Read Online Sicilian Slaughter by Don Pendleton, Jim Peterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton, Jim Peterson
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Mafia, Men's Adventure, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Vietnam War; 1961-1975, Sicily (Italy)
Ads: Link
simple devices. That was what one-tune professional soldier Mack Bolan had never ceased marveling at, and putting to use.
The simple plans worked. The simple devices. Start jacking around with complicated procedures, super secret agent stuff, and first thing you knew, one of your own men got blown up. He forgot, or became nervous, sweaty, hurried, the timing failed to work out or the wire went slack in an unseasonal waft of warm air. The only guys you screwed when you made it fancy were yourselves.
Finished, Mack Bolan went back to the cockpit. "How we doing?"
"Twenty minutes out. I've called an emergency and we are first to land, a straight-in approach."
Bolan saw the pilot flick a glance his way. "Thanks to you, we're fat on fuel. Plugging that hole was smart."
"I got cold back there."
"Yeah, sure." Teaf knew Borzi had spent the better part of an hour in the cargo hold. He'd felt it in the controls. Shifting over two hundred pounds that far aft, and the two hundred pound man moving around. Teaf had kept his thumb on the electric trim button on the control wheel, compensating for the shifts in weight back aft.
Bolan sat in the cockpit's right seat during the landing. As he anticipated but dreaded, there were too many people — firemen with their trucks and foam hoses, cops, a crowd of gawkers, airport officials, and as they taxied in and Teaf shut down the engines, Bolan said, "Don't forget what the bonus is for, ace. And there's more to come."
The pilot earned his money. Bolan was hardly bothered. In forty minutes Teaf had arranged for an aluminum plate to be solidly riveted over the hole left by the window. Fortunately, a wide blood-red stripe ran down the length of the airplane along the same line as the spaced windows, and if they noticed anything untoward, the ground engineers said nothing.
While the mechanics worked, the line crew refueled the jet, and in less than two hours after landing Teaf lifted the jet off the runway again, eastbound. At Bolan's instructions, he'd taken on a maximum load of fuel and recharged all ox-cylinders, so in case the cabin failed to pressurize with the patch, they could still fly at high altitude and get maximum performance from the jet engines. The patch held though both men kept their masks dangling around their necks. Also, on Solan's orders, Teaf had filed direct for Naples, some 2,200 miles, well within the jet's range if the weather held and the met-guys at Azores said it should be clear sailing all the way.
Once airborne and the ship on flight director, with Teaf relaxing in his shoved-back seat, Bolan peeled off another $1000 and tossed it into the pilot's lap. "You did a good job, ace."
Teaf nodded and folded the money into his shirt pocket. "If you're sweating Napoli, the crate and all — forget it. I sent a radiogram while we were on the deck at the island. The fix is in."
The hair on Bolan's neck bristled.
Which
fix, he wondered. Getting the crate past customs, or waxing Mack Bolan's ass?
The Mike Borzi cover had to be blown by now, because the girl had known. Or had she? Maybe not. It was just possible she had only recognized him, but had no time.
And she had not seen Mack's phony passport. No way. Only she had disrobed.
Bolan looked around the cockpit. He saw latches and handles on the windows on each side of the cockpit. "Do these open?"
"Hold on, man!" Teaf shouted.
"I'm not touching anything," Bolan said. "Do they?"
"Sure. Just slip the catch," Teaf put his finger on the latch beside his face, "then pull back. Nothing to it."
Bolan looked at the window. Open, it would give him a firing port about eighteen inches by almost two feet. The nose of the airplane sloped down sharply, giving him an open view forward. The wings were placed at a mid-fuselage position, well behind the cockpit and high enough so he could see well back under them. From the cockpit, if necessary, he had something close to 300-degree vision.
From directly behind would be the only
The simple plans worked. The simple devices. Start jacking around with complicated procedures, super secret agent stuff, and first thing you knew, one of your own men got blown up. He forgot, or became nervous, sweaty, hurried, the timing failed to work out or the wire went slack in an unseasonal waft of warm air. The only guys you screwed when you made it fancy were yourselves.
Finished, Mack Bolan went back to the cockpit. "How we doing?"
"Twenty minutes out. I've called an emergency and we are first to land, a straight-in approach."
Bolan saw the pilot flick a glance his way. "Thanks to you, we're fat on fuel. Plugging that hole was smart."
"I got cold back there."
"Yeah, sure." Teaf knew Borzi had spent the better part of an hour in the cargo hold. He'd felt it in the controls. Shifting over two hundred pounds that far aft, and the two hundred pound man moving around. Teaf had kept his thumb on the electric trim button on the control wheel, compensating for the shifts in weight back aft.
Bolan sat in the cockpit's right seat during the landing. As he anticipated but dreaded, there were too many people — firemen with their trucks and foam hoses, cops, a crowd of gawkers, airport officials, and as they taxied in and Teaf shut down the engines, Bolan said, "Don't forget what the bonus is for, ace. And there's more to come."
The pilot earned his money. Bolan was hardly bothered. In forty minutes Teaf had arranged for an aluminum plate to be solidly riveted over the hole left by the window. Fortunately, a wide blood-red stripe ran down the length of the airplane along the same line as the spaced windows, and if they noticed anything untoward, the ground engineers said nothing.
While the mechanics worked, the line crew refueled the jet, and in less than two hours after landing Teaf lifted the jet off the runway again, eastbound. At Bolan's instructions, he'd taken on a maximum load of fuel and recharged all ox-cylinders, so in case the cabin failed to pressurize with the patch, they could still fly at high altitude and get maximum performance from the jet engines. The patch held though both men kept their masks dangling around their necks. Also, on Solan's orders, Teaf had filed direct for Naples, some 2,200 miles, well within the jet's range if the weather held and the met-guys at Azores said it should be clear sailing all the way.
Once airborne and the ship on flight director, with Teaf relaxing in his shoved-back seat, Bolan peeled off another $1000 and tossed it into the pilot's lap. "You did a good job, ace."
Teaf nodded and folded the money into his shirt pocket. "If you're sweating Napoli, the crate and all — forget it. I sent a radiogram while we were on the deck at the island. The fix is in."
The hair on Bolan's neck bristled.
Which
fix, he wondered. Getting the crate past customs, or waxing Mack Bolan's ass?
The Mike Borzi cover had to be blown by now, because the girl had known. Or had she? Maybe not. It was just possible she had only recognized him, but had no time.
And she had not seen Mack's phony passport. No way. Only she had disrobed.
Bolan looked around the cockpit. He saw latches and handles on the windows on each side of the cockpit. "Do these open?"
"Hold on, man!" Teaf shouted.
"I'm not touching anything," Bolan said. "Do they?"
"Sure. Just slip the catch," Teaf put his finger on the latch beside his face, "then pull back. Nothing to it."
Bolan looked at the window. Open, it would give him a firing port about eighteen inches by almost two feet. The nose of the airplane sloped down sharply, giving him an open view forward. The wings were placed at a mid-fuselage position, well behind the cockpit and high enough so he could see well back under them. From the cockpit, if necessary, he had something close to 300-degree vision.
From directly behind would be the only
Similar Books
