Tiger War (2 page)

Suddenly Bolan did an about-face and raced for the smoke screen, taking off his gun and putting on the mask. The wind was blowing the smoke from right to left, so he ran to the right to be near the head of the screen.

With his mask in place, he ran a foot or two into the smoke and crouched facing downwind, ears straining over the hiss of the smoking Slepoys, concentrating on the shouting of his pursuers. He needed to know if they would run through the screen or around it.

The shouting drew nearer. They were going to go through the screen. Bolan brought up his weapon. Coughing figures ran out of the smoke. Bolan fired. One burst, two, three. He saw his bullets tear into their sides and backs.

Five men crumpled while three hit the dirt and returned fire. Bolan ducked and retreated into the smoke screen, leaving the trio for later, ears seeking out the remaining men. They were more dangerous because he did not know where they were.

A moment later he heard them, running in his direction, obviously intending to go around the screen now that they had heard shooting, not wanting to stumble blindly into a firefight. Bolan moved to that side of the smoke screen. As they passed, he cut them down.

Eight down, three to go. Bolan moved back to the other side. The trio had disappeared. Were they gone or lying in the grass waiting for him? Or perhaps moving around the smoke screen to see what had happened to their comrades?

Walking on his knees in Japanese martial-arts fashion, Bolan moved to the head of the screen. There they were, crawling through the grass.

Bolan waited, motionless.

From the grass a head rose, the sun of Nationalist China glinting on the cap. Then a second head appeared, then the third. They stood up, guns at the ready, then moved slowly to where trampled grass told them there were bodies. All the time, however, they kept their eyes on the billowing smoke where Bolan crouched, invisible.

They reached the bodies, and a cry escaped the lips of one of them. Perhaps the dead soldier was a friend, or perhaps he had never seen a rifle bullet cause such a large wound. Either way, his cry momentarily diverted the attention of his comrades. And Bolan fired.

Bolan emerged from the smoke and took off his mask. He checked his work. Not a wounded man among them, and for a reason. The new Kalashnikov's bullets, too, were pretty formidable, featuring air gaps and lead plugs. As they penetrated the target the bullets tumbled and mushroomed.

Bolan shouldered his weapon and walked back to the village. On the periphery a crowd had assembled. The people watched him in silence, a silence that had a touch of awe. Eleven to one and victorious. The "long nose" knew his business.

Bolan went up to the headman. "Did you consult your people?" he asked.

"Yes," the other answered.

"And?"

"They agree. A hundred men armed with muskets and crossbows."

Bolan looked out in the direction of the smoke and the bodies. "We will have some M-16s as well."

The headman looked him up and down. "You do not want new clothes?"

Bolan smiled. "You think I will fit into a Montagnard suit?"

"I have Mr. Nark clothes. He big too."

"Okay, I'll try them. Also I would like some hot tea and corn pancakes. And hot water to wash and shave."

"Come," the headman said. "You will have everything you want."

On the way Bolan said, "If it turns out Nark did not tell Tiger about the operation, will your people agree to fight in an attack on the Tiger camp?"

"Who will lead?"

"I will."

"Then," the headman said, "the people agree."

The column snaked through the night, climbing the mountain forest. To help them stay together, every man had a firefly in a tiny cage attached to his back. It was an old Montagnard trick revived by Bolan to prevent men from getting lost. Getting lost was easy when going cross-country at night.

Bolan had dispensed with the trail because it was a longer way. He wanted to get to the monastery before midnight, before Tiger put Nark through another torture session.

From his knowledge of interrogation techniques Bolan knew that the best time to work on a man was after midnight, when his psychological defenses were the weakest. Tiger would know that too.

Tock, tock.

A woodpecker's tap traveled down the line. The column halted, the men squatted. Bolan heard someone make his way down the column. It was the headman.

"We are at edge of forest," he whispered. "Temple ahead. Come."

Bolan and the headman made their way past the line of glowing fireflies flicking on and off. They emerged into grassland and knelt by a large boulder. A couple of hundred yards away stood a compound of buildings with a pagoda. Lights flickered from the shuttered windows, and in the pagoda there was chanting.

"They hold services at this hour?" asked Bolan. It was nearly eleven o'clock.

"These bonzes pray day and night," said the headman. "Tang Mei is temple of Night Buddha."

The entrance to the pagoda was lit by flaming torches. By their light Bolan could see two soldiers. He brought out his field glasses for a better look. One man sat on the steps. His companion leaned against one of the stone dragons flanking the entrance. Both were eating, holding a bowl and chopsticks, their rifles propped nearby.

"Could be they're holding Nark in the pagoda," Bolan said.

"Not know," replied the headman.

Bolan went on inspecting the target. The ground behind the monastery rose sharply to a plateau. On the plateau stood a shack with an antenna.

"Radio relay station," said the headman, seeing him looking up.

"Doesn't seem to be anyone there now," said Bolan. The shack was in darkness. He turned his attention to the compound. "Which building houses the soldiers?"

"Not know."

Great, thought Bolan. Crossbows, muskets, and he didn't have a clue where to start.

He lowered his glasses. "Okay, here's what I propose." He outlined his plan. "Do you agree?"

"I agree," said the headman and went back to the forest.

Bolan put away the field glasses and brought out a camy stick. He proceeded to apply the camouflage to his hands and face. By the time three men with crossbows joined him, the whole of him blended into the night. He gave the men their instructions.

"Wait," said one of the men. He undid the safety pin from Bolan's back and freed the firefly in the cage. He handed Bolan the cage. "Keep for next time."

Bolan pocketed the cage. It was made from a banana leaf. "Ready?" he asked them. "Let's go. May the spirits protect us."

They ran for the cover of the nearest building and crouched in its shadow. They waited to catch their breath, then worked their way along the wall.

When they came to the end of the building, they sprinted across open ground, working their way closer to the pagoda. The next building was in total darkness. They could hear snoring, and a child's voice mumbled in its sleep. It was a boys' dormitory. The monks ran a school for temple pages.

To his right Bolan could hear a lot of loud talk and laughter. Right away that told him something. Thais did not talk loudly, especially not in a monastery. He waited until he could hear the language clearly. It was Chinese, which confirmed what he thought. He took a Meo by the arm.

"Tiger," he whispered, pointing.

The other ran off. He would tell the headman, who would now know where to place his M-16 squad.

Bolan and the other two continued along the wall. They reached the corner and Bolan peered ahead. Before him was a sandy clearing in the middle of which grew the traditional sacred tree. Beyond was the pagoda, the inside lit and visible through the open doorway, though the monks were out of sight.

On the steps, the two soldiers were serving themselves second helpings from a multitiered food container of the kind peasants took to the rice fields. Bolan watched them resume eating. They were completely absorbed in their meal.

Perhaps they were not guarding anything, thought Bolan. Perhaps they were simply having a late dinner and had chosen the spot because of the light. If so, they could not have chosen a better place as far as he was concerned. The chanting would drown out whatever noise Bolan and his men might make.

Bolan signaled the Meo and they crawled out, Bolan following. They crawled single file, trying to keep the bodhi tree, between them and the soldiers. Bolan kept his eyes and ears wide open. This was the most dangerous moment; they were completely exposed.

The Meo reached the tree and rose, eyes on Bolan, who lay on his stomach a few yards away so he would have a better line of fire if he have to intervene. Bolan edged sideways to see the soldiers. They were still eating.

Bolan nodded, and the Meo stepped out. Two arrows sang through the air. Rice bowls and chopsticks clattered, one man groaned and fell to the steps, and the other began coughing blood, hands clutching the arrow embedded in his stomach.

The chanting stopped.

The Meo looked at Bolan as if to say, What do we do now? Neither of two young Meo had ever killed a man. One reason they had volunteered was that a Meo was not a man until he had killed. The professionals, the ex-soldiers, had refused to take part in an operation that opposed muskets to assault rifles.

Bolan streaked past the Meo, hand going for his dagger. He bounded up the steps and plunged it into the coughing soldier's heart. The man died instantly, and Bolan dragged both bodies inside the doorway of the pagoda. The Meo followed with the soldiers' rifles.

"Get the food things!" Bolan snapped, livid with anger. He would have the headman's neck for giving him greenhorns. He turned to the line of yellow-robed monks in the interior of the pagoda, gave a perfunctory
wai,
and said, "Venerable monks, sing."

The monks glowered back in antagonistic silence. Not only was this foreigner desecrating a holy place by retaining his footwear, he had the impertinence to bring savages with him.

No love is lost in Thailand between the lowlander and the Montagnard, one civilized to the point of decadence, the other primitive and pagan, but a superior fighter.

"Sing, venerable monks," Bolan repeated.

The shaved heads remained silent. They knelt on the stone floor under a giant statue of the Night Buddha. The god gazed at Bolan through half-open eyes giving the impression he, too, was displeased by this intrusion.

Bolan sympathized, but war is war. He told the Meo to bar the door and went over to the chief monk. He dropped to one knee and addressed him in the most formal manner.

"Venerable teacher, excuse this imposition. I have come to rescue the white man. Please have the other monks sing while we talk. If they do not, the Chinese might suspect and come, and there will be fighting. I have a hundred barbarians outside ready to attack if necessary."

The head bonze and his assistant exchanged glances.

Bolan continued, "If there is fighting, many of your monks could be killed. Many of your temple boys, too. Your monastery will be damaged by fire. Please sing."

There was another exchange of looks. The head monk nodded, the assistant intoned. Wooden sticks clacked, small brass cymbals clashed and the chanting resumed.

"Thank you, venerable teacher," said Bolan. "Where is the white man?"

The monk's gaze fell to the floor.

"He's under the pagoda?"

The monk nodded.

"Where is the entrance?"

The monk said nothing.

"Please, venerable teacher, there is not much time."

"We haven't the key."

"Doesn't matter — I can open locks without a key. Where is the entrance?"

"The entrance is in the rear of the temple. One must go outside."

They held each other's eyes. Was this a trick, Bolan asked himself. There was something of a snake about this man. The eyes were glazed and the voice was syrupy.

Bolan lifted himself to his feet. "Please come to show me the entrance."

A shaved eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. The monk had not expected that. He glanced at his assistant and rose. Bolan signaled to the Meo to unbolt the door.

"No one is to leave, understand?" Bolan told them. "If anyone tries, shoot."

The two Meo nodded nervously.

They stepped out, Bolan leading. The square was empty. They descended the stone steps, avoiding the slippery blood, and Bolan motioned for the monk to go first. They went around the side of the pagoda.

The sky was still cloudy, obscuring the moon, the monks inside the pagoda were chanting, and the Tiger soldiers in the building were still laughing away. Everything was going like clockwork.

"Maiouk!"

Bolan spun around and ducked as a muzzle flashed. The monk was thrown against the wall by the impact of the bullets.

Bolan returned fire and a man screamed. Bolan fired again, a long, lateral burst. A second voice cried out and something crashed into the bushes.

The compound burst into life. Shutters banged, doors flew open, soldiers ran out. From the hill where the Meo headman was positioned, a whistle blew.

A musket fired dryly. An automatic rifle replied with a burst. A Meo war cry filled the air, followed by a fusillade of musket fire. The chanting continued.

Bolan dropped to the monk's side, then ran to the rear of the pagoda, found the door, and felt for the lock. There was no lock. The door was false.

He sprinted back past the body of the monk, feeling not at all sorry for him now that he knew the guy had tried to trick him. He bounded up the steps and pounded on the door.

"Open up!" he shouted.

The door remained closed.

"Open the door!" Bolan yelled over the gunfire outside and the chanting inside. "It's me — the white man!" He banged on the door with his fist.

There was the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, then the door opened and Bolan strode inside. This time there was no
wai
or kneeling.

"Silence!" he called out.

The chanting stopped.

Raising his voice above the din outside, Bolan said, "The head monk is dead. He tried to deceive me, the door is false. Where is the white man?"

The monks remained silent, eyes straight ahead.

Bolan walked up to the assistant. He placed the muzzle of his gun against the man's bare shoulder, and repeated his question.

"The white man is in a chamber under the pagoda," replied the monk.

"How does one get there?"

The monk rose, walked quickly to the side of the Buddha, and pushed a panel. A section of the wall swung open.

"Get a light and take me down there," Bolan ordered.

The monk took a torch from a wall, and they descended a long flight of steps into a large cave. On a mat, chained to the wall, lay a tall man with a mustache.

"It's me," said Bolan. "John."

"How come they're letting you keep your weapon?" asked Nark, squinting.

"I didn't come as a prisoner," said Bolan. "I came to free you."

"They told me you'd been captured," said Nark. "I knew they'd be on the drop zone. I was in the radio shack when Stony Man Farm radioed your time of arrival. How come your people fell for it? I specifically left out the true check to let you know I was transmitting under duress."

"The operator must have missed it," said Bolan, picking the lock on Nark's chains.

"How can anyone miss a check?"

"Routine, boredom, people get careless. It happens."

"Not in the NSA," said Nark.

"In the NSA too," Bolan assured him. "A few years back — this was before your time — the NSA agent in Tangier left out the true check to tell control he had been captured. Guess what control replied? 'Next time, please remember to include your true check.'"

They heard the sound of feet descending the stone steps, and the headman appeared. "Fight finished," he announced. "Hello, Mr. Nark."

"Hi, Major," said the tall, rail-thin American.

The headman held out a ball-shaped rocket attached to a small launcher. "You know this?" he asked. "Never see before."

"A RAW," Bolan replied. "Like an RPG but makes a bigger hole, and you fire it from a rifle."

"You want?" said the headman.

"Sure, I'll take it," said Bolan. It was of no use to him — the launcher only fitted an M-16 — but to refuse a gift would be rude.

"Major," said Nark, "could you send someone to the shack to pick up my radio? Also, the ge-gene." That was what the Montagnards called the hand-pedaled generator used to provide current for the set. When pedaled it made a
ge-ge
sound. "And a flashlight, too."

"I go myself," said the headman.

"While you're there, put a few bullets through the Tiger radio. The big set on the table."

"Yes, sir," said the headman and ran up.

Bolan continued to pick the lock. It was a complicated mechanism. He signaled to the Meo who had replaced the bonze as torch holder to come nearer so he could see better.

"What did you tell Tiger?" Bolan asked Nark.

"I told them what I was supposed to tell them," said Nark, his pale features showing some amusement.

"They bought the cover?"

"They even suggested it. From the start they kept saying, 'You're Russian, aren't you?' Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? Russian weapon, Russian radio, Russian clothes. I must say, John, your tailors are tops. Even the stitching on my buttonholes was Russian. You know, crossed instead of parallel? I saw them check."

"I'll pass on the compliment," said Bolan. After a while he added, "But if they bought the cover, how come you were tortured?"

"In the beginning I refused to talk. I figured if I talked too early, they'd get suspicious." He grinned. "After all, a hardened KGB agent is a tough nut to crack, no?"