Pacific Creed. Don Pendleton
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the bar’s interior felt like a photographic darkroom. Hawaiian slack key guitar lilted over the sound system. A trio of withered old men sat at the bar drinking their social security checks. A giant Samoan man with an Afro held down bouncer and security duties. He gave Bolan and Koa a hard stare. He leered at Hu. The woman behind the bar was tall, Polynesian, and had a smile that lit up the dingy surroundings. Bolan sat at the counter. “You must be Melika.”
“That’s me. What can I get you before you get your asses killed?”
“Primos. The lady will have an appletini.”
Melika shrugged. “Coming right up.”
Bolan locked his eyes with the Hawaiian crime patriarchs holding court at the booth in the far corner. One was built like an aging Olympic shot-putter. The other man filled half the booth like a retired sumo wrestler. Shot-put wore a red-and-blue aloha shirt and his iron-gray hair was cut in a shag. Sumo was a monstrosity in a men’s XXXL pink-and-black bowling shirt and had his hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Bolan kept his face stony as alarm bells rang up and down his spine.
Also seated in the booth was Man-mountain with his hand in a cast and a dressing behind his left ear.
The Samoan moved around the bar and loomed over Bolan. He gave Koa a disgusted look. “You seem a little lost, kolohe.” The Samoan leaned in and mad-dogged Bolan. “And I don’t know who this lolo haole is, but I don’t give a shit.”
Bolan’s cram sessions told him that he’d just been called an idiot white man and Koa had been called a troublemaker. The stone face of the morbidly obese man in the booth cracked as he squinted at Koa in recognition. “Luke?”
Koa nodded. “Uncle Aikane.”
Melika clapped her hands. “Luke!”
The dangerous men in the booth suddenly smiled.
Bolan knew “uncle” or “aunt” was a term of respect in Hawaiian for any elder or better. “Aikane” was the Hawaiian word for friend, and it was a much stronger word than the English version. “Uncle Friendly” the crime lord had just recognized Koa. Bolan was starting to get the impression that Koa had earned himself a reputation way back when.
The Samoan bouncer’s eyes widened disbelievingly. “Koa?”
Koa stared at the Samoan without an ounce of warmth. “Remember you, Tino. From back in the day, and that’s my cousin you’re talking to.”
Tino’s eyes flared. “Hey, brah, I—”
Bolan spun up from his bar stool and hurled a right-hand lead with every ounce of strength he had. The Samoan’s nose was already flat as a squid and took up nearly half his face. Bolan felt the cartilage crunch beneath his knuckles and saw the tear ducts squirt. Tino pawed for the bar and failed to find purchase. He fell backward and landed hard on the ancient linoleum.
Bolan sat on his bar stool and regarded the Primo beer Melika had set in front of him with grave consideration. “Guess I need a new mantra…”
Uncle Aikane held up a huge hand in friendship and as a sign for the violence to end. “Who is your cousin, Luke?”
In Hawaiian, “cousin” could mean any number of relationships both inside and out of kinship. The other side of the coin was that the Islands were small, and a great deal of mixing had been going on. There was a joke that when local singles met they had to compare family trees to make sure they weren’t breaking any laws of man or nature.
Koa stared at Uncle Aikane with great seriousness. “Makaha is my half cousin, Uncle.”
Wheels turned behind Uncle Aikane’s eyes. The massive killer suddenly smiled happily. “Little Luana! Married that sailor boy! Years ago! Moved to the mainland!” He nodded at Bolan. “You Luana’s boy?”
Bolan nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
The leaner, older man clapped his hands. “You are Makaha!”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Makaha!” Uncle Aikane laughed. “Your uncle Nui only pretends he knows you!”
“I remember Makaha well!” Nui protested. “He was even whiter in his crib!”
“How is your mother, Makaha?” Aikane asked.
“Many years in the grave, Uncle.”
“Mmm.” Uncle Aikane, Nui and the Lua master all nodded gravely. “Your father?”
Bolan put a terrible look on his face. “I don’t remember him.”
U.S. soldiers and sailors marrying local girls, having children and then disappearing was not exactly an unknown story in the Hawaiian Islands. The elders received this information with equal gravity. Dignity required the subject not be pursued. Aikane returned his attention to Koa.
“You are back, Luke.”
“I heard my cousin was in a bad place. I went east and got him out of it. And then? We decided there was nothing on the mainland for us. We came home.”
The elders nodded. After World War II there had been a significant diaspora, and among the Hawaiian expatriates even onto the second and third generation there was a powerful desire to return. Uncle Aikane nodded very slowly. “Aloha, Koa. Aloha, Makaha.”
Koa nodded in return. “Aloha” was another Hawaiian word with a lot of meanings. It could mean hello, goodbye, welcome or even I love you. In this setting Bolan perceived at the very least it meant “Welcome, returned ones.” Bolan and Koa were in, and their covers were hanging by threads.
They both responded in unison. “Aloha.”
Chapter 3
The Annex, Stony Man Farm
“They’re in,” Kurtzman confirmed. Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, gave the computer expert a look, and he sighed. He felt the same way she did. Bolan had been on some very deep-cover missions before, but the Hawaiian job was pushing the limits.
“You really think they can pull this off?” Price asked.
“You saw the picture of Mack after Agent Hu got through with him. Are you going to walk up to him in a bar in Waikiki and tell him he’s not Hawaiian enough?”
“No, but the locals have a very strong vibe.”
“I know. That’s why Koa came up with the story about a prodigal son lost to the mainland and returning to his heritage. It will explain lapses, and Bolan has Koa to smooth things over for him. Plus if it looks like he’s desperate to prove himself, the bad guys may accelerate him into the inner circle of evil.”
“Yes, and just who are the bad guys again?” That was the million-dollar question. The mission was troublingly vague. Price looked at the converging data streams. “We have young female tourists disappearing—that implies white slavery—and two intercepted gun shipments.”
“Girls for guns.” Kurtzman scowled. He found the sex-slavery trade particularly abhorrent. “It’s not as if it hasn’t been done before.”
“In the United States? In Hawaii?”
“If it’s true, it’s bad,” Kurtzman agreed.
“I’m still trying to figure out the spike in violence against tourists and military personnel.”
“Hawaii has had locals-only trouble before,” Kurtzman countered.
“Yeah, and this is swiftly reaching the levels of the bad old days in the ’70s.”
Kurtzman nodded. Hawaiians were now a minority in their own islands, and they also made up the poorest segment of the Aloha State’s extremely cosmopolitan society. Their native discontent had sporadically manifested itself in violence, mostly against tourists, despite the fact that tourists and the U.S. military presence