LITMIR.BIZ

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yet,” Bolan replied. “You haven’t told me what they’re planning.”

      “That’s the thing, okay? I don’t know what they’re cooking up, exactly, but I’ve heard enough to know it’s too damned big. Like catastrophic big, okay? And not just for the haoles. Man, I’m talking wasteland, here.”

      “That’s pretty vague,” Bolan said.

      “Don’t I know it? When you start to hear this shit, you shrug it off at first, or you go along and say it’s cool. But when you start to ask around, like I did, for the details, they look at you like you’ve picked up the haole smell. Know what I mean?”

      “I get the drift,” Bolan replied.

      “So, when this friend of mine who brought me into Pele’s Fire comes up one day and tells me, ‘Polunu, Joey Lanakila thinks you might be working for the Man,’ I know it’s time to bail, okay? I got no future in the revolution, anymore.”

      “So, all you have is talk about the outfit planning ‘something big’?”

      “Not all. Did I say all?”

      “If you’ve got any kind of lead for me, this is the time to spit it out,” Bolan said. “Or you can take it to your grave.”

      “Is that a threat, haole?”

      “No need. Your own guys want you dead. You want to play dumb, we can say goodbye right now, and you can take your chances on the street.”

      “Hang on a minute. Shit! You heard about the missing haole sailors, I suppose?”

      “Go on.”

      “Six of them, I was told.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “They’re dead, okay? I give you that,” Polunu said. “I wasn’t in on it, but word still gets around. May turn up someday, maybe not, but Lanakila’s snatch squad got their uniforms. Don’t ask me why, because I’ve got no frigging clue. But something stinks.”

      Bolan agreed with that assessment, but it still put him no closer to the solution of the riddle that confounded him. He clearly needed help that Polunu and his den mother could not provide.

      “I need to make a call,” he said, clearly surprising both of them. “Five minutes, give or take, and then we’ll hatch a plan.”

      He turned to Polunu, pierced him with a cold, steely glare. “If you’ve omitted anything, let’s have it now. Once we’re in motion, second-guessing’s not allowed and there’ll be no do-overs.”

      “Man, I’ve told you everything I know.”

      “Not yet,” Bolan replied with utter confidence. “When I get back, I’m going to ask for names and addresses. If you don’t have them, it’s aloha time.”

      He took the satellite phone and the ignition key, and left them sitting in the dark.

      Washington, D.C.

      THE NATION’S CAPITAL lies six time zones east of Hawaii. When Japanese dive bombers attacked the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, just before 8:00 a.m. on Sunday, December 7, 1941, most residents of Washington, D.C., were already digesting lunch.

      It came as no surprise to Hal Brognola, then, when he was roused from restless sleep by a persistent buzzing, which he recognized immediately as his private hotline.

      Scooping up the cordless phone, he took it with him as he left the bedroom, padding through the darkness and avoiding obstacles with the determined skill of one who’s done it countless times before.

      “Brognola,” he announced, when he was halfway to the stairs.

      “It’s me,” Bolan said.

      “How’s the vacation going?”

      “More heat than I expected right away, and heavy storms anticipated,” Bolan told him, speaking cagily despite the scrambler on Brognola’s telephone.

      The big Fed got the message. “Are you dressed for it?”

      “Not really. I may pick up an umbrella in the morning, if I find something I like. Meanwhile, there’s news from Cousin Polunu.”

      “Oh?”

      “He heard about the rowing team,” Bolan went on, “but doesn’t know where they’ve run off to. It’s a group thing, as suspected, but I can’t begin to guess when they’ll be back in town.”

      “Staying away for good, you think?” Brognola asked.

      “I’m guessing that’s affirmative.”

      “And how does that impact your business on the island?”

      “Still unknown. I’m thinking I should reach out to the locals. Find out what they have to say about it, when they’re motivated.”

      “You think that’s wise?”

      “Looks like the only way to go, right now,” Bolan replied.

      “Well, you’re the expert,” Brognola replied. “I hope they’re willing to cooperate.”

      “It’s all a matter of persuasion.”

      “Right. If you need anything…”

      “Not yet. They threw a welcome party for me, and we got to schmooze a bit. I’d like to pay them back with a surprise.”

      Brognola reckoned that meant there’d be news on CNN, within the next few hours. How many dead so far? He’d have to wait and see.

      “I’ll be here if you need me, anytime,” Brognola said.

      “I’m counting on it,” Bolan said, and broke the link on his end.

      Brognola checked the nearest clock and found he didn’t have to be awake and on the move for three more hours yet. Whether he could go back to sleep again, after the call, was anybody’s guess.

      He shuffled to the kitchen, turned a small light on above the sink and took the makings for a cup of cocoa from the cupboard. It was too early for coffee, and he needed something that would calm him, not rev his overactive mind.

      While he waited for the kettle to heat, Brognola thought about the intel Bolan had supplied in their brief conversation. First, the hostiles had been ready for him when he hit Oahu—or, perhaps more likely, they’d been trailing one or both of his contacts. In either case, there had been bloodshed that would have the cops and media on full alert. The weapon Brognola had managed to provide for Bolan on arrival came in handy, but it wouldn’t be sufficient for his needs as Bolan forged ahead with more elaborate plans.

      The worst news, he supposed, was that the missing seamen had apparently been killed, not simply snatched for ransom by the terrorists of Pele’s Fire. Brognola had been half expecting it, but hoping for the best against his better judgment. Bolan couldn’t say with perfect certainty that they were dead, of course, but Brognola trusted his gut instinct and was prepared to write them off.

      The question now was, why had they been killed?

      If they were simply targets, handy stand-ins for the federal government Pele’s Fire despised, wouldn’t the killers crow about their triumph, claiming credit for the kills? Why would they make the sailors disappear, and then say nothing whatsoever that would link the snatch to Pele’s Fire?

      It didn’t track, and Brognola had learned that when things didn’t track, most times it was because they didn’t fit.

      His water boiled, and Brognola poured it into a mug with two liberal spoonfuls of powdered cocoa. While he stirred the creamy brew, he focused on the minds behind six murders, tried to crawl inside those twisted brains.

      Or, viewed another way, if secrecy was critical, why grab six men at once, when it was sure to make a headline splash. Why not pick off one at a time, over a period

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