Night of the Warheads

Two

The eyes were like black ice behind the hooded lids. They seemed somnambulant, but they digested every twitch, every movement on the moonlit beach two hundred yards below.

There were eight of them, crouched in two groups on the sand. A few smoked, the fireflies at the ends of the cigarettes glowing behind cupped hands. Two more — flanked to the right and left of the hill-dweller — served as back watchers for the men on the beach.

Nick Carter's trained ears and the icy eyes had already made their position in the rain forest behind him.

From below there was conversation, hushed and muted, but the distance was too great for the black-clad observer to catch more than an occasional word.

But accents he did catch, allowing conclusions.

They were multinational. Probably few of them spoke more than their native tongue and English. So they were communicating in English, heavily accented by Spanish, French, and Italian.

They had moved in just after sundown, two at a time, all from different directions.

Their dress was the baggy, white overblouse and trousers of the Yucatecan peasant. When they slipped out of the jungle, there had not been a weapon in sight. But shortly after taking up a position on the beach, hardware had appeared from beneath their clothing and out of the shoulder-slung woven bags at their hips.

Most of it was old stuff: M-l carbines and Enfields that looked as though they were as old as the Bedouin wars when Rommel's tanks rumbled.

The small irons were Smith and Wesson.38s. It took one hell of a shooter to bring anybody down for good with one of those. It has been said that the best way to take a man out with one was to throw it at him.

The newest thing showing was a Beretta Model 12 sub.

Carter had already made a mental note that the head guy with the Beretta would be the first to go. Not just because of his hardware, but because of who he was.

Nels Pomroy, CIA, retired. At least on the books.

In actual fact, Pomroy had decided — upon his retirement two years before — to go into business for himself, using the expertise and contacts he had gained while working for the Company.

He had become a broker for various international assassins around the world.

You want a businessman or politician gunned down somewhere? Just contact old Nels. For a solid percentage of the fee he would find you the man for the job.

And when the killing business was slow. Pomroy had a second, even more profitable sideline: arms sales.

That was his current business that night on a Mexican beach.

Carter's assignment was to stop the arms shipment and, more importantly, put Nels Pomroy out of business… permanently.

He had become a big fat embarrassment to his former employers.

It would not be much of a contest. In contrast to the men on the beach, Carter bristled with the latest.

A close-action Beretta 9mm pistol was leathered beneath his left armpit, the snout of its silencer tickling his lower left side.

His favorite Luger, Wilhelmina, had been left behind on this assignment.

Reason?

All the hardware Carter carried would be destroyed when the job was over. AXE chief David Hawk had been explicit on those instructions.

"No trace, N3, not even a shell casing. I want it as if you or them had never been there."

A Beretta 93R machine pistol hung low, Western-style, on his right hip. Its leather had been customized with a plastic, friction-reducing lining.

The 93R had also been customized away from factory specs. A suppressor had been installed, as well as machined springs designed to cycle the cartridges.

They made the Beretta a quiet killer.

At his side rested one of Lt. Col. Uziel Gal's finest: a Galil assault rifle. It had been modified to fire 5.56 shells with the same accuracy and reliability as its big-brother predecessor, the AK-47. Firepower was more than adequate with an elongated Stoner Mag holding forty-nine slugs in the magazine and one napping in the chamber waiting to be awakened.

And for icing he had infrared eyes to see the slugs on their way, goggles so that his hands were free to do the job.

Carter let his eyes float. Quintana Roo territory, Yucatan Peninsula, Republic of Mexico. A soft sand beach, isolated, desolate, fronting many miles of muggy, steam-sweating tropical jungle and rain forest.

Not a very pretty spot, he thought with a grimace, but as good as any place to die.

"They call themselves Latinos for Freedom. It's a small group and not affiliated, so until now we haven't paid them a hell of a lot of attention."

David Hawk paused to sip from the cup of steaming coffee in his right hand.

They were in Hawk's office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building, Dupont Circle, Washington, D.C.

Hawk's right hand returned his cup to the table. The left, holding a cigar, came up. The rope's well-chewed end split his lips and found a groove between his teeth.

"As near as we can tell, Latinos for Freedom are rebel rebels. They raise random hell, with all sides as targets. A bomb here, a raid there. Hell, they even assassinated one right-wing tinhorn dictator, then turned right around and tried to nail the socialist who succeeded him!"

Until now, Carter had sat silently, smoking, digesting his boss's every word and storing it in the computerlike memory bank of his mind.

Now he asked questions.

"Unrest for unrest's sake?"

"That's it. We couldn't pin them down and, God knows, we've got enough trouble down there anyway, so we ignored them. The Russians and Fidel left them alone because unrest is the name of their game as well. Hell, they were giving our side as much trouble as they were giving the Marxist rebels, so the Communists figured, let 'em play."

"But now they've joined the worldwide terrorist fraternity."

"Looks that way," Hawk said, chewing his rope thoughtfully. "It happens. The Irish IRA provos get together with the Italian Red Brigade. The Palestinians help out the rebel Turks. It's all an exchange of favors."

"So we nip the Latinos for Freedom in the bud before they form a coalition?"

"Right," Hawk replied. "And there's another reason. Remember Nels Pomroy?"

Carter's teeth came down hard on the filter tip of his cigarette. "Yeah, I know him, and about him."

"He's the man," Hawk said. "We want him… dead. We think he's brokering this deal for the Basque terrorists. It's probably some kind of a trade-off; we don't know. But the best way to stop it is to get Nels and the arms."

Carter mashed his cigarette. "When and where?"

"The goods are on the way now, a Libyan freighter, the Star of Tripoli. She ETAs sometime tomorrow night at Marianao, Cuba."

"Cuba?" Carter asked. "I thought you said they weren't Fidel-backed…"

"They're not. No aid there. It's strictly a deal between the Basques and the Latinos for Freedom. Fidel's probably just turning his head and letting a little import-export happen in his port."

"Like a way station," Carter added.

"Exactly. The hardware's end-use certificate states Nicaragua, for defense. We all know that's a crock. We think the goods will be trucked from Marianao overland to Cabo San Antonio. From there it's night-ferry time to the Yucatan. The landing spot is an inlet about twenty miles south of Punta Herrero. I've got the coordinates."

Carter closed his eyes and conjured up a map in his mind. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low monotone relaying what his eyes saw on the back of his lids.

"The Yucatan channel, at that point, is about a hundred and twenty-five miles wide from the tip of Cuba to the edge of Quintana Roo."

"Right," Hawk came back. "A piece of cake for a contrabandista who's good with a sail and a tiller."

"When?"

"We figure day after tomorrow. We're guessing ETA around midnight or a little before, so the movers can get back to Fidel-land before dawn."

"Any particulars besides making sure delivery doesn't go down?"

A worried frown crossed Hawk's forehead but quickly disappeared as a chuckle rolled from his thick throat.

"Stopping delivery and getting Pomroy is the main thrust, but I'd be a damned fool if I thought you wouldn't want to follow through on anything you find, N3."

"Like, what's the favor the Basques want done for the arms payment?"

"That would be a big help."

Carter became silent, scrutinizing everything Hawk had told him and his own thoughts. When it was all ID'd, catalogued, and filed, he opened his eyes and spoke again.

"I'll try for a prisoner."

"It would help," Hawk said, "but not enough for a risk, if you know what I mean. Top priority is the arms, Pomroy, and secrecy. I wouldn't want you left dead and the mess not cleaned up."

"Right. How do I go in?"

"Private flight to Merida. No problem with ordnance that way. A jeep will be waiting. Any questions asked, you're a sisal buyer from Hamilton Hemp Industries, Dallas. I've got papers."

"I'll want to be on the beach by dawn day after tomorrow, before they recon or come in."

"No problem. But all day in that jungle? It'll be hotter'n hell."

"I've been there before."

Then Carter smiled.

"Besides, comes the night, it will be even hotter."

Carter stretched without making a sound or moving a leaf of the damp-seeping green canopy shielding him.

It had been one hell of a wait since before dawn that morning to…

The chronometer on his left wrist read 2235 hours.

If Hawk's guess was right — and there was little doubt in the Killmaster's mind that it was — the arms boat would be sliding in soon.

Movement on his right flank about a hundred yards to the rear. It was quickly followed by the same sounds to his left.

He tensed momentarily and then, just as quickly, relaxed.

It was feeding time for the mules who had been brought to form a pack train.

Soon it was quiet again, only the sound of the lapping waves breaking the stillness.

He waited until 2300 hours.

And then it came, a blinker light from about a mile out.

Three longs, two shorts, and three more longs.

Movement and subdued shouts from the men on the beach. One of them angled a high-power flash toward the sea and repeated in kind.

Ten minutes later a sail materialized against the gray horizon. Even as Carter watched, the canvas was dropped and furled by scurrying men.

And then the steady chug, chug, chug of an inboard reached his ears. As the sound grew louder, the boat loomed larger.

It was a thirty-foot shrimper with cranes port, starboard, and aft. Normally those steel arms would be used to trail in nets and lift Neptune's nourishment aboard the craft.

But tonight they would be used to unload crates of death.

The skipper was good. He reversed the boat's screw at just the right time to let bow and keel nuzzle the beach. The boat had barely stopped yawing when both port and starboard cranes went into action.

Ready hands waited, and Carter could hear the grunts and gasps as they sloshed through the surf with the hardware.

Two of the eight men on the beach split off, moving back into the trees.

Carter guessed they had been dispatched to bring the mules. Minutes later the guess was confirmed when the two men reappeared. Each of them led a string of ten mules in his wake.

It was time to start the game.

Carter secured his mind, blocking out everything but the moment.

Like a dark shadow, Carter glided to his feet. He slung the Galil over his shoulder and adjusted the lanyard until its muzzle was just nudging his right hip.

Then, with the infrared-lensed goggles in place over his eyes, he moved out.

Like a formless, silent ghost, he slithered through the dense undergrowth.

The flanker to his right looked bored. He lounged against a tree listening to the action on the beach. An old Enfield was cradled in his arms like a sleeping babe.

With a whisper, Carter rescued Hugo, his pencil-thin stiletto, from its sheath on his right leg.

The sentry was a heartbeat away from hell when he sensed Carter's presence. His head was just turning when the vise of Carter's left arm encircled his throat.

The head came up and back as the needle of steel found flesh.

The only sound was a gurgling rasp.

One down, a limp bundle of white slipping to the jungle floor, the front of his blouse crimson.

The body had barely settled in death before Carter was moving again.

The forest was quiet, with little wind rustling the trees. Now and then an animal scurried away from the swiftly moving shadow.

But even the little jungle native, slithering in fear, made more noise than Killmaster N3.

Flanker number two was standing dead center in a wide clearing. His rifle was cradled carelessly in his left arm as his hands fumbled with the zipper on his fly.

He had just relieved himself… for the last time.

In one motion Carter sheathed the stiletto, dropped to a crouch at the edge of the clearing, and slid the silenced Beretta from under his left arm.

Without knowing death was waiting, the guy took three steps toward Carter.

Only two while he was still alive.

A 240-grain slug made bone chips out of his sternum, leaving a fist-sized hole in the middle of his chest. His mouth made an «O» and his eyes went wide with shock.

They were still open when he pitched face forward into the jungle steam.

First and second hits, Carter thought, but this was only the beginning.

He now moved in a zigzag pattern, as silently as ever, toward the beach.

Over half the loading was already done. Only six mules still had bare backs. Slung over the other beasts were oilskin bundles.

They worked quickly, efficiently, in teams: two uncrating, four loading the mules, and two dumping the wooden crates into a deep pit they had dug on the jungle's edge.

Staying fifty yards inside the shadowed foliage, Carter maneuvered parallel to the beach until he was on a straight line with the pit. Then he bore to his left until the toes of his boots hit sand.

The two crate bearers plodded up the beach toward him, their arms loaded. When they were at the very edge of the pit. Carter stepped from the shadows.

"That you, Carlos?"

"Si" Carter growled.

The Beretta wheezed, sending a slug dead center into the man's face. It disintegrated and joined the back of his skull as he pitched forward into the pit.

"Madre de Dios," the other one gurgled, clawing for the holstered antique at his hip.

He was rolling to the side as Carter fired again. The Beretta's first slug caught him in the right shoulder, spinning him all the way around. Carter stitched two in the back of his neck, but he was not quick enough.

The Mexican managed to get out a yelp, as much in surprise as pain, just before he died.

It was just loud enough to alert his companions thirty yards away. Carter dived into the trees just as they opened up behind him.

All hell had busted loose, maybe too soon, but Carter knew he would just have to make the best of it.

Four away, six to go.

The firing increased from the beach, all centered on where the eerie, goggled figure had been.

Now he was moving, literally crashing through the heavy undergrowth, back to his original starting point on the high ground. The concentrated firing of the carbines and the 38s covered the sound of his movement. Deftly he leathered the Beretta and rolled the Galil off his shoulder.

By the time he reached the sniper site, he had unclipped the Gain's folding stock from the military webbed belt around his middle. Ten seconds after dropping to his belly in the already trampled foliage, the stock was in place and the folding bipod was uncorked from under the barrel.

With the shoulder butt nuzzled, Carter reached forward and used his thumb to flip up the night-sight.

The Galil was ready, fifty rounds' worth, with an additional hundred rounds in the two spare magazines hanging from Carter's belt.

The Galil was fitted with a flash suppressor, so he figured he was good for a mag and a half — maybe a full two — from this spot before they made him.

If there was anybody left to do the making.

With the Galil swinging easily on the bipod, he did a fast scan.

Now it was a waiting game. They were quiet after the first shock of assault. Two had dived behind a jagged claw of rocks near the water. Nels Pomroy was precariously peering out from between two of the remaining crates. He was the one with the Beretta sub, the one Carter knew he should have gotten first. But the logistics had been wrong.

So be it.

The remaining three had charged a few feet into what they thought was the protective darkness of the trees.

Between the Galil's night-sight and the goggles, Carter made two of them at once: one partially hidden behind a tree, the other moving straight inland in a half crouch.

He lined through the rear, flip-type «L» sight, and squeezed off a burst, and then another.

Only one was needed. It stitched the guy from his navel to his neck.

There was very little sound and hardly any flash.

Just a very quiet death from out of the darkness.

The man behind the tree started firing wildly. He got off five, all harmless, before his old piece gave up the ghost and jammed.

With a shouted curse he dropped the rifle and sprinted for the beach.

Why, Carter didn't know.

But men he didn't care either.

Five feet into the open moonlight, Carter turned the back of the runner's white shirt blue.

A foot farther, it turned a dull, dark red. Cloth shredded and flesh exploded as the lifeless form tumbled into the sand and rolled.

"They got Julio and Ortega!"

"I can see, goddamnit!"

"How many are there?"

"How the hell do I know? I only saw the one!"

All this shouted from the rocks to the crates and back again.

Movement behind the rocks.

Carter sprayed them with a long burst and then another. Chips flew everywhere and all movement ceased.

The third man, who had hit the trees, had now zeroed in on Carter's position. Carter could hear him moving in, belly down, from the left flank.

Carter made the Galil jump, sending slugs into the air and sand on both sides of the crates. It wouldn't do to fire directly into them and try for the man with the sub, Pomroy.

If one crate went, they might all go, taking Carter with them.

The flank prowler was close now. Carter flipped the magazine catch and tossed the near empty slug container into the darkness.

The guy with the sub opened up immediately on the sound, far to Carter's right.

Leaving the Galil, Carter slithered backward, snakelike, out of his sniper spot. Ten feet back he halted, unsheathing the Beretta pistol, waiting.

Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes.

The stillness seemed to hang, straining, on a thread.

Then he came, the searcher, belly down, a.38 in his nervous right hand.

Through the goggles Carter could see the shock in his dark face when he discovered the unmanned Galil.

The guy was no commando. He holstered the.38 and went for the Galil.

Carter was on him the second he was over the gun. The butt of the Beretta came down on his skull just behind his right ear.

One grunt and he folded.

Carter checked his pulse. Even, steady. He had a deep gash where the Beretta had hit him, but he would live.

Carter had his prisoner.

He lifted the man's.38 and sent it after the spent magazine.

More random fire from the beach.

Snapping a new magazine onto the Galil, Carter moved out to his left. Forty yards later he angled toward the beach. Just short of the sand, still in heavy cover, he hunkered down.

Effortlessly he relaxed, letting all the strain of the firefight flow out of his muscles.

He would lie like that, unmoving, barely breathing, totally alert, for as long as it would take.

A half hour passed, then an hour.

"Hear anything?"

"Nothing."

Another fifteen minutes.

"There are just the three of us left?"

"Looks that way."

Total patience. Just like a stalking cat.

"Andre, go for the trees. We'll cover you."

"Jesus…"

"Do it!"

Andre leaped from the rocks like a frightened rabbit, legs churning all the way across the sand. He hit the trees with a crash and plowed inland.

Carter let him go.

Andre was no more silent than his predecessors had been. Carter could hear every move he made.

Another half hour went by.

"Dead, all of them, except Tito," came Andre's voice from fifty yards in. "He's zapped, out cold."

"Any sign of the gunner?"

"Nothing."

The remaining guy behind the rocks and Pomroy with the sub moved cautiously out from cover. With equal caution, Andre emerged from the trees.

"He must have skipped."

"Or we hit him and he's in there somewhere dead."

Carter smiled.

"C'mon, let's get the mules together!"

"Jesus, can we still make Pakolo?"

"If we hurry."

Carter waited until all the mules had been rounded up and tethered in a long line. When this was done he moved out, hugging the ground.

All three of them were near the lead mule, bunched.

"You can live or die," Carter said, low and hard.

They reacted as one, hands clawing for pistols and rifles.

Carter cut the first one nearly in half with a figure eight from the Galil's snout, men tracked right on to number two. He bought it with a fist-sized pattern of 5.56s in his gut.

Pomroy got off one slug that zinged the air where Carter had been. But Carter had already lunged to his right, hit, rolled, and come up firing.

Resignation seemed to fill Pomroy's face just before a solid burst worked its way up over his chest and tore most of his head off.

Carter stood, breathing deeply.

The beach was silent now. Once again only the gentle lapping of the Caribbean broke the stillness.

One by one he gathered up the dead.

There was not a shred of ID on any of them, not even on Pomroy, but that was no more than Carter expected.

Pomroy had five thousand American dollars in big bills and what looked to be a map.

Carter pocketed the money and the map. and then photographed the faces that were still intact enough to be recognizable.

When that was done, he rolled all of them into the pit they had dug to bury the crates.

Weird, he thought, but poetic. They had dug their own grave.

Next he unloaded the mules and wrote down a complete inventory of the arms. When this was done, he dumped everything in the pit on top of the bodies. Then he moved back into the trees to collect the one he had clouted, the one the others had called Tito.

The man was gone.

Somehow he had managed to pull himself together and move out. Carter tracked him over a mile inland to a narrow, one-lane dirt road.

He hadn't quite made it to a one-and-a-half-ton, canvas-covered truck.

Carter checked. The pulse was gone, and he saw why. A blue-black lump just behind his ear had ruptured with the exertion of his run. Had he stayed put, the concussion would have partially passed. As it was, he practically killed himself.

Carter took a quick photo of his face and carried him back to the pit. It took him two more hours to fill in the gaping hole and make the beach look as if it had never been disturbed.

Completely finished at last, he headed inland at a fast jog. It was almost dawn when he reached the jeep and headed out.

All in a night's work, he thought, lighting a cigarette.

But somehow, in the back of his mind, he knew that there would be a phase two.