“For the third time, Bobby, it’s a red Jag with a white top. Now let’s keep it quiet!”
Bolan threaded the needle between the two point vehicles and eased on along the drive. It was an artificial lagoon, formed by a natural jog in the coastline at one side and the extreme southwesterly extension of the breakwater. Sea gates provided access to both Lake Erie and the West Basin. A yacht club shared the marina area with public facilities. A charter boat had just returned a fishing party; otherwise there was very little activity in evidence. Bolan could see the ore docks directly northeast and the entire Port of Cleveland sprawling out beyond there. And he could see Christina, at that moment clearing the gate that separated east and west basins, moving slowly under her own propulsion.
And it was strange, Bolan once again reflected, how the tangled threads of universal cause and effect always seemed to be busily working just beneath the surface of things, setting stages and manipulating wires to produce those inexplicable happenings which men called destiny. Because this place, this lagoon, was probably the only point in the entire port from which he could hope to launch an attack upon that fleeing vessel. Yet long before he was aware that such an attack would be coming, he had set the task doubly hard by also dispatching Morello’s entire remaining hardforce to that selfsame point.
He sighed, wondering just how smart the human mind really was—wondering, also, if somehow his subconscious had peered ahead to that very point of time and space, bringing all the scattered pieces together for a final climactic and perhaps cataclysmic resolution to all of Mack Bolan’s problems. He could not have done it better with the computers, had that been the intent.
So be it.
He sent the Warwagon around in another pass and punched in a readiness check for the fire systems, activated the forward con, brought in all the optics, cycled the launch platform doors to standby, brought all the systems on the line, then wheeled about to confront the enemy.
They were in a double slot, paired sets, manning the road from inconspicuous watchpoints at either side, two at the point, two at the flanks. He could not risk a rocket attack—too much civilian community at the periphery, too much possibility of bystander involvement.
The fishing party was straggling away, climbing into vehicles and departing.
A guy down near the water was folding a blanket and walking away toward the yacht club.
And the enemy …
“What’s that guy in the bus doing?”
“Not a bus. It’s a …”
“It’s not a red and white Jag, is it? He’s looking for something, though. Maybe just something to warm his bed … but … Rocky—take a couple of boys down there and check it out.”
“He’s moving again, Gus.”
Indeed he was. Bolan had opened the smoker chute and was making another pass of the combat sector. Timed flares rolled out at precisely spaced intervals to fall inconspicuously into the grass beneath the slowly moving vehicle.
“That bus is up on the damn grass!”
“Call a cop then.”
“Cut out the jawing! Watch ’im! Just watch ’im!”
The enemy “watched ’im” make a complete circuit and return to the starting point.
“Okay, Rocky—look ’im over! And good!”
A door on a flank vehicle open and a couple of guys tumbled out. At that moment the smokers erupted, sending dense black clouds spiraling across the combat zone. The two guys on EVA drew up damn quick, gawked, then spun about and hurriedly returned to their vehicle.
The radio monitor sputtered, “Jesus Christ! What’s that?”
“Let’s get outta here, Gus!”
“He’s come! The guy’s here somewhere!”
“Keep your heads, dammit! It’s just smoke! Don’t make a move ’til I tell you!”
The entire area was now behind the smoke barrier, with the winds coming in off the lake and moving it steadily against the enemy as the flares continued to pour it out. Bolan slung two ammo belts from the neck and descended with the big punch combo at his chest. He could see little better than they but he was trained for this sort of exercise and he needed to see very little; he had their numbers and their emplacements firmly etched into the combat consciousness.
And he took Rocky the flanker first, with forty millimeters of roaring destruction head on, following immediately with a blazing sweep of chattering tumblers. Two guys emerged stumbling from that flamesplit blackness, only to be met by a figure-eight wreath, and returned to the fire.
Bobby the pointman was leading his force in a pell-mell evacuation of their emplacement, when forty flaming millimeters erupted in their midst to send bodies flying with greater alacrity. Then another and another in rapid succession. The vehicle huffed and rent the blackness with a towering fireball, revealing the other point vehicle with good old Gus backing cautiously along the macadam strip.
There was but a glimpse of horrified faces behind that windshield, gaping at Bobby’s unhappy fate, then the M-16 split that windshield in a left-to-right crossing. The vehicle arced onto the grass, only to be followed there by an explosive round that rocked it onto its side and another that smacked into the exposed underside, touching off another explosive source and lifting the shredded remains on a pillar of burning gasoline.
The fourth car was moving recklessly out of the trap at high speed, the wheelman obviously driving by instinct alone. Bolan heard the whine of the engine above all other sounds of that tortured combat zone and moved quickly into the intercept. He lifted the weapon and let one fly, targeting purely by the ears. The miss was by about six feet forward, as revealed by the flash of the hit—but the next round was dead center on the hood ornament of that speeding vehicle. It lurched and spun into a tree and burst into flames. Bolan sprayed those flames with a full clip of 5.56; then he turned quickly and walked back across the smoky hell-grounds.
It was not a “clean” hit, no. It was sloppy as hell, right. Doomed voices inside that madness were raised in anguish and fear. But the damned would just have to take care of their own. Mack Bolan had other needs in mind. The moment would not wait.
He cleared the smoke zone and returned to the battle cruiser. Several civilians were running up from the marina, attracted by the sounds and sights of warfare. Others were beginning to show from the area of the yacht club. Very quickly there would be an official reaction.
At the moment, no one seemed to be giving any attention to that “recreational vehicle” poised at the background of madness. Well and good. The next phase of the climactic battle of Cleveland would span mere seconds of time. Bolan had no wish to compromise the “cover” of that fabulous battle cruiser. With all eyes turned to the first battleground, perhaps he could get off his launch without spectators to the event.
And there would be an event.
Oh yeah.
She was still well within range.
And the Christina was going to meet Mack Bolan.
18
BANANAS
If the computer systems could be regarded as the Warwagon’s brain, then the rocketry would certainly be her big fist. Utilizing a swivel-platform retractable rocket pod concealed beneath roof panels, the system is operated from the command deck and features greatly sophisticated fire-control equipment with night-bright optics in conjuction with laser-supplemented infrared illuminators. Target acquisition is electronic and automatic and can be programmed through video or audio sensing systems. Once acquired, the “target lock” is unshakable. Each of the four “on-line” rockets may be preprogrammed in advance for individual targets anywhere within the 360-degree target horizon. Control options include manual fire, auto fire via time or video-motion activators, and EVA (extravehicular activity) remote manual. The system delivers massive destruction at impressive range and with pinpoint accuracy, whether the target is stationary or moving.
Bolan would be lying in his secret heart if he did not acknowledge that the rocketry was the crowning grace of the entire weapons system, i
ts primary reason for existence, in the same sense that a B-52 exists for the single purpose of dropping bombs. And yet he used those rockets with the greatest discretion and sometimes downright reluctance. They were not weapons to be unleashed willy-nilly, without thought for their awesome destructive capability.
That consideration was heavy on his mind that grim afternoon in Cleveland as he cycled the platform to “raise and lock” and meshed in the onboard computer for fire control takeover. Redly glowing rangemarks superimposed themselves on the optics monitor as he scanned the bad ship Christina in search of vitals. He did not desire to sink that ship, though he felt that he easily could. Her hull was of paltry quarter-inch steel and welded seams, nary a bolt in the whole bucket German subs during World War Two had sent many of her sisters to the bottom using nothing but deck guns, loath to waste torpedoes on such sitting ducks.
He could sink her, sure. But that was not the intent. He merely wished to disable her, to panic her, and then to board her. So he selected his targets with care, electing to minimize mortal damage and going for pure panic effect.
She was well clear of the sea gate now, limping along at a brave four knots and obviously maneuvering with a bit of difficulty, the heading almost due west. That latter was a bit of a surprise. Bolan had expected her to point her bow due north to move with all possible haste toward Canadian waters. Later, perhaps, she intended to do so and was now simply “shaking down” the unbalanced propulsion close to shore.
All to the better. He had her wheelhouse in perfect three-quarter profile. And that was the prime target—the brain, all the control functions. He cycled in all four birds, set up the automatic sequence, and punched her off.
The first firebird rustled away on a climbing trajectory, seeking altitude in a computerized path and trailing flames and smoke behind her. Number two leapt away in a quick following, roaring along in fast pursuit, followed immediately by three and then by four.
The platform automatically retracted into the roof.
The Fire Sequence illuminator flared out.
Target One grew intently red then flared out also, replaced by an amber pulser.
Bolan did not need the optics monitor to verify that strike. A firestorm enveloped that wheelhouse out there, puffing smoke and flying debris high overhead.
Target Two flared out.
Another bright flash highlighted the bridge deck just abaft the stack.
Target Three flared.…
Bolan had seen enough. He opened the warchest and took out a packet of money then grabbed a raincoat and shrugged it on over the combat rig. He pulled the Warwagon into the yacht club parking area and stepped down. No one was giving him the faintest attention, all the interest of the moment remaining up in the hellgrounds.
A man of about fifty was frantically tying up a sleek inboard cruiser, impatient to get to the hell-grounds to see what was going down there.
Bolan took the line from the man’s hand and replaced it with the money packet. “I’m buying it,” he said.
The man was staring stupidly at the money. “It’s not for sale,” he protested.
“There’s enough there to buy three just like it,” Bolan told him. He stepped into the boat and cast off, kicked that fine engine, and took her out of there. The former owner was still watching him as he cleared the breakwater and opened her wide.
Bad Christina was in bad trouble.
The entire superstructure from the boat deck up was aflame. She had lost steerage and obviously someone in the engine room had retained sense enough to stop the engines. She was wallowing, her bow pointing back toward the Port of Cleveland, and great frenzied activity was erupting all about those worried decks.
Two lifeboats had been lowered by the time Bolan got there and someone had also lowered the gangway. Guys were in the water all around, some in life jackets and some not. Others were lining the rail and crowding the gangway. Chaos was afoot with push and shove the prevailing mood. People were yelling at Bolan in Italian and a couple began swimming toward the craft.
He ran alongside the gangway and tossed a line over. No one took it, all too intent upon leaping into that lifesaver. Bolan gave it to them and fought his way to main deck, tossing several guys overboard in the effort. None challenged his right to board. If any ship’s officers were alive and aboard, none were in evidence. Most of these men were not sailors at all but hired foreign guns suddenly without viable sponsorship. The one or two obvious sailors whom Bolan could spot were being overwhelmed by the panic moving those others.
Bolan moved on up to the cabin deck and began kicking doors. The fire was one deck above and beginning to spread downward. A guy in a steward’s jacket lurched around a corner and yelled something at him in Italian. Bolan grabbed the guy and asked, “Morello—where is he?”
“No parlare Inglese!”
“To hell with Inglese! I want Morello! Morello!” He made like an old-style movie camera. “Cinema, Christina, porno!”
The guy got that. “Ah, porno! Sì, Don Morello.”
Bolan desperately tried his flawed Italian. “Dove è Don Morello?”
The steward’s eyes wavered as he muttered, “Ponte due.” He twisted free and took off running.
Bolan did not parley the ponte but due he knew as “two.” Deck two, maybe. That would be … below decks.
He found the ladder and descended on the run—main deck, first deck, second deck—and hell, he was practically in the bowels of the ship. Which was exactly where this place belonged. A “movie” set, sure—and what a set—straight from the annals of the Marquis de Sade—chains and stocks and every kinky device a confused mind could dream of.
But no Morello.
He heard a groan and went deeper into the foulness. This had been a cargo hold, originally. Large. Plenty of overhead. A curtained area contained an editing table and paraphernalia, projector, small screen. A director’s chair was placed beside the projector. The projector was warm to the touch. He heard the groan again—much closer now—behind him!
A bulky object, draped in a black satin sheet and lurking in a darkened corner of the projection room. With shrinking heart, Bolan removed the drapery.
And, yeah, it was her.
She’d been dressed in black leather with cutouts appropriate for the scene intended, draped with chains and bent into a bondage device with that lovely head between her knees, a small rubber ball shoved into her mouth.
A bit ruffled, a few new bruises here and there, but that same blazing determination in the eyes and apparently none too worse for the indignities suffered.
Bolan ejected the ball from her mouth and tenderly removed her from the contraption, then sat on the floor and cuddled her in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Hey, it’s okay.”
She was crying, sobbing freely with the emotional release of the moment. And it occurred to Bolan that she had not done that before. She settled down quickly, rubbing her face against his shoulder and clinging to him as she said, “I knew you’d come. I just kept saying hang on, babe, hang on. Your nice old giant will come. That lunatic, that creep. He makes porno movies down here. He tossed me in that gadget and made me watch a sample of his art. He does snuff films, Mack. I swear it is. It’s too realistic for anything else.” She shuddered. “He said I’m his newest star. Imagine that, little Suzie Landry, newest queen of snuff porn. That’s a one-shot deal, isn’t it?”
Bolan told her, “We have to move it. Can you find some clothes?”
She gestured vaguely toward a chair near the projector. “Where is he?” she whispered.
“Don’t even ask,” Bolan said. He knew the guy would turn up in some dark corner before the escapade was ended. Guys like Tony Morello quit trying only when they quit breathing. He found the clothing and helped her into it.
“They say the third time is a charm,” she said huskily as he fastened the blouse over that heaving bosom.
“I found it that way the first time,” he gruffly told her. Then he lifte
d her off her feet and carried her toward the exit of that abominable place.
“I heard the explosions,” she said, the voice still a bit grainy. “And I thought, oh boy, here he comes. Loony-rello tossed that sheet over me and beat it, I guess. I could hear him running off. But then you didn’t come and you didn’t come. I was afraid you wouldn’t know where to find me. And that damn ball stuck in my mouth—I could hardly breathe. I kept thinking, what if my nose stops up? Oh Mack, you should see that awful flim! How could a human being do that to another? My God, you wouldn’t believe …”
But he would. Bolan would believe.
It was the message he’d been trying to get across to her from the beginning.
But now he simply told her, “I’m glad I found you.”
“Ohhh, so am I. Promise me, please, promise you’ll never let me go again.”
But he couldn’t. He could not promise her that.
Someone was beating like crazy on the inside of a door on the main deck. Bolan set his lady on her feet, took the AutoMag in hand, and kicked that door open. The two cute kids he’d noted earlier that day stumbled out of there, weeping and chattering hysterically in Italian.
It figured. These two were regulars—“starlets,” probably—for the endless stream of 8mm porn pouring from Tony Morello’s instant money machine. They were babies, barely into their teens if Bolan was any judge of womanflesh. And it seemed that Bad Tony was importing more than guns from Sicily.
Bolan managed to limp through some quick if mangled instructions in the Italian tongue. The kids understood it, anyway. They took off like a shot, and they knew which way to go.
Bolan followed, pulling his lady behind him, and he gave her also some quick instructions in the survival tongue. “When you get outside, head for the nearest railing. Do not wait for me and do not look back. Hit the water and swim like hell.”
“What … about you?” she gasped.
“If I’m not right behind you then I won’t be coming, babe.”
“I’ll wait for you!”
“Dammit, you’ll do as I say!” He stepped through the hatch with the AutoMag up and ready, then pulled her out and shoved her off. “Hit it!” he hissed.
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