right — but soldiers still, and they had trained in the same classrooms as Mack Bolan, had survived the same hazards of combat. And it was not contempt for the enemy which provided Bolan with confidence enough to successfully penetrate; it was a recognition and understanding of the complex mental processes which allow identification.
With that understanding, Bolan had early become a master at what he termed 'role camouflage.' Often he had been totally isolated deep in VC territory, his freedom and survival dependent on wits alone. He had survived many such entrapments. Once he had donned a standard black poncho and an appropriated coolie hat to kneel for hours beside a narrow stream, 'mending' abandoned fishermen's nets in the midst of an occupied village. Somehow, even in such an alien environment, Bolan had always seemed to 'belong' to any scene to which he lent himself.
Variations upon the same theme had served him well throughout his personal war against the Mafia, always to their disaster.
With a bit of luck, this time, renegade soldier James Hinshaw would fare no better from a walk-in visit by Mack Bolan.
His 'tool kit' for that penetration was in reality a mobile munitions lab. And he'd gooped that joint for destruction from end to end, despite the watchful attentiveness of his hosts. Plastics with time-delay fuses were left at a critical Point on the outer wall of the communications hut, tamped to blow inward — hopefully to buckle the wall, drop the building, and topple the mast for the radio antenna. Another application would level the barracks; others were placed for strictly psychological effect.
And that was but one side of the 'knockout' equation. The other side was psy-war all the way. Bolan was hoping to stage a master illusion which would confuse and divide the enemy toward their ultimate destruction. Not just here in Phoenix, but back at the heart of the operation as well.
The 'psy-war' equipment was now being emplaced. And it hurt the warrior's soul to contemplate the loss of such a fine weapon — but then, weapons were expendable. Human freedom and dignity were not.
Head weapon was the slick M2 .50-caliber heavy-barrel machine gun. He set it gently upon the sandy soil of the ridge and threw off the cover. Sixty-six inches of sleek death machine, the M2 was the most lethally impressive weapon in Bolan's mobile arsenal. Tripod-mounted, the heavy gun would deliver at the rate of 650 rounds per minute from a muzzle velocity approaching 3,000 feet per second. No flesh — and few vehicles or buildings — could stand before that withering stream of big steel-jacketed slugs.
And this one came with a difference — one of armorer Bolan's own devices.
He emplaced the big weapon with care, adjusting the tripod legs and sighting-in for maximum effect. Then he locked in the ammo box and fed the disintegrating-link belt into the weapon's receiver. Two steel rods went into the earth, emplaced nine inches to each side — swing-stops, Positioned for a desired 45-degree arc. He rotated the weapon to verify the arc, then completed the sighting, making fine adjustments for range and azimuth.
Finally he affixed the 'difference' — a boxlike device designed to fit over the butt and grips of the M2, a spring-loaded metal tongue meshing with the trigger assembly. A simple timer surmounted the metal box. Bolan consulted his watch, set and wound the timer, and activated it. Psy-war, yeah.
If all went well, those guys would think themselves involved in a very hot freight, precisely 150 minutes from that moment. The planted plastics and the robot gun would do their things together. In the heat and hysteria of the moment, who would know between timed-explosives and another 'rocket attack.'
To complete the stage dressing, Bolan strewed throwaway fiberglass tubes from several expended LAW rockets about the emplacement. Anyone who'd ever handled an M2 would not be fooled for long by the little charade, but Bolan was not going for longs; he would be content with an early confusion among hot tempers and shaken combat instincts.
Somehow, he had to either equalize or destroy the warring factions in this state — and he had to do it damn quick. He was a sitting duck on the desert and he knew it. Plenty of combat stretch, sure, but damn little comfort in the 'withdraw and retreat' department. Any concerted and determined reaction by the police community would be his undoing for sure.
'Damn quick' was the name of the game in more ways than one. He had to cover nearly 200 miles of desert highway between Phoenix and Tucson damn quick. He had to do it in the convincing neighborhood of 150 minutes. And by God he would. He summoned all the horses from the big Toronado power plant and headed for Inter state 10.
The Executioner had to deliver a message.
Not to Garcia, no.
It was a message that only a Mafia boss would understand ... loud and clear.
Chapter 12
Symbols
Nick Bonelli hit the roof, as expected. But the Tucson Mafioso was a cat, adept at landing on his feet and not yet ready to surrender the last of his nine lives. Plans had gone awry before, but the world was still turning, and Nick Bonelli was still around. Sure he was mad — mad as hell — when the soldier boy called from Phoenix with his tale Of twenty dead men and no visible progress. Who wouldn't be mad as hell? But on second thought, after careful reconsideration, Bonelli reed that the setback to his military arm might be a blessing in disguise. It was Nick Bonelli's chance to get in on the action personally.
He had relished that possibility from the start. Oh sure, he had gone along with his son Paul on the Idea that the Phoenix move should be made by an outside force, not readily traceable to the brotherhood. And that soldier, Hinshaw, had been the only Topical choice. Tough. Hard as nails. And smart, too, don't forget that. The boy had brains to spare. 'Combat sense,' Paulie had called it. A good choice, yeah.
But Nick Bonelli missed the action. He secretly longed for the excitement he used to feel in the old days, riding the beer trucks with Tony Morello and the other old boys. Most of them were gone now, one way or another, but Nick was still around. And he needed action.
Besides, he had a personal stake in the Phoenix game plan. It was no mere lust for action that spurred him on now to take personal command of the campaign, but rather a matter of inner necessity. Too much was at stake up north for the capo to just sit back and watch it slip away with a wistful sigh because some soldier boy got caught with his drawers down.
Personal, yeah.
For years — hell, for decades — Bonelli had watched with ill-concealed jealousy and spite as Moe Kaufman and Ike Ruby pulled the strings of power from Phoenix, while he, Nick Bonelli, a brother of the blood, sat on the sidelines and champed his bit. The California bosses, Julian Digeorge and Ben Lucasi, had forged close ties with Kaufman while paying lip service to their alliance with Bonelli and growing rich at his expense on one-sided narcotics deals. Or so Bonelli described it to himself, although each kilo of Mexican brown had fattened his bankroll considerably. Even Augie Marinello, and through him La Commisstone, had smiled upon Kaufman's Phoenix clique when it should have been Bonelli at the helm in Arizona. It was Bonelli's right as a brother of the blood.
Of course, Nick had tried to rectify the uneven situation over the years, peacefully at first and later by force. He had opened a posh nightspot in the heart of downtown Phoenix, seeking thus to establish a beachhead, to drive home a wedge that would pry the town open for full-scale invasion. The results were humiliating. At Kaufman's orders, teams of local police stationed themselves outside Nick's place every night, checking the age of customers and making spot arrests for public drunkenness. Nick wisely withdrew that probe.
Next he tried assassination. Twice, teams of hardmen drove north in search of Kaufman and Ruby, and twice, they disappeared without a trace. Rumors circulated of midnight funerals in the desert. Johnny Scalise, Nick's own cousin, volunteered to fulfill the contract and hurried up to Phoenix. Johnny did not disappear. A carload of Boy Scouts found his nude and emasculated body, crucified with barbed-wire bindings to a giant roadside cactus.
Matters had rested there until Paul Bonelli had approached his father with the news that he not only knew the way to get Kaufman, but he also had the man to do it. From there it was off to the races, with Nick funneling men and cash into Hinshaw's hands, preparing for the big push into Phoenix that would knock Moe Kaufman off his stolen throne.
