Another squawk, then the reply: "Roger. Be glad when they get here."

So would Bolan. The mighty 200. Not, however, until he had properly prepared their reception.

He'd be preparing nothing whatever if he remained pinned here. He moved on. That guy up there was no more than an indistinct shadow in a deeper shadow when he suddenly stiffened and turned in half-visible profile, with Bolan still several paces back.

"Got a light?" Bolan asked casually.

"Who the hell is that?" the guy demanded, irritably startled.

Bolan hit him from two paces out with a judo kick to the groin and a simultaneous straight arm to the throat. The soldier went down with a faint squawk as the only sound. Bolan finished the silent job with a nylon garrote, pinning the victim with his knees as he took key ring and radio then moved quickly on.

No — there would be no soft touches on this visit.

This one was for keeps.

Another lone human barrier stood quietly at the front of the center building, head cocked slightly to one side as though listening intently to distant sounds, his back to Bolan.

The Executioner called over, "Hey!" and the guy spun around just in time to catch the stiletto in his throat. He dropped his auto and stood there bug-eyed, hands to his throat, then toppled over.

Bolan stepped over to the door, found the proper key, and pushed inside. A battery lantern at the head of the stairs was throwing a soft light. He moved the two dead soldiers in there and left them in a dark corner, then took the lantern and descended toward the mission goal.

Ten minutes later, Bolan was completely satisfied that he knew all the secrets of the installation — all that were readable, at any rate. The work was nowhere near half-completed. Three large chambers had been hollowed out, one beneath each building. Only the central chamber was at any degree of finished work. Tunnels ran off at a dozen angles from the central core but led nowhere — perhaps one day they would have.

He found a supply shaft above the room that lay beneath the east building — and up there, in that building, he located the main powder storage.

And yeah, Hal old worry wart, there was a bundle on hand.

Then began the arduous and time-consuming task of moving the TNT into position for the big event.

At forty minutes past touch down he was shaping plastic detonators and implanting time fuses. He ran out of numbers during this period, knew it, but kept on until the task was complete.

It would be daylight up there now, or at least the early stages of the transition from night to day.

If the weather-guessers were right this time, there would be no more heavy atmosphere except for a thin layer relatively high.

Grimmest of all — the Terrible 200 should now be on board. And there sat Bolan in an underground vault, with many tons of TNT for company, set to go in a matter of minutes.

He regrouped himself in the central control room, chose his weapons with care, balancing delicately the trade-off of weight versus effect, and made himself ready.

At precisely sixty-five minutes into the mission, he erupted onto the grounds of that joint with the bellowing 79 poised and ready.

If the Fates watched over angels and fools, Bolan did not have to wonder about his particular category of care.

Striding across those grounds not 20 yards uprange, coming down between the bungalows, was Captain Johnny himself and retinue — five of them in close military stride and clipping it off smartly.

They spotted Bolan at about the same moment that his trigger-finger reacted to the situation.

Quick reactors they were, but not quick enough — startled surprise blending smoothly into evasive choreography with bodies flinging in every direction as the big piece boomed and heaved 40 millimeters of hellfire into the midst of them, adding a new dimension to the dance and a new movement to the overture.

He caught a glimpse of Franciscus through the firecloud, rolling and flopping to rest against a bungalow — but then another party came pounding around the corner of the big house.

He swung into that one with the '16 ablaze and hurtling lightning, scattering people in another crazed dance for survival.

Then, suddenly, soldiers were pouring in from everywhere — through the back door of the house, from bungalows, and from every perimeter.

Right — the numbers were off and the 200 were on — and Bolan the Bold had bought himself a belly buster this time.

He hit them with gas, and smoke, and HE, and tumblers — he hit them with snorting .44s and grenades — and he gave them all the war he'd been able to bring with him. laying down finally a billowing curtain of chemical smoke behind which a tactically retreating soldier boy may sprint like hell.

And he was doing so — lungs turning to solid blood and legs going to lead when the heartening whomp of rotary blades overhead reassured him that Jack the Birdman had come through again.

The swooping eagle came in across his quarter in a calculated intercept, moving a bit faster than Bolan. would have desired — but then so were those others to the rear.

He caught the skid on his chest with the last leap left in him. It jerked into the armpits with wrenching pain as unequal momentums came into balance — then he was swinging clear — man and machine becoming united in common flight as they lifted up, up, and away.

The whole thing must have been as mind-blowing to those left behind as to the man dangling from the eagle's talons — or else it was all just too demoralizing to encourage further effort from the ground; not another round came after him — and with the way Grimaldi was balling it, there wasn't much time for the ground crews to get it back together in time, anyway.

They were a mile downrange before Bolan got himself together and got it aboard — then it finally took a helping hand from the man at the stick for that last pull onto solid support.

Bolan lay there panting for a moment, then he drew himself clear of the hole in the floor and sat there watching his hands quiver until Grimaldi tossed him a headset. He donned it, and the damn guy was saving. "Where the hell you been goofing off the past ten minutes, dammit? I came in at count sixty and I came back at count sixty-five. Then I got curious about all the smoke at count seventy and figured I'd give 'er one last swoop. We can go back and try it again, though, if you demand perfection."

"Get screwed, you beautiful bastard," Bolan panted.

The fantastic flyboy laughed for outrageous joy and sent the hot little bird circling back the way they'd come.

"How much fuse time is left?" he asked.

Bolan tired to hold his trembling hand still long enough to read the time, then couldn't focus his eyes, finally giving it up to reply, "Couldn't be long now."

"I hope not," the pilot said, still chuckling. "Look below."

Bolan really did not wish to. He was quite content to be where he was, but he leaned forward to peer through the hole and immediately said "Brognola's navy."

A solid wave of a dozen or more U.S. Navy landing craft was cutting wide wakes toward Langley Island.

Grimaldi laughed and said, "I'm going to miss you, guy, if you ever retire. This is my second eagle's eye view of a big boom with you."

The guy was talking about the energy storm over Texas.

Bolan sighed and asked, "How's the visibility?"

"Come up and see."

He tried his legs and found them operable, coming up into a crouch at the instrument panel. The bird was hovering. Langley Island was dead ahead about two thousand yards and maybe a thousand feet below. Bolan's vision cleared and his other physical systems went into second-go. He glanced at the watch. "Countdown," he announced to the pilot. "Thirty seconds to boom."

Grimaldi lit a cigarette and handed it to the hellfire guy.