About thirty feet ahead down the alley, Bolan saw a shadow move on the left side. He froze and knelt beside the end of the wall. He motioned for Dr. Peterson to stay down. The specter moved again and the Executioner heard the soft cough of a silenced weapon. The cement beside his shoulder shattered as a slug slammed into it.
2
United States Air Force pilot First Lieutenant Roth Ludlow had done everything "smart" to stay out of the fighting in Vietnam. He had been in college at the time of the draft. At once he signed up for Air ROTC. He kept his grades up, reported to his draft board, followed the rules and procedures to the letter. When he graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in physics, the Air Force said they would not activate any reserve commissioned nonpilots from the ROTC graduates.
Within two weeks the air war had changed in Vietnam as the Air Force began losing more and more planes and pilots. The word went out that all Air ROTC newly commissioned officers had their choice: they could be activated at once and apply for the duty of their choice, including flight training. Or they could wait and be activated and take any assignment they were given.
Again Roth Ludlow chose the smart way and signed up the next week for flight training. He was not a gung ho militant. Rather he had evaluated his chances, looked over the alternatives and decided that flight training was the best route for him.
A year later he was in the middle of some of the toughest ground-support work the Air Force had ever done.
* * *
Roth Ludlow watched the green blur of the tropical jungle flash past below him as he thought of today's mission. A company-sized search-and-destroy squadron had fanned out into the dense forest and got pinned down. He and three other F-100 Super Sabre fighters were called in for close support. It was the usual type of operation. The GIs got trapped and now they wanted some friendly fire to keep the Cong busy so they could bug out.
Only in this now-you-see-them-now-you-don't kind of war there were damn few fixed targets. A hundred Viet Cong could make a lightning raid on a U.S. operation, and ten minutes later the entire raiding party could be hiding in networks of underground tunnels, working benignly in the fields or going about other normal civilian routines.
The enemy was harder to find than to kill.
Lately there had been more enemy ground fire aimed at military aircraft. Usually rifle and machine-gun fire from the ground meant little against bomber jets. However even the swift Air Force F-100 sometimes became easy prey on lowlevel support missions. If five hundred rifles and machine guns fired at one F-100 that was only two hundred feet off the deck, bad things were likely to happen at least part of the time.
Ludlow tried never to think of that. He had made his bargain. He played his hand the best way he knew how, even after Uncle Sam had rushed in and raised his bet. Now he had to stay in the game any way he could. He would complete his tour and fly his ass out of there for home at the first opportunity.
He slanted off to the right near the yellow smoke coming from a cleared space in the double canopy jungle. The tops of the trees below were more than one hundred feet from the ground. Under them was a secondary layer of thick growth that made any visual penetration to the ground impossible. The yellow plume showed the location of the friendly forces. The Cong were holding a small hill to the left and evidently controlling the advance and retreat of the GIs.
Ludlow checked the brow of the hill, which was not covered by the jungle. He was three hundred yards to the left but drew winking red splotches of ground fire. He zigged to the left and climbed away from the gunners. At least he knew where some of them were.
He led the other three planes to the target, firing a salvo of sixteen rockets from the wing pods. The hilltop exploded with four times that many bright flashes of death as he and the other jets peeled away to the right, climbing for safety into the blue sky. He saw a star blossom on his Plexiglas canopy where a rifle round struck, then he was past the danger zone.
He had spotted heavy ground fire coming from another opening in the canopy on his right and buzzed it, then swung wide when it erupted with a thunderstorm of winking lights. He radioed his flanker pilots that he was taking one run at the spot, then they would make another pass to see if they had provided enough mobile artillery to get the GIs out of there.
Ludlow swung around, gave himself plenty of altitude and held it a hair longer than usual as he lined up on the target, waited a moment, then pressed the firing button. He felt a lurch as the rockets burst from the wing and flew toward the ground fire that was erupting again.
He heard and felt the rounds hit his wings, and he knew the Cong had captured at least one 50-caliber machine gun down there. Another round starred the canopy again, then a dozen more slugs hit his plane as he turned his belly to the fire and jetted up and away.
He noticed the oil-pressure needle dropping to zero. Then the engine sputtered and the roar died as it flamed out. Quickly he checked his list of emergency procedures. Altitude: twenty-five hundred feet. Fuel: forty percent. Plenty, since he wasn't using any. Position: somewhere between Hue and Da Nang.
He tried an air start. Nothing. He tried again. His radio crackled.
"Skipper, you're running dry over there."
"Roger, Skipjack One. Bone dry and no air start. I'm going to take a walk. Mark my spot and call the chopper." He had to bail out. The F-100 glided like a rock, maybe half a foot forward for every foot it fell. No time left. He ticked off the ejection routine, jerked the handle and felt as if somebody had hit him in the back of the neck with a baseball bat as the explosive charges slammed him skyward and away from the doomed Super Sabre.
Then he was out of the plane, the ejection seat falling away, the parachute deploying automatically over his head. He saw three sleek Super Sabres moving in a wide circle around him. He knew they had called for the recovery helicopter.
As he floated down he eyed the terrain below. He was a little to one side of the double canopy area. Thank God for that. He would have to battle through only one leafy mass to get to the ground. He wanted to wipe sweat off his face, but left his helmet on. It would help protect him in the landing.
Ludlow wondered if the rescue bird had taken off yet. If they sent in the Sikorsky HH-3E it could be on site less than fifteen minutes after he hit the ground. He hoped like hell they brought along a Cobra gunship as cover. Damn, he had seen what those babies could do. They had devastating firepower: a 40mm grenade launcher, a Gatling type minigun that could kick out seven thousand rounds per minute and a whole barrage of air-to-ground rockets.
Then he thought of more immediate problems, such as how far was he from all that ground fire? Was he anywhere near those pinned-down GIs? Could he join them? Just how many damn Vietcong were down there in those trees and swamps waiting for him?
His answer came almost at once. A rifle bullet sang past him and made a small hole in his chute. He jerked the shroud lines as he swung away from the report. Then all he could think of was the trees below. He had never seen so much greenery in his life. Dozens of towering teaks stabbed into the sky with cascades of leaves, shorter evergreen oaks, Japanese cedar and whole forests of bamboo. Then below he could see the familiar shape of hundreds of banana trees.
He unzipped a pocket at his side and pulled out a .45 automatic. At least he had some protection. He wished he had a few extra loaded magazines.
Ludlow's foot hit the top of a tree, but a light breeze carried him over it. Then he crashed through the high branches of another tree. He dangled, still twenty feet off the ground. For a moment he swung there, then caught a branch and pulled himself up three feet to a larger branch. A moment later he had unsnapped his parachute and perched in the crotch of the tree like some kind of skinny white ape.
For a moment he thought he would just stay there in the tree. The Cong would never find him up there. But at once he realized his chute was a big white arrow pointing out his landing place. Also, the rescue chopper would never find him in this foliage. He keyed
the radio device in his pocket, which sent out a signal to the bird, then began working carefully down the tree. He didn't want to fall and get a broken leg now. The chopper should be here in ten minutes. Before then he had to find a clearing where the bird could land.
He needed both his hands to climb, so he put the .45 in his pocket.
Three shots blasted through the green silence the moment he stepped to the ground. A trio of Viet-' cong in tattered uniforms jumped from behind trees where they had been hiding as they waited for him. He had no chance to go for the .45.
A half hour later seven more Cong surrounded him. He was stripped naked, tied with a rope around his neck and hands bound behind his back. A thin wire strand was fastened to his scrotum. He walked with six soldiers in front and four behind. Whenever he didn't move fast enough or failed to respond to the head man's broken-English order, his captors pulled on the wire that ensnared his genitals. Once he fell on his face in the mulch. The pain was excruciating, and the agony became so debilitating he could barely walk.
Many times Ludlow heard aircraft overhead, and once the unmistakable throb of a Cobra gunship. Whenever the planes were near, the procession crouched under the forty-foot-high canopy and waited for them to leave.
As the pilot shuffled forward, one of the men pushed a stick between his ankles, tripping him. They all laughed. A small man with no teeth came up to Ludlow, bowed and then slammed a bamboo cane across his bare buttocks. The others joined in the fun until Ludlow kept falling with each blow. After a few minutes their leader made them stop.
Five grueling miles later, they entered a village. Ludlow was shoved inside a bamboo cage three feet square and three feet high. He could sit down but had to fold his legs. They snipped the wire from his testicles and unfastened the rope from his neck. But his hands were left tied behind him.
He yelped as someone jabbed him in the back with a sharpened stick. When he turned another hit him in the side. A woman laughed and jabbed again. A dozen children, all with sharp sticks, ran up and poked at him. Most of the thrusts broke the skin and he bled.
A half hour later he had puncture wounds over most of his body. The man with some English came out of a hut and stared savagely at Ludlow.
The VC spat in the pilot's face. "Your jet kill my brother today. In three more days you wish you not ever born!"
3
Bolan and Dr. Peterson crouched beside the wall near the Smith house in Ridgecrest. Bolan tried to figure it. The sniper who had shot at them from the shadows ahead must have seen them come out of the house and knew they did not belong there. The Executioner watched the shadow. It did not move.
"Astanofka!" Bolan said in a stage whisper the Russian word for "stop."
There was a pause, a chuckle, and two more silenced shots ricocheted off the wall just over Bolan's head. He decided to try another tack.
"What the hell are you trying to do?" Bolan called just loud enough for the other man to hear but not attract any unwanted attention.
"You two don't belong here."
The voice was educated, a native American accent and just polished enough to cause the Executioner some problems. Obviously this was not any backyard hoodlum.
"You know all Smith's contacts?"
"No."
"Then you better make yourself scarce before you find yourself in real trouble."
There was silence. The man was smart enough to consider the possibility. Some hired go-between perhaps, not a KGB operative. Small fry.
"I got orders. And you are not part of them."
The man in the shadows fired again, but the shot was wide this time. Bolan triggered two rounds from the Beretta, bracketing the sound, punching into the dark shadow. He heard a yelp and then a growl. Two more shots blazed at the Executioner and Dr. Peterson. Bolan returned fire, lower this time. He heard a groan.
"Let's move out," Bolan said to his companion. "He must be out of ammo by now." He left the pillows, Dr. Peterson picked up the sack and they ran down the alley the other way. But no more responses came from the dark shadow behind them.
* * *
In the blackness Bruce Martin gritted his teeth as he wound a handkerchief around the bullet crease on his right arm. Nothing serious, but it made him drop his weapon, which was now empty anyway, and let the burglars get away. The other rounds had missed him, slanted off the heavy plank. But now he had to get inside fast and see if Smith was all right and if anything valuable had been stolen. He made sure the men had left, then Martin sprinted to the back door of the Smith house, edged it open and stepped inside.
He snapped the lights on and saw the body at once. Then he looked where he knew the safe was, and found Smith's silent form and the safe still open and empty. Martin checked the corpses for pulses. Nothing, both dead. He picked up the telephone and dialed a local number. Quickly, and using a simple group of code words, he described the situation and received his instructions.
It took Martin nearly a half hour to load the two bodies into his car, cover them with a blanket and drive to the point in the desert he had used before. When he had them both buried deep, he piled the biggest rocks he could find on top of the sand so it would not blow away or wash out. He drove back to town and phoned the number again, reporting the bodies were gone, all signs of violence removed from the house, the safe shut and the house closed and locked.
"Good work, Martin," the voice said. "There will be a new contact for you shortly. Tell me what you can about the men who killed our people."
Martin could not give him much. "One was tall, over six feet I'd say. His voice was deep. He knew some Russian. And he talked as if he was sure of himself, like he was in charge. The other one didn't speak."
"Nothing more?"
"No, it was dark as hell in that alley."
"Okay, Martin. You will receive a bonus. Now go to work as usual tomorrow. But do not go near the Smith house. He has simply disappeared. His neighbors will notice and report it."
"Yes, sir, I understand."
Joseph Vishnevetsky cradled the phone and rubbed his chin. Yes, he would see that Martin was well rewarded. Quickly Vishnevetsky dismissed the thought and contemplated this new development. This was no simple burglary. The attackers had taken out Luiz in the alley before they went inside. They knew there was a safe and had the contents. But was it the CIA or the FBI? Somehow he thought the killers were neither one. Besides, CIA only operated offshore.
Vishnevetsky sat at his desk and touched his fingers together, tapping them thoughtfully. Base security? Military police? None of them seemed right. All of them might kill one man, but they would keep one alive at all costs to interrogate. Unusual.
Vishnevetsky did not look like a top-ranked KGB field operative, but he was. He was short, balding, with a round face and rosy pink cheeks. Most people in Ridgecrest who knew him thought of him as the short fat man who told more jokes than they wanted to listen to.
Now his smile was gone. He was not in his small used-book store on Main Street. He was considering a serious breach in his operation. Smith had been his main project operative, his lead man with six other Americans gathering information, getting actual copies of top secret plans, learning everything they could about "Operation Skysweeper." They must obtain the complete detailed plans on the project before it ended in two weeks.
Luiz could be replaced and so could Smith, but it would take more time. And he would have to reveal himself to another American. He preferred to sit in the background and let his puppets pull the strings. Money was no problem. Any loss of cash from the Smith safe was insignificant.
As Vishnevetsky sipped at the tall glass of vodka and orange juice, he thought of the replacement problem. Of the four persons left who had been helping Smith, only one had real potential.
Yes, Kara would be a good lieutenant for the close of the operation here. And with success, he would abandon the bookstore and move on. But first, Operation Skysweeper.
Vishnevetsky reached for the phone. He would contact
Kara now, give her the good news, and five thousand dollars to do with as she pleased. She might be happy enough to stay the night. She had once before. Yes, he smiled broadly now. Kara would work out well, in two or three areas.
Vishnevetsky took another sip of his drink as he reflected on his career. He had come up "late" in the KGB. He was one of the new breed of agents, had attended the best schools, been moved ahead into the prestigious Institute for International Studies, where he completed intensive courses in foreign cultures and languages. He had the right family connections, he was bright and dedicated.
After graduation he received a minor attaché posting to a Mideast country for three years. When that stint was completed he was called back to Moscow, where he was installed in a four-room apartment, spacious and luxurious by Russian standards. He could buy any Western item he wanted at giveaway prices at a special store reserved for party elite only. Naturally his friends were other special people heading for the KGB. He married the prettiest of the group, whose father was a high functionary in the KGB. A father-in-law like Vasili Gusev could never hurt anyone's career.
Vishnevetsky sipped the drink, remembering. Four children and four promotions. His father-in-law loved his only daughter and worshiped his four grandchildren. One more major coup and Vishnevetsky could write his own assignment back in Moscow. He had ten years in the field, longer than average.
All he had to do was take home the detailed plans for the new laser antimissile weapon, Skysweeper. The plans and copies of the research and all the test data he could get. He hated to admit it, but somehow the Americans had broken through and solved several of the laser-beam technical problems. Skysweeper was twenty years ahead of the Russian scientists.
Skysweeper Page 2