Like a gift from heaven, the bristly head of the Chinese general came into view less than twenty yards downwind. Bolan leaned into the course correction to line up on the guy as someone off to starboard screamed a warning and took a wild shot at him.
Chung and a pistol-waving companion whirled into the confrontation. In that split second, Bolan vaguely recognized the guy with the pistol which was now unloading on him in wild rapidfire. The .44 roared with a mind of its own and the guy with the pistol went down. Chung, apparently unarmed, was trying to scrambled clear of certain collision with the winged invader, but Bolan rode him to ground, slipping clear of the harness at the moment of impact and smartly addressing that bristly head with the butt of the AutoMag.
Chung went limp as the glider settled over him. Bolan danced clear and whirled into an attack by two Orientals who were running at him from the patio. A flash-vision of Smiley Dublin sprinting across the background stayed his response for a heartbeat; their guns were quicker, but his was surer. A pair of thunderous retorts from the blazing .44 sent the two hurtling off at diverging angles as Bolan moved on between them and toward the house.
Smiley had flung herself to the ground behind a low wall at the patio. Bolan issued a terse command as he ran past her position to scatter incendiaries into the ground-level interior.
He collected her on the return trip and pulled her through lung-biting chemical smoke to where he’d left General Chung-Loon.
“Wh-what’re we doing?” the girl gasped as Bolan roughly hauled Chung to his feet.
The general was conscious, feebly so—dazed but aware.
“It’s bust-out time,” Bolan snapped. “On the numbers and hurry-hurry.” He shoved Chung forward and warned, “You too, General. Move it quick or stop moving forever.”
Chung understood that message. He jerked himself upright and muttered, “As you wish.”
They moved unmolested through the pandemonium and to the vehicle area at the front of the house. There was no more gunfire in this sector. A vehicle was burning and flames were also whooshing from the front door of the house.
Bolan selected a convertible with the keys lying atop the dashboard. “Perfect,” he said. He pushed Smiley into the driver’s seat and told her, “Put the top down and get ready for a stately exit.”
The girl seemed almost as dazed as Chung, but her reflexes were functioning well enough. She started the engine and worked the roof mechanism while Bolan gave final words to his hostage.
“Behave yourself,” he told the guy, “and you could live through this yet.”
The general had no argument left in him.
He meekly climbed into the back seat at Bolan’s bidding and sat himself down on the rear deck above the seat, parade fashion—but there would be no confetti for this ride.
Bolan took position below the general, the muzzle of the big .44 in clear view at the guy’s face, and he instructed Smiley, “Okay, slow and easy, out we go. Let’s hear some horn.”
They left in that fashion, the convertible, with horn blaring, moving slowly along the drive and through the shattered gate, the general seated stiffly up top with a gun at his mouth, excited commands in the Chinese language from the sidelines punctuating the stunned drama of that daring withdrawal.
Bolan could see agitated men moving about quietly in the smoke along that drive as Smiley maneuvered to avoid the wrecked vehicle at the gate, but none challenged the trump hand which he held.
Looking back from the knoll which Toby Ranger’s stalled vehicle had occupied a scant few minutes earlier, the scene back there was one for Bolan’s book. The house was an inferno, with roiling flames surging high above the pall of smoke that overhung the entire stronghold. The wall near the gate was demolished, and that entire sector was pockmarked with line patterns of bullet holes. Lifeless bodies were strewn around back there and more lay along the withdrawal route, even to the knoll.
Bolan halted the car at that point, in clear view of those below, to shove his hostage to the ground, telling him, “Okay, guy, you lucked it this time. If you’re smart, you’ll beat it home now and forget you ever heard of King Fire.”
The general’s eyes quivered at that, but he said nothing except, “The lady. You will release her, also?”
“Not here,” Bolan replied in the ice voice. “I want no pursuit, Chung. Get down there and see to that.”
Chung shot his lady a helpless look and lurched off down the drive.
Quietly, Bolan commanded, “Go, Smiley.”
“I almost feel sorry for him,” she murmured as she put the car in motion.
“I sometimes feel sorry for rattlesnakes, too,” Bolan told her. “Stop just around this next curve. We have troops to embark.”
She pulled over where directed. Toby Ranger and Carl Lyons stepped out of the growth at the side of the road, automatic weapons cradled casually at their chests, and climbed aboard.
Smiley began to weep.
Toby said, “I’ll drive,” and went around to take over.
Lyons tiredly observed, “It went like clockwork. I never saw such a precision damn hit.”
“It went great,” Bolan agreed.
“Think he’ll take the bait?”
“Sooner or later, yeah. One thing’s for sure. He has nothing back there to hold him.”
Toby had the car in gear and powering toward the junction with the main road, where again they halted. Lyons clapped Bolan’s shoulder and got out there. “We’ll be watching,” he assured the man.
“Let’s have a radio check every five minutes,” Bolan suggested. “Tell Anders the same.”
“Right.”
Lyons ran across the road and onto the high ground just beyond.
Bolan and the ladies went on then toward Honolulu.
This was not the end of a mission; it was just the beginning. The Executioner and SOG-3 were gunning for a marked trail to King Fire.
13: Firetrack
The blitz on Chung’s stronghold at Kalihi had been designed primarily to roust the guy and get him running—as scared as possible. That strategy had produced an unqualified success in the basic movement. The stronghold was gone, the roust therefore assured. The basic question remaining had to do with how far and how scared the general would run in his reaction to the stunning assault.
The Bolan strategy was an exercise in psychological warfare, built upon three key points:
Hit the enemy with stunning power and devastating results, thus forging the idea of an awesome opponent who could strike at will and with apparent impunity;
Plant the idea in the enemy’s tumbling mind that this same opponent was targeted on the family treasures, and that he knew where they were kept;
Keep the enemy under close surveillance and play to his reaction when he sprang to the defense of those treasures.
Bolan had smashed the stronghold and carefully implanted a fear that he might know the secrets of King Fire—also the hint that he meant to strike there next. He had been careful not to overplay with swaggering threats or overly obvious cues. He had simply dropped the name at a moment of humiliated defeat for a man whose cultural traditions had programmed him for the psychological influences of that curious Asian syndrome called “losing face.”
Bolan had dealt with those influences before, in another war with a similar enemy.
He could not, of course, know the depth and width of Chung’s probable reaction. He could only wait and watch—perhaps prodding a bit—and hope that point three of the strategy would provide some measure of positive yield—and this is precisely what he was doing.
He had pre-positioned Tommy Anders on high ground overlooking the stronghold for a binocular watch of the immediate post-strike reaction.
Lyons had dropped off to monitor the junction with the main highway which could take the rousted remains of the Chung cadre west toward Honolulu or eastward through the mountains via Wilson Tunnel and on to windward. A vehicle was stashed for Lyons, in case the track led east.
>
Bolan had dropped off one mile west of the junction, where another vehicle had been planted for his use, and he sent the girls on to Honolulu and another holding point.
First, however, he had assured himself that Smiley Dublin had recovered from her post-blitz attack of nerves and that she was functioning as a member of the team.
“I’m okay,” she’d insisted pluckily. “Those tears were purgative.” She had smiled, then, and added with a mischievous gleam: “Thanks, I really needed that.”
“We need you, too, Smiley,” he told her. “Where do you think Chung will go now?”
“You’re hoping he will go to the big island, aren’t you?”
He nodded affirmatively. “That’s the idea. It’s where the marbles are.”
“If he does, he’ll probably send for the helicopter. Flora and Dominick were in for a conference a few hours ago. I believe they’re stationed over there. They always come by helicopter. Twice during the past month, the general has been picked up by that same chopper. It’s probably company owned. Red with white markings. I never got close enough to see the registry number.”
“How big?”
“Oh—five or six passenger, I’d say.”
“That could be a help,” Toby commented. “We could canvass the suspected area and try to find someone who has seen the thing coming and going. Maybe the FAA could give us a clue. All civil aircraft have to be regularly serviced, certified and all that.”
“It’s something to keep in mind,” Bolan agreed. “But only if all else fails. I don’t want to tip our hand. Blundering around with a lot of obvious questions could freeze the whole show.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Toby admitted.
Bolan asked the other girl, “How long was the general gone, on these chopper trips?”
“Overnight, both times,” was the reply. “The point is, Mack, if he sends for the helicopter, what good is this track plan of yours?”
“He can’t send for it from the stronghold,” Bolan explained. “I took out all his communications. That’s why I asked: where will he go now?”
Smiley replied, “Remember the man with all the teeth you asked about last night? He has a beach house between Waikiki and Prince Kuhio Beach, over near Diamond Head.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Uh huh. It’s where I met Chung for the first few times, before we started playing housey together. I could take you there. But I don’t know the address and I wouldn’t know how to direct you.”
“You’re sure you could find it, though?”
“Yes. I’ll know the place when I see it.”
Bolan pondered that bit of information for a moment before asking the other federal lady, “Is your plane ready to fly, Toby?”
She replied, “Sure. It’s always ready.”
“Okay, we’ll try that if you’re both game. Toby, get airborne and maintain position around Diamond Head. Keep your eyes open for that chopper and stay alert on our radio frequency. Follow our play if you can, and stay in touch.”
“What about me?” Smiley asked.
“Sure you’re ready?”
“Just try it without me,” she replied solemnly. “This is my case, you know. I opened it. I mean to be here when it’s closed.”
Bolan grinned at her and said, “Okay. Drop Toby off at the airport, then go straight to Chung’s beach house. Have a story ready, in case he shows up there. It should run something like this: I dropped off, out here in the country, and ordered you to keep going. You’re scared, confused, didn’t know what else to do—so you’ve come to the beach house hoping to find Chung there. If toothy is there and Chung isn’t—when you get there, I mean—play the story on him and sit tight until it becomes obvious that Chung is not going to show. Beat it back to the hotel and sit tight until we contact you.”
“I don’t like it,” Toby protested. “It’s back into the fire with Smiley. I thought the idea was to get her out.”
“It’s okay,” Smiley said. “I want to do it.”
“Toby’s right,” Bolan said grimly. “I wanted you out. I still do. I believe we can hack it without you, from this point on. But, like you said, it is your game. You have a right. And if the track backfires, you’re still our best weapon. You could failsafe it for us. Chung likes you. If you do make contact with him and it appears that he is not running to the cues, I believe you could say the right thing to get him running where we want.”
She smiled. “I think I could.”
Bolan said, “It gets stickier. When the guy heads for the homestand, we need to have you right there beside him.”
“Why?” Toby flared. “Why keep her in the middle?”
“Could you manage it?” Bolan asked the girl in the hot seat.
She replied, “In view of—yes, I think so. I believe he’d want to protect me personally, if he thought …”
Bolan handed her a cigarette lighter. “Keep this on you, then. It’s a miniature radio beacon. It’s also a functioning cigarette lighter. If we should lose visual contact, we can maintain the track on audibles.”
“How do I activate it?”
“Just light it, the beacon will become operative. You can’t shut it down. Has a twelve-hour power life, so don’t activate it until you think it’s time.”
Smiley grimaced and said, “Okay. So I’m wired and ready.”
Bolan kissed them both and sent them on their way with the admonition, “Play it tight.”
“Listen to Captain Loose,” Toby Ranger said, with a wink at the other girl.
And then they were gone.
The thing was in motion.
Anders, from his eagle perch behind the stronghold, reported, “They’ve given up on the fire. Total loss. Looks like they’re getting ready to pull out. They’re collecting bodies and weapons, pulling it all together for a clean departure. Hell of a lot of casulties down there.”
And, moments later came this report: “Two cars away. Limousines. Six men in the first, looks like a gun crew—some of Topacetti’s boys. Chung is in the second car with four other Chinese—driver and three bodyguards, I guess.”
Bolan replied, “Okay. Make your scramble and be ready for a track east.”
“Roger. Scrambling.”
Lyons came in. “Got that. Stand by.”
Bolan cautioned him, “Stay clear, Carl. If they’re coming my way, give them a thirty-second jump before your start.”
“Wilco.”
Bolan’s vehicle was poised atop a low ridge overlooking the Likelike Highway, a four-lane arterial which traversed the island via the Kalihi Valley. He was playing the odds, gambling on the higher probability that Chung would be heading toward Honolulu rather than to windward. Anders, backdropping on the reverse track, was falling back to play the lower scale of probability. Lyons, with his vehicle at the pivot point, was poised to follow the play either way. Bolan himself had a special role. He was the “kicker”—and his role was to reinforce the psychological overtones of the rout, with a not-so-gentle prod toward paydirt.
Lyon’s next communique was, then, a welcome one. “Okay, Kicker, they’re all yours,” he reported soberly. “Coming at you in close order. Confirming, the general is in the rear vehicle. No other traffic from this direction. It’s all yours.”
Bolan replied, “Great. Pivot and Backhaul, close on this position—but give it room to develop.”
Anders and Lyons both acknowledged the instructions.
The kicker hefted an automatic weapon, made it ready, and walked to the overlook.
It was a perfectly slotted track, embankments to either side. Range, about fifty yards. Visibility, excellent. Situation, beautiful.
Yeah, a perfect shooting gallery.
With just a pinch of luck, the general could get kicked all the way to King Fire.
And they came in right on the numbers, moving sedately at the legal speed limit, running about six carlengths apart—a big crew wagon leading and loaded with glum-faced Mafia torpedoes.
Cheer up, boys—the worst is yet to come.
Bolan stepped to the firing line, in full view of the approaching vehicles, and gave the leading car a long burst from the chattergun, zipping it from bumper to bumper, shattering glass and punching ragged holes from stem to stern along the right side of the big car as it entered the slot.
The heavy vehicle careened and heeled to starboard on collapsing wheels. It went immediately into a sidewise skid, recovered momentarily, then whipped about in its own spilling moisture and slid backwards for several hundred feet before erupting into flames and plummeting off into a deep ravine.
The Chung vehicle had meanwhile quickly reacted to the situation, burning rubber in the emergency slowdown and weaving from lane to lane in an effort to avoid the death plunge of the other car. The driver lost control as his own wheels came into contact with the gas-oil spillage, but the forward motion had slowed sufficiently to preclude a disastrous mishap. They spun off the pavement and came to a gentle halt with the rear of the vehicle wedged against the embankment on the far side of the road. Machine gun fire was spitting at Bolan from a front window, but the angle was bad and the gunner was having trouble bringing an effective track to bear.
Bolan returned the fire but purposefully with little effect. He wanted them running, not burning.
The general was barely visible in the back seat, huddled behind two other men.
The vehicle roared out of its stalled position and fishtailed across in front of Bolan, machine gun still chattering and chopping at the rocks above his head.
Bolan had abandoned his own chattergun in preference of the precision targeting capability of the awesome AutoMag—the piece which Bolan called “Big Thunder.”
The big silver gun was extended and tracking in a two-hand hold as the swinging vehicle found its purchase in a squealing acceleration. Bolan coolly squeezed off two rounds and watched the general’s human shield dissolve as the heavy .44s blasted into the car and sent shock waves reverberating along the slot. He got a flash view of a frightened face in the background of that exploding flesh—and there were also, Bolan hoped, shock waves streaking through a Chinese general’s soul as he huddled there in the gore of his bodyguards.
Hawaiian Hellground Page 8