Cold Fury Read online

  “It comes in handy every once in a while,” Case said.

  “Looks like a lot more wildlife than people,” Grimaldi commented.

  “You got that right,” Case said.

  “You mentioned that fishing is the primary industry for the Eskimo village?” Bolan asked.

  “Right. It’s probably been shut down now that we’re on the edge of winter.”

  “So they have docks in the village?”

  “Yeah. The village is about a mile or so from the airport, although there’s a privately owned airstrip on Eskimo land. They have some commercial pilots that use it.”

  “Commercial pilots?” Grimaldi said. “Up here?”

  “We call them bush pilots. Air travel is our primary means of transportation.”

  “Yeah?” Grimaldi grinned. “I figured it would be dog sleds.”

  “Not hardly,” Case said. “Even the Eskimos and Indians use snow machines nowadays.”

  “I must’ve been thinking about Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.” Grimaldi continued, “According to our GPS, we should be there inside of ten minutes.”

  Bolan made a mental note to check in with Aaron Kurtzman as soon as they’d landed.

  Grimaldi established radio contact with the tower and advised they were inbound. The tower acknowledged and twin lines of lights appeared in the darkness below, illuminating the runway.

  “I could have landed that Lear there,” he said. “I mean, if it was an emergency, I could have.”

  Case smirked.

  The pilot made a few adjustments to the instrument panel and then lowered the helicopter to the designated landing pad. He waited for further instructions then edged toward the open door of a hangar. Several ground crew members directed him to ease the chopper inside. Once there, he shut down the aircraft.

  As he took off his headset, he glanced at Case. “Now, be honest with me. Wasn’t that the smoothest landing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” the big trooper said.

  Bolan had to wait for them to exit before he could get out, but he was already punching in Kurtzman’s number.

  He picked up immediately. “You guys up in the land of the midnight sun?”

  “More darkness than sunlight at the moment,” Bolan told him. “You got any updates?”

  “I’ve been trying to track the signal of that sat phone, but the guy must have turned it off.”

  Bolan didn’t like the sound of that. It could mean the main man suspected that the operation in Seattle hadn’t gone according to plan.

  “Well, keep trying,” Bolan said. “We just landed in Wales. The police sent a trooper up here ahead of us. He’s MIA.”

  “Damn,” Kurtzman said. “Sorry to hear that. I’ll stay on it. If the Russian turns on the phone, I’ll call you.”

  “Better put on another pot of your coffee.”

  Kurtzman snorted. “Yeah, and you tell Jack I’ll keep some ready for your return.”

  Bolan disconnected and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He walked over to the door and saw that Case had just finished talking to an airport employee.

  “Anything?” Bolan asked.

  Case shook his head. “Still nothing from Roberts. From what I’ve gathered, he landed here four hours ago and inquired about any prospective arrivals. There’s a bush pilot heading up here from Anchorage International, and a fishing boat that arrived about the same time Roberts did.”

  “A fishing boat?”

  “Yeah. Russian boat. He apparently went down to check it out.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know if it’s still there. They apparently docked at the village. They have a private pier.”

  “How far?”

  “Close to a mile or so. It’s a gravel road but it should be passable.”

  Bolan considered the possibilities. He figured they could cover the distance on foot in about fifteen minutes, depending on the degree of caution the approach would require. But Case told him he’d already arranged to use one of the airport’s trucks.

  “How did Roberts get there?”

  “He took an airport truck,” Case said.

  “He’s been gone for over four hours and no one’s gone to check on him?”

  Case shrugged. “Like I told you, we mostly work alone up here. It’s a way of life for us.”

  Bolan said nothing, but he silently hoped that it wouldn’t also turn out to be a way of death.

  The Alaskan Interior

  Nikoloz Rokva heard the plane’s engine shifting and knew the pilot was starting his descent. He stood and slowly stretched his muscles, then went to the cockpit where Mikhal and Oleg, his two pilots, were seated.

  “How much longer?” he asked.

  Mikhal turned. “Approximately fifteen minutes.”

  Rokva nodded and slapped the man on the shoulder. He always made sure to acknowledge his men for maintaining a good work ethic. After making his way back to his seat, he took out the satellite phone and began reassembling it. If the authorities were tracking him, it would most likely alert them to his new location once he used it, if they had the telemetry to do that, but it could not be helped. It was still dark and the men on the ground had to ignite the oil pots to illuminate the runway. Otherwise, it would be like flying in blind and hoping for the best.

  The plane banked slightly and Sergei awoke from his sitting slumber.

  “Are we there?” he asked.

  Rokva nodded and, after checking to see that the phone had powered up, began punching in the number for Emil Burdin, his man on the ground. He answered after half a dozen rings with a sleepy voice.

  “We are getting close.”

  “Ah, good. We anticipated as much and have been placing things in order.”

  Burdin was highly competent, which was one of the reasons the Georgian trusted him to run the intermediate stop on their route. But this time it would be the last.

  “Get things ready. We are perhaps ten minutes out.”

  “Da.”

  Rokva was mildly concerned by the sleepiness in Burdin’s voice. The man had a fondness for vodka, but what Russian didn’t? As long as he maintained the landing strip and kept the curious Indians at bay, Rokva was satisfied. At any rate, this would be the last time he would have to worry about this phase of the trip. Once they left with this shipment, the entire area could be swept clean. He debated whether to use his sat phone again. If the Americans were tracking him by monitoring the frequency, chances were good that the call to Burdin had already been noted. But it could not be helped, so he decided to check to see how the scorched earth policy was progressing back in Wales.

  After five rings, Lebed answered and Nikoloz could discern the vestiges of slurring in his words. The son of a bitch had been imbibing again, before the mission was complete. This reaffirmed the prudence of his original plan for the man. The sound of heavy equipment was audible in the background.

  “Greagor?” Rokva said. “How are things proceeding?”

  “What? I can hardly hear you with all this damn racket.”

  “Give the phone to Vasilli,” he said loudly. “And tell him to shut off the noise so I can give him his instructions.”

  After a solid three minutes, the Georgian finally heard Denisov’s voice on the phone. The equipment belched and whirled louder than before, causing even more interference.

  “Shut down those damn machines so we can talk,” Rokva shouted into the phone.

  Denisov’s reply was faint but audible. “Oh, okay, boss.”

  He heard him yelling and, after a few seconds, the sound of the equipment, most likely the backhoe and bulldozer, ceased. Then Denisov came back on the line.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “How close are you to being done?”

  Denis
ov’s tone was rife with frustration.

  “We are getting closer. The ground’s so hard it’s like trying to dig in concrete.”

  Rokva had figured as much, but he wanted the task completed. If the Americans were onto them, the clock was ticking and the less evidence left behind to show their intentions, the better.

  “Do the best that you can do,” he said. “But work quickly. Did you take care of the Eskimo?”

  “Da.”

  “Good. And has the second plane arrived yet?”

  “Not yet. I can send a man to check on it, but I have everyone working on this part now.”

  “Is Greagor with you?”

  “He is. Want me to send him? He is as useless as tits on a male pig.”

  “No,” Rokva said. “Now listen very carefully. I have two things to tell you. When the plane arrives, give the pilot these coordinates.” He recited them from memory. “Have him fly you and the rest of the men here.”

  “Understood. What else?”

  He thought about how to phrase the next part. He wanted to ensure Denisov’s continued loyalty but not plant the seeds of mutiny.

  “Greagor has become a liability.”

  Denisov was silent for a few seconds. “A liability?”

  “Yes. His incompetence has compromised the mission.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him nothing,” Rokva said. “Kill him and leave him with the rest of them.” More seconds of silence, then he asked, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Denisov said. “Understood. I’ll send Alyosha to check on the plane.”

  Rokva noted that the man’s voice sounded warm with pleasure. Not a bad sign after hearing unexpected instructions to dispatch one of his fellows, but not entirely a good one, either. He would have to keep a closer watch on Denisov after this, lest he become too ambitious and decide to continue to work his way up the ladder. But for the present, all was good.

  “Text me after it is done,” Rokva said before terminating the call. “When you are on the plane.”

  Eskimo Village

  Wales, Alaska

  The whining drone of what sounded like heavy equipment had ceased for the better part of a minute when Bolan heard the distinct and unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

  He looked at Case, who was driving, and saw the big man immediately slow the vehicle and douse the lights.

  “How much farther is it?” Bolan asked.

  “A few hundred yards.”

  “Then let us out. We’ll proceed on foot. You stay here.” Bolan withdrew his night-vision goggles from the pocket on his duffel bag.

  “Hey,” Case said. “This is my jurisdiction and one of my troopers might be in trouble down there. I’m not about to sit on my hands.”

  Bolan looked at him and saw the steely reserve in his eyes.

  “All right, approach in the truck. Give us a couple minutes’ lead time to scope things out in case there’s an ambush waiting for us.” He pulled the MP-5 out of his duffel. Grimaldi did the same.

  Case considered that. “I wish we were in radio contact.”

  “Once we get in position, I’ll flash you twice with my flashlight. Acknowledge once with yours. If the way is clear, I’ll flash you three times. If it’s not, I’ll do another double.”

  Case took a deep breath and nodded.

  Bolan and Grimaldi began to get out of the truck. The Executioner noticed the dome light illuminate as he opened the door and he slammed it shut. He reached and smashed his gloved fist upward, extinguishing the light.

  Case smirked. “Glad this isn’t my truck.”

  The Stony Man warriors got out and began a quick trot along the plowed shoulder of the road. Bolan’s NVGs displayed the roadway in a greenish tint. It appeared deserted.

  But then he caught sight of a flickering up ahead.

  “Down,” he instructed.

  Both he and Grimaldi flattened on the rough gravel. Bolan adjusted the binocular feature on his goggles and saw that the flickering was a couple of flashlight beams swirling like wraiths in the night. At least the men holding the flashlights were facing the opposite direction; his night vision wasn’t at all impaired.

  The sound of the heavy equipment started up again and Bolan saw a backhoe bouncing up and down as its clawlike bucket dug into the ground. A bulldozer idled about thirty yards to the rear, some men standing near it. Bolan counted three. With the two operating the bulldozer and backhoe, that brought the count up to five. The three men each had AK-47s slung over their shoulders. He’d been in the business long enough to know the machine operators were likely also armed.

  One of the three men turned and lit a cigarette, the flame of his lighter igniting like a candle flare in Bolan’s night-vision goggles. He quickly shut his eyes and looked away.

  “Dammit,” Grimaldi whispered. “You catch that blast of light, too?”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. He turned and pressed the activation switch on his flashlight twice, saw Case’s acknowledgment and then flashed three more times.

  “We’ll wait for Case to get here,” he said. “Then the three of us can move up on foot. It doesn’t look like that sentry has night-vision equipment, so we’re ahead of the game.”

  “The guy’s not too sharp,” Grimaldi said. “Smoking on sentry duty.”

  “Let’s hope he’s also a lousy shot.” Bolan could hear the truck creeping up to their position.

  “What the hell do you think they’re doing?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan did not reply but the answer was obvious in his mind: They were most likely digging a grave.

  Just then his sat phone vibrated. He told Grimaldi to get Case when he arrived and bring him up to speed. He then glanced at the number on the screen and saw that it was Kurtzman.

  “What’s up?” Bolan asked.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” His voice sounded weary but alert. “I just intercepted a couple of transmissions from our target. Looks like he’s on the move.”

  “Where to?”

  “The interior of Alaska at the moment. He made a call to the coastal area on Seward Peninsula near Wales.” He paused. “Where you are now, I see.”

  “Right.”

  “That was the first call. A few minutes ago. The second call is to some place in the lower Arctic region. Want the coordinates?”

  Bolan heard the crunching snow and figured that Grimaldi and Case were coming up on him. “Save them. We’re about to check on something. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Roger that, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “Watch yourself.”

  “Will do.” Bolan terminated the call and replaced his sat phone in his pocket as Grimaldi and Case both crept up alongside him. Case had his AR-15.

  “You have any night-vision equipment?” Bolan asked.

  “Wish I did,” Case said.

  “Okay, here’s what we’ve got.” Bolan briefed him on the grouping ahead. The stuttering roar of the backhoe echoed in the night.

  “You guys have the better equipment,” Case said. “And I get the feeling you’ve done this kind of thing before. I’ll follow your lead.”

  Before Bolan could reply, he caught sight of movement and saw the man with the cigarette walking toward a parked pickup. He got into the driver’s side and started it up.

  Bolan pushed up his goggles just as the headlights came on. He turned to Case. “Where’s our truck?”

  “On the side of the road about twenty-five yards back.”

  The pickup started to crawl forward, its engine rasping in the cold temperature.

  “This guy’s heading in that direction,” Bolan said. “He’s bound to see it and slow down or stop. Jack, you two go back and deal with him.”

  Grimaldi started to go when Case said, “Hey, I’m a police officer, not an assassin.
I can’t just take people out.”

  Bolan looked at the big man and realized his dilemma.

  “Stay out of it, then. But keep in mind there are at least four more of them down there armed with Kalashnikovs.”

  “And they aren’t playing games,” Grimaldi said. “We still don’t know the whereabouts of your trooper, either.”

  After several seconds of silence, Case nodded. “All right, I’m with Jack.”

  “Outnumbered and outgunned,” Grimaldi said. “As usual. When are we going to catch a break?”

  “Maybe now,” Bolan said. The pickup was barely twenty feet past the heavy equipment. “It looks like a straight shot on this road. Turn his truck around and send it into their little construction zone. It’ll create enough of a diversion that I’ll be able to gain the upper hand.”

  “You’re going to take on four armed assailants yourself?” Case asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Grimaldi said, “this isn’t exactly his first rodeo.” He slapped Case on the shoulder. “Come on. Time to make the doughnuts.”

  Bolan watched them go, rose to a crouch and started to jog alongside the roadway. Luckily, the shoulder had been cleared of snow, which created a three-foot-high berm of sorts.

  As the pickup edged toward him, gaining speed, Bolan hopped over the shallow snow wall and rolled onto the other side. He peered over the top and watched as the pickup continued by, the driver holding a cigarette in one hand and a pint bottle in the other. His head lolled back as he pressed the bottle to his mouth and drank.

  Vodka, most likely, the Executioner thought as he watched the vehicle pass. He tested the depth of the snow on his side of the frigid berm. It was only about a foot deep. It would make his forward progress a bit slower, but he had only about thirty yards to go now. The sounds of the big diesel engine and hydraulic cables straining as the backhoe’s bucket slammed again and again into the frozen earth echoed in the night. Bolan now saw that there were four men standing between the pieces of heavy equipment. With the two in the earth-movers, that upped the total to six here, and one in the departing pickup truck.

  A not-so-lucky seven, Bolan thought.