Executioner 061 - Tiger War Read online

  It was in Asia that Bolan first found his mission

  As the leader of a deadly penetration team in Nam, he ranged at will across the DMZ, blazing at Savage Man.

  One man alone could only do so much in that war, but Mack Bolan did it harder and larger. He supremely left his mark upon the enemy and the land.

  In the process he earned a label that stuck. Sergeant Bolan became The Executioner, a legend from the Mekong Delta to Hanoi.

  Then another side of the legend began to be heard. Stories circulated among the villagers of a warrior of compassion—and The Executioner became known as Sergeant Mercy.

  It requires a special man to carry two names well. Bolan has never flinched from that task. He has never deviated from his course.

  Against the Cong or mafiosi or Tiger, his crusade has stayed the same.

  Mercy always.

  And war everlasting now!

  Also available from Gold Eagle Books, publishers of the Executioner series:

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  #5 Cairo Countdown

  #6 Warlord of Azatlan

  #7 Justice by Fire

  #8 Army of Devils

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  # 1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  #5 The Fury Bombs

  #6 White Hell

  #7 Dragon's Kill

  "Unbounded courage and compassion joined, tempering each other in the victor's mind, Alternately proclaim him good and great, And make the hero and the man complete."

  —Joseph Addison

  "You've got a weird combination there, Sarge —tough guts and warm heart. Most cats don't know how to carry both."

  —Lt. Wilson Brown to Mack Bolan

  "There is nothing so practical and real as survival except love. Jungle law, like love, is no philosophy—it is reality."

  —Mack Bolan

  First edition January 1984

  First published in Australia April 1985

  ISBN 0-373-61061-0

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  Tom Jagninski for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright (c) 1984 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1984, Australian copyright 1984,

  New Zealand copyright 1984.

  Scanned by CrazyAl 2014

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW 2061.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell

  North Blackburn, Victoria 3130.

  Dedicated to our peacekeepers killed by the suicide bombers.

  In the words of the President, "We must be more determined than ever that thugs cannot take over a strategic area of the earth or, for that matter, any other part of the earth."

  1

  A trap! The word exploded in Mack Bolan's head. He brought up his weapon and went into a crouch, eyes scanning the terrain. The valley shone peacefully in the moonlight, the rhythmic rasping of cicadas the only sound.

  Was his subconscious warning system alerting him to a real danger, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

  By the light of the moon he could see all the way to the tree line. The ground was flat, covered in elephant grass dotted with clusters of bamboo.

  Bent double, his parachute still slung over his shoulder, Bolan ran for the nearest cluster. He crouched in its shadow and listened, mouth open to hear better.

  From the jungle forest came the screech of parakeets. An owl hooted. A bullfrog croaked nearby. The cicadas went on with their concert.

  A typical night in Thailand.

  Perhaps it was only his imagination, he thought. After all, the ground recognition signal had been the right one.

  His mind went back to the circling Antonov. He had stood by the open jump door, wind tearing at his clothes, and watched the light flash in the darkness below.

  Long, long, short, the light flashed. The letter G in Morse, It was the agreed signal. So why this sense of danger?

  The valley dimmed as a cloud covered the moon.

  Suddenly, on the east side of the valley to his left, figures emerged from the forest. Almost immediately more men appeared on his right. Then a third group came out on the northern end, straight ahead of him.

  For a moment Bolan thought they might be Nark and his Montagnards come to look for him, but they were too silent for that.

  A reception committee was a noisy affair, especially when the parachutist landed as far off the drop zone as he had. People would thrash through the bushes shouting instructions to each other, calling the parachutist's name.

  But this group was on a manhunt. They moved furtively, communicating by hand signals, and they held their weapons at the ready.

  The moon came out from behind the cloud and Bolan could see them better. They were soldiers and wore the distinctive fatigue caps of the Nationalist Chinese.

  Tiger troops. It was a trap!

  Bolan looked around for an avenue of escape. The only one was the way he had come, to the south. Even then it would be touch and go; the moment he left the bamboo they would see him.

  He unhooked two Slepoy grenades from his gun belt, took one in each hand, and armed them using the opposite index finger to pull the safety ring. He glanced at the sky. Another cloud was approaching the moon. The gods were on his side.

  Bolan waited, a motionless shape in the night.

  To the north, a line was being formed, the original group swelled by new arrivals. They began to sweep the valley like game beaters while those on the other side made sure their prey did not escape that way.

  The valley dimmed, and Bolan sprang to his feet. He lobbed one grenade to his right, the other to his left, then ducked, clutching his weapon.

  The Slepoys burst in midair, each giving birth to three minigrenades that fanned out and hit the ground with blinding flashes, spewing irritating smoke.

  The valley boomed, surrounding hills reflecting the explosions, and Bolan raced for the southern tree line, mentally counting the seconds.

  The Slepoys—Russian stun grenades—were supposed to give a man six seconds grace by stunning his enemies, but that was for a given area. Here, the troops had been spread out.

  In the end he got four seconds, because on the fifth the lead began to fly. At first their bullets went wide, the soldiers' aims hampered by the noxious smoke, but as they crossed the screen after him, their shooting narrowed.

  A flare gun fired in rapid succession, and the valley turned silver. Bolan, a silhouette in the flashing light, zigzagged toward the forest.

  A green tracer sang past his ear, anothe
r brushed his sleeve, a third ricocheted off his haversack. Bolan felt the hand of death reach out for him.

  He ran like a hunted animal, unaware of anything but the tree line ahead, his whole being concentrating on it. Eyes glazed by the rush of air, deaf to the noise around him, he raced toward sanctuary.

  The forest drew nearer, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and suddenly he was inside, swallowed by its protective darkness. He darted behind a tree and, gasping for breath, peered back. The valley was lit up like a football stadium for a night game, flares dangling everywhere. As for the players, they were coming at him, their guns spitting flame.

  It was time for some counterplay.

  Bolan folded out the butt on his AK-74 and changed trees to give himself a better angle. He took a deep breath and started firing.

  The effect was instantaneous, for the new Kalashnikov was a formidable weapon, its muzzle brake practically eliminating recoil and climb, giving its handler the ability to keep it on target throughout a burst.

  Dying screams tore the air, men toppled and the charge halted.

  But they were well-trained troops, and those who had dived to the ground in time immediately returned fire. And now their aim became more accurate, every man knowing where Bolan was.

  For all its improvements, the new Kalashnikov had one major defect: its muzzle-flash was three times the normal. The brake did nothing to reduce flame.

  To counter this, Bolan began changing trees after each burst. He fired burst after burst, keeping the soldiers pinned, sacrificing ammunition to gain time to catch his breath. On the next leg, lungs—not ammunition—would decide the outcome.

  A new group of soldiers appeared in the distance. And these had dogs. Bolan saw them run to outflank him. He fired a last burst and fled.

  Now began a gruelling marathon.

  Going like a blind man, he crashed through the undergrowth, thorns tearing at his clothes, razor-sharp grasses cutting his skin. The forest was pitch-dark, and it took time for his eyes to adjust.

  The ground rose and fell, so that one moment he was sliding into gullies, the next struggling up slopes on all fours. Vines kept tripping his feet.

  Behind him, he could hear the dogs barking and shouts in Chinese. He had to go faster!

  A clear stretch came, followed by more thick jungle, then an area of boulders so big he had to climb over them, another clear stretch, then a forest of bamboo and more gullies. The ground began to slope.

  A stream appeared and he hurried up it, hoping to obliterate his scent for a short distance. He splashed himself with handfuls of water scooped up on the run. The heat, the burning cuts, the sting of ants... he felt on fire.

  On the other side of the stream was a clear stretch, the ground aglow with bits of phosphorescent bark. He raced through that, then the terrain thickened. Once again he was thrashing through dense undergrowth.

  An hour after he began his escape he emerged atop a ridge overlooking the valley, his fighter suit in tatters, his arms and face a mass of bleeding cuts. He ran along a trail until he came to a clearing, turned into it and collapsed to the ground.

  Chest heaving, heart pounding, he lay there, rivulets of sweat flowing over his body.

  When his panting subsided he removed his haversack and took a drink from his water bottle. He sat down by a tree and strained his ears. Not a sound. Even the birds had retired for the night.

  He took another drink, leaned back and closed his eyes, his mind taking stock of his situation.

  Eight hours earlier, which now seemed like aeons, he had taken off from an island in the Indian Ocean for the Golden Triangle on a mission to destroy the world's biggest heroin ring, Tiger Enterprises.

  Code-named Galloping Horse, a synonym for heroin, the mission was to be the opening salvo in Stony Man's war against hard drugs. Instead of fighting the syndicates at home, Phoenix would take the war to the doorstep of the venal surveyors, the filth, who subverted the health and welfare of good people with the terrible products of their self-interest.

  Yet no sooner had he arrived in the Triangle than the tables were turned. He, the hunter, had become the prey.

  Where was Nark, he asked himself. In his last message, Solan's pathfinder had reported everything going according to schedule. He had to find him and fast.

  Bolan put away the bottle and untied the head scarf he wore in the manner of native warriors. One side was black, the other a grid map of that area of the Triangle. From his haversack he brought a poncho. He crawled under it, turned on a penlight and studied the map.

  With the aid of a tiny compass on the band of his watch, Bolan worked out a route to the Montagnard village that Nark had made his base. If he hurried, he told himself, he might make it by daylight.

  He repacked the poncho and put on the haversack. He picked up his gun and went to the trail. As he turned into it he glanced at his watch. A little past midnight. If he wanted to make the village by daylight he would have to run part of the way. Twenty minutes running, twenty minutes walking, he decided.

  Bolan took a deep breath and set out on his journey.

  2

  It was dawn, and the sun streaked the sky with faint rays.

  Standing on a ridge and peering through field glasses, Bolan surveyed the village. Judging by the goings-on, it was breakfast time. Smoke rose from the homes, and turbaned Montagnard women were coming out of the doorways with buckets of pig feed. Bolan could hear the squeal of pigs fighting at the troughs.

  The village lay in a terra-cotta valley, a couple of hundred huts scattered randomly in Montagnard fashion where the only rule was that no two doorways should face each other in case they attracted each other's spirits. The absence of any symmetry gave the place a decidedly primitive look.

  Beyond, in low grassland blanketed by a ground mist, shaggy horses and cattle grazed. A solitary elephant wandered among them, the chain around its leg attached to a boulder. The Montagnards used elephants for logging.

  Bolan scanned the village for a sign of Nark. But there was none. Nark could still be sleeping, Bolan thought; nothing new in a CIA agent snoozing.

  As the day advanced, people began leaving the village. Some went to the slopes to work fields of rice, corn and tobacco. Women with bamboo water containers on their backs headed for a stream in the hills. A hunter with a musket rode away. A family set out for market, each member carrying a live chicken in a basket under each arm.

  Still no sign of Nark.

  A group of women, small sacks in hand, left the village and headed in Bolan's direction. He watched them disappear from view as they began climbing his slope, then he heard them pass on the trail, chatting gaily. Bolan picked up his haversack and went to follow them.

  The women turned off the trail, took a couple of footpaths and emerged into a field of opium poppies. From their sacks they brought knives and jars, and proceeded to scrape the white ooze that had coagulated on the pods.

  It was the second stage of a harvest. The ooze was opium juice that had seeped out overnight, the pods having been slit the previous day.

  For a while Bolan watched the women work. They moved gracefully amid the flowers, the colored accessories of their black outfits closely matching the reds, blues, pinks and yellows of the poppies.

  Finally he coughed and emerged from his hiding place.

  Cries of fear escaped the women's lips as they ran to one another for protection. Bolan could understand their reaction. In his tattered suit and with his bloody cuts he looked the epitome of the long-nosed "white devil."

  To assure the women he meant no harm, Bolan stopped at a respectable distance, brought the palms of his hands together in a wai and bowed. He knew the ways of these people from his time as a sniper specialist during the Vietnam War, and from his return to Vietnam in search of MIAs at the beginning of the Stony Man operation. He addressed them in the most formal manner in their own language, Meo.

  "O sisters of great beauty and worth, a lost traveler seeks assistance.
I am searching for a brother, another white man. Does a white man live in your village?"

  The women exchanged looks to determine who would answer the traveller. Finally the eldest replied, "Your brother is no more in the village. He left."

  Bolan grunted in disappointment. "Where did he go?"

  The women exchanged looks, this time to see if one of them knew. None did. "He left with the Chinese," volunteered a second woman.

  Bolan's worst fears materialized.

  "If you want to know about your brother, you must speak to the headman," said the first woman. "Your brother lived in his house."

  "Is the headman home?" he asked.

  The first woman nodded.

  "Are there any Chinese in the village?"

  "They left," said the second woman. The others nodded in agreement.

  "O sister," Bolan said, addressing the first woman, "help me find my brother. Take me to the headman so I can ask him."

  She signalled to a younger woman to accompany her, and they set out, Bolan following.

  They descended into the village and walked quickly past yapping dogs and bare-bottomed children. Women ran out of doorways to look at him, and someone shouted a greeting, mistaking him for Nark. In the Orient, white men look alike.

  They came to the headman's hut, the elder woman coughed—knocking being rude in their culture—and Bolan followed her across the threshold. Inside was a typical Montagnard abode, dark, windowless and smelling of dampness from the earthen floor.

  By an open fire, on low stools, two men in baggy black mountain suits sat smoking water pipes. One of the men was a thin individual with tiny, almost reptilian eyes. The woman spoke to him. He came up to Bolan. They exchanged bows and shook hands. The others left, and Bolan and the headman took seats by the fire.

  "I am Colonel John Phoenix," Bolan introduced himself. "Did Nark tell you about me?"

  "Yes," the headman said. "He told us you were coming." He spoke in English.

  "What happened to Nark?" asked Bolan. By coming straight to the point he was ignoring Montagnard etiquette, but time was short and the headman knew Western ways, so it was unlikely he would be offended.