Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Read online

  Pandemonium had threatened in the predawn darkness when an Angolan sentry had stumbled first on one body, then a second and a third.... Sergeant Sanchez was the worst corpse of all. And the NCO was lying only inches from Yagoda.

  The Russian, although shaken, had not lost his cool—Scarr conceded that. He'd kept the Cubans in line, and they had leaned on the blacks. By the first glimmer of daybreak their losses had been assessed, the damaged tires replaced and the bodies buried. The men who had been on duty knew they would have to face punishment.

  Yagoda called Scarr back to the trucks as camp was set up. He had been scouting around the base of the hill. They had to make up for lost time, Yagoda explained edgily, and ordered the Stars to roll. They moved out quickly.

  Scarr said nothing of what he had found in the damp sand at the far end of the water hole. Yagoda and the Cubans believed they were the victims of renegade tribesmen. The Angolans confirmed it. That was what their silent attackers had wanted them to think. But Brendan Scarr knew that Bushmen did not wear jungle boots with thick rubber cleats!

  He only caught glimpses of the two trucks behind in the shuddering image of the side mirror. But someone else was back there, too. Who could it be? And how close were they? For now, Scarr remained silent. Whoever it was might prove to be his ace in the hole.

  They were less than two hours' drive from the spot where he had left the loot. Scarr had to think fast on how he would make good his escape. He was quite certain that Yagoda had no intention of taking him back to Angola—at least, not alive. Even if he did, there was no guarantee that Scarr would then be set free.

  The mercenary reflected on his checkered past. He could draw some confidence from it.

  The blacks had never been able to kill him. Vandergriff's men could not catch him. Even Quita prison hadn't killed him. Brendan Scarr had outwitted them all.

  Lying and double-dealing, running, fighting when cornered, Scarr had stayed alive this long. It would take a lot tougher bastard than Colonel Boris Yagoda to finish him off.

  "Hey, look at that!" Scarr pointed ahead of them. A tiny duiker had scampered across the trail and plunged into the brush. Yagoda missed it. The Afrikaaner sneered. Yagoda didn't have the feel for this sort of country.

  "Watch where you're going!" snapped the Russian, when the driver drifted too close to the edge of the track.

  Yagoda felt as if he were walking on a tightrope. It was not the first time in his career that he'd had this uneasy feeling, treading a dangerous line between the natural caution of the diplomatic experts and the more ambitious demands of the Second Directorate on Tekstilshchikov Street. But none of those bureaucrats were out here in the field. They were never around when the dirty work had to be done.

  But Boris Yagoda had built his reputation as a man willing to take chances. He had experienced this same momentary queasiness when he staged the car "accident" that settled the Sol Yurkevitch affair. His immediate supervisor, Krasnov, had dissociated himself from Yagoda. But when the Western press swallowed the story of the dissident's unfortunate death, Yagoda did not have to share the accolades with his boss. He had been promoted to colonel.

  After an immersion course in Spanish, which added to his working knowledge of English and French, Yagoda shipped out for Angola. He thought it would be a better opportunity to display his talents than the thankless war in Afghanistan. But at this moment he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right choice this time.

  Four men lost and they had not yet reached the mercenary's hoard. Yagoda lit a cigarette. He would issue a suitably flattering statement on behalf of the Angolan soldiers, praising their sacrifice for the cause of revolution. As for the Cubans ... what did it matter? They were expendable. That was precisely why the Russians were using them here. He took a drag deep into his lungs. He felt better already. And it would improve his mood even more to be rid of this condescending South African.

  "I told you, it's leveling out." Scarr pointed through the trees to their right. "See, there's the railway tracks."

  The trail ran parallel to the railroad lines for about four miles, until they reached a large clearing. Evidently it had once been a loading yard.

  "There's several mines around here," explained Scarr. "The major mining companies shared this facility for shipping out their ore."

  Sheds of corrugated iron were rusted and overgrown with heaps of vines and matted vegetation. Yagoda called a halt and immediately wished he hadn't—this place smelled of decay and disuse. He had the uncomfortable feeling they were being watched.

  The men climbed out to stretch their legs.

  Scarr was relieving himself at the side of the track, when his head cocked to one side. Suddenly he shouted, "Get those trucks under cover! Quick, into the trees!"

  Yagoda whirled around. How dare he give orders! But then he had heard it, too. A light plane was approaching. It was droning low over the treetops. Yagoda signaled frantically to confirm Scarr's instructions.

  The Cuban drivers jumped back into their cabs. One of the Stars protested at being started up so soon after being shut off—it stalled.

  "Push it!" screamed Yagoda, throwing the two nearest Angolans against the rear end. Three more joined them. They rolled the truck under the protective canopy of foliage just as the plane roared over the clearing at three hundred feet.

  Everyone froze. They stood in absolute silence, watching as the plane turned and made another pass over the railway yard.

  Had the pilot seen them?

  It circled again.

  "Who is it?" asked Yagoda.

  Scarr shrugged, scarcely able to suppress a grin. He was pleased to see the KGB officer looking so rattled—he might get careless. The aircraft passed directly above them. They waited, still not moving. This time it did not come back.

  "Everyone into the trucks," ordered Yagoda. He turned to Scarr. "Get us out of here!"

  The guide pointed to a dark opening between the trees on the far side of the clearing. "Follow that side road. It'll take us across the river. Don't worry, Colonel, we're almost there."

  "This IS WHERE I'm officially supposed to be," snorted Rawson, letting go of the wheel to indicate the twin steel tracks now running parallel to the narrow road. "I filed a report saying I would be checking out the condition of the Makala rail system when I came to meet you guys. It seemed like a good cover story at the time."

  The note of cynical regret in his voice left no doubt that Luke Rawson wished he had never got involved with Phoenix Force.

  There was no way that Yagoda and his men could have left the trail. If they had pulled off into the bush, then their exit would have been marked through the thick profusion of plant life that crowded the path on either side.

  Bolan stared at the twin ribbons of railroad line through the flickering shadows of the encroaching jungle. "Where do they lead to?"

  "This one curves south right around the back of the Mambosso range—we crossed over it outside that Baluba village—then it goes on down through the towns along the Kasai," explained the surveyor. "The other track runs east. It was used to pick up mahogany from the lumber camps along the border."

  "Is it still used?"

  "Not often. Not much of anything is operating in this bloody country since Buka Ntanga was made king." Rawson kept a careful eye that he did not tread too close on the heels of the Land Rover. There was obviously something on his mind. "Well, I can't go back now. They'll find the company truck sooner or later, then there'll be a search for Mumungo's men . . . ."

  "I guess you'll have to come out with us," Bolan reassured him. "I'm sure the prime minister will see you are well rewarded for helping us. Anyway, once Bambabele is restored to power you'll be able to. . . . Damn, it's coming back again!"

  The plane was flying south directly above the track. They were caught in the open with no time to hide. Bolan got a glimpse of an angry black face staring down from the co-pilot's window as the aircraft wobbled low overhead. Then it was gone. The pilot m
ade a correctional trim and kept on flying south, away from them.

  The men in the lead vehicle looked back but the Phoenix leader leaned from the cab and waved them on. "Keep going!"

  "Funny he didn't come back to check us out again," observed Rawson, gnawing at his lower lip.

  "Either he's seen what he wanted to ahead of us," said Bolan, unfolding the map, "or he's damn near out of fuel. Maybe both. Where's the nearest spot he could gas up that plane?"

  "There's a small airstrip to the southeast, near Mabuti, but that's just to serve the lumber camps. . . . " Bolan traced along the thin line of the railroad track until he found the spot. Rawson jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. "I'd say he'll head for the base at Usomo. It's to the west. There's an army camp there."

  "So he could bring back a few truckloads of reinforcements!" said Ohara. "Direct them in from the air."

  Rawson swallowed nervously. When he first heard about this mission, he saw it only as a way to feather his nest for early retirement. Bloody hell, he hadn't figured on ending up in a full-scale shooting war.

  "It would take four or five hours for the first troops to reach this far," said Bolan, studying the twisting roads that reached up into the Makala high country. "We've still got time to do what we came for."

  "Yeah, but they're right between us and the plane on Lake Baruka," snapped Rawson. "How are we going to get away then, eh? Besides, they could have alerted the Usomo camp by radio. Those soldiers could already be on their way up here."

  Bolan made no response. The same thing had occurred to him. He studied the map, figuring out a contingency plan. "What's this just ahead of us? Looks like a marshalling yard."

  "That's just what it is, or used to be," explained the surly surveyor. "INGOT and Kuranda Lumber shared it to ship their product down to the city. See where the trees are thinning out . . . ."

  The rusted hulk of a North British 4-8-0 locomotive sat in the corner of the broad clearing. The old engine was slowly surrendering to the creepers that were reclaiming the yard. The roof of one of the large tin sheds already sagged under the sheer weight of the vines that had overgrown it. Only one of the sheds had held its own against the relentless vegetation.

  Mulanda had stopped the Land Rover in the center of the track and jumped out.

  "What have you found?" Bolan called out as he climbed down from the cab.

  The Mussengamba guide pointed to the broken ferns beside the road. The flowers had been crushed and the leaf mold under the trees retained the imprints of tires and combat boots. They were still on the right track. Scarr must have pulled the unit off the road here.

  "Do you think the plane saw them, too?" Katz wondered aloud.

  "We'll have to assume so," said Bolan. "Mulanda, scout around and find out where they've gone."

  Ziemba joined Mulanda in scouting out the roads that led away from the far end of the yard.

  Rawson was looking at the tracks. One pair of rails was shinier than the others. They led directly into the nearby shed.

  "Bloody uncomfortable in the back," McCarter complained in a loud voice. "Think I'll take a leak."

  Bolan caught his signal. As McCarter vanished into the greenery, he made a small encircling gesture with his fingers then pointed toward the engine shed.

  "Okay, men, I'm going for a stroll," Bolan murmured. "Act normal, but keep your hands near your weapons."

  He walked across the rails, faking a casual interest in the marshalling yard. His ears were alert for the slightest sound of whatever had alarmed his English colleague. Deciding he had walked far enough, Bolan turned and quickly approached the shed from the blind side. There was a door inset a few feet from the corner.

  Manning and Encizo appeared to be inspecting the Land Rover. Katz lit a cigarette as he listened to Keio; both men seemed relaxed. But they were all ready for instant action as David McCarter emerged from the bushes and crept along the side of the shed, his back flattened to the wall.

  He reached a dust-encrusted window, smashed it with his rifle and poked the muzzle through. "Right, you, outside! Easy now . . . I've got you covered every step of the way."

  The door creaked open. A man stepped out, blinking in the sunlight. He was about sixty, bald except for a fringe of white curls at the back, and dressed in a much-darned pair of blue coveralls.

  "You can put your hands down, old-timer," said Bolan. "What are you doing here?"

  "I live here," the man replied with quiet dignity. "I look after tembo."

  Bolan didn't understand.

  "Tembo means elephant," Rawson explained to Bolan.

  The old railwayman glanced around at the soldiers who now surrounded him in a loose semicircle. He almost did a double-take when he saw the INGOT surveyor. "Rawson bwana, is that you, Mr. Rawson?"

  "Oduka, you old rascal! What are you up to?"

  "Same as always," replied Oduka, as he unlatched one of the shed doors and dragged it open. "Keeping tembo clean. Taking her for a run now and then. Waiting for the mines to be reopened."

  By bush locomotive standards, she was indeed an elephant! Oduka's tembo, a 1933 Beyer Peacock 4-6-4, stood gleaming softly in the musty shadows.

  "Still looks as good as the last time I saw her!" exclaimed Rawson. The railway worker's dedication seemed to have rekindled some of his own professional enthusiasm.

  "That must have been five years ago," said Oduka.

  "Is there anyone else around?" asked Bolan. Oduka shook his head. "I live here alone. Some

  times I take tembo down to Mabuti for supplies, but no one comes up here anymore... that is, until. . . ."

  "You saw the other soldiers?"

  Oduka nodded.

  "They took the left-hand fork through those trees," announced Mulanda, returning from his scouting expedition.

  "Three trucks full of men. I saw them. They drove on toward the river," confirmed Oduka. "But it's a dead end. The road runs out about six miles past the bridge."

  "At the old Copperhill workings?" asked Rawson.

  "Yes, bwana. But they were shut down even before Mumungo seized power." Oduka spit at mentioning the general's name. "Copperhill closed the mines even before my time. There's nothing up there!"

  "Thanks, Mr. Oduka," said Bolan. He signalled for the others to get back aboard the vehicles. "We better take a look at what they've found."

  Oduka decided it was time to stoke up tembo's fire. He needed supplies; he would make a trip down to Mabuti. Much as the railwayman hated the usurper Mumungo, this was not his fight.

  THE DOWNPOUR HAD STOPPED, but the driver left the wipers running—the water would drip down on them from the trees for quite a while yet. Yagoda ground out his cigarette. He did not like the jungle.

  The rainy season extended all year; at least some fell every day on these slopes. This regular precipitation nurtured a luxuriant display of plant life. Lillies and violets bloomed in the rich humus, rotting logs were covered with a vivid carpet of moss, and thick lianas hung from the sapele. . . layer upon layer of verdant vegetation stretching up to the dense canopy nearly a hundred twenty feet above the trail.

  The Russian checked the time. Their progress was too slow. It was nearly an hour since they left that bridge behind and they could not have covered more than five miles. What if that plane came back?

  "Stop, Hector," Scarr ordered the driver. "I . . . I think this is it." His voice was shaky. He had waited a long time for this moment.

  The South African pointed out of the open window. Yagoda followed the line he was indicating. He could only make out a reddish orange bulk under a tangle of creepers.

  "Welcome to Copperhill, Colonel. Looks like the jungle is reclaiming all the equipment."

  The undergrowth was thinner here, of more recent growth than back down the trail. Rusting metal hoppers, winches and scoops were vanishing beneath the choking press of the foliage.

  Scarr pointed to a dark opening half concealed by a screen of bushes. "The stuff's over there . . . or it s
hould be. I parked the truck in the entrance to that old mine."

  13

  The steep-sided gorge of the upper Makala was a wild and beautiful place. It was a deep dogleg of a chasm. A bridge, suspended high above the raging torrent, spanned the river at the bend. Cliffs, on both sides of the river, rose almost sheer out of the water for two hundred feet or more, but only odd patches of bare rock showed through; for the most part it was overgrown with tangled clumps of moist vegetation.

  Mack Bolan and the men of Phoenix Force, the three blacks and Luke Rawson stood at the end of the bridge and looked down.

  The air was filled with the shrilling sounds of myriad insects. Living clouds of butterflies swarmed over the colorful foliage. And flocks of birds executed precision maneuvers as they swooped and rose on the thermals generated within the humid canyon.

  "Easy to see why they call it the River of Blood," remarked McCarter. The spuming torrent below was stained dark with the rich mineralized sludge washed down in the runoff, as if the Makala still flowed rust-red with the blood of those nameless men who had died working the diamond digs, lumber camps and copper mines.

  Billows of oily smoothness broke into white froth as they dashed onto the rocks scattered among the shallows. Encizo watched the twisting, racing rapids for a moment. He shook his head at the river's mindless fury. "There's no way a plane could ever land down there."

  "Or anywhere else remotely nearby," added Bolan, pointing to the dense pack of forest giants that crowned the banks on either side.

  The bridge itself was a rickety suspension construction—strong enough in its time perhaps, but that was long past. The uneven wooden walkway was supported by corroded metal cables. Some of the crosspieces had rotted or broken, and had then been replaced with trees felled in the surrounding woods and roughly split apart as planking. In one or two places even creosote-coated railroad ties had been used to repair the bridge. Bolan watched where he placed his foot every step of the way across. Only Gary Manning accompanied him.

  It did not take the two men long to complete a preliminary reconnaissance. Bolan soon reappeared at the far end of the bridge and shouted across, "Okay, Yakov, this is it! Get that stuff unloaded and start setting up."