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“Bigger?”
“Ming’s had a few interesting suggestions.”
Kurtzman raised a bemused eyebrow. “I bet he has.”
Bolan ignored the innuendo. “Meantime, I’ve got a job for you, Bear.”
“Oh?” Both of Kurtzman’s eyebrows rose with interest. Aaron Kurtzman was a genuine, certified genius, and when Mack Bolan said “I have a job for you, Bear,” it meant the big guy had a whopper of a challenge for him.
“Yeah, this is a Southeast Asian mission.”
“Yes…” Kurtzman waited for the rub. “And?”
“And I need a Muslim cover.”
Kurtzman stared blankly into the Webcam.
Bolan nodded in empathy. “Work on it.”
5
Polillo Islands, Philippines
“Has he snapped, yet?” Bolan walked up the steps to the beach house. The yellow Piper Super-Cub seaplane lay at anchor in the lagoon. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales’ bull-like figure stood on the veranda holding two cups of coffee in one hand. Bolan could smell it as he mounted the steps.
Stony Man Farm’s psychological warfare expert shook his head. Bolan tossed a manila folder onto the table as both he and Blancanales sank into rattan chairs.
“Not yet,” Blancanales said over his mug, “but he’s just about ready.”
Bolan nodded. “Snapping” was the point in cult deprogramming when the cultist realized he had been deceived by his cult and snapped out of his delusion. “So what’s the hold up?”
“Well, your boy wasn’t exactly wearing saffron robes and handing out flowers at the airport. He’s more than just a true believer. We’re dealing with a genuine holy warrior here, with martyrdom on his mind.”
“So what’s your strategy?”
“Same as always. Force Ali to think. Someone once said thinking is the hardest activity man is capable of, and that’s why so few men do it. People in cults have surrendered their minds. In many respects, their minds are actually turned off.” Blancanales stared intently at the seaplane as it bobbed on the water. “The first time you lay eyes on a person, you can tell if their mind is working or not. As you question them, you can tell exactly how they’ve been programmed. I agree with your initial assessment. It began in prison. Ali was fifteen when he was incarcerated. As you can imagine, a fifteen-year-old boy is in for some very rough times in prison. He hasn’t come out and said it, but I suspect the cultists inside saved him from being punked, which immediately engendered gratitude, and more importantly, trust. The minute a cult gains your trust—” Blancanales snapped his fingers “—they have you. You’re in.”
“And to snap him out of it?” Bolan asked.
“Like I said, this isn’t some rich man’s daughter signing away her trust fund at an ashram. Ali’s a hard case. He came from poverty-stricken parents and grew up on the streets. He went in for robbery and assault, and when the cult sucked him in it gave him instant family, instant support, instant purpose. That’s a tough one to beat.”
Bolan waited. “And?”
“And it’s a matter of language. It’s talking and knowing what to talk about. I’ve started moving his mind around, slowly pushing it with questions. Ali hasn’t just turned his mind off, he’s given it to someone else. He’s been taught that thinking and questioning are wrong. They’re the equivalent of doubting. Thinking is a sin. He’s been told not to think, but to implicitly trust.”
“Our boy is operating on faith.”
“Exactly. As I question him, I watch every move his mind makes. I know where it’s going to go, and when I hit on a point or question that sparks a response, I push it. I stay with it and don’t let him get around it with the lies he’s been told or circular dogma. I drive it home.”
“And then you snap him.”
“Sooner or later.” Blancanales leaned back and sipped his coffee.
“So how’s it been going?”
“Pretty rough on everyone. His first instinct was violence, so we had to restrain him. Even shackled, he made a pretty decent attempt at taking my head off with a standing mule kick. When he realized I wouldn’t let him hurt me, he went sullen and refused to talk at all. That’s par for the course. At that point, I had Calvin treat his injuries and administer him two low doses of sodium Pentothal to loosen his inhibitions. Then Calvin pulled his Black Muslim routine. Once Ali started talking to Calvin as his doctor and a fellow Muslim, Ali’s strategy turned to feigned compliance while looking to escape. That, however, was a strategic mistake on his part.” Blancanales grinned. “Because that got him talking to me.”
Bolan nodded in acknowledgment. “And that is everyone’s downfall.”
“Darn tootin’!” agreed Pol.
“So where is Ali now?”
Blancanales lifted his chin eastward. “Calvin took him for his morning walk on the beach.”
“Is that wise?”
“A growing boy needs his exercise. Besides, this is an island.” Blancanales shrugged. “Ali can’t swim, and he’s shackled. Short of pulling a Man from Atlantis, he’s not going anywhere.”
Bolan smiled wearily through his jet lag. Blancanales was a people person. When it came to getting inside an enemy’s head, he was a genuine “hearts and minds” lubricant. If he thought the boy deserved a walk, Bolan would take his word for it.
“So, you want to meet him?”
“Sure.” Bolan scooped up his folder and followed Blancanales down the back stairs into the jungle. They walked a hundred yards inland through the trees and came to the other side of the island. Blancanales gave him a basic sitrep. “Ali speaks English, Spanish and Tagalog. To him, I’m Dr. Blancanales and a Mindanao native. He knows Calvin is an American but thinks he’s a Muslim doctor. He has no idea who you are, and I doubt he’d recognize you. He sure as hell isn’t expecting you, so you can play it any way you want. You going straight in, or are you working with a cover?”
“Cover.”
“Really? This should be interesting.”
Bolan nodded. He’d given Kurtzman a challenge, and the man had come up with something so crazy it might actually work. “Thanks for the psych profile. Any personal observations?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, this Ali kid? I like him.”
Bolan frowned.
Blancanales’s dark eyes stared right back at Bolan. “Listen, I know he’s an intelligence asset, but the kid’s got guts. Deep down, there’s a decent human being in there.”
Bolan nodded. His life was going to depend on it. “All right.”
Blancanales gestured through the trees. “There’s the lad now.”
Ali Mohammed Apilado sat slump-shouldered by the water’s edge. He dejectedly watched the sun rise over the Philippine Sea. He wore blaze orange prisoner-of-war garb, and Bolan could see the glint of the shackles and handcuffs that bound him. Twenty yards back, Calvin James leaned against a palm tree. A prayer rug lay near his feet. The lanky black man turned and smiled at Bolan.
“Hey, big guy.”
“Morning, Calvin. How’s the patient today?”
“He’s a bit pouty.” The ex-Navy SEAL shrugged. “I’m giving him some space. I opened the cellar door this morning and then followed him at a respectful distance. He’s just finished with his morning prayers.”
“This is the calm before the storm,” Blancanales said. “Ali’s been getting angrier and angrier. Right now he’s directing it at me. Let’s go say hi.”
Three of the most dangerous men on Earth walked across the sand toward the prisoner. Ali’s prayer rug lay rolled to one side. Blancanales strolled up and smiled in a fatherly fashion. “Buenos dias, amigo.”
Calvin James nodded. “Asalaam aleikum.”
Bolan glanced at the rising sun and smiled down at the young man and wished him good morning in Tagalog.
Ali’s bruises were fading, but his face was still lumped and misshapen from his treatment at the hands of Philippine Intelligence. He ignored Blancanales and Bolan and grunted glumly at James. “Aleiku salaam.”
“Ali?” Blancanales extended a hand toward Bolan. He had modulated his English with a perfect Philippine accent. “I would like you to meet a friend of mine.”
Ali Mohammed Apilado regarded Bolan with grave suspicion.
Bolan bowed slightly. “Asalaam aleikum.”
Ali stiffened in anger but did not respond.
Bolan played the hand that Kurtzman had drawn him. “My name is Makeen al-Boulus. Do you recognize me?”
Ali stared into Bolan’s blue eyes intently but without recognition. Blancanales and James both shot Bolan surprised looks. Bolan held the young man’s gaze and smiled benevolently. “Strange, it was one week ago this morning that you ran juramentado and tried to cut off my head.”
Ali’s jaw dropped.
Bolan knew he’d hit pay dirt. Blancanales folded his arms across his chest, nodding. James grinned his approval. Bolan reached into the manila folder and showed Ali a picture of Marcie Mei. “This is my wife. She is pregnant with my child, yet you and your brothers tried to take her head, as well.”
Ali paled.
Bolan turned a picture of Escotto Clellande like a tarot card of fate. “This was my first mate. A pious man.” The Executioner took the piau from the folder and let the razor-sharp shard of steel fall to stick point first in the sand. Its red fiber tail fluttered in the morning breeze. “He pulled this from his throat as he drowned in his own blood.”
Ali Apilado looked as if he might vomit.
“You are young and devout so much may be forgiven, but can you truly be so ignorant that you would attack the faithful?”
Rage, fear and betrayal rose unstoppably from the young man’s soul. He rolled to his hands and knees and heaved up his guts into the surf.
Bolan spit into the sand. “May God forgive you.”
The Executioner turned and walked away. Blancanales followed, while James knelt and put a consoling hand on Ali’s shoulder.
“Jesus…” Blancanales shook his head as they walked back through the jungle. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re hard core?”
Bolan shrugged as he went past the beachhouse. “Is he snapped?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I need him.”
Blancanales let out a long breath. “Striker, we need to have a talk about recidivism and the need for follow-up rehabilitation after the snap.”
“I’m going fishing with Ming and Marcie.” Bolan kept walking toward his plane. “You have a week.”
Coloane Island, Macao
“BEHOLD!” MING CLAPPED his hands, and his men yanked back the bolts holding the steel container vessel together. The top of the container had been cut off, and the four sides fell away with a tremendous clang to the foredeck of the steamer.
Bolan simply stared.
“Do you like it?” Ming clasped his huge hands together and looked at Bolan expectantly.
“I…” Bolan opened his mouth and closed it.
“I listened with great interest to your story of how you used your yacht as a pirate trap,” Ming gushed, “and the lesson of the British Q-boats in the World War II.”
“I can see that.”
Ming raised a hesitant eyebrow. “You do know how to load and fire a 106 mm recoilless rifle?”
“I do,” Bolan said.
He now had six of them.
Bolan stared at the tiny armored vehicle that squatted on deck. What Bolan was looking at was a former United States Marine Corps Ontos tank destroyer. Ontos was a Greek word that literally meant “thing.” It was an apt description. The tank was barely taller than Bolan, himself. At twelve-and-a-half-feet long and eight-and-a-half-feet wide, it was not a tank so much as a tankette. The most remarkable thing about the Ontos was the steel arm sprouting from each side of the tiny, open turret, each of which held three, externally mounted 106 mm recoilless rifles on stalks.
It looked ridiculous, but undeniably hostile.
Bolan eyed the Ontos critically. It had to be at least fifty years old. The thin steel hull was streaked and pitted with rust. A black welding line ran the circumference of the top hull. Both of its tracks were gone, and it sat chalked in place on its road wheels. However, the guns appeared to be in decent condition. “Does it run?”
“No.” Ming gestured at a tiny man in a stained coverall. “My mechanic, Fung, says the engine is hopelessly corroded.”
Bolan let out a long breath. “The guns will have to be manually traversed.”
“So says Fung,” Ming concurred.
“Where did you, uh…” Bolan shook his head. “Get it?”
“A Vietnamese associate of mine sold it to me a year ago. The Vietnamese army captured it from you Americans long ago. With the engine gone, the Vietnamese had intended on using it as a static field gun. However, moving it to any place of use proved prohibitive, so it languished for decades in a warehouse in Da Nang. I had thought to strip it of its cannons and sell them but…” Ming gazed upon the six barreled monstrosity and sighed. “But I became fond of it.”
Bolan reserved comment. Ming Jinrong was a very complicated man.
“The Viet Cong greatly feared it, you know. When all six barrels were loaded with ‘beehive’ ammunition and fired together, it was said to be able to clear a quarter mile of jungle. The Marines called it the rolling shotgun.
“The problem was that each of the six recoilless rifles were externally mounted on a stalk, which meant that once it was fired someone had to go outside the tank and reload it by hand. However, for a first salvo it was capable of incredible firepower.” Ming paused once again to admire the Ontos.
“Your Q-boat!” Ming spread his arms, encompassing the ancient, rusty steamer and the equally decrepit armored vehicle squatting on the bow. “I have named her Flawless Victory.” He gazed at Bolan expectantly again. “Do you like it?”
Bolan nodded. “I love it.”
“I am so glad.” Ming sighed.
