breathed a sigh of relief as he began to steer his way toward the landing site. He had work to do and it was that work to which his mind now turned.
As he floated through the sky, Bolan’s mind floated, as well—back to the telephone conversation he’d had only hours before with Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group at Stony Man Farm. The CIA had intercepted intelligence that a mammoth terrorist strike against the U.S. was imminent. Details as to exactly what, where, how and when were sketchy, but the chatter was that it would make September 11, 2001 seem like little more than a firecracker. What was clear was the “who.” Candido “Candy” Subing and his terrorist group, the Liberty Tigers of the Philippines, were planning the attack. A Filipino Moro-Muslim terrorist organization, the Tigers, as they were commonly called, had achieved notoriety during the past year by kidnapping six American missionaries. Just the day before, the major news networks had all received a videotape of Subing brutally murdering one of the hostages. An edited version had been aired throughout most of the world. Al-Jazeera, of course, had shown the entire gruesome ordeal.
The waves and fishing boats below him, and even the land in the distance, became more distinct as the Executioner sailed to the ground. At the same time, other distinctions filled his mind. First and foremost was the fact that much of the intelligence the CIA had about Candy Subing and his Tigers didn’t quite add up. Even before intercepting the intelligence from the CIA, Stony Man Farm had been monitoring the progress of a Filipino military force tasked with locating the hostages. But their attempt appeared halfhearted at best and so far their search had been unsuccessful.
Yes, Bolan thought, Candy Subing was a nasty little terrorist. But was he capable of any kind of major strike at the U.S.? Doubtful. The Liberty Tigers were simply too small and too limited financially to pull off such a thing. In the Executioner’s estimation the group simply didn’t have what it would take to carry out a large-scale strike on other side of the world. At least not without help. And there had been no mention of any of the other terrorist groups teaming up with them.
Finally over land, Bolan worked the toggles, steering the canopy. The failed primary chute had thrown him slightly off course, but not enough to worry him. He was still several miles north of Zamboanga, the southwestmost city on the island of Mindanao. He might not come down exactly where his ride was supposed to be waiting, but as long as he landed reasonably close, the men would easily spot him. If not, all Bolan needed to do was to make his way to the nearby main—and only—road that followed the coastline. His pickup would have no choice but to drive on it even if he gave up on finding him.
Bolan’s mind turned back to the captive missionaries. While their location was still a mystery, the CIA had finally learned that Subing himself slipped in and out of a small village near Zamboanga to visit his uncle. They had notified the President that they were about to send in a team of covert operatives who would do their best to take the Tigers’s leader alive, then pump him for information concerning both the hostages and the strike planned for America. If live capture proved impossible, Subing would be assassinated with the hope that the strike in the U.S. would end before it got off the ground.
Bolan shook his head as he dropped closer to the trees. The CIA plan had far too many ifs, ands and ors to suit the President. The Man in the White House had contacted Stony Man Farm and specifically told Brognola who he wanted on the job: the best. Mack Bolan. And he had ordered the CIA director to have only one agent link up with the Executioner—who would be going by the name Matt Cooper. The President had also made it clear who would be in charge, and it wasn’t the CIA.
Bolan looked down on the coastal area of Mindanao. Unless he was mistaken, he could see some kind of vehicle parked to the side of the road. A figure was getting out of the driver’s side and it looked as if he was wearing a hat.
THE MAN IN THE BATTERED straw cowboy hat pulled the Jeep Cherokee off the pitted asphalt, killed the engine and turned to face the thick foliage that paralleled the road. He reached into one of the pockets of his khaki cargo shorts and pulled out a round tin of chewing tobacco. Dropping a pinch of the finely cut substance under his bottom lip, he thought of mouth cancer for a moment, then pushed the troublesome possibility from his mind. Tapping the lid back into place, he returned the tin to his pocket.
Charlie Latham stared at the sky, watching the black speck he’d first spotted a few seconds earlier grow larger, finally dividing into two parts. As the dots continued to grow, he was able to discern the outline of both man and parachute. A frown creased his forehead as he sucked on the tobacco. He’d been told the jumper—a man he should call Matt Cooper—would have no trouble finding the clearing across the road. The guy was an expert skydiver.
But as he watched the sky now, Latham had to wonder just how accurate that evaluation had been. Considering the wind direction and the parachutist’s current positioning, it looked as though Cooper would come down at least a mile north of where he was supposed to land. And a glance at his watch made him wonder about the other man who was supposed to meet them here. A CIA agent named Reverte. Where the hell was he?
Latham twisted the key in the Cherokee’s ignition and the engine roared to life. After a quick glance in his rearview mirror, he pulled back onto the pothole-pocked asphalt the people of Mindanao called a highway. He drove slowly; he had plenty of time. Matt Cooper wouldn’t find his feet on solid ground for a good ten minutes or so.
Topping a rise, Latham saw another break in the trees, twenty yards off the road. A glance upward told him Cooper was maneuvering toward that spot to land. Latham lost sight of the clearing as the road dipped down but when he reached a point he guessed was directly across from it he pulled off the road and killed the engine again.
Latham glanced once more into the rearview mirror, this time to lift the weathered straw hat off his head. The leather sweat band came up off his scalp and he felt a quick rush of cool breeze roll over his closely cropped hair. It was a nice relief from the sultry Filipino heat and he almost dropped the hat onto the seat beside him. But the sun would beat down on his face and neck if he did, and besides, he was from Texas. The only time he’d ever felt right without a hat was when he wore a helmet. Football in high school. Then U.S. Army until a year or so ago.
Settling the hat back onto his head with a sigh, Latham reached into the back seat and grabbed a rusty two-dollar machete. He got out of the Jeep, crossed the road into the semi-thick vines of the coastal secondary jungle and lifted the long blade over his head.
A thin trickle of sweat ran down his cheek as he began slicing a path toward the clearing. The jungle canopy blocked his view of the sky, but he knew Cooper had to be nearing the site. It was the only open landing zone in the immediate area.
By the time he had cut himself into the clearing, Cooper was clearly visible in the sky. Latham was surprised to see that the chute beneath which the big man drifted was smaller than he would have expected for such a jump. In addition to the usual parachute gear, Cooper wore a huge backpack. Other equipment carriers were belted around his waist and strapped to his shoulders. Almost as quickly as his brain registered these details Latham was able to answer his earlier question as to why the man was so far off course. No, it wasn’t due to a lack of expertise as he had originally guessed. In fact it appeared that Cooper might be even beyond expert. At least the man knew how to keep his head in the face of danger. His main chute hadn’t opened and he was landing with the small reserve canopy. That was what had thrown him off course. He was loaded down like a pack mule and, considering the tricky winds through which he’d just come, the fact that he’d even survived with the small reserve chute gave him master-jumper status as far as Latham was concerned.
The Texan stepped out of the trees into the clearing and let the machete hang at the end of his arm. He suspected Cooper could see him by now. Even if he couldn’t, the big American would know someone was down here waiting for him by the sunlight shining off the large silver belt buckle that held up Latham’s shorts. As he continued
