"Hell, yes! I haven't had any fun in years. You want me to set you down on the fantail of some freighter?"

"Right. She'll be moving upstream at maybe ten knots. Get me within eight or ten feet of the deck, and I'll go down a rope. There might be some guy wires or cranes on this thing. I don't know."

"Man, I'll put you down so you can step off."

"This freighter is smuggling a load of arms and ammunition to the Mafia for terrorist training. It's my job to stop the shipment from getting to port."

They talked about Nam for a while as they flew along the Willamette to the mouth of the mighty Columbia River as it flowed toward Astoria and the Pacific Ocean. They spotted a freighter coming upstream, but it showed a Dutch flag and was riding high in the water.

They continued downstream. Ten minutes later they saw another freighter.

"Japanese flag," Bolan said. They came down for a closer look. The name on the bow was Karatsu Maru. "That's our baby, Scooter. How does she look?"

"Piece of cake. There's that short mast right on the stern, but there aren't any cranes or lines stretched around. I can get you within three feet of the deck."

Bolan nodded. "We go on downstream until we're out of sight, then turn and come back at them low over the water."

"You got it!"

They continued downstream, made a sweeping turn over green woods and fields, and returned at reduced speed, barely above the river.

Bolan checked the Uzi, hung around his neck.

His combat harness was filled with the usual gear and two smoke grenades. Big Thunder clung to his thigh and the Beretta 93-R nestled in shoulder leather.

"Let's do it!" Bolan said.

The chopper raced up-current, came around a bend and found the black stern and churning wake of the Japanese freighter three hundred yards ahead.

Bolan looked down and saw water no more than two feet below. He hoped they did not hit a sudden downdraft.

He checked the latch on the outward swinging door.

Scooter looked over and grinned. "In another thirty seconds I'll lift our nose up and come over that fantail, then drop down, almost touching the left-hand side of the deck. You ready?"

Bolan unbuckled his seat belt.

Scooter momentarily scrutinized the controls, then the water and the black hulk ahead. "Now!" he yelled. The craft lifted like an elevator and nosed over the thirty-foot wall of steel.

Bolan slammed back the door and jumped. An instant later he rolled onto the deck of the Karatsu Maru.

He ran behind a small shack near the center of the big deck. At once the chopper lifted and headed downstream at full throttle. Bolan had seen no guards or seamen. No shots had been fired.

Two men rushed past Bolan to the stern rail and watched the chopper disappear. One was obviously a Mafia soldier. He held an old model .45 automatic. The other was a Japanese seaman wearing blue jeans and a blue T-shirt.

"Now what the hell was that all about?" the hood said.

"Friendly American hello?" the puzzled Japanese said in heavily accented English.

The soldier shook his head. "I think we got trouble."

"Yeah, back here," Bolan said, the 93-R in his right hand.

The hood spun, his .45 ready before he had seen a target.

Bolan fired. The shot took the hood under the chin and traveled upward through his brain. The Executioner rushed to the rail and flipped the Mafia corpse over the barrier into the churning wake.

Bolan turned to the stunned Oriental. "Friend," Bolan said, looking at the seaman. "I won't hurt you. How many bad Americans like him are on board?"

The Japanese sailor's eyes were still wide.

"You... you... killed him!"

"Yes. He's a Mafia criminal. How many?"

"Four. They come with river pilot at Astoria."

The Executioner scowled. It figured Canzonari would want some protection coming upstream. He motioned for the Japanese to follow him, and they squatted behind the metal shack for cover.

"Do the other Mafia guys have guns?"

"Yes, big pistols. Most of them two guns."

"Have they hurt any of your crew?"

"No, but Captain most unhappy."

"I bet he is. Can you bring one of the Americans back here?"

"Not if you kill him."

"Yes. I understand. Where are they?"

"One with pilot, one in captain's cabin with captain. Other two..." The Japanese shrugged.

"Do you know there are illegal guns on board, thousands of them?"

"No, industrial machinery!"

"Big closed boxes?"

"Yes."

Bolan asked the seaman to direct him to the captain's cabin. Then he ran past three cargo hatches to the superstructure.

There were three decks above. He slipped through a doorway and climbed some steps to the top deck and found the room he had been told was the captain's cabin.

The Executioner tested the doorknob. It moved.

He turned it as far as it would go to the right, held the 93-R in his left hand and quietly and quickly opened the door.

It was a big cabin with a window. A Japanese man — the captain, Bolan guessed — sat in a soft chair. A tall Mafia soldier wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a black stocking cap stood looking out to sea.

"I thought I saw a white man down there," muttered the hardman. "You got anybody else on board?" He glared at the captain, a heavy handgun held at his side.

"I'm right here, bad-ass," Bolan said quietly.

The soldier spun, his piece coming up, but it never reached target. A 9mm slug punched a widening hole through the side of the soldier's head, killing him with only the sound of a gentle cough.

The captain leaped to his feet, chattering in Japanese. At that moment the seaman Bolan had met below entered and began translating.

"Captain Ohura wants to know if you are one of the criminals."

"No. I'm here to help him, to help all of you and to stop the hidden arms from reaching their new owners."

The crewman translated. The bilingual man listened to the captain speak, then turned to Bolan.

"Then you are a policeman. Welcome. Now we must retake the bridge. Another pirate is there with the river pilot, and you may kill the criminal, also, if you wish."

Bolan grinned. "You lead," he said.

The seaman spoke briefly to the captain, who took a small automatic from a handsome mahogany cabinet.

Then they left the cabin and moved forward and to the left, as the seaman indicated.

"That's the door. Inside are three big windows, and navigational and operating instruments. The pilot knows the river and he steers us upstream to the port." The captain spoke quietly but sharply. The seaman listened, then translated. "Captain Ohura says he must fight this battle. It is his honor. I am to enter the room first to distract the Mafia man. My captain will capture him."

"Tell him I'll back him up at the door." Bolan stood by the wall beside the door and watched the seaman open it and enter the room.

"What the hell! Told you guys to stay off the bridge!" The voice was a roar.

The seaman muttered something softly.

"What the hell! Speak up!"

The captain bolted into the room. Bolan followed, aware that more than one Mafia soldier might be inside.

There was not.

The captain yelled something in Japanese in a wild, high voice, then shot on the handgun sounded like a .32 to Bolan, who watched the hoodlum take four rounds in the chest, then drop the .45 automatic he carried and collapse. There was no need to check his condition.

The American pilot at the electronic steering board stared in amazement.

"What's going on here? First these gunmen take over the ship, and now the captain shoots this guy down in a rage. And who are you?"

"Shall you just got a gun out of your ribs, joker. Don't push your luck. You do your job, we'll do ours." The Japanese were talking quietly. The bilingual seaman approached Bolan.