BOLAN SAW OUT HIS WATCH, going over the information Kurtzman had furnished him with. Did the disclosed facts about Simon Chakra point to him being the man behind the kidnapping of Karima’s children? The man would certainly have been privy to the comings and goings of the president and his family. Those facts on their own didn’t make the man guilty. But they put him in the frame. Chakra would need watching until the facts could be confirmed.
It was coming up to one a.m. when Bolan roused Jomo. The policeman climbed out of the Land Rover and walked around to stretch his legs. He rummaged in the rear of the vehicle and produced a pack of plastic bottles holding mineral water. He took one for himself and handed a second to Bolan.
“You should have woken me before this,” Jomo said, glancing at his watch.
“No sweat,” Bolan replied.
The soldier took his place in the rear of the Land Rover, finding a reasonably comfortable spot. Bolan took a drink from the bottle, only then realizing how thirsty he was. He pulled the blanket around him, keeping the Uzi close and settled down to get some rest. A little while later he felt the Land Rover rock gently as Jomo climbed in and took his place in the passenger seat. Bolan let himself relax, sleep coming quickly.
It seemed only minutes later when he felt Jomo’s big hand on his shoulder. The African was shaking him.
“Belasko. Wake up, Belasko, we have visitors.”
Bolan woke quickly, the Uzi ready for use as he sat upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. It was already well into the dawn. Pale light flooded the plain. Somewhere close by birds erupted from thick brush, wheeling and swooping as they rose into the air. The sound of their passing came as a soft rush of feathered panic.
“Stand beside me,” Jomo said.
He was at the front of the Land Rover. He carried his SA-80 carbine with the butt resting against his hip. He stood motionless except for his large head, which moved back and forth as he scanned the close terrain. Bolan moved up alongside, Uzi in plain sight but not at a threatening angle.
“They will come out when they are ready.”
Off to the right the high brush shivered slightly. A hint of movement but enough to indicate that someone, or something was in there. Bolan spotted the disturbance but made no indication. He stayed as still as Jomo, aware they were being observed by an unseen viewer.
“Any idea who they are?” Bolan asked.
“Some of my people. One of the Tempai tribes. My people were farmers. These are bush people. Nomads. They move from region to region with their cattle. When the grass is used up in one place they seek another. On and on through each year. By the time they return to where they started the grass has grown again. It is the way they have lived for hundreds of years. Other tribes across Africa do the same.”
“Are they friendly?”
“Yes, but cautious. If you had come here with your own cattle you would probably be dead by now.”
“Territorial people?”
“Very much so.” Jomo paused. “They’re coming out.”
Bolan saw the Tempai appear from the bush from a number of locations around the Land Rover. They were tall, lean, with skin as black as ebony. They were clad in bright, patterned robes that seemed to be casually draped around their bodies. Simple pieces of jewelry adorned their wrists and ankles. Each man carried a long, slender spear which he held across his chest, resting against his left shoulder. Bolan noted that there were feathers similar to Jomo’s tied to the shafts of the spears.
“The position of the spear lets you know how they feel about you,” Jomo said. “The way they have them makes it difficult to use quickly so they are telling us they mean us no harm.”
“How would we know if they did mean us harm?”
“Man, they would throw the bloody things at us,” Jomo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
The Tempai formed a loose half-circle in front of Bolan and Jomo. One them made a casual move with his free hand and launched into a fluid, lilting address. Jomo listened in respectful silence until the man had finished. Before he replied, the policeman showed his weapon to the Tempai, then slung it from his shoulder, muzzle down. He spoke directly to the tribesman who had delivered the speech, in their own tongue. When he had finished the Tempai spokesman nodded enthusiastically, turning in Bolan’s direction. He held out a long arm, hand held palm out.
Bolan slung his Uzi as Jomo had done, then stepped forward and greeted the Tempai with his own raised hand. There was a chorus of approval from the watching tribesmen.
Jomo spoke again, indicating Bolan a number of times in his speech. When he received his reply he glanced across at Bolan.
“They have invited us to join them for breakfast.”
Bolan nodded in the direction of the Tempai. They moved forward, clustering around the black-clad American.
“They have never seen a white man dressed like you before. They believe you are a warrior. A fighting man from across the ocean. But they still want us to join them for breakfast. They are curious about you.”
“Jomo, they wander all over this region. Maybe they saw something.”
“Like rebels with two children in European clothing?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll ask. But first we have to do the breakfast thing. If we refuse they will be offended.”
Bolan and Jomo followed the Tempai in the Land Rover. The tribesmen wandered through the spreading bush, seemingly on an erratic course. After almost a half hour they emerged in a wide, dry basin that was at least a quarter mile in diameter. There was a small water hole in one section, with some grass growing in the vicinity and a herd of pale-skinned cattle with short horns grazing on it. The cattle looked underfed, almost scrawny to Bolan. He was used to seeing American beef herds that were comprised of hefty, well-nourished animals. He had to remind himself that he was in a totally different environment.
They had emerged close to the Tempai campsite. Being nomadic the Tempai had little in the way of permanent homes. They carried whatever they owned from region to region. Tents made from hide and stretched over wooden poles provided shelter for the men and their families. There were women and children in the camp as well as suspicious dogs that ran about in excited packs, yapping at everything in sight. Smoke from a number of communal firepits rose in the cool morning air. There was little wind at this hour and the smoke hung in pale spirals, tingeing the air with acrid smells.
Jomo braked and switched off the Land Rover’s motor. He stepped out, still carrying his carbine.
“You hungry?” he asked as Bolan walked at his side.
“The menu will probably decide that,” the soldier answered.
They were invited to sit at one of the firepits. A group clustered around, led by the man who had done all the talking at their first meeting. Women and children joined them.
“You realize that these people are a good chance for us to gain information,” Jomo said.
Bolan glanced at him and the African was smiling. “So?”
“So we can’t afford to upset them.”
“Okay. So what does that mean?”
One of the Tempai handed a shallow clay bowl to Bolan. It held a number of fat white grubs. They were still alive, moving sluggishly.
“My fault for asking,” Bolan said. He took one of the grubs and held it up so the Tempai could see it.
“Full of goodness,” Jomo stated, a huge grin on his face.
Bolan ate the grub, refusing to ask what the goodness consisted of. He was sure the thing was still wriggling when he swallowed it. The rest of the meal was less dramatic. Fruit picked from the bush. Meat resembling chicken that Bolan was convinced spent its life crawling across the earth hissing at people.
The assembled Tempai chattered and joked. Some of the translation was lost on Bolan because Jomo appeared to be enjoying himself. It was later that Jomo directed a specific question to the Tempai spokesman. The man considered for a moment before he nodded and replied, gesturing in a particular di
rection.
“Ashansii says two days ago they saw a truck driving by. There were men inside with guns. And two children in city clothes.”
“Boy and girl?” Bolan asked.
Jomo’s question brought nods from a number in the group. There was more talking, everyone trying to speak at once. The one named Ashansii held up his hands to silence them, directing the questions at Jomo.
By the time it was all over Bolan knew they had the right party. The timing was right and so were the descriptions.
“They were heading north,” Jomo translated. “It’s the direction I’d be going if I was those rebels.”
Ashansii came to Bolan and touched his shoulder, saying something to Jomo.
“He is asking what you are called.”
Bolan faced the tall African. “I am Belasko.”
Jomo translated.
“Be-las-ko,” Ashansii repeated. There was a chorus of approval. Beaming smiles and nods in Bolan’s direction.
“Time we moved out,” Bolan said. “We need to close the gap.”
Jomo nodded. He took a long look at the brightening sky, taking in the cloudless blue. “Belasko, it’s going to be a hot one.”
Bolan didn’t answer. Something had told him that already. And he wasn’t thinking about the weather.
5
Two hours after leaving the Tempai tribesmen, Jomo pulled the Land Rover to a halt below a dusty ridge. He cut the motor and reached for his carbine.
“About a quarter mile beyond the ridge is a small village. The rebels have often used it as a supply base. Food and clothes, not weapons. This is a poor place. The people help because they have no choice. So there will be no love lost between them and the rebels.”
“Are they Tempai or Kirandi?”
“Kirandi. Even out here not every Kirandi agrees with the rebels. Some have no choice. They help or they suffer. Either way they lose.”
Bolan grabbed the Uzi. “Just a precaution.”
Jomo started the engine and drove the Land Rover across the ridge and down the far slope. Dust billowed in their wake, despite the policeman’s driving at a slow speed. They leveled out and moved toward the village. It was as Jomo had said, a poor settlement. The scattering of huts was constructed from mud and thin poles. There was an air of desperation around the place. Bolan saw a few pole corrals holding cattle. A few bedraggled chickens wandered the spaces between the huts, searching the dusty earth for food. The usual skinny mongrel dogs prowled around, sometimes making half-hearted attempts at chasing the chickens. Smoke from cooking fires rose into the still, heat-hazed air, hanging at roof level.
As Jomo pulled into the center of the village, figures moved into view. They were dressed in simple clothing, all of which looked as if it had been around for a long time. The inhabitants approached the vehicle, watching Bolan and Jomo with undisguised suspicion. None was armed.
Bolan stepped down from the Land Rover, his Uzi hanging at his side. He remained where he was, returning the stares from the villagers.
Jomo spoke to the gathering crowd. He received little response until something he said jolted one man to reply. He carried on a conversation with Jomo for a while. The policeman beckoned the man to come forward.
“They were here,” Jomo said to Bolan. “Same description we got from the Tempai. They stayed long enough to pick up water, then cut off for the north.”
Jomo brought a tattered map from the Land Rover and spread it across the hood. He indicated a spot. “We’re here. If the rebels stay on a northerly course they have to cross the river here and then cut through this valley. Once they do they’re in rebel country for certain.”
“With the lead they have that must have already happened,” Bolan said.
“Probably,” Jomo responded.
“The money we took from those two back in the city,” Bolan asked, “you still have it?”
Jomo nodded, smiling. He took the bundles and handed them to the villagers, speaking to them as he did.
The money was received and quickly hidden from sight.
“What did you tell them?”
“That President Karima has sent it as a gift to his people. So they can use it to make village improvements.”
“Think they believed you?”
“Not a bloody word,” Jomo said, grinning widely.
A stir of sound came from the gathered villagers. Bolan turned and saw them pointing skyward. He followed the pointing fingers and saw the dark speck that was growing rapidly. He fixed his gaze on it until he was able to identify the outline of a single-engined plane.
“The rebels have any aircraft?”
Jomo shrugged. “Military does,” he said. “Maybe they’re working with the rebels.”
“What makes you say that?”
“In my line of work you hear things. Unrest in some of the remote units. We’ve been investigating rumors about weapons going missing from storage depots. That kind of thing. Nothing definite but it makes a man start to think. You know what I mean?”
With the suspicions Bolan had about Tempala’s military, following his discussion with Kurtzman, the possible presence of a military spotter was less than welcome news.
“Jomo, let’s move out. I don’t want anything to happen to these people because of us.”
To his credit Jomo didn’t waste time. He scrambled back behind the wheel of the Land Rover, his map fluttering behind him as he gunned the motor and set the vehicle into motion. He drove through the village and out across the open land.
Bolan scanned the sky, shielding his eyes against the hot glare of the sun. He picked up on the aircraft as Jomo sped them across the plain, the SUV jolting them at every pothole and rut in the hard, baked earth. He watched as it made a wide, lazy sweep that brought it directly ahead of them. The plane dropped low, skimming the tops of scattered trees as it hurtled toward them.
“This is not good, Belasko,” Jomo said.
The plane’s pilot showed his hand too quickly. The stuttering crackle of machine-gun fire ripped across the plain. The earth erupted as twin lines of fire gouged the hard ground. Jomo held the Land Rover on its forward course, turning the wheel only at the last moment. The plane flew over them, climbing rapidly, the sound of its powerful engine echoing in its wake.
“He’s turning,” Bolan said, twisting in his seat to watch the plane.
He had it identified now. An Embraer EMB-312. A Brazilian aircraft designated Tucano. The machine could be equipped with rocket pods as well as machine guns. There was even a bomb-carrying capability.
“Those markings are military,” Jomo said. “He comes from a base some way up-country.”
“Can we find some cover?” Bolan asked as Jomo hauled the Land Rover back on line, shoving his foot down hard.
“I’m looking, but don’t hold out too much hope. There aren’t too many caves around here.”
Bolan clambered into the rear of the Land Rover, bracing himself against the exposed canopy frame. He brought the Uzi up to his shoulder, watching the Tucano as it lined up for another run. This time it was coming in on the Land Rover’s rear. Bolan didn’t expect to do much damage with his Uzi, but he might make the pilot decide on a little caution.
The SUV hit a deep rut. The rear end bounced hard, almost jolting Bolan out of the vehicle. He hung on with one hand, feeling the Land Rover sway, veering left and right as Jomo fought the wheel. There was a heart-stopping moment when the left-side wheels lifted off the ground. Bolan swung himself to the other side of the vehicle, adding his weight to Jomo’s. The vehicle returned to earth with a thump.
The attacking aircraft came at them in a blinding rush, looming large.
Bolan braced his Uzi on the vehicle’s tubular frame, judging angle and velocity. His finger stroked the trigger and the Uzi crackled. The moment after he’d fired he adjusted his aim and triggered again. He saw a brief flash of sparks as some of his 9 mm bullets clipped the edge of one wing. The hit was minor, not enough to incapacitate the ai
rcraft, but it made the pilot yank back on the stick and take the plane away from the Land Rover. Even so the pilot released a small bomb. Bolan saw the dark shape as it tumbled end over end, hitting the ground and bouncing, its trajectory bringing it closer to the SUV with every second.
“Jomo, hard left!” Bolan yelled. “Now!”
The Land Rover lurched violently. Bolan was hurled to the right. He slammed up against the spare cans of diesel fuel that Jomo carried strapped to the inside. The impact stunned him for a few seconds.
The bouncing bomb flew past the Land Rover, then exploded in a boiling mass of flame. It was an incendiary device. The ball of flame spread across the plain, leaving a black, oily smear in its wake. Some of the gelatinous material smeared the right side of the Land Rover, igniting, and left the racing vehicle with a fiery tail.
Jomo was yelling something unintelligible to Bolan. The Executioner couldn’t be certain whether the African was cursing the pilot or expressing his alarm at the sudden, violent turn of events.
The Land Rover dipped suddenly as a steep-sided dry watercourse appeared before them. Jomo took the vehicle down the slope without any thought for caution. They hit bottom with a hard thump. Jomo spun the wheel and stepped on the gas, swinging the Land Rover along the rocky, rutted base of the watercourse. He brought it to a shuddering halt among a tangle of thorny brush, cutting the motor and leaping out to scoop handfuls of dirt at the flame that was still scorching the paint work. Bolan joined him and they put out the fire.
They stood motionless, listening for the drone of the aircraft engine. After a few moments they picked it up. The sound wavered, fading, then rising again. It became louder.
“He’s coming back,” Bolan announced.
He moved away from the Land Rover and worked his way up the slope, flattening out near the top. Jomo dropped down beside him, his dark face gleaming with sweat. Neither spoke as they scanned the sky, searching for the Tucano.
“There he is,” Bolan said, pointing.
The aircraft was about a quarter mile out, almost gliding as the pilot located his former course and followed it in to where the incendiary bomb had left its mark. The fireball had all but gone now, leaving only a black curl of smoke.
Shadow Search Page 5