Bolan turned an amused gaze onto his friend Zitka. "Remember that operation at Vanh Duc, Zitter?" he asked.
Zitka responded with a broad grin. "Yeah," he said, his gaze sweeping the circle of faces. The Ninth was conducting a sweep into long-time VC territory. No contact, no contact, everywhere they probed. Knew damn well the northmen were around there, but they just kept fading away. All the Ninth flushed during a ten-day sweep was a bunch of terrorized villagers. So they sent us in."
His gaze flicked to Bolan and lingered there for a moment; then he chuckled and resumed the account. "It was Mack and me, two flankmen, two scouts. We walked for three days, and we knew where we was headed. We played the VC game, see. Hit and fade, hit and fade. By the time we'd penetrated to Vanh Duc, the VCs were screaming bloody murder. We'd already executed one of their generals, a half a dozen high-ranking field officers, and about that many of their village politicians. They were fit to be tied. Finally the northmen had to come outta their holes. Losing face, see, to a lousy six-man team. They sprung their trap on us at Vanh Ducand of course, that's what we'd been aiming at all the time. We got a full battalion chasing our butts out across the rice paddies, and that's where they met our air force."
"I remember that operation," Harrington put in. "That was the time the airborne infantry was living in helicopters for three days."
That was Vanh Duc," Zitka confirmed, nodding his head soberly. "We smoked 'em out, and what the air force didn't get, the Ninth did."
"We're playing a Vanh Duc game here," Bolan explained. He glanced at his watch. "Only there will be no air-force or infantry reinforcements to finish the job once we've smoked the enemy into the open. We have to do the entire job ourselves. We're going to hit 'em, and hit 'em, and keep on hitting 'em until they're trying to hide up each other's asses. Then, when we know who they are and where they are, all of themthen we squash them. That's the entire plan. We play the details by ear. Gadgets has bugs all over Giordano's house, and he put a recorder on the telephone. In just about two hours, Zitter and Bloodbrother will take up their stakeout positions. Flower, you're on Zitter. Gunsmoke, on Bloodbrother. You know the routingplay it like life and death, 'cause that's what it's going to be. Boom, you alternate the electronics watch with some Gadgets. Politician and Deadeye, on me but not too close, give me room to operate. Chopper, you've got base camp security. Ohand Boom, how long would it take you to make about a dozen of those little impact grenades?"
"You don't want fragmentation?" the explosives man asked solemnly.
"No. Just plenty of flash and concussion."
"Helltwenty minutes," Hoffower replied.
"Good. Do it now. Put them in a hip pouch for me." Bolan smiled and got to his feet. "This is going to be a lot better than Pittsfield. I'm glad you people are with me." He started to walk away, then checked his stride and turned back with an afterthought. "OhPolitician has the money divvied up into eleven shares. It figured to forty-seven-fifty per man. The eleventh share is for the kitty. Pick up your money and then get some rest. There won't be much sleeping tonight." He turned abruptly and strode off the patio, heading for the beach.
"What's this bitty about the kitty?" Andromede asked, addressing no one in particular.
"The war fund," Blancanales explained. "Told me to put his share in there too."
"Somebody loan me three hundred," Fontenelli said. He was the first at the table and was fingering a packet of bills with reverence. "I wanta know what five grand feels like, all in one hunk."
"Where's he going?" Hoffower asked, gazing after the departing leader.
Zitka picked up his share of the spoils and said quietly, Tie always goes off by himself for a while after a strike. Leave 'im alone."
"If he don't want the money, what does he want?" Hoffower persisted.
"Aw hell, Boom, they rubbed out his whole family," Harrington said.
"It's a holy war," Andromede murmured. "The Karmic pattern. The law of retribution. Liberation from hell to heavenand maybe back to hell again."
Hoffower was carefully counting his stack of bills. He thrust a wad at Blancanales. "Here's the thousand he advanced me," he said quietly. "Put it in the kitty."
"It wasn't an advance," Blancanales protested. "It's a bonus."
"Put it in the kitty anyway," Hoffower insisted.
Blancanales accepted the money and added it to the stack on the table. Andromede stared at the "war fund" for a strained moment, then quickly counted a thousand dollars from his packet and dropped it onto the table. Fontenelli wavered painfully, then followed suit.
Washington was staring after the quickly receding figure of Mack Bolan as he trudged up the beach. "There go de judge," he said with a soft sigh. Then he stepped to the table and deposited a stack of bills.
Loudelk was smiling faintly. "Soft probe, eh?" He tossed an uncounted stack into the growing kitty. "Here's my vote for the winning side."
The vote of confidence quickly became unanimous, the war fund swelled, andmost importantthe ten had become one.
Flower Child Andromede walked to the edge of the patio, then turned back to his comrades, his face in a saintly expression, and said, "Vanh Duc, Vanh Duc, through blood and muck, if it's not a gangbang, it's a piece of bad luck."
"What he talking about?" Washington muttered.
"Liberation, I guess," Loudelk quietly replied. "We know about that bag, don't we, black man?"
Washington grinned without humor. "Yeah, man, we know that bag." He raised his voice and directed it toward Andromede. "Hey, Chaplain come on over here and confess my sins."
"You handle your sins, brother, and I'll handle mine," Andromede replied, grinning. "Right now, I go to build up my contempt of death. Join me. Well meditate together beside the still waters."
"I'll join you at Vanh Duc, man," Washington replied softly.
"There's a reality." Andromede sighed and walked away. Death, he had long ago decided, was the only true reality.
Chapter Four
Hardcase
Captain Tim Braddock had been with the Los Angeles Police for eighteen years. Married, father of three, still hard and trim at the age of forty-two, he looked more the successful young business executive than a captain of detectives. Braddock was "on his way," according to the scuttlebutt around the Hall of Justice. Respected, admired, competent, effectivethese were the terms most commonly employed in any discussion of the man. For the previous two years, he had been shunted into administrative and liaison details, public-relations work, and other nonpolicing duties that seemed to be pointing him toward higher echelons of police business. And now he had been assigned as coordinator of the hottest job to hit the force since the Kennedy assassinationthe Bolan case.
The project had been appropriately code named Hardcase. It had aroused the active interest of every police agency in the state. Representatives of most of these were now assembling in the briefing room to hear L.A.'s approach to the problem. A man from the Attorney General's office in Sacramento would be out there, as would liaison men from the state troopers, several federal agencies, and various sheriffs departments and a heavy contingent from L.A.'s neighboring municipalities.