Meltdown te-97 Read online

  "What the hell are we looking for, anyhow?"

  "Cohen says there's a manhole here someplace. Some cables we have to cut or something. Don't look like it to me, though. Hell, how are we supposed to find anything in this snow, anyhow? That bastard."

  Mack Bolan nodded with satisfaction. Cohen had done a superb job. It couldn't have been better. Not only did he get them out into the woods, he had them stationary. And preoccupied.

  This had to be done as quietly as possible. And done quickly. It was obvious the men were in no mood for an extended search. Bolan withdrew his combat knife and inched forward. He made sure the Beretta was accessible, but it was his backup.

  Concealing himself behind the last line of trees at the edge of the clearing, Bolan coiled for the spring. Like a predatory cat, he leaped, covering the last few yards in midair. Before either man was aware of his presence, he had locked his left forearm around the standing man's neck.

  "What the hell..." The words were cut off as Bolan drew the razor-sharp blade across his captive's throat. Surprise turned to a gurgle, as blood and air bubbled out through the severed windpipe. Momentarily frozen, the kneeling man struggled to his feet, but the Executioner was too fast for him. He shoved the dead man forward.

  The collision knocked the second man over, the deadweight of his companion pinning him to the snow.

  Rolling to one side, he struggled to throw off his burden. He saw Bolan out of the corner of his eye and reached for the automatic on his hip.

  Bolan dropped his full weight, knees first, on the struggling man's right arm, landing just above the elbow.

  The pinioned man screamed as his shoulder was torn from its socket. He scrambled sideways, using his feet and uninjured arm. Like a crab pinned by one claw, he moved in a circle, kicking out from under the deadweight. His efforts tore at the injured shoulder, but he was fighting for his life.

  Groping blindly in the snow, the fingers of his good hand closed over the Kalashnikov. He tried to consolidate his grip, but the gun kept slipping free. Bolan plunged his knife deep into the man's chest. The blade scraped across bone as it slid between ribs. Until it found the heart. With a sigh, the man lay still. The pinioned arm went limp under Bolan's knees. Blood seeped from the slack jaw, almost as an afterthought. Bolan rose, withdrawing the blade as he did so. He wiped the blood on the fur lining of the dead man's parka then slid the blade back into its sheath. Killing seldom came easy to the Executioner. He felt drained for a moment. In Vietnam he had earned the name of Sergeant Mercy. It was a name he was proud of, and it was rooted in his character. A warrior's strength need not deprive him of compassion. In fact, Bolan believed a warrior without compassion was no warrior at all. He was not even a man.

  Looking at the sky overhead, which seemed to have pressed down for a closer look, he wondered. How many men had to die before mankind realized that killing solved nothing?

  Bolan walked to the edge of the clearing, turning once to look at the two dead men lying in the snow.

  They were brave men. Maybe even good men. They were on the wrong side, sure. But people make mistakes. There had to be another way, a better way to solve human arguments.

  * * *

  "What's going on, Eli?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are we staying here, or moving out? This place gives me the creeps."

  "You ought to thank your lucky stars, Louis. You think this place is weird, you ought to walk around that plant a little bit. It's damn spooky. There's enough power in that place to blow New York off the map."

  "Hell, man, that's what we're here for, ain't it? I just want to make sure I'm well out of the way when it happens, that's all."

  "Don't worry about it. Andrey knows what he's doing. You guys got any coffee in here? It's cold as a witch's tit out there."

  "Yeah, there's some on the hot plate. I'll get you a cup. Could use one myself, now that you mention it."

  Cohen stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall. The two remaining guards seemed a little on edge. They had been taken aback at his request for the two others to go out into the cold. Having settled into the warmth of the guardhouse, they were angry that something could so easily disturb them. The whole point of guardhouse duty was that it was easy. Now this asshole had changed everything.

  Louis rattled silverware in the kitchenette.

  Rick Edmunds was sitting at the table, playing solitaire. He hadn't said a word to Eli since the Jewish commando had entered.

  "Cream and sugar?" Louis called from the cubbyhole.

  "No, black's fine, thanks." Eli didn't like Edmunds, and he knew Edmunds didn't like him. He watched the cards as Edmunds flipped them in threes. The man's jaw was set, the muscles in his cheeks bunched in tight little knots. He was unhappy about something.

  He glanced up at Eli in silence for a moment, then said, "Don't watch me like that. It makes me nervous."

  "What's the matter, afraid I'll catch you cheating?" Cohen laughed.

  "I don't have to cheat, Cohen. I know how to play this fucking game."

  "Don't be so touchy, Rick. I was only joking."

  Louis returned from the kitchenette, carrying two cups of coffee. He placed the black coffee in front of an empty chair. At the other end of the table, next to Edmunds, he placed his own cup.

  The coffee was so pale, it looked as if it was two-thirds milk.

  He sat next to Edmunds, peering closely at the cards. "Wait a minute, Rick. Put the red six on that black seven."

  "Mind your own damn business. You're as pushy as Cohen here."

  "Christ, I was just trying to help."

  "Don't bother." Edmunds pushed the cards into a small disorderly mound, then turned it on edge, tapping stray cards into place with a few sharp raps on the tabletop. "There, now you don't have anything to mess with."

  Cohen watched the two men carefully.

  His Ingram was still slung over his shoulder, but the close quarters and the table made it difficult to move quickly. While he debated how and why to get to his feet, the phone rang. He took a long pull on the coffee. On the fourth ring, Louis got up to answer it.

  "Yeah. Mr. Glinkov, yes, hello. This is Louis. Right. No, no. He just came in. You want to talk to him? Just a minute. It's for you."

  Louis extended the receiver to Cohen, who stood up to accept it. He moved against the wall and turned his back to the two men. "Hello. Yes, Andrey. No, everything's all right. I just stopped in after checking the perimeter. Everything's secure. Tight as a drum. All right, yes. I'll be up in five minutes. Fine." Cohen hung up the phone and walked back to the table. He picked up his coffee and finished it off without sitting down. Then he unslung the Ingram and waved it casually toward the seated men.

  "Don't do anything stupid. Just sit there."

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Edmunds demanded.

  "Shut up!" Cohen said. He walked carefully around the table, pushing the chairs in to get them out of his way. "Both of you put your hands on the table. Palms down. Don't move. Don't even breathe."

  "If this is a joke, it's not funny," Louis said.

  "And if it isn't, I'll eat your fucking heart," Edmunds snapped.

  "It's no joke, gentlemen, I assure you." He was standing directly across from the seated men. With a sudden sweep, he slammed the side of the SMG into the base of Edmunds's skull. The man fell forward, scattering the stack of playing cards onto the floor. The half-empty cup of coffee spilled among the cards and began to drip onto the floor.

  "All right, Louis. Stand up!" Cohen barked.

  "What are you going to do?" Louis sounded nervous.

  "Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you. Unless I have to. Now get up!"

  Louis got to his feet carefully.

  "Find some rope and tie him up."

  "Where the hell am I going to find rope, for chrissakes?"

  "You got six men tied up in the bathroom. Untie one of them."

  "But..."

  "Do it, damn it. Now!" Cohen froz
e at the knock on the door. Before he could open it, Mack Bolan pushed through, trailing a cloud of whirling snow. "It's cold out there," he said.

  "You ain't seen nothing yet," Cohen said. "Give me a hand here. Mr. Glinkov wants to see me."

  "Good." Mack Bolan smiled grimly. "I want to see him, too."

  24

  The main control room was strangely silent.

  Andrey Glinkov sat quietly in a chair in front of the control board. The captured engineer sat beside him. Both men were watching the array of dials and gauges. Two guards were the only others present. One of them stood behind the two seated men.

  The other lounged on the floor just outside the entrance to the room. Every few minutes he'd stand and peer through the thick glass to check on the huddled hostages.

  "Shouldn't the temperature be rising more quickly?" Glinkov asked.

  The engineer nodded. "There's another way to do it. You can vent the hot water out into the tunnels under the plant. It'll drain off more quickly."

  "Why don't we do that then?" Glinkov asked. His voice was controlled, almost polite.

  "Because the runoff will flow into the Hudson River. That's where the tunnels lead."

  "So? Surely you know by now I am not just playing some elaborate game here."

  "Yes. I know."

  "Well, then? How do we do that?"

  The engineer said nothing. He stared at his hands, watching his fingers twist as if controlled by someone else.

  "Mr. Robbins, I don't have all night. I am certain that you are not the only one who knows the answer. Am I right?"

  Robbins nodded. "You're right," he mumbled.

  "And you haven't forgotten what happened to Mr. Anderson, have you?"

  "No, you bastard. I haven't forgotten that."

  "Well, then. What happened to Mr. Anderson induced you to cooperate. I imagine that one of your more knowledgeable colleagues can be similarly induced. Don't you agree?"

  Robbins was in a bind, and he knew it. The man seated beside him wouldn't hesitate to kill him. He probably planned to kill them all, anyway.

  On the other hand, if he could stay alive, he just might be able to throw a monkey wrench or two into the works.

  The thought of millions of gallons of radioactive water spilling into the Hudson was appalling. The radioactive level of that water, even when diluted by the Hudson, would kill everything it came in contact with. The effects would last for decades. He had no choice. But maybe he could fool his captor. It was worth a try.

  "All right," Robbins said. "The control valve for the sluiceways is over here." He indicated a large red button switch on the main control board.

  "And what happens when I push it?"

  "The hot water drains in the tunnels. It clears out the containment tower."

  "Very good. Do you want to push the button? Or shall I?"

  "You do it. I told you where it is, but I'll be damned if I'll push it."

  "As you wish. Which dial do I watch to determine the progress?"

  "Up there, high on the board. That red bulb. When the valve is open, the bulb blinks."

  Glinkov depressed the red button with a flourish. He turned a radiant, sardonic smile on Robbins. Gesturing to the guard behind him, he said, "I don't believe we need any more from Mr. Robbins at the moment. I'll call him when it's time to pull the control rods. You can permit him to rejoin his colleagues."

  The guard stepped forward, taking Robbins by the arm. The engineer stood reluctantly. If he appeared too eager, Glinkov might suspect something. The guard tugged his arm, and he moved toward the secondary control room. The sentry rose and opened the door. Robbins was shoved roughly inside by his escort. The door slammed shut behind him.

  He stumbled over the feet of another hostage and fell to the floor. The other hostages looked at him questioningly. He shook his head to clear it and crawled to a sitting position. So far, so good. He hadn't told Glinkov about the evacuation pump or the second valve. Without using the pump, the water would take hours to drain. And unless the second valve was opened, the water would simply fill the tunnels, slowly draining out of the reactor vessel under the influence of gravity. It couldn't reach the Hudson. It seemed like a small thing, but it was all he could hope for. It was their only chance to reverse the madness.

  "What's going on out there?" someone whispered.

  "They're draining the reactor vessel," Robbins answered. He continued to face front. He tried not to move his lips as he spoke.

  "Why? What are they trying to do?"

  "I don't know. And I don't want to guess. The more important question is what are they going to do with us?"

  "They'll let us go, won't they?"

  Another hostage joined the discussion. "I mean, once they get what they came for, there'll be no reason to keep us here."

  "Don't count on it. As near as I can figure, they want this to look like an accident. They can't very well leave us around to say it wasn't, can they? I figure they plan to kill us all and leave this place so hot nobody will get in to learn the truth for years."

  "Are you crazy?"

  "I'm not, no. But I'm not so sure about him."

  "Who the hell is he? Where did he come from?"

  "I can only guess. But I'll tell you one thing. The next time that door opens, if I get the chance, I'm going to try to get a gun. If we can do that, we can hold them off in here."

  "For how long?"

  "How long do we have without it?" Robbins asked.

  The others said nothing.

  * * *

  Glinkov watched the temperature gauge for the Unit 1 reactor. It was slowly rising, the needle quivering in place and jumping upward from time to time. In the distance an alarm bell rang continually. It had started as soon as the ventilation valve had opened. The red bulb high up on the control board blinked hypnotically.

  Glinkov stared at it. Things were proceeding smoothly. More smoothly than he had hoped. In a little more than an hour, he would be on the helicopter Achison was bringing in. The others had served him well but, of course, they would remain behind.

  Permanently. There was still one thing needed for an unqualified success, however. Mack Bolan had to be eliminated. Where was he? As long as the Peres woman remained alive, he was certain to make an attempt to free her. He should have been here already.

  Well, there was still time. For Malcolm Parsons, however, time had run out. He was excess baggage at this point. Glinkov waved to the guard behind him.

  "I have something I would like you to take care of."

  "Sir?"

  "Mr. Parsons is no longer essential to our plans here. Dispose of him, won't you?"

  "Yes, sir," the guard said without questioning his leader's order. "Where is he?"

  "He's on Level 4. In an office at the end of the corridor. One of the men down there can show you to him."

  The guard hefted his Kalashnikov and grinned.

  "I'll be right back." He crossed the wide floor to the control room exit and walked quickly toward the elevator bank. It was going to be a pleasure. Parsons was an egotistical windbag.

  The elevator came slowly, opened with a sigh and closed behind him. When it reached the bowels of the plant, it opened on a dim corridor. The guard moved swiftly, his step almost jaunty. As he neared the end of the long passage, he saw two team members standing guard, one outside of each door.

  "Where's Parsons?"

  The guard gestured with his head. "In here."

  He pushed through the door. Parsons was seated behind a desk, writing busily. He didn't look up when the man entered. The newcomer crossed the office floor and plopped down in a chair alongside the desk. "You writing another one of your bullshit speeches?"

  "That's right, I am," Parsons said.

  "Don't bother."

  "Oh, but I must. Nuclear energy is one of the greatest social issues of our time. I have a duty to speak out."

  "Finish it when we come back then."

  "Oh, are we going somewhere?"<
br />
  "Yup, we are. Let's go."

  The guard stood up impatiently. Parsons continued to scribble. "I'll be with you in a moment. I never like to leave a thought in the middle. Sometimes you can't pick it up again."

  "I never had that problem," the guard said.

  Parsons finished with a flourish and placed his pen down on the paper. He smiled up at the guard.

  "I shouldn't wonder," he said. "Now, where are we going in such a hurry?"

  "Andrey has something he wants you to look at."

  The two men left the office and stepped out into the corridor. "Just a minute," Parsons said. "I forgot to turn off the light." He stepped back into the office. At the desk he reached over and pressed the Off button on the fluorescent desk lamp. The room was coal black.

  "Hurry up, Parsons, Andrey's in a hurry."

  A moment later, Parsons stepped back into the hallway. He closed the door tightly and nodded to the guard. "Be back in a half hour, Thomas. Please don't let anyone in while I'm gone."

  The guard smiled at Thomas behind Parsons's back. "You heard what the man said. Take care of those valuable papers."

  If Parsons noticed the sarcasm, he gave no sign. The guard moved on to the end of the corridor and turned right. It was the only direction he could take. The corner was at the outside edge of the largest rectangle on which the plant was built.

  Ahead of the two men, another corridor, lit even more dimly, stretched as far as they could see.

  "What exactly does Andrey wish me to see?" Parsons asked.

  "Be patient, old man."

  "Old man, is it? I'm not as old as you think."

  Maybe not, the guard thought, but you're as old as you're gonna get. He walked behind Parsons and slightly to one side of the older man's left shoulder. All that remained was to find a suitable place to knock off the old windbag, and he could get back upstairs where the action was. Steel doors, identical to those on the previous corridor, were set into the right-hand wall of the passage. They were spaced farther apart. That meant the rooms were larger.

  Probably for storage, the guard thought. A good place to take care of business.