Cutting Edge, page 15
part #139 of The Executioner Series
Bolan frowned. "What they're calling a splinter could turn out to be a log."
He watched as Reed finished applying Mary Hronopulos's dark foundation makeup to Harkin's face. The stocky SEAL looked foolish in the patchy beard the Executioner had cut from the woman's fall. It would never pass close inspection.
But Bolan didn't plan on this stray faction of Alpha 66 getting a good look. Wearing Castillo's clothes, Harkin would make a convincing Cuban from a distance.
The warrior gathered the men around him. "All right," he began. "Harkin will ride decoy with the Marine escort. I'll take Raul in Mrs. Hronopulos's Cadillac." He turned to Reed and the chief petty officer. "The chief and Reed ride with me."
Hronopulos stepped forward. "Like hell. You go with the Marines, Chief." He faced Bolan. "You're in command, Pollock. I can't overrule you, and I wouldn't if I could. But it is my base and I feel a certain responsibility for…" He jammed a thick index finger toward Castillo and looked at Bolan expectantly.
The Executioner stared into Hronopulos's eyes. Bolan could tell that not only did the man want to be in on the action, he needed to be.
He nodded to Hronopulos. The big Greek had already proved he was a good man under fire. He was a commander, but he hadn't hesitated to follow Bolan's orders so far. That was a quality most men of his rank lost somewhere during their climb up the military ladder — the ability to obey as well as issue orders.
Bolan led his team to the garage and slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac Seville. He waited as Reed took the shotgun seat and Hronopulos put Castillo on the floor in the back, covering him with his legs.
"This is… humiliating," the Cuban complained.
The Executioner barely suppressed a smile as he heard a thump, then a soft groan come from the back seat.
"Excuse me," Hronopulos apologized. "Me and my big feet." His voice didn't sound too sorry.
Bolan watched through the garage-door window as the Marine-Navy convoy pulled away from the house. He'd give them a two-minute lead.
The Executioner had refused the offer of an armed car to ride shotgun on the circuitous route he'd charted to the pier. That would have defeated the purpose. If this plan worked — and there were never any guarantees — it would be because they slipped to the ship without drawing attention.
He threw the Seville into Reverse and backed into the driveway. The street behind him was deserted. So far, so good.
The warrior drove slowly, keeping the Caddie under the twenty-mile-per-hour residential-area limit as they moved through the long row of officers' homes. Then, tapping his foot lightly on the accelerator, he jumped the car to thirty as they drove through the base maintenance area.
The Executioner frowned, not happy with the way the engine choked when he'd accelerated. He hadn't expected Mary Hronopulos's car to be a high-performance racing machine, but it hadn't entered his mind that the vehicle might break down on the way to the ship.
Bolan made a right-hand turn, heading away from the dock for several blocks before taking a street parallel to the route the convoy had followed. With any luck at all, the decoy would keep Alpha 66 safely away from Castillo. But as they neared the dock area, the margin of safety would have to be narrowed. Bolan would bring the vehicle in from the opposite direction, but the closer they got to the ship, the closer the Caddie would get to the convoy.
They crossed the base maintenance area and passed the Acey-Ducey and Seaman's clubs. Bolan glanced at Reed in the seat next to him. The black man's eyes darted left to right, scanning both the ground and the rooftops as they drove. In the rearview mirror, Bolan could see Hronopulos doing the same.
As they turned left and started the last leg to the water, the Executioner spotted a battered Chevy parked halfway down the block. Smoke rose from the open hood, and two figures in dresses and scarves stood next to the vehicle, apparently waiting for help.
Apparently was the operative word. Bolan felt the muscles in his chest tighten. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't look right. "Get ready," he told the other two.
Reed drew back the bolt of his silenced MP-5, and Bolan saw a flicker in the mirror as Hronopulos raised the Gustav M-45B.
Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and held it in his left hand as they neared the parked vehicle. They were. twenty yards from the car when the two «women» turned to face them. Both had beards, and both held MAC-10 machine pistols.
The Executioner reached through the open window and rested the big .44 on the Caddie's hood, tapped the trigger and dropped the closer gunner. The man's dress flapped up over his hairy knees as he hit the ground.
The warrior floored the accelerator, but the engine sputtered and coughed. The Seville slowed.
"Dammit, Mary," he heard Hronopulos mutter under his breath as the first burst of gunfire from the second gunner trashed the Seville's windshield. Reed slumped against Bolan, his face and chest riddled with holes.
The warrior eased up on the pedal and the Caddie sprang back to life. He held it halfway to the floor, and the big car gradually gained speed as they passed the scarfed gunman.
They chugged past the Chevy as more rounds exploded around them. Bolan saw Hronopulos twist to face the rear, his right knee pressed against the back of the car seat. Strapping his leg down with the seat belt, the big Greek leaned out the window and fired the M-45B.
The scarfed man returned fire. Two rounds hit Hronopulos in the right forearm, and the Gustav fell to the street. Without hesitation, Hronopulos's left hand drew the .45 from his belt and continued firing.
The enemy gunner went down, but his final round hit a rear tire. The Seville jerked hard to the left. Hronopulos was thrown up against the roof by the sudden momentum. He flopped back away from the car as they fishtailed down the street.
The Executioner brought the Caddie under control and limped in on the rim to the alley behind the Naval Exchange. He grabbed Reed's silenced MP-5 and ripped the canvas magazine belt from the strap around his neck.
Hronopulos exited the vehicle, pulling Castillo out after him with his bloody arm.
In the street in front of the building, they heard the screech of tires. Bolan and Hronopulos each grabbed an arm and dragged the Cuban down the alley. Two blocks away they stopped behind the bowling alley and dropped to concealment behind a row of Dumpsters.
Bolan looked at the captain. The strain was beginning to show. The big Greek's face had turned bright crimson, and his chest heaved under labored breathing as he squatted in the semidarkness. Blood poured from his wounded arm, but he held the .45 steady in his other hand, muzzle up and ready.
Bolan tore the chambray shirt from Castillo's back, exposing the dark blue body armor. He wrapped the cloth around Hronopulos's arm, tying it tightly, then twisted the knot.
They heard footsteps down the alley as hushed voices conversed in Spanish.
"What now?" Hronopulos panted.
"The backup plan," Bolan replied.
Hronopulos grunted. "Didn't know we had one."
"We always do. Fight."
The big Greek chuckled.
The Executioner squinted through the darkness. The footsteps were drawing near, and he could make out movement as shadowy figures searched the alley a block away. "How much farther to the ship?" he asked Hronopulos.
"Six blocks."
"We'll have to make it on foot," Bolan told him. "Grab an arm."
They dragged the Cuban to his feet and moved out cautiously, putting as much distance as possible between them and the renegade members of Alpha 66. When they hit the cross street, Bolan scanned the area before the three men sprinted under the streetlight and back to the darkness of the alley on the other side.
The warrior shoved Castillo behind another Dumpster as shots rang out from somewhere across base.
"Sounds like the decoy worked," Hronopulos grunted.
Bolan nodded and jerked a thumb back down the alley where the searching figures had reappeared. "Tell them. Let's go."
At the next intersection, they ducked behind a parked panel truck as a carload of men raced past, the barrels of automatic weapons poking out through the open windows. Bolan waited until they were out of sight, then pulled the Cuban across the street.
They continued moving silently in the shadows, crossing the next two streets without incident. The salty smell of seawater drifted to them, and Bolan could see the destroyer in the distance.
But a two-block stretch of open grass field separated them from the pier.
The autofire was closer now, and escalating. Bolan turned to Hronopulos. The big Greek was holding his own, but the blood vessels in his face and neck threatened to explode each time his chest heaved outward. "It's open country from here on in," the Executioner said. "You up to it?"
Hronopulos nodded. "Goddammit, I'm a… SEAL…Pollock," he wheezed. "At least I used to be. And we can do any damn thing we want… to do."
Bolan hoped so.
They took off at a job across the field, Castillo stretched between them. At the far end of the dock, Bolan saw sporadic muzzle-flashes as automatic weapons blazed in the darkness.
Suddenly they were framed in light as two cars rounded a corner and jumped the curb to the field in pursuit. Dirt and grass flew into the air as rounds ripped into the ground by their running feet.
Castillo broke away from their grasp and turned, frozen like a startled deer in the headlights. There was a break in the fire, then a lone shot rang out and the Cuban screamed, collapsing onto his back on the ground.
Bolan laid down cover fire with the silenced MP-5, the weapon sending barely audible phutts through the open field. He reached down and grabbed Castillo by the front of his body armor. He turned toward the ship, towing the shocked man by the vest.
Hronopulos fell in behind, wheezing for air and losing ground with every step.
Bolan dropped the silenced MP-5 and snatched the big .44 Magnum from his side. The time for silence and stealth was over. What they needed now was the attention of some of the Marines who were still battling the Alpha troops at the other end of the docks.
The warrior fired four rounds over his shoulder as he ran, the Desert Eagle thundering out its cannon booms. Castillo tripped and fell to the ground once more. The Executioner whirled and dropped to one knee, emptying the magazine into one of the oncoming vehicles and taking out a headlight.
He looked over his shoulder. They were still a. hundred yards from the ship, but a U.S. Marine Corps jeep was racing toward them from the other end of the quayside. He shoved a fresh mag up the butt of the .44.
The men in the two vehicles ceased fire, then turned their guns on the approaching Marines.
Hronopulos puffed to a halt by the Executioner's side. He looked past them to the ship. "Better… let me go first. They'll recognize me. They're liable… to shoot you… in all the confusion."
"Take off," Bolan said. "We'll follow." He turned and emptied another magazine of .44s at the enemy cars, then grabbed the Cuban again and scrambled after Hronopulos.
Scattered shots still rang over their heads as they neared the ship. Bolan watched Hronopulos lumber up the forward bow, the career sailor flashing automatic salutes at the stern and OD on the run. In front of him, the Executioner heard the watch system ring eight bells and then the IMC boomed "NAF, Key West, arriving," over the gunfire.
Bolan dragged Castillo up the bow and shoved him onto the quarterdeck. He undogged the hatch and pushed the Cuban through as a round careened off the steel plating over his head. The Executioner turned and dropped the lone gunman, then ducked through the hatch into the superstructure.
Hronopulos lay exhausted on the deck of the passageway.
The ship's skipper slid down the ladder railing from the bridge, staring at Hronopulos as the big Greek's chest heaved. A wry grin spread across the man's face as he came to attention in an exaggerated salute to his red-faced colleague. "Nice of you to drop in, George," he said. "Not a bad job you did out there… for such an old fart, that is."
Hronopulos raised his arm and saluted the skipper — his middle finger extended as it touched his forehead. "Up… yours… Haz," he panted and grinned.
The skipper turned to Bolan and offered his hand. "Captain Hasbrook Edwards. Welcome aboard the M. E. Hart."
Bolan took his grip. "Are the electronic intelligence specialists finished setting up?" he asked.
"No, but they're on board. And your… order from Scotland just arrived. Lieutenant Oven brought it on board a half hour ago."
"Good," Bolan said. "The electronics people can finish while we sail."
"Fair enough," Edwards walked to the bulkhead and flipped a toggle switch on the ship's communication system. "This is the captain," he said. "Pass the word. Make all preparations for getting underway." He turned back to Bolan. "Anything I can provide for you gentlemen?"
Hronopulos's laugh echoed throughout the superstructure. "Yeah," the big Greek replied, his breath still coming in puffs. "Get our little friend some dry diapers, will you, Haz?"
Bolan and Edwards turned to Castillo who lay on the deck across from Hronopulos. A dark, wet stain covered his crotch.
12
Bolan and Hronopulos followed Captain Edwards through the destroyer's passageways. Edwards stopped at a stateroom door, opened the lock and they stepped inside. He flipped another switch on the ship's communication system and barked orders into the microphone. A few minutes later, a steward appeared.
Edwards indicated Castillo with a jerk of his head. "Bring this man food, and a clean shirt and dungarees. Then have dinner for five sent to my at-sea cabin." The skipper leaned back into the radio. "Send down a signalman," he told the bridge.
Bolan felt the deck roll beneath his feet as the destroyer got underway. Through the lone porthole, he saw the water around the ship begin to churn, white bubbles sparkling in the dock lights.
Hronopulos opened the hatch and the signalman entered the room, saluting.
"I want you to stay with this man, Flags," Edwards ordered. "Officially he's not a prisoner, but I don't want him leaving this room until I give the word. Understood?"
The signalman nodded. "Aye, aye, sir."
Two men were waiting outside in the passageway when they reached the captain's at-sea cabin. Edwards began the introductions as they crossed the threshold.
"Lieutenant Jesse Oven," he said, nodding toward a thin, wiry man in camouflage fatigues and a floppy jungle hat. "One of George's original SEALS."
Bolan grasped his hand.
"And this is the head of the intelligence crew," the skipper continued. "Delmar Buvinger, Direct Support Detachment. Grab a seat, gentlemen. You both know George." Edwards slid into the chair behind his desk. "This is Rance Pollock. Don't know for sure who he's with — but he's in charge."
Bolan and Oven took seats on the folding couchberth while Buvinger sat down in the small armchair across from them.
Edwards pulled a manila file folder from a desk drawer, crossed his legs and rested it on his lap. "I've been in touch with the Justice Department," he said, looking at Bolan. He opened the folder and pulled a pair of half glasses from his breast pocket. "Brognola, I think his name was… yeah. Anyway, here's the low-down so far. Fidel Castro has agreed to exchange Juan Montoya for his minister of defense at 1900 tomorrow. A Cuban soldier will meet Raul and no more than two guards — he was adamant about that — on the beach at Bahia de Nipe."
Bolan saw the skipper squint through the glasses at the open folder. "I've got the coordinates here, and there's supposed to be a small pier. Anyway, Castro's coming himself and he'll only have two men, too."
"Bullshit," Hronopulos bellowed.
"Probably," Bolan agreed. "But it doesn't matter. I'll take Raul in myself."
"Castro's also stipulated that the ship remain in international waters. Not that I was too excited about getting closer anyway," Edwards said. "This is a touchy situation, Pollock. It could blow up in our faces at any time. How do you plan to go ashore?"
Oven looked at Bolan. "We can use a Zodiac, if you want," he said. "But it's slow."
Bolan thought a moment. The Zodiac was slow, and there was always the chance of the rubber dinghy capsizing during the six-mile journey. Castillo's behavior under pressure so far had been far from heroic. Bolan didn't even know if the Cuban could swim, and the thought of splashing around in the waters of the Caribbean trying to save a screaming man didn't appeal to him.
Bolan shook his head. "We'll take your gig, Captain. It'll be safer and faster than a Zodiac. It'll mean more than two men accompanying Raul, but only to the pier. The crew won't need to leave the boat."
Edwards nodded. "I'll notify the crew."
Hronopulos turned to Bolan, the big Greek's eyes narrowing. "Let me ask you just one question, Pollock. Once you're on the island, you're in Castro's ballpark. I know what you're planning. And like I said, I like it. But Fidel-baby isn't playing with a full seabag. In short, what if it doesn't work?"
Buvinger spoke for the first time. "Excuse me. I don't know what you gentlemen are referring to, but I think I can put your fears to rest, Captain."
Bolan looked a him. Buvinger wore thick glasses under the bushy white eyebrows that were the only hair on his head. His eyes darted nervously as he scanned the cabin every few seconds. "We'll be using long-range surveillance equipment to monitor your activities, Mr. Pollock," he said. "Both audio and visual. It's to ensure your safety as well as secure proof if Castro reneges on his promises. And there's always a chance we may pick up some stray intelligence that could be useful later." Buvinger paused, his thin chest expanding as he drew a deep breath. "It's the best equipment available, but we can't rule out failure due to unforeseen circumstances. I'd like you to wear a recorder and body mike as a backup precaution."
Bolan thought a moment. Trusting electronic surveillance to protect him from whatever double cross Castro might have in mind was an exercise in futility. No matter how fast the men on the ship picked up danger signals, they could never reach the island in time to be of any help.
