Don Pendleton - False Front

Bolan continued to fall, forcing himself to stay calm, not a particularly difficult task for a man who had lived a life such as his. Remaining composed in the face of impending destruction had become second nature to him. He had stared into the dark face of the Grim Reaper many times and each time the man with the sickle had been the one to break eye contact and back down. Bolan had too much experience under his gun belt to be upset now.

To most men, the unopened chute would have been cause for panic. But to the Executioner, a primary canopy malfunction seemed hardly more dangerous than a bee sting.

The irony of dying from something so minor, however, was not lost on Bolan. A small grin broke at the corners of his lips as he was reminded that warriors were still human and that in addition to the extra dangers they faced they were still subject to all the hazards waiting to ensnare the normal man. General George S. Patton, Jr., had been killed in a car wreck. Colonel Rex Applegate had died of complications following an easily treated stroke. Bolan had known warriors who had succumbed to cancer and other terminal diseases. The truth was that warriors sometimes died like warriors. Other times they passed on in ways that seemed more befitting schoolteachers, accountants and stockbrokers.

Bolan spread both arms and legs to slow his fall. What had started out as a HAHO jump would now be turned into a mid-opener at best. He reached up to the harness at his left shoulder as, below, the whitecaps became more distinct. He could even make out several black spots that he assumed to be fishing boats. The island of Mindanao was still at least a mile in the distance.

Tugging the D-ring of the reserve chute, the Executioner glanced upward once more to see the streamer break free and fly off into space. That was the first step in the emergency procedure—to get the failed chute out of the way so it didn’t entangle the emergency canopy. Bolan counted—one…two…three—then saw the second canopy shoot up and out, blossoming into a life-saving orb that suddenly slowed his descent.

The Executioner had remained tranquil throughout the minor emergency. Still, he 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.