Don Pendleton - Doomsday Disciples

The connection was broken. Minh rocked back in his swivel chair, eyes closed in momentary meditation, reflecting on this new and unforeseen development. He briefly wondered if the senator had come in an official capacity, but quickly dismissed the thought. An Easterner, Culp was out of his jurisdiction in California, and he had no law-enforcement powers in any case. He could agitate for an investigation of the Devotees and had probably already done so — but he would never be assigned to lead a raiding party.

No, the unannounced predawn visit was the action of an angry parent, not a federal legislator. If this was an official visit, there would be a squad of FBI agents at the gate with warrants of arrest.

Three men, Tommy Booth had said. Culp would certainly have a driver, and perhaps a bodyguard. They might be armed, but Minh wasn't worried. In any case, they would be outnumbered more than ten to one once inside the walls.

Minh's frown transformed into a smile when his eyes opened again. Despite the inconvenience and surprise of Culp's arrival, it could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. If the law was closing in, a hostage of the senator's stature would be valuable. And when the need passed, there was always the sea.

If it came down to it, the senator was Minh's ticket out, his pass to freedom. That decided, there was no time for second thoughts, no turning back.

Minh was ready when the knocking sounded on his office door, announcing the arrival of his uninvited guests.

"Come in."

Senator Michael Culp was a slim, athletic-looking man in his late forties with dark hair turning iron gray around his temples. Minh had never met him, but he instantly recognized the face from television and the newspaper. Most of the film and photographs had shown a smiling politician, stern on rare occasions, but never as Minh saw him now. Culp was tense and obviously angry as he barged past Tommy Booth into the private office.

Two men in business suits trailed him. One, young and slender, had the look of an attorney or accountant. The other was the largest of the three, clearly a bodyguard. Minh didn't overlook the bulge of a holstered gun under his suit jacket.

Culp stopped in front of Minh's desk, the others hanging back a pace or two. The bodyguard's eyes shifted constantly from Minh to Tommy Booth and back again, never resting in their vigilance.

Minh held out his hand and Culp deliberately ignored it, coming quickly to the point.

"I want to see my daughter, Reverend," he said. His tone made the title of respect sound like a curse word.

Minh smiled obligingly and dropped his hand.

"I believe that can be arranged, Senator. If you will come with me..."

Michael Culp shook his head, a frosty negative.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, "and neither are you, until I speak with Amy."

Minh allowed himself a small sigh and spread his hands in resignation.

"You leave me no choice," he said, tipping a nod to Tommy Booth.

The gesture didn't go unnoticed by Culp's bodyguard. The big man was already turning, opening the single button of his jacket, slipping one hand inside to reach his weapon. Tommy Booth was faster, stepping up and slashing him across the face with an automatic pistol, slicing his cheek open to the bone.

The big man tumbled down unconscious. The startled senator turned to find another pair of gunners in the office doorway, helping Tommy cover the intruders.

Shock registered on the politician's face.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded.

Minh smiled back at him, enjoying his amazement.

"A dilemma, I believe," he said. "And you will accompany me — right now."

Culp was glaring daggers at him.

"My daughter..."

"Will be with us shortly," Minh finished for him. He gestured toward the door as his "elders" stepped aside. "After you, Senator."

Grudgingly, Michael Culp led the way, his remaining companion in tow. Minh brought up the rear, addressing Tommy Booth on his way past, nodding toward the prostrate bodyguard.

"Have him brought to the dock, Tommy. His condition is irrelevant."

They crossed the outer office, gunners flanking the procession, then they heard the muffled sound of automatic fire, sounding like a string of distant firecrackers. Everyone froze, listening. A moment later the stuttering sound repeated and was followed closely by a hollow explosion. Tommy Booth rushed past them toward the door, already shouting orders to his troops.

Minh had a sinking feeling in his stomach, a premonition of disaster that chilled him to the bone.

It was the hour before dawn, the hour when human reflexes grow sluggish as the biological clock winds down and skips a beat. Beyond the control of conscious thought, the phenomenon dates back to man's primitive ancestors, crouching at the mouths of caves, waiting for another night to end. Dawn's approach brought momentary peace to the prehistoric jungles, allowing the humans to drop their guard and sleep.

Times changed, and so did man. The thinking animal progressed a long way. But man's primitive instincts remained, lurking behind the veil of civilized sophistication. Even well-rested warriors felt it — the drowsiness and lethargy preceding sunrise — and it was not by accident that military action was so often timed to coincide with the gray hour before daybreak.

Mack Bolan understood the phenomenon, and used it against his enemies whenever possible. It honed a biological edge on the advantage of surprise.

The Executioner could use any edge available this time.

He was still rigged for night combat, decked out in blacksuit and blackface. The Ingram was replaced by a new head weapon — the deadly M-16/M-203 combination. The assault rifle offered him selective fire, and the 40mm grenade launcher mounted under its barrel provided stunning double-punch capability. The bandoleer of preselected ammunition for the launcher gave Bolan the appearance of a Mexican bandit on a border raid. The military harness housed hand grenades and extra magazines for the autorifle.

He was going in hard, ready to level Minh's palace, bring it down around his ears. This time, the game was for all the marbles.

Gadgets Schwarz had the girl in a safe place, and a flying squad of federal marshals would be waiting at the waterfront warehouse to welcome Minh's boat when it arrived. He would leave the disposition of the crew to them.

All that remained was for Bolan to burn out the viper's nest — crush the serpent's head, right, and make damn sure there was no life left in its slimy carcass.

Search and destroy was the name of the game — this time, every time. He was carrying the fire, a cleansing flame to purge the cannibals.

Scorched earth, yeah.

But it would have to be accomplished with a great degree of caution. At any given time, there were fifty or more members of the Universal Devotees in residence at Minh's retreat. None was a soldier, as far as Bolan knew. He would treat them as civilians, unless they proved him wrong and he would leave their cars and handling to those who followed him.

Even as civilians, though, Minh's disciples might complicate the action. Bolan was anticipating panic and confusion once the strike began, and he couldn't guarantee the safety of bystanders, innocent or otherwise.

The Executioner had planted several shaped plastic charges at strategic points along the outer wall. Each charge was fitted with a radio-remote detonation fuse, ready to blow on Bolan's signal. It was a simple but effective backup system, useful for diversionary purposes — or to clear an avenue of retreat if the "elders" cut him off inside the walls.

Mack Bolan was a cautious warrior, all the way. He tried to think of everything, cover all the bases before the battle. Grim experience had taught him that preparation was the frequent dividing line between living warriors and remembered heroes.