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  11

  The Hummer was concealed some distance away. Mack Bolan lay prone in the dust, studying the small airstrip through the battered binoculars he had acquired. The landing strip itself was nothing more than a stretch of earth that had been cleared of vegetation and large stones, then leveled to a reasonably smooth surface. Some distance from the landing area were a couple of wooden huts. One had an open frontage, and from what Bolan could see, served as a service and spare-parts hangar. There were wooden crates and oil drums scattered around the frontage. The second hut was for the ground crew who serviced the strip. By its size it probably contained sleeping quarters and somewhere for the men on duty to relax. There was a slender radio mast supported by cables next to the hut. A wind sock fluttered lazily from the top of a wooden pole. Bolan could hear music coming through a speaker fixed to the outside of the main hut.

  Bolan had spotted an ACMAT parked between the huts. There was also a small refueling vehicle, the squat tank mounted on the chassis of some unidentifiable truck.

  The Tucano stood near the service hut. The canopy was open and a man in coveralls was busy working inside the cockpit. Two more mechanics had the engine cowling off and had their heads deep inside the engine compartment. Bolan spent a considerable time studying the layout and the number of personnel. He counted two more men. One kept himself slightly apart from the others. He wore flight coveralls and had an autopistol in a shoulder rig under his left shoulder. The other, in tan shirt and pants, had headphones slung around his neck, removing them each time he stepped outside the larger hut. He always stood with the pilot, the pair of them in hurried conversations. Once they completed their discussion the man wearing the headphones returned to the hut.

  The pilot seemed on edge. He kept waving his arms at the mechanics, plainly urging them to complete their work on the plane. His outbursts had little effect on the crew. They simply raised their heads to stare at him before returning to their work with little visible urgency.

  Bolan had the feeling the pilot wanted to be back in the air as soon as possible so he could either renew his search for the Executioner or look out for the slave traders and Karima’s children. Whichever it was, Bolan had no intention of letting the Tucano get off the ground again.

  Pulling away from his observation point, Bolan worked his way back to the Hummer. He climbed in and stood behind the swivel-mounted 7.62 mm machine gun. He ran a swift weapons check, making sure the ammunition supply was plentiful. Back down behind the wheel he located the grenades he had acquired and made sure they were accessible. He started the engine and let it tick over while he took out the Desert Eagle and made sure it was ready for use. Slipping it back into its holster Bolan put the Hummer into gear and rolled.

  He kept his speed down as he approached so the engine was not on high revs. After coasting around a low swell of earth, Bolan put down his foot and gave the Hummer full power as he worked his way through the gears. The vehicle surged forward, kicking up heavy dust clouds as it swung into the open. Bolan took a wide course that brought him along the actual landing strip, with the Tucano between him and the huts.

  By the time the ground crew realized they had an unannounced visitor Bolan was well into his run. The men around the Tucano abandoned their positions, dropping to the ground and racing across to grab the weapons they had leaning against the main hut.

  Bolan brought the Hummer to a slithering stop, well in range for the machine gun. He left the engine running as he pushed himself up off the seat and hauled himself behind the machine gun. He swung the muzzle around, slid his finger across the trigger and opened fire the moment he had the stationary aircraft in his sights. The first burst fell slightly short, hitting the ground. Bolan used the bullet gouts to track the weapon in for his second burst, walking the volley up to and then into the Tucano. The outer skin punctured as the bullets chewed their way through. With his target fully acquired Bolan stitched the fuselage from tail to engine, metal and plastic spewing into the air. The canopy, already marked from its previous encounter with Bolan and Jomo, shattered fully. Bolan’s continuous burst wrecked the cockpit interior, smashing through the instrumentation. He laid more rounds into the engine compartment, undoing the ground crews’ repairs and creating more damage.

  Spotting movement behind the plane as the ground crew, now carrying their weapons, attempted to return fire, Bolan dropped the muzzle and raked the area beneath the plane. His burst sent 7.62 mm bullets into the earth, then beyond. One man went down, screaming in agony, his weapon forgotten as he clutched at limbs shredded by Bolan’s bullets. He lay on the ground, hands bloody, attempting to stop the gouts of red spurting from his legs, his upper body jerking as Bolan’s continuous fire sent more bullets into him.

  Gasoline was dribbling from the Tucano’s ruptured tanks, pooling on the ground under the aircraft. Bolan let go of the machine gun and reached down to snatch up a couple of grenades. He pulled the first pin and hurled the grenade in the direction of the already-crippled plane. The grenade exploded with a hard blast. The left tip of the Tucano’s main wing was removed in the explosion. Bolan’s follow-up grenade rolled under the wing, close to the undercarriage, and the blast took off the strut and the wheel. The Tucano sagged earthward, the already-weakened wing splitting midway along its length.

  Before the smoke had cleared Bolan was back behind the wheel of the Hummer. He gunned the engine and swung the vehicle in a circle that brought him around the rear of the plane and into view of the huts just as spilled fuel ignited and raced back to the main source. The muffled boom of the explosion was followed by a gush of flame that lifted the plane off the ground for brief seconds, tearing it apart. Burning fuel spread out from the Tucano.

  Braking, Bolan snatched Jomo’s carbine and exited the Hummer. He ducked low, coming around the swirling mass of fire and smoke, emerging close to the larger of the two huts.

  The Tucano’s pilot, his pistol in his hand, was shielding his face from the heat, searching for Bolan. He barely had time to register before Bolan put him down with a burst that caught the man in the upper chest and throat. The pilot fell back against the wall of the main hut, clawing at his throat as he coughed up frothy red blood.

  Autofire drew Bolan’s attention and he ducked and rolled, flattening against the side of the hut. Bullets whacked the earth close by. The Executioner stayed where he was, letting the enemy do the running. The remaining two men from the ground crew came at him in a rush, part of their concentration fixed on avoiding the flames from the burning fuel. Their lack of attention gave Bolan the opportunity to hit them both, placing short bursts into each man before they even had time to bring their weapons on-line. They went down in loose sprawls, one rolling into the fringes of the burning fuel, his clothing igniting as it became soaked in gasoline. He thrashed in silent agony until the fire overwhelmed him.

  Bolan leaned the carbine against the wall of the hut and pulled out the Desert Eagle. He held the big cannon two-handed as he moved quickly to the door of the hut. Peering around the frame he let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the hut’s interior. He could hear a man talking busily. Bolan dropped to a crouch, easing inside and moving to the right of the door, flat against the wall.

  As he had guessed, the large hut comprised living quarters as well as a communications center. The section he was in contained cots and personal possessions. A small stove, fed by butane gas, stood against one wall, a blackened water pot bubbling over the flame. To his right, at the far side of the hut, was the communications setup. The man in tan shirt and pants was hunched over his radio, haranguing whoever was on the other end of the link.

  With the Desert Eagle hard on the man’s back, Bolan lined up with the wide stripe of sweat that had dampened the man’s shirt.

  “Hey!” Bolan said. “Time’s up, friend. Put down the—”

  The hardman stopped talking. He held up his left hand, clutching a microphone handset.

  Bolan saw the man’s right arm move, curling tow
ard his waist, and knew what was going to happen.

  “Don’t try!”

  His warning fell on deaf ears as the man let go of the microphone, spun on the balls of his feet, his right hand coming into view, with the metal of his pistol gleaming as it swept round.

  Bolan’s finger stroked the big Desert Eagle’s trigger. The heavy sound of the .44 Magnum round filled the hut. The bullet cored into the target’s side, ripped its way through and blew out under his left arm in a bloody surge of flesh and fragmented bone. The force threw the man into the radio gear. He bounced off and dropped to the floor, giving a final, convulsive breath before his body reduced itself to a series of shuddering spasms.

  Bolan took one look at the radio unit and knew he wasn’t going to get much use out of it. His bullet, on its exit, had still maintained enough energy to shatter the front of the set before burying itself deep inside. Already the radio’s readouts were fading as the equipment shut down.

  Bolan prowled the hut, giving it a quick check. There was nothing more for him. He stepped outside and picked up the SA-80 carbine. He returned to the Hummer and climbed in. Driving around to the rear of the huts, he took a couple of his grenades and tossed them under the chassis of the fuel tanker. Kicking the Hummer into motion Bolan moved away, clearing the area before the grenades exploded, blowing the tank wide open and hurling blazing gasoline over the huts.

  Pausing only long enough to check his position and line of travel, Bolan set off again.

  Behind him the dead bodies, blazing huts and the still-burning Tucano were all that were left to indicate the airstrip had been visited by the Executioner. Bolan was rolling now, his sights set on a confrontation with the distant slave traders and their captives—especially the ten-year-old children of Joseph Karima.

  12

  Sergeant Masson prowled the ruins of the airstrip. Smoke still rose into the air, staining the blue African sky with its taint. Masson and his small squad had seen the smoke well before they had arrived. It didn’t take them very long to make a full assessment of the situation. The base was destroyed. So was the precious Tucano. The entire complement of men, including the pilot, was dead.

  Masson sent out his pair of trackers to pick up the trail left by the vehicle that had come in from the east and had moved on toward the west. Both of his men were Kirandi. They knew the country like the backs of their hands. By the time they returned they would be able to give him all the information he needed.

  While he was waiting for them to come back, Masson returned to the Land Rover they had traveled in and reluctantly made radio contact with his base, asking to speak to Colonel Chakra. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Chakra had been in a raging temper when he had sent Masson and his squad out to check the airstrip. The last contact Chakra had with the base was a frantic message informing them that the strip was under attack and had almost been destroyed. The transmission had been terminated as the sound of a gunshot echoed through the speaker. After that there was no more contact.

  Chakra had ordered a squad out. There was no air transport available at the time. Chakra’s helicopter was away on another mission, so Masson, his two trackers and his five-man squad were forced to use one of the Land Rovers. The airstrip lay a good three hours from Chakra’s base.

  Masson’s orders were explicit. The moment he arrived and assessed the condition of the air base, he was to radio back to Chakra and update him.

  The radio crackled quietly as Masson waited for the colonel to come to the base communications room. He could feel sweat beading his brow. It wasn’t from the heat. He pulled off his cap and sleeved the sweat away.

  “Sergeant Masson?”

  “Sir.”

  “Give me your report.”

  “The airstrip has been destroyed, sir. Both buildings have been burned to the ground. The Tucano as well. Nothing left except the burned-out shell. Five bodies, sir. Ground crew, communications operator and the pilot, sir. All dead, sir.”

  The silence that followed was even more frightening than Chakra in person. All Masson could hear was the colonel’s deep, measured breathing. Masson remained silent, waiting for his orders. He could feel sweat forming again. Beads ran down his face, some creeping into the corner of one eye, stinging wildly. Masson didn’t move. In the background he could hear his squad walking about, talking as they carried out the removal of the bodies to the shallow grave they had dug nearby. Right then Masson would rather have been doing that himself.

  “Sergeant Masson, I want this Mike Belasko stopped. I don’t want to see you back here until you can bring me the head of this man. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “Did you take extra supplies and ammunition with you?”

  “Yes, sir. I anticipated we might have to…”

  “A simple yes is all I wanted, Sergeant. Now, have you established which way the American went after he left the strip?”

  “Tire tracks show he headed west, sir. I have my two trackers following them. As soon as we finish here I will join up with them.”

  “Good. Masson, stay with this. And keep me informed of any developments. Understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel. We won’t let you down.”

  Masson could visualize the predatory smile curling back Chakra’s lips when he spoke.

  “I know you won’t, Sergeant Masson. Failure is not recognized in standing orders. Is it, Sergeant Masson?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  Masson broke the connection and dropped the handset. He switched off the Land Rover’s radio, turning to pick up a canteen. He took a long drink, letting himself relax. He admired and respected Chakra, believed in what the man was doing, but there were times when the man scared him. Chakra was a dangerous man. Not as a physical adversary. It was something that came from within Chakra. Masson couldn’t exactly put his finger on it because it had no form, no identity. Even so it scared him and Masson always tried to walk a wide circle around Simon Chakra, never letting the man get too close mentally.

  Masson pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of his field jacket. He picked one out and lit it, drawing in a lungful of smoke. He savored the sweet taste of the tobacco. He smoked half the cigarette before he felt ready to carry on. Damn Chakra! Masson thought. The man always did this to him when things got difficult. And the way things were going at the moment his pack of cigarettes wasn’t going to last very long. Masson tried to recall whether he had brought along extra in his kit. If he ran out he could always pick up some locally made ones from any of the villages they passed. As long as they weren’t Tempai settlements. The Tempai made cigarettes that were so weak they weren’t fit for women to smoke.

  Stepping away from the Land Rover, Masson crossed to where his men were shoveling dirt into the mass grave they had dug.

  “Finish quickly,” he said. “We have new orders.”

  “We’re not going back, Sergeant?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “No, Private Yembo, we are not going back. Colonel Chakra has given us an extra job. We are going to follow this bloody American and deal with him.”

  “That will be fun,” someone muttered.

  “I don’t think so,” one of the others said. “Look what he did here. All on his own.”

  “Just get this finished so we can leave,” Masson snapped. “And stop whining. We’re Kirandi. Remember why we are doing this.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Twenty minutes later the Land Rover moved on, leaving the smoking ruins of the airstrip behind. Masson, behind the wheel, followed the tire tracks left by the Hummer being driven by the American.

  IT TOOK MASSON an hour to catch up with his trackers. They were still moving, loping easily beside the tracks they were following. They stood by and waited when they recognized the Land Rover. Masson pulled alongside.

  “Report,” he said.

  The lead tracker, a tall, lean man with tribal scars marking his cheeks, raised a skinny arm
and indicated the tracks. “He’s making for the river. We think the slavers would do the same. If they follow the river it brings them to the coast. Maybe the American has found out where they will meet their ship.”

  Masson nodded. It was sound enough thinking.

  “Yusef, take Hanni with you. Go ahead and see where this man leads you. If he finds the slavers we can deal with all of them. Colonel Chakra wants this American’s head delivered to him. If we can do this and bring him Karima’s brats as well, the colonel should be well pleased.” Masson reached into the Land Rover and picked up a transceiver. He passed it to Yusef. “As soon as you find this man, call. Understand?”

  Yusef nodded, his bright eyes fierce with the prospect of a fight ahead. Masson reached out to touch his arm. “Be careful, Yusef. This American, Belasko, he’s no fool. Respect the man for his skill in battle. Forget that and he will kill you, too.”

  Yusef smiled, showing crooked teeth. “I understand, Sergeant Masson. We will find him.”

  Hanni, the second tracker, raised an arm. He was pointing at the distant dark clouds drifting in from the west. “Storm coming,” he said.

  Masson checked out the sky, frowning. If Hanni was right they were going to travel directly into the storm. They were still in the rainy season, though there had been a distinct absence of it for the last few weeks. Masson watched the rolling mass of cloud. If the rain did come, dropping with its usual force, any tracks would be washed away quickly.

  “Yusef, go now. Before any rain comes. Don’t lose the American.”

  Yusef nodded. He touched Hanni’s arm and the pair moved off, their long-legged pace covering the ground easily.

  “How do they do it?” one of the men asked. “Run all day and never stop?”

  “Their people have always been the best trackers,” Masson said. “They learn from the moment they can walk how to keep going without food and water for long periods. When they are young they spend weeks out in the bush. They live off the land. The elders teach them how to find water where no one else can find it and how to run for miles with a mouthful of water and not swallow it until they reach their destination.”