Executioner.043.Return.To.Vietnam.1982 by Pendleton Don

Author:Pendleton, Don [Pendleton, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

12

"Excuse me, sir. You're wanted in the communications shed."

The orderly's words cut in on Jack Grimaldi's thoughts, tugging him from his concern. He looked up, having stared down for too long at the coffee grounds in his cup.

"What time is it, guy?"

"0530 hours, Mr. Grimaldi."

The pilot pushed himself to his feet.

"Lead the way," he said. "Let's see what they've got."

He followed the orderly out of the shack that served as an orderly room. They were at the covert American base secreted away in the mountainous plateau region of northeast Thailand near the Laotian border.

Except for the long arm of cleared land that was the crude landing strip, dense jungle wood grew flush to the handful of shacks and hangars that comprised the base.

The Harrier sat on that landing strip now. Waiting, just as Jack Grimaldi was waiting.

Waiting for word from Bolan.

The camp was manned by a rotating crew of twelve U.S. civilians, ex-Special Forces personnel mostly, who still adhered to paramilitary protocol and these days functioned under top-security clearance as employees of the Thai government. They were responsible for conducting clandestine CIA activities in cooperation with the Thais, which generally included supplying aid to the anti-Communist guerrilla forces that operated throughout Southeast Asia.

It was two hours since Grimaldi had dropped Bolan into the jungle. Those hours had dragged by for the pilot like dying snails.

His orders were to sit on his duff out here in the middle of nowhere until Bolan called in with information for an air strike and pickup at the temple site.

Grimaldi had expected to hear from Mack Bolan by now.

The pilot was worried.

He had a feeling in his gut that something was wrong. And that feeling had tied him up tight.

The man now known as John Phoenix was far more to Jack Grimaldi than merely his superior in the Stony Man Farm operation. Hell, yeah. The guy meant a damn sight more.

Mack Bolan was a brother.

A brother-in-arms.

A magnificent soldier and human being who had all of Grimaldi's respect, love, devotion, sticky as those words might have sounded when spoken aloud.

But Grimaldi didn't give a damn. He would have died for him, if the truth were known.

The world needed a few dozen Mack Bolans, what with the shape things were in. But thank God there was at least one of a kind.

Grimaldi walked beside the soldier across the narrow clearing, toward a wood shack that sprouted a tall communications antenna. The sky to the east was brushed with the first warm tints of a new day.

Grimaldi glanced at those rose hues. Who could understand the respect felt by one hellgrounder for another?

Perhaps Grimaldi understood the Executioner better than most. And he had a right to that special understanding. Grimaldi and the big blitz artist had been through plenty since forming their acquaintance during Bolan's Mafia war in the seventies.

Grimaldi thought again of those early encounters between himself and the big guy that some had dubbed Mack the Bastard.

Jack, he'd been at a weird stage in his life then, that's for damn sure.

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