plastic bag Ace is carrying and soak it overnight. If Rude and I are not back by morning, that and the other half of the peanut butter are breakfast and dinner. If we’re still not back, you soak bag number three and continue to head due west.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“You will not engage the enemy unless you are attacked. Escape and evade. If you come across a village, do not make contact. They may be hostile. Even if they aren’t, if they take you in, it could be a death sentence for them. Mark the position on the map and continue on.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Bolan handed Johnson one of the collected cell phones and five batteries. “I’ve put two presets at the top of the contact list. Number one is SARGE and number two is BEAR. Do not call out unless you’re being attacked or run into unforeseen difficulties. If I am not back by tomorrow, call preset SARGE. If I do not respond, call preset BEAR. Do not answer any incoming calls unless the Caller ID says SARGE or BEAR. If you receive a call from BEAR at any time and I’m not here, you do anything and everything the Bear tells you. Got it?”
“Copy that, Sarge.”
“You may hear gunfire. You’ll probably see smoke. Remember the enemy likes to spray and pray. Single shots are probably me or Rude.” Bolan looked into the earnest young cadet’s face and saw doubt and fear. It was Johnson’s first command, at age seventeen, in the jungles of Africa. “Hammer?”
“Sarge?”
Bolan knew from long experience that there was something about cold steel that braced backbones. “Have the men fix bayonets.”
Johnson snapped his steel in place. “Yes, Sergeant!” The cadet frowned. “How are you going to catch up?”
“You’ll be cutting the trail for us, Hammer.”
“But won’t the enemy find it, too?”
“Hammer, I’m counting on it.”
Johnson grinned. “Copy that!”
Bolan clapped Johnson on the shoulder. “You have your orders, Squad Leader. Inform the team and get them moving. I will rendezvous within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Johnson jogged back to the group. “Niner Squad! On me!”
Bolan turned to Rudipu as Johnson shouted in a decent imitation of a drill sergeant. “Fix bayonets!”
Bolan spoke quietly over steel clicking in place. “Rude, you’re with me.”
“Where’re we going, Sarge?”
“To check on Flight Officer Llewellyn.”
Rudipu considered that. “Really?”
“What, you don’t want to see his big send-off?”
“Of…course I do, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
“Sarge?”
“Yeah?”
“What does that mean?”
“You and I are a sniper-scout team,” Bolan replied. “We’re going to go establish the position of the enemy.”
“Oh, shit!”
“You with me, Rude? You can say no and I’ll get somebody else, but I’m still thinking you’re the best shot in Niner Squad. I’ll do the heavy lifting on this one, but every sniper team needs a spotter and a backup shooter.”
“Sarge? I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a sniper.”
“Enlighten me,” Bolan said.
“I mean, I love shooting, but I’m with Shelby.”
“Who?” Bolan asked.
Rudipu grinned. “I mean, Snake, Sergeant. She and I are both Air Force academy cadets. I want jets.”
“I noticed you want Miss von Kwakkenbos, too, Rude. Noticed you noticing someone cut off the top three buttons of her blouse with a machete whenever you thought no one is watching.”
Rudipu flushed scarlet, but he salvaged some dignity. “Well, I do like blondes, Sarge.”
“Who doesn’t?” Bolan liked the cadet’s attitude. “So does the enemy, and you do know what they’re going to do to her if they catch her?”
Rude looked down unhappily. “Yeah.”
“What they’ll do to Snake?”
“Yeah.”
“What they’ll do to you?”
“Sarge!” Rudipu was appalled.
“Rude, this isn’t quite the Ninth Circle of Hell, but you can see it from here. There are predators in these woods, four-legged and otherwise. And around here, someone like you is considered a light snack. You understand?”
The diminutive cadet looked down glumly. “Yeah.”
“But you have an advantage, Rude. Do you know what that is?”
Rudipu raised his Dragunov. “Precision rifle-fire?”
“That’s right, Rude. Precision rifle-fire.”
The cadet took a deep breath. “You’re right, Sarge. It’s time to cowboy up.”
“Time to marksman up, Rude.” Bolan turned and broke into a light jog. “Try to keep up.”
OBUA POINTED AT THE GLADE. “They have buried another one of their dead, Caesar.”
“The wounded one?” Segawa asked. “The copilot?”
“That would be my guess.” Obua nodded in obeisance to Caesar’s consort. “Mama Waldi.”
The woman was six feet tall. Though she had the breasts and hips of a fertility goddess, her limbs and waist stretched out like those of a famine victim. Her matted dreadlocks fell to her tailbone. Amulets and fetishes mounded her neck and shoulders. She carried a butcher knife on her belt, and in her hands she carried a hunga munga. The African throwing weapon looked like a cross between a hand sickle, a hatchet and a scythe, with a couple of extra knife blades for added effect. It was a weapon that Mama Waldi always sharpened but never cleaned. The edges of the pitted blades gleamed out of the dried gore caking them like quicksilver. Obua had seen Mama Waldi take off a fleeing man’s leg just below the knee with one throw. The woman had the flat black eyes of a shark, and she had filed her teeth to points to match. “I want ’em bones, Brother Obua, and all the brethren shall partake of the white bread of his flesh.”
Obua licked his lips. It had been some time since he had eaten the long pig done right. The pilot had been crucified and burned with gasoline. It had made his poor flesh a tough and acrid meal. Obua thought about the copilot
