Hawaiian Hellground Read online

  He was equipped for hard combat. The impressive .44 AutoMag was strapped to his hip, complementing the shoulder-rigged Beretta. Grenades, smokers, and incendiaries dangled from chest and waist belts. He wore goggles and a throat mike/earphone rig, the latter connected to a small CB transceiver at his waist.

  He took a final sampling of the currents, studied his chronometer, then pressed the mike switch and requested, “Signal check.”

  Lyons’ voice bounced back immediately from the line position on the valley floor. “Five square. A-OK here.”

  “Same. Ready for launch. Stand by.”

  The ocean horizon to windward was glowing redly with the hint of direct sunlight. The moon was down. To windward, the terrain was clearly visible in the gray dawn. The leeward side and particularly Kalihi had not yet been touched by daybreak. It would be, very soon now. Bolan had contemplated a five-minute flight. The timing was vitally important; thus, his ability to maneuver and navigate the proper course was the key to success.

  He watched the eastern horizon and lofted the big kite into position overhead, awaiting the launch moment. The wind was a living force now, tugging at the nylon, puffing and popping it, a sudden gust nearly lifting Bolan off his feet.

  Then the moment arrived.

  He took three running steps and leaped into the bosom of his brother, the wind.

  For a breathless second his brother did not seem to know that he was there, or did not care. Man and kite dropped straight down for perhaps twenty feet, then suddenly he was soaring off into a wide turn and climbing, riding the updraft from windward, rising high above the launch point and angling leeward.

  Even more dramatic than the fall was the rise. In a twinkling, it seemed, he was several hundred feet above the highest terrain and still climbing. The entire island seemed to lay out to his view—and, yeah, he knew how an eagle felt.

  Bolan cinched himself into the harness and activated his throat mike. “Okay, I’m airborne,” he reported to the ground troops.

  The relieved voice of Carl Lyons responded. “Where away?”

  “On course and soaring. Begin your move at the mark … stand by … mark.”

  “Roger. Moving.”

  So much for timing.

  The rest was in the hands of the variables.

  And perhaps Toby Ranger had been right, after all. Maybe it was a nutty plan.

  He’d penetrated the joint at ground level once before; certainly he could have done so again. The defenses would certainly be heavily bolstered now, however. And penetration was not the only name of the game.

  He meant to get Smiley Dublin out of there—whole body. That could take some argument; like Toby, Smiley had a mind of her own. That was the only thing that made these people effective in the toughest business going.

  He meant also to jar the hell out of Chung’s self-confidence. The idea was to go in soft and come out hard—damned hard, blitzing hard. He wanted to get the Chinaman running scared—all the way to King Fire.

  Jonathan Livingston Thunderbird just possibly might attain all mission goals.

  But, yeah—it was now all in the hands of Bolan’s brother, the universe.

  Hang in there, he thought he heard his brother say.

  And Bolan replied, “Sure. What else?”

  11: The Bolan Effect

  The night had been hard on Smiley Dublin, since Mack Bolan’s sneak visit. The general had stormed around in a rage for most of an hour, tongue-lashing the security forces and personally overseeing the placement of stronger defenses. Then had come the grim march of visitors for the roundtable conferences and strategy sessions.

  Lou Topacetti came with a contingent of hardfaced Occidentals, then Pensa and Rodani arrived with a mixed and motley bag from the Oahu Cove. Pete Dominick and Marty Flora, the New York reps, came in an hour or so after the others—via helicopter and obviously from some place afar; they were traveling light, bringing only their personal triggermen.

  Smiley herself was not in bad graces. She was, to her delight, the heroine of the night. The general even allowed her to fuss around in the role of hostess, seeing to the comfort and refreshment of the guests. She was not, of course, privy to the secrets of the council chamber, but her occasional presence in there was tolerated and even furtively appreciated by some of the visitors who seemed to find it difficult to keep their eyes off her.

  There was more to spying than actual eavesdropping on secret discussions. Much could be gathered by the mental atmosphere in a room, by attitudes between participants, by mere identification of those present—sometimes by the placement of a lifted eyebrow or the difference between a smile and a smirk.

  Smiley Dublin knew her business, and she was a working girl. She worked for everything she got and what she got was usually reliable.

  The conference began winding down at about four o’clock when Dominick and Flora bustled back to their helicopter and took off. The house and grounds continued to be cluttered with wandering groups of nervous men until about five, when Pensa and Rodani departed with their contingent. Only Topacetti and his group of professional guns stayed on, Lou himself remaining behind closed doors with Chung, the torpedoes taking station somewhere outside.

  Smiley had been “Topacetti’s broad” at the beginning of the Hawaii stand. The general had noticed her one evening and had expressed an interest in her, whereupon Lou the Screw grandly handed her over on a silver platter. Topacetti had not given her so much as a direct gaze since. By a normal girl in a normal situation, such treatment could be regarded as the ultimate indignity. To Smiley Dublin, wise in the ways of jungle protocol, it was only proper reward for a hard-working gal who knew the way to a man’s heart as well as to his ambitions.

  “Treat the Chinaman right,” Lou had advised her. “He’s going to be a very big man some day. That couldn’t hurt neither of us, if you know what I mean.”

  Smiley had known full well what Topacetti meant.

  She knew, also, how to “treat the Chinaman right.”

  Smiley Dublin was a line-of-duty whore, sure, and she was a gal who worked at her job. The thought bothered her not a whit. She did not feel “dirtied” by that kind of sex. Nor did she feel morally uplifted via any manner of reverse reasoning which could have viewed line-of-duty sex as some special sacrifice. It was a weapon, a tool of the trade—period—and a hell of an effective tool. A male operative could not have become so close to General Chung so quickly—perhaps not at all.

  The general was apparently thoroughly infatuated with his American beauty. He treated her very well, with tenderness and respect—and there had been some genuinely touching moments between them. Smiley was a realistic pro, though. She never lost sight of who, why, and where she was; it was a job; Chung was the enemy. All else was fantasy. She had learned just enough about Chung and his operation to realize that he was a very dangerous man, that his operation posed a direct threat to the nation.

  The dramatic appearance of Mack Bolan upon the scene was the most reassuring event of the stand. Smiley knew him to be a tremendously effective instrument of change. She had been present in Las Vegas when he worked his magic there, so she knew the man’s effect from a firsthand point of view. Also, Smiley had been walking the same dark landscapes as Bolan ever since—and she knew his effect from the enemy viewpoint. Even so, it seemed remarkable to her that this lone man, working totally without official sanctions, could create such chaos in the enemy ranks simply by appearing in their midst and killing a few of them.

  These were tough, tough men.

  It did not seem rational that they should react with such panic to the threat of any one man. Still, Smiley had seen the phenomenon time and again. When Bolan showed up, the pack howled and scampered.

  She had been surreptitiously studying these men during the long night in an effort to understand this effect. Fear was a natural human emotion, certainly; even very tough people knew the meaning of fear. But fear itself was but a simple ingredient of the overall brew that
was the Bolan Effect, a mere constituent of the all-pervading force that enveloped these brawling bruisers—that seeped into their guts and minds, and converted them to weeping willies and nail-biting nellies.

  It was, yes, phenomenal.

  The general himself had been greatly shaken by the event. He had been transformed in a twinkling from an imperious and smug potentate into an anxious, uncertain mortal seeking reassurance and support from those he had come to dominate.

  The Bolan Effect, yes. Smiley knew that it was there. She had noted it, studied it. Still she could not fully understand it. Nor, she imagined, did these others. They simply got together and talked themselves back up.

  The strategy seemed to work. The general appeared tired and drawn at the end of that night, but he was firmly back in the saddle again. Topacetti’s torpedoes were remaining aboard to bolster the defenses of the stronghold, and apparently Lou the Screw was remaining, also. The general and his man Friday emerged from the conference room at just a few minutes before dawn, arm in arm and tiredly chuckling over some secret joke. As the men stepped into the corridor, Smiley had overheard Topacetti mutter, “He’d just better not try King Fire.” A joke, sure—or a deep fear expressed openly in laughing terms.

  But Chung was his old self. He allowed Smiley to send a menu to the kitchen, “for breakfast, just for the three of us,” and decided to take it on the garden patio.

  “Perhaps you should get a wrap, my dear,” he suggested to Smiley. “Lotus blossoms are prone to shiver in the morning dew.”

  It was a veiled rebuke for her habit of taking early-morning, near-nude strolls in the garden, a practice which had caused Chung mild distress. He had never made an issue of the thing except for passing comments to the effect that it was “not good for the men.” On this particular morning, Smiley was better covered than usual. Still, the sheer pajamas did tend to cling at strategic points.

  She yielded to the general’s sensitivities this time, telling him, “You’re right, thanks. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Smiley went up to her room and pulled on a sheer kimono, studied the effect in her mirror, smiled, and went down to join the general and his guest for breakfast.

  There was something to be said for the Dublin Effect, as well.

  Two pistol-packing orderlies were lighting the Oriental lanterns on the patio when she stepped outside. One of them smiled at her and went to turn off the floodlights. Armed men wandered everywhere out there. Chung and Topacetti were strolling aimlessly nearby, heads bent, silent. The sky was turning gray and the feeling of daybreak was in the air.

  Smiley went over to the table and began pouring coffee from the silver service that had just been brought out. Chung had noted her appearance and was steering Lou the Screw toward the table when Captain Wu, the security chief, came around the corner on a jog trot from the front of the house.

  “An American lady is at the gate,” Wu reported to the general. “She says that her car has broken. The lady requests to use the telephone that she may receive assistance.”

  Smiley had ceased smiling over the stilted English of the Hong Kong commandos. The general would not allow use of the native tongue in his presence. “We forge new habits through constant practice,” he had once admonished a follower.

  He was now giving his security chief a hard look as he replied to the report. “This is not a monumental decision, Captain. Surely you could handle it on your own.”

  “The lady’s car is poised at our drive, General,” Wu explained. “It is my thought that it may prove to our comfort if our own mechanic might assist the lady.”

  “I leave that to your discretion, Captain,” Chung replied brusquely and continued on along the garden path toward Smiley.

  The captain spun away and disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Before Chung had taken two good paces, an alarmed American voice screamed from the gate area, “Lady! Lady!—your car’s rolling!”

  Another man yelled something in Chinese—a command of some sort.

  Chung and Topacetti halted and turned toward the scene of disturbance.

  A light machine gun began chattering, then another quickly joined in.

  A deafening roar immediately eclipsed all other sounds of the morning as a bright flash enveloped the forward wall area.

  The general and his guest dived to the ground while other men raced toward the explosion.

  It had all come so quickly, with such thunderous precision, this transition from peace to war. And Smiley Dublin did not have to ponder the effect; she recognized it.

  She whirled away from the table and ran into the garden, dodging through the suddenly erupting field of running men, just in time to directly experience the pièce de résistance.

  Chung had risen to one knee and appeared to be rooted there. Topacetti was kneeling beside him, a pistol in his hand, waving it in the general direction of the front grounds and screaming something at the men who ran past him.

  Smiley’s attention was diverted to the opposite direction. Something had registered in a corner of her vision; she had become aware of an object like a shadow in the sky, moving swiftly and silently about fifty feet above the south wall, descending rapidly and swooping into the stronghold.

  Her first incredulous thought concerned the size of that huge bird, but even before her intellect had time to reject that assumption, the thing was close enough to identify and she could only marvel at the audacity of that unbelievable man who was attacking a walled fortress from the belly of a kite.

  Someone in the garden area screamed a warning.

  Both Chung and Topacetti whirled around to confront the thing that was now skimming across the lotus pond at almost ground level. Lou the Screw began firing at it. A single clap of thunder issued from the kite as a pencil-flame leapt out. Smiley saw Topacetti pitch over onto his back as the general scrambled toward the house.

  Then suddenly the thing was down and the general was down beneath it. A series of quaking explosions were now rocking the stronghold in all sectors. Men were yelling and running in all directions like frantic ants.

  Smiley was surprised to find herself running, also, for God knew what reason. She took cover at the patio wall and tried to gather herself together, to assess the situation and find her place in it.

  It had been such a stunning, jolting departure from reality into a nightmarish fantasy of hell unleashed. Flames were now leaping from the roof of the house. Dense smoke was billowing up from various points about the grounds. The explosions continued and gunfire was everywhere.

  The Bolan Effect, yes. It was no fantasy. It was a reality which none could rationalize into their own fantasies. Smiley thought she understood it now.

  A tall figure in black ran past her as a familiar voice coolly commanded, “Stay put, Smiley!”

  The girl did as she was told. Hell itself was assaulting the stronghold. And Smiley herself was frozen in the grip of the Bolan Effect.

  And, yes, she understood it now. It was much more than mere fear. It was an instinctive recognition of doomsday on the march. And the very soul trembled in that awareness.

  12: Trail Blazing

  Chung’s stronghold was nestled in a semi-box canyon set into the western slope of the mountain, with high ground to the south and east, undulating terrain rolling out west and north. The building was a rectangular structure aligned north-south, with the main entrance at the north side.

  Gardens flanked east and west, the west side being the primary center of outdoor activity with its lotus pond, fountains, and patios. The only gate was set into the northwest corner of the wall, about a hundred feet by a circling inner drive from the parking area at the north end.

  Bolan’s flight plan called for a reconnaissance pass from north to south at relatively high altitude, then a play-by-ear descent keyed to the numbers of the diversion plan and as dictated by the realities of the soaring situation.

  The initial approach had gone drawing-board perfect, straight on th
e numbers. Soaring at an altitude of roughly two hundred feet, he skirted the east side of the box in an eagle recon, immediately spotting Toby’s vehicle, which was halted atop the slope about fifty feet above the gate.

  The floodlights in the west garden had just been extinguished. The landscape in the target zone was receiving the first soft touch of daybreak while, behind Bolan, the western slope of the mountain loomed darkly to provide the closest thing to invisibility his flight was likely to find.

  He dropped fifty feet in the south turn and made a reverse-course run directly above the house.

  During that pass, Toby came into view walking slowly up the slope toward her vehicle and, at that same instant, the quartz chronometer on Bolan’s wrist beeped faintly, signaling the beginning of the final countdown.

  Yeah, right on the numbers.

  He went into a wide, climbing turn at the north boundary and touched his mike button for the final check. “Situation,” he requested.

  “We have a go,” Lyons immediately replied.

  “Commencing bomb run,” Bolan reported as he banked into the north-south low-level run.

  Off to his right, Toby Ranger was now sprinting for cover and Lyons was rolling from the vehicle into the vegetation lining the drive, the car moving freely along toward the gate. A muffled voice directly below shouted something and machine-gun fire split the calm.

  It was an alert defense—but not, Bolan hoped, alert enough.

  As he swooped above the house on his final pass, he was offloading munitions—HE frags, burners, smokers—in a calculated pattern keyed to time-delay fuses.

  Toby’s vehicle with its impact charge hit the front wall and sent shock waves which even Bolan experienced as he executed the turn onto final approach. The towering fireball set the stage for Bolan’s entrance, with apparently everybody on those hellgrounds down there racing toward the far side of the stronghold.

  He dropped another fifty feet as he skimmed over the south wall and swooped in, AutoMag at the ready.

  People were in motion everywhere and there were sounds of a firefight outside the walls to the west. By now, also, the time fuses were beginning to detonate the aerial drops, and Bolan was descending into absolute pandemonium.