"That sounds more like it," Turrin said, sighing, as the executive officer double-timed it out of there.

"We know how to handle a situation," the Captain sneered. "Tell that to your old men."

Turrin swept out of the penthouse with his crew in tow, entirely pleased with himself. He would, of course, tell the old men nothing. The "hard work" was over. The rest would be up to Bolan ... and his direct solution to a very complex problem.

At that very moment, Harold Brognola was working a complex problem of his own, in the duty officer's office at the Bremerton Naval Barracks.

"You tell your C.O. that I'll have complete verification via the Pentagon — or the Joint Chiefs, if that's what he wants — before a single boat moves. Meanwhile, though, I want the cogs turning. If I don't have at least ten amphibians on the line and ready to roar in thirty minutes, somebody's tit will end up in a very tight ringer. You tell him that."

"Yes sir. The C.O. understands the urgency, sir. He'll be here personally in ten minutes, sir."

Brognola glowered at the young ensign for a moment, then clasped his hands together and moved away from there.

The weather was beginning to break. Forecast calling for an early general lifting, entire coastal regions.

Some break!

Tit in the ringer? It would be cock n' balls n' all, Brognola's — not somebody's — if Bolan didn't pull the thing just right.

God! Tactician, hell! The guy was carrying the whole burden, all of it. And all the nation's third cop could do was pace and sweat.

"Wish I could talk you out of this," Grimaldi groused. "You're even losing your weather cover. Ceiling's up to about a hundred feet now, in spots. NAS says rapid clearing."

"Worry about getting yourself in and out, Jack. If you think you can't, say so. We'll consider an alternative. But I am getting in there."

"Hell I can get in and out. I've taken these babes down in the middle of enemy encirclements many times. That's not the point. The point is — "

"I have to get in, Jack. That's the point."

"Okay, okay."

The little chopper was specially prepped for the mission. The personnel door on Bolan's side had been removed and left behind. His seat was gone, as well as a section of floor and outer skin beneath his feet.

Bolan was now crouched at the edge of the hole, gazing down through the skids at the choppy waters of Puget Sound. He was rigged for heavy combat, armed to the teeth, burdened with a load nearly equal to his own weight.

A backpack alone hauled fifty pounds of "goop" — plastic explosives. Double utility belts crossed the chest, supporting dangling grenades and other munitions of blazing warfare.

The .44 AutoMag rode position of honor at his right hip. Numerous reload clips for the weapon were grouped to either side of the holster within easy reach.

Head weapon for the mission was Bolan's favorite heavy piece — the M-16/M-79 over n' under combo. The '16 spat a hot trail of 5.56 mm tumblers in auto or could be fired as a semiauto. The 79 was a hard-punch piece, breechloaded and versatile, handling rounds of high explosive, fragmentation, smoke, gas, flare, or double-aught buck. With any load, she was hell in hand. For the moment, the double weapon was strapped across the back of his shoulders, secured.

Grimaldi fiddled with his headset and announced, "Ceiling now is one fifty and sloping high. We'll have to drop through at least two hundred feet of clear to set you down. It's going to be tense."

Bolan replied, "I leave it to you, Jack. Scrub it if you must."

"No, hell no. I'll get you in. Rather do it this way than drop you from four thousand feet." He chuckled nervously. "I was always a sucker for grunts, especially you teeth-baring gung-ho types. I'm climbing up top, now. We're getting close."

Bolan smiled at the guy in complete understanding, then began mentally reorienting himself to the lie down there.

A moment later the phones crackled with a report on the air/ground channel. "Low Boy to High Boy. Anybody there?"

It was Leo Turrin, in the warwagon.

Grimaldi punched the channel selector and gave Bolan a visual go-ahead.

"Go ahead, Low Boy," Bolan replied.

"Okay, they're sprung and scrambling. Give it about one hour from this moment for them to organize and get there."

Bolan punched the mark on his wrist chronometer. "Roger, understand one hour from now. Thanks, Low Boy. We're going."

"That's good. I'm about went. Now moving the vehicle to backdrop position."

"Roger."

"Tally ho, man."

"Thanks, stay hard."

Grimaldi returned the setup to intercom and asked, "Who's our friend?"

"Best left nameless, Jack," Bolan replied.

''Gotcha. Okay, get set. We should be about a thousand yards uprange. 'Bout time to hit that flare. Your wind is ... yeah, okay, right on our tail. Let it go at my mark."

Bolan extended a flarepistol through the open doorway.

"Mark!"

The pyrotechnic whizzed off in a straight-horizontal trajectory, headed upwind. It had a long fuse. In a moment, the parachute would open and the flare would descend far to their rear, breaking the cloud cover over water and coming down on the forward shore. Hopefully. It was purely a diversionary move. Bolan intended to set down in the quiet area to the rear. He simply wanted a brief moment with most eyes on that island directed the other way.

Grimaldi was now executing a wide circle and losing altitude rapidly.

Bolan poised himself at the opening in the floor and reported, "Headset coming off, Jack. I'll be on visual."

"Right. Watch yourself. I'll give you all the running room I can. But drop at your own discretion. Your view will probably be better than mine. Good luck, man. Like the guy said, tally-ho."

Bolan snatched off the headset and raised a fist to his flying friend. Then he bent headfirst through the floor opening, steadying himself outside by a skid strut.

The mists dissolved in a flash. Land appeared, darkly. Buildings rose up in fuzzy outline.

Far ahead, brilliance was breaking the cloud cover and descending in a gentle float through open skies.

The little craft lurched, rose slightly, dropped greatly, lurched again — then spinning and side-slipping in a steady drop. Earth was whizzing by. Fencing flashed past, barely off the skids. Bolan launched himself, seizing the skid in both hands as though it were a parallel bar at the neighborhood gym, swinging, now hanging vertically. Toes dragged slightly — legs pistoned up with knees bent, and he let go.

He hit the earth running, then stumbled under the momentum with too much weight — fell — slid to rest.

Already the chopper was out of sight, its sounds a distant thumping upon the night.

Bolan pulled himself to a crouch and tested his working parts.

All systems were go. No hurt more serious than a skinned knee. All weaponry intact. Those plastics, thank the fates, still inert.

Things were happening up front, though. People in fast movement, shouts, the coughing of an outboard motor. The diversion was working.

He jogged toward the sounds, thudding at every step with the extra weight, then broke toward the cover of the buildings.

Other feet thudded ahead. Bolan stepped into the lee of the building and froze.

A voice, pretty close, called out, "Okay, but I swear I heard a chopper!"

Said another, obviously a leader with rank, "You'll be hearing a bullet in the belly if you don't follow orders! Get out there and back up those beach defenses!"

The feet thudded away.

A radio, directly ahead, squawked briefly with some unintelligible message.

That leadership voice responded. "Wilco, I already did. Compound's about stripped clean though, Jerry. I'd hate to have to handle any serious threat in here."