False Front

To most men, the unopened chute would have been cause for panic. But to the Executioner, a primary canopy malfunction seemed hardly more dangerous than a bee sting.

The irony of dying from something so minor, however, was not lost on Bolan. A small grin broke at the corners of his lips as he was reminded that warriors were still human and that in addition to the extra dangers they faced they were still subject to all the hazards waiting to ensnare the normal man. General George S. Patton, Jr., had been killed in a car wreck. Colonel Rex Applegate had died of complications following an easily treated stroke. Bolan had known warriors who had succumbed to cancer and other terminal diseases. The truth was that warriors sometimes died like warriors. Other times they passed on in ways that seemed more befitting schoolteachers, accountants and stockbrokers.

Bolan spread both arms and legs to slow his fall. What had started out as a HAHO jump would now be turned into a mid-opener at best. He reached up to the harness at his left shoulder as, below, the whitecaps became more distinct. He could even make out several black spots that he assumed to be fishing boats. The island of Mindanao was still at least a mile in the distance.

Tugging the D-ring of the reserve chute, the Executioner glanced upward once more to see the streamer break free and fly off into space. That was the first step in the emergency procedure—to get the failed chute out of the way so it didn’t entangle the emergency canopy. Bolan counted—one…two…three—then saw the second canopy shoot up and out, blossoming into a life-saving orb that suddenly slowed his descent.

The Executioner had remained tranquil throughout the minor emergency. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief as he began to steer his way toward the landing site. He had work to do and it was that work to which his mind now turned.

As he floated through the sky, Bolan’s mind floated, as well—back to the telephone conversation he’d had only hours before with Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group at Stony Man Farm. The CIA had intercepted intelligence that a mammoth terrorist strike against the U.S. was imminent. Details as to exactly what, where, how and when were sketchy, but the chatter was that it would make September 11, 2001 seem like little more than a firecracker. What was clear was the “who.” Candido “Candy” Subing and his terrorist group, the Liberty Tigers of the Philippines, were planning the attack. A Filipino Moro-Muslim terrorist organization, the Tigers, as they were commonly called, had achieved notoriety during the past year by kidnapping six American missionaries. Just the day before, the major news networks had all received a videotape of Subing brutally murdering one of the hostages. An edited version had been aired throughout most of the world. Al-Jazeera, of course, had shown the entire gruesome ordeal.

The waves and fishing boats below him, and even the land in the distance, became more distinct as the Executioner sailed to the ground. At the same time, other distinctions filled his mind. First and foremost was the fact that much of the intelligence the CIA had about Candy Subing and his Tigers didn’t quite add up. Even before intercepting the intelligence from the CIA, Stony Man Farm had been monitoring the progress of a Filipino military force tasked with locating the hostages. But their attempt appeared halfhearted at best and so far their search had been unsuccessful.

Yes, Bolan thought, Candy Subing was a nasty little terrorist. But was he capable of any kind of major strike at the U.S.? Doubtful. The Liberty Tigers were simply too small and too limited financially to pull off such a thing. In the Executioner’s estimation the group simply didn’t have what it would take to carry out a large-scale strike on other side of the world. At least not without help. And there had been no mention of any of the other terrorist groups teaming up with them.

Finally over land, Bolan worked the toggles, steering the canopy. The failed primary chute had thrown him slightly off course, but not enough to worry him. He was still several miles north of Zamboanga, the southwestmost city on the island of Mindanao. He might not come down exactly where his ride was supposed to be waiting, but as long as he landed reasonably close, the men would easily spot him. If not, all Bolan needed to do was to make his way to the nearby main—and only—road that followed the coastline. His pickup would have no choice but to drive on it even if he gave up on finding him.

Bolan’s mind turned back to the captive missionaries. While their location was still a mystery, the CIA had finally learned that Subing himself slipped in and out of a small village near Zamboanga to visit his uncle. They had notified the President that they were about to send in a team of covert operatives who would do their best to take the Tigers’s leader alive, then pump him for information concerning both the hostages and the strike planned for America. If live capture proved impossible, Subing would be assassinated with the hope that the strike in the U.S. would end before it got off the ground.

Bolan shook his head as he dropped closer to the trees. The CIA plan had far too many ifs, ands and ors to suit the President. The Man in the White House had contacted Stony Man Farm and specifically told Brognola who he wanted on the job: the best. Mack Bolan. And he had ordered the CIA director to have only one agent link up with the Executioner—who would be going by the name Matt Cooper. The President had also made it clear who would be in charge, and it wasn’t the CIA.

Bolan looked down on the coastal area of Mindanao. Unless he was mistaken, he could see some kind of vehicle parked to the side of the road. A figure was getting out of the driver’s side and it looked as if he was wearing a hat.

THE MAN IN THE BATTERED straw cowboy hat pulled the Jeep Cherokee off the pitted asphalt, killed the engine and turned to face the thick foliage that paralleled the road. He reached into one of the pockets of his khaki cargo shorts and pulled out a round tin of chewing tobacco. Dropping a pinch of the finely cut substance under his bottom lip, he thought of mouth cancer for a moment, then pushed the troublesome possibility from his mind. Tapping the lid back into place, he returned the tin to his pocket.

Charlie Latham stared at the sky, watching the black speck he’d first spotted a few seconds earlier grow larger, finally dividing into two parts. As the dots continued to grow, he was able to discern the outline of both man and parachute. A frown creased his forehead as he sucked on the tobacco. He’d been told the jumper—a man he should call Matt Cooper—would have no trouble finding the clearing across the road. The guy was an expert skydiver.

But as he watched the sky now, Latham had to wonder just how accurate that evaluation had been. Considering the wind direction and the parachutist’s current positioning, it looked as though Cooper would come down at least a mile north of where he was supposed to land. And a glance at his watch made him wonder about the other man who was supposed to meet them here. A CIA agent named Reverte. Where the hell was he?

Latham twisted the key in the Cherokee’s ignition and the engine roared to life. After a quick glance in his rearview mirror, he pulled back onto the pothole-pocked asphalt the people of Mindanao called a highway. He drove slowly; he had plenty of time. Matt Cooper wouldn’t find his feet on solid ground for a good ten minutes or so.

Topping a rise, Latham saw another break in the trees, twenty yards off the road. A glance upward told him Cooper was maneuvering toward that spot to land. Latham lost sight of the clearing as the road dipped down but when he reached a point he guessed was directly across from it he pulled off the road and killed the engine again.

Latham glanced once more into the rearview mirror, this time to lift the weathered straw hat off his head. The leather sweat band came up off his scalp and he felt a quick rush of cool breeze roll over his closely cropped hair. It was a nice relief from the sultry Filipino heat and he almost dropped the hat onto the seat beside him. But the sun would beat down on his face and neck if he did, and besides, he was from Texas. The only time he’d ever felt right without a hat was when he wore a helmet. Football in high school. Then U.S. Army until a year or so ago.

Settling the hat back onto his head with a sigh, Latham reached into the back seat and grabbed a rusty two-dollar machete. He got out of the Jeep, crossed the road into the semi-thick vines of the coastal secondary jungle and lifted the long blade over his head.

A thin trickle of sweat ran down his cheek as he began slicing a path toward the clearing. The jungle canopy blocked his view of the sky, but he knew Cooper had to be nearing the site. It was the only open landing zone in the immediate area.

By the time he had cut himself into the clearing, Cooper was clearly visible in the sky. Latham was surprised to see that the chute beneath which the big man drifted was smaller than he would have expected for such a jump. In addition to the usual parachute gear, Cooper wore a huge backpack. Other equipment carriers were belted around his waist and strapped to his shoulders. Almost as quickly as his brain registered these details Latham was able to answer his earlier question as to why the man was so far off course. No, it wasn’t due to a lack of expertise as he had originally guessed. In fact it appeared that Cooper might be even beyond expert. At least the man knew how to keep his head in the face of danger. His main chute hadn’t opened and he was landing with the small reserve canopy. That was what had thrown him off course. He was loaded down like a pack mule and, considering the tricky winds through which he’d just come, the fact that he’d even survived with the small reserve chute gave him master-jumper status as far as Latham was concerned.

The Texan stepped out of the trees into the clearing and let the machete hang at the end of his arm. He suspected Cooper could see him by now. Even if he couldn’t, the big American would know someone was down here waiting for him by the sunlight shining off the large silver belt buckle that held up Latham’s shorts. As he continued to wait, the Texan chuckled silently at himself.

After retiring from the Army, the last ten years of which he’d been assigned to Delta Force, Charlie Latham had come to the Philippines to further pursue his life-long love affair with the Filipino martial arts. But he had brought a part of Texas with him and the unusual combination of clothing he wore was a pretty good indication of his bifurcated personality. The straw Stetson screamed Texas!, as did the Western belt and buckle. But the Philippines were just too hot for denim jeans and boots, so the rest of his attire consisted of a tank top, khaki cargo shorts and sandals. It was an unusual, eclectic image he projected, he knew, but he didn’t care. He was an unusual man—a mixture of nineteenth-century gunfighter and twenty-first-century soldier with a little bit of Eastern mystic thrown in. He saw no reason his clothes shouldn’t reflect that mix.

Latham’s mind jerked back to the present as Cooper landed expertly on his feet, rolled to his side, then popped back up to a standing position. In his mind, he gave the man an A-plus on landing to go with the high grade he’d already earned in canopy steering. The Texan could see now that, beneath all the equipment, Cooper wore some kind of skintight blacksuit that had to be hotter than his aunt Betty’s salsa. He grinned to himself as he walked forward.

He hoped the man had brought along some cooler rags. Finding anything to fit a guy his size in this land where a man who weighed 130 pounds and stood over 5’ 4” in height was considered a giant wasn’t going to be easy.

Cooper was already gathering up the chute by the time Latham reached him. He shifted the machete to his left hand and extended his right. Before he could speak, the big man turned his way and said, “You’re Charlie Latham?”

Latham nodded as he shook the hand. “And you’re Matt Cooper.” The handshake was firm and confident without being overly hard. Latham was glad of that. He got the feeling that had this guy wanted to, he could have snapped off several of his fingers.

Bolan released his hand and frowned, his eyes scanning the area around and behind the Texan. “Where’s the CIA man?” he asked.

Latham shrugged. “You got me. He hadn’t shown up at your original landing site by the time I saw where you were heading and left.”

Bolan nodded. “Something may have delayed him. We’ll check the spot on the way back.”

“Sounds good to me,” Latham said. He reached to the ground and lifted two of the heavy equipment bags the parachutist had shrugged out of when he’d hit the ground. “Ready to do it?” he asked. “Sounds like it should be fairly easy.”

Bolan hoisted the rest of his gear. “Yeah,” he said. “To be honest, it sounds too easy.” He let the Texan take the lead and followed the man along a recently cut path through the trees. Walking single file as they were wasn’t conducive to conversation and both men lapsed into silence as they dodged branches and vines. Left to his own thoughts, the Executioner found himself questioning certain aspects of the mission once more.

He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that there were parts of the CIA intelligence reports that didn’t make a lot of sense. One of them was how easily Candy Subing could be located. If the man slipped in and out of Zamboanga all the time as the CIA believed, why hadn’t the Filipino search force already grabbed him? Better yet, why hadn’t they put a tail on him and followed him back to where the missionaries were being held? The CIA even had an address for Subing’s uncle. So what, exactly, had this CIA man—Reverte was his name—been doing over the past few weeks? For that matter, where was the man now?

Reaching the Jeep Cherokee parked on the side of the road cut Bolan’s thoughts off again as he and Latham tossed the equipment bags into the back. The Executioner shook his head. His mission sounded easy on the surface—capture Candido Subing, interrogate the man concerning both the hostages and the “big strike” the Tigers had planned in the U.S., free the hostages and take whatever action was called for in regard to the American strike.

Bolan found that he was grinding his teeth together as he contemplated the situation. If everything was all that cut and dried, somebody would have already done it.

With the Cherokee’s tailgate still open, Bolan unzipped one of the ballistic nylon bags and pulled out a short-sleeved blue chambray shirt, a pair of khaki cargo pants and a plain white T-shirt. The blacksuit he had worn for the jump came off and the khakis went on. The Executioner felt a hard rectangular lump in one of the hip pockets, a micro-cassette recorder brought along for one simple reason—he didn’t speak or understand any of the languages in the Philippines except English. Tagalog—sometimes referred to as Pilipino—was the major tongue, but there were close to a hundred other languages and dialects used throughout the islands. According to what he’d been told, Latham was fluent in Tagalog and could get by in a couple of the tribal tongues. Reverte was reported to have the same skills. But the Executioner could foresee an eventuality in which something he suspected was important might be said with neither one of them present. If that happened, it would benefit him to be able to record it and have the words translated later.

The white T-shirt came down over Bolan’s head, then he unclipped the TOPS Loner combat-utility knife that had been fastened upside down on his blacksuit. Slipping the thick four-and-one-half-inch blade into a Concealex inside-the-waistband sheath, he fastened it to his belt at the small of his back. In his peripheral vision the Executioner saw Latham’s eyes widen slightly as he slid on the shoulder rig that carried his sound suppressed 9 mm pistol.

The Texan squinted under the sun. “Beretta 92?” he asked.

Bolan adjusted the gun in its holster. “It’s a 93-R.”

“Ah, yeah,” Latham said. “I see the front grip tucked under there now. Three-round-burst selector, right?”

The Executioner nodded, snapping the belt retainers on both sides into place. Under his right armpit the shoulder rig carried a double magazine pouch, also of the form-fitted plastic known as Concealex.

Latham’s eyes got even wider and his mouth dropped open slightly when the Executioner pulled the mammoth .44 Desert Eagle magnum from the same bag. It was already at home in an inside-the-waistband holster of the same space-age plastic.

“Far as I know,” Latham said, “we’re going after a man, not an elephant.”

Bolan chuckled as he stuck the big pistol into his pants and looped the retaining snap around his belt. “You remember the legend of the Model 1911 .45 auto, don’t you?” he asked the Texan.

Latham nodded at the Executioner. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Spanish-American War. Our troops kept shooting the Filipino Moros on Mindanao with their little bitty .38 Colts and the Moros kept coming anyway, cutting us to shreds with bolos, barongs, krises—any blade they could get their hands on. Which led to the development of the bigger, harder-hitting .45 ACP.”

Bolan zipped up his bag, slammed the tailgate door and walked around the Cherokee toward the passenger’s side. “Right,” he said as he got into the vehicle. “And what island are we on?”

“Mindanao,” Latham said.

“And who are we looking for?”

“A Moro-Islamic terrorist named Candido Subing.” Latham slid behind the wheel.

Bolan tapped the big .44 beneath his shirt. “Well, this thing hits even harder than a .45,” he said.