Bolan took a deep drag. "How many Tiger soldiers guard the temple?"
"About thirty," replied the headman. The water in his pipe gurgled as he dragged on it.
"Nark said he had signed up three thousand men in the area for the attack on the Tiger camp," said Bolan.
"Yes," said the headman.
"How many signed in this village?"
"Four hundred."
"We could use some of those to attack the temple and free him."
The headman remained silent, eyes on the fire.
Warning bells rang in Bolan's head. Something was up. "Do you agree?" he pressed.
"The men have no arms," said the headman into the fire. "Tiger take all our rifles.''
"You have muskets and crossbows," Bolan countered. "Our superior numbers will take care of our inferior weapons."
The headman-made no reply. Suddenly the room was very still, the only sound the rustling of a paper skeleton blown by a slight breeze. It hung on a wall next to the ancestral altar, a charm to ward off evil spirits.
"What do you think?" asked Bolan, breaking the silence.
"The men don't want to fight," announced the headman quietly.
So that's what it is, Bolan thought. Nark's capture had given the Meo cold feet. "I don't understand," he began. "You told Nark that everyone in the Golden Triangle wanted to fight the Chinese. You said the Chinese enslaved you, that they made you grow opium and paid you low prices. You said they forced the men to be coolies and took your women. And now you say you don't want to fight."
"Only a fool fights to lose," the headman snapped. He fixed Bolan with his tiny eyes, the pupils glowing like coals. "When I tell Mr. Nark we want to fight, Tiger not know about operation. Now they know, now no surprise. No surprise, no win." The pipe gurgled as he resumed smoking.
"What you say might be right," said Bolan, "but only if Nark told Tiger about the operation. If he didn't, the operation can still be a surprise. First, however, I must speak to Nark. Let's make a deal. If you find me a hundred men to attack the temple, I will pay each a bar of silver. And you, I will pay twenty."
"You brought silver?" the headman asked, his interest perking up.
"I will have it sent to you as soon as I speak to my people on the radio. I don't know how long it will take — a week, maybe two weeks — but you will be paid. I give you my word."
"And if you are killed?"
"That is a chance you take, Major Vang Ky."
The headman started. "You know?"
"That you were a major in the CIA Montagnard army? Yes. They still remember you in the CIA as a valiant ally. That is why I sent Nark to you. I also know about you from your cousin Vang Jay."
"He is in America," said the headman.
"Yes, farming in Wyoming," said Bolan. "We fought together in South Vietnam. I was with the Hmong in Kontum." Hmong was the term the Meo liked to be known by. The term Meo, which everyone used, was Chinese for savages.
The headman stared into the fire, weighing the pros and cons of Bolan's offer. Bolan fell silent; he had nothing to add. What else could he have said? Help me keep America free from drugs? A decade or two ago, the headman's kind had been asked to help America defend the free world in Asia, only to be sold down the river when America tired of the fight. No, Bolan said to himself, he wasn't going to start moralizing, not to this man. Better to keep the deal strictly on a business level.
The headman reached for the bottle and topped Bolan's glass. "I will consult the others," he said. "Please wait. I will return soon." Rubber sandals flapping, he left the hut.
Bolan sipped at his drink. Now there was nothing to do but sit and wait. He pushed the stool to a barrel so he could lean back. Might as well wait in comfort. "Soon" could be five minutes or an hour. He was familiar with Montagnard ways.
Bolan's eyes settled on the jars stacked against the opposite wall. Upas tree poison, he guessed. The Montagnards harvested it to sell in town for pest control. Deadly stuff, a doctor once told him. One touch on a wound and a man was as good as dead.
In the space between the jars, halfway up the wall, was the ancestral altar. It consisted of a ledge over which hung a portrait of a Meo couple in full regalia. Ancestors.
Standing on the ledge was an empty jam jar with incense sticks and food. There was an egg, a bowl of uncooked rice, a bit of sugarcane and a glass of tieu. Offerings.
Next to the ledge the paper skeleton continued its rustling jig. Not only was it supposed to ward off evil spirits, it was a good-luck charm for the house.
Bolan stared at the dancing skeleton. Bring some luck to me while you're at it, he told the skeleton.
* * *
"Soa! Soa!"
The shout sent Bolan to his feet. He grabbed his gun and haversack and ran out. Dogs were barking, mothers were gathering children and running into houses. On a slope, descending single file, were Tiger troops.
Bolan's mind whirled. Run or hide? He was outnumbered eleven to one.
To run would be to kiss the mission goodbye. He would lose face and the Meo would never fight with him after that, even if he returned during the night. They might feed him and shelter him, and do all the things their sense of hospitality dictated, but they would not follow him in battle. A leader does not run.
But where could he hide? Tiger would search the houses, he was sure. And he knew of no hiding place. Nor was anyone offering to show him one. The women ignored him, busy with their children, the men were at work, and the headman had been gone for over an hour.
The enemy helped solve his problem.
A shout from the slope was followed by a burst of gunfire. He threw himself to the ground as bullets slapped at the houses. A squealing pig ran past him, a jet of blood spurting from its side. Bolan scrambled for cover.
By the time he reached the rear of the headman's hut, he knew what to do. It was the old story: stop thinking and a solution will appear. The slapping bullets had done their job; they had cleared his brain.
Bolan whipped a gas mask out of a pocket of his haversack, slipped it over his head so he could use it quickly, and took off. Geysers of dirt accompanied him as he weaved in and out between the houses, heading for the grazing fields.
The Tiger soldiers went after him. There was a pause in the shooting as they reached flat ground and ran into the village, the huts blocking their view of him. Bolan used the pause to put on the haversack and sling the gun over his chest to free his hands.
The village ended, and he ran into the fields. It was a section that had not been grazed for a while, and the grass was knee-high. He plowed through it, hands going for the remaining two Slepoys on his gun belt. He armed them and continued running, making for the bordering jungle.
A gun fired and a bullet sang past, telling Bolan the troops were emerging from the village. He tossed the grenades over his shoulder. The valley boomed, and Bolan went on running, glancing behind him. A barrier of smoke rose between him and the enemy.
Suddenly Bolan did an about-face and raced for the smoke screen, taking off his gun and putting on the mask. The wind was blowing the smoke from right to left, so he ran to the right to be near the head of the screen.
With his mask in place, he ran a foot or two into the smoke and crouched facing downwind, ears straining over the hiss of the smoking Slepoys, concentrating on the shouting of his pursuers. He needed to know if they would run through the screen or around it.
The shouting drew nearer. They were going to go through the screen. Bolan brought up his weapon. Coughing figures ran out of the smoke. Bolan fired. One burst, two, three. He saw his bullets tear into their sides and backs.
Five men crumpled while three hit the dirt and returned fire. Bolan ducked and retreated into the smoke screen, leaving the trio for later, ears seeking out the remaining men. They were more dangerous because he did not know where they were.
A moment later he heard them, running in his direction, obviously intending to go around the screen now that they had h
eard shooting, not wanting to stumble blindly into a firefight. Bolan moved to that side of the smoke screen. As they passed, he cut them down.
Eight down, three to go. Bolan moved back to the other side. The trio had disappeared. Were they gone or lying in the grass waiting for him? Or perhaps moving around the smoke screen to see what had happened to their comrades?
Walking on his knees in Japanese martial-arts fashion, Bolan moved to the head of the screen. There they were, crawling through the grass.
Bolan waited, motionless.
From the grass a head rose, the sun of Nationalist China glinting on the cap. Then a second head appeared, then the third. They stood up, guns at the ready, then moved slowly to where trampled grass told them there were bodies. All the time, however, they kept their eyes on the billowing smoke where Bolan crouched, invisible.
They reached the bodies, and a cry escaped the lips of one of them. Perhaps the dead soldier was a friend, or perhaps he had never seen a rifle bullet cause such a large wound. Either way, his cry momentarily diverted the attention of his comrades. And Bolan fired.
Bolan emerged from the smoke and took off his mask. He checked his work. Not a wounded man among them, and for a reason. The new Kalashnikov's bullets, too, were pretty formidable, featuring air gaps and lead plugs. As they penetrated the target the bullets tumbled and mushroomed.
Bolan shouldered his weapon and walked back to the village. On the periphery a crowd had assembled. The people watched him in silence, a silence that had a touch of awe. Eleven to one and victorious. The "long nose" knew his business.
Bolan went up to the headman. "Did you consult your people?" he asked.
"Yes," the other answered.
"And?"
"They agree. A hundred men armed with muskets and crossbows."
Bolan looked out in the direction of the smoke and the bodies. "We will have some M-16s as well."
The headman looked him up and down. "You do not want new clothes?"
Bolan smiled. "You think I will fit into a Montagnard suit?"
"I have Mr. Nark clothes. He big too."
"Okay, I'll try them. Also I would like some hot tea and corn pancakes. And hot water to wash and shave."
"Come," the headman said. "You will have everything you want."
On the way Bolan said, "If it turns out Nark did not tell Tiger about the operation, will your people agree to fight in an attack on the Tiger camp?"
"Who will lead?"
"I will."
"Then," the headman said, "the people agree."
Chapter 3
The column snaked through the night, climbing the mountain forest. To help them stay together, every man had a firefly in a tiny cage attached to his back. It was an old Montagnard trick revived by Bolan to prevent men from getting lost. Getting lost was easy when going cross-country at night.
Bolan had dispensed with the trail because it was a longer way. He wanted to get to the monastery before midnight, before Tiger put Nark through another torture session.
From his knowledge of interrogation techniques Bolan knew that the best time to work on a man was after midnight, when his psychological defenses were the weakest. Tiger would know that too.
Tock, tock.
A woodpecker's tap traveled down the line. The column halted, the men squatted. Bolan heard someone make his way down the column. It was the headman.
"We are at edge of forest," he whispered. "Temple ahead. Come."
Bolan and the headman made their way past the line of glowing fireflies flicking on and off. They emerged into grassland and knelt by a large boulder. A couple of hundred yards away stood a compound of buildings with a pagoda. Lights flickered from the shuttered windows, and in the pagoda there was chanting.
"They hold services at this hour?" asked Bolan. It was nearly eleven o'clock.
"These bonzes pray day and night," said the headman. "Tang Mei is temple of Night Buddha."
The entrance to the pagoda was lit by flaming torches. By their light Bolan could see two soldiers. He brought out his field glasses for a better look. One man sat on the steps. His companion leaned against one of the stone dragons flanking the entrance. Both were eating, holding a bowl and chopsticks, their rifles propped nearby.
"Could be they're holding Nark in the pagoda," Bolan said.
"Not know," replied the headman.
Bolan went on inspecting the target. The ground behind the monastery rose sharply to a plateau. On the plateau stood a shack with an antenna.
"Radio relay station," said the headman, seeing him looking up.
"Doesn't seem to be anyone there now," said Bolan. The shack was in darkness. He turned his attention to the compound. "Which building houses the soldiers?"
"Not know."
Great, thought Bolan. Crossbows, muskets, and he didn't have a clue where to start.
He lowered his glasses. "Okay, here's what I propose." He outlined his plan. "Do you agree?"
"I agree," said the headman and went back to the forest.
Bolan put away the field glasses and brought out a camy stick. He proceeded to apply the camouflage to his hands and face. By the time three men with crossbows joined him, the whole of him blended into the night. He gave the men their instructions.
"Wait," said one of the men. He undid the safety pin from Bolan's back and freed the firefly in the cage. He handed Bolan the cage. "Keep for next time."
Bolan pocketed the cage. It was made from a banana leaf. "Ready?" he asked them. "Let's go. May the spirits protect us."
They ran for the cover of the nearest building and crouched in its shadow. They waited to catch their breath, then worked their way along the wall.
When they came to the end of the building, they sprinted across open ground, working their way closer to the pagoda. The next building was in total darkness. They could hear snoring, and a child's voice mumbled in its sleep. It was a boys' dormitory. The monks ran a school for temple pages.
To his right Bolan could hear a lot of loud talk and laughter. Right away that told him something. Thais did not talk loudly, especially not in a monastery. He waited until he could hear the language clearly. It was Chinese, which confirmed what he thought. He took a Meo by the arm.
"Tiger," he whispered, pointing.
The other ran off. He would tell the headman, who would now know where to place his M-16 squad.
Bolan and the other two continued along the wall. They reached the corner and Bolan peered ahead. Before him was a sandy clearing in the middle of which grew the traditional sacred tree. Beyond was the pagoda, the inside lit and visible through the open doorway, though the monks were out of sight.
On the steps, the two soldiers were serving themselves second helpings from a multitiered food container of the kind peasants took to the rice fields. Bolan watched them resume eating. They were completely absorbed in their meal.
Perhaps they were not guarding anything, thought Bolan. Perhaps they were simply having a late dinner and had chosen the spot because of the light. If so, they could not have chosen a better place as far as he was concerned. The chanting would drown out whatever noise Bolan and his men might make.
Bolan signaled the Meo and they crawled out, Bolan following. They crawled single file, trying to keep the bodhi tree, between them and the soldiers. Bolan kept his eyes and ears wide open. This was the most dangerous moment; they were completely exposed.
The Meo reached the tree and rose, eyes on Bolan, who lay on his stomach a few yards away so he would have a better line of fire if he have to intervene. Bolan edged sideways to see the soldiers. They were still eating.
Bolan nodded, and the Meo stepped out. Two arrows sang through the air. Rice bowls and chopsticks clattered, one man groaned and fell to the steps, and the other began coughing blood, hands clutching the arrow embedded in his stomach.
The chanting stopped.
The Meo looked at Bolan as if to say, What do we do now? Neither of two young Meo had ever killed a man
. One reason they had volunteered was that a Meo was not a man until he had killed. The professionals, the ex-soldiers, had refused to take part in an operation that opposed muskets to assault rifles.
Bolan streaked past the Meo, hand going for his dagger. He bounded up the steps and plunged it into the coughing soldier's heart. The man died instantly, and Bolan dragged both bodies inside the doorway of the pagoda. The Meo followed with the soldiers' rifles.
"Get the food things!" Bolan snapped, livid with anger. He would have the headman's neck for giving him greenhorns. He turned to the line of yellow-robed monks in the interior of the pagoda, gave a perfunctory wai, and said, "Venerable monks, sing."
The monks glowered back in antagonistic silence. Not only was this foreigner desecrating a holy place by retaining his footwear, he had the impertinence to bring savages with him.
No love is lost in Thailand between the lowlander and the Montagnard, one civilized to the point of decadence, the other primitive and pagan, but a superior fighter.
"Sing, venerable monks," Bolan repeated.
The shaved heads remained silent. They knelt on the stone floor under a giant statue of the Night Buddha. The god gazed at Bolan through half-open eyes giving the impression he, too, was displeased by this intrusion.
Bolan sympathized, but war is war. He told the Meo to bar the door and went over to the chief monk. He dropped to one knee and addressed him in the most formal manner.
"Venerable teacher, excuse this imposition. I have come to rescue the white man. Please have the other monks sing while we talk. If they do not, the Chinese might suspect and come, and there will be fighting. I have a hundred barbarians outside ready to attack if necessary."
The head bonze and his assistant exchanged glances.
Bolan continued, "If there is fighting, many of your monks could be killed. Many of your temple boys, too. Your monastery will be damaged by fire. Please sing."
There was another exchange of looks. The head monk nodded, the assistant intoned. Wooden sticks clacked, small brass cymbals clashed and the chanting resumed.
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