“Yeah,” Bolan said.
“It’s possible, of course. But there are other methods for tracing lost rivers. We usually use dyes or radioactive tracers.”
“But that wouldn’t tell you much about subterranean dimensions,” Bolan suggested.
“Not really, no. Which is why I raised the possibility of a physical exploration. See here, with solution conduits in Floridian karst, the gradients are usually very slight and the conduits themselves quite sizeable. By gradients I mean the degree of slope. Assuming that the darned thing does not end in a rabbit hole at the edge of the continental shelf a mile below sea level, it could be quite an exhilarating exploration.”
“And,” Bolan said, expanding the idea, “if it ends on dry land or in a situation similar to the one at Satan’s Hammock, then you’ve got yourself a secret passageway beneath the sea.”
“That’s it exactly. And I believe that’s exactly what old Anderson has found, here.”
Bolan asked, “How long ago was it you said this guy was on your campus?”
Washburn glanced at Cardinez and said, “Oh, several years ago. Wasn’t it?”
The archeologist nodded solemnly as he replied, “At least two years ago, maybe three. I could look it up.”
“Two years or three,” Bolan said, “it really doesn’t matter. There’s been plenty of time for the guy to work this thing.” He again pulled Brognola aside and told him, “This is out of my league, Hal. It’s your problem. My problem is out there on that hammock. There are a hundred men out there who—”
“Well wait a damned minute!” Brognola hissed. “It’s all the same damned problem. This damned thing has heinous possibilities. My God, it could be a national security matter! I have to take this upstairs.”
“While you’re doing that,” Bolan pointed out, “the Muscatel group is going to discover that they’ve been waltzed around by an imposter. That’s going to make them very nervous—and probably the first thing they will do is destroy all the living evidence. That means a hundred doomed men. I can’t wait for you to take it upstairs, Hal.”
The chief fed was in a hell of a sweat.
But he knew that Bolan spoke the truth.
He replied, finally, “Okay. It’s your game. We’ll do it your way. First things first, and we’ll pick up the pieces later. How do I support you?”
“You should move immediately on the Muscatel group. But do it quietly. I want no shock waves reaching Santelli Island ahead of me. Then—”
“You’ve said it several times now, and I don’t know who you’re talking about. What is this Muscatel group?”
“Santelli and company. I think you’ll find it’s the remnants of the old Castiglione family, holed up and holding forth in Miami. There’s a place over on the Gold Coast called Muscatel’s. It’s a private residence club. That’s where Riappi was headed when you intercepted him.”
“Okay, I’m reading you. We can handle that end of things, no sweat. But what about you? You can’t storm that island all alone.”
Bolan smiled soberly and asked, “Why the hell not?”
Brognola stared at his friend through a moment of strained silence then quietly replied, “Well maybe you can, at that.”
Yeah. Maybe he could, at that. But, this time, he would not be entirely alone.
16
OPTIONS
It was good to be in the warwagon again. And it was especially good to have April Rose at his side. He angled a soft gaze her way and quietly asked, “Lost your edge?”
She answered with an impish smile. “If I have, I know a good way to sharpen it up. Park this rig, soldier, and we’ll discuss it.”
“Shameless,” he said. “Brazen.”
“Male chauvinist coward,” she replied quickly.
“I’ve missed you, April.”
“Thank God,” she said, sighing. “Myself, I’ve only been climbing the walls. Don’t you ever go off and leave me again.”
“I needed the time,” he told her.
“I know.” She sighed again. “So what did you decide?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It seems that the decisions have been made for me,” he replied quietly.
“That’s pure bull,” she said, without emotion. “We make our own decisions and you know it.”
He told her, “I didn’t decide to be a man, April. You didn’t decide to be a woman. You were born that way and I was born this way. Within that limited framework, okay, sure, I decided to wear pants and stand up when I pee. And I decided to put on a uniform and go to war. But the options have always been very narrow, haven’t they? They still are.”
She said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe, hell. They always are. And the more important the decision, the tighter the options.”
“I suppose that’s true, when you look at it that way.”
“Uh huh. The most important decisions are made in childhood, I think. They frame the process and load the ballot box. What comes after that is more or less conditioned reflex. We are decent or we are not. We are brave or we are not. The important decisions have all been made. By a child.”
She said, “My God. No wonder the world is in such a mess, if that’s true.”
“I believe it’s true,” he quietly assured her.
After a moment, she said, “You may have something there, soldier.” She was trying to keep it light. “So little Mackie Bolan decided to go to Washington and help the prezzydint.”
Bolan chuckled and replied, “Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, I’m glad. Although I don’t know why. I think they’re suckering you, soldier. You’ve just about got this damned lousy war won. And before you can even raise the eyes and proclaim your victory, they’re dragging you off to another one. But I’m still glad. Because I believe what General MacArthur said. Old soldiers never die. And I sure don’t want to see you simply fade away, old boy. I want to help you there. In a warm bed. Please! Mack, dammit, please stop this damned bus and take me to bed!”
He growled, “Hey, hey.”
Tears were erupting and beginning to stream down those glistening cheeks. “I’m kidding, of course. Just kidding. My arms don’t really ache for you. My belly isn’t knotted in desire. I just want to see you get out there and kill ’em, killer. I just want to see you straighten out this wacky world. All alone, all by yourself, the only damn guy in the world with a holy mission. I’ll put flowers on your grave, young soldier, and I’ll see that your tombstone is suitably inscribed. Here lies little Mackie Bolan. He decided at the age of seven to die with his combat boots on.”
He said, “God’s sake, April. What happened to your hard?”
“I’m sorry.” She swiped angrily at the tears. “You said it, guy. I didn’t decide to be a woman. It was my misfortune to be born this way.”
“You don’t look all that unfortunate to me,” he said, sweeping her with the eyes. He kissed his palm and folded it up, making a fist and offering it to her. “Save this ’til after the battle. See how much interest it builds, compounded on the heartbeat. And we’ll look into the unfortunate circumstances of your birth.”
She laughed through her tears and took the big fist in both dainty hands, raised it to her lips, kissed it. “Damn, I’m getting hard,” she sighed, wriggling uncomfortably against the seat.
“Wrong edge, kid,” he said, laughing with her.
“Hard is hard,” she replied. “Any old edge will do.”
“I’m going to need both edges,” he reminded her. “The combat hard, first. You’d better radio check Grimaldi.”
Yeah. Time was running out. But all the careful preparations had been made, all the options considered, nightfall was mere minutes away, and the land bridge to Santelli Island was dead ahead.
Dead ahead, yeah.
Grimaldi had been sent ahead on a high scouting mission, using one of Brognola’s helicopters.
“Tell the Sarge they’re on the doubledamn hard,” he reported to April. “They’re running
back and forth between the islands in swamp buggies and I can see patrols everywhere. Also a big car is now streaking toward the north side, I’d say headed toward the bridge. Tell him it’s a no-go, repeat, no-go.”
Bolan took the mike from April to reply, “Good work, flyboy. But it’s too late to abort. Request you stand by to assist but only upon direct request. Play it cool, buddy, play it damn cool.”
“There ain’t no cool out here, buddy. Not where you’re headed.”
So what the hell? It was Thursday, wasn’t it? And all the options had been used. This lousy war was not won yet, April.
Bolan swung the command console toward April’s position and told her, “Raise and lock for the fire.”
“What’s the target?” she asked crisply, all business and all hard edge like the flip of a switch.
“Dead ahead,” he replied. “Straight down the pike. We’ll probably have to punch our way off this bridge.”
“Punch off, aye,” she said. “Platform is raised … platform is locked … I have a Firing Go.”
Yeah … the time had run out … and all the options had been used.
Now it was nothing but the fire ahead.
17
NIGHTFALL
The black limousine was pulled broadside across the road, blocking the exit from the bridge which itself was no more than a narrow roadway built atop a connecting landfill. Human figures were scurrying about behind that vehicle and the first zoom of the optics centered upon a double-barreled shotgun using the rooftop of the limousine as a gun rest.
Though the daylight was rapidly dwindling under the descending mantle of nightfall, the optics resolution focused clearly on the scowling visage behind that shotgun: it was old reliable, nothing more and nothing less Johnny Paoli, he of the dimwit but determined disposition.
Bolan could almost hear the guy ticking off the instructions on his fingertips: block the damn bridge, right; don’t let nobody in, right; whack off that damn Frankie’s head if he shows up, right.
Huh-uh, not right.
It was one of those unfortunate situations where all the rights added up to a deadly wrong. Even for Mack Bolan, yeah. He took no satisfaction in the destruction of such a man.
The warwagon was closing at a steady 50 m.p.h. At two hundred yards out, Bolan sighed and gave the command. “Fire one,” he said, the voice icy even in his own ears.
April banged the knee and replied, “One away,” as the hot sizzler leapt away from the roofmount and rustled on ahead toward the target, the optics acquiring the fire instantly and bathing the command deck in the red glow from the viewscreen.
Dumb Visage lifted above the resting shotgun and just poised there, frozen, pondering the imponderable of a situation for which the fingertips had not been prepared.
And then it all went to hell, enveloped in flames and disintegrating within the firestorm, blowing up and out and all around the flat landscape as though a tornado from hell had reached up to reclaim its own.
“Bingo,” April sighed.
The warwagon did not slacken pace but blew on through the burning debris as to the left and to the right the quick bodycount was read and evaluated.
“Three down, my side,” April reported quietly. “Nothing moving.”
So five men had died back there, quickly and savagely, perhaps without even knowing why.
And that was only the beginning.
Bolan turned the big vehicle away from the road and into a cane field, cutting a large circle and poising for re-entry onto the blacktop before bringing it to a full halt.
“EVA,” April said sadly.
Nothing else would do. Bolan began drawing on the combat rig as he told his lady, “Fall back to the other side of the bridge. I saw a nice stand of trees about thirty yards east of the road. Take cover and get hard. Maintain radio contact with Grimaldi. Show no lights. Monitor my EVA channel but don’t call me, I’ll call you, unless it’s a bonafide emergency. If I need some fire, I’ll send for it. By the coordinates.”
She replied, very quietly, “Okay. Don’t worry about this end. Just watch your own.”
He smiled, said, “It’s always in sight,” kissed her lightly on the lips, and bailed out of there for a doublequick advance with his brother, the night.
A mile of cane lay between the present position and the residence compound. He was carrying seventy pounds of warfare on his back and another thirty or so on the rigging. The night was settling firmly into place. And the Doomed One Hundred, he hoped, were out there in that settling blackness awaiting the signal that would begin life anew. He hoped, yeah … he could only hope.
Jesus Christ the Goddamned son of a bitching no good bastard that pulled this shitface on Carlo the Pip should have his balls roasted over an open fire while they’re still dangling from his bleeding body and Carlo by God would spit on that son of a bitch and whack those blistering balls with a ping pong paddle while the bastard screamed and begged for merciful death but there would be no Goddamned mercy for that rotten shit not while Carlo the Pip had anything to say about it!
“You got all those goddam people deployed like I told you?” he screamed at his yard boss.
“Yessir, just like you said, every man is up and on his feet.”
“I want those feet moving! And those eyes, too! You keep them goddam eyes on the double stare and I mean it!”
Something went ba-loom in the night, faraway and dull, like distant thunder on a summer’s evening. Rocky Vesperanza came sliding around the corner and bounded onto the porch, eyes rolling “Did you hear that?” he yelled.
“Hey I’m standing right on top of you, don’t yell!” Papriello yelled, himself. “’Course I heard it!”
“Came from the north side,” the Rock said nervously, lowering the voice. “I just sent Johnny Bugs over there a few minutes ago to cover the bridge. I wonder …”
“Stop wondering and get ’im on the radio! Find out what that was!”
Vesperanza swiveled about and formed a megaphone with his hands to shout into the yard, “Try the radio, Harley! Ask Johnny what that was!” Then, to Papriello, “Are we sure about this? Are we real sure?”
The stupid question merely lathered Carlo the Pip all the more. “Whattaya mean are we sure! The rotten no good son of a bitch waltzed in here and … whattaya mean are we sure! Ask Mr. Santelli if he’s sure he didn’t send nobody, you dummyfucker! You go ask ’im!”
“I didn’t mean—I mean—Jesus, I liked that guy, Pip, I mean I really liked him!”
“Aw naw, all you saw was his goddam broad!”
“Naw, but I mean maybe he was sent by somebody else, you know. Maybe Mr. Santelli wasn’t supposed to know. Wouldn’t we feel dumb if all Johnny Bugs turns back over there is a couple of busloads of broads?”
“Aw for my good grievin’ mother’s gravel” Papriello replied disgustedly. “That’s all you’re worried about, isn’t it, your hot’n ready goddam broads. I swear, Rock, I never saw no guy would lose his head over a piece of tail the way you do! Do you know what poor Johnny Bugs may really be trying to turn back, over there? Do you know? Can you think of anything but spreaded legs?”
“If Frankie was a cop, Pip, then he’s like no cop I ever—”
“Jesus Christ I don’t believe it!” Papriello yelled. “Alla you boys out there, listen to this, I can’t believe it! The guy I pers’nally hand-picked to be my number one cock has got nothing but his balls in his hand and snatch on his brain! He thinks our fancy friendly Frankie the Fink was a goddam cop! A goddam cop! I can’t believe this!”
“I didn’t say, Carlo, that—”
“It hasn’t sunk in yet, I can’t believe it! He thinks Mack the blacksuit Bolan was a goddam cop!”
Vesperanza took a step backward and said, “Who?”
A voice from the hushed yard called up, “I can’t raise Johnny on the radio, Rock.”
“Then say a prayer!” Papriello called back loudly. “Friendly Frankie is back in town! And alla you boys bet
ter damn well get set for a party without no broads because that’s exactly what we’re in for!”
Exactly, right.
But, to tell the truth, Carlo the Pip had kind of liked the guy, himself.
18
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
Mack the Blacksuit had found slow going through the cane fields, with all that firepower weighting his steps across the soft earth. By the time he drew within good view of the lighted compound, the night was at its darkest. In an hour, maybe sooner, the moon would be rising. Until that time, he would definitely have an advantage over the enemy forces, being virtually indistinguishable from other dark pockets of the night.
The first encounter came in the cane, some forty yards outside the compound. Someone was moving slowly and cautiously through the growth, pausing every few steps to stand stock-still for a moment before moving on. Bolan studied the audibles of those movements then set a bisecting course. It was his practice to neutralize as much as possible the turf along his backtrack; he did not like to leave enemy patrols at his back and did not customarily do so if there was some way to avoid it. So he was going for this one, carefully maneuvering along an intercepting path.
Suddenly they were in the close encounter, separated by perhaps two-arm’s-lengths of no-man’s-land and a row of cane, Bolan in a half-crouch and the other standing stiffly upright in one of those rhythmic freezes, more visible by virtue of lighter clothing and breathing just a touch too hard. Then the opponent stepped off again and Bolan made his move, lunging up from the rear with a nylon garrote looping silently overhead to bury itself in unresisting flesh.
It was a little guy, not much more than a hundred pounds on the hoof, the backside of the body slumping against Bolan and molding itself against him in strange contours of defeat. A tightfitting cap slid off the head, releasing golden hair in tumbling torrents.
It was not a guy!
Bolan flung the garrote clear and quickly lowered that soft flesh to the ground. He massaged the bruised throat and pumped the diaphragm a couple of times to encourage a flow of air through those traumatized tissues.
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