The headman gave the password, and the men joined them. They were one of the teams Nark had posted on the ridges to guard the drop zone. There was always a danger some Tiger patrol might show up.
"A plane came, but it did not stop," said one of the guards.
"When?" asked the headman.
"A little after we arrive."
The headman looked questioningly at Bolan.
"Could have been an airliner," said Bolan. "We'll ask Nark."
They rode to a clump of trees midway down the slope that was to be the command post for the drop. In a clearing a campfire had been lit around which sat the other headmen and Nark. When he saw Bolan, the tall man with the mustache left the group and came over.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"Better than here," said Bolan, sensing the tension.
"There's talk of going home. Some people are saying the spirits are angry we disturbed them. I'm trying to keep them from leaving."
"What's this about a plane?"
"Wasn't ours," said Nark. "A jet fighter by the sound of it. Flew high."
Bolan dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. By the fire, Vang Ky was surrounded by angry headmen. Poor Vang Ky, thought Bolan, always taking the flak. "Let's take a walk," he said to Nark.
They left the trees and came out into the grassland. There were a good three thousand people on the slope and several hundred horses. An atmosphere of doom hung in the air, everyone conscious of what no drop signified. Instead of them attacking Tiger, Tiger would attack them, and this time the expedition would be accompanied by gunship helicopters. It would be a massacre.
Bolan and Nark sat down in the grass and lit cigarettes. For a while they watched the Montagnards. They stood like statues, their upturned faces watching the western horizon, the direction of the Indian Ocean. No one spoke, and the only sound was that of clothes flapping in the breeze.
"The wind's picking up," said Nark.
"Yeah," said Bolan. With the wind would come clouds, and clouds were bad for a drop. Planes had trouble finding the drop zone.
They stretched out and smoked in silence, eyes on the stars in the sky. "What are we going to do if the planes don't come, John?" asked Nark after a while.
"I don't know." Bolan sighed. "I really don't know." He felt tired, physically and emotionally.
"Avion!" someone shouted.
"Avion! Avion! Avion!" The cry spread until the whole slope was shouting it.
In the west, high in the sky, a light was moving. Bolan and Nark sprang to their feet. Another chance traveler, or for them? Nark took a flashlight from his pocket and they waited.
The light drew nearer, flying straight for them. All of a sudden it went out. A disappointed groan swept the slope. Suddenly there was a shout. The light came again, and now it was flashing. It was flashing short, short, long, short. The letter F in Morse.
"Foxtrot!" cried Nark.
"Reply," said Bolan calmly.
Nark pointed the flashlight at the plane and Morsed the letter K, the ground recognition signal. In the sky the light flashed B, the second half of the air recognition signal.
"He's seen us!" said Nark.
Bolan cupped his mouth. "Light the fires!"
The valley echoed the shout, and moments later flames licked piles of branches stacked at the start and end of the drop zone. The bonfires grew, bathing the valley in a warm, red glow, silhouetting the men and ponies.
A deep drone filled the sky. It grew rapidly, and a floatplane flew over the valley. An object fell and a parachute blossomed.
"I'll get it," said Nark, running down.
A couple of Montagnards helped him to detach a container from the billowing parachute, and he dragged it back to the slope. Its contents included two radio handsets. Bolan took one, Nark the other.
Bolan pulled out the aerial on his. "Phoenix to aircraft, do you read me?"
The set crashed with static. "Five on five," the voice in the sky replied. "Is the DZ secure? Got a passenger for you."
Bolan and Nark exchanged glances. "Send him down," said Bolan, intrigued.
They checked the rest of the goodies in the container. For Nark there was a camera; for Bolan there was a Makarov 9mm pistol with a silencer, and for both of them, money in three denominations — Thai bahts, Russian rubles, and U.S. dollars.
"What's the pistol for?" asked Nark.
"I'll find a use for it," said Bolan.
The floatplane came in. A parachutist sailed to the ground preceded by a container dangling from his leg at the end of a cord. Such a setup usually denoted a precious cargo, one from which the parachutist did not intend to be separated.
"Romeo one to Phoenix," said the floatplane's pilot. "As soon as the passenger is off the field we'll proceed with cargo drop. The other aircraft will be here in a minute."
"Copied," said Bolan.
On the field, the new arrival had collapsed his chute but seemed to be having a hard time extricating himself from his harness. Finally the harness fell away, and the man picked up the container and ran from the field, taking off his helmet.
"It's Harry Stressner," exclaimed Nark. "Harry, over here!" Nark waved. He turned to Bolan. "Harry's one of our communications men."
They watched him make his way up the slope, a big blond man in brown overalls. Bolan was sure this mystery visitor heralded new complications. From experience Bolan knew that when people turned up unexpectedly, it usually meant something was going wrong. Otherwise they would not have been sent. It cost money to send people on a mission.
"Hi, Nark," said Stressner, coming up to them. He nodded to Bolan. "Colonel."
"Good morning," said Bolan.
Just then the sky roared as the floatplane made its cargo drop. This time a whole string of parachutes bloomed. One of the containers sailed over a bonfire beyond the drop zone.
Bolan pressed the talk button on the radio. "You were a little long there, Romeo. Shorten your drop fifty."
"Sorry about that," replied the voice in the sky.
A new voice broke in. "Romeo one, this is Romeo two and three coming in. Delta Zulu in sight."
"Go right in, two and three," said the pilot.
Two lights were moving in the northern sky, approaching the valley in a wide arc. As they neared, the planes took shape, an Ilyushin and an Antonov boxcar, the same that brought Bolan to Thailand three days earlier. Like the arms, the planes for Galloping Horse were Russian. The floatplane was a Beriev. All three had been purchased on the black market in Angola, a Soviet client state in Africa.
The Antonov came in first, its silver fuselage shining in the moonlight. Halfway over the valley the pilot gunned the engines, and with a roaring thunderclap the aircraft shot skyward almost vertically. A string of crates flew out its back door, some with three parachutes attached to them. The crates landed with heavy thuds.
The camouflage-patterned Ilyushin followed. It flew low and slow, pushed off course by the wind. The Ilyushin did not have the benefit of a back door, and dispatchers, not gravity, had to do the work. They shoved container after container through both side doors so that two strings of parachutes seemed to follow the plane as it flew over.
The Beriev flew past again, the Soviet red star clearly visible on its white tail. The radio came to life. "Romeo to Phoenix. The container with the orange parachute is money. The striped green is medicine."