in Japan could a private army such as Hashi-san's be allowed to exist at all. The old man had declared that business ran the government. Tonight Mack Bolan was going to see that theory in action.
They were standing in an Asano warehouse somewhere between the Yokota and Tachikowa Air Bases. The building was old and badly in need of repair; the ubiquitous rain leaked through the roof in a hundred different places. It was empty save for the security force and their vehicles and several portable floodlights that illuminated the damp interior. Just outside the perimeter of light sat Hashi-san himself, dressed in traditional robes. Occas
ionally he nodded his head.
Bolan looked the group up and down and then spoke. The mercenary translated into Japanese. "Dr. Mett assures me that you have been well trained and well briefed for this operation. We're going to hit a cocaine factory that fronts as a coffee company. If our suspicions are correct, this operation will be worth many millions of dollars to its operators and so will be heavily defended. Our intelligence indicates that the cocaine operation takes place once a week and that civilian employees of the coffee company will not be working.
"I am in charge tonight. Our plan will only succeed if you follow your orders. You all know your specific tasks. I urge you to perform them quickly and without delay. I want the entire operation to last no more than fifteen minutes, and even at that we'll be cutting it close with the local authorities. Good luck."
White Mett prepared the vans for departure, Bolan walked over to where Hashi-san sat. The man was staring at him intently. "You will kill many Sonnojoi tonight and destroy this white poison for me," the old man said.
"No, not only for you," Bolan replied. "For everyone. It's the right thing to do."
"You are a man of great principles."
"Or great foolishness."
"No!" Hashi-san said loudly and stamped his foot. "Honor is not foolishness. The code of Bushido is not foolishness. You and I, we are the glue that holds civilization together. There is nothing foolish about that."
Bolan bowed low. "My apologies, Hashi-san."
The man smiled widely. "I like you to call me that. I like many things about you."
"And I you."
Hashimoto's face became serious. "When this is over, I could make Japan a safe place for someone with a past. You could stop running, Bolan. Our small island is a beautiful and varied country. A man could spend a lifetime here."
"Let's live through tonight first," the Executioner said as he heard Mett call him. "The trucks are ready. I must go. I'll try and keep an eye on Junko."
Code of Dishonor Page 7