Deadly Salvage Read online

  “Tyler,” Bolan said. “Take your team and begin clearing those Quonset huts, starting with the one at the rear by the copter.”

  “Roger Wilco,” Tyler said.

  Suddenly, Bolan got an idea. He motioned for Ivan to maintain watch on the hallway. Clearing the nearly empty room took only seconds. Bolan went to the television monitors. Most of them were multiscreened and gave infrared views of the grounds. He saw Tyler’s group clearing what looked to be an airplane hangar. The only hostiles the screens displayed appeared to be dead. Bolan spotted a blank monitor and turned it on. A split-screen image of the building he was now in became visible. Bolan found a remote and began flipping through different views. One image showed him at the monitors, one showed a single man upstairs crouching by a window, and another depicted a man holding a handgun and standing over a supine female in front of some kind of solid, cell-like door.

  Grace Monk, perhaps?

  As the man on the monitor turned, Bolan got a look at his face: Edwin Grimes.

  The Executioner quickly scanned the rest of the screens. The other rooms appeared to be empty. He clicked his mic once to get Ivan’s attention, and when the big Russian turned his head, Bolan motioned him over. He showed Ivan the screens. “Upstairs,” he mouthed, pointing to the crouched assailant. He then pointed to the image of Grimes and the young woman. “Basement.”

  “I take upstairs man,” Ivan said. “You save girl.”

  They left the room and entered the hallway. Bolan stopped behind another pillar next to the stairwell. Ivan signaled that he was going up to the second floor, while Bolan peered down the basement stairs. They looked clear. He moved with precision to the landing and paused again. He spotted a windowless wooden door and a small section of concrete flooring leading into the basement.

  Suddenly, a motor roared to life above him. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the elevator shaft. Bolan slipped down the steps two at a time. On the monitor, he’d noticed the basement was well-lit, and he could see a ribbon of light shining from under the door. Shadows bounced in the light.

  Someone was heading for the door. The elevator, which an experienced soldier would know was a designated kill zone, was apparently a diversion.

  He heard grunts and swearing on the other side of the door, footsteps pounding closer. They were coming toward him in one hell of a hurry. Bolan moved to the side of the door and brought the Beretta up. A quick shot to the back of the man’s head as they went by should do it. His main concern was freeing the girl without harming her.

  The knob turned and the door started to open just as the sound of gunshots echoed from upstairs. The door clicked shut again and Bolan heard a man’s voice.

  “Jaros, this is Grimes. What’s the situation up there?”

  Silence.

  Grimes repeated his question, his voice husky. When no reply came, he swore loudly. “Come on,” he continued. “We’ve got to move.”

  The door burst open, and the girl was thrust through. Grimes was holding her by the arm.

  “We’re all clear back here, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio. “They’re clearing second hooch now.”

  The door pushed back into Bolan, and several rounds exploded, splintering the wood. He flattened himself against the wall as the door became perforated with holes. Luckily, the thick wood had warped the rounds’ trajectory. Bolan threw his weight against the door and pressed forward. The girl screamed as she stumbled, and Bolan grabbed for the semiautomatic handgun, visible now in the space between the door and the jamb.

  The door’s sharp edge swung back into Bolan’s face, slicing open his right eyebrow. Blood ran down his cheek. He shook off the blow and diverted Grimes’s gun upward as it discharged another round. At the same time, he tried to bring his Beretta around through the opening, but he couldn’t risk a shot with the girl still caught in the middle. He aimed at the door and fired several times, hoping at least one of his rounds would manage to penetrate.

  Grimes pushed the door back at Bolan, the force knocking the Beretta from his grasp. It clattered to the floor. He couldn’t release his grip on Grimes’s gun hand, so instead Bolan flung himself around the door and collided with the two other bodies. They danced backward in unison as Bolan smashed a looping right into the other man’s cheek. The blow didn’t have much behind it and Grimes shook it off and snarled, his face twisted with rage.

  Bolan’s momentum pushed them all off balance and they fell, the girl still sandwiched between the two men. They rolled and Grimes fired the pistol, the round ricocheting off the concrete walls. Bolan still had control of the man’s wrist, and slammed the gun hand down hard on the dusty floor several times. The pistol fired again, then flipped from Grimes’s hand. He tried to grab it, but Bolan took a fistful of the man’s dark BDU shirt and heaved upward. The force of the motion pulled everyone away from the gun, but Bolan lost his balance and fell.

  Grimes jumped up and swung something at Bolan’s face as he lay on his back. The Executioner jerked his head to the side, avoiding the blow. A leather blackjack thunked onto the hard floor next to his ear. He kicked out with his right foot, catching Grimes in the left side. The blow seemed to have little effect, but Bolan used the split second it took Grimes to regain his footing to roll to his feet.

  The two men faced each other and Grimes shot a glance at the pistol, which was at least twelve feet away. He rushed for it, swinging the sap as he ran, but Bolan intercepted him. The soldier blocked the blow and charged at Grimes, executing a perfect over-the-shoulder judo throw.

  Grimes slammed onto the concrete floor and his whole body quivered spasmodically. Bolan stepped on the man’s wrist, then reached down to retrieve the sap from his limp fingers. Droplets of blood splattered the floor as Bolan bent over. When he straightened up, Grimes was only semiconscious.

  Bolan looked to the girl, who was lying on her side, staring at him. He managed a smile.

  “Are you Grace?” he asked.

  Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

  “I’m here to help you,” Bolan said. “You’re safe now.”

  He put the blackjack in his pocket and frisked Grimes, then flipped him facedown on the floor.

  “Striker here,” he said into his radio. “I’m in the basement. Hostage is secure and I’ve got one prisoner.”

  “Roger that,” Grimaldi said. “We’re on the way.”

  Grimes moaned as he started to come to.

  The guy has to know it’s all over but the crying, Bolan thought. But it was worth a shot to try and turn him. “Where’s Everett?”

  “I ain’t telling you shit.” His tone was surly. “I know my rights. I want a lawyer.”

  “That might work if I were a cop,” Bolan said, leaning down and twisting Grimes’s arm up in a hammerlock. “But I’m not. And I don’t have time for games.”

  He grunted in pain. “I want to negotiate.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to do that. Where’s your boss?”

  “Go to hell,” Grimes said, but his tone was less confident.

  “I’m running out of patience. It’s over for you. We’ve got all the pieces.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  Bolan’s mind raced. He decided to try a gamble. “We know about the Xerxes.”

  Silence. At least ten seconds ticked by.

  “You’ve got no idea,” Grimes said, his voice cracking with desperation now. “You’ve got no... Look, I wanted no part of that.”

  “Tell me everything you know,” Bolan said, keeping his voice placid and calm, “and I give you my word that I’ll tell them you cooperated.” He eased up slightly on the armlock.

  “Okay, okay,” Grimes said. “But you gotta believe me. I didn’t want any part of it. This whole thing was his idea. He’s a maniac. You gotta believe me.”

&
nbsp; “I do,” Bolan said. “Now spill it.”

  Grimes nodded.

  “Time is of the essence,” Bolan said. And we’ve got a maniac to catch.

  Chapter 14

  “It sounds like you guys stepped into a goddamn war down there,” Hal Brognola said into the satellite phone after listening to Bolan’s sitrep.

  “Let’s call it a police action,” Bolan said. “We need some backup right away.” He heard Brognola blow out a breath.

  “We’ve already got a squad of marines on the way to that platform rig,” he said. “Want me to divert some of them?”

  Bolan considered this. With the platform secure, this compound was of little consequence in terms of the operation. He’d already sent the two FBI agents, Larch and Bettinger, to the safe house with Grace Monk and the two prisoners, the gate guard and Grimes. Once Grimes started to spill his guts, everything had fallen into place. And then the real race began.

  “Have a couple swing by the safe house and assist those two Feds,” Bolan said. “What’s the President going to do?”

  “He’s in a meeting with his staff now. We’ve moved to a high alert status, but between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to authorize a quick strike on that Iranian ship without definitive verification of the threat.”

  “Definitive verification?” Bolan said. “Does he know there’s possibly a nuke on board?”

  “Possibly is the operative word,” Brognola said. “For all we know, this whole thing could be a setup to get us to take out that oil tanker and provoke an international incident.”

  Bolan didn’t argue. He knew the President was a cautious man. He had to be. “Did you find the Xerxes yet, at least?”

  “We’ve got surveillance drones combing the area as we speak,” Brognola said. “And satellite feeds, as well. If she’s out there, we’ll find her.”

  “Speaking of finding things, Jack found a second Osprey in the hangar. He’s doing an inspection now. We’re almost ready to roll.”

  “An Osprey? Didn’t you say Everett already took off in one of those?”

  “That’s what his boy Grimes told us,” Bolan said. “Everett had two of them, just in case one went down with a maintenance problem. He’s got about an hour’s head start on us already, but if he’s carrying a four-or five-thousand-pound missile, it’ll slow him down some.”

  “Except you’re still not positive where he’s headed.” Brognola’s voice was tinged with skepticism.

  “We’re operating on the information we got from Grimes, and it makes sense. If the vice president is going to be in Ponce for this international summit, the Xerxes has got to be close to the southern side of Puerto Rico.”

  “That’s still a lot of ocean.”

  Bolan heard Grimaldi’s whistle signaling that the preflight inspection was complete.

  “Hal, we’re shoving off. Keep trying to get us some coordinates on the ship.”

  Grimaldi was already inside the cockpit when Bolan reached the plane. The rotors were in the vertical position and the rear cargo door was open. Bolan ran up the ramp and saw Kournikova, Ivan and Tyler strapped into seats along the fuselage. Tyler pointed toward the front. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Bolan nodded, continued up to the cockpit and took the copilot’s position. Grimaldi handed him a helmet so they could communicate while in flight. Bolan slipped it on and looked at his friend and partner. “You sure you know how to fly one of these?”

  Grimaldi grinned. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Bolan felt the surge of vibration as Grimaldi fired up the motors.

  * * *

  EVERETT HELD HIS TONGUE as the three men slowly backed the Bobcat down the Osprey’s loading ramp. He wasn’t about to tell them to hurry, not with them handling something so heavy and so deadly. Funny, the warhead looked more like an oversize Christmas tree ornament than something with the power to change the world.

  Everett felt Rinzihov’s hand on his shoulder. The old Russian was smiling. He was finally going to get to see one of his weapons of mass destruction deliver the payload he’d designated to his Cold War enemy, America.

  Zelenkov stood on the other side, his AK-47 slung diagonally across his chest. This guy looked almost as big as Mark Steel, and was at least half a foot taller. Spetsnaz. That was all that damn Grimes could talk about. Everett wondered how things were going back on the island. He’d wait to use the satellite phone in case the signal could later be traced. He couldn’t afford any slipups. Nothing could tie him to this incident.

  The tractor’s rubber tires squealed as they popped off the ridge of the ramp and slid heavily onto the deck. The three men guiding it froze at the sound.

  “Come on,” Everett said. “Get moving. It was just the damn tires going down the hump.”

  The workers resumed their task.

  Everett turned to Zelenkov. “Go get the prisoner out of the plane.”

  Zelenkov nodded and walked past the Bobcat, which was now slowly creeping toward the elevator. Seconds later, Zelenkov dragged Herman Monk out of the Osprey. Monk’s hands were cuffed behind him, and he fell as Zelenkov shoved him forward. The big Russian grabbed Monk’s arm and lifted him to his feet as easily as if he were picking up a rag doll.

  “He’s outlived his usefulness,” Everett said. “Put him with the Stallion.”

  Zelenkov cocked his head, obviously not understanding.

  Rinzihov said something in Russian and Zelenkov’s head bobbled up and down as he steered Monk toward the Bobcat. “He knows it as the RU-100 Veter,” Rinzihov said. “Stallion was the designation given by NATO.”

  Everett knew this, but he liked the name Stallion better. More appropriate, especially in this instance. Like one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. He glanced up to the navigation bridge behind them, then lifted the portable radio to his mouth, keying the mic. “Tanner, you on the bridge?”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  Everett checked his watch: 2:39 a.m. “What’s our present location and course?”

  “We’re about thirty-five miles away from Puerto Rico,” Tanner said. “Still circling.”

  Things were proceeding on schedule. They’d need maybe another hour to set up the bomb, adjust the timer, program the autopilot for the island and get the hell out of there. A vessel the size of the Xerxes would take at least thirty miles to come to a halt, even if the engines stopped. That gave them a comfortable margin of being at least three hundred miles away from the blast—practically back to the island—by the time the bomb went off.

  I’ll be sitting in my Omni penthouse watching the dawn of a new day for America, Everett thought. A new day where I’ll be calling the shots.

  Chapter 15

  “You want the good news or the bad news?” Hal Brognola asked.

  When Brognola’s call had come in Bolan had plugged the satellite phone into the instrument panel so both he and Grimaldi could listen and talk.

  “There’s good news?” Bolan fingered the butterfly bandage Kournikova had put over the cut on his eyebrow.

  “We’ve got a fix on the Xerxes.” Brognola gave them the coordinates.

  “Pretty much where we figured,” Grimaldi said. “I estimate we should be able to intercept in five to ten mikes. Those SEALs ready to help us?”

  Bolan heard Brognola sigh. “That’s the bad news. The strike force is still at least forty minutes away.”

  “How far are they from the coast?” Bolan asked.

  “We estimate them to be about fifteen to twenty miles out,” Brognola said. “And closing.”

  “What about an air strike?” Grimaldi asked. “I’m sure the air force can knock them out.”

  “That’s under consideration,” Brognola said, “but only as a last resort.”

 
“Last resort?” Grimaldi repeated.

  “There’s still no absolute confirmation that there’s a WMD on board.” Bolan could hear the frustration in Brognola’s tone. “I know, I know, but remember—I’m dealing with politicians. It takes them forever to decide anything until they debate it to hell and back.”

  “That’s where this whole thing’s headed,” Grimaldi said. “Have they considered the alternative? If this is a nuke?”

  “The President’s got a roomful of people trying to figure out what to do, what not to do and how to avoid creating an international incident or a possible nuclear event.”

  “They’d better get their act together,” Grimaldi said. “Or Everett’s going to decide for them.”

  “Please tell me they’re at least scrambling some jets,” Bolan said.

  “They are,” Brognola responded. “From Naval Air Station Penascola, in Florida. They can try and sink her if they have to.”

  Grimaldi pointed to the radar screen, showing Bolan the small outline of the Xerxes.

  “See if you can get those SEALs to double-time it,” Bolan said. “In the meanwhile, we’ll let you know about the nuke.”

  Brognola acknowledged and signed off as Grimaldi began his descent.

  * * *

  EVERETT LOOKED DOWN into the first deck cargo hold as the men were putting the finishing touches on the warhead. Zelenkov was attaching the wires to the fuse. The hold was the designated oil waste storage area, and the pungent odor rising out of it reminded Everett of his youth in the oil fields, of how his father had made him work there to gain an appreciation for the dark elixir from which their wealth flowed. “Earth’s blood,” his father had called it. And so it was.

  Everett slipped his satellite phone back into his pocket. He’d weighed the risks of calling Grimes, sending out a traceable signal, and he’d decided that he needed to know for sure that once he arrived back on the island, they’d be ready to take out Cooper and the Russians. He wanted to grab some of them alive and find out what they knew, and more importantly, who they’d told. But that was all secondary to the task at hand. Except Grimes still wasn’t answering.