the village in the clearing. He swept his gaze across the cinder-block huts, then focused beyond them to the six helicopters resting beneath camouflage netting at the village's farther side.
"Those're Shamar's choppers?" he asked the man lying beside him. He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. No telling who might be prowling through these woods.
The man nodded. "One of them is. The others belong to the rebel leaders and some of the government men who are in with them. If the word we picked up from Surabaya is right, Shamar and the rebels will be taking off tonight to rendezvous with the guerrillas over in Vogelkop."
"And the government men go back to Jakarta."
"Right," said the man. "Bloody traitors."
The man's name was McPherson, a lifelong professional soldier. Both he and Alexander wore green-mottled jungle fatigues and floppy Digger hats that broke up the outline of a man's head against the heavy foliage of this sweltering tropical forest. Safer than tin helmets, McPherson claimed.
Their plastic armor vests were also jungle green; they felt heavy and hot in the sweltering humidity, no matter what the manufacturer claimed for their lightness and comfort.
It had taken almost a year for Alexander to recruit his mercenary force. It was small, but elite. McPherson had not come easily, nor cheaply. Almost every penny Alexander had inherited he had spent on McPherson and his band of professionals. Their arms and training were first-rate.
What little money he had left Alexander had used to track down the elusive Jabal Shamar. The mass murderer had also turned mercenary, using his skills and cunning in everything from terrorism to rebellion, all around the world from Ankara to Quebec. But he made certain to remain beyond the reach of the Peacekeepers. He never engaged in an attack that the IPF would consider to be aggression.
The thousands he killed died in civil wars, rebellions, guerrilla movements, terrorist demonstrations. But they died just the same, cut down by machine-gun fire or blown to bloody pieces by car bombs. They died and Shamar moved on, devising elaborate schemes of murder for pay.
Shamar had the ultimate insurance policy, of course.
Somewhere he had cached six nuclear weapons, six bombs capable of destroying six cities. As long as no one knew where the bombs were, Shamar could range the world and fearful governments would allow him untroubled passage.
Was there a nuclear weapon submerged in a Bangkok canal? Thailand turned a blind eye to Shamar's passage through their territory. Is a nuclear bomb hidden in a slum basement in Sao Paulo? Why should Brazil risk triggering it by trying to arrest Shamar?
But Alexander hunted him. He recruited McPherson and, through him, a mercenary force whose only task was to find Shamar so that Alexander could execute him.
Now Alexander and McPherson lay on a ridge at the edge of a steaming forest, raucous with birds and monkeys, stinking of tropical rot, crawling with insects. The humid heat pressed on them like a sopping sponge, drenching their fatigues with sweat.
McPherson spoke quietly into a palm-sized radio, ordering the other men to take up positions ringing the village.
He was a tall, rawboned New Zealander, ruddy of face, with hair and brows so blond he almost looked albino. He had come to Alexander highly recommended, having seen action in the Katangan Secession, the overthrow of the Diaz government in Chile and the bloody shambles of South Africa.
Alexander had agreed that McPherson would be in tactical command, since he himself had never been in action before.
"You stay close by me. Cole. Check your weapons now."
With sweaty hands Alexander examined the grenades hooked to the web belts across his shoulders, memorizing the different types: concussion, frag, smoke. Then he took the pistol from the holster at his waist. Loaded clip in place, safety off. More clips in the belt pouches. Finally he slid the action of his stubby submachine gun back and
"Those're Shamar's choppers?" he asked the man lying beside him. He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. No telling who might be prowling through these woods.
The man nodded. "One of them is. The others belong to the rebel leaders and some of the government men who are in with them. If the word we picked up from Surabaya is right, Shamar and the rebels will be taking off tonight to rendezvous with the guerrillas over in Vogelkop."
"And the government men go back to Jakarta."
"Right," said the man. "Bloody traitors."
The man's name was McPherson, a lifelong professional soldier. Both he and Alexander wore green-mottled jungle fatigues and floppy Digger hats that broke up the outline of a man's head against the heavy foliage of this sweltering tropical forest. Safer than tin helmets, McPherson claimed.
Their plastic armor vests were also jungle green; they felt heavy and hot in the sweltering humidity, no matter what the manufacturer claimed for their lightness and comfort.
It had taken almost a year for Alexander to recruit his mercenary force. It was small, but elite. McPherson had not come easily, nor cheaply. Almost every penny Alexander had inherited he had spent on McPherson and his band of professionals. Their arms and training were first-rate.
What little money he had left Alexander had used to track down the elusive Jabal Shamar. The mass murderer had also turned mercenary, using his skills and cunning in everything from terrorism to rebellion, all around the world from Ankara to Quebec. But he made certain to remain beyond the reach of the Peacekeepers. He never engaged in an attack that the IPF would consider to be aggression.
The thousands he killed died in civil wars, rebellions, guerrilla movements, terrorist demonstrations. But they died just the same, cut down by machine-gun fire or blown to bloody pieces by car bombs. They died and Shamar moved on, devising elaborate schemes of murder for pay.
Shamar had the ultimate insurance policy, of course.
Somewhere he had cached six nuclear weapons, six bombs capable of destroying six cities. As long as no one knew where the bombs were, Shamar could range the world and fearful governments would allow him untroubled passage.
Was there a nuclear weapon submerged in a Bangkok canal? Thailand turned a blind eye to Shamar's passage through their territory. Is a nuclear bomb hidden in a slum basement in Sao Paulo? Why should Brazil risk triggering it by trying to arrest Shamar?
But Alexander hunted him. He recruited McPherson and, through him, a mercenary force whose only task was to find Shamar so that Alexander could execute him.
Now Alexander and McPherson lay on a ridge at the edge of a steaming forest, raucous with birds and monkeys, stinking of tropical rot, crawling with insects. The humid heat pressed on them like a sopping sponge, drenching their fatigues with sweat.
McPherson spoke quietly into a palm-sized radio, ordering the other men to take up positions ringing the village.
He was a tall, rawboned New Zealander, ruddy of face, with hair and brows so blond he almost looked albino. He had come to Alexander highly recommended, having seen action in the Katangan Secession, the overthrow of the Diaz government in Chile and the bloody shambles of South Africa.
Alexander had agreed that McPherson would be in tactical command, since he himself had never been in action before.
"You stay close by me. Cole. Check your weapons now."
With sweaty hands Alexander examined the grenades hooked to the web belts across his shoulders, memorizing the different types: concussion, frag, smoke. Then he took the pistol from the holster at his waist. Loaded clip in place, safety off. More clips in the belt pouches. Finally he slid the action of his stubby submachine gun back and
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