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Authors: William W. Johnstone,J. A. Johnstone

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BOOK: Target Response
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Thurlow hovered over him. “Are you all right, Krentz?”

“Yes—none of the glass got in my eyes, thank God….”

“That was close, too close! But we got him, though—we got Kilroy!” Thurlow said. He rose to his feet, standing on trembling legs. “Nice shooting, T’gai. You too, sergeant. There’s a bonus in this for you, for all the crew!”

Thurlow stood at the starboard side, resting his forearms on the sandbags lashed to the top of the gunwale, putting his weight on them. He was still a little weak in the knees.

The others grouped around him, looking at where the motorboat had gone down. A couple of fire-charred bodies bobbed in the water.

“So much for Kilroy. His breakout…was broken,” Thurlow said with deep satisfaction.

“No trophies to take back to Tayambo, I’m afraid,” Krentz said, laughing shakily.

“I don’t know, a couple of bodies are still floating around.”

Krentz cut a side glance at the other. “You’ll have trouble picking out Mister Kilroy now that the fire’s gotten to all of them.”

“It’s worth a look. I’d hate to disappoint the minister,” Thurlow said, cool eyed, with a bland smile.

“Better move quick then, Ward, before the crocs get them,” Krentz cautioned.

“We’ll bring them alongside with a gaffing pole.”

Something came out of the water and hauled itself up the port side of the gunboat.

Sergeant Ajani was nearest to the interloper. He turned to face it, just in time to see Kilroy clamber up a line and over the side.

Kilroy crouched on folded legs on the gunwale, dripping rank river water, clutching a panga. Gripping the hilt in both hands, he raised his arms high and brought them down in a blur of motion.

The machete-like blade came down square in the middle of the top of Ajani’s head. It struck with a ripe chunking sound, like a melon being sliced in two.

The blade came down at an angle, burying itself in Ajani’s skull to the eyebrows, which were lifted in surprise. Ajani’s pop eyes bulged as though they were going to burst from the sockets.

Kilroy tried to wrench the blade free, but it was planted so deep in the other’s cranium that it was temporarily stuck in place. Ajani backpedaled, tree-trunk legs buckling at the knees. The panga went with him, wrenching free of Kilroy’s hands.

Kilroy launched himself from the gunwale in a headfirst dive, slamming into Ajani and shoving him to the starboard side of the boat.

Ajani was a big man weighing more than 250 pounds. His dead weight crashed into Thurlow and Krentz as they turned to face the newcomer.

Ajani toppled, knocking down Krentz and Thurlow in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

The impact jarred the panga loose and it fell clattering to the bottom of the boat. Ajani’s massive head wound spewed a fountain of blood.

Kilroy snatched up the panga by the handle.

Krentz, cursing, wriggled clear of Ajani’s massive inert form, shoving it toward Thurlow. Having almost extricated himself from the noncom’s dead weight, Thurlow was once again destabilized and knocked off balance, slipping and falling, his lower body being pinned under Ajani’s corpse.

Krentz’s hand plunged toward the sidearm holstered on his right hip, drawing a squat, stubby Walther PPK.

The pistol cleared the holster just as Kilroy slashed down with the panga, severing Krentz’s hand at the wrist.

Still gripping the pistol, the hand dropped into the bottom of the boat. The pistol did not fire.

Krentz held his maimed arm in front of his face, goggling at it as gore geysered from the end of his wrist, where it had parted company with his hand. He started screaming.

T’gai snatched up Ajani’s assault rifle.

Hamid picked up the fire ax. He wanted to get into the action but the others were between him and Kilroy, blocking him. He moved to scramble around them.

Ward Thurlow slithered out from under Ajani, pulling a flat black .32 semiautomatic pistol from his pocket.

Kilroy snap-kicked Thurlow, driving the ball of a booted foot against Thurlow’s jaw. Thurlow jerked the trigger as he fell back, firing a shot from his pistol that went wild. He fell back, banging the back of his head against the side of the boat. The pistol slipped from his hand, skittering across the boards.

Kilroy lunged toward T’gai just as T’gai began to swing the rifle around to bring the muzzle in line with his assailant.

They came together with a crash, Kilroy thrusting the panga deep into T’gai’s soft belly just below the breastbone. The panga ran T’gai through, its pointed tip emerging out of his back.

Kilroy pulled the rifle from T’gai’s nerveless hands before the other dropped. Hamid charged, both hands holding the ax raised above his head. He slipped on blood, losing his footing.

Kilroy squeezed the trigger of the rifle, firing a three-shot burst into Hamid’s middle at point-blank range, nearly cutting him in two. Hamid spun like a top, falling to one side.

Krentz was still on his feet, his good hand gripping his maimed arm, blood gushing from the end of it. Kilroy shot him, putting him out of his misery.

Sesto, frozen into immobility throughout the sudden, savage clash, now came alive with a shriek and threw himself overboard.

Thurlow, dazed, raised himself to a sitting position with his back against the side of the boat. He moaned as Kilroy pointed the rifle at him, smoke curling from the muzzle.

Kilroy could have been the living incarnation of some fearsome folkloric swamp devil. The river had washed off some but not all of the mud coating him, leaving his body tiger striped with dark smeared streaks alternating with bands of paler flesh. Wild eyes blazed in a devil-mask face.

“We meet again,” he said.

FOUR

Kilroy had finally made his breakout. It hadn’t been easy. He had to fight all the way.

Earlier he’d piloted the dinghy to the western edge of the swamp. A flat-bottomed patrol boat with four Nigerian troopers in it stood guard where the channel Kilroy had been following out of the flooded forest and through the swamp emptied into the Rada River.

The patrol boat’s searchlight was trained on the mouth of the channel, covering it. Its occupants weren’t paying much attention to their duties. The hour was late; they were alone in the boat with no superior officer to monitor them. Two of them were sleeping and the other two were passing a bottle of palm liquor back and forth.

Kilroy was running dark. The searchlight could be seen from a long way off, deep in the recesses of the swamp. Catching sight of it shining through the trees, vines, and hanging moss, Kilroy plunged the torch at the bow of the dinghy into the water, extinguishing it.

Immediately he throttled down, shutting off the motor. He waited for a reaction from the patrol boat.

None came.

The searchlight held its original position with no deviation. If the patrol boat had spotted his torch or heard his engine, it would have responded by sweeping the beam in and around the channel to locate the newcomer and starting its engine to move into action.

There was no such response, indicating that he was as yet undetected.

In the bottom of the dinghy lay a pair of flat-bladed oarlike paddles, an emergency recourse in case of engine failure. Kilroy picked one up and dipped it into the water.

Once outside the flooded forest, the sluggish channel current had increased somewhat. It carried the dinghy forward at a rate of several miles per hour, its speed increasing as it neared the Rada.

Kilroy used the paddle mostly for steering and occasionally to push the boat back in the middle of the channel when it drifted too near one of the banks. The channel did not proceed to the Rada in a straight line but followed a winding course. That was a help since he was able to get close to the channel mouth before having to worry about being seen in the light.

The dinghy silently crept close to the end of the channel. One last turn separated the channel from the river. A spit of land on Kilroy’s left stood between him and the exit—and the patrol boat.

Kilroy selected a likely spot from which to make his move. The finger of land on his left thrust out into the Rada. It had a slight elevation of several feet, solid ground, and a matted tangle of vegetation for cover.

Kilroy readied to make his move. He selected the cleaner, better-maintained assault rifle of the two in the dinghy. It was loaded with a full clip. He slung the canvas ammo bag over a shoulder.

He’d already appropriated Rasheed’s panga, adjusting the straps to fasten the scabbard diagonally across the flat of his back with the blade’s hilt in ready reach behind his left shoulder.

Stepping onto the bank, he wedged the dinghy’s bow deep in a tangle of mangrove roots that reached into the water.

He started up the engine. It fired up with a cracking noise that sounded loud in the still of the swampy night. The driveshaft and propeller were raised out of the water to avoid giving the engine any propulsive power. It was the noise of the motor that he needed.

As a lure.

He climbed up onto the bank, making a nest for himself amid a tangle of twisted dwarf trees and brush.

The sudden eruption of engine noise produced the desired effect. The river patrol boat wasn’t idling anymore. From it came shouts. Its engine started up.

Its searchlight swung into action, sweeping back and forth across the finger of land. The powerful beam was unable to penetrate the dense tangle of foliage where Kilroy had made his nest. The beam swung overhead through the trees. A change in the engine’s tempo indicated that the patrol boat was in motion.

The boat swung around into the river, rounding the point and entering the channel. Its searchlight swept from side to side, scanning both banks of the channel. Greenish banks of mist rolled across the scene, partially obscuring it.

The beam flitted across the dinghy, fastening on to it. The swamp boat’s engine sputtered away, laying down a cloud of gray-blue exhaust.

The patrol boat came up the channel cautiously. One of the men inside shouted something, hailing the dinghy.

From his place of concealment Kilroy could now see that the square-bowed boat held four soldiers, two in front, two behind. Like the dinghy, the patrol boat was powered by a stern-mounted outboard motor, although a larger and more powerful engine, to be sure.

The pilot sat on a stern seat, working a tiller to steer the boat. Except for the pilot, the other three troopers had their rifles trained on the dinghy. One of them used one hand to train the bow-mounted searchlight on the empty boat with the active motor.

The patrol boat cut its engine, letting momentum carry it to the dinghy. The searchlight beam flooded radiance on the dinghy, illuminating it in a white-hot glare. It left untouched the shadowed canebrake where Kilroy lay cloaked in darkness.

The patrol boat came alongside the dinghy to investigate. Kilroy opened fire on the soldiers grouped together in the square-bowed boat.

He squeezed off a quick succession of rapid-fire bursts, wreaking mass slaughter. He was careful to place his shots so none of them would accidentally hole the bottom of the boat. That would be a hell of a note, he told himself.

Within seconds three dead bodies lay sprawled in the patrol boat. The fourth trooper had fallen overboard when hit and now lay floating facedown in the channel.

Kilroy rose from his bushwhacker’s nest, making his way down the channel’s left bank to the water. He stepped into the dinghy and shut off the engine. Pushing away from the bank, he paddled to the patrol boat.

Carefully, he climbed out of the dinghy into the larger craft, stepping on the bodies littering the bottom of the boat. He took hold of the tiller handle protruding from the motor, turned the throttle handle to lower the engine’s output to a low, throaty purr.

He collected the rifles and spare ammo, inspecting each weapon to make sure that it was locked, loaded, and in good working order. He set the booty within ready reach.

He hefted one of the bodies and dumped it over the side. The corpse had concealed a coiled length of rope beneath it. He’d planned to throw the other two bodies overboard but now decided against it. He’d have a use for them later.

The channel water began to churn and thrash. Crocodiles, attracted by the scent of blood in the water, coursed toward the site.

“Eat hearty, boys,” Kilroy muttered.

The boat rocked with unease but was bigger and more solid than the dinghy, less likely to be upset by the crocs’ agitation. The saurians fastened their jaws on various limbs and then rolled around in the water until they tore them off.

Kilroy used his survival knife to cut off various lengths of the coiled rope. He used them to tie the two remaining bodies upright in the pair of forward seats. They presented a macabre spectacle as they sat sagging against the ropes, heads lolling, open mouths gaping, eyes open and staring.

Kilroy reversed the engine, turned around in the channel so the boat pointed downstream. He switched off the searchlight. The blessed darkness was his ally.

He stayed in place for some time, engine idling, as he allowed his eyes to once more get accustomed to the lack of light. When his night vision returned, he got ready for the big breakout. He sat on the stern seat, hand on the tiller, an assault rifle laid across the tops of his thighs.

“Let’s take ’er for a little spin, fellows,” Kilroy said to the corpses lashed to the forward seats. He was perhaps not entirely sane at this point but it was working for him.

The patrol boat coursed downstream, making for the Rada.

Nearing the river, the channel widened, its banks fanning outward away from each other. The trees thinned; there was more open space and air. Dark clouds pressed down, lowering the ceiling, hemming in the scene.

To the south, lights could be seen through the brush, the lights of the soldiers’ camp on the point thrusting into the Kondo.

Kilroy entered the Rada, the current flowing south. A pair of widely scattered lights showed on the water, the lights of other patrol boats. One cruised a quarter mile north on the Rada; another stood downstream.

Kilroy swung the boat south toward the junction with the Kondo. He steered downstream, coursing south along the Rada’s west bank. A square-bowed patrol boat similar to the one in which he was riding stood guard, barring the way where the river poured into the Kondo.

Beyond, in the middle of the Kondo, a gunboat rode at anchor, its form dimly illuminated by its running lights and by several lanterns strung along it.

The gunboat was his meat, Kilroy decided. Its superior size identified it as the flag vessel of the enemy’s river craft, the command seat from which the water search was directed.

It would do no good to make a mad dash for the Kondo without neutralizing the gunboat. Otherwise the larger, better-armed craft would easily overtake his smaller boat and shoot it to pieces.

No, the situation called for a bold stroke, one that would leave Kilroy holding all the marbles if he succeeded. And if he failed?

No matter, for then he would be dead and beyond caring.

Time to lighten his load. The panga was essential to his plan and must stay with him. His boots would be a hindrance later but he wasn’t getting rid of them, not when there was a possibility that he might have to once more resume his desperate trek on land. But the big .44 handgun had outlived its usefulness and would have to go.

He hated to do it. It was a good gun and deserved better. But what choice did he have? When he made his play, the .44 would be one more encumbrance and might spell the difference between success and failure. Besides, once wet it would be more danger than deliverer; there was no trusting wet cartridges that might splutter and fail.

After wrapping the holstered handgun with its shoulder straps, he raised it to his lips and reverently kissed it good-bye.

“Adios, amigo,” he murmured. He let it slip from his hands into the water, mourning the loss of one good gun.

“Here we go, fellows,” he called to the two corpses forward.

Kilroy opened up the throttle, making for the patrol boat downstream. He approached at a moderate clip, throttling down as he neared the other.

He crouched down on the stern seat so that he was partially covered by the two corpses up front. They would create the illusion of live men as long as they were not examined from too close up—he hoped.

He drifted toward the patrol boat, coming at it broadside. In it were four men, one of whom hailed his boat.

Kilroy rose from his seat, leaning forward to reach between the two men tied upright in their seats. He switched on the searchlight, pointing it at the other boat, lighting it up.

He took them by surprise, his assault rifle streaming lead into the figures massed in the boat. They threw their arms up in the air, wailing and howling as they were cut down.

The rifle emptied. Kilroy set it down and picked up another, continuing the process. An unnecessary exercise—everyone on the other boat was dead.

He grabbed the tiller and steered away from the patrol boat. Leaking fuel and hot lead combined to set the boat on fire.

Kilroy opened up the throttle and roared past it. He pointed his bow at the gunboat anchored in the middle of the Kondo and charged, intending to ram it amidships. The gunboat’s searchlight pointed at the newcomer, illuminating the two corpses tied to their seats.

Kilroy let go of the tiller long enough to shoulder a rifle and shoot out the searchlight.

Collision was imminent.

Machine gun fire chewed up the front of Kilroy’s boat. The dead men writhed and jerked as machine gun slugs slugs tore into them.

Kilroy abandoned ship, throwing himself over the port side in a low headfirst dive. The water hit him with a hammering blow, as if it were solid, not liquid. Open hands held in diving position over his head cleaved the water’s surface and he knifed through it, going deep.

For an instant he feared the impact had torn the sheathed panga free from his body. He felt for it, was reassured to find that it was still there. So was the knife worn at his hip.

He swam underwater toward the gunboat, angling toward its stern. His lungs felt close to bursting.

When he could stand it no more he broke the surface, popping up to gulp a breath of air. The wake that had been torn through the water by the speeding patrol boat in its last few seconds helped hide his head.

He immediately ducked back underwater and continued swimming toward the gunboat. His boots were heavy, weighing him down, slowing his forward progress, but he kept moving, kicking and stroking.

The patrol boat he had quit burst into flames, curving to starboard now that no one was steering it.

It blew up.

The impact was a dull concussion that slammed and battered Kilroy. He was far enough from the blast for its effects to be minimized, but it still gave him a hell of a pounding.

His head broke the surface, he gulped air, then submerged. Using the breaststroke and frog kick he neared the gunboat, slanting past the stern. The murky water was warm, enervating. Thinking of crocodiles helped speed Kilroy along.

He reached the gunboat’s port side. Its occupants had all turned their attention toward the starboard side, watching the final destruction of the patrol boat.

Noiselessly Kilroy stroked to the port quarter at the gunboat’s stern. A rope line securing the sandbags to the gunwale provided a ready handhold. The space between the waterline and the top of the gunwale was not so great that his arms couldn’t span it.

Wrapping both hands over the edge, he hauled himself up out of the water. He heaved himself up, throwing his middle over the gunwale, pulling up his legs and getting his feet under him.

He drew the panga from its sheath, raising it.

Ajani turned to see what was making the commotion.

BOOK: Target Response
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