Miami Massacre

The world dies 'twixt every heartbeat,

and is born again

in each new perception of the mind.

For each of us,

the order of life is to perceive and perish and perceive again,

and who can say which is which-

for every human experience builds a new world

in its own image...

and death itself is but an unusual perception.

Live large that you may experience large

and thus, hopefully, die large.'

Toro's voice broke as he added, 'That is it, amigo.'

Bolan sat silent for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes and crushed out the cigarette. 'Margarita wrote that?' he quietly inquired.

'She did. Tell me, Matador, did the little soldier die large?'

'Yes, Toro,' Bolan assured him, 'she died very, very large.'

'She was muy angry with me, senor. Because I would not offer you assistance with your war.'

Bolan sighed. 'Well, Toro, you've got those snakes to worry about.'

'There are snakes, senor, everywhere.' He looked out at the distant lights. 'Shall we live large, Matador, for a little while — together?'

The Executioner smiled. 'What sort of weaponry do we have, amigo?'

'We have the magnifico Honeywell, also personal weapons.'

Bolan got to his feet and tested his sea legs. 'Does this thing always buck like this?' he asked.

'Si, she is a Yanqui buckaroo.'

'You'll have to get the Honeywell mounted.'

'This is done. The Honeywell is deck-mounted, Matador.'

Bolan said, 'Show me.'

Toro led the way just above and behind the cabin to what had originally served as a mount for a fifty- calibre machine gun. A small wooden platform had been added, and the Honeywell was bolted to this. Bolan nodded and ducked back into the cabin to escape the stinging spray which was now constantly flaying the main deck. He said, 'Okay, I'm manning. I'll need another two men to crew me. How do you have the belts configured?'

'Your shoulder, amigo. Will this not-?'

'It's all right,' Bolan assured him. 'What's in the belts?'

'High-explosive only. For war at sea-'

'Okay that's fine, but have some flares ready just in case. And make up a belt of double-ought.' He grinned. 'We might want to do some deck-raking.'

Toro grinned back. 'And we shall largely live.'

Bolan turned away quickly, so that Toro could not see the surge of emotion across his face, muttering beneath his breath, 'And a little soldada shall lead them.'

The Merry Drew was underway and moving sluggishly in the general direction of Biscayne Bay. The PT crossed her a hundred yards astern and heeled into an upwind run. Soldados with light machine guns were lashed to the deck, some were poking up from the cabin, others took positions around the hatch to the troop compartment. Toro was in the conn, just above the cabin. Bolan, standing grimly spraddle-legged at the Honeywell in a constant wash of spray, shouted up to him, 'What's our speed?'

The Cuban's voice, lashed back by the wind, announced, 'Revolutions at 40 knots, Matador.'

Bolan yelled, 'Let's run by once and confirm that identification.'

'Si! We identify on the upwind run!'

Bolan tied himself to the gun mount and tried to estimate the correction he would need in view of the shuddering, heaving platform, the relative speeds of the two vessels, and the howling gale-force winds. They were quickly closing on the larger vessel and beginning to run alongside.

The cruise boat was brightly lighted from stem to stern. Bolan could make out people standing in the protected overhang of the boat deck, and an interested crowd was gathering at a brightly lighted window which he presumed to be the main lounge. The Merry Drew was not quite a passenger liner but she was, at worst, a junior edition of one. She seemed a stable mass beside the plunging PT boat, her bow cutting smoothly through the wild waters in an undisturbed transit. The bridge was high and sleek, and the pilot house was dimly illumined behind a row of square windows reaching from one side of the vessel to the other.

Her passengers were inspecting the PT with considerable interest. One of them waved, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, 'Ship ahoy!' Others around him were laughing and pointing at the PT as it plunged and bucked through the cresting waters, obviously amused by the wild ride being experienced by those upon her.

A man in a white uniform stepped to the wing of the bridge, a megaphone in his hand, and called over as they passed abeam. 'Do not attempt a transfer of passengers. Suggest you follow us into the harbor.'

Toro lifted his own bullhorn and replied, 'What we transfer, capitan, can be accomplished at sea!' The PT lunged forward in a sudden acceleration and quickly slid ahead of the Merry Drew, heading off into a wide arc and coming about for the downwind run.

Toro swivelled about to grin at Bolan and shouted, 'We go! Vamos!'

The running lights were extinguished and the little craft leapt into a full power run, barely fifty yards abeam the other vessel. With the wind now at his back, Bolan settled into the harness and angled the latest thing in gatlings to several points off his starboard bow. He made motions with his hands to forewarn his crewmen as to the proposed swing of the gun as they swept past the target . . . and then they were back and speeding along the target area and Bolan was cranking the firing handle . . . and the war at sea was enjoined. He raked the vessel from stem to stern with a walking line of brilliant explosions along the main deck level, while the machine-gunners opened up in a steady drumfire, and pandemonium arrived aboard the Merry Drew. Men were running and shouting even above the shrieking wind and continuous explosions, in a quick exodus from that side of the ship. Then it was behind them and Bolan's crew was feeding in another belt of large living, the PT was swinging wide in a rapid encircling maneuver, and Toro was laughing lustily into the wind.

The next downwind run was to the Merry Drew's port side and there were no hands on deck. Lights were being extinguished throughout and there were no catcalls or hooting cries of good humor to greet Bolan's raiders. Automatic weapons spat at them from the bow, the boat deck, the bridge, and handguns were being unloaded from every point. Standing tall against the withering fire, Bolan cranked the Honeywell into a stunning assault upon the bridge, maintaining his fire into that limited area for the full run. As they swept into the turn, two of the PT's soldados were being hastily helped into the troop compartment for treatment of wounds and Bolan was urging his crew into a rapid reload.

'Bring her in to a hundred meters on the upwind!' he shouted to Toro.

The Cuban nodded and the PT whirled back for a stern-to-bow sweep. Again the Honeywell transmitted a walking line of thunderstorms, this time along the boat deck and into the lounge, then into a concentration of men at the bow. A halfhearted crackling of return fire was noted but not actually experienced aboard the PT, and they were swinging once again into the jouncing return circle for another downwinder.

Bolan's wound was bleeding again and his left arm virtually useless. The Merry Drew was afire in numerous places, most notably upon the bridge deck and wheelhouse, the crackling flames revealing men in frantic motion all about. She was pursuing an erratic course and obviously foundering.

Toro called back, 'I think you have knocked out the pilot house, Matador! She wallows in the troughs!' He cut back on the power, maintaining just enough forward motion to assure control, and pointed off into the darkness. 'Sound the trumpets, senor, the cavalry approaches!'

Bolan swiveled about to gaze into the direction of new interest. From out of the darkness, perhaps five hundred yards behind, two sets of varicolored lights were moving rapidly toward them.