Striding across those grounds not 20 yards uprange, coming down between the bungalows, was Captain Johnny himself and retinue — five of them in close military stride and clipping it off smartly.
They spotted Bolan at about the same moment that his trigger-finger reacted to the situation.
Quick reactors they were, but not quick enough — startled surprise blending smoothly into evasive choreography with bodies flinging in every direction as the big piece boomed and heaved 40 millimeters of hellfire into the midst of them, adding a new dimension to the dance and a new movement to the overture.
He caught a glimpse of Franciscus through the firecloud, rolling and flopping to rest against a bungalow — but then another party came pounding around the corner of the big house.
He swung into that one with the '16 ablaze and hurtling lightning, scattering people in another crazed dance for survival.
Then, suddenly, soldiers were pouring in from everywhere — through the back door of the house, from bungalows, and from every perimeter.
Right — the numbers were off and the 200 were on — and Bolan the Bold had bought himself a belly buster this time.
He hit them with gas, and smoke, and HE, and tumblers — he hit them with snorting .44s and grenades — and he gave them all the war he'd been able to bring with him. laying down finally a billowing curtain of chemical smoke behind which a tactically retreating soldier boy may sprint like hell.
And he was doing so — lungs turning to solid blood and legs going to lead when the heartening whomp of rotary blades overhead reassured him that Jack the Birdman had come through again.
The swooping eagle came in across his quarter in a calculated intercept, moving a bit faster than Bolan. would have desired — but then so were those others to the rear.
He caught the skid on his chest with the last leap left in him. It jerked into the armpits with wrenching pain as unequal momentums came into balance — then he was swinging clear — man and machine becoming united in common flight as they lifted up, up, and away.
The whole thing must have been as mind-blowing to those left behind as to the man dangling from the eagle's talons — or else it was all just too demoralizing to encourage further effort from the ground; not another round came after him — and with the way Grimaldi was balling it, there wasn't much time for the ground crews to get it back together in time, anyway.
They were a mile downrange before Bolan got himself together and got it aboard — then it finally took a helping hand from the man at the stick for that last pull onto solid support.
Bolan lay there panting for a moment, then he drew himself clear of the hole in the floor and sat there watching his hands quiver until Grimaldi tossed him a headset. He donned it, and the damn guy was saving. "Where the hell you been goofing off the past ten minutes, dammit? I came in at count sixty and I came back at count sixty-five. Then I got curious about all the smoke at count seventy and figured I'd give 'er one last swoop. We can go back and try it again, though, if you demand perfection."
"Get screwed, you beautiful bastard," Bolan panted.
The fantastic flyboy laughed for outrageous joy and sent the hot little bird circling back the way they'd come.
"How much fuse time is left?" he asked.
Bolan tired to hold his trembling hand still long enough to read the time, then couldn't focus his eyes, finally giving it up to reply, "Couldn't be long now."
"I hope not," the pilot said, still chuckling. "Look below."
Bolan really did not wish to. He was quite content to be where he was, but he leaned forward to peer through the hole and immediately said "Brognola's navy."
A solid wave of a dozen or more U.S. Navy landing craft was cutting wide wakes toward Langley Island.
Grimaldi laughed and said, "I'm going to miss you, guy, if you ever retire. This is my second eagle's eye view of a big boom with you."
The guy was talking about the energy storm over Texas.
Bolan sighed and asked, "How's the visibility?"
"Come up and see."
He tried his legs and found them operable, coming up into a crouch at the instrument panel. The bird was hovering. Langley Island was dead ahead about two thousand yards and maybe a thousand feet below. Bolan's vision cleared and his other physical systems went into second-go. He glanced at the watch. "Countdown," he announced to the pilot. "Thirty seconds to boom."
Grimaldi lit a cigarette and handed it to the hellfire guy.
Bolan accepted it and took a careful drag, favoring the raw lungs, watching intently a countdown to the destruction of some men's dream, some men's nightmare.
It was a weird blow. Things moved down there, as in an earthquake and by no other means — no fire, no smoke, just movement. Three buildings collapsed and disappeared momentarily, then spewed forth upon trumpeting streamers of fire and smoke — the sound wave arrived along with that and rocked the whirlybird — a long series of rumbling explosions hurling all manner of debris high into the sky. Then a cloud of smoke began forming, to overhang a bowl-like depression in the earth still rumbling and belching flame.
The bungalows were gone, the big house was gone, the pier and its new building were gone — there was nothing down there but scorched earth and an artificial volcano.
Grimaldi whispered, "Man oh man. That's hard to believe."
Many things, Bolan could have told his friend of the Terrifying Flying Service, could be hard to believe.
But not that.
It was the hardest touch of Bolan's war against the mob. He believed it. A lot of discarnate souls were right now believing it. Damn right. And those that were left would believe it — and might think two times around before trying it again.
"Take me home, Jack," the Executioner said tiredly.
There was, thank God, still a home to return to.
Epilog
Leo Turrin was standing outside the warwagon, awaiting the return of the warrior. He turned away, keeping his face down, until the chopper lifted away, then he came forward to hug the man about the waist and speak gruff words about heroic deeds.
"Go home, Leo," Bolan told him, grinning.
"Fast as a four engine jet can take me," the double-lifer replied. "Hal is welcome to what's left around here. You go, too, Sarge. Quick and far."
Bolan said, "Sure," still grinning.
"Well. Jocko's waiting patiently just down the road. Better go before he gets nervous and comes looking."
"Don't blow it now, guy. Good times are just around the corner."
Leo Turrin turned his back to that and went away, laughing like a crazy man.
Bolan stepped into his infernal machine and lit a cigarette, cranked the engine, and set his sights for somewhere "quick and far."
Nice town, Seattle. Nice people, too. Even the too young and too natural, especially artfully mature and ethically balanced.
But this warwagon was "home" for the warrior. Wherever she traveled, he would find war and nice people.
Quick and far.
That would be the. next battle line. Always too quick and never quite far enough.
But that was Bolan's world, and he was stuck with it.
Worse still, perhaps, it was stuck with him.
FB2 document info
Document ID: b90c914d-4168-44f6-96ec-7873b0d39213
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2005-06-03
Created using: FB Tools software
OCR Source: OCR Binwiped
Document authors :
Денис
Document history:
v 1.0 — создание fb2 OCR Денис
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