Meltdown te-97 Read online

  "Hal, we don't have time for a math lesson. I know probability theory. What are the particulars? What's going on? Who's behind it?"

  "That's where we've run up against a brick wall, Mack. We know what, but we don't really know who. We can guess. You can, too, I think. But what we need is the goods. We need to make a case, and make damn sure it will stick. We want these bastards handled, and we don't much care how. Or by whom."

  Bolan jerked forward, then stopped as Brognola waved a hand.

  "No. I know what you're thinking, but no. The President hasn't given me specific authorization to put you on this thing. But he sure as hell knows I will. And," Brognola said, winking broadly, "he didn't tell me not to."

  "That's it?" Bolan asked.

  "Best I can do, Mack. Sorry."

  Sorry. It seemed to Bolan he'd heard it a thousand times since Stony Man. He was good enough to do their dirty work for them. Oh, yeah. Just as long as he didn't tell them about it. He was a back-door man, somebody your servants dealt with.

  Take what he's selling, just don't let him in the parlor. That was for polite company only.

  He'd seen it all before-during the Mafia wars. Nobody wanted to acknowledge him then, either.

  Oh, sure, some did — a good cop here and there, a grateful citizen now and again. But everybody else said, "Do what you can. Just don't bleed on the rug. Not my rug." And Mack Bolan did it. He did his job.

  He did it because it was his job. And he did it because it had to be done. Stony Man had been that way, until some Soviet fox had gotten into the henhouse. And Mack Bolan had been the only guy man enough to crawl through the shit to get him out.

  Now some new evil was trying to eat away at America, to devour the good. This time they were atomic chickens, laying nuclear eggs. No way Mack Bolan would let this one slide. No way. No matter how he felt. No matter how tired of all the crap he had become. This was his job. It was his job, and he would do it. Because he had to, and above all because he was Mack Bolan. The Executioner.

  "Okay, Hal, I want it all. Everything you know. Everything you suspect."

  Brognola ran down the incidents one by one, leaving the chaff aside. Every incident was analyzed. Common threads, of which there were several, were highlighted. Possible reasons were discussed, probably scenarios considered. What it all boiled down to was that someone wanted to cramp American nuclear style. There had been attempts to sway public opinion before, of course. Most of them were honorably motivated.

  But this was different. This one smelled, badly. It stank of vodka and borscht. It smelled of KGB. You didn't have to look too deeply to find them under most rocks. There would be rocks, of course. Rocks labeled Cuba, Libya, Nicaragua. But they were only rocks. It was the thing that crawled out when you kicked one over that Bolan hated most of all. And this rock would probably be lettered in Arabic. But the return address would be Moscow.

  Of course.

  "Did you look into the antinuke groups?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes. There's something there, but I'm not sure. There's Arab money, of course. But that doesn't prove anything. It's legal. And why shouldn't there be, after all. Hell, if I was sitting on all that oil, I think I'd want all the competition on the run. Including flashlight batteries. Nuclear power could put them out of business."

  "Sure, Hal. But what I saw tonight was not fair business competition. There were two good men in that chopper. Somebody killed them. And somebody's got to pay for it. Yeah, I nailed the gunners, but I want the people who paid them. What they're up to isn't legal."

  "Look, I know how you feel, but we have got to play this one carefully. We have some people inside. Good people. We have to make damn sure they're covered."

  "You know better than that, Hal."

  Brognola looked at the big guy for a few seconds before he answered. "Yeah, I do." Whatever else Mack Bolan was, he wasn't a hothead. No way would he compromise somebody on the inside of a deal like this. There was too much at stake, and nobody would know that better than the guy right there on the firing line... or on the wrong end of the gun. "Look, the best thing you can do is read these files. When you're done, I'll try to answer your questions. There's a lot here, but there is a hell of a lot that isn't. And I have to have those papers back by tomorrow night. We don't have a lot of time."

  Brognola paced while Bolan flipped through the files one by one. Once in a while he'd ask a question, then push on. His jaw grew tighter with each file. When he was finished, he pushed them into a neat pile and stood up to stretch.

  "Not a pretty picture, is it?" Brognola asked.

  Bolan didn't answer.

  "I want you to meet our best source of information. She can tell you more than I can about some of the groups that might be involved in this business."

  "She?"

  "Rachel Peres. She's damn good. Been with us a long time. Former Mossad."

  "Former? Come on, Hal, that's too damn risky. I can't afford to rely on somebody who might be playing both ends against the middle in this thing."

  "No way. She's solid. I can vouch for that. And we really need her. It's taken too long as it is to get somebody on the inside. I can't go back to square one on this. Not now."

  Bolan stepped to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Beyond the glass was a second curtain, this one made of snow.

  "Mack, you have to trust me on this. I know what you're thinking. But this is too big. And too damn important. You'll need her help."

  Brognola was right, of course. And Mack Bolan knew it. And he knew he had to protect himself. He knew Mack Bolan would not be working with Rachel Peres. No. Her partner would be the Executioner.

  "Where do I meet her?"

  "Right here. She should be in the reception area," Brognola answered as he checked his watch before moving to open the door.

  Bolan turned in surprise to stare at the slender dark-haired woman who stood in the office doorway. Her eyes were even darker than her hair. As she walked toward him, Bolan decided there was a no-nonsense look about her, and her grip was firm when she reached out to take his hand in her own.

  "I've heard a great deal about you, Mr. Bolan. And to set things straight from the beginning, I assure you, I can take care of myself, and of you, too, if it should come to that."

  "I believe it," Bolan said, relaxing somewhat. "Let's get to work. We have a lot to do."

  "More than you know, Mr. Bolan."

  "Call me Mack."

  "Fair enough."

  Bolan was impressed by Rachel Peres's grasp of detail as she outlined the information she had gathered. Her efficiency reminded him of someone, someone it was too painful to remember. A woman who had made the supreme sacrifice for him. A woman who had given her life for him.

  April Rose.

  But this woman was something else. As Bolan's thoughts returned to the present he decided that working with her was not going to be that bad. Not at all.

  3

  Robert Hanley was nervous. When Hal Brognola had returned his files that evening, he had told him that someone was coming down later with more questions.

  Brognola hadn't said anything specific, but Hanley knew something big was happening. You could see it in the man's eyes. Hanley had asked, but Brognola had all but ignored the question.

  "You don't want to know," Brognola had said.

  And Hanley didn't want to know. It was spooky, sitting alone in the big house. His wife and kids were safe at least. They had gone to her sister's in Phoenix. But the darkness of the Virginia countryside was no comfort. If anything, it made Hanley feel more vulnerable.

  He wanted to look at the files again. But first he had to make sure the house was secure. He turned on the outdoor floodlights, but a glance at the wide front lawn didn't reassure him. There were too many shadows. The trees that had been his pride and joy could hide anything. Or anyone. Locking the windows one by one, Hanley felt cold shivers slip down his spine.

  On the way up the sweeping semicircular staircase, he thought he
heard something on the front porch. A thud maybe. Or a footstep. He went back down to peek through the thick glass of the front door. There was nothing there.

  Returning to the top of the stairs, he checked the bedroom windows one by one and then the sitting room.

  As he moved toward his office, he thought of the papers again.

  So much anxiety over them meant there had to be something in them. Something he hadn't seen the first time. A pattern, some link that bound all the accidents together.

  Whatever it was, he wanted to find it. After all, Robert Hanley knew he knew more about nuclear safety than anyone in the country. If there was something in those files to upset Brognola, he'd find it. He'd be ready for Brognola's emissary. He could do it even without knowing what Brognola knew. He didn't need any help.

  He was the best.

  The door to his office was locked as usual. He had taken to keeping it closed, not so much for security, but because of the kids. It was off-limits to them, even for hide-and-seek. When the lock clicked open, he pushed through the door and felt for the light switch with his left hand.

  Across the large office the broad window was bright.

  The outdoor floodlights cut through the thin curtains, which moved gently in the evening breeze.

  The window was open, and the thick bands of shadow cast by the fighting squirmed like a tangle of snakes. The side window was rarely opened, but he glanced at the heavy draperies for a second. They were still.

  When the overhead light clicked on, the shadows on the curtain disappeared. Hanley crossed the room swiftly, pulled the sliding glass closed and locked it. He flipped on his desk lamp and went back to the doorway to shut off the overhead light. He returned and sat down at his desk and pulled the folders toward him.

  Opening the first file, Hanley felt another chill. He knew it wasn't the breeze; it was the file itself. He started to examine the thickest of the documents. It was the detailed report of a research team that had explored the causes of a reactor shutdown in the Ohio Valley. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission, for all the flak it took outside, was proud of its research. Meticulous and thorough, the NRC examined every nuclear "event," and issued a comprehensive analysis.

  The public, especially those opposed to nuclear energy, might argue with its conclusions, but never with its science. The fat sheaf of papers before him bore out the depth of the NRC's scrutiny. Hanley sometimes believed the research teams gathered too much information.

  It was often difficult to know why things happened, when you had so much detail on what happened. The Pitt General reactor event was no different. Midway 2 was a medium-sized pressurized water reactor. It was older than most, and Hanley knew age could have been a factor in the malfunction. That had been the conclusion of the NRC, in fact. Now Hanley wasn't so sure. Neither was Brognola apparently.

  "Good reading?" The question so startled Hanley that it took him a minute to react. The visitor moved out from behind the heavy draperies at the side window before Hanley could say anything. He was tall and slender, but his features were obscured by the shadows cast by the desk lamp. Hanley didn't recognize him.

  But he knew a gun when he saw one. And the one in the man's left hand looked very deadly.

  "Who are you?" Hanley demanded.

  "It doesn't matter who I am, Mr. Hanley. It's what you do for a living that counts."

  The man moved to the easy chair at the left of Hanley's desk. He sat down, keeping the gun pointed at his reluctant host. Seated, his features were visible at last, but that meant little to Hanley. He had never seen the man before. The intruder took off his slouch hat and dropped it to the floor beside his chair. The man's hair was sparse in front and thinning everywhere else. He ran the fingers of his free hand through it once or twice, arranging the stray hair in a way that was supposed to conceal his baldness.

  "I asked if your reading was interesting. Is it?"

  "Who are you and why are you here? This is my home. You have no right to be here."

  "You're right, of course," the visitor said.

  His manner was nearly apologetic. Hanley found this more annoying than the rudeness he had expected.

  "Still, there are things I must know, Mr. Hanley. Things that you already know."

  "What things?"

  Ignoring the question, the man said, "Someone visited your office this afternoon. He returned some papers to you, did he not? Important papers?"

  "What business is that of yours?" Hanley was beginning to sweat. The longer the intruder remained polite, the more uneasy Hanley became.

  "This time I must disagree with you, Mr. Hanley. It most definitely is my business. Now, if you continue to make things difficult, my assistant and I will have to change our demeanor. I will, at least. My assistant, as you will see if you remain obstinate, has few manners. In fact, he barely has any of the social graces. Otto?"

  While the intruder spoke, Hanley watched his face intently. He barely noticed as the closet door behind the man's left shoulder slid open. The intruder's assistant had made his appearance. He moved quickly across the floor to stand behind his superior.

  The hulking newcomer was massive. Otto's broad shoulders were clearly used to heavier work than supporting his hairless, bullet-like head.

  "Otto, Mr. Hanley seems reluctant to tell us what we need to know. Do you think you can persuade him to be more cooperative?"

  Otto grunted. His thick lips parted slightly in what Hanley took to be Otto's best attempt at a smile. He stepped around the seated man and swept Hanley's desk clean with one swipe of his thick forearm.

  "Otto, you should be more careful. Mr. Hanley's papers are of some value to us."

  Hanley leaped to his feet, but Otto was quicker than he looked. He reached across the desk and caught Hanley by one shoulder. With a grunt, Otto lifted the smaller man in the air, then slammed him down heavily in his chair again.

  "All right, Otto. Let me ask Mr. Hanley a few questions. I'm sure he understands now how serious I am."

  The hulk returned to his place with a second parting of his lips.

  "What do you want?" Hanley asked. "Why are you here? What is this all about?"

  "I want to know who your visitor was. I also want to know why he wanted the papers he returned to you."

  "It was nothing. Just a routine investigation." Hanley sounded desperate, and he knew it. But he also knew these men wanted information they shouldn't have.

  He'd be damned if he'd give it to them.

  "No, Mr. Hanley, it was not routine. Your files are very sensitive. They never leave your office. Never. At least not until two days ago. I find that very interesting. So do my associates."

  "Your associates?"

  "Mr. Hanley, I am losing my patience with you. You are a bureaucrat, Mr. Hanley. No match for Otto's persuasive skills, I assure you. Give Mr. Hanley a demonstration of your technique, Otto."

  This time Otto laughed. He walked swiftly to the front of Hanley's desk and hauled the man to his feet. Without bothering to move around the desk, Otto grabbed Hanley's left arm and gave it a sudden yank, dislocating the shoulder. Hanley screamed, and Otto shoved him back into his chair.

  Hanley moaned. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire. He reached up to rub it with his right hand, but the pain was too great. He wiped cold sweat from his forehead. He knew that they were going to kill him if he didn't cooperate with them. It struck home for the first time. They would kill him unless they got what they had come for. And they would most certainly get it. If he stopped resisting, maybe they would let him live. What was the point of suffering if he was going to tell them what they wanted to know?

  "Are you prepared to answer my questions now?"

  "Yes," Hanley said, his voice cracking under the strain of the situation.

  "Good. Otto, get Mr. Hanley some water, please. His throat seems a little dry."

  The big goon lumbered out into the hallway. Hanley could hear him searching for the bathroom. A dim light flashed on, and soon
Otto was back, carrying the blue glass tumbler from the upstairs bathroom sink. The huge man held the tumbler out, and Hanley reached for it gingerly with his good arm. When he held it securely, Otto caught the hand in his own. And squeezed. Glass cracked, and so did bone. Hanley fainted and collapsed back into his chair. Otto smiled at the bright, wet puddle on the desktop.

  "A nice touch, Otto. But can you revive Mr. Hanley?" the intruder inquired.

  Otto grunted. He lifted the unconscious man easily. Carrying Hanley as if he weighed no more than a rag doll, Otto went down the hall to the bathroom again. Inside, he dumped his burden into the tub. He turned on the cold water tap, then sat on the edge of the tub.

  The water revived Hanley, who moaned and tried to sit up. He shook his head groggily. He started as he realized where he was.

  Otto reached down and caught Hanley by his left shoulder. Hauling the injured man roughly to his feet, he lifted him free of the tub, holding him at arm's length to avoid the water streaming from Hanley's clothing. Otto dropped the smaller man to the floor, nudging him with one foot.

  Hanley got to his feet slowly. He stumbled when Otto shoved him toward the door, hitting his dislocated shoulder on the doorframe as he passed through.

  Hanley knew he was going to die, no matter what he told his captors. As they reached the head of the staircase to the ground floor, the NRC man leaped. He landed halfway down the stairs, his feet flying out from under him. He grabbed the handrail with his left hand, but the pain in his shoulder was too intense. He let go with a groan, falling the rest of the way to the hallway below. Otto bounded down the steps behind him as Hanley crawled toward the front door. Before he could get the door open, Otto was on him. The big man stepped on Hanley's back, pressing the fallen man into the carpet.

  Hanley twisted to one side far enough to see the figure of the other man descending the stairs. He was almost casual in his descent; there was something delicate, almost feminine in the graceful walk.