The Angolan kicked at something on the ground. He bent down and picked up a stainless-steel Zippo, shiny with use, but it could not have been there long.
Bolan felt a chill, realizing that Kambolo must have dropped his lighter. He could almost read the Angolan's thought processes as the man weighed the object in the palm of his hand, glanced quickly around with his eyes widening in alarm, then opened his mouth to call for Yagoda.
Nothing came out but a grunt of pain as Ziemba's arrow ripped through his chest.
The warrior had acted instinctively. Yagoda heard nothing, sensed nothing amiss behind him as he gave his full attention to Hector's maneuvers. But the second driver, seeing his comrade fall, rammed the truck into reverse and gunned the engine.
Bolan half rose, shouting, "Okay, get some!"
14
Gary Manning punched the detonator switch. The first staccato rattle of rifle fire was obliterated by the roar of the explosive charge.
A vivid flash seared the forest gloom. The base of the tree trunk was shattered, knocked away from the track; then the tall mahogany toppled over just as the Canadian engineer had so precisely calculated. Tearing itself free from the interlocking branches above and the fettering vines, the heavy tree crashed down onto the trail.
The second truck had reversed so quickly that it slammed into the vehicle behind. In his panic the driver had aligned himself exactly on the spot that Bolan had paced out earlier. The huge tree trunk fell on top of the cab.
The windshield shattered into a thousand fragments as the metal roof caved in. The driver's door buckled open and his senseless body was thrown out onto the track. The other door, already ajar, was sheared from its hinges.
Scarr had reacted instantly—his reflexes honed by a lifetime's practice of self-preservation. Even as the Angolan had clutched convulsively at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest, the Afrikaaner had thrown open his door and rolled clear out of the truck. He scurried into the undergrowth as the falling giant demolished the vehicle he'd been riding in only seconds before.
Bolan traversed to catch Yagoda, but the Russian had already dived for cover. Pistol in hand, he now crouched between the front of the Star and the thick bridge-support post, trying to get a sighting on their unseen attackers.
The two Cubans on the bridge were caught in the open. They were not going back to join in what sounded a hopeless fight. With one startled glance of agreement, the two men turned and ran for the far side.
The RPK's muzzle-flash was a flickering tongue of flame in the distant shrubbery as McCarter raked the center of the span.
One man stumbled forward, blood and mucus hanging in strands from his mouth, as he grappled blindly for the supporting cable, missed, and fell through the gap. Head over heels, spinning awkwardly, his screams drowned out by the raging waters, he plunged into the river.
The other soldier fell to his knees. A second burst twisted him sideways and he collapsed over the edge of the planking. But his foot was trapped in a splintered gap in the bridge flooring, and he hung there in midair, dangling by his ankle, like a slaughtered beast left to bleed.
The dull booming echo of the first explosion had hardly died away when two more sharper bangs rang out. Katz had tossed a pair of grenades into the shouting melee of troopers leaping from the trucks. The frag pattern cut a ghastly swath of destruction through their ranks.
Screaming, scrambling over each other, firing random shots at nothing more substantial than a shadow, Yagoda's unit was broken into an undisciplined mob. Those who tried to seek cover on the right were cut down by short bursts from the Israeli's submachine gun. On the other side, a ruthless enfilade of small-arms fire prevented anyone from escaping into the surrounding jungle.
When Hector Alvarez saw his two friends blown off the bridge, he muttered a prayer and jumped down from the cab. He didn't know which way to turn. The driver had taken only one uncertain pace when another of Ziemba's arrows sliced into its target. It caught Hector in the small of the back. He stood tottering on the cliff edge, then a second shaft slammed between his shoulder blades and knocked him forward. He was dead before his body smashed into the rocks below.
A Cuban, his left leg reduced to crimson tatters by grenade fragments, squirmed for shelter beneath the fallen timber. Kambolo shot him between the eyes then searched for another target. Outnumbered though they still were, the black driver was charged up with a sense of impending victory and the death-spitting strength of the weapon in his hands. He pushed through the bushes, thrilled with the anticipation of another easy score.
Ziemba had dropped from his firing platform in the tree before the intruders could rally themselves and seek out the silent marksman. He linked up with Gary Manning, now working his way back around to Bolan's position.
"The truck," Bolan called out, "get the truck!"
He would take care of Yagoda himself. A full magazine had been expended in pinning down the puppet mercenaries. Bolan reached for a fresh clip as he wriggled through the undergrowth toward the bridgehead.
The Russian was waiting for him. They came upon each other at point-blank range. Yagoda raised his pistol. Bolan swung the empty M-16 like a club and knocked the gun from his hand.
Yagoda lunged out with a slashing karate chop, forcing the American to let go of his rifle. The Russian followed through with a savage kick at Bolan's wounded leg. Then, seeing another white man charging forward, Yagoda turned and raced back toward the front of the truck.
There was nowhere left for him to run but out onto the open bridge itself. Five paces was as far as he got. Bolan seized him in a flying tackle. Yagoda felt a mountain of strength crash into him from behind. His hands flew up to lever away the forearm clamped around his throat. The men from the last of the trucks had managed to regroup. Katz threw another grenade to keep them pinned down and rolled across the track.
Where was Scarr?
Katz was sure he had caught a glimpse of the hated renegade just moments before Gary had blown the tree. There was no sign of Scarr's body in the cab or among those now littering the trail in grotesquely twisted bundles.
The Israeli commando slithered through the bushes, rose to a crouch and circled away from the truck. He wasn't going to let that bastard escape now!
MANNING HAD JUMPED up into the cab of Hector's treasure truck. The engine was still idling. How long could Katz, Kambolo and Ziemba hold off the remnants of Yagoda's company? He had to get the truck across the bridge. He looked up as soon as he had nudged the front wheels onto the first plank. The two leaders were slugging it out hand-to-hand directly in his path!
KATZ PAUSED, cocking his head to catch the slightest sound in the undergrowth that surrounded him. He could hear an Angolan soldier shouting orders, leading the survivors through the trees to his right. But there was someone else. . . someone close by. . . . Katz could sense it with every fiber of his body.
From his hiding place Scarr had seen the Israeli coming. Recognized him. The years had not dimmed his memory of the ex-legionnaire who had commanded the detachment at Shogololo. So that was who had been dogging their trail. Probably to rip off his share of the loot, too, guessed Scarr. It would be doubly enjoyable to disarm the old guy and kill him with his own gun. Scarr ducked back down, hunching into the pit from which he would spring.
Katz whirled at the first shocking gasp of pain.
Scarr was standing less than fifteen feet away. The man's face was contorted in a silent scream of agonized surprise.
The viper had clamped its mouth around his calf. Inch-long fangs were buried in the muscle, injecting a full measure of poison. With a bellow of rage, Scarr tore away the thick sluggish body of the brilliantly camouflaged serpent and staggered forward, grabbing a vine for support.
His face, at first drained of all color, was now mottled with fear. He knew that a serum had to be administered immediately if he were to survive.
Katz fired a quick burst that pulverized the Gabon viper.
"Me
," Scarr croaked through lips flecked with pink spittle. "Kill me, too! For God's sake. .. please!"
Katz began to turn away with a bitter shrug.
It was appropriate that a snake had been the instrument of retribution. But Katz was a man, and it fell to him to show mercy—even to an ancient foe.
He lifted the Uzi and squeezed the trigger. He could have sworn Scarr was almost smiling as he crashed back into the leaves on the forest floor. Katz rammed a fresh magazine into the SMG and hurried back toward the bridge.
FROM THE CORNER of his eye, Bolan could see the truck drawing closer. Yagoda had thrown him backward and now straddled his body, seeking a strangle hold. Although an inch or two shorter than the American, Yagoda matched him pound for pound, and none of it was flab.
Bolan, his stiffened right hand held like a spade, rammed into the other man's diaphragm. Yagoda grunted as the breath was forced from his lungs. Bolan unleashed a short left cross to the Russian's face, then bucked hard and threw him off.
Manning could not stop. He heard one of the makeshift planks cracking beneath the rear wheels. It sounded as if the whole groaning bridge was going to give way under him at any moment.
Yagoda recovered his balance and fumbled at the back of his belt. His hand appeared holding a hunting knife. Bolan reached for his own K-bar. The ankle sheath was empty!
The whole structure was trembling with the inexorable advance of the truck.
Bolan suddenly fell flat on his back and let the Star roll right over the top of him. The trick, born out of trust and cunning, worked.
Manning accelerated, driving clean over his comrade-in-arms. The right-side fender caught the Russian with a crunch and knocked him flying. The knife dropped from his numbed fingers and he grabbed for the wire cable. But the fight against the tenacious American had robbed him of that margin of strength he needed to hold on.
With a blood-chilling scream he tumbled into the chasm, never knowing what he was dying for in this hostile land so far from home.
His head smashed on a submerged rock, his blood indistinguishable from the already red-tinted water, and the surging current swept him away. The River of Blood had claimed yet another victim.
The truck past, Bolan sprang up and jumped onto the open tailgate. He took one glimpse inside—the boxes were there! Looking back at the far side, he saw Ziemba staggering across the clearing. The brave archer was clutching at his hip, which had been creased deeply by a Cuban slug. Katz appeared behind him.
"Come on!" shouted Bolan.
Katz looped an arm under the valiant black's shoulder, twisted to fire a last discouraging burst at the road, then together they started hobbling across the bridge.
Ohara ran down to the bridge entrance watching, almost in awe, as Gary Manning deftly maneuvered the lumbering vehicle toward solid ground. Years of experience on backwoods roads and heavy construction projects were now being put to a life-or-death test on the narrow, swaying span.
The Star cleared the bridge.
The lanky Oriental warrior waited for it to pass him, then raced out to give Katz a hand. The two of them helped the staggering Ziemba to safety.
"Run, Kambolo, run!" McCarter had spotted the driver break across the distant clearing.
He dropped the Dragunov as he ran—he'd used up all his ammunition. Half a dozen survivors of Yagoda's unit were crashing through the undergrowth behind him. The Englishman squatted with his finger tense upon the trigger. He could not risk a burst. Kambolo was directly in the line of fire.
The driver was about thirty feet out when the first enemy shot clipped his shoulder. He staggered, his shirt stained red, but continued weaving forward.
"Faster! You can make it!" Encizo stood up and shouted encouragement. Katz and Keio set down their wounded burden and turned to watch Kambolo's hopeless race.
The Porter came in low from the east. The shots and shouts were drowned out by the roar of its engine.
Three Angolans had reached the bridge itself. Their bloodlust was roused to bring down at least one of their opponents.
Kambolo was hit again. This time he fell. Phoenix Force watched as the driver dragged himself to his feet, willing himself onward. He was nearly halfway across.
It looked as if the plane was going to knock both the hunters and their wounded quarry clean off the bridge.
Without warning, Luke Rawson suddenly dived on the detonator and hit the switch. . . .
15
The explosion was deafening.
Ohara and Katz, still nearest to the bridge, were knocked flat by the concussive force of the eruption. Rafael Encizo had done his job well. Chunks of old concrete, flailing cables and shattered planking were all hurled into the air through a ball of flame-tinged smoke.
"You crazy bastard!" Encizo's voice was thick with emotion as he whirled and pounced on Rawson.
"The plane . . . I was trying to get the plane," shouted the surveyor.
But he hadn't succeeded . . . . The pilot struggled with the controls as the buffeting shock waves tossed the light aircraft about like a kite. He pulled the stick back and climbed high into the sky.
The entire span collapsed as if in slow motion. The wounded Kambolo and his pursuers were hurled into space as the old suspension bridge fell in a snakelike ripple against the far wall of the gorge. As it slammed into the cliff, weighty fragments of reinforcement dragged the broken remains down into the roiling torrent of the Makala River.
McCarter pulled the angry Cuban away from Rawson.
"Bring him over here," ordered Bolan. He turned to Mulanda, who was sitting tensed behind the wheel of the Leopoard Patrol truck. "Get into this one and drive like you've never driven before." He ordered everyone aboard.
McCarter hoisted the machine gun over his shoulder and ran to the newly acquired truck. Encizo gave him a hand to throw in the satchels of explosives.
They were abandoning everything else.
Katz and Ohara lifted Ziemba into the back, then ran forward and clambered up into the cab with the tracker. Bolan almost threw Rawson into the back of the truck with him. He reached down to tug their Cuban colleague up as Mulanda took off down the trail.
The debris had settled but a pall of smoke still hung over the canyon as they plunged down the jungle track and left the River of Blood behind.
ENCIZO DROPPED THE SATCHEL containing the rest of the C-4 next to Manning's gear. He picked up a medical pack and bent over to see what he could do for Ziemba.
McCarter had wiped the blood off the black man's thigh. "Dead lucky you are, mate. Went clean through. Missed the bone. We'll have you strolling down Piccadilly in no time."
Ziemba smiled. The unfamiliar phrases sounded reassuring to him.
Encizo pushed the first-aid kit along the truck floor toward Bolan. He shook his head. His leg would wait—right now they had to figure out the next move.
He unfolded the map of northeast Kuranda. Finding the tiny uneven circle that represented Lake Baruka, he turned to Rawson. "This is where the plane is, right?"
"Kambolo was a dead man. It was worth trying to get that spotter plane." The surveyor was still trying to justify his actions to anyone who would listen. Nobody was. Bolan's question seemed to snap him out of it. "Yes, that's the place. But you can see we have to take the Omosu road to get there. . . ."
"And by now it'll be crawling with Mumungo's men."
"That pilot's bound to have called them in," agreed Rawson, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"This other place you mentioned, to the east?" "Mabuti."
"You said there was an airstrip outside Mabuti."
"Just a small one. Kuranda Lumber use it. They keep an old DC-3 out there."
McCarter was listening intently. He glanced at Bolan and nodded emphatically. "If you fellows don't mind a bumpy landing at Kalambasse, I can get us out in a Goony Bird."
"Exactly where is the airfield?"
Rawson traced a dirty fingernail across the map. "See where the rail
way line disappears through that tunnel before it gets to Mabuti? About a mile to the north, maybe less."
"What's this other line marked here?"
"Overhead power cables. Part of the Makala Hydro System. It was never finished."
"And this is the only road that'll get us there?"
"If it hasn't been washed out," said their guide. "But that's only half the problem. The Omosu-Mabuti road is graded and graveled. We crossed it on the way here, remember? If Mumungo has mobilized his army, they can make much better time than we ever could plowing through that jungle. They'll be able to cut us off before we get near the airfield."
"Maybe so," said Bolan, tapping the threaded line that marked the railroad, "but not if we take a train ride."
ODUKA GAVE the reversing lever a final wipe, then tucked his polishing cloth into the grabrail at the side of the cab. He tapped the cracked glass of the pressure gauge. It would be a few minutes yet before he had enough steam up.
He patted tembo' s steel flank fondly as he dropped down beside the track.
The flatcar he had hitched on was half-loaded with bundles of firewood. The caboose at the rear was empty. Oduka did not need to tow it all the way down to Mabuti and back, but he didn't feel it was a proper train without the caboose.
The old railwayman whistled tunelessly as he walked toward his shack behind the engine sheds. He had not yet reached his shack when he heard the truck returning. Oduka started to run for cover, then he stopped. There was not much point—he could not hide tembo and the two wagons.
The Communist truck came racing into the yard. Stalks and strands of greenery brushed from the undergrowth bordering the narrow path clung to its front. It drew alongside the tracks and Luke Rawson sprang down from the back.
"Oduka, old friend, we need a ride down to Mabuti."
"That's just where I was going." He sounded somewhat reluctant as he watched the big foreigners helping Ziemba to the ground.
Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Page 12