Don Pendleton - Blood Tide

Kurtzman blinked. “Really?”

“I had to brain him like an ox to bring him down.” Bolan shrugged at the X26 slaved to the side of his carbine. “I need more wattage.”

“I find that hard to believe, Striker. The X26 is the latest in EMD technology. With the old M26, each of its eighteen pulses per second had to break through the resistance of the subject’s clothing and skin. Every jolt had to push its way in.” Kurtzman warmed up as the talk turned technical. “Now, the X26? It’s a brilliant piece of engineering. Rather than every pulse having to batter its way into the subject, it uses part of its charge to maintain the electrical opening. Holding the door open, so to speak. That lets nearly every single one of its pulses hit at full strength. It’s been tested on SWAT officers, Special Forces operators and trained martial artists. They all go down. You sure you had a good connection?”

“The kid was sixteen, half-naked, took both probes in the chest and he was still salty,” Bolan replied.

“Well, blood tests on the prisoner tested positive for some very powerful hashish, but even if he was high on PCP, the—”

“He was high on God, Bear.”

Kurtzman’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“Take two professional wrestlers,” Bolan suggested. “Lock them in a cell, and toss in the key. One’s high on drugs. One’s high on God. You tell me. Who’s walking out?”

Kurtzman answered immediately. The team from Stony Man Farm had dealt with fanatics before. “I’m betting on the guy with God on his side.”

“Right.” Bolan looked at Kurtzman pointedly. “And punky and his pals were high on both.”

Kurtzman conceded with a sigh. “I’ll tell the Cowboy you want more wattage.”

“Thank you.” Bolan considered his young opponent. “What information do we have on the prisoner?”

“We caught some luck there. Most of the bodies were unidentifiable, but your POW’s fingerprints were on file with the Philippine National Police. The young man’s name is Ali Mohammed Apilado, formerly Arturo Florio Apilado.”

Bolan raised an eyebrow. “He converted?”

“That’s right. Arturo was born on the southern island of Mindanao, but his parents were Christians. They were migrant field workers who moved to the city to get factory work in the textile mills. From the ages of twelve to fifteen, Arturo was involved in petty crime on the street. He was arrested for theft and assault and spent a year in jail. While he was inside, he converted to Islam and changed his name. When he was released, he disappeared without a trace. No one had seen him until he turned up on your yacht last night collecting for the Red Cross.”

“Interesting.”

Kurtzman snorted. “How so?”

An idea began forming in Bolan’s mind. Religious fanatics born and raised were bad enough. Converted fanatics were worse. The born again of all religions hurled themselves into their new purpose with utter devotion, whatever that purpose might be.

Including slaughtering innocents with suicidal abandon.

Bolan nodded as his thoughts continued. The flip side of that coin was that the converted, unlike those raised in their religions, were often just as susceptible to deprogramming.

The Bear watched the wheels turn behind Bolan’s eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“Where’s Arturo now?”

“Philippine Military Intelligence has him about two blocks from your position. They play rough, Striker. I don’t envy him. I suspect the beatings started this morning and haven’t stopped.”

“The kid’s tough.”

Kurtzman’s eyes narrowed. “Somehow I see the good cop-bad cop routine shaping up nicely.”

“Yeah, but I’m still a blue-eyed devil, and I need more than a successful interrogation.”

“What are you saying, Striker?”

“I’m saying someone needs to have a ‘Come to Jesus’ with that boy.”

Kurtzman snorted. “You mean a ‘Come to Mohammed,’ but I can have the CIA fly in a psychological warfare team from Langley and—”

Bolan cut in. “Send me Pol.”

Orani

THE SUN WAS SETTING behind Bolan and Marcie Mei. The restaurant was made up of four bamboo poles with a thatched roof. The kitchen consisted of three converted fuel drums that were sending barbecue smoke to the sky. The dining area was the beach. The couple sat outside at a table with the tide lapping at their bare feet and the legs of their table and chairs. They drank beer and ate spareribs smothered in ginger-plum sauce as the lights of Manila began winking on like stars across Manila Bay.

Bolan took a long pull on his San Miguel. Marcie gnawed on the bones of her meal as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Her irrepressible smile flashed around the rib. “High metabolism.”

Bolan smiled. Marcie’s tiny frame was clad in a sarong and a bikini top. Plum sauce smeared her chin. She looked good enough to eat, bones and all.

Mei read Bolan’s look and her smile threatened to reach her ears.

Bolan took another swig, acknowledging that the chemistry was occurring, but kept his mind on business. “What have you found out on your end?”

For once, Mei actually stopped smiling. “Nothing good. You noticed that when those guys thought they had us with our pants down they laid their guns aside and went with the cleavers?”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

Mei wiped her hands and stared at them reflectively. “I’m Catholic, myself, but I’ve had to impersonate a Muslim many times in the field. I’ve read the Koran. I know it pretty well.”

“And?”

“The Prophet Mohammed makes many exhortations to his followers. One goes, ‘Oh, True Believers, wage war against such of the infidels as are near you.’”

Bolan nodded. “I’ve heard it.”

“I’m sure, but that one was heard a lot in the preceding centuries here in the Philippines. Usually right alongside this one. ‘When ye encounter the unbelievers, strike off their heads until ye have made a great slaughter among them.’”

Bolan sighed. It sounded a lot like what was happening in the Asian shipping lanes, and he’d been thinking along the same lines, himself. “You’re talking about the juramentado.”

Mei nodded.

Bolan had done some research of his own. By some accounts ‘running juramentado’ had begun on the Philippine Island of Jolo during Spanish occupation in the 1800s. It was a religious rite among the Philippine Muslims, bound with the act of waging jihad, or Holy War, against the Christian invaders. Young Moro men would seek permission from the Sultan to run juramentado and swear oaths upon the Koran. They would then whip themselves into religious frenzy and attack Christians, singly or in groups, with bladed weapons. They fought with absolute disregard for death, killing until they, themselves, were killed. They believed with total conviction that their bravery and sacrifice would win them great renown and reward in the afterlife, with the added benefit that every Christian they killed followed them to Paradise as their personal slave.

The Moros had used the act of running juramentado against the Spanish colonizers, the American occupiers and the Japanese invaders throughout the region.

“You think these guys fit the bill?” Bolan asked.

“If they weren’t running juramentado, they were sure as hell running a damn close copy. The white turbans are a historical match, and they’d all shaved their bodies and cut their hair short. That was supposed to make them appear more pleasing to God.” Mei held up a file. “What’s most interesting was the physical prep work.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was hard to notice while we were fighting and breathing our own CS, but each of the pirates was wearing a tight waist-supporting band, like a weightlifter’s belt, and had woven hemp cords tied around their elbows and knees. The CIA forensics team believes the waistband would obviously help someone who’d been wounded in the torso to keep fighting. The arm and leg bindings they’re not so sure about, call it acupressure or something. Every one of them had also tightly bound their genitals with cords. That raised some eyebrows, but you and I saw the effect the other night. If we didn’t blow out their hearts or blow off their heads, those guys kept coming. You add hash and fanatical conviction…” Mei trailed off grimly.