PRIME TARGET

By Don Pendleton

The darkness, deepened by the heavy fog that was so common on the west coast of Taiwan, shrouded Bolan's movements as he headed toward the building. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light that came from the window. The warrior could see two men leaning over a computer terminal, their backs to the window. A guard with an Uzi stood in the shadows to the right of the door, and Bolan had earlier observed another armed man with an AK-47 near the parking area. The computer room was small, with papers and files scattered around the room on the battered tables and chairs. He noticed in the faint light that two flight bags had been packed--probably for the computer operators--and placed near the door.

Everything was prepared for a quick departure.

The penetration of the area had been without incident.

There was nothing sophisticated about the defenses--just the two hardmen and their high-powered weaponry. The recon had revealed that the rest of the factory was deserted.

The factory, according to the latest Intel from Stony Man, was part of an illegal software-duplication ring--and not just the industrial and business kind.

Sensitive military software had started to show up on the black market, and indicators pointed to the Taiwanese mob. But the U.s. government's hands were tied. A number of Taiwanese officials and businessmen were suspected of being involved, and any attempts to shut down the ring through normal covert means were sure to cause a major diplomatic incident with America's long-time ally.

The Executioner, however, wasn't what could be called "normal covert means." He silently checked his Uzi, the incendiary grenades and finally the Beretta 93-R, which was tucked in leather under his left arm. The Beretta was strictly in case of emergency. The hit on the factory had to look like the work of a rival gang, and the 93-R wasn't the type of weapon that could easily be found on the local arms market. In his blacksuit, and with his face streaked with combat cosmetics, the warrior blended with the shadows as he crept across the clearing toward the end of the concrete-block building.

As he reached the corner, the Executioner found that his quarry, the outside guard, was positioned under a light. The man was at the end of a row of vehicles barely twenty yards from where Bolan had stopped to assess the situation. He carefully Placed the Uzi on the ground and eased the Chinese-made combat knife from its sheath on his right leg. It felt awkward in his big hand, the wrong weight and balance, but it would add a little authenticity to the rival-gang cover.

Noiselessly moving toward his prey, Bolan closed on the unsuspecting guard. The distance was less than five yards, but the line of cars ended and the AK-47 cradled in the hardman's arms pointed in Bolan's general direction. The warrior knew he had to take him out quickly, and it had to be quiet.

The guard reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and moved his weapon to port-arms, which sealed his fate. The warrior launched himself at the sentry, who had no time to react, his left forearm driving into the man's mouth as his right hand slashed the knife across his throat. Added pressure with the left forearm snapped the Taiwanese guard's neck. The attack was over in seconds and was strictly an amateur job--just as the Executioner had planned. He left the combat knife next to the guard and went to retrieve the Uzi he had left behind.

The fog was still rolling in, so it was likely that the attack had been unseen. Bolan waited several minutes to be sure, then headed toward the door that would lead him to the computer room.

The original plan had been to take out the guard in the parking lot, followed by the one inside the door.

One of the incendiary grenades would take out the computer equipment, the other start a fire in the debris piled at the other end of the work area. The blasts and the ensuing confusion would have allowed for escape out the door he had entered--but if there were other hardmen inside, a deadly cross fire could trap the Executioner.

Better to go in through the window he'd spotted a few minutes earlier on the other side of the building. It was tucked into one end of the structure, which meant there would be no weapons pointed at his back when he entered the office.

Bolan hustled around the building to the window and again cautiously peered over the edge. No one had moved. He raised the Uzi and squeezed off a burst that took out the guard by the door and showered a hailstorm of broken glass on the two men working at the computer. A second burst of 9 mm slugs was followed by the two incendiary grenades, then Bolan was up and running at top speed. He had to get to the door on the other side of the building. The rest of the security force--if indeed there was more--would try to exit that way to escape the inferno inside.

The Executioner was just rounding the corner when he was forced to hit the dirt by a stream of 9 mm rounds whizzing past his cheek. He snapped off three rounds into the backside of the open office door. One of the computer operators screamed, then staggered from the cover of the door, still trying to raise his Uzi as he fell facedown in the corridor leading to the parking lot. Bolan's mind registered that the man had been burned by the fire, but not severely. The other operator might also be willing to fight, and there was still the possibility of another hardman nearby. As if on cue, two men dashed from the burning building.

The first man's clothes were ablaze, casting a strange glow in the fog. Bolan's Uzi barked twice, and the man stumbled, then collapsed to the ground. The second man--the other computer operator --hesitated, then dropped a handful of files in a desperate attempt to bring his AK-47 to bear on his unseen attacker. The last few rounds in the Uzi's clip stopped him cold.

The fire was lighting up the sky like a beacon, and sirens wailed in the distance. Bolan threw his now-empty subgun into the raging inferno and stepped over to the fallen computer operator. He reached down and snatched up the files. The dead man had been willing to risk everything to carry them out of the burning building. Stony Man would want to know why.

The shadows were deepening in the alleyway, but there was still no relief from the heat. The Mcmillan M-86 rested on its bipod, the recoil pad pulled lightly into Bolan's shoulder. Soon the target would be out the door and heading for his car.

Kai Zhou's evening visits to his usual prostitute provided the break the Executioner had needed. The Korean would arrive every Monday and Thursday at exactly 6:15 p.m., and just as predictably he would leave at 7:05 p.m. The visits were the only regular events in the arms dealer's schedule, and the information had been easily obtained--for hard American cash. Zhou's obsession with the young Frenchwoman seemed to be common knowledge among certain members of the city's underworld.

The mobster's predilection toward sadism terrified everyone in the brothel, and on more than one occasion muffled screams could be heard coming from the young woman's room. His number-one hardman, Schneider, was also known for his over-the-top brutality toward the girls.

In the past week Bolan had staked out the place during two of the Korean's visits to confirm the Intel, and now the time for action had arrived. Zhou was the focal point of a large part of the arms trade in Taiwan and the Korean peninsula. He was the main contact and broker for the Taiwanese mob, and had a hand in the illegal software trade, as well. With him out of the way, the entire black market in Taiwan would be temporarily crippled.

Bolan could see a hardman guarding the Mercedes, but the man was on the far side of the car, close to the main street. At one hundred yards, it would be a clean, unobstructed shot. The slight haze caused by the heat and humidity was no real problem, nothing like the fog of the previous night.

Kai Zhou, his objective, weighed three hundred and fifty pounds and wouldn't likely be in a hurry. Bolan made a mental note not to anticipate the slow-moving target too much.

The warrior reached back to check the rope he had looped around his charred timber perch. A seventy-foot drop into the burned-out church without a tether was something he didn't care to contemplate. The makeshift sniper blind was perfect for the job. The setting sun was directly behind him, and the jagged timbers and crumbling brick and mortar broke up his silhouette. It was secure, but rechecking and taking the proper precautions had kept him alive in his long war. He wasn't about to relax his guard now.

The engine of the Mercedes in the alley turned over and cut into a gentle purr. His quarry was on the move.

First out the door of the brothel was a bodyguard, a mini-Uzi in hand. He was one of the many European mercenaries employed by the Taiwanese cartel, and a very cautious man. He examined the car from bumper to bumper, then checked the alleyway. When he seemed satisfied, he made a quick hand signal.

Out the door came Schneider, his ever-present stainless-steel revolver up and tracking. Bolan wasn't sure, but it was either a Colt Anaconda or a Magnum Python. From his position it was hard to tell, and he wasn't prepared to risk a sun glint on the scope to find out--at least not until Zhou materialized.

The German hardman glanced around the alley, then turned and rapped on the door. The Executioner tightened his grip on the rifle, primed the weapon, raised it and put his eye to the scope. Sighting on the doorway, he took a breath, released half of it, then started to squeeze the trigger as a fat body pushed its way out the door. The warrior had target acquisition, but the Korean stumbled and the 300 Phoenix slug caught the dealer's right shoulder.

A slight adjustment to the left, and the second round drilled through his heart. One career in the trade of death had just been snuffed out.

Kai Zhou's corpse crashed into the back of Schneider, who had swung his big revolver in Bolan's direction. The warrior snapped off his last round, trying to catch the German as the man dived to the ground. The slug tore into the flesh near Schneider's groin, effectively taking him out of play.

A bullet whined off the brickwork beside Bolan, inches from his face. Time to bug out. A reload and another crack at Schneider was out of the question --the German had dragged himself out of the line of fire.

The Executioner dropped the rifle into a watery pit below and followed it by sliding down the rope. The hardmen would be after him in seconds, and there was no time to waste. He weaved through the wreckage of the sanctuary and raced out into the side street where his rental car was waiting. He cranked over the engine and put his foot to the floor, glancing into the rear-view mirror. One Of Kai Zhou's soldiers rounded the corner of the ruins, his Uzi blasting away.

The warrior pulled the detonator out of one of his blacksuit's slit pockets and thumbed the firing key as he fought to keep the car under control. A few more seconds and the hardman would be within striking distance.

A thundering Mercedes swung into view, rounding the burned-out church. With a flick of his finger Bolan detonated the plastique, dropping the entire north wall Of the church into the street, burying the Benz.

An image of Schneider being crushed by tons of debris passed through Bolan's mind, but there was no way to confirm the kill. He gunned the engine and headed for his rendezvous on the Taiwanese coast.

Hal Brognola chewed on the ragged end of a well-used cigar as he eyed Mack Bolan across the wardroom table of the little minesweeper. The man's resilience always amazed him. He looked tired, but that was hardly surprising. The Executioner had just spent five days taking apart one of the largest arms cartels in Asia. The campaign had been planned and carried Out with deadly precision by the warrior, and had thus far been a successful operation.

There was, however, the issue of Schneider.

By Bolan's own account, the death of the brutal, hard-eyed mercenary couldn't be confirmed.

Brognola's contacts would of course do the usual checks of Taiwanese hospitals, but a man like Schneider wasn't easily taken down. He would have access to underground help, medical or otherwise.

The German's presence in Taiwan was disturbing to Brognola. Asia wasn't his usual territory, and serving as an arms dealer's bodyguard didn't fit. Guns, assassination, even training and leading private armies were his stock-in-trade, but a bodyguard? No way.

Schneider was there for another reason, and something had to be done about it, and soon. Striker was out of the picture on this one. If Schneider survived, he would drag himself back to the brothel as soon as he could move. He would very quickly have a rough idea of who was pulling the trigger on the operation.

He might not be able to identify Bolan, but he would know it had been a Westerner, and a big one at that.

No Occidental would be able to get near the German without being targeted.

Schneider wouldn't forget the attack and would be oh with revenge, not only for his injuries but for his misguided honor. The execution of his employer while in his care wouldn't be good for his reputation--or for business. No, the risk was too great for Mack Bolan to have another go at the German. And now there was a new dimension, with word of the Asian arms cartel working in Hawaii.

"The papers you grabbed at the factory were in Korean, a style found north of the demarcation line," the big Fed stated without preamble.

There was the slightest flicker of interest in Bolan's eyes as he sat quietly sipping his coffee. The ship was rolling slightly, pushing its way through the Pacific swells, the motion soothing to the warrior's fatigued body. He waited patiently for Brognola to sort out his thoughts. He had suspected the issue being turned over in the man's head was Schneider, but the papers he had picked up in the factory had apparently created even more of a stir. Maybe Schneider was just a loose end that had to be dealt with eventually.

"And, Striker, there were notes in the margins in German." Neither man spoke, both aware that the notes could mean any number of things. They could point to the involvement of a renegade scientist from the former Eastern Bloc or from China--many of the Red Chinese scientists and technicians had been trained in East Germany or by East German instructors.

They might also suggest the involvement of a German electronics firm. Bolan's mind quickly went through the options and arrived at the only sure conclusion.

"Schneider." The big Fed nodded his agreement. "Yes, I'm afraid so." For Brognola, the report of the German mercenary's presence in Taiwan had been disturbing, but it now looked worse than he had anticipated.

His instincts had told him that the man was there for a reason other than as Kai Zhou's nursemaid, and a quick intelligence check had shown that Schneider was no run-of-the-mill merc. Brognola placed a file on the wardroom table and slid it in Bolan's direction.

"You'd better take a look through the Intel pack. The details are sketchy, but you'll get a feel for him." The Executioner set down his coffee and flipped open the folder. A cold, hard face stared back at him. He turned the photo and scanned the pages of a brief history of a very different sort of mercenary.

During the dying days of the cold war, Schneider had been one of East Germany's brightest young minds in the area of radio and microwave research. When the wall had come down, so had the rising star of Remy Schneider. No state, no funds, no research, and the West Germans had little or no use for the bright young minds of their poorer half. Schneider had tried his hand at landing a legitimate job with a number of large West German conglomerates, but without the slightest success. As with all Germans, he had done his time in the military, and he had shown a flare and the intelligence for special operations.

Schneider had been trained accordingly, but even that endeavor had been cut short by the fall of the Berlin Wall.

With no scientific career, no military career and no interest from the power brokers, the big German had drifted. His anger and resentment had increased with each menial job he had been forced to take. Once a member of the scientific and military elite in his own country, he had been forced to become nothing more than a thug. But with time he had gained a reputation for his knowledge of sophisticated weapons and computers and for a ferocious fighting style. He had quietly become a formidable, if perverse, power in the underworld--an angry, dangerous man with no country, no scruples and absolutely nothing to lose, a foe to be wary of.

As soon as the Executioner finished with the intelligence profile of Schneider, Brognola opened another folder that he had placed on the table.

He began a quick briefing. Time was short, and he knew it.

"The details of the documents from your raid are limited, but they indicate that Schneider and his friends have been developing a new missile-guidance system. They've based it on our satellite navigational system, the GPS. It's an old-style off-the-shelf system, ssimple, cheap and effective." Bolan waited. The Global Positioning System--GPS--HAD been operational for some time and was used by virtually every country in the world for navigation.

A grid created by a series of satellites covered the earth and provided reference points of longitude and latitude to anyone with the equipment to tap into the GPS. Every airline, shipping line and many private planes and boats used the system for sure and safe navigation. The U.s. military had put the system in place and had made no attempt to restrict its use by others. However, a missile guidance system was something completely different.

"There are countermeasures built into the system to prevent this kind of use," the big Fed went on, "but these papers indicate that there has been a breach of security." "Do they have enough to make their missile system operational?" "More than enough. But as long as they don't have the countermeasure codes and the access to the satellite control center, we can divert or destroy anything they put in the air." Brognola took note of the disturbed look on Bolan's face and continued.

"Yeah, the cartel seems to be receiving the codes for the whole damn system, and it has to be coming from the control-and-countermeasures base on the big island of Hawaii." He banged his fist on the desk in frustration.

A traitor was something Brognola could neither understand nor tolerate.

"What do we have to go on?" Bolan asked.

"Not much, but they're going to have to get into the countermeasures installation on the island of Hawaii to use the codes. And if they get in, they'll control, scramble or blind every major navigational system in the world, even if only for an hour." Bolan nodded. "And launch what they want at wherever they want." "And we won't be able to do a damn thing! They must have a big client in line. The documents indicate they have the possible codes for a period only two days from now." "When do I leave?" "The chopper will be here in ten minutes, then on to Japan. From there I've arranged some fast transport to Hawaii." "My gear's on the bottom of the Formosa Strait." The thump-thump-thump of a helicopter's rotors could be heard closing the distance on the little ship, as the Executioner rose to leave the wardroom.

"What you need will be ready for you in Japan.

There's a Gaili in the duffel bag to add to your regular gear. You'll have to check it out in Hawaii." "Right." With a brief word of farewell the warrior strode into the companionway and headed topside.

The hop across the Pacific had gone without incident. Bolan was able to grab a little sleep during the night on board an antisubmarine S-3But Viking aircraft, despite a talkative engineer in the next seat. The S-3But set down in Oahu and Bolan immediately grabbed an inter-island flight into Keahole Airport on the Kona Coast of the Big Island.

He picked up a rental car, checked into his hotel and headed east to the desert pastureland of Mauna Kea. The sparsely populated area around the extinct volcano was a perfect place to check out his weapons, and it overlooked the Pohakuloa Military Camp in which the secret GPS installation was located.

He checked out both the Beretta 93-R and the big caliber Desert Eagle, satisfied with their performance after a brief field test. The MAC-10'S action would need a little work once he got back to his room at the hotel, but otherwise it was in good order. As he carefully removed the Gaili sniper rifle from its case and assembled it, he occasionally heard shots in the distance. The area was popular for hunting, and there was a rifle and artillery range at the base a few miles off to the east. Testing his weapons wouldn't arouse anyone's suspicion.

The Gaili was a sleek, rugged weapon that had a reputation for punch and accuracy. Its small size and light weight were perfect for covert operations in harsh terrain. The rifle itself was almost indestructible and broke down into five easy-to-handle pieces, with no small parts to lose or fumble for in the dark.

Bolan filled the magazine and inserted it into the weapon. The rifle came with the standard NATO 7.62 x 51 mm ammunition that had been target tested to give the weapon a very tight grouping within a circle of 4.7 inches at 328 yards. It was the grouping capability and the all-weather reliability of the rifle that had caught Bolan's attention when he first used the Israeli sniper rifle on a previous mission.

He slid the scope in place and snapped down the bipod. As he assumed a prone position, he cocked the weapon and sighted on a cactus approximately three hundred yards across the rolling slope. A breath, a slight exhale, a gentle squeeze of the trigger, and the 7.62 mm round clipped the right side of the cactus. A couple more rounds and some slight adjustments, and Bolan was getting accurate groupings right where he wanted them.

He began to scan the area for a more suitable long-range target. He swept the horizon in the direction of the artillery range, when something caught his eye.

There it was again, a flash of metal where there shouldn't have been one. Bolan adjusted the sights and concentrated on the location where he had spotted the movement. Nothing. He started a search pattern in and around the area until he picked up another movement. One, then two men came into view. Both were dressed in fatigues and each carried a compass and side arm. These men were not hunting for wild pigs or sheep--they appeared to be executing a systematic recon of the area near the Army base. The Executioner followed them with the scope for a few minutes, and saw them turn uphill toward his position. He was forced to lower the Gaili and retreat to a rock and cactus formation that was more secure than his position out in the open. The chances of being seen were minimal. The two men were concentrating on the base, with only an occasional cursory glance in the warrior's direction.

From his concealed position Bolan waited to get a better look, as a positive ID might be useful later. The two men worked back and forth with their compasses, stopping to take notes now and then. They were taking bearings on the perimeter and main buildings of the camp, and also appeared to be plotting their own passage through the rock, grass and cactus terrain.

As they got closer to Bolan's position, he was able to determine that both members of the scouting party were big men. The lead man's handling of the compass and the constant shifting of his shoulders seemed vaguely familiar.

He slid the scope off the Gaili and raised it to his eye, shielding it from the sun with his left hand.

A very slight smile played over the Executioner's lips. His mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

The lead man was one of Kai Zhou's East European mercenaries he had seen in Taiwan.

The hired gun had vanished after the first couple of days, before the Executioner had started operations against the cartel. He now knew where the man had disappeared to.

The two men were the advance team for the assault or infiltration of the GPS installation--of this there could be no doubt. Bolan had two choices: try to keep them under surveillance and hope they would lead him to other members of the cartel's force, or take them out here and now before they could pass on the information they had collected. The Executioner decided on the latter option. Removing them now would start the process of cutting down the odds, and in all likelihood someone would be sent to search for them and to finish the recon. Then Bolan would have a better idea of the number of the enemy he faced.

He would have to move quickly to deal with the two scouts.

Even though it was only mid-afternoon, on this side of Mauna Kea the sun would soon be gone and taking out his targets would be much more difficult. The two men were only two hundred and fifty yards off, moving through the cactus and rocks. They were about fifteen yards apart, so the possibility of two quick shots and two instant kills was unlikely. Bolan slid the scope back onto the rifle and rolled onto his stomach. He opened the bipod, snugged the weapon to his shoulder, targeted the farther hardman and squeezed off a shot. The 7.62 mm slug tore through the man's chest as Bolan swung the weapon to the right, trying to acquire the other target.

The big mercenary was quick to react and immediately hit the dirt among some broken boulders. The Executioner snapped off two more quick rounds to keep the hardman's head down, then was on the move. He couldn't afford to let his quarry hold out for the security of the rapidly deepening shadows. A better firing position would force the issue. As Bolan sprinted for higher ground, the mercenary let loose with his handgun. The sharp, clipped bark of the weapon indicated to Bolan that it was small caliber and of limited range and power. The Executioner swung in behind a jagged spur of volcanic rock and let fly with three rounds of high powered heat, again forcing his enemy to keep his head down.

The brief respite gave the warrior the chance to sprint from cover again. The range had opened a little, lessening the chance of the small-caliber side arm scoring a hit, but the hardman had figured out Bolan's tactics and he was going to go down fighting. A shower of bullet fragments and stone chips sprayed around Bolan as the big mercenary got up on one knee and emptied a magazine in the Executioner's direction. The firing ceased as the mercenary fought to reload his weapon. Bolan stopped, raised his sniper rifle and took aim.

He had target acquisition and squeezed off two rounds that drilled into his adversary's head. Two down and an unknown number to go.

A brief check of the bodies revealed no identification or other information, except for a matchbook from one of the local Kona restaurants.

It was a place to start. Bolan retrieved his equipment and jogged down the slope to his rental car on the road below.

The traffic on the Hawaii Belt Road was busier than expected. A large number of vehicles were heading up the slope and turning onto what was known as the Saddle Road. Bolan had learned that this treacherous, winding road with its blind corners and sudden twists went up the side of Mauna Kea to the summit, then down to the eastern tropical side of Hawaii. The summit itself held a number of installations for radio and astronomical research, as well as an observatory complex. The Intel pack Brognola had given him had mentioned that the opening of the massive Keck telescope, located just south of the Pohakuloa Military Camp on the very peak of the volcano, was in just two days. The ceremony would almost coincide with the time when the stolen GPS codes would become usable. The Keck explained the heavy traffic, but it also meant a large number of foreigners and innocents on the island, which would make Bolan's job of stopping the cartel that much more difficult.

He wheeled his car onto Palani Road, down the steep incline and turned into the parking lot of the King Kamehameha Hotel on the waterfront.

There was a commotion at the front of the hotel, and he instinctively pulled the car into the back row of the lot closest to the road. Dozens of people were milling around, and as he brought the vehicle to a halt he realized that the area was swarming with law-enforcement officers, as well. Bolan sat in the car and waited as an ambulance pushed and nudged its way through the crowd. A team of paramedics jumped from the vehicle and rushed inside before it came to a stop.

As a precaution, Bolan checked the Beretta slung under his left arm as he scanned the crowd for anything unusual.

As he expected, a lot of foreign visitors drifted around the area, many with cameras and wearing loud Hawaiian shirts. The local police were trying to keep the crowd back as the ambulance attendants exited the hotel with the stretcher in tow. Bolan stepped out of the car and discreetly moved closer to where the ambulance stood idling. The stretcher held an Asian male of about thirty years old. The paramedics had him on an IV and a respirator, but what struck Bolan was that his neck appeared heavily wrapped in bandages. An attempt had been made to cover the dressings by pulling up the blankets, but to a trained eye they were obvious. The man's color was odd, and he was extremely pale. He hadn't been in the sun much and the bluish tinge to his skin indicated a lack of oxygen. As the attendants swung the stretcher into the vehicle, the victim's hand slipped out from under the sheet. The skin on the palm of the hand was scratched or torn, as were the insides of the fingers. When they were about to slam the doors, a young Oriental woman pushed her way out of the building and through the crowd to the vehicle. After a quick discussion, the paramedics allowed her in. The siren wailed, and the emergency vehicle forced its way back out onto Palani Road, heading off at high speed toward the hospital.

The crowd began to disperse as everyone headed for dinner or to their rooms, but there was still considerable confusion in the lobby as Bolan waited patiently to get his key from the front desk. It seemed that everyone in the lobby had a different view of what had happened to the man. However, there were a few things that were repeated often enough to be considered useful. The injured man was a semipermanent resident of the hotel, he was Vietnamese and he spent a lot of time locked in his room, being something of a recluse. Bolan also noticed that at least three of the officers investigating the scene were military, not local law enforcement.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Belasko, but you are going to have to wait to go to your room," the desk clerk said.

The clerk raised his hand to indicate the confusion in the lobby. "There has been an accident in the room adjacent to yours. The police have cordoned off that section of the floor." The fussy little man sighed, then shrugged at Bolan. "I would offer you another room, but there is nothing available. The scientists, you know." The hotel's public-address system cut in to announce that the management was sorry for the inconvenience and that free drinks would be offered in the bar until the authorities allowed everyone to return to their rooms.

The clerk stepped back from the counter, andwitha great melodramatic gesture indicated that the bar was located to the right of the lobby. He then withdrew to a back office out of sight.

There was no point in creating a stir and drawing attention to himself. His weapons were in the car and the room was "clean," so Bolan smiled politely and walked in the direction of the poolside bar. If he were to get any more information on what had happened, it would be there. He settled himself at one end of the bar with his back to the side wall of the building. He could see out over the little beach on his right and the entire open bar and pool area in front and to his left. No one could come or go without being seen. He ordered a beer, which remained virtually untouched.

The bar was full to capacity, with animated conversations taking place in many languages. The Executioner carefully scanned the room, picking up bits and pieces of conversation and various faces to file into the back of his mind. It appeared that there had been an attempted suicide--the young Asian had tried to hang himself. This conformed to the injuries Bolan had seen on the man, except for the torn skin on his hands. To the warrior, the state of the man's palms indicated a struggle inconsistent with suicide, and the presence of the military police indicated something more complicated or sinister. As he sipped the beer, he scanned the room again. Two groups interested him.

The first contained four men sitting by the edge of the pool. Two were obviously plain-clothes police, and the third was most likely CIA. Brognola had told Bolan that the Company was very busy on the island due to the presence of the scientific and diplomatic dignitaries. The last man at the table was a uniformed MP, a captain named William Torrey. The big MP was Brognola's contact at the Pohakuloa base and would be Bolan's liaison with the GPS installation.

The CIA operative was busily asking questions, while occasionally jotting down notes. But the military policeman constantly scanned the room.

The other group of interest to the Executioner consisted of three well-dressed men sitting at the far end of the bar. They neither talked nor drank, but were keeping their eyes open for something in the foyer. They could have been field scientists or technicians, though that seemed unlikely, given the bulges under their armpits--their light jackets didn't fully conceal their weapons. Every now and then one of the men would get up and wander past the pool, through the door and into the lobby, only to return a moment later. Bolan cast his eyes in the direction of the law-enforcement agents, and he noticed that the MP was discreetly watching the group at the end of the bar.

Torrey suddenly cast a quick glance at the warrior as if to say "I know you're here." Bolan didn't react to the piercing gaze of the military policeman and continued his watch of the room. They would make contact later.

One of the men at the bar once again made a trip into the hotel lobby. He got up and left, but didn't return. Instead, the other two men, seeing a signal of some sort from the lobby, quickly threw some money on the bar and rushed into the hotel. The MP then excused himself from the group and headed toward the foyer, as well. He shot a quick glance in Bolan's direction, then started to walk around the pool toward the front of the hotel. The big MP began to move faster as he neared the lobby and was ready to draw his weapon as he disappeared out the front doors of the hotel.

Bolan was on the move. Something was about to happen, and Torrey's look was a call for help. The Executioner slid off his bar stool and moved to his right, which allowed him to drop unobserved onto the sand below. Jogging a few yards down the beach took Bolan to the near end of the parking lot in front of the hotel. The position was a good one; Torrey would be at the other end of the lot by the front doors while the warrior held the exit. No one could enter or exit the hotel or the lot without being covered.

A shot rang out at the farthest end of the lot, and Bolan realized what had pushed Torrey into action. Two of the men from the bar had a young Asian woman in their grip and were retreating toward a waiting car. A blue Ford had pulled up behind the first vehicle and the occupants were laying down covering fire for the abductors. The MP was trying to prevent the kidnapping but was unable to act for fear of hitting the woman. The Beretta 93-R cleared leather as Bolan two-handed the weapon in the direction of the first car. He caught a glimpse of Torrey positioning himself to try to deal with the second vehicle and split the attention of the two men between himself and Bolan. The Executioner had the setting sun at his back as he stepped into the clear and sighted on the driver of the first car. He had target acquisition and stroked the trigger twice, shattering the windshield. A third round punched through the driver's forehead.

The vehicle had to have been in gear, for even as the life of the man at the wheel abruptly ended, the car gently rolled forward. As it jumped the curb the Ford came clearly into the sights of Bolan's handgun.

The two men attempting to snatch the woman realized their peril. One broke for the car and was abruptly cut down by a volley from Torrey's big M-9 automatic. The other started to work his way toward the Ford, using his captive as a shield.

Both Torrey and Bolan maneuvered for a better shot just as the other police came charging out of the hotel lobby. The two plain-clothesmen and the CIA agent took in the situation at a glance and raced for cover. It was a standoff that couldn't last, and the abductor knew it. He had to act soon, and everyone involved was aware that his human shield was all that prevented the hardman and the second getaway car from a barrage of bullets.

The blue Ford slammed into gear and began to roar toward the exit. The hardman let go of his prisoner and turned to dive into the car as it accelerated by him. The policemen were waiting for the woman to clear their line of fire, and the Executioner was partially screened by the stalled car, but he snapped off a shot that winged the hardman in the shoulder. He stumbled and crashed to the ground a few feet short of the moving Ford.

Bolan stepped to his right onto the asphalt of the lot and into the path of the oncoming sedan. A big revolver poked its snout out of the rear window of the car, aimed at the wounded man on the ground and pumped out three shots. The slugs found their surprised target, drilling into the downed man's chest. The revolver boomed twice more as the gunner tried to eliminate the young woman, but she was nimble, and the car violently swerved back and forth, heading for the exit.

The Executioner waited directly in line with the car's approach. The area was ringed with palm trees, blocking any other escape route, and there was only one gateway from the parking lot. The Executioner was the gate. A warning signal screamed in Bolan's mind even as he raised the 93-R in the direction of the charging vehicle. The man who held the Python was no amateur. He wouldn't be caught in a situation like this without a backup team or plan. Then he heard it, the faint click-click of detonators, a sound the warrior knew well.

He had only a second to dive out of the way of the car as he shouted "Down!" The sedan tore past, ablaze with gunfire as the staccato cracks of the plastic explosives struck Bolan's ears. The giant palm trees began to topple onto the cars in the lot, blocking the exit to the street. To avoid the falling trees and the hail of bullets, Bolan rolled to his left and dropped over the little seawall. He paused a few seconds on the beach to gain his equilibrium, then launched himself up to the parking area above.

The place was a shambles. Several parked vehicles had been wrecked by the downed trees.

One of the plain-clothes police was on the ground, gut shot, and his partner stood over him, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The CIA agent was reloading a Smith and Wesson pistol while he checked out what was left of the kidnappers. Torrey had the woman and was pushing her toward Palani Road, where a military jeep was parked in front of the restaurant across the street. The Executioner had to get out, and Torrey and his jeep were the only way to do it fast.

The MP was having a hard time getting the woman to go with him, so their progress to the vehicle was slow.

The woman didn't trust him, and she was frightened and in shock. The MP captain spotted Bolan and pointed to the waiting four-wheel-drive, but the Executioner disappeared into the crumpled debris of a row of cars. Torrey couldn't wait, nor could he search for him. The young woman wasn't safe. The attackers might have a backup team in the area to mop up. He reached the jeep, helped the woman in, then jumped in and kicked the engine to life. He threw the siren on to clear the road and pulled the vehicle away from the curb. Just then, he spotted Bolan running toward him with a duffel bag in hand, and slammed on the brakes to allow the big man to catch up. The warrior threw his duffel and himself into the back seat.

"Belasko," the MP said as he put the accelerator to the floor.

"Belasko," Bolan repeated with a nod as he pulled the MAC-10 out of the bag. The Executioner stared hard at the terrified woman in the front seat and asked for confirmation of what he already knew.

"Schneider?" Even in shock the woman nodded, then spit out the word. "Schneider." The operation had been badly botched, and Schneider knew it. His driver swung the Ford into a back street a few blocks from the hotel and pulled into a garage. One of the men in the front got out and jumped into a waiting Nissan, followed by a limping Schneider. The drivers of both vehicles threw the transmissions into gear and headed back to Palani Road. The blue Ford roared onto the Hawaii Belt Road, running up into the highlands, while Schneider's Nissan turned left onto the highway for the long coastal trip to Hilo on the eastern shore. The Ford would draw any pursuit up into the hills, where the German's waiting men could deal with it--and away from the night landings on the north beach.

Schneider took a deep breath and turned his mind to the woman. How much she knew and could tell the authorities, he could only guess, but it wasn't a lot. It was too late to pull out now, anyway.

The woman had suspected her brother's involvement with the cartel and had eventually persuaded him to go to the police.

The entire operation would have been exposed, and the men in Taiwan would have left no one alive to point a finger at them, including himself. Besides, disloyalty was something Schneider wouldn't tolerate.

There had already been too much of it in his life.

He grinned when he thought of the "suicide"--it had been so easy. The little computer programmer had willingly put the rope around his own neck, believing his suicide would spare his sister's life. The German's grin broadened even more when he thought of how the man had realized at the last moment that Schneider was going to kill her, anyway. The realization had suddenly struck him, but by then it was too late. The fool had tried to pull the rope off his neck as Schneider had kicked the chair out from under him.

Kicking the chair had been a mistake, but Schneider had been so caught up in the sensuality of killing the man that he had been careless.

Nonetheless, the kick had caused pain to lance through his body, spiking out from the bullet wound to his groin.

Then he had lashed out with his fist at the dangling corpse, and the welt on the body would be discovered.

The "suicide" would be suspect, and the authorities would investigate further. But by then the missile would have been fired, and he would be well away from Hawaii.

The car struck a bump in the road and the mercenary winced with pain. The wound was healing, but not fast enough.

The bullet had caught him just inside the thigh--a couple more inches to the right and he would have been emasculated. Schneider had a score to settle when this job was finished.

Once again he let his thoughts slip back to the woman. Her continued existence put the entire operation in jeopardy, and something would have to be done quickly. As the car continued up the coastal highway at a leisurely pace, he heard sirens fading away behind him. The pursuit had apparently taken the bait and followed the other vehicle as planned.

The big German mercenary started to relax and take stock of the mission.

On the plus side, the traitorous computer programmer was gone, but the codes to work the GPS system and the scramblers were good for at least a few ours. He had missed the woman, but she had no way of knowing the plan of operations or the target. The missile launch was known only to a few men in Taiwan, so the ultimate goal of his operation was safe. Additional weapons and men would arrive that night and the following day at two locations. The heads of the cartel were taking no chances, and manpower and weapons were cheap and abundant.

On the negative side, he had to penetrate the GPS base in two days' time in broad daylight.

He had to be into the facility and on-line at precisely 5:00 in the afternoon for the codes to work. A night attack was out of the question--there was no way he could hold the base for more than a few hours. The Hawaiian Islands were crawling with military personnel, so he knew a counter strike would come quickly. The attempt to grab the woman had been a farce and had shown a glaring lack of training in the men he had with him. There was also the problem of the scouts he had sent out to survey the base. They were three hours overdue on reporting in. He'd have to send out another team after he learned the status of the scouts.

Then his mind locked on to a new problem--the iron man in the parking lot. He had calmly taken out the first car, then had dived to the ground when Schneider set off the charges. No, that wasn't right, there was something else flashing a warning in his mind.

The big man had hit the dirt just before the charges had gone off, anticipating or spotting the explosives. He had been very professional--too professional for a cop or the CIA, and definitely too proficient for Schneider's liking. This one would be trouble. He'd have to be neutralized.

Far-off automatic-weapon fire echoed through the hills, drawing Schneider's attention.

Torrey brought the jeep to a screeching halt at the crossroads. His first instinct was to head up into the hills toward the Pobakuloa camp to provide safety for the woman--it didn't seem likely that the hardmen would head that way. Once on the Hawaii Belt Highway there were no real exits for miles, and he knew that the kidnappers were well prepared.

Just then, the blue Ford sedan caught his eye on a switchback farther up the winding hillside road.

He turned the jeep onto the highway.

Bolan leaned forward to yell over the roar of the engine into Torrey's ear.

"He's going too slow. He should be farther up by now." Torrey nodded his agreement and eased up a little on the accelerator. They were being baited into a trap, and they still had a terrified passenger with them. She was the only source of information they had, and he couldn't risk her. On the other hand, at least one of the killers was up ahead, moving deeper into the volcanic hills of the island. He would be able to ditch the car and disappear. The MP pulled the jeep around the next bend and into an old ramshackle gas station. Reaching down to pull out a pair of handcuffs, he grabbed the woman and led her from the car.

He was followed by the Executioner, who was strapping on his Desert Eagle.

The old Hawaiian owner of the garage barely gave them a second look as Torrey quickly handcuffed the woman to the door of an old refrigerator. He then went straight to the phone, and in a voice that left no doubt that orders were being given, arranged for one of his men to pick up the woman. He then called for an intercept team to head off the sedan from the other direction. The MP banged down the receiver and slammed a fresh magazine into his M-9 automatic. The two men looked each other straight in the eye and nodded. They knew what they had to do. Bolan turned on his heel and headed back to the jeep, Torrey following close behind. The MP fired up the engine and continued on.

The ambush was there, but they weren't the first to drive into the trap. A police cruiser had picked up the Ford on radar for speeding and had given chase. The two officers had driven into a situation that they weren't prepared for, AK-47'S raining a hail of death as the cruiser rounded a blind corner.

Both Torrey and Bolan heard the automatic-weapons fire up ahead. The big MP eased off the gas as they cautiously crept around the bend. What they saw forced them into immediate action.

One officer was down beside the cruiser while the other was covering his partner from inside the vehicle. They were caught in a cross fire of two gunmen: one high up the embankment and the other in a formation of volcanic rocks at road level. The Russian automatics hammered away at the cruiser and were slowly shredding it to pieces. The downed cop was bleeding profusely, and the other was losing the battle to save his buddy and himself.

Bolan tensed himself and yelled to Torrey. "Go for it! I'll roll out and take the one in the rocks.

Keep the one up top busy." Torrey nodded as he swerved the jeep around the corner and into the line of fire. The two assassins opened up, but they had to divide their fire between the onrushing jeep and the officer beside the cruiser.

Bolan's MAC-10 laced the rocks with 9 mm slugs, keeping the road-level killer's head down. Torrey bellowed to the cop to target the high-angle hit man.

The big MP drove the jeep straight at the rock formation and swerved at the last second to avoid slamming into the boulders. Bolan made a desperate leap for the surprised gunman, who was frantically trying to change his position and target the rushing vehicle. The Executioner caught him by the throat and buried the short barrel of the MAC-10 in the man's skull, dropping him to the ground.

The jeep had screamed to a halt a few yards away, and Torrey was laying down covering fire at the man on the embankment. With no time to reload the MAC-10, Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and began to scramble up the bluff to outflank the hardman. The AK-47 hadn't returned fire for several seconds now, and the Executioner knew his quarry was on the run. The only way the man could go without having to fight it out was straight up.

The warrior pushed up the slope after the fleeing gunman. A boulder from above careened downward, and only the last-second thrust of his hand prevented it from tearing his head from his body. Diverting the rock cost him. The Desert Eagle was knocked from his hand by the rampaging volcanic rock. Whether deliberately pushed by the man above or set loose by his frantic rush to escape, Bolan didn't know, but it slowed the pursuit.

He stopped briefly to wrap his hand with a torn piece of his shirt and to pull the Beretta from his shoulder holster and insert a fresh magazine. His heart was pounding, his bruised and bleeding hand was throbbing and his lungs were screaming for air. But his quarry's AK-47 fired a steady stream of 7.62 mm slugs in his direction, and he had to move.

It was another sixty feet up the side of the slope, and no doubt there would be an ambush at the top. The hardman above held all the cards. He had the high ground, he knew where his attacker was and he could slip off into the volcanic rock formations and underbrush behind him when the job was done.

The Executioner was in his direct line of fire the second he moved, and even then his ability to fight back was restricted. His right hand was badly bruised and cut, as was his forearm. He would have to work his Beretta left-handed. Shooting with his wrong hand was something Bolan had practiced many times over the years, with every conceivable weapon, and he was quite adept.

It would have to do under the circumstances, and the Executioner was confident that his abilities would be up to the task at hand.

It was time to move, and Torrey was prepared to lay down covering fire with his M-9, a service-issue Beretta 92-SB. A quick wave of his hand, and the MP cut loose in the direction of the gunman. Bolan charged up the slope, using his throbbing right hand and arm as a counterbalance as he went. He concentrated on the lip of the embankment, noting the big MP'S position. The Russian assault rifle was returning fire despite Torrey's efforts, and Bolan had to keep his head down as he advanced.

He couldn't see over the edge of the slope, but the gunman was above and slightly to the left, as indicated by Torrey's fire. The Executioner was climbing to the right of the man in an attempt to outflank him. The movement to the right served the dual purpose of keeping the enemy to his left, his gun-hand side, and allowing the warrior to get to the opposite flank from Torrey. In effect, the man was surrounded, with only the volcanic wasteland to his rear as an open escape route.

As Bolan reached the crown of the incline, he heard the familiar sound of a magazine being rammed home and a weapon being charged. It was close by.

He tightened his left-handed grip on the 93-R and lunged over the crest, rolling to his right to keep his gun hand free. The enemy was only ten feet away. Bolan caught a glimpse of a pair of steel blue eyes boring into him and the profile of an automatic rifle turning in his direction. His mind calculated the odds, weighing his own abilities, and made a split-second decision. He had target acquisition on the man's heart, but being the finely honed and trained warrior that he was, his instincts told him to shift his aim slightly to the left and down. He snapped off a round at the gunman's hand. His aim was true and the AK-47 blew out of the hardman's grip and down the slope to the road below. Bolan squeezed the trigger once more and put a round through his target's upper thigh. Emobalized and unarmed, the gunner crashed to the ground.

Not going for an immediate kill had been risky, but some good Intel was what he needed--one way or the other, this man was going to be the source.

Torrey's head popped up and he quickly surveyed the scene around him. Bolan was sitting on the ground, resting and inspecting the damage to his right hand. The Beretta 93-R was held loosely in his other hand, pointed in the direction of the fallen man. The hardman lay on his back a few feet from Bolan and was in obvious pain. He said nothing. His jaw was locked like a bear trap, as if to utter a sound would indicate the slightest sign of weakness, and his gaze was riveted to the man who had dropped him. Sirens wailed in the distance, and they could hear the roar of approaching vehicles.

Torrey looked quickly at the fallen gunman, then at Bolan.

"This one'll live. You okay?" The Executioner flexed his bruised and cut hand.

It was numb but everything worked, so he just nodded. He then turned his attention to the wounded hardman, standing and walking to where the man lay. He needed information and now was the only time to get it. Once the man was in police custody he would be beyond reach.

Looking down at the man he had shot, Bolan said softly to Torrey, "The officer on the road?" The MP shook his head and strode forward to stand beside Bolan.

"The officer was struck twice in the chest. He was already dead when we arrived on the scene." He looked hard at the warrior, then shrugged his shoulders. "I'll give you five minutes, but you can't kill him. When you're finished go north." He turned to walk back down the embankment. "And I get the information, too." Bolan nodded, holstered the 93-R and withdrew a combat knife from a small sheath strapped to his ankle. The six-inch blade flashed as it was unfolded from the handle, and the downed man's eyes widened in fear. Bolan's face was impassive as he took a step closer.

"I don't like killers, especially cop killers. Now let's talk about Schneider." The approaching vehicles, with their sirens and screeching tires, drowned out all sound from the embankment. By the time the police and paramedics dashed up the slope, they found only the wounded gunman.

It had been a long night and a busy morning for Torrey while he tried to get things prepared for the next thirty-six hours of trouble. During the night the MP had stashed away the young woman in his Kohala Mountains cabin on the north part of the island. Unlike the west coast, the mountains were covered in lush tropical vegetation and there was only one accessible entrance. The cabin was two miles down an old abandoned road that had once been used to maintain the water pipes that had irrigated the sugarcane fields. The sugarcane plantations were long gone, and the area was one of the most remote on the island. He had sent two of his men in a HMMWV--HIGH Mobility, Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, also known as a Hummer--down the treacherous track with the woman inside. The armored vehicle had ensured that she arrived safely and could be kept that way.

The initial interrogation had revealed little useful information. The woman was in shock and couldn't be pushed without breaking. Her story about her brother, such as it was, had checked out. He was a computer technician who had been working on general maintenance and upgrades of not only the GPS computer systems but other government systems and installations around the Hawaiian Islands. He had all the right clearances for his work but didn't have access to the codes for the countermeasures. It also appeared, if the woman was to be believed, that her brother was somehow being blackmailed by Schneider. The man was dead and his personal computer was missing, no doubt taken by the German when he had faked the suicide. The autopsy had shown that the man had been hit or kicked, probably just before he died.

One of his MPS had picked up Belasko up on the highway a few hours after the firefight with the gunman on the mountain road. What Belasko had done to the mercenary to make him talk, Torrey didn't know, and it was best that it stayed that way. Whatever it was, he had hit the jackpot, or at least part of it. They had learned two important pieces of information.

First they found out that there were to be landings tonight around the island. Men, weapons and supplies were being brought in under the cover of darkness, but they only had the location of one: Hapuna Beach Park. It was an unlikely landing place, as were most of the beaches on the Big Island. With no offshore reef and wide-open water all the way to the Philippines, Hapuna Beach would have a lot of surge and surf, making it difficult to land men and equipment. The advantage for Schneider was that the beach had a dirt access road up to the main highway, and he would be able to move his supplies quickly out of the area.

The other piece of information Belasko had obtained was a little more disturbing. Schneider had operatives somehow involved in the Keck telescope opening ceremony. On the surface, there seemed to be nothing of use to a man like Schneider at the opening.

Hundreds of foreign and American scientists were going to be present, as well as a number of American business leaders. The security at the mountain-top installation was formidable --almost every cop in the Hawaiian Islands was involved in the security of the ceremony. As well, most of the armored personnel carriers from the Pohakuloa base were stationed in and around the observatory on the summit of the volcano, each with a full complement of soldiers. it would take a force of battalion strength to storm the Keck installation. Why was Schneider interested in the observatory opening?

Torrey couldn't even guess at this point, but it would have to wait, anyway. He jumped into his overloaded jeep and headed off for his rendezvous with Belasko.

The big man had given him a list of equipment he wanted and suggested a few precautions for the GPS base itself. Torrey recognized the military bearing and the authority in Belasko.

Vietnam, maybe Desert Storm or possibly a series of covert ops--Torrey wasn't sure if it was all or some of the above, but Belasko had a lot of field experience and instincts. He was very efficient with his weapons, and that left-handed pistol shot was something few men could have done.

All the equipment he had asked for was available at the Pohakuloa Military Camp, although he usually wasn't authorized to issue it. No problem. Hal Brognola had smoothed the way and Torrey got what he needed, although the M-79 grenade launchers had raised a few eyebrows at the supply depot.

He headed away from the camp, toward the west coast. The traffic in the other direction was heavy.

Cars and buses were heading up the mountain toward the Keck. Police and military patrols were everywhere, with checkpoints set up a few miles apart along the winding road. After the previous day's firefight at the hotel, every soldier on the island had been assigned to guarding the scientists and the observatory. The Pohakuloa camp had only a skeleton defense of soldiers and a few of Torrey's MPS. The Global Positioning System control center was almost deserted, a situation Torrey had tried to prevent, but his superiors had overruled him because of the international implications involved with the Keck opening. The assassination or kidnapping of a major international scientist would have serious repercussions, and Schneider's men and their activities were considered to be aimed in that direction.

Belasko had shrugged off the lack of defensive arrangements at the base and had indicated that offensive action was the only recourse. He had told Torrey to meet him on the road south of Hapuna Beach toward dusk, and that was where the big MP was headed now. The rendezvous was still a two-hour drive, and Belasko had disappeared near the Kona Coast with his duffel of weapons early that morning. He had told Torrey that he had things to do before dealing with the landing of Schneider's men that night. Torrey had to wonder if Belasko had received more Intel than he had passed on and was now on some kind of personal crusade. He picked up speed as he headed down the steep road toward the coastal plain.

The OLD SUGAR hotel had seen better days. A flophouse and saloon for the locals, it had been difficult to locate tucked away on the side of the hill on a little-used side road. The approach had been guarded by one sleepy local with an old 12-gauge shotgun. An uppercut to the jaw had ensured his slumber for a while. The old scattergun was thrown into the brush several yards down the side of the hill. The unconscious gunner would have difficulty finding it when he awakened, leaving the escape road clear of interference. Bolan moved up the road, skirted the clearing where the cars were parked and worked his way to the back of the building.

He slipped quietly through a wooden door at the back of the above-ground basement into a dusky room used for the laundry. The voices in the lobby directly above could be heard quite clearly. The warrior held the Beretta in his left hand and the combat knife in his right. His injured hand still ached from the firefight but could hold the knife and strike if necessary. He eased his way through the piles of filthy linen toward the stairs at the far end of the room. There had been no time to replenish his ammo or replace his weapons, so this would have to be simple and quick. The Beretta felt light with only four rounds in the magazine. The knife would have to do the early work on the guards, then he'd have to scrounge whatever weapons and ammo they had to finish the job.

A shrill, penetrating voice could be heard cutting through the muted sounds as he neared the far end of the room. Orders were being given in Taiwanese, and it was that voice he had come to silence. The information from the sniper had been sketchy, but the Taiwanese mob hadn't trusted Schneider enough to let him carry out the operation without a leash. The Oriental upstairs was holding the tether. The Executioner was going to cut the cord by severing the head of the operation. Hopefully the body would soon lose direction and die.

Bolan stopped and turned. Three sets of feet could be heard moving overhead. No, wait-- there was a scraping sound to the right; a chair had moved where no feet had been heard before. He moved closer to the bottom of the stairs, then froze.

Heavy footsteps were slowly moving across the room above, heading for the door at the top of the staircase directly in front of the warrior. There was a bump as a rifle butt roughly struck the floor, then a rattling as awkward hands fumbled with the latch. Again the staccato Chinese of the Taiwanese gangster could be heard as someone swung open the door and clomped his way down the stairs.

The hardman crossed the basement laundry room to a cupboard on the wall and fumbled for his keys.

He set his Soviet assault rifle on the ground as he intently fought with the rusted old lock.

From the corner of his eye he saw a white-cloaked apparition, like a demon of his nightmares, rise from the floor and strike out with a flash that penetrated his chest. His heart had stopped beating before his body was slowly lowered to the ground.

Bolan pulled the knife free and threw off the stinking bed sheets that he had dived under when the Hawaiian hardman had opened the door to the basement. He grabbed the AK-47, checked the magazine and slung it over his shoulder. He checked the dead man's feet and removed a pair of wooden-soled clogs. He slipped off his own shoes and replaced them with the clogs. Imitating the fallen man's heavy footsteps, he started up the stairs with his Beretta in hand.

The Taiwanese mobster was still haranguing the others as he reached the top of the stairs. From the footsteps he had heard earlier, he figured there were two men to the left of the door, possibly seated or leaning against the wall, and the Taiwanese head-man was definitely to the immediate right about eight to ten feet away. The continuous stream of noise from that piercing voice allowed Bolan to home in on his target with ease. The Taiwanese would be first, then the warrior would turn and cover his back. The AK would keep their heads down, but the precision of the Beretta would be used on his main target.

The Executioner took the two steps across the landing to the doorway and turned to his right. The man giving the orders was sitting in a chair behind a round table in a room that was a bar and dining room. When he saw the snout of the Beretta 93-R turn in his direction, the mobster became silent. He stiffly began to rise as Bolan stitched three rounds into his body from waist to forehead. The grouping had to be tight, as the little man was barely five feet tall. He slumped into the chair without a sound.

A chair slammed against the wall behind the warrior as he turned and fired his last 9 mm parabellum slug in the gunman's chest. His partner hit the floorboards, upending a heavy wood table as he went. He rolled for the cover of the table, drawing a big.45 automatic from under his shoulder. Bolan stepped back into the protection of the doorway and swung the AKBLEDG from his shoulder. there was no way the gunman could get to him without moving to the open, but it was also impossible for the warrior to get a clean shot without stepping into the open. He could backtrack, leaving through the far end of the basement the way he had come in, except for the fact that the hardman would be able to hit him with the big Colt.45 from one of the upper-floor windows.

There was thumping in the room, meaning the gunman was on the move. He knew, as did Bolan, that the Russian assault rifle would chew the fallen wood table to pieces with one quick burst.

Thinking fast, Bolan took the clogs off his feet and tossed one through the door and into the room.

He heard the table bump the floor and knew the mercenary had jumped up to fire at his attacker.

Bolan threw the other clog into the room to the far wall and stepped through the door.

The mercenary was facing the far wall in a vain attempt to acquire his target. At that last second of his life, the hardman realized his error and turned to face the cold, hard eyes of the Executioner. He was fast, but not fast enough. As he tried to bring the big handgun to bear on his target, he was nearly cut in two by a sustained burst of 7.62 mm bullets from Bolan's AK-47.

The Executioner took a quick look around and was about to discard the assault rifle when he realized that he was virtually unarmed. He tucked the Beretta into the armpit holster and picked up the Colt.45. The magazine was fully primed, and the handgun was preferable to the rifle for concealment while he made his escape. He bent and picked up a set of car keys that had fallen from the overturned table, then discarded the AK-47 and tucked the Colt into his belt before sprinting from the ramshackle hotel to the waiting cars outside. The keys were for a battered old Corona. He slipped behind the wheel, turned it over and gunned the car down the dirt road and back to the main highway.

Bolan was UNABLE To see through the dust cloud that the car was kicking up behind him, but a figure on the second-floor balcony was watching his escape.

Schneider grinned as he watched the old car through his binoculars. He felt very satisfied. He now had some idea of who was perpetually interfering with his plans and what he looked like--but that wasn't all. The biggest thorn in his side had been removed, and he couldn't be blamed. He could safely report to his masters in Taiwan that their man was dead. The locals and the bodyguards had failed and he, Schneider, couldn't be held responsible for the death.

He lowered the binoculars and thought for a moment.

Everything had changed now. He would have to carry through with the plan alone. Or would he?

Brognola was worried. All the signs were bad, and he hadn't heard from Bolan for more than twenty-four hours. The information in the disks and files from Taiwan were inconclusive. Schneider couldn't control the GPS system with what was on those files--there was simply not enough information and the codes were only half correct. Brognola had seen the police and military reports of the shootout at the hotel, and Torrey had reported Bolan's involvement. The big Fed had also ensured that Torrey would get all the equipment Bolan had requested.

The suicide--or murder--of the computer programmer and the disappearance of the computer made some sense when Aaron Kurtzman, the resident computer expert at Stony Man, revealed that the codes required base directories to be useful. The young Vietnamese computer expert would have had those for his work of maintaining and upgrading the systems at the Pohakuloa base.

There was something else that disturbed Brognola about the accompanying papers. There was a reference to the Keck opening and a list of the dignitaries who would be there. The question was Why. The GPS base was obviously marked for action, but the interest in the Keck was out of place. There was no military value in the installation itself, nor did there appear to be any value in the scientists who would be attending the opening. As a diversion from the main thrust at the Pohakuloa base, the Keck had merit, but the overwhelming force used to protect it would discourage any interference. An in-depth check of all the dignitaries was needed, especially the Russians and East Europeans, to ensure their safety, but that would take time, and time was the one thing he didn't have.

Brognola turned the page of the file in front of him while he tried to make sense of it all.

Even if the Keck was the diversion, then why the exact list of scientists? For hostages? The Taiwanese didn't have to be that specific.

Something just wasn't right, and Brognola had a feeling that it had to do with Schneider.

The big Fed was a cautious man. He picked up his phone and put in a call to his chief of operations. He wanted some kind of backup available to move quickly to the Keck or the GPS base, whether the senior military men wanted it or not. After a brief discussion he found what he was looking for. There was a Navy SEAL unit in training on Lanai, to the west of Maui. They were on twenty-four-hour standby. Only twelve men were available, and getting the Navy to release them for duty with Stony Man would take all the tact and persuasion Brognola could muster, but it had to be done.

The situation on Hawaii was dangerous but too undefined for clear-cut military action. He put in a Call to the naval chief of operations and was told the admiral would return his call within the hour. He put the phone down and sat back to wait.

The Pohakuloa camp was going to be hit to gain access to the GPS installation but he still had no idea why. What was the Taiwanese mob after? They could confuse the navigation of most of the world, but all ships and planes had backup systems. It had to be missiles--they were either going to blind them or divert them. American weapons systems had backups, as well, so it had to be something in another part of the world.

A lot of obsolete East European and Soviet weaponry had been sold all over the globe to anyone with the cash. That had to be it, but who had the missiles and what were the Taiwanese--or Schneider planning to do with them?

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the phone, punched the secure line and placed a call to Torrey.

Torry had pulled over to the side of the road about five miles past the turnoff to the park. The area was arid, with a few hills, some scrub brush and patches of grass. The road passed close to the coastline, and the sheer cliffs at the water's edge were only a hundred yards away. The big MP could hear the crashing of the surf as the Pacific slammed into the black stone of the old lava flow. The wind was gentle, but it still stirred up the volcanic dust and sand that stung the eyes and irritated the throat. The park was one of the few places on this coast that had a beach in between the towering bluffs, making a landing possible. But it wouldn't be easy--the wind would pick up toward evening and the surf and surge would be treacherous.

From his position on a slight rise Torrey could see almost ten miles in each direction. The jeep was tucked under an overhanging tree in the shade, and the weapons were stashed under a tarp in the back. He had been in position for an hour. Very little traffic had come his way--only a water truck, a few tourists and a couple of native pickups. Nothing of interest or danger.

Now, however, off in the distance, he could see a small red car that was weaving from side to side, clattering and backfiring as it went. The smoke from its exhaust was a greasy black smudge in the distance, against the crystal-clear Hawaiian sky.

The big MP stared hard at the approaching compact and realized that the weaving wasn't random. There was a definite pattern of movement from one side of the road to the other. There could be no mistake--it was a pattern of evasion.

He picked up his binoculars and focused on the car. There wasn't anything distinctive, not even the speed. It was just an old-model Toyota like hundreds found on the island. He then scanned the road behind and saw a speck of something. He zoomed in. A motorcycle was following the vehicle, and they seemed to be involved in a game of chicken on the deserted highway. They were still four or five miles off, so Torrey had a few moments to consider the situation.

Belasko was due any minute. He could be in the car or he could be the man on the motorcycle. If in the car, then he was being pursued by Schneider's men. However, if he was on the dirt bike, then he was likely running down his quarry. The speed of the pursuit was odd. The driver of the Toyota wasn't trying to escape. The vehicle could obviously increase speed, even in its dilapidated state. He raised his binoculars once again to assess the situation.

The motorcycle was repeatedly charging the car from behind, while the car was using its size to block the road. The car was moving in a precise fashion, with every change of lane and acceleration and slowdown designed to keep the motorcycle at a distance and at a disadvantage. Once again the motorcycle charged the Toyota, and this time Torrey saw a muzzle-flash. The biker had missed, and the road duel continued.

As he watched, the car suddenly executed a sharp turn at the top of a small crest in the road. The bike swerved around the vehicle and hit the ditch, then emerged back on the road a hundred yards farther along. The little Toyota made a run at the motorcycle, now leading. The biker waited as the Japanese car raced in his direction, and at the last moment before impact, gunned the engine and slipped out of the way. The Toyota swerved once again in his direction, then continued up the road, closing the gap between Torrey and the highway duel.

Torrey now had the situation worked out in his mind.

Belasko was in the Toyota. The precision of the driving was in character for the man who had made the left-handed shot. The biker was good, but he was losing.

Belasko, in the inferior equipment, was an equal match for the hardman with superior equipment. There was simply the problem of time. Torrey had no doubt that Belasko would ultimately win this dangerous game of high-speed roulette, but the sun was setting and the landing had to be dealt with.

He slid his personal M-16A-2 out of its canvas cover. Torrey had cleaned and checked the weapon, which had kept him alive more than once in the Gulf War. It was on full automatic as the car and the motorcycle approached his position.

Torrey, using the jeep as shield and armrest, snugged the M-16 to his shoulder, squinted down the sights and held his breath. The volcanic grit whipped up by the breeze stung his eyes as he waited for his objective to arrive. At this shallow angle of attack, the Toyota would fill the sights first, then clear to the right to reveal the motorcycle. The second the Toyota cleared the line of sight the big MP would have immediate target acquisition on the bike.

The Toyota raced past, belching black smoke as the last of the piston rings disintegrated. The motorcycle was a scant two seconds behind. As the bike and rider filled the sights, Torrey let loose a burst at close range. Both bike and rider left the road, plowing into a formation of black volcanic rock, exploding on impact.

The Toyota came to a screeching halt a few hundred feet down the road. The gears ground as the driver swung the car in Torrey's direction. As it slowly approached, the MP could see Belasko at the wheel with a slight grin on his face.

Torrey relaxed a little as he scanned the road in both directions and realized they were alone. No other pursuit was apparent, and they were miles from the nearest village or town. The park was five miles to the south and on the other side of the rise in the highway.

It was unlikely that anyone saw or heard anything.

The breeze was blowing inland, increasing in strength as the sun dropped to the western horizon. The fine pumice sand and dust seeped into every seam of Torrey's clothing, into every pore of his body. The bruised old Corona came to a halt with a wheeze and a bang beside the jeep, and Belasko eased himself out of the seat and stood on the road. Torrey shook his head.

"You have the damnedest way of making an entrance." "He picked me up on the highway. He got a little close so I thought I might play him into making a mistake. He didn't count on any backup. That was his first and only mistake." He paused and Waited for Torrey to put away his assault rifle, then began to sort through the material in the back of the jeep, saying, "The man on the bike was a local, so Schneider's support base on the island is broader than we had assumed." Torrey listened intently as Bolan continued.

"The Taiwanese are here, as well, although the main contact man is no longer part of the picture." The MP knew what that meant, and there was no point in asking for details. His companion would tell him little or nothing, anyway, so it was better to move on to the job at hand.

"Everything you requested is here, including the sniper rifle you left behind. I've got a map of the park and have done a quick recon of the landing area." Bolan was busy loading his weapons and changing into a blacksuit. He pulled a tropical camou uniform over top-common hunting attire on the island. He listened to Torrey briefly, then cut him off.

"Good. We'll go over it in a minute. First let's lose the old Toyota and get to a secure area near the park. If Schneider has men guarding the gates as good as the guy on the bike, then he's sure to have more around the park." The Executioner slid the now fully loaded Beretta into its shoulder harness and added three extra clips to his fatigue-jacket pockets. He checked the big Colt.45 he had acquired at the old hotel. It wasn't his Desert Eagle, but it was a weapon that had packed a punch for America for some seventy years and it would serve his needs. He threw the tarp over the rest of the weaponry and turned and walked over to the battered old Toyota sitting in the middle of the road.

Torrey, having just changed into a set of fatigues, shook his head, indicating that there was no way he thought the old compact was going to move.

Bolan grabbed the wheel and turned it, aiming the vehicle off the road toward the slight incline to the sea. The two men got behind the car and gave it a shove. It rolled across the road, slipping gently over the shoulder and down the slight incline to the bluff overlooking the Pacific. It seemed to pause as it reached the lip of the cliff, then slowly and gracefully tumbled into the churning surf below. The waves closed over the vehicle and it disappeared from sight.

The two men hopped into the jeep. Torrey jammed it into gear and gunned it down the highway toward Hapuna Beach Park, a scant five miles away. The sun was about to touch the horizon in the west as they pulled onto the beach road.

Torrey cut to the left, down the service road away from the main beach and up a slight hill into an expanse of dunes. The jeep came to a halt behind a knoll among the brush, well away from the main beach area and entrance road. Bolan dismounted and scrambled to the top of the hillock. He held Torrey's M-16A-2 in his hands as he scanned the area for any sign of sentries or pursuit. There were none.

Torrey was busy off-loading the arms from the back of the jeep. The plan was set, and each man knew what he had to do. Belasko was to deal with the landing itself.

The antitank weapons would deal with the boat or boats, and the Gaili would take care of anyone left. The big MP hadn't been able to obtain a night scope for the sniper rifle, though he had been able to get two sets of night-vision binoculars.

He was to use his M-16 and the M-79 grenade launchers to close the door on the shore party.

Belasko had made it clear that no one could be allowed to escape, and a prisoner would help, if possible, but no risks were to be taken. Schneider had to be left in the dark, unaware of who was intercepting his men and materiel. The less he knew, the more he would sweat. And the more he sweat, the more likely he would make a mistake. They still had no clear idea what the German was planning to do, although the GPS base was obviously a target and the Kock installation was involved in some way.

Bolan returned from the top of the knoll and they quickly reviewed their plan. Based on Torrey's reconnaissance of the beach area, the warrior knew that there was a small inlet to the south of the main beach. The inlet was only about two hundred yards across and had a protected entrance. It was also connected to the main beach area, and the main exit road, by a short tunnel carved through the rock by the action of the wind and waves. The narrow beach of the small bay was the only area that afforded any protection from the surge and crashing surf, so the weapons would be landed there. The constricted tunnel was the bottleneck. From the bluffs overhead, Torrey would be able to cover the tunnel and the main beach, with a clean shot at the main road with his grenade launcher. Anyone Bolan missed in the cramped little inlet would have to get past the MP'S covering fire at the Tunnel exit. The only escape would be by sea, and the Executioner intended to use the disposable antitank weapons for that problem.

Ensuring that the jeep was well out of sight, the two men split up to work their way into position. The arms shipment would have to arrive just after sunset to catch the incoming tide, and the sun was almost below the horizon as they silently headed toward the steep volcanic chill.

Torrey moved into a notch in the eroded stone that was screened by a dense thicket of brush. The road to the beach and the beach itself were forty feet below his position.

His of fur, was unobstructed to the tunnel entrance and the main road. There was one area of the beach where the view was blocked by a thatched hut used for picnics, but the M-16 or the M-79 would shred it to pieces in seconds, if necessary. His back was protected by part of the outcropping, although he was blind in that direction. Torrey settled down and arranged his weapons and ammo where they could easily be reached. He relaxed a little--full darkness and the landing wouldn't be for more than an hour. Schneider's shore party wouldn't show up and expose itself any sooner, particularly with the increased military and police activity of late.

He watched the sun as it was about to dip below the horizon and smiled. There was that sudden flash of green light in the sky just as the sun disappeared, which happened only in Hawaii. An atmospheric distortion or an optical illusion, no one could say for Sure. The native Hawaiians insisted that it occurred only when the gods were pleased, and Torrey, although not superstitious, could only hope it was true. With the odds he and his partner were facing, the gods had better be pleased and on their side.

The cabbin smelled of mildew and rotting vegetation. The jungle or rain forest had to be nearby. It was a smell she had known since her birth in Vietnam. Cherie Diem opened her eyes slowly and looked at the Spartan surroundings.

Despite the heat, there was a slight chill to the air, and the shadows were long and dark through the window.

Two soldiers were playing a fast game of gin rummy outside her door. She sat up, thinking hard, trying to remember. Finally it came to her--the parking lot, her brother David, the MP, the chase and the strange big man who towered over her yet didn't frighten her. Then she screamed, as the image of a big revolver flashed into her mind.

A moment later the two soldiers burst into the room with their M-16's at the ready. They quickly scanned the room for intruders, then realized that the woman had just awakened from a dream. The corporal signaled to his companion to do a quick check outside while he tried to calm the shaking, frightened woman.

She started to cry as the soldier put his arm around her to calm her nerves. She settled into him like a frightened child and continued to shake as the corporal gently stroked her hair. The soldier's arms were strangely familiar to Cherie. The smell of the uniform and the gun oil caused her mind to drift back many years. Her American father had held her like that as a young child just before his return to the States. The smell was the same, as was the uniform and strength in the powerful arms. Her father had been shipped out just before the fall of Saigon and she had gone with her mother and brother into hiding in the jungles and mountains near Laos. She never again saw her father, who died in a traffic accident when he returned home. She and her brother were eventually sent to Irland, where after many years they were befriended by a group of GIS and sent to live in the United States.

They were fortunate and were placed in the same home.

They had been well educated, and her brother showed a real genius for computers. When he graduated, a major defense contractor hired him immediately and sent him around the world troubleshooting defense systems.

Cherie had a flare for languages and had often traveled with her brother on contract as his interpreter. That was how Schneider had sunk his claws into them.

They had both been sent to Taiwan to sort out some problems with a bank of government communications computers. David had found something very wrong with the system. The security codes had been breached and a number of the programs altered. He immediately informed the Taiwanese manager and was told that it would be taken care of. The next day He was removed from the project and the real trouble began.

She and David had been grabbed off the street in front of their hotel and taken into a small industrial park near the coast. The factory was empty except for a small room in which Taiwanese and Korean computer programmers worked under heavy guard. They were roughly pushed into one corner and placed under guard, as well. The short barrel of an Uzi had remained pointed at them for hours--the guard rarely moved and said nothing. Well into the night, a car drove into the parking lot outside, and the guards became visibly more alert.

A big blond man entered and stopped in the doorway. Cherie remembered thinking that there was no question that this man was in charge. Her years of hiding in the jungles of Vietnam had created a sixth sense that warned her of danger, and this man set all her alarm bells ringing.

To her surprise he ignored her and David and went over to one of the computers. Pushing one of the programmers aside, he sat and began to type on the keyboard. David whispered into her ear that the big Caucasian--Schneider--was doing a program check. He stopped typing, waited for a printout, then slowly stood and faced the programmer he had pushed aside.

In a sudden single movement he pulled his big revolver from his belt and shot the terrified man through the forehead from point-blank range. His skull shattered and the back of his head splattered onto the floor. No one in the room moved.

Schneider waved his handgun in the direction of one of his men, who quickly dragged the body out of the room.

Then he turned to face Cherie and her brother. He tucked the weapon back into his belt and spoke to his new captives.

"He was of no use. He could not and did not break the codes I want. You will." He stared hard at David and pointed to the computer keyboard.

"We will make a deal, sort of as partners." He laughed deep in his chest as he looked at the terrified Vietnamese. "The codes I want are military, something I know you can deal with. Your sister is beautiful. If you wish her to stay that way, you will do as you're told." He pointed at the bloodstained floor with his hand.

"I do not suffer fools nor do I have the patience to wait for you to decide." He pulled the heavy revolver from his belt and took two steps forward and jammed it into Cherie's mouth. He smiled cruelly and looked at David.

David, almost in shock and sure that the big European would pull the trigger, jumped up, walked to the computer terminal and sat. He had encountered this kind of man before--in the jungles of Southeast Asia, in the teeming streets of Bangkok. Life meant nothing to men like the German. He started to type, looking for the source of the problem.

Schneider relaxed and once again tucked the revolver away. He placed his hand on Cherie's shaking head and with terrible force slammed her to the ground.

He liked to have women in his power--it made him feel strong. He turned to David and stepped up to the computer terminal.

"I know the equipment and the programs better than you ever will. I want the codes, and I know you will be at the base in the next two weeks." He smiled at the slight young man.

"Your sister will remain with me. Deliver the codes and you can both go free. Cross me, and you both will wish you had never been born." He turned his back on the computer room and walked out the door. Cherie was dragged out behind him by one of his men and forced into a car in the parking lot.

The next time she saw David was at the hotel the day before he died. She didn't tell him of the things that Schneider had done to her, how every night she had been forced to submit to his demands.

It wasn't important as long as David was safe. She had protected her little brother when they were on the run from the North Vietnamese, and she had continued to protect him to the very end. Cherie was determined that Schneider would pay, and not just with his life. He would come to know pain, as she had at his hands. Revenge was all she had left, and she would have to get to the man.

The soldier felt her relax in his arms, and he gently lowered her to the bed. She seemed to have dropped off to sleep. He stroked her head one last time and pulled the worn blanket up to her chin. He knew she had been through a rough time--the captain had told him as much--so it was best for her to rest. The young corporal quickly looked around the room, then slipped out the door to the front porch and his unfinished game of gin rummy.

Cherie heard the game resume. She sat up, then pulled on her shoes, waiting patiently for an excited, boisterous moment in the card game before she slipped silently out the window and into the tropical forest.

Bolan moved into position slowly, weighed down by his deadly hardware. The spot he had selected was on the southern end of the little inlet closest to the sea. From that vantage point he would be shooting back into the bay toward the beach, forcing anyone who reached shore to make a break for the tunnel and preventing any boat from escaping through the narrow passage back to the sea. The position was well protected by the surrounding rock. Although it took three trips to move his equipment out to the jutting perch, the security it provided was well worth the effort. The Executioner was seventy-five feet above the water, and he commanded the entire little inlet.

The sun had set well before he had completed his preparations although the lingering twilight had made his work easy. He settled down into his tiny rock fortress and began to check and make ready his weaponry. Before long the sound of a small truck could be heard, approaching in the distance. Bolan waited and hoped that Torrey would do as instructed and patiently bide his time.

A pickup slowly edged its way down the road to the beach. The wind was whipping the sand into a cloud close to the shore and the surf was pounding with increasing fury. It was almost totally dark now, although the moon was starting to follow its slow traverse through the sky.

The moonlight cast a slight but eerie glow across the beach as the truck came to a halt.

Torrey pulled the M-16 closer as he raised his night glasses to his eyes to watch the unfolding drama below. The driver flashed a Morse A out to sea with the headlights. He waited, then flashed it two more times. A few seconds later a dimmed light could be seen offshore responding with the three dots of the Morse S. The deep throaty growl of high-powered marine engines could be heard, as the boats prepared to approach the shore. A small convoy of pickup trucks that had been waiting for the signal moved down the road to the beach below.

The Executioner had seen the signal from the boats and heard the low snarl of their engines as they approached the opening to the inlet, where he waited with an M-72 LAW. From the sounds, he knew there were at least two, possibly three boats coming in to land. Another sound carried across the water from the other side of the bay. The shore party had arrived, and Torrey was playing it cool. Let the game walk into the trap, then slam the door behind them. There would be no escape. The night was dark, and the tiny bay didn't have the benefit of the moon, which was close to the horizon. Out to sea Bolan caught a glimpse of a larger craft, probably a trawler or coaster, as it hove to so that its cargo could be unloaded. The boats approaching the beach were high-powered, the growling engines telling the story as the vessels eased to the opening of the small bay. The ocean surge was giving them problems, and they suddenly backed their engines as they came closer to the narrow entrance of the inlet. For a second the warrior thought he had been seen, then he heard the high-pitched whine of a small outboard coming in his direction.

Whoever was in charge of the landing operation was taking no chances. A ten-foot Zodiac with two well-armed men aboard slowly cruised into the opening of the bay.

They had a pair of mercury-vapor lights that they arced over the beach and the rock formations that towered above.

Bolan slid back away from the edge of the bluff into the shadows of the rock. His night vision was destroyed by the intense strength of the mercury beams.

The sound of another small outboard motor announced the arrival of the backup team. Bolan couldn't risk a look, but by the location of the sound he guessed that the entrance to the small bay was being covered by the new arrivals. He waited patiently.

The men in the first rubber boat hit the beach and began a hasty reconnaissance of the immediate area. They appeared satisfied, and one of the men disappeared into the tunnel that connected the small cove to the main beach. He quickly returned and took a defensive position near the tunnel entrance. The other man jumped into the dinghy, started the outboard and headed out to sea.

Bolan took a look over the edge of his sniper's nest. The night glasses gave him a clear view of the situation. One man guarded the tunnel to the main beach and the other two from the second Zodiac had taken up positions on either side of the entrance to the small bay. To the warrior's trained eye the situation was well thought out and well orchestrated--these were no amateurs. He was up against trained military professionals.

He eased back from the lip of the cliff as a mercury-vapor light made one last swing in his direction. It was unlikely that they would continue to use the lights and risk the possibility of giving away their positions. That they were willing to make three passes with the lights indicated their thoroughness or possibly their nervousness in making the landing, and the fact that this operation was taking place, despite the large and alerted military presence on the island, was indicative of the urgency and importance the Taiwanese mob had placed on the operation.

The warrior looked out to sea and caught a glimpse of a speedboat just outside the entrance to the cove. A few seconds later he heard the rumble of its engines, then the chorus of another boat and possibly a third.

Both of the LAWS were at hand, as were the Gaili and two boxes of ammo. First one, then another boat crept into the sheltered anchorage of the cove.

Built for speed and endurance, these craft were there to run, if necessary, but their payload was small. From his perch above the water Bolan realized that these were the decoys. They would unload some arms, but they couldn't carry enough materiel to support even a small part of the kind of operation Schneider was mounting. He was sure there was a least one other landing somewhere else on the island--these two boats couldn't be what he was after. There had to be more.

Two men slipped into the cove through the short tunnel, and after a quick discussion with the men from the boats, they signaled back down the passage with a flashlight. Within seconds a group of men appeared and the two speedboats slowly closed with the shore.

Bolan ventured a quick look into the darkness of the inlet. The moon had risen high enough now to bathe even the deep narrow cove in light. The growling runabouts carefully beached themselves and shut down their engines. The men on the sand swarmed to the craft to off-load the cargo. Gun cases and ammunition boxes appeared over the side and were dropped onto the shore. Crowbars were produced and the weapons removed and passed out to the squad of men standing nearby. The ammo was distributed and magazines were charged as half the party slipped back into the tunnel toward the trucks. The others waited on the beach.

While watching the activity from his perch above the sands, Bolan resisted taking any action. Only ten or twelve assault weapons had been landed-- not enough to justify this kind of extensive preparation and security. His hearing had also begun to pick up a slow pulsating drone out to sea, the sound of a large marine diesel laboring against a heavy load. It was a small coaster or tug, and the vessel was slowly approaching the mouth of the cove. The speedboats fired up their engines and slipped away from the beach.

They turned and made their way to the surging passage that led to the open sea. After clearing the narrow channel and the shoals, one boat gunned its engine and tore off to the south, no doubt to keep an eye open for patrol craft coming from the Kona Coast.

The other boat slowly turned north and disappeared in the direction of the approaching diesel. The area became quiet except for the muffled sound of the crashing surf outside the small bay.

None of the hardmen spoke, although most took the time to light up cigarettes. There was no indication of activity on the main beach, no movement or sound from the men or trucks positioned there. Everyone was waiting.

Torrey sprawled motionless in his lair, watching the beach below. The emergence of the now-armed men from the tunnel had caught him by surprise and almost sparked him into action. He had hesitated--there had been no action by Belasko. The hardmen below had spread out and set up a loose defensive perimeter, which would make them hard to target when the time came. Belasko had made it clear that the trucks were the primary targets--the weapons had to be prevented from leaving the beach to be transported inland. The rising moon outlined the vehicles well, and they were within easy range of the M-79 and its lethal grenades.

The MP had earlier heard the high-pitched buzzing of the Zodiacs and seen the powerboats move toward the cove. He had also heard the deep bass throb of the diesel somewhere out to sea. The bigger craft was getting closer to shore, though it still wasn't clearly visible in the moonlight. He could see only the spray from the bow, illuminated by the moon. The engine note changed slightly as the craft battered its way through the swells. It slowly came closer, crossing parallel to the beach from north to south, edging ever closer to shore as it approached the entrance to the inlet. Torrey was now able to begin to see some of the details of the boat. She appeared to be a blunt-nosed open scow loaded with crates and boxes. That kind of craft was common around the Hawaiian Islands, used for delivering freight and building materials to inaccessible areas.

The scows were shallow draft, slow and clumsy, but could carry heavy loads.

Torrey whistled under his breath. The craft was sitting low in the water--there were a lot of supplies and firepower in that seagoing shoebox. The engine note deepened, and the vessel began to slow as it reached the south end of the beach. It turned toward shore as it rounded the headland and entered the passage into the protected inlet. Most of the men below placed their weapons in the pickups and walked into the tunnel to help unload the cargo. Two guards were left to watch the beach, and one of the high-powered boats patrolled offshore. Torrey rechecked the M-16A-2, then shouldered the M-79. His reloads were beside him as he took aim at the group of trucks. Any second now the action would begin.

He didn't have long to wait. An explosion in the cove sent flames shooting into the air, followed by another that showered him in rock, stone splinters and dust. He threw himself back against the rock wall behind him and covered his exposed head with his arms. He felt as if he were being buried alive by the debris, and the dust was filling his lungs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The big MP felt the shock of another blast as the hail of stones ceased. He lifted his head and opened his eyes, seeing the night sky light up from the secondary explosions in the cove. He could hear almost nothing--the first blast had briefly deafened him--but he knew from the muzzle-flashes that there was firing from the speedboat offshore. They were laying down an automatic-weapons barrage into the inlet high up on the cliffs.

He took a quick look around to assess the situation. The tunnel was gone. It had been collapsed by an explosion, and the cove was sealed off except by sea. The rock he had been showered with had been part of the roof of the passage.

Flames were leaping high into the air, and the crackle of ammunition set off by the blaze could now be heard as his hearing began to return. The roar of the flames mixed with the detonations of superheated munitions cut through the night. The sight was incredible--the cove would be like a living hell.

Torrey was moved to action. Belasko, if he had survived the blasts, would need help. He dug into the debris for the M-79, but it was nowhere to be found. His hand grabbed the M-16 in the dust, and as he raised it he was able to locate two spare magazines. The automatic fire offshore was intense. Belasko would be under heavy pressure, but Torrey was first and foremost a soldier. All his years of training had been based on following orders, and his explicit orders were to take out the trucks. There were AK-47'S in those trucks that could be used in Schneider's plans.

The M-16 was on automatic, and he targeted each truck for a burst near the fuel tank and the rear tires. The two hardmen on the beach, although shaken by the explosions, quickly opened up in his direction with their Russian assault rifles, and hot metal began to chip at the rocks around him.

Torrey backed away from the edge of his hideout and fumbled around for the M-79 and the grenades. The fires and explosions roared in his ears from the inferno on the other side of the headland. Belasko had to have hit the scow with everything he had right at the beginning of the fight.

Bolan, in fact, had been very patient. The M-72 light antitank weapon was completely inadequate for the problem he now faced. The scow was large but open. The antitank rocket would punch a hole in the side of the hull, but the blast from the warhead would do little damage in the unconfined open deck area. The blunt-nosed barge was being guided cautiously toward the narrow beach--close enough to off-load the cargo easily but not close enough to strand the vessel on the sand. The enclosed engine room, the one place the LAW could do its work, was away from Bolan's position and out of his line of fire.

Strategically the tunnel was the key. Close it off and most of the hardmen and the supplies were trapped like fish in a barrel. Cause a little trouble here, and the Coast Guard or the Navy would hunt down the barge and its cargo in short order. The M-72 was all that Torrey had been able to get, but the light antitank rocket would hardly make a dent in the rock above the passageway. He set the LAW aside and snugged the sniper rifle into his shoulder. The scope helped in the moonlight, and luck seemed to be on his side when the scow flipped on some low-voltage yellow deck lights to help the men who started to off-load the weaponry.

Then something caught his eye. The Executioner carefully shifted his aim to a man who was off-loading a number of small, heavy crates. Two men standing in waist-deep water were passing them up to the shoreline, where they were being stacked near the entrance to the tunnel. The handlers were being particularly careful with the crates, which were being put aside, out of the way. The warrior stared hard through his telescopic sight. He could barely make out the letters HE stenciled on the side of the two-foot-by-two-foot cases. Other cargo was now being handed over the side of the barge to the men on the beach. Every man was busy with the cargo. The only guards were the men in the speedboats and in the Zodiac inflatable, and they were watching the entrance from the sea.

The line of fire to the cases was partially obscured by outcroppings to the immediate left of the tunnel entrance.

Bolan would have only one shot before every gun in the cove was turned on him, so he had to hit with the first shot. He picked up the M-72 and popped up the sights. He rose slowly to his feet, exposing his upper body to view. Moving carefully, he shifted to the right and stepped up to a jutting rock ledge. Behind him was a forty-foot drop to the sea and in front of him was the cove. Just then a few stones slipped free from the ledge and tumbled to the beach below. There was a yell and a quick-thinking gunman in a boat opened fire in the Executioner's general direction. It was too late --he had already pulled the trigger, let go of the LAW and dived back to the protection of his earlier position. As he threw his body behind the covering rock and attempted to cover his head and ears, the little antitank missile struck home.

There was a bang, a yell, then a powerful detonation followed by a shock wave and a blast of heat. Bolan's ears and eyes stung from the force.

He grabbed the other M-72 and poked his head up over the jagged rocks that had protected him from the blast. Even through the dust he could see that the tunnel was gone. A number of bodies were piled where men had been standing near the cases when they went off. The scow had been pushed ninety degrees and was broadside to Bolan's position. Some of the deck cargo was ablaze, but a swift member of the crew had gotten the diesel started and was trying to turn the barge and head it toward the open water of the center of the cove. No one had opened fire again on his position. Most of the hardmen below were likely in shock or disoriented by the blast. It wouldn't last for long.

For the second time Bolan stood, raised a single-shot antitank weapon and waited. A couple of the gunmen below were coming to their senses and they began to fire in the direction of their attacker.

The scow began to swing toward the exit to the sea, exposing its one weak point to the LAW. The range was short. A squeeze of the trigger, the whoosh of the rocket leaving the tube and the engine room and the transom were blown out of the barge. The pilothouse and the occupants in the stern were blown apart as the blast was directed up to the deck by the heavy diesel and equipment below deck. The vessel started to settle by the stern in the shallow water of the inlet. The fires on deck were beginning to superheat the cargo, and smaller blasts were followed suddenly by a tremendous explosion that blew out of the center of the stricken craft. There were no survivors.

The Executioner threw away the now-useless M-72 and stared down into the raging inferno.

The beach was littered with burning wreckage and the remains of Schneider's minions. The barge was a raging blaze like that of hell itself, and ammo and other stores continued to detonate and shriek through the night.

The powerboats were returning and were pouring a random hail of lead in and around his position. The warrior picked up the Gaili. He considered trying to eliminate the men in the boats, but it was impractical. His night vision was destroyed, and the fiery wreck of the scow prevented him from adjusting to the dark. The drivers of the powerboats wanted no part of the holocaust in the cove--they were keeping well back of the ring of light as they searched for their enemy.

Bolan decided to move out. He climbed from his perch and up to the top of the cliff. From there he could see that the speedboats had given up and headed out to sea at high speed. Just then there was a flash and a streak of flame from the direction of the main beach. At a trot, ever wary of his lack of night vision, Bolan headed toward Hapuna Beach and Torrey's last known position.

As he reached the crest of the headland, there was another bang of a grenade and he saw the last of the pickup trucks engulfed in flames. Torrey was under fire from two positions. As Bolan watched, the hardman closest inland was silenced by the bark of an M16 fired from near where Torrey had been positioned. The other gunman was on the move and slipped into a position behind the burning vehicles.

Torrey wouldn't be able to see him, but the Executioner had a perfectly silhouetted target from where he stood.

Standing on the crest of the headland with his back to the blazing cove, he raised the Gaili to his shoulder. He took a breath, eased half of it out as he watched the cross hairs of the scope settle on the dark form four hundred yards away. This was the right weapon, in the right hands, at precisely the right time and place. He had target acquisition and gently squeezed the trigger. The outline dropped to the ground.

Schneider was watching the unloading operation at the small jetty on the northern coast of the island when the speedboat roared into view. His men immediately grabbed their weapons and prepared to open fire. As the craft came closer, Schneider realized that the boat was one of his own and that something was very wrong--the boat should have been protecting the other landing twenty miles to the south. His first thoughts were that the Coast Guard or police had picked up the scow at sea, then an even more disturbing thought flashed through his mind: the big man, the one who had hit the hotel only a few hours earlier.

Most of the weapons were ashore, as were the thirty mercenaries he had recruited over the past few months. The other landing of materiel was to arm and equip his locally recruited squads. This news was going to be bad, no matter what--or who--had caused it. He signaled for his men to resume their work and ordered two of the mercenaries to do a recon of the dirt road that led away from the loading area.

The boat began to slow as it approached land, and one of the men was frantically pointing to the south. The streamlined vessel bumped up against the jetty just as the last of the supplies were taken off the old trawler. Schneider walked slowly and deliberately down to the dock as the boat's pilot jumped ashore and hurried in his direction.

The boatman was panting heavily as he reached Schneider.

"They got everything... blew the whole works off the face of the earth." Schneider eyed him carefully as he felt his anger rise.

"Who?" "I don't know. We were offshore. It looked like a bloody army hit them as they went into the cove." As the man looked at the German's face he felt his blood turn cold.

Schneider's anger got the best of him as he struck out with his big fist and smashed the man to the ground with a blow to the head. He then viciously kicked his fallen victim in the side. Stepping back, he drew his Colt Python and aimed for a spot between the man's eyes. He then smiled, lowered the big handgun and looked down at the man at his feet.

"You are lucky. The sound of a pistol shot would be dangerous to us, especially now that you have bungled your part of the operation and the authorities are fully alerted." He turned to the men around him and indicated that they should get into the trucks and get moving. He started to walk away from the fallen man and spoke quietly to two of the mercenaries who walked with him.

"Kill him. The one in the boat, too. Be at the rendezvous before first light." He would have to alter his plans with half of his firepower gone. A bunch of Hawaiians with shotguns and machetes were useless in a frontal assault on the base. His backup plan had never been clearly thought through. He had only hours before sunrise, then he had to be ready to move. The codes would work only during a very narrow time frame--tomorrow afternoon if the Vietnamese programmer had been correct. This brought his mind back to the woman, then to the man at the hotel. There had been rumors for years in the underworld of an agent who played by his own rules. The problem was that the rumors could never be verified because none of the hardmen ever survived to confirm them. He knew this adversery was different, and he felt in his gut that he was the one who had stopped the landing. His plans would have to take this man into account, draw him into the open or divert him away from the main objective.

Bolan and Torrey were speeding away from the inferno in the cove. They pulled off the road and into a thicket to avoid the police cruisers racing toward the battlefield. They were silent as they regained the main road and headed toward the mountains to Torrey's cabin and to an interview with the Oriental woman. By now she should be able to talk and shed some light on Schneider's plans. The German mercenary had wasted precious seconds trying to kill her in the parking lot. She had to know something.

Torrey had resisted using the radio equipment in his jeep for fear of detection, though he had monitored a couple of channels at various times for updates from his department. He flipped it on now. There was static, but messages from the Pohakuloa base high up in the saddle between the two volcanoes cut through. In the midst of the various messages he caught a phrase he knew and pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road.

Bolan waited for Torrey to speak, well aware that the message had to mean something to the big MP. The message was repeated twice in succession.

"Torrey... no sugarcane." "Torrey... no sugarcane." The MP captain struck the dash of the jeep with his fist and swore under his breath. He turned to Bolan and shook his head.

"Something has happened to the woman. I don't know what, but my men haven't reported in. I've got to get to a phone, and there isn't one for miles." Bolan knew that the low-powered radio in the jeep wouldn't reach far in the shadow of the great volcano that towered over them. There were only two options. They could continue up the coast road to the Kohala Mountains to find out what the situation with the woman was, then race to the camp to protect the GPS installation. Or they could--and this was the only real choice in Bolan's mind--head toward the base up the Saddle Road and hope that the radio would reach the Hummer from the higher elevation. From there they could get to the Pohakuloa camp to prepare a reception for Schneider and his men. The defenses would be thin with most of the military personnel assigned to the protection of the Keck and the visiting dignitaries. The sooner they got to the camp the better. There was the problem of the woman, but the decision at this point would have to be Torrey's.

The captain looked at Bolan as if to try to determine what the warrior was thinking, but he was met with a blank stare. The woman worried Torrey, but his military instincts told him there was no choice.

He headed back down the road to the turnoff to Waimea and the Saddle Road. Bolan looked at Torrey's strained features in the predawn light. He knew the decision hadn't been an easy one for the MP. His military training had made the decision for him, but at heart he was still a cop, and leaving the young Asian woman to Schneider was going against everything he believed in.

"There was no other choice," Bolan stated flatly.

Torrey nodded his agreement, then pressed the accelerator hard to the floor.

They raced off down the highway toward the cutoff as a convoy of cattle trucks cleared a rise in the road on the horizon behind them.

Schneider sat in the cab watching the headlights in the distance slow, then turn left to head inland toward the Saddle Road. In the predawn a few loan vehicles were seen on the road, mostly pickups and cattle trucks heading to Parker's Ranch. The massive spread covered much of the north part of the island, using the grasslands of the middle elevations.

The cattle trucks provided perfect cover, and each was large enough to hold ten men and their equipment.

He had recruited the local drivers at gunpoint. The soldiers at the roadblocks weren't even bothering with them. After all, they didn't want to inconvenience the local population and the wealthy cattle owners. The Army was being far more cautious on the other side of the island, where the trucks came from Hilo and its airport. Here, where the population was small, the locals and the troops knew each other, and security was more relaxed. Besides, after the destruction of the landing, the main bulk of the military would be used to tighten security at the Keck and to cordon off the Hapuna disaster. No one knew his true target, anyway, maybe not even the boys from Taiwan.

Schneider smiled to himself as he thought of the plan he had tucked into his mental hip pocket. The truck lurched and he moved his leg to ease the discomfort of the now almost-healed wound. His disposition darkened as he thought of the man who had thwarted his plans so far. He had only a brief glimpse of him but the unknown man's image was etched in his mind. The next time they met, the man would die.

It was about an hour's drive up the side of the long slope to the town of Waimea. The road was fairly clear, with only a few checkpoints along the way. The jeep was recognized by the troops and allowed to pass without inspection. At the outskirts of the little town, Torrey had tried the radio and had reached the Soldiers in the Hummer as they were heading back to the coastal highway from the Kohala Mountains. The explanation had been short. The woman had slipped away, apparently frightened of the soldiers. She had gone into the jungle and given the MPS the slip. After her years on the run in the jungles of Vietnam, she would be impossible to find.

Torrey ordered them to return to base and on the way to make a quick inspection of the battleground of Hapuna Beach. The two men in the Hummer answered in the affirmative and signed off just as they were starting to lose radio contact in the shadow of the volcano.

Bolan felt the chill in the air at the higher altitude and looked to the east, seeing that the sky was noticeably brighter. The sun would be up soon.

Torrey was checking in with the Pohakuloa base for a general status report. There had been a security alert put on at the Keck since the fireworks on the coast during the night, and a patrol had fired on what appeared to be men in a restricted area on the southern slope of the volcano. No fire had been returned, and the officer in charge couldn't confirm the sighting. The incident had been filed as a case of nerves by the senior watch commander. Wild sheep and pigs were known to inhabit that area of Mauna Kea, and the patrol leader couldn't give a positive ID of the target. Torrey signed off and turned to Bolan.

"Everyone's jumpy. They'll be shooting up the cactus next." Bolan and Torrey were both tired, but they sensed that something was out of place in the report. To add to their trouble, the air was becoming heavy with moisture as the clouds moved in from the sea and began to settle in the saddle area. Torrey sniffed the air.

"Fog. We're six thousand feet above sea level, and the mountains funnel the clouds right through here. This place socks in for days at a time. The camp, too." Both men knew that this was a break that Schneider wouldn't pass up. The weather would turn the tables back in the German's favor. It would also increase the jitters of the security posts and patrols for the Keck. The situation would be dangerous for friend and foe alike. Higher up the volcano, the air would be clear above the clouds, but the nervousness would still increase. There had been no indication of anything unusual from the checkpoints on this side of the island, but the landing had been on this coast, so Schneider had to have planned a way to get his men and materiel up here.

From that point to the camp, there was only one roadway, just as there was one from the other side of the island. The Saddle Road effectively split the island in two. From the Pohakuloa Military Camp, it continued up to the observatory on Mauna Kea, down the south slope and through the volcanic desert between the two volcanoes, an area known to the locals as "the Anvil." The patrol that had fired on the unknown target had been patrolling this desolate, barren area. It might have been sheep, or even wild pigs, but something didn't feel right to Bolan. The sighting was too close to the Kock. The scout team he had ambushed earlier was on exactly the opposite side of Mauna Kea. If the patrol had been right, if it had been men and not sheep, their presence was a sinister omen.

Torrey climbed out of the jeep and went to get coffee and use the phone. The coffee they needed after their long night, and the phone call was probably to Brognola. Bolan sat back in the four-wheel-drive and tried to assess the situation.

A call to Brognola had crossed his mind, but there was nothing concrete to pass on. The GPS base was undoubtedly a target, but there were a lot of pieces that didn't make sense.

Schneider's plan was as unclear as the atmosphere at Waimea. The mist was thickening, and visibility was dropping to a few hundred yards.

What was the missing woman up to? Was she afraid and had cut and run?

Or was she one of Schneider's operatives who knew too much for her own good?

Maybe it was something more than that, but there was no way to tell at the moment.

He did know that he had trimmed the opposition in size, but he hadn't learned much more than the fact that Schneider was operating more or less on his own. He had perhaps become a renegade even from his masters in Taiwan.

Torrey returned with two luke-warm cups of coffee in foam cups. He handed one to Bolan and sipped at his own.

"I contacted Brognola. A team of SEALS is stationed about twenty miles from here up the coast.

Seems it was all the backup he could arrange." Bolan said nothing.

"They're air mobile, with two Black Hawk choppers with them. We can whistle them up fast if we need to. I want to get to the base to get some kind of defense worked out." Bolan sipped his coffee, then turned to Torrey. "What kind of manpower do you have available?" "Not much. The brass has put everything we have up on the Keck. It's a skeleton crew at the base." Bolan finished his coffee and looked around at the thickening fog. The visibility was still dropping and was now to the point that the constant parade of trucks through the area, heading for the ranch nearby, could only be seen as ghosts as they rumbled by.

"You head to the camp. I want to check out the patrol's sighting on the south slope." Torrey was a little surprised to hear his companion say this, but he figured the man had his reasons.

"I'll get out at the camp and you take the jeep and continue up the mountain. I'll make sure you have a pass to get through the roadblocks." Torrey fired up the jeep, banged it into gear and headed down the Saddle Road toward the camp.

He drove slowly, as the road was a mass of twists, turns and blind corners. Trucks appeared out of the mist with their horns blaring, swerving to avoid collision on those terrible turns. Torrey leaned over to pick up the radio mike. He called ahead to the roadblock he knew would be in place at the turnoff to the camp.

"It's like this all the way up Mauna Kea and on through to the other coast. The road is treacherous even in the best weather." Torrey slowed the jeep as they arrived at the checkpoint.

"I'll give you my pass. There's extra ammo in the back." He handed Bolan the map once he had brought the jeep to a halt.

"The patrol areas and roadblocks are marked.

So are the motion sensors that are scattered around the observatory." Bolan took the map and slid into the driver's seat.

"I'll be back before three. As far as we know, his codes are only good for a period just after four.

If the attack starts earlier, expect something through the perimeter on the south side of the camp." Torrey nodded as he sped back from the jeep.

He wasn't sure what Belasko was going after, but he realized that his instincts had been good so far.

Bolan revved the jeep and slipped it into gear.

"Draw the SEALS in closer. With this fog they might not be able to get to the base on time.

Have Hal keep them above the cloud line, if possible, but don't commit them until you hear from me or unless the installation is going to be overrun." For Torrey, the SEAL team was his only backup until help could get down the mountain from the observatory. It would take at least an hour moving down the winding road from Mauna Kea for reinforcements to reach him at the GPS base. He was skeptical about this plan, but his instructions from Brognola had been to assist Belasko in any way possible. He looked at his companion and was about to question the tactical wisdom of this, but it was too late. The man had already pulled the jeep back onto the gravel road and was headed away from the base toward the summit of the dormant volcano.

The Executioner was aware that Torrey was about to question his instructions about the SEAL team, but he didn't have time to explain. There was a warning bell going off in the back of his mind, and experience told him not to ignore it. Schneider had recon teams all the way around the mountain and around the Pohakuloa base itself. Conventional wisdom would indicate that a diversionary attack would be made on the Kock to take attention from the main objective--the Global Positioning System installation. What was bothering him was that almost all of the military on the island was already being used to secure the observatory and the VIPS in attendance there. A diversion wasn't necessary, except possibly to keep the forces busy and prevent their interference with the assault on the military camp. To box in a force close to battalion strength, even with the control of the road, would take a much bigger force than even Schneider could muster. A small doubt was forming in Bolan's mind--maybe, just maybe, the Pobakuloa camp wasn't the primary target of Schneider's force.

He swerved the jeep as a truck loomed out of the fog. At this rate it would take a couple of hours to get to the south side of the volcano. He pulled the jeep over onto a flat spot just off the gravel.

The sun was up, but the air was cold and damp from the fog. He pulled out the map Torrey had given him and tried to imagine where Schneider would send his reconnaissance teams.

If he was going to hit the Keck, his forward teams would move above the cloud line another thousand feet up the mountain. The assault teams, if there were any, would lie low just under the cover of the fog. There were a number of small tracks and hiking trails that left the Saddle Road and crossed the volcano, most slowly winding up the mountain toward the summit. His experienced eye then caught what he was looking for. A small hunting trail that skirted the edge of the winter snow line of the volcano was marked on the map in pencil. A patrol was covering the area but would be stretched to cover the ground in half a day. There were dozens of small volcanic fissures and canyons in the area, a perfect place to hide an assault team or snipers until they were needed. It was a gamble. He had no evidence that Schneider's men were in the area, just a hunch. If the German was going to hit the Keck, this would be the best tactical position to start from.

The warrior drove the jeep farther up the mountain for twenty minutes until he was a couple of hundred yards from where the hunting trail branched off the road. First he took inventory of his weapons.

He pulled out the Beretta 93-R, filled the magazine and put the weapon back in the holster under his left arm. He stuffed two spare mags into his jacket pocket. The Gaili was given a quick check, and he added extra 7.62 mm rounds to his pockets, as well. He slid the combat knife into a sheath in the small of his back, then checked the M-79 40 mm grenade launcher that had served Torrey so well. He pocketed the three remaining grenades.

Bolan parked the jeep behind some boulders to make it less conspicuous. The fog was only a mist at this elevation, and he was almost above the clouds. It was still cold but would probably warm up toward midday.

He headed off down the trail, stopping at intervals to listen for any unusual sounds. He didn't want to suddenly run into the Army patrol and end up in an unwanted firefight.

The path wound among the rocks and grass and was slowly climbing to a higher altitude. The mist was almost gone, but the air still had a sharp edge and was getting colder as he worked his way up to the eleven-thousand-foot level. Wildflowers grew in profusion among the rocks, making it difficult to spot both humans and animals. Looking up toward the summit, Bolan could see parts of the giant observatory and the temporary buildings that had been erected. When he looked to the left he saw the top of the cloud cover extending for miles until it gave way to the blue of the Pacific Ocean. His gaze swept the area in front of him as he kneeled down among the boulders of the volcanic dome. About a half mile ahead he could see an enemy patrol slowly working its way along the trail, occasionally splitting up to check the crevasses and rock formations.

They were moving away from Bolan, following the trail toward the summit of the mountain. Everything looked normal, and the patrol was being as thorough as possible considering the area it was trying to cover. As they worked along, they would appear then disappear behind the rock formations.

Bolan slid the sniper rifle off his shoulder and began to scrutinize the area with the scope. He slowly swept back and forth across the landscape, looking for something, anything that was out of the ordinary. He swung the weapon in the general direction of the patrol, but at first nothing seemed out of place.

Then he caught a flicker of movement off to the left of the patrol and he tensed, ready to fire in defense of the soldiers in front of him. He waited as he watched the movement very carefully. He lowered the rifle. A wild sheep darted from cover, frightened from its hide by the activity of the slow-moving troops.

Something seemed odd. The patrol had to have heard the sound of the animal as it broke from cover only forty or fifty feet from its position. There was no reaction from the soldiers, no attempt to investigate. The tail-end Charlie, the last man in line, stopped, waited, then continued on. He didn't investigate but did trail at a greater distance than before. Bolan lowered the weapon and began to follow, slowly closing the distance as he went.

At short intervals he would stop and grab a quick look at the squad as it continued its search pattern along the trail. There was no sense of urgency.

They seemed to be gradually slowing down. The terrain was still very rough and the trail was getting even more erratic.

The sun was well up, and the glare off the rock was considerable. The Executioner had to be extremely cautious. With the sun in his face, the scope could give away his position with one glint. He continued to track the soldiers while closing the distance. After watching and following for a half hour, a few details were becoming clearer. His combat since was telling him that something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was continually drawn to this group of soldiers. They seemed to be carrying out their duties in a haphazard manner. Torrey had said the troops were nervous, but this group seemed to be casual, even careless. He continued to follow until they stopped to rest in a level area among the huge boulders and fissures. Most of the squad flopped down in the middle of the flat, while five spread out to form a rough perimeter. This was standard procedure, except for one thing. Bolan raised the Gaili to take a look through the scope, shielding the lens with his hand to prevent any glaring. A quick survey of the pickets confirmed what he had started to suspect. The guards were facing inward, watching the soldiers clustered in the flat area, not guarding the group from surprise attack. This patrol was being held prisoner.

The Executioner slipped out of cover and back onto the path. He was even more cautious now--a mistake on his part and the men up ahead would be Massacred. He would have to get closer and look for a break, but time was running out for those troops and for the whole operation.

Schneider slowly cleaned his big revolver. It was an odd choice of weapon, but he had always admired the finish and workmanship that Colt put into the Python. The name, Python, a serpent, a deadly snake, had always appealed to him. He had taken to it so well that in the early days of his special operations involvement he had used it as his code name.

He and the big revolver had become a name that was feared in the covert underworld of illegal arms. The Python had made him somebody, and this operation would make him special. The risks were high but so were the rewards. Schneider felt good, in control, powerful. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to stand in his way. His many talents were about to be put to good use to make him rich.

The trucks had cleared the first checkpoint without a hitch. No questions were asked, and they were passed right through by the tired soldiers. The timing was perfect. No soldier wanted to do a major search of a vehicle he saw every day just before he was relieved. The trucks were slowly winding up the switchbacks, when the clouds began to roll in. In another ten or fifteen minutes, they would be enveloped in the fog.

Schneider knew his luck had turned. He reached down to make sure the laptop computer wasn't being bounced around too much. The Vietnamese technician never knew what he had blundered into. Not only were the directories available for the GPS, but the entrance directories and codes for most of the computer systems on the island were also there.

The driver of the lead vehicle slowed to downshift for the incline, and Schneider glanced out the window as the truck turned into the next switchback.

He caught a glimpse of another vehicle back down the road behind them. By the dark color, he knew it was a military vehicle, though it was too far off to be sure of the type. It did appear to be closing the distance. He would wait until they entered the fog above before he took action. The next checkpoint would be coming up soon, as well.

The first wave of his men was already in position around the base and the volcano, ready for the main assault on the base. attack would have to be swift and hard, as there wasn't enough ammo for a prolonged battle. It meant that the other teams would have to strike quickly, as well. The destruction of the second scow had limited his ability to carry out a pitched battle.

The explosives were gone, as were most of his heavier weapons, and there was no time to bring in another shipment.

It was today and only today that the plan could work.

The guidance systems of the world had to fail, even if only for a few moments. That would be enough for the Taiwanese to sell their primitive non-GPS control system to most of the third world. It would take only a few seconds to prove that the Americans could and would interfere with their aircraft and missile systems. The profits would be enormous, but Schneider wasn't foolish enough to think he would ever share in the wealth. Somewhere in all these men was one man --perhaps two--whose assignment would be to make sure that Schneider never left the Big Island of Hawaii.

When you knew your enemy as well as Schneider knew the Taiwanese, a plan had to be ready.

Among the mercenaries were a number of his old operatives from the early days in East Germany, men whom he could trust to do their jobs for the money he had promised. The escape route was well planned and covered by his gunmen. The laptop was the key to it all. Once he was into the top-security computer system, funds could be moved anywhere with lightning speed and no one would be the wiser. The authorities in Taiwan and the mob would lose hundreds of millions of dollars and it would take months, even years to sort it out. By then the cash would be gone, along with Schneider and maybe an accomplice or two.

They were slowly being shrouded in the fog as they reached the higher altitude of the Waimea area. The truck downshifted once more as they approached the second checkpoint. The German glanced into the side mirror and saw that the vehicle behind was closing and that it was, in fact, a Hummer. He didn't like the idea of being caught between the checkpoint and the vehicle, but it was too late. The soldier at the checkpoint was flagging the trucks to stop.

THE soldiers WERE on the move once more.

Bolan had identified his targets, although in a general melee it would be hard to keep the hardmen separate from the soldiers. They had reversed course and were heading back in the warrior's direction. They apparently were near their jumping-off point and were keeping up appearances for anyone watching from the observatory above. Something had to be done, and done quickly. When the time came, the soldiers would be executed in cold blood. The mercenaries wouldn't leave them and risk the possibility of an attack from behind. There was no question of leaving a guard--he would have no chance to escape when the operation was over.

The patrol was moving slowly toward Bolan's position, the men strung out along the trail in loose formation. One of the mercenaries was out front as a point man, followed at a distance by two more. The patrol itself was in the middle, and two other hardmen brought up the rear. They were going to pass very close to where Bolan sat watching. There were a lot of boulders and crevices on the downhill side of the path, while he occupied a sheltered area on the other side. He was close to the trail but fairly well concealed.

He slid the M-79 off his shoulder and put down the sniper rifle, as well. The Executioner then withdrew the combat knife from its sheath and crouched to await the approaching men.

The point man walked forward slowly, haphazardly looking from side to side. He was obviously confident that no one else was in the area.

Bolan let him pass. The point man would be too far ahead to interfere when he made his move. The man disappeared around a bend in the trail, where it passed through some large rocks.

He was followed a minute later by the first two mercenaries, who were more concerned with watching the prisoners behind them than checking out the surrounding area. They were speaking in German and nervously handling their M-16A-1's as they walked by Bolan's position. They were followed by the squad of soldiers, who were silent as they shuffled by. They had some idea of what was going to happen to them but could see no way out against the firepower of the five men who held them captive. They also moved by and rounded the bend in the trail, followed by the remaining mercenaries.

The last hardman wasn't far behind. Bolan raised himself up, and as the man drew even with him, he sprang from cover. The Executioner clamped his left hand over the man's mouth and drove his combat knife into his captive's abdomen. He twisted the weapon, then drew it up toward his heart. The warrior released the corpse, wich sank to the ground, and grabbed the M-16. There wasn't a second to lose. He quickly rounded the bend before the man bringing up the rear was missed. He stepped in line as if he were the now-dead man, raised the rifle and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Scatter." Everyone froze for an instant, then Bolan cut loose with a burst that stitched one mercenary across the chest. The soldier scattered into the rocks and fissures as the front two mercenaries turned to fire. A private at the rear end of the squad ran to the dead mercenary and yanked the M-16 free. He then rolled for cover as the hardmen opened fire. The warrior tossed his M-16 to a nearby corporal and drew the Beretta from under his arm as he dived for cover. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young soldier near the head of the squad get cut to pieces by the point man, who had got to some high ground up ahead. The corporal snapped off a couple of rounds in the gunman's direction, but he was out of the effective range of the older model M-16. The soldiers were moving from cover to cover, trying to gain some distance from the mercenaries and to split their fire.

The two hardmen who had been at the head of the column tried to pick off some of the soldiers as they ran. They succeeded. At least three men were hit before the two soldiers with their M-16's could respond. The Beretta didn't have the range for this kind of fight, and Bolan didn't have the time. He slipped back around the bend in the trail and retrieved the M-79 and the Gaili. The grenade launcher didn't have the range to hit the mercenaries from where Bolan was situated.

He clambered up one of the huge boulders and threw himself prone on top. The position wasn't a good one, but would have to do. Once again he snugged the deadly sniper weapon into his shoulder. There was no time to waste. The mercenaries were starting to hunt down the soldiers with their M-16's. The corporal and the private were either dead or had run out of ammo. Haste had made the hardmen bold.

They stepped from cover to start finishing off the soldiers. As the man on the left stepped forward to execute a wounded young soldier, he toppled over and smashed his face into solid rock; his back was oozing blood where the bullet had passed through his heart. Bolan switched targets to the other man, who had shifted his aim in the warrior's direction.

Too late. The Executioner drilled a bullet through his skull. The killing field fell deathly silent, save for the groans of a wounded soldier.

Bolan waited quietly as he scanned the area with the scope. A few of the soldiers began to move from cover to help their wounded buddy.

"Stay down! I haven't got the point man!" Suddenly the rock around Bolan was a mass of flying splinters as lead traced across the rock from a position above. He rolled to his right and dropped ten feet to the trail below as the bullets tore into the rock where he had crouched. The point man had worked his way back and above and had him pinned. The Gaili had landed first and broken his fall. The scope had shattered, and the stock had buckled under the force of his weight.

The M-79 was still functional, as was the Beretta, but the range was too great for the handgun.

Bolan stood and risked a quick look around the corner of the huge boulder. He saw the point man moving out to try to get a clean shot along the path.

He was about three hundred yards off and would have him outflanked in a minute. The only maneuver was to shift with his target and try to intercept him in his flanking move.

Bolan cracked open the breech of the M-79 and slid in a grenade. This was the tricky part. He stepped around the corner of the rock and was instantly greeted by a 3round burst from his adversary. The gunman had over-anticipated Bolan's movement and the slugs chewed up the ground just in front of him.

The M-79 thumped, and the Executioner was on the run. A couple of soldiers, realizing what was happening, ran to different positions and confused the mercenary just as the grenade went off. It was short, as Bolan had expected, but the sniper would be less inclined to show himself with that kind of firepower coming his way. Bolan ducked into the cover of some rocks.

He was now closer to his target, almost in range with the M79.

While the two adversaries jockeyed for position, one of the soldiers rolled out to a dead mercenary and stripped him of his weapon and ammo.

He whistled to Bolan and indicated he was ready to put down covering fire. The point man was on the move again, though he was being much more cautious. In went the next grenade and the breech of the M-79 was snapped shut. The private with the M-16 had a better vantage point, and he let go a burst at a rock formation on Bolan's left. The warrior turned and shouldered the M-79 in one quick movement, slamming the grenade into the center of the rocks. The position erupted into hundreds of pieces of lethal stone. If the mercenary was still there, he couldn't have survived the blast in such an enclosed space.

The soldier began to ease himself from cover for a better look but was abruptly stopped by a hand signal from Bolan. He loaded the weapon with his last round, then looked back up the slope, trying to catch sight of movement. He could see nothing.

Pointing to the soldier, then up the slope, he and the private began to move ahead toward the outcropping above. The M-79 was at the ready, and the young private was advancing with his M-16 on the right flank. Slowly they moved up the rugged slope about fifteen yards apart.

They reached the blasted rock area, but there was no sign of the point man--and there was no blood to indicate a wound. He had given them the slip.

Just then Bolan saw the soldier off to his right staring in horror in his direction. The M-79 was cradled in the bend of the Executioner's left arm and his right hand was on the trigger. He squeezed it as he hit the deck. The grenade rocketed from the weapon and slammed into the mercenary, who stood less than thirty yards away. He had stepped out from behind a volcanic outcrop, where he had waited patiently for the two men to arrive. The look on the private's face had told Bolan everything, and the pull on the trigger was an instinctive reaction. The grenade had struck Schneider's gunman in the gut, then passed through him, hitting the volcanic rock. The man was shredded by the force of the explosion. Bolan spit the gravel out of his mouth and looked up to see the grime-covered face of the shaken young soldier.

They nodded grimly at each other and turned their backs on what was left of the point man. The warrior tossed away the now useless M-79 and headed down the slope at a trot. The soldier followed until they reached the hunter's trail.

The rest of the platoon was emerging from hiding, and they began to attend to their friends. Of the patrol, one was dead and five others wounded. After surveying the situation, the rifleman turned to thank the big man, but Bolan was gone.

Torrey had been waiting at the jeep when he heard the first grenade go off. He radioed for backup, then dashed toward the hunter's path up the road. His M9 automatic was in his hand by the time he reached the start of the trail. He stopped to listen and heard two more blasts, the last one not as loud, and more muffled than the first two had been. He left the road and started to move cautiously down the trail toward the distant sound.

He stopped to listen, but all was quiet. Then he heard the wail of warning sirens in the direction of the observatory on the summit of the extinct volcano. His backup was on its way and would be there in less then ten minutes. He couldn't wait that long. For someone caught in an ambush, only one minute could mean the difference between life and death. He moved toward where he had heard the sounds of battle.

It was no time to be cautious, so he began to run as fast as the terrain would allow. He slowed occasionally to listen for more fighting but heard none.

Suddenly Torrey stopped. From where he stood on the slight rise in the trail, he could see two bodies in camous in the middle of the trail. He froze, then shifted his weight to lean against one of the boulders for cover. He heard the scrape of steel against steel and felt the cold bite of a blade at the side of his neck. He froze, then dropped the M-9 to the ground. His heart was pounding, and he could barely breathe. The knife against his throat eased slightly, and he sensed that his attacker had backed away a little. It was the only break he was about to get so he tensed to throw his body backward onto his attacker.

"Torrey, you have to be more careful." The big MP felt the knife pull away from his throat. He turned to face the man who had gotten the drop on him from behind. "Belasko." Bolan slid the knife back into its sheath in the small of his back.

"A couple of Schneider's men." Torrey took a couple of great gulps of air to steady himself, then picked up his handgun. Bolan was already moving swiftly down the path back toward the main road. Torrey started to jog after him, carefully and nervously scanning the area as he went.

He was lucky that it was Belasko this time. He might not be that lucky again.

The two men moved quickly back to the start of the trail but pulled up among the rocks and wild grass just short of the road. The black smoke from what was left of the jeep was billowing skyward. The dull whine of a bullet ricocheting off a rock behind their heads drove the two men to ground. A sniper with a silencer was taking pot shots at them from long range. Another slug thumped into the gravel three feet in front of where they lay prone. Bolan ventured a quick look over the pile of rock. He could see nothing, but the sniper reacted rapidly by placing three rounds close to his head.

"He's uphill but a long way off. The bullets are half spent." The MP nodded. The three rounds that had been fired weren't grouped well, indicating that the sniper's weapon was firing beyond its effective range. There was another dull thud as a shot bounced off a nearby rock.

"He's moving away. I've called the base for backup. It should be here soon." The Executioner and the military policeman both sat up and leaned against some large boulders that protected them from the sniper. Another round buried itself in the gravel a few feet farther down the trail as Torrey started to brief Bolan on what had gone down since they had parted a few hours earlier.

"It appears that Schneider has moved his main force into the area. Checkpoint X-ray on the Waimea Road has been hit and wiped out. We passed through there this morning on the way to the base.

Looks like they came through about a half hour behind us." Torrey shifted his weary frame as stone particles rained on him from another spent bullet that banged into the top of the boulder. Bolan was looking back down the trail in case any of the troops from the ambushed patrol should show up and give the sniper a real target, but he was still listening intently.

"Was there any positive ID?" "Negative. And there's more." Bolan had turned his attention to the low rumble of diesel engines coming from the direction of the summit.

A glance up the road told him that it was Torrey's backup of two M-2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles--IFVS. They were only a few minutes away, proceeding down the road at top speed. Bolan turned back to Torrey.

"You said there's more." "They got two of my men in a Hummer. They ripped it open like it was a tin can. Must've stumbled into the fight at X-Ray." "Any indication of the type of weapon they used?" The Bradleys had slowed now, and their turrets swung from side to side, looking for a target as they approached the burned-out jeep. A thin mist hung in the air, giving the fighting vehicles an unearthly, ghost-like appearance.

"A light antitank weapon of some sort.

Probably similar to the M-72's you used last night at the beach. What happened with you back there?" "Later. There are wounded men back down the trail, and we've got to get moving." The first Bradley had turned across the road and stopped. The rear ramp lowered and out stepped six infantrymen who dispersed into the protection of the rock formations on either side of the road. The second Bradley blocked the thoroughfare higher up but didn't off-load its troops. The long, slender snout of the Hughes 25 mm chain gun slowly moved in an arc to give covering fire if necessary.

Torrey hailed the troops, using the daily password. When he cautiously emerged from the rocks, he was visually identified by the troops. Every soldier knew the head of the MPS at every camp where they were stationed--whether they wanted to or not. As he stepped forward with Bolan just behind, there was a dull thud. The sniper had resumed firing.

Both men hit the dirt and Torrey yelled orders to the troops covering the road. The situation was quickly relayed to the two IFVS.

The M-2 that was stationed up the road swung its turret in the general direction of the gunman and laid down a devastating barrage of 25 mm shells that tore the Mountainside apart. While the Bradley covered their movements, the troops, on Torrey's instructions, headed down the trail to assist the shattered patrol.

The Bradley had to have spotted some movement on the slope, for a second torrent of rapid-fire explosives ripped into another rock formation. The M-2 then turned up the road and began to move overland in the direction of the sniper. Even with its heavy track, the machine wouldn't get far in the volcanic terrain. However, the IFV'S commander knew a more forward position would cover the withdrawal of the patrol and its wounded. The chain gun loosed another short burst, then the Bradley stopped to off-load its six-man complement of soldiers. The squad fanned out and took up defensive positions against the sniper or anyone else who cared to interfere.

Once again the warrior and the MP picked themselves up out of the dirt.

"You know, Belasko, I'm getting tired of chewing on volcanic rock," Torrey commented as they headed to the stern of the nearest IFV. The Army MP captain stepped up the open ramp and ducked inside. Bolan waited as Torrey got on the blower to his base. The battered patrol was just emerging from the trail, assisted by the squad from the Bradley. Three M-113 armored personnel carriers, one outfitted with the FMC ambulance kit, had arrived at the scene. The Bradley squad began to aid the wounded into the armored ambulance, while the other members of the patrol were loaded into the other two M-113's.

As Bolan watched, one of the soldiers hesitated, then turned and marched in his direction.

The young private who had helped in the takeout of Schneider's point man halted, then saluted Mack Bolan. By reflex the Executioner straightened his back--old habits die hard. The young soldier waited for his salute to be returned, but it wasn't. Somewhat awkwardly he dropped his arm, hesitated, then slid the M-16 from his shoulder.

"Sir. Your weapon was destroyed in the skirmish. Would you do me the honor of using this one?" Bolan knew the young man was paying him a great honor, and he took the proffered weapon and slung it over his shoulder. The private stepped back and proudly saluted again, turned on his heel and marched away to the waiting M-113.

Torrey was just emerging from the IFV and saw the soldier's salute and parade-ground manner. He looked at Bolan to question him, but the big man turned his attention to checking the magazine of the M-16.

The MP wasn't quite sure what had transpired, but he knew the young soldier had given Belasko his weapon, and that said enough.

"The Bradley has been detached to run us down to the camp and to assist in guarding the base.

Unfortunately the combat squad won't be coming along. It has been ordered to resume the local patrol." Bolan would have preferred to have the men rather than the vehicle. With Schneider in possession of light antitank weapons, the M-2 would be vulnerable at close range. However, the Pobakuloa camp was a tank-and-armored-vehicle training base. The terrain around it was fairly well suited for a vehicle of this type. There was plenty of room to maneuver in the grass and scrub brush in the surrounding countryside. Perhaps the IFV could keep Schneider's assault off balance when the time came.

The two men climbed into the crew compartment in the rear, and the big ramp was closed. The Bradley turned away from the other armored personnel carriers and headed full-speed down the road toward the camp.

Bolan sat with Torrey as they took stock of the situation and their resources. There were twenty-three men to guard the base, including Torrey and the Executioner. All the men were equipped with M-16A-2's and plenty of ammunition. They had four standard M-998 Hummers, the Bradley infantry fighting vehicle and a number of assorted tactical support vehicles. The GPS installation was a simple reinforced concrete bunker that contained the computer system. The GPS satellite antennas were located on the summit of Mauna with the eight other astronomical installations and observatories.

A small computer staff and four guards from Torrey's unit were stationed in the bunker at all times. This left Torrey with an effective fighting force of eighteen men. Bolan realized from the amount of supplies that Schneider had tried to land at Hapuna Beach that they faced a considerable force.

They had intercepted only one of the landings he knew were being made the previous night. Assuming that Schneider didn't expect to get every boat through, and that one or more of the landings was backup in case they were stopped by the Coast Guard, they would still face a force of forty or fifty men. And it could be higher, despite Bolan's best efforts to cut the enemy down to size. The Taiwanese could have planted men and weapons on Hawaii long before Schneider arrived.

The situation wasn't favorable for the defense.

Most of the military resources on the island were concentrated on the defense of the observatory. The base wasn't considered to be a target by the military leadership--the numerous international scientists were. The activity against the patrol on Mauna Kea would reinforce that thinking.

The fog was still heavy around the Pohakuloa camp, with no letup in sight. The SEAL team wouldn't be able to fly in through the dense fog especially under fire. They still had no idea of what type or size of force was ranged against them.

An extended perimeter was out of the question with the limited resources at their disposal. Torrey had to pull his men in and wait for the assault through the fog.

Bolan had been told by the MP that Brognola had additional information for him. The call on the secure line would come any minute now.

The Bradley had taken up a position behind a slight rise in the ground just east of the bunker. The IFV was in a hull-down position to the east and north, and was covered in the rear by the bulk of the bunker itself. The rise was gently sloped and would allow the Bradley freedom of movement when the time came.

It was almost two-thirty in the afternoon when the phone rang. The big Fed's voice came through loud and clear from the mainland, and the tone of concern was obvious.

"Striker, we've gotten something further on the computer disks you picked up in Taiwan. It took awhile, but there are codes not only for the GPS but also for the computer complex at the observatory." "There's a lot of activity by Schneider in both places, Hal." "There's something else. Schneider was working on the long-distance modern lines back to Taiwan and half the cities in Europe. Not only does he have modern lines all set, but there seem to be log-in codes for bank accounts. We've been able to trace some of them." Bolan knew what was coming. "It would be America's noble allies." "That's right. The Taiwanese government and the mob. It looks like Schneider is going to use the Hawaiian computers to pay them off." Bolan thought for a moment, then said, "Or rip them off." Brognola gasped slightly. A light had gone on in his mind, and he realized that Bolan was probably right. If that was Schneider's intention, he would be taking on one of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world. The amount of money involved could be in the billions, but the German wouldn't be alive for a month when they found out. There wouldn't be anyplace on the planet where he would be safe.

If they knew it was him.

"You might be right, Striker. The other piece of news I had for you was that the Vietnamese they killed in your hotel was one of Schneider's.

The woman is his sister and is probably one of Schneider's, too." "You said probably?" "We aren't sure whether either was a willing part of Schneider's band. The guy was a computer expert and had access to all of the mob's hardware and most of Hawaii's." "Schneider probably has the works now.

He'll have to do the job before he moves the money.

He isn't foolish enough to take on the mob." "Mack, it means he'll have to hit the GPS base. He'll probably use the computer there to move the money. The Keck is a diversion." "Hal, I think he intends to hit both. On that list of scientists attending the Keck opening, are there any Germans or anyone connected to Schneider?" Brognola spoke to someone in the background. The conversation was taking too long, even on a secure phone. Torrey was getting curious and his men would be, too.

"No Germans, but there are two Chinese with heavy computer credentials. One could easily be Taiwanese. We'll check it out." Bolan heard the sound of an explosion off in the distance to the north. Torrey was up and out the door.

"Forget it. Time's run out. Schneider is making his move." "Good luck" was Brognola's response, but it went unheard. Bolan had grabbed the M-16 and raced for the door.

Torrey stood outside, staring into the fog; the visibility was less than a hundred yards. His M-9 was drawn, but he had no clear idea of the direction of the target. Bolan was at his side in a flash, the M-16 at the ready.

"It came from the area of the North mine field.

They're dummies, like firing blanks, used for training mine laying and detection units. There'll be more. The whole area was sown by a GEMSS--A Ground-Emplacement Mine-Scattering System.

There are sixteen hundred dummies scattered in a narrow field out there.

"How far out is the field?" "About six hundred yards." Bolan was going over the Beretta 93-R and he realized he was short of ammo. Torrey saw the problem and pulled two mags from his belt and tossed them to his companion. The Executioner was ready to move and started to head away from the bunker perimeter into the fog.

"Tell your men to expect me back along this track. Signal is a Morse S." "Right. Don't drift to the east. There's a mine field at about three hundred yards. And, Belasko, those ones are real." Bolan looked at him and nodded. He started to move out, then stopped.

"Call in the SEALS. This is Schneider's primary target. His secondary is the Keck, but he has to hit this base first. The Black Hawks can't get in through this fog, so they'll have to hike it." "Consider it done." The warrior had started to disappear into the fog, moving in a slow zigzag pattern. The land was fairly flat and covered with grass and scrub brush. Torrey stood at the edge of his perimeter between two of his men manning M-60 machine guns.

The Bradley was off to his right, tucked away behind the rise. Behind the bunker, Torrey had positioned his only M-2 HB heavy machine gun with a squad of men. As an afterthought he had moved an M-9 ACE, an armored bulldozer, to provide some protection for the men. In a tight spot it could be used as an armored battering ram.

The rest of his MPS were in positions at either end of the bunker, except for one man who was manning a jury-rigged bomb inside the bunker. If the worst happened, he intended to destroy the GPS rather than let it fall into Schneider's hands.

What Torrey didn't and couldn't know was that the destruction of the computer system in the Pohakuloa camp would shut the system down briefly until the backup system in Arizona cut in. This was precisely what Schneider hoped the American defenders would do.

There was another bang from a dummy mine in front of the bunker. It seemed to be a little more to the left, a little closer to the real mine field. Torrey listened for a moment for the sound of gunfire. There was none, so he turned on his heel to man the phone. He would call Brognola and have him whistle up the SEAL team, then call up to the Keck and fill them in on the situation. The SEALS might not be much help now; they were a two- or three-hour hike away, above the cloud line. However, they could arrive in time to prevent the escape of the mercenaries after the main battle.

Bolan was inching himself out of the GPS bunker defensive boundary. There was no sound to be heard through the thick fog, and visibility was even less than at the base. He stayed in a low crouch as he glided from brush to brush in order to keep his shape indistinct. The few rocks he encountered were slippery from the moisture, as was the grass and scrub.

His keen eyesight was on full alert as he advanced. The shapes of rocks and thickets emerged from the mist as if ghostly warriors, to be discarded by his mind's eye for what they really were. Every muscle in his body was taut, waiting for the one ghostly image that was a man, not part of the landscape.

He now figured he was two hundred and fifty yards out from the bunker, almost halfway to the inside edge of the phony mine field. There was another bang. Bolan froze. It was definitely to the left and in the direction of the real mine field. If Schneider's men were moving to the left to try to find the flank of the mine field, they were in for a deadly surprise.

The Executioner moved on. The ground was still very flat, now interspersed with the occasional cactus. The mist was even heavier, dropping visibility to about thirty yards. When he met his enemy, it would be at close quarters. He flipped the M-16 over to auto. The distance was now three hundred and fifty yards out from the bunker, and there was still no sign of Schneider's men. They had to be close.

Bolan began to shift slightly to the left in the direction of the mine field. He hoped that when he encountered his adversaries they would try to outflank his position and he could force them into the field of real explosives.

He heard a tearing sound from behind, then the thuds of muted shells exploding. The Hughes chain gun had cut loose at a target. The Bradley would be on the move from its lair if the target was for real.

In this hideous fog, the 25 mm shells might have been fired at a piece of cactus by an over-stressed gunner. Bolan could only hope that the IFV commander would verify his target before he ran the vulnerable vehicle out into the flats around the bunker. If Schneider could take out the armored Hummer, he could damage or disable the Bradley, especially with the fog allowing his men to get in close to the vehicle for the shot.

The chain-gun fire had caused a stir. Bolan hit the deck and rolled to the cover of a clump of cactus. He heard a voice in front, calling out numbers. Someone had panicked and was checking his troops. More voices came. It was hard to fix their direction, except for one directly in front.

Through the swirling cloud of fog a shape moved.

Bolan closed his eyes, then opened them again. His mind took in the image. Yes, the ghostly shape had moved.

Other voices could still be heard in front, to the right and the left. The chain gun once again rattled out its tune of death. A few shots were fired from an M-60 back at the bunker, but in front of Bolan just one single man emerged from the fog into view, walking into an ambush that could end only one way. The warrior quietly placed the M-16 to one side and pulled the combat knife from its sheath.

His eyes never left his quarry.

The hardman had an AK-47 at the ready and was moving forward at a measured pace. He was European, well built and as big a man as Bolan. As he advanced, he sidestepped the brush and cactus, keeping his gaze fixed ahead into the fog. He didn't look down, only left to right. So intently was he scrutinizing the mist ahead that his line of sight passed over the Executioner's position. He would walk within feet of where Mack Bolan lay in ambush.

The Executioner didn't move, barely breathing as he watched his quarry approach. Once again there was sporadic firing from the rear area, and the approaching man halted to listen.

Everything was silent. There was no wind, and the landscape was shrouded in the ghostly cloak of high-altitude cloud. Bolan was tensed, ready to spring. He would have to get it right the first time. The big mercenary would put up a fight and give away his position if given a chance. The other members of the assault team were close. Any struggle, any delay, and Bolan would have more to handle than he wanted.

The mercenary took two more steps closer, his gaze still riveted to the fog in front of him. He was straining to locate the sound of gunfire. The man was obviously nervous, and the low visibility was making him twitchy. He took another couple of steps forward, then stopped. He was within ten feet of the ambush. Close, but not quite enough.

The hardman inched forward again, doing a sweep with his AK-47. He seemed to be almost sniffing the air as his nostrils flared with his heavy breathing.

Bolan lowered his head into his arms as the man began to scan the area near him. Like many professional soldiers, he had developed a sixth sense for imminent danger--he was on his guard to the extreme and taking no chances.

Bolan considered letting the man pass so that he could get m behind this group and trap them m a cross fire between himself and the bunker. Then there was another bang from the dummy mine field up ahead. A second wave was coming in his direction. The mercenary spun, startled by the thump in the mine field. As he turned his back on Bolan's position, and with the AK-47 now pointing away, the Executioner stood and launched himself at the mercenary.

The hardman was alerted by the sound and began to turn to face his attacker. The combat knife struck just below the man's rib cage and lanced through the solar plexus, the force of Bolan's weight driving the knife up into the heart. In his death throes, the mercenary's finger tightened on the assault rifle's trigger and the weapon fired a burst into the fog. The knife was jammed into the bone and there was no time to extract it. Bolan dived headlong for the cover of his cactus stand and grabbed the M-16.

Voices called from nearby, and shapes moved in the supernatural glow of the sunlit fog. A burst of fire cut the air well above the warrior's head as one of the moving shadows used his AK-47 to search for a target. There was a response from the bunker perimeter as one of the M-60's raked the area. The mercenaries hit the dirt and returned the fire.

Both M and some of Torrey's riflemen opened up with their weapons. A firefight was ripping the air over and around Bolan, which was what he and Torrey had planned. Delay the assault teams any way possible and force them to use up their limited supply of ammunition. Both sides were firing blind into the fog, but the Executioner knew that the M-60's, with ample ammo available, would try to walk their sweeping fire out to the mine field. He had to move or risk being cut down by the mps.

A small dried-up streambed to the right would provide just enough protection from the M-60's' walking barrage. It would put him into position to hit Schneider's men with cross fire as they advanced.

He had to make the move soon--the M-60's were starting to open up in a crisscross pattern, crawling toward his direction. With any luck he would take the hardmen by surprise and they wouldn't have time to sight on him. He got up into a crouch and sprinted for the streambed.

Two mercenaries saw him run, partially obscured by the mist. The M-60 fire was creeping closer, chewing up the ground. There were shouts in the mist as Bolan scrambled for the cover just ahead.

Without warning a man emerged from the brush at the edge of the depression directly in front of the charging warrior. Bolan squeezed the M-16's trigger and drilled the hardman through the legs. The mercenary toppled forward and snapped off a couple of badly aimed rounds as he fell. Both men dropped into the streambed, Bolan crashing down onto the wounded mercenary as the others opened fire.

The Executioner gave the man a crack in the head with the butt of the M-16 to keep him down. The mercenary wouldn't be moving for a while. His comrades were blazing away at Bolan until the M-60So shifted target. They hit the ground as a torrent of 7.62 mm slugs clawed at the air around them. The M-60's ceased fire moments later, and there was a momentary lull.

Once again the mercenaries rose to advance toward Bolan's position, only to be greeted with a short burst from the M-16. The warrior knew there were others in the immediate area and that they would be looking to outflank him. He yanked an ammo belt off the wounded fighter and snapped it around his waist. He also saw that an FFV AT-4 antitank weapon was pinned under the unconscious man. It was serious firepower, but he had no time to work it free. He had to move.

Bolan eased his head up high enough to get a quick glimpse of the area in front of him. The fog was still dense, though a slight breeze seemed to be moving it in a westerly direction. At the edge of the limited visibility he spotted two figures moving to the left in a flanking maneuver while the original gunmen were still in front. They snapped off a couple of short bursts to keep his head down, but they weren't sure of the exact location of their target.

Bolan began to crawl along the streambed, heading toward the concealed gunmen.

He moved at a rapid pace toward the end of the dried bed. The scorched cactus was cutting into the cloth of the camous, but this was the only way to get in front of the hardmen and push the others to the left in their flank attack. The M-60's fired a few bursts in their general direction at intervals of two or three minutes, hoping to hit a target by accident or just to keep the attackers off balance. As Bolan scrambled along on his hands and knees, he could hear firing off in the distance. It was probably the start of the assault on the Keck. The Hughes chain gun could be heard occasionally, and by the changing direction of the sound he knew the Bradley was out of its hide and in the field of battle.

The streambed started to widen and passed behind the enemy position. Bolan stopped. The two mercs were only a few yards ahead. They had been joined by another man who was issuing orders and jabbing his finger in the direction of the bunker. The meaning was obvious. He knew they were running out of time, and he was ordering those two men to rush Bolan's previous position. As the Executioner watched, they checked their weapons and rose to rush ahead. As they did, their charging bodies became perfect targets for the M-16.

From his prone position Bolan flipped the infantry weapon to semiautomatic, raised it to his shoulder and opened fire. The first round found the closest hardman in the temple. The next piece of lead hit the second charging man under the armpit and passed through his chest. The third merc hit the dirt before the Executioner could get off another shot.

Bolan pulled his elbows together to raise the M-16 slightly higher and slammed a couple of rounds into the sprawled enemy.

The M-60, responding once more to the sound of the fighting, got off a couple of long bursts of fire in their direction. Bolan was catching his wind and trying to assess the situation when he noticed that there was movement all around and that the fog was starting to thin a little. AK-47'S were cutting loose, and orders were being shouted from every point of the compass. He had infiltrated into the center of a large attack force of some twenty men. Then fate stepped in. A live mine exploded. Someone had stumbled into the field, and now the torrent of attacking soldiers of fortune would change direction and swamp Bolan's position.

It was time for a tactical withdrawal.

He had no time to crawl back down the streambed.

His position would be untenable in less than a minute. There was only one thing to do. Bolan was up and running back the way he had come as the enemy blasted away at his heels. Ducking and dodging as he went, he was painfully aware that the machine guns of the base could open up at any second and cut him down. Then he heard the rumble of the diesel engine and the Bradley crossed his path at about thirty miles per hour, the turret aimed in his direction as it moved.

Bolan dropped to the ground and rolled to his left out of the path of the thundering IFV. The chain gun opened up as the vehicle slowed. Figures in the mist raced for cover. A few didn't make it as the 25 mm rounds punched holes in the advancing forces.

A voice bellowed his name as the fighting vehicle opened up with its 7.62 mm machine gun. Bolan didn't wait to be called a second time. Up he sprang and sprinted for the entry ramp at the rear of the personnel carrier amid a hail of hot lead.

The ramp slammed shut, and the Bradley spun on its axis and made a run for the bunker perimeter.

The turret swung to face the stern as the 7.62 mm gun continued to provide covering fire. Bolan hung onto the webbing in the rear compartment as the IFV slewed violently in its race away from Schneider's assault force. Bolan yelled up to the commander, trying to be heard over the chatter of the gun and the roar of the diesel.

"What's the situation at the base?" "They've been probing on all sides, but no major assault as of yet." "What size of force has been identified?" "In this damn fog it's hard to tell. Torrey sent us out for a quick recon and to check out the firing coming from your sector." Torrey had sent the Bradley out to cover him in the action at the mine field. The mercenary troops he and the IFV had left behind would be up to the perimeter in minutes. And there was another problem to consider.

"Lieutenant, I spotted one of them with a squad antitank rocket. Looked like a Swedish FFV." The Bradley commander whistled softly then spoke into the intercom. Bolan couldn't hear what was said, but the IFV began to swerve back and forth in evasive maneuvers as it continued its run to the bunker.

"Belasko, Captain Torrey told me to tell you that the Keck is under sniper fire." Bolan nodded as he reloaded his M-16. The infantry fighting vehicle was still jinking around but was beginning to slow. The driver gave three short blasts on the horn, the Morse code letter S. The IFV slowed to a crawl as it entered the perimeter around the bunker, a bullet ricocheting off the hull as the commander brought it to a halt. He turned to speak to Bolan as the rear ramp dropped.

"They have snipers in close, so watch your back." "Thanks for the lift, Lieutenant." Then Bolan was out the door and jogging to the bunker.

The Bradley closed up, then turned to head for cover behind the low rise. The whole area had been changed. Torrey had used the ACE to bulldoze a compound around the bunker. The earth had been shoved into low walls, which surrounded the entire defensive zone. It wasn't much, but his men had some protection from direct fire and good cover from the snipers out on the flatland. The roof of the computer installation had been sandbagged, and a two-man team was stationed there with the M-2 heavy machine gun. As the warrior slowed to take in the defenses, a slug slammed into the doorpost beside him as he entered the concrete-reinforced shelter.

Torrey was on the phone and waved to Bolan to grab a coffee and take a seat. Three wounded MPS were on the floor near one wall; two would be all right with medical attention, but the third man was mortally injured. Bolan dropped into a chair and reached into the ammo belt for rounds to charge the empty magazine. He opened the breech of the M-16 and began to clean out the grit. He slammed the breech shut, snapped in the fully loaded magazine and cleaned the sights. The coffee was cold and stale, but it was all he had had to drink since early that morning. He quickly finished it as Torrey slammed down the phone and turned to face him.

"It's heating up at the Keck, but they're sending us some help. An APC with thirty men will be here in about forty minutes. We'll hold till then." "We'll be facing a full assault in less than ten." Bolan saw a hint of desperation cross Torrey's rugged face, then watched it disappear just as quickly. They both knew that they would have to break up the assault well before the squads from the Keck got to them. Schneider had covered all the angles so far. He had to have a plan to deal with intervention from the main units at the Keck. Those FFV rocket launchers would gut an M-113 armored personnel carrier even at moderate range. A couple of those on the winding Saddle Road would block traffic in every direction. Bolan didn't need to tell Torrey. The man knew the situation.

"We've got to split the main attack," the warrior said. "I'm going to work my way out of the perimeter and wait for the tide to pass, then take them in the rear." Torrey didn't like his companion's chances, but something had to be done. He could hear firing outside the bunker as Schneider's men continued to probe the defenses. The heavy M-2 on the roof barked out an answer in response.

"I'll send out the Bradley, as well.

Maybe we can buy sometime. What do you need?" "Something with some range and hitting power." Torrey thought for a moment.

"I've got just the thing. Take one of the M-249 automatics. They're fairly light, carry two hundred rounds and have five times the effective range of the M-16." A soldier brought over one of the light machine guns on Torrey's orders. Bolan took it, did a quick inspection and without a word headed out the door of the bunker. Torrey followed, and they sprinted to the wall of the compound. Bolan waited for the defenses to lay down a barrage to mask his movements. The Bradley motored out of the compound at the best possible speed to draw fire, as well.

The time had come to move. Bolan went over the wall and into the fog beyond. Torrey signaled for a cease-fire as he watched the big man disappear.

Schneider had been pleased with himself. Despite the loss of the supplies, he had been able to field enough men to attack both the Keck and the GPS base.

Their numbers weren't great enough to carry either of the targets, but they should be enough to get the basics done.

He had planned to have more men in the assault teams going after the observatory. As it was, he had been forced to use local gunmen with a range of hunting rifles and shotguns. The bulk of his private army was thrown at the GPS base. To get in and use the codes to take over the system, as originally planned, was now probably out of the question. His forces and resources had been depleted by the insistent attacks of the past two days, so having the defenders destroy the computer network would have to do the job. The small force defending the GPS base had to be pressed hard enough to blow the bunker in desperation.

His best men were ringed around the base, hidden in the fog. But they weren't pressing home the attack.

They had only one chance and that was to storm the compound and bunker before the defenders could get help. He hadn't expected this, but he knew what had to be done. He stepped down from the old truck, straightened his clothes, then indicated for his entourage to follow. He would lead the main assault himself.

Soldiers, even those motivated only by greed, responded to dynamic leadership. Schneider could provide that. And if it didn't work, a couple of well-chosen executions would help them regain their aggressiveness.

Schneider was dressed in Russian-style combat fatigues, as were all his men. He, however, wore body armor and a black beret. As usual the Colt Python revolver was strapped to his hip, giving him the slightly absurd look of a cowboy.

But there was nothing contradictory to his character in the weapon in his hands--an AKS-74 U 5.45 mm assault carbine. As he jogged into the fog followed by his men, a slight limp was still apparent from his recent wound.

The dummy mine field was directly ahead, but one of his men had marked a pathway through. Schneider shouted orders and began to call in his men. The assault teams on the other sides of the bunker were given their orders by radio and informed of what was expected of them. Schneider was aware that the clouds were starting to lift and they had to attack immediately.

They cleared the mine field and rallied near the dried streambed. Their fallen comrades had been stripped of any usable ammo and equipment, including the only FFV rocket launcher assigned to the bunker operation. The FFV was grabbed by Schneider himself and slung over his shoulder. With a few cursory hand signals the German launched a wave of heavily armed men at the compound ahead.

In sectors all around the GPS compound men were moving to the attack. Professional pride, greed but mostly fear of Schneider and the Taiwanese mob drove them forward.

As the mercenaries opened fire, Torrey felt as if he were standing at the vortex of hell. The firing came from every direction as more than sixty soldiers of Schneider's private army moved in for the kill.

The fog was still present but thinner than before. The visibility was now over two hundred yards and improving, but the sun was getting low in the west. There was perhaps an hour and a half of light left. The Bradley was out to the left, moving erratically while searching for targets of opportunity. Bolan was out front somewhere in the fog with the light machine gun, and the M-9 armored combat earthmover was positioned at the rear with one of the M-60 machine guns in support. The remaining defenders were in shallow trenches or behind the rock and earth walls that formed the tiny compound. The defense was as ready as it could be, and the assault teams were on their way.

As Torrey watched, the Bradley was the first to find the enemy as it swung to the front of the compound and opened fire with the Hughes chain gun. Out of sight in the mist, the 25 mm shells were cutting a path of destruction through the grass and rocks. He couldn't tell what the target was or if any of the shells hit home.

The MP shifted his attention to the zone directly in front of the compound, looking to catch a glimpse of Belasko and any action he might have taken. He could hear the sound of angry hornets as bullets ripped past his head as he turned to survey the opposite end of the bunker. His MPS weren't returning the light long-range fire--the M-16's only had an effective range of 340 yards. The heavy.50-caliber M-2 machine gun on the roof was supporting them with long-range counterfire. The fire from all sides was increasing, and a few of his men had taken hits. The main assault would come from the front.

He had to recall the Bradley to support the perimeter troops. Where was Belasko? There was no indication of a firefight out front, and the big man wasn't the type to be taken or silenced without a fight.

Bolan lay flat on his belly in a patch of cactus as Schneider's men moved around him. The cactus and the long evening shadows would hamper them from seeing him or closely inspecting the area. They were deploying in squads of three--one man to provide covering fire while the other two advanced forward.

Four squads were concentrated in his immediate area, and he had heard them speaking German. These were the crack troops, Schneider's personal men. The Executioner waited patiently for them to move. There was a vibration in the ground, then he heard it, the low rumbling of the IFV. And it was coming closer.

The squads of mercenaries began to disperse for cover to avoid the armament of the chain gun.

The Bradley was once again delaying the concentration of the assault force. The Bradley moved through the area, turret swinging back and forth, searching for prey. Orders were shouted to the mercenaries, and they began to regroup. One solitary man got up on one knee, and Bolan instinctively knew the reason. The turret was facing away from the rocket launcher and the vehicle was moving at a crawl. The shot would be clean and devastating at such short range.

The personal danger was great, but Bolan couldn't just sit by and watch the Bradley be destroyed. He shifted his position in the cactus thicket to bring his weapon to bear on the new target. The thornes of the cactus lanced through his knees and elbows. Ignoring the discomfort, he aimed the squad automatic weapon at the kneeling mercenary. He adjusted his weight and took a deep breath to steady himself. He squeezed the trigger and a hail of M-885 ball rounds tore into the man and launcher. The rocket fired as the man started to go down, the impact delivering a glancing blow. The explosion was directed outward away from the hull, but it did damage to the track. The Bradley halted abruptly.

The various squads of Schneider's troops opened fire on Bolan and the damaged IFV. The fighting vehicle fought back with the chain gun and the 7.62 mm machine gun. Bolan, despite the torrent of seeking lead, methodically started to find and fire on targets. He concentrated on those close to the vehicle, where its guns wouldn't be able to depress to hit.

First was a rifleman who was using the Bradley to mask his position. A few rounds in front of the IIFV and the man made a break to the rear. He opened fire as he cleared the shadow of the vehicle.

One short burst from the M-249 took the man effectively out of play.

The fog was definitely clearing out now, and the positions were more visible. Bolan saw that one squad had been left behind to deal with him and the others had moved out to tackle the bunker. The IFV was smoking a little and the track was damaged on one side. The armored personnel carrier was immobile but could still put down covering fire and work like an armed outpost if the men inside were all right. So far there had been no sign of activity from the Bradley.

A piece of cactus dropped onto the ground beside him, nipped off by the slash of a bullet.

Bolan surveyed the area in front, looking for the source of the fire, and caught a glimpse of another hardman trying to work his way around the flank. He was moving through the low brush off to the warrior's right. The M-249 machine gun chattered again, and the mercenary dropped as the ball rounds mowed the brush flat. The third squad member spotted Bolan's position and raked the thicket from close range with his AK-47. Stone chips and chunks of cactus flew in every direction as the hardman shredded the area. But he was too late.

The Executioner rose up from the ground behind the thicket, and, with the Beretta 93-R in hand, he planted two slugs neatly between the man's eyes.

The look of astonishment disappeared as the gunman toppled forward into a lifeless heap on the ground.

Bolan leathered the Beretta, picked up the M-249 and headed after the assault team.

Gunfire from all directions could be heard as attacker battered defender in a battle of survival.

The Executioner took up position on a slight rise in the ground. He dropped down to his stomach and readied the machine gun. With an effective range of more than eighteen hundred yards, it could cover most of the visible battlefield. And a battlefield was what it had become. The main thrust of men was heading toward the front of the bunker.

They had Torrey and his men under heavy automatic-weapons fire. Another smaller group of eight or ten men were making a push for the far end of the compound, where the Bradley had been stationed. Torrey had only two men dug in there but had added one of the M-60's as support. One of the men also had an M-79 grenade launcher and would probably be able to keep the attackers at bay for a while.

The M-9 earth mover had been repositioned to help cover the rear of the compound with four or five of the MPS. They were receiving covering fire from the heavy M-2 machine gun on the roof of the bunker. The near side of the bunker was much the same as the far end, with three soldiers dug in and supported by the other M-60. Torrey was covering the main entrance to the computer center with an M-16 and was bolstered by the last MP, who was armed with an M-249 positioned just inside the entrance way to the installation. A weapon such as the M-249 machine gun would be more effective out in the open, where its range and rate of fire could add punch to the defense. Bolan knew that Torrey had decided the doorway was his last line of defense before he blew the bunker.

Way off in the distance the sound of gunfire echoed between the volcanic cones. The onslaught against the Keck was picking up steam. The M-113's with reinforcements for the Pohakuloa camp had not yet come into sight on the winding, rugged Saddle Road. They were at least another thirty to thirty-five minutes off, as were the SEALS. The sailors were pushing their way down the slope somewhere on Mauna Kea. The falling darkness would hinder their advance through the rough ground above the camp.

Lying prone on the little knoll, the Executioner adjusted the sights of the light machine gun. He had the main part of Schneider's storm troops between himself and the compound. The range of the M-249 was a plus but could also be deadly for the defenders if he overshot the target. There were men working their way in closer to the compound, and they were getting increasingly difficult to see in the approaching twilight. Bolan had to be careful. The sun was at his back, making him a visible target against the light sky.

Then he saw an opening. One of the mercenaries had stopped and flopped to the ground behind some bushes. The ground was sand and burned grass, very light in color, allowing the gunman to stand out perfectly where he rested. Shooting a man in the back wasn't to Bolan's liking, but all was fair on this battlefield. These were monsters, men who cared nothing for the safety of innocents or for the laws of civilization. The M-249 zeroed in on the man, and a brief squeeze of the trigger left only a bloody corpse.

He shifted target to another of Schneider's minions as the hardman attempted to storm the end trench. He quickly had target acquisition, and the squad automatic weapon tore the charging man in two. The warrior turned to the far end of the bunker, where the IFV had earlier been stationed. The two men in the trenches were barely holding off the frontal attack they faced. The grenade launcher had reduced the attackers by one, but they were seasoned mercenaries. They spread out to avoid the grenades and to split the fire. The M-60 had halted to reload and the hardmen were charging the position during the lull in fire.

The lead attacker was a small, compact man with the quick, sharp, unpredictable movements of a veteran.

Bolan snapped off a couple of bursts that forced him to take cover. He shifted to the next man, who was bigger and more ponderous in his movements. Like the battle-smart warrior that he was, Bolan was able to anticipate the man's next shift in direction and wait until he crossed the sights of the M-249. Within seconds the bulky mercenary had stepped into the Executioner's line of sight and the ball rounds had ripped through his chest. He was less than twenty feet from the slit trench when he hit the ground.

The enemy now realized they had been infiltrated behind their line of advance. A few members of the closest assault team had detected from which direction the fire had come, and they turned their attention on Bolan. The M-249 barked again as the mercenaries opened fire on Bolan's unprotected position. The Executioner caught one man in the shoulder, but he had to bail out of the knoll as the hail of lead caught him in a cross fire.

As Bolan rolled down the backside of the rise to the slight depression behind, he heard the big M-2 HB open up in the direction of his attackers. The counterfire subsided and the warrior, recognizing the opening, was up and running to the sector in front of the far end of the bunker.

As he ran he caught a glimpse in the fading light of the two MPS. They were fighting hand-to-hand combat with one of Schneider's assault teams to hold the slit trench. Another team was coming up in support and would soon overwhelm the position.

Bolan hit the dirt once more as a mercenary sprayed his line of advance with automatic-weapons fire. The grit and stones thrown up by the murderous fire of the AK-47 stung Bolan's skin and burned his eyes. Still he managed to avoid being hit and to get a bead on the second assault team that was charging the slit trench.

The machine gun sang out its tune of death as the leader of the team was ground up by the torrent of lead.

The other two members of the attacking squad dived for cover. The combatants in the trench, realizing their support had melted away, broke off the attack and retreated to a position in front of the trenches. The M-60, no longer restricted by the close proximity of the MPS, chased the mercenaries back to their previous position, catching one of them as he tried to cover the withdrawal.

There were two blasts of a field whistle, and the gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started. The assault force disappeared into the dark shadows of the surrounding countryside and everything became quiet.

From his position Bolan could see the mercenaries as they executed their tactical retreat and began to reposition for the next attack. It was time to move before he could be outflanked by the redeployment of Schneider's troops.

He slung the M-249 and began to crawl and slither through the fine volcanic dust and the dried grass. He moved as rapidly as possible but not so fast as to raise any form of dust cloud to alert Schneider and his men. His presence was known, but not his exact location. Time spent searching for him was time that Schneider didn't have. He saw two men dart to his right, and the M-2 fired off a burst in their direction. The big.50caliber slugs churned up the ground but seemed to miss their target.

Schneider was rounding up most of his men for a concentrated attack on the near end of the bunker.

One MP there had been downed, which left only two men to close the door on the assault. There was an M-60 being handled by one man, and a single soldier in a trench with his M-16. Torrey's defenders had taken four casualties in the first attack, and he didn't have additional men to move to the weak point. The.50caliber heavy machine gun would provide some support, but Schneider was a trained tactician and would probably try to neutralize the weapon on the roof before he began a new offensive.

Bolan began to move faster, raising himself up into a running crouch, making himself an easy target. He could only hope that Schneider and his men were too busy repositioning to notice his movements. Using the shadows as cover, the warrior moved toward the compound, hoping to add his firepower to the defense at the near end of the bunker.

Then he heard two explosions farther up the Saddle Road in the direction of the Keck Observatory, which could be only one thing. Schneider had laid a trap for the regular troops stationed at the summit of Mauna Kea. The M-113 armored personnel carriers had been hit with rocket fire, presumably from an FFV AT-4 like the one that had maimed the Bradley.

There was another explosion, and smoke could be seen back-lit by the western sky. The Executioner was still on the move, now up and running at full speed.

A shadow moved in front of him, his keen combat senses detecting a shift in light, a slight glint of fading sunlight off the chrome barrel of a gun. He dived for cover, drawing the Beretta 93-R as he hit the ground and twisted away to his left. The big Python fired once, then again, but the warrior was too fast. He returned fire, the Beretta chugging out three rounds, but Schneider, an elusive phantom, was gone.

ONCE AGAIN Bolan slithered in the direction of the compound. There was no time to go hunting for the big German in the dark shadows around him. He had to gain the compound before the charge on the bunker could overrun the MPS. There would be time for Schneider afterward, of that there was no doubt. Reiny Schneider had evaded him twice; there would be no third escape.

More explosions boomed out from the Saddle Road area, as well as weapons fire, although to Bolan's trained ears it sounded more like high-powered hunting rifles and shotguns than military weaponry in a skirmish. He heard some autofire, but it was sporadic and retreating from the GPS base.

Schneider's local recruits were using what was available. The destruction of the scow at Hapuna Beach was paying dividends. Eventually the U.s.

Army firepower on Mauna Kea would overwhelm the ambush and help would get through. It was only a matter of time. Unfortunately time was the one commodity they didn't have.

Bolan was within fifty yards of the low dirt compound wall at the far end of the bunker. He had managed to skirt the main attack force and get to the defensive perimeter in A lightly covered sector. The warrior knew he had to hail the MP in the trench, but it would draw heavy fire from Schneider's thinly dispersed soldiers. He had to get into the compound to holster the defenses where the main force was to strike.

Lying flat against the ground to reduce his visibility as a target, Bolan clapped his hands sharply three times. The Morse code S was three dots. Nothing happened, though he heard some movement in the trench in front. He repeated the signal.

"Who goes there?" It was Torrey's voice. Bolan repeated the three hand claps.

"Belasko" was the response, but it wasn't given by the same man. The MP might be responding in answer to the signal, but why hadn't Torrey responded the second time?

Once more his combat sixth sense screamed that something was wrong. The Executioner flung his body violently backward and crashed into a pouncing hardman. Bolan twisted and grabbed his attacker by the throat. As he squeezed he was struck in the temple by the butt end of a pistol. The pain throbbed through his head as he struck out blindly in the twilight. His right hand slashed out with the barrel of the M-249 to ward off the assailant who towered above him. The man jumped back to avoid the blow, and Bolan kicked up and out with his heavy combat boots.

His foot caught the merc in the groin, doubling him over, and a big fist struck the man in the jaw as he fell. The soldier of fortune's last act as he lost consciousness was to pull the trigger of his Colt M-1911 automatic, the blunt.45-caliber slug creasing the skin on the side of his abdomen.

As the warrior tried to catch his breath, another gunman loomed out of the dark landscape and lunged in his direction. His instincts yelled move, and he twisted away from the fallen merc to avoid the next attack. The blows never came.

"Belasko. It's Torrey." In the rapidly diminishing light, Bolan could make out the figure of the captain of the MPS as he slid into the depression beside him.

Both men were breathing heavily, and Bolan could feel the warmth of his own blood as it stained his shirt. Torrey shoved his arm under the warrior's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. He then half carried, half dragged the wounded Bolan back to the trench.

The moon was starting to rise in the east, casting an eerie glow over the Waimea plain. The sun had set, but some twilight remained. The fog had moved out completely. There was complete silence as Torrey looked down at his watch and realized the first round of battle had lasted almost a half hour. The next attack would be much faster. The German was almost out of time. His codes wouldn't be useful for much longer, so he would have to strike a hammer blow to meet his deadline.

Bolan sat up and inspected his wound, an abrasion that was deep enough to bleed profusely but not bad enough to endanger any vital organs. Torrey handed him a dressing from a medic's bag he had hauled with him from the bunker.

"I was doing a round of the perimeter to care for the wounded when I heard your signal. Then we heard the gunman." "The assault will come on the far end of the bunker.

They've massed about two hundred yards out." "Schneider stopped the convoy from the Keck.

Where's the Bradley?" Bolan just shook his head as he adjusted the bandage over his wound. He then lifted the squad light machine gun and began to rise to his feet. The pain shot through his side as if he were being sliced with a hot blade. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, then all hell broke loose.

The bunker was now back-lit by the rising moon.

The M-2 crew and their weapon stood out on the roof like a statue. The barrage of automatic-weapons fire tore at the powerful gun's covering position like a hailstorm from hell.

The two soldiers danced like marionettes on a string as the concentrated power of thirty automatic rifles lifted, then flung their mangled bodies from the top of the bunker.

With the covering heavy machine gun neutralized, Schneider's horde rose en masse and charged the compound. Torrey was gone, his M-9 pistol lashing out in the darkness as he vaulted over a fallen soldier and slammed headlong into one of Schneider's storm troopers. The MP'S weight bowled the man over, and the 9 mm slugs finished the job. The small defense force rushed to the collapsing front with weapons kicking and firing wildly.

Bolan raced forward, oblivious to the pain in his side, firing from the hip until the M-249 ran out of ammo. He then raised it by the barrel like a club, swinging at the murderous torrent that threatened to engulf them all.

The fighting was hand-to-hand. The battle-hardened mercenaries were more than a match for the relatively green MPS, but they fought. They gouged, cursed, punched and clawed to hold the line. Their weapons were useless now except to be used as clubs or spears. This was primitive man, tribal warfare of the most animalistic kind.

The battle raged in the close confines of the compound and the slit trenches. The MPS were being driven back. The sheer weight of numbers made defeat inevitable.

Bolan took a step back. He had to turn the tide. Everywhere he looked mangled and wounded men were being trampled by the unstoppable onslaught of Schneider's men.

A mercenary broke through the line and charged at the Executioner. The hardman stopped and grinned at him as he raised an eighteen-inch three-sided bayonet. This was to be a sacrifice to the god of war, one more corpse, one more victory to enhance the mercenary's fame and fortune.

Bolan watched, amazed, as the man two-handed the bayonet and raised it to strike at his heart. The warrior calmly drew the Beretta, and to the astonishment of the enraged attacker, shot him dead with one 9 mm parabellum slug through the forehead.

He heard Torrey shouting orders over the din of battle. They locked eyes briefly, and Bolan knew that Torrey was saying the fight was almost lost.

The big MP was wounded, blood was streaming from a gash on his face, but he wasn't leaving the fight.

Bolan would have to blow the plastic in the bunker.

The Executioner leathered the 93-R and looked around for something, anything, to stem the tide. The automatic weapons were useless, because in the close-quarters fighting he wouldn't be able to separate friend from foe. Then he saw the answer--the M-9 armored earthmover. It wasn't a tank, but it could sure push back against the mass of men storming the bunker. He turned and made a break away from the same. Already the MPS were starting to fall back toward the bunker. In a few minutes they would be overwhelmed, and the bunker would have to be blown.

Bolan reached the vehicle, scrambled to the top deck, rolled over to the open hatch and dropped inside. It was intensely dark, and he was unfamiliar with the specific controls of the vehicle.

He found the starter and tried it. The powerful Cummins diesel engine kicked to LIFE. He closed the hatch above his head and swung the vehicle on its axis to aim it at the battle line in front.

From the driver's port he could see that there was a pause in the fighting as everyone turned to look at the growling earthmover. Bolan lowered the blade to ground level and rammed the levers forward to send the machine grinding toward the battle line. As the bulldozer headed on its way, he popped the hatch open and stood up on the driver's seat, moving the Beretta from side to side, searching for a target as the ACE crawled forward.

The MPS began to withdraw. Torrey was pulling them back from the line as the M-9 pushed into the mercenary troops at the edge of the compound. They began to retreat in the face of the armored vehicle as it plowed its way across the compound and out into the flat area beyond.

Bolan and his Beretta 93-R were perched on the upper deck of the vehicle's hull, taking shots at any target of opportunity that appeared. The cohesion of Schneider's horde finally broke, and the withdrawal became a rout. The whistle sounded twice, and once again the hardmen melted away to regroup for another attack.

The Executioner dropped into the driver's seat and swung the machine back into the compound. He was greeted by a bloodied but grinning Torrey as he brought the dozer to a halt.

Cherie had hitched a ride to Hilo once she had gotten clear of the jungle. The trip down the coast road to the main city had been easy except for the roving hands of the driver of the battered old car.

She had tolerated the pawing for as long as she could and had finally lost her patience. She had left the cocky Hawaiian driver tied with rope and his own shoelaces to a tree just off the main road. He'd likely be discovered in a matter of hours, but if he wasn't Cherie couldn't have cared less. She had a mission and she had the key to it all. Her brother had told her what he suspected Schneider was going to do and who was going to help him. For two hundred million dollars he could buy a lot of help, even the most respectable kind, especially with untraceable, ill-gotten money.

She knew who the contact man was and who the likely computer expert would be. As Schneider's unwilling concubine, she had met and entertained most of his partners in the Taiwanese government and the mob, as well as many members of the military and scientific communities. There was one special man, a Chinese computer expert, whose knowledge had impressed even Remy Schneider, and that wasn't easy to do.

He had been entertained at Kai Zhou's palatial villa on a number of occasions and had spent many nights drinking fine wine with the German into the early hours of the morning. He was a man who had grown to love the fine things in life, and he wanted them in an abundance that even his privileged position in China couldn't bring him. Schneider had made sure that the unnamed Chinese computer genius had sampled all the luxuries, all the excitement and all the women money could buy. The man had even had an evening of sampling her own body. It made her blood run cold when she thought of it, but it guaranteed that she would know the man anywhere. No disguise could hide him--she knew the way he walked, talked, acted, smelled. And she knew he was on the island.

In Hilo she used the Hawaiian's credit card to rent a decent car. The run to the Keck was about a three-hour drive, and she had to move quickly.

The sun would be setting soon, and the ceremonies would begin at about seven o'clock.

The Chinese scientist would make his move once the attack started. It didn't have to be an all-out assault. It only had to be enough of a skirmish for the Army guards to keep the scientists inside the complex while the attack was contained. The computer specialist would hole up in the computer center as the battle raged and manipulate the bank accounts while the military protected him. When the combat was over and the Army had won, he would be escorted away to safety, having transferred close to a billion dollars in arms and drug money to banks all over the world. From the Cayman Islands to Switzerland to third-world countries where no one asked about the source of the money, hundreds of millions of dollars would be placed in anonymous accounts.

Schneider had given the man a single command line to tell the mainframe computer at the Keck how and where to transfer the money. Her brother's laptop had the various file names of the accounts that would allow the German to get the funds. It was simple yet so complicated.

Her brother had set up the accounts for the Taiwanese and therefore had had all the entry data.

Schneider had been in the employ of Kai Zhou and had been brought in, disguised as a bodyguard, to work the GPS operation. The German had discovered that when the GPS system went down, the initial payment for a missile system would be flashed from a bank in Hong Kong to Taiwan to confirm the deal. All he had to do was pass the money on to his dispersed accounts before the Taiwanese had time to move it. Again, under the threat of death, her brother had laid the foundation of the transfer by placing coded directories in both the Keck and the GPS computer systems. Once the GPS signal had stopped, even momentarily, Schneider could make the transfer of funds from either place. He could do it himself if he successfully stormed the GPS installation, or the Chinese specialist could do it from the Keck if the Global Positioning System installation was destroyed. She couldn't get to Schneider, but she could get to the Chinese computer expert at the Keck.

She had the clearance, as her brother's assistant, to get into the Keck facility, and unbeknownst to everyone but herself, she had the knowledge to transfer the funds to a place her brother had arranged. He had hoped to move a small amount to a bank in Africa. The funds would be their escape, his and hers, from the nightmare their life had become. Now he was gone, and all that was left to her was revenge, and possibly a good part of a billion dollars.

The more she thought of her brother, the harder she pushed the car out of Hilo and onto the Saddle Road to the Keck. The rental company forbade their vehicles from using the cross island road, but she had no intention of heeding the warnings. Treacherous and rough, the Saddle Road wound up to the volcanoes, passing through the rock-and-cactus wasteland of the Anvil. The sun was setting on the far side of the island, and already the Saddle Road was in darkness. She put her foot to the floor and began to navigate the blind corners and narrow roadway with a desperation fueled by hate.

Erskin pushed the gunner off him as he tried to get his bearings. The Bradley was stopped--for how long he didn't know. The last thing he remembered was a terrific bang against the hull, the machine swinging to a halt and smoke, lots of smoke. Before he passed out he had heard rifle fire outside the IFV, then he had felt the bulk of the gunner crush him against the wall of the confined compartment. He was vaguely aware that the battle had continued to ebb and flow around the disabled vehicle for some time, and then had left them behind.

He tried to look around and assess the situation inside the Bradley, but it was pitch-black. He reached for the light switch, then thought better of it.

Instead he leaned forward and turned on the red map light. The inside of the EFV was in good order. He tried to wake the gunner, but the black stains on his hands told him it was pointless. He rolled the man onto the deck below and saw the black ooze on his neck. A tiny splinter had sliced neatly through his jugular vein, and the black mass was in fact his blood, which was distorted by the deep red light of the map lamp.

His head pounded where he had struck the side of the turret when the rocket had impacted against the forward hull. Still in a daze, he leaned over and kicked the driver in the side. A groan and a curse told him that the corporal was still alive, if not well.

Erskin climbed down from his perch in the turret and reached for the water container in the rear crew compartment.

He shook his head a few times to try to clear it, then took a deep drink of water from the canteen.

In a few moments he was joined by Corporal Bart, who had worked his way aft from his forward driving position. The corporal pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Erskin. The lieutenant took a cigarette and the proffered light and settled back against the bulkhead.

He hadn't smoked in years but he had survived and he was determined to enjoy the moment.

Bart lit one up and looked at the lieutenant for a moment. They had been serving together for a few years, since they were thrown together during Desert Storm, and he could never recall seeing the officer smoke. He had only offered the cigarette out of nervousness or maybe out of habit. Bart pulled one of the emergency blankets out of the locker and put it over Layton. He had been a good buddy through the years, but the corporal had been in the service too long to get frazzled by death while the enemy was at the door.

Erskin crushed out his cigarette and turned to Bart, who was patiently waiting for the officer to give him his orders.

"Let's find out what power we have. We know the emergency system is functional, but that won't help us move this bucket of bolts. And Bart." "Yes, sir?" "I think we had better be as quiet as possible. No telling who's parked on the doorstep." Bart nodded and moved forward to the driver's area.

In the ghastly red light he could see the bulkhead wall, charred where the rocket had struck. If the shot had been straight on, the blast and the splinters would have destroyed anything inside. As it was, the blast had gone outward, and only a small piece of aluminum had rattled around and finally struck Layton in the neck. The track had been damaged, but none of the interior systems seemed to be affected. He checked the power and found that there was plenty of juice in the batteries. There was no way of knowing whether the engine would start or if the track was damaged so badly that the IFV wouldn't move.

Erskin climbed up to the turret and went to the sighting scope. Nothing could be seen. He tried the periscope, but all he could see was the faint outline of some rock and scrub bushes in the moonlight.

He sat back and tried to catch his breath. The concentration he needed just wasn't there. The pounding behind his eyes indicated that he probably had a mild concussion. He sat still, resting for a moment, until he was interrupted by Bart and his report on the status of the vehicle's systems.

The corporal saw the signs and realized that the officer was hurt more than he knew. His pupils were dilated and he was having a hard time sitting up. The veteran eased the young officer down to the crew compartment and put an emergency blanket over him to keep him warm. He wasn't sure what to do about the concussion, but he did know that the blanket would help ward off shock.

Bart climbed up to the turret and checked the load on the 25 mm chain gun, then reloaded the 7.62 mm coaxial machine gun. He slumped into the commander's seat, lit a cigarette, then reached over to turn Off the red night-light. In the total darkness he tried to prepare himself for what would come next. As a precaution Bart pulled his M-9 automatic out of its holster, checked the mag and listened. It could be a long night of waiting, but he sensed that the fight was far from over. He could still do something if the time came. With luck the big 25 mm weapon would work, or maybe the machine gun. If not, Bart was ready to fight with the pistol. Then he chuckled. He was willing to get out and throw rocks if he had to.

Torrey and Bolan took stock of their remaining manpower and resources. The storming of the bunker had been repelled at a tremendous cost and by Bolan's last-minute charge with the ACE. The defenders had suffered a casualty rate of more than 60 percent and not one of the fit combatants was without some kind of wound. Eight men had been killed outright, including the M-2 heavy-machine-gun team on the roof of the bunker.

Another soldier had been wounded when he tried to man the position. He had been seen against the light-color concrete in the moonlight and picked off. Only eight men were left to defend the GPS base. There was no sign of help from the Keck, and there had been no communication from the SEAL team. One of the wounded soldiers thought he had heard firing to the southeast, the direction from which the Navy team was expected.

Ammo was available for the M-16's and the 9 mm pistols. The one operational M-60 had a couple hundred rounds remaining, while there was no 5.56 mm ammunition left for the M-249's. The light machine guns were useless.

Schneider would be regrouping his men for another assault. He had suffered a high casualty rate, as well, although by Bolan's best estimate he probably still had more than thirty soldiers left. There was no time for infiltration tactics. The mercenaries would have to storm the bunker again.

In the dark they would have a good chance of getting close before the defenders were even aware of which direction the blow was coming from.

The Executioner had the Beretta reloaded and ready. The pistol was as good as any weapon when the action was this close in. The whistle shrilled again, twice, the sound of doom.

The men were in a tight perimeter in front of the entrance to the bunker. They didn't have the manpower to cover the rear or to prevent Schneider from gaining the roof and firing down on them. The ACE had been placed directly in front of the door to prevent a rocket or grenade from blasting the entryway.

The German had divided his forces. The two groups were converging from both sides, splitting the defenders' attention and catching them in a cross fire. Bolan suddenly felt a fine spray of sand on his face. For a moment he didn't know what it was or where it was coming from. Then the truth struck home. He looked up just in time to see a dark shape peer over the edge of the roof of the bunker. He two-handed the 93Rather straight up and cut loose with three quick shots. The man on the roof didn't move back from the edge. At such a short range, even in the dark, Bolan couldn't have missed. Then he felt the warmth on his hands. The blood of the man was dripping down and some had landed on the Executioner's hand. He wiped it on his own blood-soaked camous.

A shot came from above, and Torrey turned and snapped off a burst from the hip. The merc ducked under the edge of the roof only to reemerge a few feet away, blasting at the men below. The group of mercenaries on the left hit their defensive line first. Knives and rifle butts were the weapons of choice. One Of the MPS was using an entrenching tool like an ax to keep the killers at bay. Every man was occupied with the battle on the left, as the right wing of Schneider's force charged into view. Bolan turned and emptied the Beretta into the charging mass, but there were more men than he could possibly handle alone.

Then, way out in the darkness in front of the battered GPS bunker, came the ripping sound of the 25 mm chain gun. The powerful shells began to tear into the attacking right flank, tearing their ranks apart. The mercenaries realized the only escape from the deadly weapon was to press home the attack, get directly in among the defenders where the cannon couldn't fire for fear of hitting the soldiers on the same side. They charged on, but they left five of their number on the ground, victims of Corporal Bart's kiss of death.

The Bradley swept the top of the bunker with the 7.62 mm machine gun in an attempt to keep the hardmen from firing on the few remaining men below.

Bolan knew they couldn't hold out, as did Torrey. The big MP was fighting with the butt end of his M-16 when the Executioner spotted him.

Torrey had turned to run for the entrance to the bunker.

He was going to blow the charges. Out of the darkness the stock of an AK-47 caught the man in the small of the back. Bolan could almost hear the snap of his spine. He rammed a fresh clip into the Beretta and fired directly into the face of the mercenary standing over the injured MP. The hardman collapsed to the ground without a sound.

Another mercenary slipped in behind the armored bulldozer and tossed an explosive charge at the door.

Bolan and the wounded Torrey were protected from the blast by the ACE. The armored earthmover acted as a deflector, and the force of the explosion was driven upward, resulting in only slight damage to the computer center. The main electrical panel took the brunt of the blast, but the power was cut briefly until the emergency generators cut in.

THE GPS was off line for less than fifteen seconds. Schneider had a compact commercial GPS receiver in his hand, and he watched the signal flicker, then stop. He turned around and headed back to his truck. He was going to get off the island when he was sure the operation at the Keck was going as well as this one, which he had observed from a distance. He had lost a lot of men, but that also meant there would be less money that he'd have to pay out.

Bolan wanted to go to Torrey. Only two defenders were left fighting, and the mercenaries were intent on entering the installation. With the metal door gone, nothing could stop them. They continued to pressure the remaining defenders, who now fought with whatever was at hand. Bolan was able to hold the doorway with rapid fire from the Beretta, but he would soon be overwhelmed. He heard bullets ricocheting off the concrete of the bunker. Corporal Bart in the stationary Bradley was still sweeping the roof. He wasn't able to keep it clear, but the 7.62 mm heat had a way of keeping heads down.

Then Bolan realized that he was alone in front of the smoldering bunker. A few men moaned in agony, but the attack had stopped. The defense was beaten, yet the attackers had withdrawn. Then the sound of rotor blades sliced through the silence, followed by the hammering of a Stoner Mark 23 Commando machine gun. The SEALS had arrived, by air after all. The chopper came in low over the bunker, a mercury-vapor light illuminating targets on the roof. The Commando machine gun was joined by another, and they swept the rooftop clean of Schneider's men.

Ropes dropped, and the bulk of the SEAL team rappeled to earth. The first men to land took a quick look around and stared straight at Bolan. The team commander, armed with a Heckler and Koch Mp-5 9 mm submachine gun, called over the password.

"Belasko!" "Brognola." The rest of the team fanned out into the darkness clearing out the nests of Schneider's men as the Black Hawk covered them from the air. The SEAL medic quickly checked the men on the ground for wounds, mentally counting those who could be saved. Bolan went over to where Torrey lay facedown on the ground.

The MP was alive, but his back was broken. He would probably never walk again, and his career in the military was over. The warrior knew better than to try to move him; the spine might shift and cause more damage. The SEAL knelt beside the MP and did a quick examination.

"The second chopper's on its way in for medical evacs." Bolan nodded and said, "Tell your men that there are survivors in a damaged IFV out front and to be careful. There's still a lot of fight in somebody out there." Firing could be heard sporadically around the installation, and off in the distance the gunfire was increasing. On the summit of Mauna Kea the main battle was just under way.

The mop-up was quick--there were no survivors among Schneider's men. Some ran out of ammo and tried to close in to fight hand-to-hand, only to be gunned down by the HandK MP-5 submachine guns.

One or two might have escaped, but it was doubtful.

Using night-vision and infrared equipment, the Black Hawk had repeatedly swept the area and alerted the SEAL team to any remaining snipers.

The SEALS left two men behind to guard the bunker from any mercenaries who might have survived; the rest climbed into the Black Hawk to assist the defenders at the Keck. Bolan grabbed a lift with the Navy boys and settled down in one of the jumps seats to plan his next move.

Schneider hadn't yet called off his raid on the Keck. He was either still using it as a diversion, or he still had unfinished business to do. The thought that he might be trying a sophisticated double cross of his Taiwanese masters still echoed through the warrior's mind. The list of scientists at the Keck had something to do with it, especially the Chinese computer and electronic experts. The fact that two of the world's most advanced computer systems were involved wasn't a coincidence.

The Black Hawk swung away from the Pohakuloa camp and began to climb toward the Keck. With the heavy load, the chopper would have a hard time at that altitude. Bolan leaned over to the SEAL commander, who was on the headset to the pilot, and indicated he wanted to talk to him. The noise in the helicopter prevented any real conversation, so the SEAL handed him a set of headphones. He still had to raise his voice to be heard.

"Can we swing past the ambush area on the Saddle Road?" The SEAL wasn't sure why this request was made when the situation on Mauna Kea was deteriorating, but he had his orders from the admiral. Those orders were explicit--what Belasko wanted, Belasko got. It made the answer simple.

"Affirmative." The order was passed to the pilot, and the big chopper swung westward toward the reported position of the ambush of the M-113's. As a precaution, two SEALS swung open the sliding side doors and deployed the chopper's two M-60's. They weren't going to be ambushed themselves.

The Executioner was handed a spare HandK MP-3 and a couple of extra magazines. There was no point in asking for magazines for the Beretta.

He knew the SEALS had rejected the enemy-standard M-9 Beretta after problems with the slide. They all wore the big Colt.45 M-1911 as a side arm.

The pilot informed them that they were about five minutes from the ambush position, and he could see a number of vehicles and flashing lights in the area. He was going to try to contact the ground to get a briefing on the situation. He clicked off his intercom to radio ahead.

Bolan looked out the open side door to the landing zone. There was a lot of activity in and around the shells of the M-113's. He could see that an enemy unit had set up a defensive perimeter, but there were no muzzle-flashes visible from this far out.

The pilot's voice came back on the intercom.

"They've got the situation pretty much in hand on the ground. There's a lot of casualties. A National Guard unit in those old 113's. With rockets, they didn't have a chance." The men of the SEAL team looked straight ahead.

They were highly trained professional fighting men.

They took their risks and collected their pay. For them, it was a way of life. They had chosen it and accepted the odds. A wiped-out National Guard unit would leave behind a lot of dependents, a lot of young children who would want to know where their daddies were.

The guardsmen were good soldiers, but the two weeks of training at Pohakuloa were to be an exercise, not a battle to the death. Revenge wasn't part of the SEAL training, but they were men, and vengeance could not and would not be denied. The Executioner didn't like war against innocents, and even though the guardsmen were soldiers, they hadn't expected to face Schneider's forces. They were good men training to protect their country, not soldiers in a war against one madman's lust for power and money. The Executioner had only one thing on his mind, and that was Schneider.

The pilot was still waiting for instructions. Was he to land, or was he to proceed to the Keck battlefield, where the SEALS would be of most use?

Bolan looked out the window as the chopper slowly circled the ambush site. The mercury-vapor light was aimed at one of the damaged M-113's.

A fire-fighting unit was trying to pry a soldier out of the twisted metal with the Jaws of Life, a hydraulic device that resembled a giant pair of scissors. The pilot hovered the Black Hawk overhead while Bolan evaluated the situation.

"What was the combat report? Any prisoners?" The pilot switched back to the radio and cut off the intercom. The SEALS had manned the M-60 machine guns on both sides of the helicopter to cover the area. Their night-vision gear was operational, sweeping the high-altitude desert around the ambush area.

"There are no prisoners from the attacking forces.

They do have a civilian under arrest who claims to know who executed the ambush." It has to be the oriental woman who had gotten away from Torrey's men.

"Tell them I want to talk to her. Put down in the open field by those cars." The pilot did nothing for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder to the head of the SEAL unit.

He had been a pilot for a long time and as of yet had never taken an order from a civilian.

"Carry out your orders, Lieutenant." The voice had been flat and without emotion, but when the team leader gave an order, the pilot knew there Could be no discussion. The Black Hawk descended and settled onto a flat patch of rock, cactus and gravel.

Bolan, followed by the SEALS, jumped out of the Chopper as she touched down. They sprinted under the whirling rotor blades and headed toward the line of police and emergency vehicles. The SEALS left two men behind to cover the idling helicopter, and the remaining four followed the Executioner. They passed through the perimeter set up by the Army and approached the troop's commander, an overburdened major.

The SEALS' team leader had never given any indication of his rank so far, but he did salute the harried major first. He stated a quick report of the fight at the GPS installation, then informed the major that he was under orders to assist Belasko in any way possible. The major missed the nuance of the statement and assumed the SEAL was in charge. Bolan had no time for that, nor did anyone else.

"I want to see the woman you have in custody." The major looked at him as if he had been struck. He turned to put Bolan in his place, but when he saw the Executioner's stony cold gaze he thought better of it.

"Look, I've already got one Company man here. I don't need another." "I'm not with the Company, and I need to see the woman now." The major was bewildered by the situation and he had other problems to attend to. He pointed toward a Hummer at the edge of the road, then turned back to the business at hand.

Two guards were with the woman when Bolan found her in the rear seat of the Army vehicle. He opened the door and slid into the seat beside her. He then shut the door so that the others couldn't hear the conversation. The woman looked at him with surprise.

"You! Where's the MP?" "He's been wounded, but I need to know what Schneider's plan is." She delayed by shifting around in the back seat.

She knew that she had the upper hand, and this was her only chance to make a deal for what she wanted.

Bolan knew what she was thinking.

"Forget it. I can't cut a deal with you. What I want is Schneider." Cherie thought about what had happened over the past couple of days, then thought of the chance to destroy the hideous German. Her hatred was stronger than her greed. She didn't trust anyone, but she knew from looking at the man in front of her that he was speaking the truth. What she saw was the same determination in Bolan's eyes that she felt in her heart--the resolve to put an end to Schneider.

"He's going to transfer the arms money into his own accounts using the Keck computers. He has a man on the inside." "A Chinese scientist?" "Yes." Bolan opened the door and started to climb out, but the young woman grabbed his arm.

"I know which man and I know the codes and accounts he will use. Take me." Bolan didn't want to be hampered by dragging the woman along, but she was right--he would have to know Which man it was and how the transfer was to take Place.

He also needed to know how Schneider planned to make his escape. He looked at her, and there was no way she was going to hand over the information willingly. He could get it out of her, but it wouldn't be easy. And anyone who had survived the hell of the final years of Vietnam and the jungles would take a lot of time to break. He didn't have the inclination to force her to talk, and more importantly he didn't have the time.

Bolan stepped Out Of the Hummer and spoke to the SEAL leader.

"I need to take her with me. The major isn't going to let her go easily." The SEAL Pushed his cap back and thought for a moment. A showdown with a ranking regular officer wasn't something he had contemplated. It took only a few seconds for him to reach a decision.

"If you want her, she comes with us." Bolan opened the door to the Hummer and pulled On the woman's arm. She stepped out, and the two Army guards walked forward to prevent her from moving. The SEALS quickly and quietly dropped the men to the ground. Their hands and mouths were taped, and they were none too gently locked into the Hummer.

The SEALS surrounded Bolan and the woman as they moved through the area of Army control. Halfway to the Black Hawk they were intercepted by the irate major and a squad of his soldiers. There was a civilian with them--without question CIA--AND he was furious. The major swept his arm forward to indicate to his men that they were to surround the small naval unit and their charges. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" The SEALS had been given an unnoticed hand signal and had taken a defensive stance around Bolan and the woman. The Black Hawk had lifted off and was hovering a hundred feet away.

One of the M-60So was manned and pointed at the Army squad. The movement was so swift that the soldiers were taken by surprise. The CIA agent was rapidly whispering into the major's ear and pointing in Bolan's direction. The major stepped forward, the anger obvious in his face. "The woman is my prisoner. You have no jurisdiction here, whoever you are." The agent had pulled his weapon and taken a step toward the woman. He was greeted by Bolan's raised submachine gun.

The SEAL leader stepped forward with his MP-5 at the ready, which caused the agent to retreat to the major's side. Bolan spoke to the SEAL commander. "If the major in any way interferes with this woman, shoot him." The SEAL didn't even blink at the order.

He raised his weapon, as did his men.

"Affirmative." The major was aghast and took a step in Bolan's direction.

"You can't do this. I'll have you all court-martialed!" "And if his friend or his men intervene, shoot them, too." It was a dangerous game of chicken, but the stakes were high. Too many good men had died because of Schneider, and the woman was the only way to get him.

If the major was going to play the game, he had picked the wrong man to play against. The Army officer had to have sensed the hardness in Bolan, for he began to back down. Since the situation was a standoff, the SEALS, Bolan and the woman backed their way toward the chopper. The SEAL leader stepped forward to the major and saluted. He then said something to him, but the words were drowned out by the roar of the landing helicopter. Bolan saw the major return the salute, and the Navy man turned and jogged toward the open door of the Black Hawk. He jumped in behind everyone else and the aircraft rose into the night.

Both the woman and Bolan were amused at the last scene played out between the major and the Navy man.

Cherie, who hadn't spoken during the entire drama, looked at the sailor and yelled at him above the din of the engine. She asked what he had said to the Army officer.

The SEAL smiled slightly. "He demanded my name, rank and serial number. So I told him.

Then I told him to carry on." The woman was even more perplexed by the answer and turned her head away in confusion. Bolan and the rest of the SEALS chuckled. Cherie didn't realize that what he meant was that he outranked the major and could have taken command at any time.

The Black Hawk continued to fight for altitude all the way to the summit of Mauna Kea. By the time the big observatories came into view the chopper could climb no more. They would just barely make it into the desolate, windswept, central compound.

It was cold, especially with the side doors open and the M-60's swung out. The slight traces of snow on the Mountainside sparkled in the moonlight. The many observatories on the summit stood out against the night sky like giant mushrooms.

The Keck was off to the right as they swung in to land; it was a big installation.

The pilot came on the intercom to pass on a warning from the ground. The area was crawling with snipers, but there had been no all-out assault so far.

Most of the scientists were safe and holed up in the various observatory buildings under the protection of the military. He was going to have to set the helicopter down because the woman had no experience rappeling.

There was a tremendous crosswind, and the Black Hawk was being buffeted about. Bolan rested against the jump seat, pacing his breathing, trying to acclimatize as much as possible to the thin air at thirteen thousand feet. His wound ached, his head pounded from lack of oxygen and it was bitterly cold. He had covered Cherie with a couple of the medical blankets from the chopper's locker. They had talked, and he learned what he needed to know.

Schneider wouldn't be at the Keck, he would be on the run to the south coast to rendezvous with a boat or a plane--Cherie wasn't sure which.

He would have the laptop computer with him, and it was the key to it all. In that little machine were the directories and access codes to all the accounts the dirty money was being sent to. That information was why Schneider had killed the Vietnamese technician, Cherie's brother. Only he and Schneider knew of the codes, and the German wasn't going to risk anyone double-crossing him. Schneider was pulling the biggest financial double cross in history and was determined that no one was going to share in the spoils or ruin his rise to tremendous wealth.

The helicopter fought and wheezed its way over the edge of the summit, through a gap between the observatories and into the flat area that had been bulldozed in the center. They immediately came under fire from a number of different directions. In seconds the ropes were out and two SEALS were dropping to the ground to secure the landing area. Both of the sailors held Stoner Mark 23 machine guns, and their descent was covered by the M-60's at the doors. A bullet drove through the rear bulkhead and struck the SEAL leader in the calf muscle. The man swung his MP-5 out the door and sent a burst in the direction of the sniper. Bolan banged off a magazine to cover the landing, then grabbed a rope to drop to the ground, as well. On the way out the door he pointed to Cherie, and the wounded SEAL nodded.

The Executioner rappeled swiftly down the rope and hit the ground beside one of the SEALS. He slammed another load into the MP-5 and began to scan the darkness. The sailor was laying down a barrage to the side of one of the big observatory domes. Bolan flattened out beside him.

"There's one dead ahead and another at three o'clock." The Executioner nodded and held down the trigger of the submachine gun. The burst cut an arc through the night and took out an enemy gunner who had been betrayed by his weapon's muzzle-flashes.

There was firing all around, and it was hard to identify friend or foe. A slug kicked up dust beside Bolan's head. He didn't see where it came from, and the wind was causing a minor dust storm that limited visibility even more. Another shot rang out, and the bullet was within inches of the warrior's leg.

It was a high-powered sniper or hunting rifle, and by the power of the shot the gunner had to be a fair way off. Then Bolan spotted him. It was out of range for his weapons, so he tapped the sailor on the shoulder and pointed. The Stoner machine gun let loose, and the sniper fell silent.

Bolan and the SEAL were breathing hard from the thin air. They were joined by the other sailor, who indicated a concentration of hardmen near one of the low outbuildings. They could still hear the chopper off in the distance as it circled clumsily, trying to bite the thin air with its massive rotor blades. The cold was slicing through their skin and the volcanic dust was grating against their skin, eyes and mouth. One of the SEALS snapped off a burst in the direction of the outbuilding. The shadows dispersed and returned the fire. One of the darkened figures charged toward the SEALS' position but was cut down by Bolan's automatic weapon. As he dropped, his gun went off, aimed in the direction of the Executioner's group. When the load scored, it barely had enough power to penetrate the canvas knapsack on the SEALS back. It had been a shot from a bird gun. The startled naval commando pulled off his pack and let out a long, low whistle, then leaned over to his buddy.

"What a place for a sailor to fight. On top of a bloody mountain." Bolan grinned with the two men, but they had to get on with securing the landing zone for the chopper. At the warrior's command they split up to outflank the mercenaries in the shadow of the mighty Keck. The Executioner realized that the soldiers guarding the installations and the scientists were waiting for an all-out assault that wasn't going to come. The attackers here weren't the hardened professionals he had faced at the GPS base. These men were using civilian weapons and weren't trained in warfare.

The three men charged the group of snipers. A burst from the MP-5 cut a figure eight through one of the running men. The SEAL to Bolan's right opened up with the Mark 23 machine gun, and two more men seemed to disintegrate where they stood. One man immediately threw up his hands as if to surrender, but was shot down by a burst from an AK-47 assault rifle. The shots had come from the base of one of the giant telescope domes. Then the warrior heard a metal door slam shut. So Schneider had taken the precaution of sprinkling this group of local thugs with a few of his mercenaries. The soldiers of fortune were probably driving the others forward in the attack. Get the few hardened soldiers, and the rest would lose their backbone and surrender or run. The two SEALS caught up to Bolan near the metal door that led into the observatory ground floor.

"Signal the chopper in and get them over to the concrete building on the other side of the LZ.

I'm going in after the merc." "Affirmative. Let me open the door for you." With that the SEAL leveled the Stoner Commando machine gun at the door and blasted the lock to pieces. He kicked in the door, sprayed the entrance with hot lead and stepped back as Bolan dived through. A muzzle-flash winked in the darkness and 7.62 mm slugs slammed into the doorpost. The SEAL let loose another blast through the doorway to cover Bolan as he slid to the other side of the passage and into the cover of some machinery. There was no light, except for that of the stars coming through the huge open door in the dome, and he could just make out the shape of the giant optical telescope pointing out the hatch, peering into the infinity of space.

As the warrior tried to catch his breath, he saw a flare soar skyward, the signal to bring the Black Hawk to the LZ. He listened intently for the sound of his quarry, but there was none. The M-60's in the chopper--mixed with the occasional single shot from a rifle or a shotgun-- could be heard in the distance. Then the M-16's opened fire. The SEALS had made contact with the army.

The chopper roared overhead and settled into the compound. Bolan heard a bang from that direction and knew the helicopter had been hit by a shot. There was still no sound from the man he faced inside the dome installation. The Executioner was going to have to make the first move.

Bolan's head was still throbbing from the lack of oxygen, and he felt sluggish. He knew his reaction times would be slowed slightly, but so, too, would the hardman's. A native Hawaiian from the area would be another matter--he would be acclimatized to the higher elevation. The man he faced was one of Schneider's--the AK-47 was like a calling card-- and he wouldn't have had time to become acclimatized, either. The warrior's vision had adjusted to the darkness inside the observatory, and he began to search the facility for his enemy.

He slowly moved forward, using the machinery as cover. There wasn't a sound to be heard other than the howl of the wind as it moaned past the open skylight door in the dome. He inched forward, feeling the wall with his left hand and gently panning back and forth with the HandK submachine gun in his right. Still no sign of movement. The man couldn't have been hit by the SEAL'S fire. There had been no sound of anything hitting the floor. Then the warrior kicked something on the floor that rolled away. He dived down as a burst of gunfire ripped over his head.

Bolan had bumped some empty brass cartridges with the toe of his boot. This was where the hardman had fired a burst earlier.

A catwalk around the telescope was barely visible in the gloom of the cavernous installation. The warrior continued on even more slowly. He couldn't risk another sound that would give away his position.

The Executioner was stalking the hardman, and he knew he had him trapped up on the catwalk. But the situation was dangerous. If he exposed his location again, the mercenary would be able to pick him off.

His foot struck something soft, and someone groaned.

The AK-47 rang out again. The machinery deflected the barrage away from Bolan and the wounded man at his feet. The warrior reached down and touched the man. His hand came up warm, wet and covered with blood. The cartridge cases he had stepped on earlier had once held the lead that tore this man apart. He knelt beside the fallen victim and made a quick inspection by feel and ascertained that the wounds weren't serious, except for the loss of blood. He stopped and listened. A slight shuffling sound came from the grate of the catwalk overhead--the hardman was searching for a way back down to the main floor.

Bolan reached out carefully to his right and discovered that the steel stairs up to the elevated platform were right beside him. He did indeed have the killer cornered--the stairs were likely the only way out. There would be time to confront his trapped prey, so he returned his attention to the man at his side.

The warrior pulled open the technician's lab coat and eased off the man's belt. The major source of the bleeding was on the thigh, around which the warrior pulled the leather belt. He set down the MP-5 and used both hands to tie the tourniquet.

The technician groaned once again, and the Executioner heard a step on the stairs above his head.

He kicked the submachine gun and sent it clattering across the concrete floor, then pushed himself up and away from the injured man while drawing the Beretta 93-R.

The mercenary took the bait of the skidding HandK MP-5 and fired a burst in the direction of the weapon. Bolan had slid out from under the stairway and had the muzzle-flash in his sights.

He shifted his aim to an estimated three feet back from the end of the barrel and snapped off four 9 mm parabellum slugs in a box formation. The assault rifle thudded to the floor, followed by the body of the gunman. Bolan stepped closer. The fall had been only about eight feet and he wasn't sure how many of the slugs had struck home.

While two-handing the Beretta, he used his foot to nudge the fallen mercenary. There was no reaction SO he gave the body a harder push to be sure.

A big hand grabbed his foot and threw him sideways against a console. It had almost worked, except that an experienced warrior like the Executioner couldn't be fooled that easily. Bolan had maintained target acquisition as he was grabbed, and the 93-R chugged out three more rounds that ended the struggle. The warrior sat back against the console and once again tried to catch his breath in the thin air. It had been the hardman's heavy hyperventilation that warned him that the man was preparing to fight. The mercenary had needed to build up his oxygen level to make his move, and that was what had given him away.

The battle raged outside, though the roar from the chopper had stopped. The pilot had to have shut the engine down. Bolan continued to rest. His wound had opened up a little again, and the endless pounding headache from the altitude made him feel dizzy. There were a few shots fired close to the door he had charged through earlier, drawing a response from a Stoner Commando.

It was time to get out; the wounded man needed help.

He stood and glanced around in the darkness for the MP-5, but to no avail. He reached down and pulled the technician up and over his shoulder. The pain in his side nearly doubled him over, but he'd have to handle it. Bolan moved back down the passage toward the door, feeling his way with his left hand the Beretta at the ready in his right.

He reached the door and tentatively peered out.

The whipping cold air hit him like a blast--there was no sign of the SEALS or the army in the immediate vicinity. The fighting seemed to have moved off to a sector on the other side of the landing zone. The SEALS would be making good use of their night goggles to guide the soldiers to the snipers' nests. The M-16's would do the rest.

He stepped outside and scanned the area. There was more light in the open than there was in the enclosed observatory. His eyes darted everywhere, searching the area around the LZ to be sure it was safe. Once he was heading across the open ground in the center of the compound, he would be a slow-moving, cumbersome target with the wounded man on his back.

His mind registered a movement to the left. He froze and stared hard in that direction--it was a piece of paper blown by the howling wind. Bolan took two more steps forward and stopped, his combat instincts flaring.

He turned slightly to look behind him. Had the corpse with the hunting rifle moved? Something was different, had changed or moved since he had entered the observatory. He took another couple of steps forward, now almost clear of the corner of the building. The alarm was still ringing in his head as he scanned the area once more. There were the two Other bodies from the charge he had carried out with the SEALS when they had first landed. They appeared to have remained where they'd fallen. Nothing Seemed to be disturbed or out of place. He kept going, trying to keep his breathing regular and even. The weight on his shoulders was beginning to sap his strength, and he knew he was once again losing blood from his wound.

Maybe it was altitude sickness that was setting off the bell in his head, though he doubted it.

He had been in worse shape than this, and his sixth sense had never been wrong before. He cautiously took another couple of steps that cleared him of the shadow of the building. Out of the shelter of the structure, the wind hit with the force of a tornado almost toppling him with the load on his shoulder. He turned in a circle to take in the entire sector--still nothing.

The howling of the wind obscured all sounds except for the clatter of the parked chopper as it was buffeted by the gusts.

Out of the corner of his eye something roared across his line of sight. He swung to face it, but the object was only a half-filled garbage bag being carried along the windswept ground.

Suddenly his mind locked on to what was causing the warning. He swung around and fired two rounds into the corpse with the rifle, and as he did the dead man with the shotgun came to life and raised the scattergun.

Bolan was ready for him and had shifted target before the not-so-dead body could move. His mind had been warning him that the wrong weapons were with the wrong cadavers.

One of the two had switched the rifle for the shotgun to wait in ambush for the warrior when he exited the observatory. The Beretta banged out the last two rounds in the mag and tore the back of the man's head off.

Bolan leathered the weapon and started to run toward the chopper. The pilot was manning the M-60 and swung the machine gun in his direction. To the warrior's consternation he opened fire, but he immediately realized that the man was firing past him at some target in the dark to his rear.

The Executioner placed the wounded technician in the rear of the Black Hawk on a folding litter the pilot pulled out. He then climbed into the compartment and dropped into one of the jump seats. He was totally winded and couldn't speak, just gasping for air as he watched the pilot undo the impromptu tourniquet on the wounded man. The pilot spoke quickly while he worked.

"Saw one of them poke his head around the building during your run. SEALS have secured most of the area except for the zone around the computer installation. There is more resistance there, but the Army has the scientists safe inside." Bolan was still breathing hard as the pilot pulled open his shirt and began to change the dressing on the warrior's inflamed abdomen. Bolan tried to speak between breaths and the shots of pain as the pilot worked.

"The woman. Where?" "She's with the SEALS at the computer building.

Something about a mad scientist." The Executioner began to reload the Beretta's clip with the 9 mm cartridges from one of the MP-5 submachine guns, then asked the pilot for a briefing on the rest of the situation.

"The armor boys have the main road cleared, as well as the far end of the compound. They've found a couple more of the assault force. Said it's probably the guys who hit the M-113's." The pilot stopped as if to ponder the next piece of Intel he was going to pass on. Bolan waited for the man to speak.

"two men were dead when they found them. Their faces mutilated, same as the bodies at the trucks.

You've lost a lot of blood. You'd better rest." The Executioner had no intention of resting, and unlike the pilot he wasn't mystified by the mutilated corpses. Schneider had his reasons for wanting to leave behind unrecognizable bodies.

The Taiwanese would suspect Schneider of the massive theft of their money. But as long as there were big Caucasian men left unidentified after the battle, they could never be sure that Schneider hadn't died during the raid. The German would have to lie low for a couple of years, but eventually they would come to believe he was dead. The mob would then turn on the only other possible source of a double cross --the politicians on their payroll. A war between the corrupt Taiwanese politicians and the arms mob would ensue, and the only winner left would be Schneider. He would then come out of hiding to fulfill his lust for power. He would have the money and the power to take over the illegal arms trade in Asia, and no one would be able to stop him. Bolan had to stop him first.

"I want you to get on the radio and get me some more info." Bolan then briefed the pilot on what he wanted to know and started to climb out of the Black Hawk. As he was stepping down, something occurred to him.

"You were hit earlier. Will this bird still fly?" "Affirmative, although the shot cut one of the fuel lines as I was coming in. I lost a tank of high octane so my range is limited. The other Black Hawk is on its way after its medevac run. ETA thirty minutes." Bolan stopped to think for a moment, then once again gave orders to the flyer.

"Leave the wounded for the other chopper. Be ready for a run to the south coast in about fifteen minutes." The pilot had learned from the standoff with the army at the ambush site that there was no point in arguing with the man.

"Affirmative." The Executioner stepped away from the helicopter and began to run in the direction of the computer center.

The pilot watched him go and wondered how any man could keep going like that with a gaping hole in his side.

The SEALS had set up a perimeter at a building near the entrance to the computer center, and the Army was covering the computer structure itself. In between was a no-man's-land littered with the bodies of men who had tried to cross it. Bolan stepped in beside the SEAL team leader, who was using a long thin board as a cane. The young Asian woman was just in front, and she had one of the big.45 Colts nestled in her lap.

"They've got a cross fire set up between here and that building. They're up in those two observatories and have command of the entire area. Best we can figure, there's only one with an automatic weapon." Bolan heard the leader's report while assessing the area himself. They were pinned down, and only a concerted effort would break the stalemate. The SEAL spoke again.

"The soldiers have a problem behind them, as well.

A couple of the scientists have been screaming that it's a Yankee plot and have locked themselves into one of the control rooms." The Executioner nodded. How convenient it was for Schneider's man to pull that one. While he did his dirty work on the computers, he would blame the U.s., and later the Taiwanese would be in Washington demanding the money back. The man had to be taken alive. If the transfer from the bank in Hong Kong was made and the Chinese scientist walked away, the U.s. government would be held responsible. There was only one way to do this. They couldn't simply shut off the power, because there was certainly some kind of backup system in the place.

They couldn't storm the installation, because if even one of the dozens of scientists was killed, it would lead to an international incident. The woman was the only answer.

"I've got to get the woman inside of the building." "Affirmative." Bolan helped Cherie to her feet. All hell was going to break out, and she was going to be glued to him whether she liked it or not.

Cherie understood what was about to happen. She tucked the big automatic handgun under her arm and waited for the warrior's signal.

The SEALS charged ahead as did the soldiers.

They opened fire with everything they had as the Executioner and the woman raced between the two ranks of U.s. fighters. Some fell, while the others continued to pour heavy fire into the two domed buildings. Bolan and Cherie crashed through the door to the computer complex. They were greeted by a hail of gunfire from the hardmen. The SEALS and soldiers withdrew to the protection of the buildings as they prepared to execute a flanking maneuver against the enemy positions. It had cost two men their lives and had left four wounded for Bolan and Cherie to cross fifty yards of ground.

The barrage was unending as the Army and naval forces started their assault on the observatories.

An IFV Bradley from the armored troop on the Saddle Road had arrived to support the attack.

The 25 mm Hughes chain gun cut loose, and would soon end any resistance in the area.

The equipment in the astranomical installations would suffer but could be replaced. The lives of men could not.

Bolan heard the tearing sound of the chain gun again and knew the battle was about to end. He and the woman were escorted down a passageway toward the heart of the computer complex. At the end of a corridor they were greeted by an Army lieutenant and given the lowdown on the situation.

"There are five scientists holed up in control-room two. Three more want to come out in control-room one, but for some reason won't pass control-room two to do it. We might have another mercenary in there, but we have no verification." Cherie listened, then asked the young officer where the two Chinese scientists were. The reply was that one occupied each control room. She asked if there was another control room in the facility. The answer was that there were two more. Bolan stepped in and asked for them to be taken to one of the control centers. The officer hesitated, not used to taking orders from a civilian, but when he saw the bloodstain on Bolan's side, he decided he had better listen to the big man.

"Follow me." The lieutenant led the way through a large, open computer-operations area and took them through a doorway into a climate-controlled room. There was a terminal connected to the mainframe computer that controlled the Keck telescope and was connected by modern to most of the major databases in the world. Cherie took the chair and turned on the terminal.

She waited for the computer to ask her to log in, then typed a series of numbers. It asked for a password, and she typed her own name. Her brother had always used her name as a password because he believed it brought him good luck. The screen blanked and brought up a series of commands. She began to type. There was a scream, then a shot in the other control area of the computer center. Bolan and the lieutenant were out and around the corner just in time to see the door to control-room two open and the scientists run out.

There was a second shot, and a squad of soldiers who had been guarding the control-room doorway charged. The M-16's fired bursts, then there was silence.

The squad lieutenant rushed across the room to find out what had happened. He stepped through the doorway, followed by Bolan. A very shaken Chinese scientist was against the wall, being protected by the soldiers. Two other scientists lay on the ground, both dead.

"What the hell happened?" A sergeant stepped forward and saluted the lieutenant.

"Sir. There was a shot so we rushed the door.

I entered the room first, and the Chinese guy had a drop on this one. When he shifted aim to me, I cut loose. The other guy was already dead on the ground when we stormed the room." The lieutenant checked for the pulse of the two men on the floor, then indicated to his men to help the remaining scientist out of the room.

"The one my men killed is Chinese. He killed the one an probably would have killed the other if we hadn't stopped him. There's going to be hell to pay over this." Bolan stooped and picked up the tiny.25-caliber automatic in the hands of the dead Oriental. He slipped out the magazine, which was empty. He pulled back the slide, and there was no cartridge in the chamber. It looked like the gun hadn't been loaded. He smelled it. It had been fired, but the smell of gun oil was strong, as well, so it hadn't been fired much--a shot or two. To the amusement of the remaining soldiers, he searched around the floor and found only one spent casing. He made up his mind.

"Lieutenant, get the other Chinese scientist back in here." The Army officer stepped out the door but he quickly ducked back in, drawing his weapon. A second later they heard a gunshot, then another, which was followed by the rapid fire of the M-16's.

Bolan knew what had happened and yelled at the top of his voice. "Cease fire!" He charged out the door to be greeted by his worst fear.

Cherie was on the floor in a pool of blood, as was the Chinese scientist. The Chinese was dead, his head and chest blown away by the big.45-caliber slugs. Bolan rushed over to the wounded woman and lifted her head off the concrete floor. Cherie was still alive but not for long. She was beyond help. Her lips moved, but her eyes remained shut.

"He was going to get away. I had to. He was going to get away. She took a deep breath, and Bolan could hear a gurgling sound in her lungs.

"Schneider. He sent the money!" The Executioner leaned closer, trying to hear the woman's feeble voice. Again she drew a deep breath, but this time she coughed, and with the cough there was blood.

"My brother's computer. Schneider has my brother's computer." Then she was dead.

Bolan eased her down to the floor, pulled off his fatigue shirt and placed it over her head. Then he stood and walked out of the control area. The warrior kept going until he was down the passage and at the exterior door he had entered. He stopped to catch his breath and to fill his lungs with the fresh mountain air. He looked out to see the SEALS and soldiers rounding up the last of Schneider's troops. The sky was getting lighter.

It would be dawn soon.

The puzzle made sense now. The scenario that the German had engineered was clear. Schneider's Chinese accomplice had killed the scientist, who happened to be in the control room when he transferred the funds. He had then swapped clothes with the other Chinese, thrown him the empty gun and screamed. The soldiers had charged the room and seen the dead body on the floor and the gun in the innocent Oriental's hand, and they had shot him in what they believed was self-defense.

Then Cherie had emerged from the other control room, having discovered they had arrived too late and seen Schneider's man being helped away. She had raised the big Colt she had been given for self-protection and shot the man twice. The soldiers had naturally opened fire and cut her down.

The last thing she said was that her brother's computer was the key, and Schneider was going to use it to unlock the computerized safe to the mob's money. So far Schneider had had it all his way. It was time for him to pay.

The Black Hawk was standing by for Bolan as he prepared to start his hunt for Schneider. The SEALS were finishing their mopping-up operation, and Army medics were attending to the wounded. The whole summit of Mauna Kea was brightening with the cold gray light of predawn, and the wind was abating. The leader had hobbled over and sat on the edge of the chopper's big bay door beside Bolan, who was studying a map.

"I've still got two good men left. They're yours if you want them." Bolan shook his head. The chopper had barely enough fuel for a one-way direct-line flight to the southern end of the island. He had already ordered the pilot to remove anything not attached in order to lighten the load and stretch the range as far as possible. The pilot was just finishing the job by opening and emptying the last of the weapon's lockers. The SEALS liked to use a lot of non-regulation weaponry, and to Bolan's surprise the pilot was taking out a Mcmillan sniper rifle.

"I'll keep that one." He had started his campaign against the Taiwanese mob and Schneider with a Mcmillan, and it looked as if he would end it the same way.

He checked out the deadly weapon and began to load it with big.50caliber cartridges, stuffing extras in his pocket when he was finished. He had already reloaded the Beretta and given it a quick cleaning.

His combat knife was where he liked it, tucked into the small of his back. His side had been bandaged by a medic, and his head had stopped pounding a little. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. A soldier walked over and handed each of the men a cup of scalding coffee. Bolan drank it quickly and indicated he wanted more. His fluid level was down from the bleeding, and the coffee was like adding more fuel to his engine. The hot coffee burned as it went down, but the warmth in his belly was wonderful. The SEAL commander watched the big man prepare for his showdown with the German.

"I checked with HQ, and there's nothing unusual off the south coast, so he's probably meeting a plane somewhere back from the coast." Bolan nodded as he finished the last of his coffee and climbed into the copilot's seat of the helicopter.

The team leader backed away and watched as the aircraft started to crank over. He yelled in Bolan's side window as the engine started to rev up. "Good hunting." He gave the SEAL a thumbs-up as the rotors started to roar and kick up a storm of volcanic dust.

The pilot leaned over to his passenger and indicated that he should put on the headset. Once Bolan had done this the pilot brought him up-to-date.

"Recon thinks they've spotted him on Highway 11, heading toward the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. He's driving one of those big cattle trucks we saw at the camp.

The army and police have the roads blocked off into the park, but there are dozens of dead ends and side tracks where the lava has cut the roads.

He could have a plane at a dozen places in that area." The pilot switched over to the radio and acknowledged another transmission. He flipped on his intercom once again.

"The authorities are worried. The park is swarming with tourists, and they don't want a massacre on their hands." Bolan nodded as the pilot increased the throttle and eased the big military helicopter off the mountaintop and pointed it south.

"We'll have to stop or divert him before he gets to the tourist area. Get down lower, and faster." The pilot acknowledged the order, then Pointed to one of the fuel gauges. It was low, and the other was empty. we'll be sucking air inside of twenty minutes." Bolan said nothing, so the pilot swooped lower and cranked the Black Hawk up to its maximum speed of 180 miles per hour. The aircraft shook and rattled from the stress on the airframe, but they were heading south and should spot the truck in about ten minutes.

As the aircraft descended to a lower altitude, the warrior could feel the oxygen-rich air flooding into his lungs. The pounding in his head was disappearing, and so was his fatigue. The thicker air was like a shot of adrenaline. It felt good, and he was aware that his mind was clearing. The view from the chopper was spectacular. It was Bolan's first real view of the battle area and the Saddle Road. The Anvil, they called it. It was desolate, rocky and filled with cactus and scrub. It looked as isolated and empty as some of the desert in the Middle East.

The road twisted and turned as it wound its way south. There was no way Schneider was making a quick getaway on those switchbacks and blind corners, especially in a big, cumbersome cattle truck.

Then his keen eyesight spotted it, about five miles ahead. He switched on the intercom.

"I see the truck up ahead. Swing left and come in from the east with the sun at our back." "Affirmative." The pilot threw the aircraft into a wide arc to the east, slowing as he went. Bolan climbed out of the copilot's seat and stepped into the cargo compartment.

He snapped a tether around himself and slid open the big door. With the rifle in hand he snapped into the position usually occupied by the M-60 gunner. The Executioner Pulled the weapon up to his shoulder and peered down the sights. He would have to trust the scope setup on the rifle; there had been no time to calibrate the rifle before they left the ground.

There didn't seem to be anyone in or around the vehicle. He searched the area with the scope, sector by sector. They were close enough now that they could expect Schneider to open fire, but there was none.

The chopper continued to Sweep in closer while Bolan reconned the area with the scope. Then in the distance he saw a smudge of smoke or dust. After another quick sweep with the scope he saw a faint line of tire tracks. Schneider had switched to a motorcycle.

Bolan aimed and fired a slug into the front tire of the truck. There was no way he was going to have the German circle around back to the truck, especially with the chopper almost out of fuel. He grabbed a headset from the bulkhead and spoke to the pilot.

"He's taken off on a motorcycle on a track. You can see the dust cloud at three o'clock." The pilot swung the chopper back in line and gunned the aircraft toward the racing dirt bike. He checked his gauges.

"You've got seven, maybe eight minutes at the most to bring him down. After that I'll have to set this old bird on the rocks." "Roger." Bolan watched as the chopper quickly started to catch up to the struggling motorcycle. He could see that Schneider was following a hunting trail and was making fairly good time as he climbed up a ridge ahead. There was the stench of sulfur in the air, and smoke billowed from behind the volcanic cones that formed the boundary of Volcanoes National Park. The German was heading directly for the park, but the Black Hawk would catch up to him just before he got there.

The Executioner raised the sniper rifle to his shoulder. At that speed he wouldn't be able to get a shot off. There was too much wind and turbulence. He could see the bike in the scope. It was Schneider.

He was still wearing his Russian-style fatigues and had an AKS-74 strapped to his back. He also had a covered holster--for the Colt Python, no doubt. The bike was bucking and diving all over the trail as Schneider expertly maneuvered the vehicle through the rocky volcanic terrain.

The Black Hawk was almost abreast of the bike, and the pilot slowed to match the German's speed.

Bolan leaned Out Of the chopper with the rifle at his shoulder. He had to fight the slipstream to keep the weapon on target. The helicopter was bouncing in the more turbulent air as they ran into the updrafts around the ridge. Patiently Bolan took aim, slowed his breathing and squeezed the trigger. He missed.

He had misgauged the lead he had to take on the target. He prepared to fire again. The pilot inched the helicopter closer to the charging motorcycle.

Bolan sighted, had target acquisition and once again gently Pulled back on the trigger. The big.50-caliber slug hit the rock just behind where Schneider's head had been. The trail had dipped, and the big mercenary had dropped out of the line of fire at the last moment. The German quickly glanced in the Executioner's direction and grinned as the motorcycle pounded along the trail.

Bolan pulled back the bolt again and slammed it forward, loading the cartridge in the rifle's magazine into the breech. The pilot cut in on the intercom.

"You've got less than a minute. The fuel flow is already intermittent." The Executioner ignored him as the chopper crabbed sideways and got in behind the escaping machine.

Bolan had a wider target, but the buffeting from the wind blasting in the open door had increased. He sighted the weapon again. This time his target was square in the middle of the German's back. The chopper's turbines began to unwind. The aircraft had run out of fuel and would settle down any second now.

The Executioner concentrated. He had this man in his sights twice before. This time he wouldn't miss.

The helicopter began to slew sideways as the pilot fought to keep it under control. He had started to send out a Mayday and their approximate position.

Bolan shut out all the distractions. He tracked the receding motorcycle with the scope, and just as he felt the chopper start to spin he acquired his target as it hit a little flat spot. He pulled the trigger. The big-bore gun boomed out as the chopper turned and slammed into the ground. Just as the shot was fired Bolan saw that the projectile had hit home. The bike wobbled, then twisted to the ground.

At that moment the helicopter pancaked into the brush.

SCHNEIDER moved his hands and feet to make sure nothing was broken. They seemed to be fine, but there was a vicious pain in his ribs when he tried to roll over and sit up. He forced himself up despite the agony. The motorcycle was a few feet away, the front forks bent and the chain gone.

It was useless. He looked around for his AKS and saw it as a twisted mass of metal back on the trail. The bullet fired from the chopper had to have clipped the metal of the weapon and deflected into the rocks. The pain in his back would be from the impact of the slug when it struck the subgun. He still had the Colt Python and a few extra rounds in his pocket.

He searched the sky for the American helicopter, but it was nowhere to be seen, nor was the man with the rifle, the same man he had seen at the ramshackle old hotel. Schneider knew he was being hunted, but the thought didn't bother him. In a twisted way he enjoyed it. He was supremely self-confident in his martial ability. He had never been beaten in a fight, and as far as he was concerned he never would be.

He got to his feet. The pain in his back and ribs was excruciating, but he would only be badly bruised. His breathing was normal, so he hadn't punctured a lung. The rest of his body was covered with scrapes and bruises, but nothing that bothered a veteran fighter like himself.

He checked the inside pocket of his shirt for the computer disk. He had transferred all the banking information onto two floppy disks. One he had with him, and the other he had mailed to a general delivery box in Hilo. It was a backup just in case something happened to the one in hand. In eighteen hours he would have moved all the money once again, and the mailed disk would be useless. The trail for the mob and the government would be cold in less than a day.

He checked his revolver while he waited for his senses to stabalize. The shot and the impact of hitting the ground had shaken him more than he had first realized. The landing strip wasn't far off, a hike of five or six miles, but he needed to get his bearings. He slowly walked up to a nearby volcanic outcrop and looked around. There, about a thousand yards away, was the chopper. She hadn't just landed, she had crashed. Schneider, still somewhat groggy, was bewildered at what had brought the big aircraft down.

There was a bang, and he was knocked down with searing pain in his shoulder. He had been winged by a booming shot from a big-bore weapon.

He scrambled to his feet and started up the trail toward the volcano and the landing strip at a jog. He wrapped a piece of his shirt around the wound as he ran. He had a good lead, but that rifle had a long reach. He would have to find a way to ambush his hunter, or that powerful weapon would stop the plane before it got off the ground.

Bolan knew that the sniper rifle was undependable after being slammed into the ground when the chopper crashed. The sights were completely unreliable now, but he did have five rounds and something that could reach out at long range for Schneider. The German had survived the last shot from the chopper and the tumble on the bike. Bolan was sure he had drilled him right in the back--he had been limping and looked like he was in pain. The warrior had taken the shot following the crash more to shake up the German than to hit him. He had been lucky. It wasn't a clean hit, but it looked like the shot had clipped him. It might slow him down.

Bolan leaned into the damaged chopper and checked on the injured pilot. He was resting as comfortably as could be expected.

"I'm going after him. Help should be here soon." The pilot raised his hand in acknowledgment. He had struck his head and broken his arm when the Black Hawk crashed. His helmet had helped soften the blow, but he was still in a bad way.

Bolan slipped on a pair of aviation sunglasses to cut the glare of the rising sun and shouldered the big sniper rifle. He checked his position on the map, took one of the hand compasses and a pair of binoculars from the pilot's survival pack and stuffed a chocolate bar into his breast pocket.

"When the chopper arrives tell them that Schneider is heading for the flats around the Cauldron. He probably has a plane up there somewhere or has one coming in. I want a Combat Air Patrol over the area as fast as possible." The pilot was in pain but he was a trained fighter, a seven-year veteran. He knew what had to be done.

"Right. I'll get you a CAP. Get going and good luck. You know, I might even be able to raise the boys on the emergency VHF." Bolan smiled. The man was a real professional.

He struck out with the early-morning sun at his back. The sickly sweet smell of sulfur filled his nose and the billowing clouds of steam and smoke were before him. Schneider was heading for the Cauldron, an area of lava flows, boiling mud pits and streaming blow holes. The flats around the area had been blasted out of rock by the tremendous volcanic pressure inside of Mauna Loa, Hawaii's big volcanic mountain.

Schneider would be moving quickly to cover as much ground as possible. Bolan paced himself to a strong, steady beat. It was the prey that had to run, not the hunter. He headed toward where the German had taken the hit with the sniper rifle. He would pick up the trail from there, then the relentless chase would begin.

He soon reached the rise where Schneider had stood. He stopped and raised the binoculars toward the ridge and spotted Schneider moving up the trail. The man was pushing hard. Bolan looked down at his feet and saw a dried stain on the blackened volcanic stone. Blood. It had dried quickly. The heat of the sun was already warming the ground.

It would be hot soon. He headed toward the trail.

The motorcycle was crumpled off to the side, and the warrior spotted the twisted piece of metal that had been the AKS. Schneider had been lucky once again, but fate was about to catch up with him.

Bolan raised the binoculars to his eyes and settled on the receding figure of Schneider as he struggled toward the top of the ridge. The temptation to take another crack at the German with the sniper rifle had to be ignored. If the scope hadn't been so roughly handled, he could end it all right now.

But with only five cartridges left he would wait for a better opportunity.

He knew that the mercenary could fight, and the big revolver he carried was deadly. For now, he would push him until he revealed his escape route and possibly gave up the computer or disk with the bank-account numbers. For Bolan these were all secondary. Schneider could not, would not be allowed to leave the island. He had killed too many, destroyed the lives of many more. Ending his spree of death and destruction was all that mattered. Stony Man would deal with the computers and the money.

There was an urgency in his step as he picked up the pace in pursuit of his quarry.

Schneider had reached the edge of the ridge. He turned to look back at the trail and saw a figure off in the distance. He had no doubt who it was. The big man had been a curse from the first skirmish in the parking lot of the King Kamehameha Hotel in Kona. He began to frantically think of a way to ambush him. The landscape was barren; there was nowhere close to hide.

He pushed down the other side of the ridge into the ancient crater of the volcano. Somewhere there had to be a place to fight before the plane came in.

Bolan saw Schneider crest the ridge and look back. As he pressed on, his mind reviewed the past few days. There were images of the young woman, of Torrey, of the young soldier who had given him the M-16 to use. His mind let them pass and it moved on to Schneider. He began to search for any piece of information that would tell him what to expect. There would be no surrender.

Schneider wasn't the type of man to give in, nor was Bolan willing to accept anything less than the end of the destruction the German had started.

He continued up the volcanic slope, walking fast, knowing that Schneider had already cleared the ridge and would be descending the other side. The stench of sulfur burned his nostrils, and the billowing of gases could be seen off in the distance, coming from the Cauldron. Bolan crested the ridge on his stomach. Before him was a vision of the fiery abyss, a place like no other, the earthly home of damnation--the place for Schneider's end.

A shot rang out, and a slug struck the black volcanic stone beside his head. Bolan knew that Schneider was close. The Python had good range, but that shot had a lot of power behind it. He was near.

Bolan eased himself lower to the ground as he pulled the big-bore rifle to his shoulder. His side ached, and the bleeding continued unabated. He caught sight of Schneider on the run from a cluster of rocks about two hundred yards off. The Executioner, sighting through the scope, led him a little, then squeezed off a round. A cluster of light volcanic rock exploded and shattered from the impact of the big.50-caliber slug. Schneider had been sprayed by the dust and pebbles but had been missed by four or five inches as he ran.

Bolan slipped another cartridge into the big sniper rifle and got to his feet to continue the hunt. The German had disappeared behind a group of volcanic rocks that skirted a huge boiling mud pit. It was open ground between the crest of the ridge and the rock formation, well within the reach of Schneider's Colt revolver. There was no way to get around to the flank of the position except along the top of the ridge. It would take hours to do that, during which time Schneider would be continuing across the crater toward the Cauldron and safety. The Executioner had no choice. He had to risk the open ground or he would lose Schneider for good.

He slung the big rifle and took out the binoculars. A quick scan of the rock formation revealed nothing. He put the binoculars back in their case and pulled out the Beretta. if he had to fight on the run, the pistol was the weapon. He started to descend into the crater. There was no sign of life: no grass, trees or even cactus marred the bleak gray-and-black landscape. Bolan picked up speed as he reached the bottom of the slope and began to run across the flats toward the rock formation. He zigzagged in an evasive maneuver, but felt a shot singe his forearm. The bullet had cut a neat crease through his clothing and removed the top layer of skin. He had changed direction right at the last moment, otherwise the slug would have caught him in the chest.

The warrior didn't slow, even when he heard the Python bark again. This time he had a sense of where the shot had come from, and he cut loose a 3-round burst from the Beretta. The 9 mm parabellum slugs smashed into the rock near a fissure in the formation. If Schneider had been there, he had retreated. There was no more firing as Bolan reached the safety of the boulders near the mud pit.

The smell was now sickly sweet--sulfur and the stew of mud combined to create an odor that almost knocked Bolan out. The heat was rising from the mud pool, and the sun was hot and intense at this lower altitude. A slight breeze stirred up the fine volcanic dust which scraped at the skin and eyes.

Bolan lifted the binoculars and saw Schneider moving toward the next outcropping at the edge of the Cauldron.

Bolan raised the rifle to his shoulder and squinted down the sights. He tightly closed his eyes as he tried to clear the dust from his vision. He opened them and sighted through the scope once more. There he was. The German was favoring his right side as he ran. Bolan had target acquisition, and he squeezed the trigger. The large-caliber weapon boomed and echoed across the crater, and this time Schneider went down.

The warrior quickly reloaded. He had three rounds left, but he still didn't know if he would have to try to bring down an aircraft, as well.

Then he saw Schneider move just as another figure darted from cover to try to drag the German to the safety of the outcrop. An AK-47 opened up on Bolan's position as Schneider and his rescuer made a run for cover. The German was obviously hurt. The last shot had gotten him in the leg and torn a piece of the muscle off.

Bolan raised the rifle once again and sighted on the man helping the German. A gentle squeeze of the trigger brought the man down. The warrior lifted the binoculars and could see that Schneider was still moving into the rocks, but the other man wouldn't ever get up again. The rifle had removed most of the man's head. Bolan ducked for cover as the AK-47 sought him out. He could hear buzzing in the distance. It could only be what Schneider had fought his way there for--a plane.

The Executioner scanned the sky. There was no sign of backup. The sniper rifle had two rounds left, and Schneider had covering fire, at least for a moment. The plane was on the ground after all. The buzzing was the engine, distorted by the echoes in the crater. The German and his gunman had a little ways to go. The engine was farther off than it had first sounded.

The AK-47 laid down a quick pattern of fire that Bolan knew was intended to keep his head down while the other men were on the move. The warrior was up and running as soon as the firing stopped. There were a few more shots from the assault rifle, but they were ill-timed and badly aimed. Their only purpose was to keep the Executioner from moving closer. By this time Bolan had reached the mercenary he had killed moments earlier.

Bolan did a quick check of the body. No useful ammo or weaponry, but he did have a canteen. He stripped the bottle from the corpse, then sprinted for cover in the rock formation. He opened the container and drank a few swallows of water while he pulled out the binoculars. The two fugitives weren't far ahead. They were nearing the Cauldron itself, which was an open pit of molten lava. The heat could be felt even from Bolan's position some two hundred and fifty yards away.

He saw the small plane, as well, a four-seat single-engine amphibian. Schneider, no doubt, had a ship or boat offshore somewhere, and this was the way out. The plane was idling and had one of the doors open to receive its passengers. The sniper rifle was the only way.

Bolan threw himself into a prone position. He brought the scope up to his eye. He might not be able to stop the plane with two rounds, but at this distance he could stop the two running men. Again he tried to clear his eyes of grit and dust. The wind had picked up a little, creating a small sandstorm that made sighting difficult. He concentrated on his targets.

The mercenary with the AK-47 was running behind Schneider, masking him with his body. Bolan squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked into his shoulder. The mercenary was down and appeared to be finished. The warrior reloaded the weapon and looked through the sights at the fleeing German, who was looking back over his shoulder toward Bolan with an expression of horror etched into his face. Just forty feet remained before he reached the waiting plane, which had revved its engine to make a quick exit.

The aircraft was parked at the edge of the Cauldron, ready to use the updrafts to help lift it into the sky. The breeze was rocking the amphibian roughly, and the pilot was obviously getting nervous. Schneider had almost reached the plane when Bolan shifted target to the pilot and stroked the trigger. The windscreen of the aircraft exploded into a thousand pebbles of glass. The pilot grabbed at Schneider, then kicked him in the face.

The German fell backward to the ground as the plane gunned it down the rough volcanic runway. The pilot quickly lifted his way clear of the dust and stench of the crater.

There was a roar from behind, and Bolan hit the dirt.

He looked up with the Beretta 93-R drawn and saw a Black Hawk soaring over the ridge, fast approaching his position. Two SEALS were manning the M-60's as the chopper flashed by. The warrior stood and pointed toward the now-obscured aircraft.

The Black Hawk banked and tore after the little plane. The cavalry had arrived. A movement seen from the Corner of his eye forced the warrior to dodge to the left. The slash that tore along his leg might have ripped open his abdomen if he hadn't moved.

Bolan rolled away from Schneider's combat knife. The German had managed to hobble and drag his way over to the Executioner's position. While he was occupied with the plane, then the helicopter, the German had made the best of it. The two men, both wounded, rose to their feet and stood face-to-face for the first time. Both held combat knives, and came together like charging bulls, one pushing the other back, followed by a savage attack by the other.

The knives flashed and the fists swung. They were both big, powerful men seasoned in the ways of battle, but Bolan had always led an austere life, while Schneider had a taste for wine and rich food. The difference was telling. The Executioner began to push the German back as they slashed and hacked at each other. He could reach down inside and summon the extra strength he needed, which his discipline and training afforded him. He dealt Schneider a vicious blow with his fist to the side of the head, and the mercenary stumbled backward.

The German pulled his Colt and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Bolan knocked the weapon from his hand with a savage kick. The German lashed out with the knife and caught Bolan moving the wrong way.

The warrior's weapon went flying from his hand into the lava flow of the Cauldron. Schneider positioned himself to thrust at Bolan and drive him into the fiery pit with one last blow, but the warrior stepped aside and the big German almost toppled into the fire.

Bolan, finally a few feet clear of Schneider, pulled the Beretta as the German raised the knife over his head to thrust it through his adversary's heart. The Beretta belched flame before the blow could be launched, the Executioner pumping three rounds into Schneider. The knife swung in the German's hand, as if even in his dying moment he still had enough power to kill.

The body crumpled into a heap at the lip of the Cauldron. Bolan stepped forward, almost waiting for Schneider to spring up once more. This time the mercenary was down for good. He searched the body and found the disk, which he stuffed into his pocket.

He bent to wrap a cloth around his leg and stared at Schneider. The corpse's eyes were open, staring in the direction of the retreating plane. If the German had still been alive, all he would have seen was the return of the victorious Black Hawk.

Bolan turned his back on Schneider and walked toward the approaching aircraft.

The End