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  “This is a war we are fighting. For our nation. For our identity. Have you forgotten that, Simon?”

  “I don’t need reminding what I’m fighting for, Rudolph. But we won’t advance our cause by blowing up the damn city and turning the population into bloody martyrs. Keeping the faith with the Kirandi isn’t going to be easy now you’ve killed some of them in the bomb explosion.”

  “Sacrifice is part of any struggle for freedom.”

  “Sacrifice for the cause should be a voluntary consideration, Rudolph. Outright slaughter is another matter.”

  Zimbala was silent for a moment. “Tell me, Colonel, how is your little campaign going? Have you cornered your American yet?”

  “We are closing in on him as we speak. The matter will be resolved shortly.”

  “How soon?”

  “Rudolph, this is a military exercise. It doesn’t work to a timetable. Things change and we have to work within those parameters. The storm added to our difficulties but that is over now.”

  “I see. So how does this fit in with our previous agenda?”

  “It means we have to adjust the time scale accordingly, Rudolph. Please don’t play mind games with me. You understand the situation so stop implying you don’t.”

  “Very well, Colonel. No more games.”

  RUDOLPH ZIMBALA ENDED the transmission. He replaced the handset and leaned back in his seat, peering across the room and catching the eye of Shempi Harruri.

  “Is the savior Colonel having problems?” Harruri asked.

  “That man is a liability. He’s out there playing soldiers and chasing that American all over the country. We took Karima’s children and lost them to the slavers. As far as I’m concerned we should let the slavers keep them. The more I think about it the better it sounds. Karima’s kids being sold off to some hard labor sweatshop, making car batteries, or digging in some mine is what they deserve. Karima would never survive that.”

  Harruri crossed the room. He was a lean, hollow-cheeked man. A thin cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He smoked constantly. He stood beside a stack of SA-80 carbines, part of the latest cache the rebels had taken delivery of, trailing a hand across the weapons.

  “We should go ahead,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting for Chakra and his fucking toy soldiers. We could take Government House in a few hours. Walk right up to Karima’s office and blow his brains out. Who’s going to stop us? This isn’t about Chakra saving face. It’s about stopping Karima from making his deals with the Americans. Signing away the rights to our copper and letting the American military set up a base at Rugendi Bay.”

  “You think we’re ready for that, Shempi? It’s a big step up from what we’ve been doing. Once we start there’s no going back.”

  “You think I don’t know that? This is what we’ve been working up to. Rudolph, we knew this day had to come. Why the hell have we been collecting all these weapons? Rifles. Grenades. Rocket launchers. We have our people in the city. Karima is so tied up with getting his kids back he won’t be thinking about anything else. If we strike now we can take the city and the administration center. We take control and the country is ours. The Kirandi will be behind us once we show them we are in command. Now is the time, Rudolph. If we wait for Chakra we lose the moment.”

  Zimbala felt himself become enthused by his friend’s words. He was torn between waiting and striking immediately, aware that either way had a risk factor. Life didn’t follow the rule book. They could decide to keep waiting, searching for that perfect moment before they went ahead with their strike against Karima’s power base.

  What perfect moment?

  How did they guarantee the day? The time?

  He admitted they couldn’t. Putting off their strike only allowed Karima time to strengthen his own position.

  “Shempi, let’s hope we don’t live to regret this.”

  Harruri smiled, lighting a fresh cigarette. “If we don’t get it right,” he said, “we won’t live long enough to regret it.” He said it without a trace of emotion in his voice.

  “Let’s do it,” Zimbala said.

  AS THE CALLS WENT OUT across the city, the rebel cells moved quickly to prepare themselves. Hidden arms caches were unsealed and weapons passed out. Each cell had its own particular assignment and made its way to its appointed position. Watches had already been synchronized.

  Midday was the time. At twelve o’clock the Kirandi rebels would step into the history books.

  18

  The village had been the center of a fishing settlement, now long abandoned. When it had been occupied the treeline had been cut back and the thick, lush foliage kept at bay. That had been reversed now. The forest was reclaiming its former ground, the vegetation starting to engulf the empty huts, invading the deserted interiors. Along the beach lay the rotting hulls of fishing boats. Nets and lobster pots were scattered about the area.

  Mack Bolan’s attention was occupied with current matters. Such as the chained and huddled group of around forty captives, overlooked by half a dozen armed slave traders. Bolan had made his situation assessment in the ten minutes he had been crouched in the thick foliage of the forested area adjacent to the beach.

  Beyond the sand lay the blue-watered bay, waves rolling in to break against the white sand. The bay was about a quarter mile across at its entrance. Curving points of land swept around to encircle the inlet, protecting it from the heavier swell of the Atlantic beyond its confines.

  The Executioner had another problem to add to his list.

  The arrival of the slavers’ pickup ship. The vessel had appeared a few minutes ago, steaming slowly into sight around the bay’s northern promontory. There was nothing glamorous about the ship. It was a single-funnel rust bucket, the kind seen regularly in the coastal sea lanes. They were the equivalent of 18-wheel rigs that plied the highways, picking up cargo for delivery and loading up again for the return run. These ships were workhorses. No one paid them much attention, and this was why the slave traders had chosen such a vessel for their business. The difference was in the cargo this particular ship carried. Not stacks of timber or agricultural machinery. Whatever the paper manifests said, the cargo this steamer carried was human.

  Bolan watched the ship move in across the bay, coming about two hundred yards off shore. He saw the anchor drop. A wooden gangway was swung out and down the side of the ship. Figures moved around on deck. A couple of motor boats were lowered into the water, heading toward the beach.

  The armed guards on the beach began to rouse the captives, dividing them into groups of six. The first two groups were herded to the water’s edge. The moment the boats hit the beach the captives were forced on board. Any who resisted were roughly handled. There was no hesitation in the action of the armed guards as they used rifle butts to load the captives into the motorboats. The first batch were taken across to the waiting ship and unceremoniously herded up the swaying gangway.

  Watching and evaluating his options, Bolan decided his choices were limited. The captives were already being taken out to the ship, so any action he undertook had to include those on board. Which meant in simple terms that he had to get on the ship himself.

  The first part of his plan required getting out to the ship.

  With his decision made, Bolan set to solving the problem. He had already noticed that one of the armed guards was patrolling the dividing line between beach and treeline. The man had a line of travel that brought him up to and past Bolan’s place of concealment. He had walked by a number of times, unaware how close he was to Bolan’s position.

  The slaver made yet another pass. At the point where he crossed Bolan’s path the guard was at the farthest point from his companions, who were fully occupied supervising the loading of the captives.

  There was no warning. The guard trod the same path he had for the past hour, moving in the regular, almost mechanical way that befalls any guard after a long period of doing the same thing over and over. He heard only a fleeting whisp
er of sound before a powerful arm snaked around his neck, drawing tight. A hand pressed against the back of his head, pushing it forward. With his air cut off, the guard started to panic. He dropped his rifle and reached up to try to free the arm encircling his neck, but he was already starting to choke. Bolan pulled him back into the trees, away from the beach. His body banged against the trunks of the palms fringing the edge of the beach as he kicked out in terror. His struggles only exhausted the limited air in his lungs and he fought a losing battle as Bolan hauled him off his feet, the whole of his weight suspended from the arm around his neck. He kicked out with no success. His life ebbed away swiftly, his resistance waning, and in the end his lifeless form hung limp and still in the Executioner’s grip.

  Lowering the guard to the ground, Bolan loosened the man’s robe and stripped it from the body. He pulled it on over his own weapons, fastening the belt at the waist. He adjusted the turban headdress, then pulled the loose hood over his head. The flapping folds covered his face in shadow. Bolan let the long sleeves of the robe fall to cover his hands. He stepped out of the trees and retrieved the rifle the guard had dropped, then turned and mimicked the man’s former patrol.

  Bolan could see that the power boats were on the way out to the ship with yet another cargo. He maintained his patrolling, counting down the minutes to the last trip the boats would make. Then his deception would either convince the other slavers or he would be unmasked quickly. Bolan was prepared for either eventuality. If it came to making his play before he reached the ship, so be it.

  The final groups of captives were herded into the boats. Bolan, covertly watching the activity, was ready when one of the guards turned in his direction and called to him. Bolan raised a hand in acknowledgment and made his way toward the waiting boats. The rest of the guards were already in the boats, leaving a space for Bolan at the stern of one. He splashed through the water, head down, and hauled himself over the stern, settling himself on the flat plank that served as a seat. The huddled group of captives was between Bolan and the other slavers in the boat. They were in the center, around the wheelman. The moment Bolan was on board the engine was powered up and the boat moved away from the beach, following in the wake of the first boat.

  Bolan slipped his finger inside the trigger guard of the SA-80. He sat motionless, eyes and ears alert for any sign of discovery, but the other men were occupied with the captives. Leaning out to the side Bolan watched the bulk of the slave ship growing larger. As they got closer he could see the peeling paint and streaks of rust that stained the hull of the vessel. Water was pumping from the bilge outlets and Bolan could hear the dull thump of the idling diesel engines.

  He felt the boat slow, the motor throttling back while the first boat unloaded its cargo. It seemed to take a long time and Bolan expected to be spoken to at any time. Again nothing happened. Bolan held his breath, hoping his lucky streak had a long run ahead of it.

  His boat moved forward, coming about to slide in alongside the gangway. A rope was made fast. Up front the guards stood, shouting at the captives. Bolan pushed to his feet, moving in close to the captives, using the rifle to get them upright. He was going to have to play his role to the hilt until he got a chance to slip away once they were on board the ship. As the captives started up the swaying gangway, Bolan edged in among them, picking up the shouted commands of the other guards. He repeated what he heard, keeping his voice low and harsh. He watched the top of the ladder getting closer. There were members of the ship’s crew at the head of the gangway, pushing the emerging captives along the deck in the direction of an open cargo hatch. Bolan kept up his momentum, and as he reached the top of the ladder he grabbed the manacle chain of one captive, hauling the man off the gangway, prodding him along the deck with the rifle. Turning quickly, Bolan merged with the shuffling mass of captives, working his way along the deck, pushing through so that as they approached the open hatch Bolan was on the inside of the line. He took a look at the layout of the deck. The area was as untidy as the outward appearance of the ship. It was littered with odds and ends of ropes and chains, fuel barrels and packing cases. Glancing to his left Bolan saw an open bulkhead door that would lead into the main block of the superstructure.

  The soldier moved to one side, walking in a direct line for the bulkhead door, and stepped through without pause. He found himself in a short walkway with a metal companionway leading to the upper level. He made his way toward it.

  A figure appeared from the other end of the walkway. Clad in dark pants and a faded blue denim shirt, the man stared at Bolan. When he spoke, in a tongue Bolan didn’t understand, the Executioner knew his cover was about to be blown. The man rapped out another challenge, and when Bolan failed to respond the man reached for the butt of a pistol he carried tucked in his wide leather belt.

  Bolan took a step forward, swinging the rifle in a hard arc that connected with the other man’s jaw, breaking bone and opening a gash that spurted blood. The man stumbled back, eyes glazing. He slammed into the bulkhead and hung there. Bolan hit him a second time, the butt of the rifle smacking into the side of the man’s skull with stunning force. The slaver went down without a sound, his body shuddering. Bolan bent over him, taking possession of the handgun and pushing it behind his own belt.

  He made for the companionway and mounted the steel steps two at a time. Bolan emerged into an area that overlooked the main deck. He could see the open cargo hatch and the captives being made to climb down nets hung over the sides of the hatch. The pair of boats used to bring the slaves to the ship was being winched back on board and the gangway was being secured. Bolan felt the metal decking vibrate underfoot. The ship’s engines were being brought to life in preparation for leaving. He heard the rattle of the anchor chain being pulled up.

  Moving around the side of the superstructure Bolan saw a companionway that led up to the bridge. He headed for it and climbed, using his boot to kick open the door.

  There were three crewmen in the wheelhouse. One was at the wheel, a second man bent over a chart table, and the third, a bearded, black-haired man in a creased uniform, spun around as Bolan entered. He stared at the autorifle in Bolan’s hand, his face registering surprise as the Executioner pushed back the hood of the robe and dragged off the turban headgear.

  Bolan backed himself into a corner, pressing against the bulkhead. He gestured with the SA-80. “If you understand English this is going to be a lot easier.”

  “Who are you?” the uniformed man demanded in accented English.

  “You the captain?”

  The man nodded.

  “I’m not the coast guard, but that isn’t getting you off the hook.”

  “This is my ship. You cannot do this.”

  “I’d say I’ve already done it.”

  The soldier’s eye caught the almost casual move of the man at the chart table. His left hand was easing toward something concealed from Bolan’s view. When his hand rose it was clutching a stubby handgun and the man lifted it quickly, half-turning in Bolan’s direction.

  Bolan turned the rifle and fired, the 5.56 mm slug punching in through the hardman’s skull. He fell with a lot of noise, leaving a glistening smear on the bulkhead behind him. The action broke the tableau. Bolan sensed the wheelman abandoning his post and lunging at him. The man ran directly into the reversed butt of the SA-80. It hit him full in the face, crushing his nose and tearing a bloody gash across his left cheek. The man fell back, howling, blood spurting through his fingers as he covered his face. Bolan couldn’t afford to have too much interruption during his next action. He swung the rifle again, ramming it hard into the base of the man’s skull, pitching him to the deck.

  The captain’s body slammed into Bolan. They fell against the bulkhead. The captain was not slender, and his heavy weight pinned Bolan so he was unable to use the rifle. Bolan resorted to cruder, more direct action. He jammed his knee up into the man’s groin, hard. The captain groaned and fell back a step. Bolan repeated the maneuver. As the capt
ain pulled away the Executioner raised a foot and slammed it against the man’s stomach, shoving hard. The captain flew backward, slamming into the far bulkhead, his shoulders shattering the side window glass. He slumped to his knees, reaching up to press a hand to the bloody gash broken glass had opened in the side of his neck. The bright liquid squirted out between his fingers, pumped by his beating heart.

  Bolan leaned the SA-80 against the bulkhead. He took the pistol he had tucked behind his belt and held it ready while he shrugged out of the robe, tossing it aside. Retrieving the carbine, Bolan crossed to the ship’s wheel. He saw that the wheelman had already ordered the engines astern. Bolan used the engine-room telegraph to order half-speed. He felt the ship respond slowly and swung the wheel, bringing the vessel around. The ship moved with ponderous slowness, Bolan aware that every second counted now. Someone down below was going to see what was happening and wonder why. There was also the chance someone might have heard the shot or breaking glass.

  Glancing through the wheelhouse glass, Bolan saw that the bow of the ship was pointing at the beach. He ordered half-ahead. There was a hesitation. Bolan made the request again. The ship’s reverse motion slowed as it responded to the screws’ change in rotation. Bolan felt the forward movement. He held the wheel steady, feeling the ship pushing through the water toward the beach.

  The telephone began to ring inside the wheelhouse. A grim smile edged Bolan’s lips. Someone had noticed what was happening, and questions were about to be asked.

  He stepped away from the wheel, checking the SA-80. Any minute now he was going to receive visitors. Bolan unzipped the knapsack on his back and pulled out a couple of grenades. He spotted movement on the walkway outside the wheelhouse. Angry faces stared at him through the window. Bolan figured the time for hesitation was long gone. He opened fire, pumping rounds at the windows. Glass shattered as the 5.56 mm bullets blew through. The angry faces turned bloody, bodies twisting as the slugs cleaved into them. Bolan’s visitors went down on the walkway in sudden agony. The Executioner turned to the far side of the wheelhouse, using the door on that side to make his exit. As he stepped outside he heard the clatter of men coming up the companionway. Bolan moved to the head of the metal steps and raked the armed figures with autofire. Shattered bodies fell back, crashing to the deck below.