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  When they came into camp, the senior noncom reported to the general and to Galkin and the Syrian who had become his shadow. Both were elated. Bolan had watched the exchange in the shaded area near one of the buildings.

  "Now, General, it is time that Ahmed and I move on. We have much more work to do together."

  "You have given our cause a great and powerful tool," the general said, and Ahmed translated. "We will make all the political gain from it that we can. We send our thanks to our Marxist brethren in Europe, Russia and of course in the Middle East."

  Bolan was trying to get closer to the trio when a distinctive American voice bellowed from an adjoining building.

  "Goddammit, man, you have to hold still. How the hell do you expect me to get the needle in your arm?"

  The Executioner sauntered toward the building. There were no guards, and once inside he saw why. It was the camp sick bay. Half a dozen men lay on cots under blankets. Three stood waiting to see the man at the table where he worked in a patch of sunlight from an open window.

  The large American made an injection, joked about the cry of pain and told the man in perfect Spanish that he would live to father a hundred more children.

  One man with a rifle near the far door was the only hint of a guard in the area. As Bolan approached the medic he had no idea who he was; American for sure. A medical doctor, a medical missionary?

  He moved toward the doctor, watching the guard who seemed unconcerned. The Executioner stopped a pair of long steps away. He had seen the face before, but he couldn't place it.

  "Doctor, where are you from?"

  The man's head snapped up, his eyes curious. Surprise tinged his face.

  "I might ask the same," he said, after giving Bolan a cursory glance and then looking back at the patient with a bullet wound in his thigh. "Damn, look at that infection, and all I have is some old sulfa. We need antibiotics and penicillin. How can I get these wounds healed?"

  "I came from Miami," Bolan said, restraining the soldier as the doctor continued to probe. The man screamed, and Bolan held him fast.

  "Thanks for the help. Nobody else would do that job, and naturally we have no anesthetics. Damn, I wish I had some equipment! There's a man over there who is dying and I can't do anything about it."

  "Where did you come from, doctor? You weren't here a few hours ago."

  "I had a special ride on a horse around the government forces and almost broke my backside. I haven't been on a horse in twenty years."

  "Then you came in from San Salvador. Do you have a name?"

  "Yes, A.E. Johnson. Medical doctor by trade."

  "You're not here by choice, are you, Dr. Johnson?"

  "No, but what difference does that make?"

  Some of Bolan's background reading had paid off. Newspaper and magazine accounts had extensively quoted officials on the scene in Central America. The name clicked. Bolan watched the doctor paint the wound with a salve with some minor antibiotics in it, and then make a dressing from the bedsheet.

  "Mr. Ambassador, did they kidnap you?"

  Dr. Johnson looked up quickly. "Don't call me that, even in English. I just may be able to stay alive if these guerrillas decide I am of more value to them as a doctor than as a corpse."

  "When did they capture you?" Bolan said, his voice low, as they walked away from the groaning patient.

  "Yesterday morning. It was supposed to be a meeting. They have not mistreated me, but I see no real chance that I can stay alive."

  "I can help you." Quickly he told the official about the canister of nerve gas and all the implications. Then he saw the guard walking toward them.

  "I need to make some plans," he whispered, "check out some things. As soon as it gets dark, we will make a move."

  Bolan met the guard and gave him a cigarette from a pack he carried for just such a situation. He chatted with the sentry about how well the American doctor was doing, then left. He saw the Syrian at the mess area and joined him. They talked first in Russian, then English.

  "I think my English is better than your Russian," said the Syrian, smiling.

  "Good. My Russian is limited," Bolan said. "I was wondering if you'll be needing any help in your next mission. This one looks about done for me. I've never worked the Middle East. Is there any chance of employment there?"

  Ahmed Hassan stared at Bolan for a moment.

  "I have heard that you are extremely good at your work. It is true that from time to time we might have need for a resourceful American with your talents, but only if we could be certain of his loyalty." Ahmed paused.

  "Hey, I sign a contract, I deliver. No way I change sides in the middle of a deal. Bad for my reputation that way, and I make it or go under by my reputation. You can trust me."

  "You do seem to be a man of your word." He hesitated again. The Executioner waited.

  "An extremely loyal infidel can always be useful in my business. If you are ever in Damascus, with or without a passport, and need work, look me up. Here is an address that I often use. These people will not admit it, but they can always find me or get a message to me. It may take a week or more. In Damascus we are not in the rush you Americans always seem to be. Look me up if ever you are there."

  Bolan wanted to ask him about the five other canisters. Where would they be used? But he knew that would be a mistake. He touched his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. Hassan had written in Arabic both the address and the building name. Bolan tucked the paper into the buttoned top pocket of his jacket and walked toward the chow line. It was time for food again.

  The Executioner ate because the others did. For the next few hours he did not want to attract any attention. While he ate he saw the Syrian and the Russian KGB agent leave in an ancient Ford station wagon.

  He first heard the rumor in the chow line. The ambassador was to be executed that night. Then it was delayed until tomorrow when a man with a camera would record the final moments of the warmongering United States Ambassador. Tomorrow for sure!

  The combatman ambled around the camp until he had every aspect of the place memorized. The motor pool was down to one vehicle, one of the trucks that had brought them. He found a small tent where grenades and a few land mines were stored.

  The Central American night had fallen quickly, and now it was black. Visiting the improvised hospital, Bolan found the doctor working on the less seriously ill by the light of a gas lantern. The ailments were sprains, sore throats and rashes. Bolan whispered to the doctor.

  "We leave in thirty minutes. The signal will be an explosion, which should be spectacular. When you hear it, head to the top of the trail, where it comes into the camp, and keep in the shadows."

  "You have a plan that will work?"

  "It had better. Your execution is set for noon tomorrow."

  The doctor nodded, checked another patient. "I should have known. Politics was always stronger than medicine. I don't even know your name."

  "Mack Scott."

  "All right, Scott. I'll close up here and try to work my way near to the gate. Good luck. Your country will thank you for this, if we get out of here alive."

  "We have to, Mr. Ambassador. I have an appointment in Damascus."

  * * *

  In the darkness, Bolan found no guards around the truck. He checked his time. Quickly he hotwired the engine so a touch of the wires under the hood would kick over the starter. Quietly he lowered the hood and moved around to the pup tent where the hand grenades were kept. Right there he would have given fifty thousand dollars for a ten-minute timer. Instead he had a four-second timer. The truck was located a little uphill from the pup tent, some sixty yards. It was pointed downhill toward the gate, fifty yards below the pup tent.

  He found what he needed in the truck, a small ball of twine. With the cord he could have a running start. Five minutes before his departure, Bolan eased into the area just behind the tent, pulled up the back flap and reached inside for the hand grenades. They were in a box. He took one out, tied t
he string loosely around the grenade, including the arming handle, and pulled the safety pin.

  Cautiously Bolan let up on the arming handle. It touched the cord and held. The slightest tug on the line would pull the cord off the handle, the handle would pop off and arm the bomb. Four seconds later, it would explode. The Executioner put the booby-trapped grenade back in the box of other grenades and played the string out carefully. He left slack and laid it out in a straight line toward the truck. The cord was sixty feet long. So short!

  He left the end under a rock and walked through the darkness. A roving guard called to him. He called back in Spanish, saying he was the American who could not sleep.

  The guard grunted and Bolan went on to the truck. He eased into the cab and without closing the door, let off the emergency brake and pushed the gearshift into neutral. The two-ton truck squeaked and groaned and rolled forward slowly. He touched the brake once to keep the speed and the noise down. Gradually the big black hulk rolled to where he knew the rock had to be. He let it go a little farther.

  The Executioner eased on the brake, then pulled the emergency brake and jumped to the ground. The guard was beside him.

  "What the hell you doing?" the guard asked.

  Bolan had put the M-16 over his shoulder, muzzle up, when he left the cab and now he pivoted, pulling the sling and slamming the butt plate of the weapon into the guard's chin. The man groaned. Bolan kicked him in the crotch, then drove his foot into the guard's chest as he fell to the ground. The nightfighter's heavy boot smashed through ribs, driving a broken bone into the guard's heart, killing him instantly.

  At the back of the truck, the Executioner found the rock and the string, which he gently tugged a foot farther and tied to the tailgate. At the front of the truck he lifted the hood and touched the wires. The engine ground once, twice, then caught. He dropped the hood, leaped into the truck and gunned the accelerator, slammed into gear and released the brake. The truck tumbled forward toward the gate.

  Bolan could almost see the string slip off the arming spoon, and then four seconds later…

  Behind him the grenade exploded, detonating thirty-two cases of grenades and land mines. It was a horrendous, gut-punching blast, with shrapnel from five hundred grenades flying everywhere, slicing into flesh, digging into buildings and trees. The sky lit up with the exploding grenades as they turned the silent night into death thunder. Behind him, trigger-happy guards began to shoot at nothing and everything.

  The truck careered toward the gate. He pulled on the lights and saw the ambassador appear from behind some brush and step a dozen paces to the road. Bolan flashed the lights as a signal and slammed on the brakes, throwing the truck into a skid as the doctor jumped on the running board and climbed inside. At once Bolan jammed the accelerator to the floorboards.

  Dr. Johnson pushed the M-16 out his side of the truck. Points of light showed ahead as the rebels began firing. Dr. Johnson sent a 5-round burst at the lights, then another, and all but one stopped firing.

  Then the truck was at the small barricade, a single six-inch log mounted on a counterweight to be swung aside. The lock was a half-inch bolt through a metal holder. The truck crashed through, scattering the remaining guards as it roared down the trail.

  Neither occupant of the truck had said a word. Shots sounded from behind but they had a fifteen-foot wooden box at the back to absorb the bullets.

  "Made it, by damn!" Ambassador Johnson shouted.

  "First hurdle. There are three more checkpoints down the road, all rebel. I don't think they have radio, so we should be a big surprise. We'll play the game the same way." Bolan handed the doctor the other magazines.

  He drove the bumpy trail as fast as he could, but still twenty to twenty-five miles an hour was the best he could do. Dr. Johnson, watching the rear, said he saw no lights following them.

  The first checkpoint was unmanned and the barrier was raised. By the time they were through it, one man staggered from the shack at the side of the road and shouted.

  More than an hour later, Bolan recognized the next roadblock. Twin sets of logs were dug deep into the road, and vehicles had to slow and turn to one side or the other. It was a sharp angle and cut the speed to five mph.

  As they approached, a flare shot into the air. It burst over them. Bolan waved a hand out the side of the truck.

  "We'll have to bluff this one," he said. "If they get too curious, use that thing."

  Dr. Johnson nodded grimly. He had already put in a full magazine.

  Bolan brought the rig almost to a stop, geared down and made the first turn to the right around the poles. A rebel soldier jumped on the driver's running board and looked inside as they continued moving.

  "I have some seriously injured in the back," Bolan barked in Spanish. "Got to get them to a doctor in San Salvador or they die. You should have been told."

  "Nobody told me!" the guard said. "You got papers?"

  "Hell no, no time!" Bolan said.

  "Stop and I'll check," the guard said, waving his pistol.

  They had made it past the second row of posts.

  "Yeah, I'll stop," Bolan said. "You got any coffee inside?"

  The guard, still on the running board of the truck, waved at three men near the quick turn back to the main road, smooth and wide here, and the men lowered their guns. Bolan tensed his foot over the accelerator.

  "Now!" he shouted. The ambassador brought up the M-16 and chattered three rounds into the guard's chest. The sound inside the cab was deafening as the rounds flew inches from Bolan's face and out the window to hit the guard. He fell from the truck. One of the guards ahead prepared to fire, but Bolan swung the truck back on the road, smashing him with the fender. Bolan felt a bump as the big tires rolled over the guy.

  Then they were back on the road, roaring forward, with nothing ahead but one small checkpoint and the risk of bypassing government forces without passwords or credentials.

  "Let's hope we don't run into an ambush where the troops fire first and ask questions second," the Executioner said.

  "It couldn't happen, Scott. We've been too lucky so far to get cut up by friendly forces."

  They made it through the last checkpoint without trouble: evidently both guards were sleeping. Bolan blinked the lights on and off every two minutes as they drove. It would be unusual for a vehicle to do so if it were trying to go unnoticed. It was the only thing the Executioner could think of to help them make soft contact with the troops below. What he did not want was a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher to put a missile into the truck.

  They had just passed the spot where the ambush had occurred on the trip up, when Bolan slowed the truck and began blinking the lights and blowing the horn. At last he figured it. He hit the horn in the international Morse code: three shorts, three longs, three shorts. He waited several seconds and repeated the signal.

  Dr. Johnson looked at him and smiled. "That's an SOS. Do you think any of these people were Boy Scouts?"

  "I hope to hell they were,"

  They drove another two miles at fifteen mph. The Executioner figured he had sent the SOS out more than a hundred times when he saw lights flashing ahead. He flashed the lights in the SOS code again. He waited and the same short, long, short signals came back.

  Slowly he edged the truck ahead. He stopped blowing the horn. At a hundred yards the lights were glaring. Bolan hit the dimmer switch and slanted the lights downward. Someone in the other rig did the same. He drove to within twenty-five feet of the other vehicle and stopped. Slowly he stepped out of the rig, hands over his head.

  "We are friends," the nightfighter shouted in Spanish. "Please send out your officer. I have an important passenger."

  There was a long pause, and Bolan repeated his words in Spanish. A figure moved forward cautiously. Bolan moved forward too, hands in the air. Slowly the figure took shape, and the Executioner saw the uniform.

  Government forces!

  12

  It was nearly dawn before the El
Salvador government forces' truck arrived at the United States Embassy and let out the ambassador and Bolan. They had telephoned at the first phone. Lights were on all over the compound. Guards were at every gate. Heavy trucks were parked in front of the driveways. Every U.S. Marine on duty at the embassy was wearing combat gear.

  The ambassador's wife ran to her husband, tears flowing and eyes glistening with joy.

  Bolan was taken to a private room, told he could sleep, shower, eat, take a bath, have a drink, do whatever he wanted. The ambassador would talk with him at ten o'clock.

  The Executioner thanked the uniformed attendant, ordered a steak sandwich and a cold beer, then took a half-hour shower. He came out relaxed and sleepy. He put on shorts and dived into the bed, ready for sleep. The clock on the dresser showed him that it was 6:00 a.m. He programmed himself to wake up at nine-thirty and went to sleep at once.

  * * *

  Just after ten that morning, Bolan sat in the ambassador's private office. The medic looked refreshed. He couldn't help smiling at his rescuer.

  "I don't need to know if you're with some government agency or not, Scott. I figure if you wanted me to know, you'd have told me. My guess is you're not official or I would have known it by now."

  The ambassador got up and walked to the window. He stared through the iron bars at the concrete block wall of the outer courtyard. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing here in El Salvador. The President insisted that I take this spot, and I guess I've helped smooth some rough edges. But I'm no damned diplomat. I should be in the hospital downtown lecturing and helping the young medical students."

  He shrugged and returned to his chair. "This morning I put through a signal to Washington, commending you for your work, asking for a medal of honor for you. They usually don't issue them in peacetime, but this wasn't exactly peaceful. I put down your name as Mack Scott as you said. If that's not your real name, it doesn't matter. I've had your gear brought around from your hotel."