I've heard it said that the more things change, the more they remain the same. It is strange how endings and beginnings turn themselves around, exchanging places, losing their distinctions. One door opens and another closes.
When I left Vietnam, it was the closing of a chapter in my life, but the story goes on. Instead of merely coming home, I found yet another front in the war I had been fighting all along. Names changed, faces, too, and the hellgrounds have a different set of longitudes and latitudes, but the mission has not changed at all. It feels as if I never left the jungle.
It's like they say: you can take the savage out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle mentality out of the savage. You cannot reeducate a cannibal to change his diet.
Times and people move on, but the basic motivations do not vary. Love, hate, fear, greed, the hunger for power over other lives. Whatever may be said about a new morality, the ageless standards of good and evil apply today as ever. You do not erase the rules of play simply by changing the name of the game
And the war I fight today in San Francisco is an ancient one, with its roots in those Asian jungles half a world away. War Everlasting, right. Call him Charlie or the Cong, or simply a red-cell reverend — the enemy has never changed his stripes. His tactics and his goals are still the same, carved in dung. He is a torturer and a corrupter, bent on savaging the meek before the meek can come into their inheritance. The only answer to his damned challenge is the same today as it was in that other chapter of the war: fire and steel.
The Universal Devotees itself is traceable to Vietnam, not only through Minh's presence and his leadership, but in the very atmosphere that gave it life. The "Reverend" recruits his followers from a generation raised on dissension and unanswered questions. The Haight was the cradle of a movement to withdraw our troops from Nam at any price, a movement that began in earnest and degenerated into anarchy. It is hard to fault that original idealism, springing out of naive youth, but its culmination was a tragedy on two fronts. Misguided youngsters learned the craft of terror from accomplished masters, and in the end they helped to stop us short of victory abroad while wasting lives at home.
Most of the self-styled "urban guerillas" are gone now, tucked away in prisons or sacrificed in the name of a cause they never really understood, but a few of the survivors are still hanging in there, nurturing their hatred, looking for an opportunity to turn it loose again. They can still find their tutors and financiers among the savages.
Nguyen Van Minh provides them with an opportunity, and worse, he opens up the door for a whole new generation of misguided terrorists. Appealing to the homeless and the hopeless, plying them with drugs and revelations of a false messiah, he has built himself a following with awesome destructive potential. They are a time bomb ticking silently away, buried in the heart of the society that nurtured them from birth.
And it could be the Vietcong all over again, sure. The jungle alone has been changed, one battlefield exchanged for another — and the new one is potentially more explosive than the last.
If the enemy is still the same, unchanging, so is the war. Transplanted, certainly, but losing none of its destructiveness in transit. If anything, the stakes are higher now than they were in Asia, the time factor more compelling. The savages have found their beachhead and they are among us now, not just sniping at our outposts halfway around the world. There is no way to ignore them now in our land, no safety in sitting back and hoping they will go away.
Ironically, it is the Bill of Rights that sheltered those dissenters at the start, and that provides a cloak for Minh today. The document conceived in war, designed for the perpetuation of our freedoms, has become a shield for traitors and subversive wolves among the fold. There seems to be nothing the authorities can do.
But there is something that I can do.
Only cleansing fire can reach the seed-germ of the plague and blot it out; only 1 can purify the ground where poison drops and spreads.
We fight a holy war today. No matter what its name or theater of action, at issue is the future of mankind. There is no ground for compromise, no DMZ or sanctuaries for the enemy this time. Wherever he may burrow in, it is our task to root him out, exterminate him like the savage vermin that he is.
There is yet time for dedicated men to change the way things have become, to snatch the victory away from tainted bloody hands. It will not be a pretty job, or easy, but success at any cost is imperative if we are to survive.
And there is no middle ground this time, no fence to straddle. The surest victims of the terrorists are those who turn their backs and walk away, refusing to recognize the threat.
Today, the war has brought me to the City by the Bay. For two bad yesterdays, the war scene festered in far-off Libya. Tomorrow it will be another battlefield, perhaps a thousand miles from either America or North Africa. But home is where I make it, and before another battlefield, before another enemy can be confronted, it is necessary to achieve the victory here, now, in this place today, where Vietnam is still claiming its victims... From the tortured POWs still behind the lines in Asia, to the dead and dying claimed by terrorist bombs and bullets here at home, my environment is sick with savagery, degradation, abandonment.
The war I fight is my personal commitment, neither thrust upon me nor sold through any promise of reward. I fight here today because there is no decent alternative, not in a land like ours, which is racked by the pressures of decay. Therefore I have no choice, even though this war is essentially mine alone, and is up to me.
* * *
The Executioner was EVA and crouching on a wooded hillside overlooking Minh's estate. Below, the manor house and grounds were cloaked in fog.
Because of the distance, Bolan replaced the Nitefinder goggles with a Starlite spotting scope, using it to scan the grounds. Through the mist, he could pick out moving figures, details of the big house, everything tinted green in the Starlite's viewing scope.
The gatehouse guards had been replaced and reinforced. Bolan counted three and figured on at least one more inside the sentry box. One of Minh's carbon-copy Cadillacs was across the entrance, replacing the ruined gate, and his "elders" lounged against the tank, smoking and talking quietly. One of them cradled a stubby riot shotgun.
Sweeping on, Bolan spotted sentries traveling in pairs along the outer wall. None was obviously armed, but he was betting on their having pistols and other hidden hardware underneath the trench coats. Soldiers, right, and Bolan knew they would react professionally at the first sight of an intruder.
More were moving around the barracks-style bungalows ranged behind the manor house. Bolan took the bungalows for quarters of the cultists in residence. He wondered if the guards were there to keep strangers out, or to pin the "faithful" in.
As Bolan expected, Minh was going hard. A rapid head count registered thirty soldiers on the grounds, and he counted on another dozen, minimum, inside the house. Make it twice the force he expected. Amy's guess was wrong... or Minh was calling in the troops, gathering his "elders" for a showdown.
Either way it was an army.
And like any fighting force, it had strengths and weaknesses.
With courage, skill and a dash of luck, the Executioner would find those weaknesses and turn them to his own advantage.
Lights were on throughout the manor house, including one in Minh's second-floor study. Bolan focused on the lighted window, zooming in, but fog and draperies combined to hide the inner sanctum from his view. Once, he thought a shadow moved across the blinds, but it could have been imagination or a gremlin in the opticals.
The limpet bug planted on his first probe was still in place, but silent. Bolan fine-tuned the volume on a miniature receiver at his waist, searching for a signal, but nothing was audible through the tiny earpiece he wore.
If Minh was in his study, he was alone and quiet.
Bolan panned back and picked up headlights approaching from the west. His scope zeroed on the Lincoln, running through the fog at breakneck speed.
Carter's high beams, reflecting in the mist, made the Continental look like a ghostly bail of fire.
Bolan hadn't waited for the counselor. With a head start, following Highway 101 in a fast dogleg to the Golden Gate, he had beaten Carter by a full ten minutes. He had time to hide his car and jog overland, picking out his vantage point before the Russian mole arrived.
Carter reached the gate, coasting to a stop at the makeshift barricade. Bolan watched as the sentries checked him out, shining flashlights in his face and giving the car a thorough once-over. Carter was protesting the delay, but the "elders" took their time, circling twice around the Continental. Finally satisfied, the shotgunner retraced his steps to the gatehouse for a consultation with the man inside.
Another moment, and the "elders" received clearance from the manor house. The gunner reappeared, waving Carter through.
Bolan tracked the Lincoln with his scope, along a curving driveway leading to the house. He watched Carter park and leave his car, taking the porch steps two at a time. The front door opened before he had a chance to knock, and the lawyer stepped inside.
Bolan lifted off the Starlite scope and sat back on his haunches, waiting. His hand dropped to the mini-receiver, and he boosted the volume a notch, straining to catch sounds from inside Minh's private office.
A knocking, answered by the strong, familiar voice.
"Come."
The door opened, closed again.
"Mitchell... please, sit down."
Bolan smiled at the darkness and tossed a quick salute to Gadgets Schwarz. The only thing missing was a video display.
The Executioner was rigged for war, in military harness. The AutoMag and Beretta occupied their honored places, the military web was weighed with grenades and extra magazines. Resting on the ground beside him was the double-punch combination — an M-16 assault rifle with a 40mm M-203 grenade launcher mounted underneath the barrel. The warrior's chest was crisscrossed with belts of ammunition for the 40mm, mixed rounds of alternating tear gas, buckshot and high explosives.
He could take them now Carter had arrived. But a blend of curiosity and caution held him back. There was still a chance of learning if Minh had other troops and where they were quartered. If Minh had another army on the street, Bolan meant to know about it going in.
Before the killing started, there was still time to kill.
10
Minh waved Mitchell to a chair, studying his face with eyes devoid of expression. Carter had a drawn harried look, like a man who had just run the gauntlet and caught a glimpse of hell.
Minh, who saw his share and more of hell on earth, was unimpressed. A soldier chose the path of fire, and deserved no sympathy for shows of weakness.
Carter found a seat and dropped into it. The eyes that met and locked with Minh's across the desk were guarded, curious.
"What's going on," he asked. "Your gate..."
Minh interrupted.
"An unfortunate disturbance," he explained. "Everything's under control. I'm interested in your misfortune now."
"I'd call it a mutual misfortune," Carter said. "They were your soldiers.''
"As you say. Perhaps if you began with your visitor..."
Carter shrugged and shifted restlessly in his chair.
"There isn't much to say. He was KGB."
Minh raised an eyebrow.
"Are you certain?"
"He knew my name, all about the mission. What else could he be?" Carter countered.
"What else indeed," Minh said, his mind already probing other permutations. "Please continue."
Carter hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Minh sensed he was holding back.
"He was curious about our progress," the lawyer said. "There was some mention of his taking over."
Minh concealed the ripple of surprise behind a mask of stone.
"Really."
Carter's nod was jerky, almost spastic.
"I didn't get the details. Your men were right behind him."
"And?"
The counselor made a sour face,.
"And nothing. The bastard killed them — four up, four down."
Minh's expression was a practiced blend of concern and curiosity. In fact, he felt neither.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Trying not to make it five."
Minh smiled appreciatively.
"Are the authorities involved?"
"It's possible," he said. "I didn't wait around."
"Of course." Minh said, pausing thoughtfully. "You saw one man only?"
Carter looked suspicious, as if the question might be loaded.
"Just the one," he said at last. "Expecting more?"
Minh ignored the question and countered with another of his own.
"Is it possible to verify the KGB connection?''
Carter made a show of studying his fingernails and hesitated before answering. When he finally spoke, his voice was cautious, distant.
"If the agency is behind this, they'll lie," he said. "If they're not... I'd like to have the situation in control before I fill them in."
Minh was pleasantly surprised by the Russian's cagey realism. He favored Carter with a smile.
"I agree," he said. "We should face our enemies — whoever they are — with a united front.''
"You still haven't told me what your trouble was out here tonight,'' Carter said.
"We suffered an intrusion of our own," he said. "Several of my men were killed, a member of the Devotees was... removed."
"Abducted?"
"More in the nature of a liberation," he replied.
"Somebody special?''
Minh nodded.
"You met her, I believe. Amy Culp."
The name registered.
"Pretty girl... freckles?" Carter asked. It hit him allatonce. "The senator's kid."
Minh waited, saying nothing.
"How badly can she hurt us?"
The Vietnamese took his time, letting Carter sweat.
"That depends. The longer she remains at large..."
Carter made a low, disgusted sound and slapped an open palm against his knee.
"Dammit all...''
Minh's voice was velvet-covered steel.
"Calm yourself, Mitchell. I am not without resources. Our subject has a friend."
Hope dawned in the lawyer's eyes.
''Have you got a line on her?''
Minh suppressed the urge to snap at Carter, put him in his place.
"I have every confidence she will join us soon," he said. "At the moment, I am more concerned with coordinating information on the two attacks."
Carter suspiciously eyed his counterpart.
"You see one man behind both?" he asked.
Minh responded with his customary caution, the tone almost patronizing.
"I am not a believer in coincidence." he said. "To encounter separate, unconnected enemies within a single night would be... remarkable."
Carter saw the logic, and the thought did nothing to appease him.
"What should we do?" he asked.
Minh held him with a steady gaze.
"For the moment, nothing," he replied. "The woman is within our reach, and I've contained the problem here. It may be possible to salvage something at your home."
"If you can't..."
Minh cut him off.
"The operation has begun. Cancellation now is quite impossible."
About to answer, the attorney reconsidered. He dropped his eyes, avoiding Minh's penetrating stare.
"I understand," he said at last.
Minh wondered if he did. So far, the Russian's understanding, his ability to cope, was minimal at best.
There was no surprise concerning KGB involvement in the raids. Deception was consistent with the Soviet technique, and Minh discounted his original mistrust of Carter. Whatever was happening, the lawyer's surprise was clearly genuine.
Minh was not prepared to search for motives. The Russian mind was convoluted, often contradi
ctory. A mission sponsored by the Kremlin might be scuttled without explanation — or redirected into other channels, seeking other goals. If an agent failed to note the change, adapt with alacrity, he would be sacrificed without a second thought.
Mitchell Carter was marked for sacrifice.
Minh suppressed a smile. It was possible, he thought, for enemies to reach agreement on the minor points.
Without a doubt, the counselor was expendable.
Minh could take him now, of course. A word to Tommy Booth would do the trick. One word, and Carter would be gone without a trace.
When the time was right, as soon as Minh found out what he was up against, he planned to give that word. In the meantime, Carter was useful. There were ways he could help the Devotees.
When his usefulness expired, Minh would do a grudging favor for the Soviets and complete their sacrifice.
In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.
* * *
"I have every confidence she will join us soon.''
Crouching in the darkness, Bolan stiffened as he heard those words. Alarms were ringing in the back of his mind, alerting him to danger.
From what he knew of Minh, the Asian wasn't one for idle talk or empty threats. If he had a line on Amy, a crew would be on its way to pick her up.
There was no time to wonder how she was discovered. Minh spoke of a friend. If the girl was rash enough to call someone, if she ignored his warning….
In the space of a heartbeat his decision was made. Bolan scrubbed his strike in favor of a rescue mission, knowing it might already be too late.
He couldn't leave the lady to fate, even if by leaving he gave the enemy a chance to reinforce the hard-site — or slip away to parts unknown.
The gesture might be a futile one, but it was unavoidable. Bolan didn't have it in him to abandon Amy.
It was a trait, sure, that made the man.
In Vietnam, Bolan had earned the label The Executioner with ninety-seven registered kills. As the point man for Penetration Team Able, he was known from the delta to the DMZ as a specialist in sudden, violent death. His targets were the savages — infiltrators, NVA regulars, Vietcong terrorists — and Able Team spread the fear of hellfire among them. In a war without boundaries, Bolan and his men deprived the cannibals of cherished sanctuaries and made them vulnerable.
Doomsday Disciples te-49 Page 6