least twice that number. So he had contrived the idea of doubling his force with prisoners.
They formed the second group of the commando, men in regular Montagnard dress with bound wrists and cords around their necks, both lightly tied so they could get free in a hurry. The armament for this group was in sacks on horses that would be led by the soldiers, ostensibly captured weapons. Some men were bandaged to look wounded.
The inspection over, Bolan signaled to the men to assemble around him. 'You look very realistic,' he told them. 'We should have no problem tricking Tiger. But once inside we must move very, very fast. Remember your targets and stick to them. May the spirits protect you.'
'And you,' they chorused.
They moved out of the clearing, taking a forest path, every fifth man a Chinese speaker. Luckily for Bolan there was no shortage of them in the force. Many of the Meo in the Triangle were from Yunnan, the province of southern China where most Meo still live.
The rest of the force lined the path to see them off. As Bolan passed, faces smiled, hands touched him, voices whispered encouragement. From commander he had become their hero, the man who had single-handedly saved the train from destruction. His unsmiling modesty only increased their admiration. He was a human hero.
The column descended the ridge and came onto the dirt road leading to the hardsite. Just before the last bend, Bolan was tied across a saddle. He would enter the hardsite as a corpse rather than a prisoner. A white prisoner would attract too much interest.
The gates loomed ahead. As the column neared, a searchlight came on from one of the flanking towers. Its beam swept the column up and down, lingering on the prisoners. A rider broke from the column and galloped up to the gates. He wore a bloodstained uniform with bullet tears and a bloodstained bandage on his head.
'Green frogs,' he shouted. 'Captain Wong's group returning.' Green frogs was the password. They got that from the prisoners.
'What happened?' asked a voice from a tower.
'Montagnards attacked us,' replied the rider. 'We beat them but lost Captain Wong and four men.'
'Killed?'
'Yes.'
'And the wages?' another man asked.
'Safe.'
'Open the gates!' the first voice called.
The gates swung open, the searchlight went out, and a smaller arc light came on, forming a spotlight by the entrance. The column filed under the flag-bedecked archway with the Chinese inscriptions. First came horses with the money, then horses with the bodies.
The prisoners appeared. 'Look at those necks,' said a voice. 'The colonel will be pleased. Lots of flesh to test his swords on.'
Guffaws greeted the remarks.
As the column entered the parade ground it formed ranks. From his upside-down position Bolan surveyed the lay of the land. The parade ground was in darkness, but beyond it were lots of streetlights and he could hear music.
A door opened from a barrack on the side. An officer and an assistant stepped out and walked briskly to the forming ranks.
'Where is Sergeant Tsepo?' the officer called.
'Here I am, sir,' replied the false sergeant.
'What's this about an ambush?' asked the officer.
'We were jumped as we were getting off the train,' said the sergeant. 'They were waiting for us at Py Fung.'
A flashlight shone in the sergeant's face. 'You're not Tsepo,' said the assistant. The beam swept the column. 'Sir, these are not Captain Wong's men.'
'Searchlight!'
Night turned into day. But almost immediately muzzles flashed. With a puff of smoke and the tinkle of glass the searchlight went out. A moment of stunned silence followed, then all hell broke loose.
'Attack! Attack!' Bolan shouted into the radio set given to him by the Montagnard who released him. 'We're inside!'
From up the ridge a green flare fired. A bugle sounded down the road. The radio blared. 'Nark to Phoenix. The cavalry's on its way!'
On the parade ground bedlam reigned. Colored tracers flew in all directions, men yelled, horses galloped in confusion. A tower flashed as an RPG hit its mark. Windows blew, and a barrack exploded in flames.
But the enemy was not sleeping, either. The inside of the parade ground lit up with a myriad of flashes, and Bolan's commando force began to take casualties.
'Arty! Arty!' Bolan shouted into his set above the din. 'Open fire on the parade ground! Willie Peter, all four tubes.'
The hills boomed, the sky crackled. Mortar bombs rained on the parade ground as fast as the men could load them. They exploded in showers of white phosphorus, setting trees and tents on fire. But the enemy kept shooting.
'Spread your fire!' Bolan shouted into the radio.
The battery widened the lateral angle. The shells began falling farther apart. Soon the entire area was illuminated.
'Perfect! Now give me Hotel Echo.'
The white showers gave way to orange flashes as the mortar crews switched to firing high explosive. By the light of the burning trees Bolan could see bodies cartwheel in the air and men fall, sliced by shrapnel.
Two groups of Tiger men were running toward the parade ground carrying machine guns. They dropped to the ground near the tree line and proceeded to set up their guns.
'Number three tube!' Bolan shouted. 'Right thirty, down ten!'
The machine gun crews ducked as a bomb from number three mortar exploded near them. A moment later, however, both groups were firing their Browning .50-caliber guns, the famous battlefield broom, hosing the parade ground with 12.7mm slugs.
From the road came the blare of a bugle and the thunder of hooves. Gooseflesh broke out on Bolan's arms. With the big .50s in action, the cavalry was riding to certain doom. It would be carnage.
'Arty, arty, all four tubes lock into number three! Number three down ten. All four go!'
A cluster of bombs warbled overhead. The inside of the tree line lit up with orange explosions. The machine gun positions disintegrated, arms and legs flying through the air.
'Bingo!'
'Ayu!'
A mass of black riders poured through the gates. They fanned out into the hardsite, heading for their assigned targets. Many horses carried two men apiece, miniature gun platforms flying through the night, the rider shooting to the right, the passenger to the left.
A group of riders with pack animals stopped by Bolan. Nark and Stressner were among them. They had brought a spare horse for Bolan with a pepesha attached to the saddle. Bolan mounted, and the group galloped off in the direction of the industrial sector.
Three abreast they thundered down an alley bordered by opium warehouses, the area dark and deserted. But not deserted enough. A squad of Tiger troops appeared, running for the parade ground. The three white riders rose in their saddles, and the perforated barrels of their pepeshas flickered flame. The squad scattered and the riders flew by.
They crossed a square, turned some corners, and the administration building came into view. Muzzles flashed from open windows. But there was no stopping Bolan now. He had neither the time nor the energy to work out some clever, safe way of taking the building. Horses tumbled, men died, but the charge continued.
One of the windows was closed and in darkness. Bolan steered his mount for it. At the last moment, still on the gallop, he jumped to the ground, bounced, and crashed through the window amid flying glass. The rest of the
