Bolan cupped his mouth and called out, "Hey, guys, where are you? It's me, Jack. Jack Fenster. I've brought relief. I'm with the Thais. Where are you?"
He crouched and listened. Perhaps the trick would work. After all, no one but Big Bottom, the mahout, and himself knew what happened to Jack Fenster. And why shouldn't Fenster come back to help his colleagues if he survived the ambush?
Footsteps. Cautious footsteps. A voice called quietly, "Jack?"
Bolan tiptoed in the direction of the sound and went down behind a forklift. Steps approached.
"Jack, where are you?"
A roly-poly individual in a golfing shirt and slacks appeared. In his hand he held a handkerchief with which he constantly wiped his face. To Bolan it was obvious the man felt he was performing a feat of great courage by making the trip in the dark alone. Wrong! He was not alone. Behind him came a Tiger soldier, weapon at the ready. Bolan let them pass.
"Jack?"
Bolan rose and moved like a cat. A knife stabbed the soldier, a hand covered the fat man's mouth. "Jack is in hell," he whispered into the man's ear. "And he wants you to join him."
The man's eyes bulged and he began shaking. The smell of urine filled the air. As his bladder emptied, the shaking subsided.
Bolan pointed the knife at him. "Now, where is everyone? Use your hand."
The man pointed behind him.
"Any soldiers?"
The man shook his head.
Bolan turned him. "Lead the way."
They moved through the gloom past the crates and the stacks of Tiger Brand No. 4, Bolan keeping his ears wide open for any unusual sound. But there was none. The only sound was the muffled gunfire from the floor below as the Montagnards fought it out with Tiger troops.
They came to a partition with a door. An office of some sort. The door was closed, light came through the opaque glass, but no sound emanated from it.
"In there?" Bolan whispered.
The man nodded.
"Go inside and leave the door open behind you," Bolan whispered. "Understood?"
The man nodded.
"Go," said Bolan, releasing him.
The man walked to the door, opened it, and went inside. Through the doorway Bolan could see an office with an Oriental carpet and armchairs in which sat the directors. They watched their colleague enter with fear and expectation. But there was an additional expression on their faces, and it sent blood rushing to Bolan's head. They resembled men left leaderless.
A moment later, as he stepped into the office after roly-poly, Bolan's premonition was confirmed. The directors were there, but Colonel Liu was not among them.
Chapter 12
From a window up in the refinery Bolan gazed on the scene of destruction.
The Tiger hardsite lay in ruins, the air swirling with smoke. By the light of dawn he could see groups of Montagnards going through the rubble.
In the residential section only the guest villa was left standing; everything else had burned or been blown up.
It was a picture of desolation, but desolation with a menace, for somewhere amid those ruins, Bolan's enemy was hiding.
From the directors, Bolan had learned that Liu had left the conference shortly before the battle broke out. It was the last day of the annual meeting, and they were working late. But Liu's servants said their master never showed up, which would indicate he was en route when the fighting started. What happened to him after that, no one knew. None of the soldiers questioned had seen him. All the other directors had stayed put, scared, unarmed, and pathetically easily taken.
To Bolan there could be only one explanation for Liu's disappearance: he must have decided on the spot that the battle was lost. He would have had good reasons, not the least of which was that when the fighting began the enemy was already inside the camp. And having decided all was lost, what would an opium warlord do, lead his troops in a death-defying stand?
Hardly.
He would escape or hide.
Bolan was sure Liu did not escape. The camp had been surrounded from the start by his Montagnards, no helicopter took off, and no secret tunnels running under the perimeter had been discovered.
But he would find Liu. It was his mission.
He realized it was of no consequence where fate might lead a man. If there was evil there, it must be resisted, struggled against, fought to the end.
A place, any place, is only godforsaken if men do nothing if they do not stand up for what is right. Wherever a man finds himself, all that counts is that he fight for the civilized values he believes in.
To profess principles but not be prepared to back them up is to be without principles.
What matter where you die, what matter if you die when all that matters is that you fought for the right.
But there are occasions when, as every soldier knows, inaction itself is one's fate. Today Mack Bolan knew better, in his dangerous and deceit-filled new world, the value of discretion, the valor of keeping his distance, of not jumping in before the true root of the atrocity had a chance to reveal itself. As The Executioner, and as Colonel John Phoenix, his heavy fate had become apparent: he must forever hit at the root, the core, of evil itself go to the very heart of darkness itself, and react sanely to what he found there.
To be sane in a hideously distorted world, shock tilted, ringing with terror, was sanity indeed.
He would face the challenge once again, in his latest return to the ancient hellgrounds of Southeast Asia.
He knew that he was about to confront a revelation of his fate that would challenge his very sanity.
And his response would be inevitable: hit at the heart of the horror, strike the pumping source, even if the writhing heads of the Hydra commit atrocities all around, ignore them at last! Strike only at the heart, dig up the root, hit the final perpetrator.
Mack Samuel Bolan was an old-fashioned warrior, dedicated to his nation and his duty. He took his soldiering seriously. He had no other choice. So to go for the psychic heart every time required tireless energy and a unique skill.
It was in Vietnam that the warrior first honed his skills and found his mission.
As the leader of a deadly penetration team, he ranged at will across the DMZ, teaching Savage Man that any hope of sanctuary in Bolan's kind of everlasting war was a contradiction in terms.
There was only so much that one man could do in Nam, but Bolan did it better and more often. He supremely left his mark upon the enemy and on the land.
In the process, he earned a label that would stick. Sergeant Bolan had become The Executioner, a legendary figure from the Mekong Delta to Hanoi.
There was another side of him, however, and another side to the legend. Even as his marksmanship and cunning built a lethal reputation, other stories circulated through the jungle that told of a different warrior. This warrior risked his life to carry wounded soldiers and civilians through the lines. He liberated captives, often jeopardized his mission to remain behind with stricken comrades.
Among the villagers, the Executioner became known as Sergeant Mercy.
It required a large and special man to carry both names well, and Bolan was equal to the task. He saw no contradiction in his roles; if anything, they were a natural combination, opposite sides of a single coin. Killing the enemy and caring for the innocent were not distinct and separate tasks for Bolan they were part and parcel of his duty.
An old-fashioned warrior. Having recognized his duty, launched himself upon the long crusade, there could be no turning back.
If his road had developed a new direction, his enemy adopting new and ever more loathsome disguises on the way, Bolan never deviated from his course.
Against the Cong or mafiosi or the Hydra, it was the same crusade.