Nuclear Reaction Read online

  “You first,” Bolan said, heedless of the look that passed across Pahlavi’s face.

  He didn’t care much for the thought of dying underground, but if it had to happen, Bolan wouldn’t be alone. And he most certainly would not be the first to make the hunched, scrabbling descent into strange darkness, while his guide and hosts remained above, ready to slam the trapdoor and imprison him.

  At least, this way, if anything went wrong he’d have Pahlavi at his fingertips, a chance to snap his neck before the lights went out for good. It would be little consolation, at the end—but, then again, sometimes a little was enough.

  Pahlavi blinked at Bolan, swallowed hard, then ducked and crawled in headfirst through the trap. He disappeared like Alice going down the rabbit’s hole, and Bolan followed with his duffel bag of hardware, pausing in the narrow entryway to glance back at the others who remained behind.

  He didn’t speak their language, but he hoped that the expression on his face gave them some hint of his determination not to be entombed without a fight. It obviously wouldn’t be the children’s fault if anything went wrong, but as for Kolda and Saldani, if they should betray him, Bolan only hoped he’d have a chance to reach them one more time.

  Below, Pahlavi used a penlight Bolan hadn’t seen before to light the narrow, steeply sloping stairs. Someone behind him closed the trapdoor and he heard a latch engage. There’d be no problem blasting through it with his AKMS or the SIG-Sauer, if it came down to that, but if he had to go that route, the odds were good that well-armed enemies would open up the trapdoor first, and either lob grenades downstairs or spray the root cellar with automatic fire.

  “Trust me,” Pahlavi said, as Bolan reached his level and set down the duffel bag. “We will be safe here.”

  Bolan kept his face deadpan, replying, “Let’s hope so.”

  “Regrettably,” Pahlavi said, “I must turn off the light. In case they search the house, you understand?”

  “I hear you,” Bolan answered.

  The man-made cave went dark.

  PAHLAVI UNDERSTOOD the grim American’s misgivings. Here he was, in a strange land, surrounded by people he didn’t know, speaking a language that he couldn’t understand. On top of that, enemy troops were closing on him for the second time within six hours, and his only hiding place was a hole in the ground, at the mercy of those very strangers whom he’d only met a short time earlier.

  Pahlavi understood, but he had problems of his own. He wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, but hiding underground was not his first choice, either. After switching off the meager light, it felt as if the walls were closing in on him, the ceiling dropping lower, squeezing all the air out of the cellar that might soon become their tomb.

  For all his talk of safety, Pahlavi was not convinced that they could fool the military searchers. First, the men who hunted them were almost certainly inflamed by losing comrades to an unknown enemy. They were empowered under law to search most places without warrants or permission of the owners. If they started ripping homes apart, what were the odds that they would find the hidden trapdoor, he wondered.

  Pahlavi pocketed the penlight, and drew the sleek Beretta semiauto pistol from beneath his jacket. It was primed and fully loaded, with the safety off.

  Why bother? Why risk any extra noise? He thought.

  Pahlavi heard the soft sound of a zipper, followed by metallic sounds as Cooper drew his automatic rifle from the duffel bag. The American didn’t ask for light. He obviously could prepare and check his weapon by its feel alone.

  Pahlavi knew he would be trapped alone underground, with the American if he decided that he’d been betrayed.

  That knowledge made Pahlavi’s skin crawl, but he countered it with a reminder to himself that he and the American were allies, pledged to the same mission. If he gave no indication of betraying him, did not play him false, there was no cause for the American to harm him.

  Upstairs, Pahlavi heard footsteps and muffled voices, sounding as if they came from a hundred yards away, through walls of cotton batting. He made no attempt to eavesdrop, knowing it would be impossible from where he stood. If he should climb the stairs and press his ear against the trapdoor panel, possibly he could decipher what was said, but he would also place himself at greater risk.

  A nagging doubt, the product of cramped quarters and pitch-darkness, wormed its way into Pahlavi’s mind. What if his old father’s friends Kolda and Saldani had decided to betray him after all? Perhaps a large reward was offered for the men who’d killed so many soldiers, or the villagers simply might wish to spare themselves from harm during the search.

  It would be simple. Just a word to the commander of the search party, a finger pointed from the threshold toward the attic stairs and the trapdoor beneath. There’d be a rush of heavy boots across the floor above his head, and by the time Pahlavi was positioned to defend himself, crowbars and axes would be hacking at the access panel. Seconds later, he and Cooper would be fatally exposed to searchlights, gunfire, anything the soldiers chose to use.

  A sudden terrifying image of a flamethrower erupted in Pahlavi’s mind and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. More than cramped, dark places, he abhorred the thought of death by fire. Could he stand fast and fight, while flames gnawed at his flesh and stripped it from his bones?

  A wave of nausea left him trembling, but he kept his supper down with a determination that surprised him. More than courage, it was fear of being shamed in front of Cooper—even now, when the American could catch no glimpse of him—that gave Pahlavi any hint of strength. Pride countered terror, and if that was what it took to steel his nerves, so be it.

  There came a sound of rumbling vehicles outside, more a vibration through the earth itself than any auditory tone. Above Pahlavi, more footsteps told him that Kolda and Saldani had gone out to meet the soldiers, followed by the tenants of the house. He pictured the inhabitants of Giri, lined up in the street, facing the new arrivals with a combination of beleaguered innocence and thinly veiled hostility. They would know how to play that scene.

  All that Pahlavi had to think about was its conclusion, whether it would be a death scene for himself and Cooper or a near-miss, leaving them alive and free to fight another day.

  Clutching his pistol in both hands, so tightly that his knuckles ached, Pahlavi stared into the darkness, waiting for a sound that would reveal the presence of his enemies directly overhead. That would be the signal to assume his place beneath the stairs and aim in the direction of the trapdoor, ready to start shooting at the first blow of the ax.

  When that time came, Pahlavi hoped he wouldn’t stumble over Cooper’s duffel bag or run into the man himself. If he had to die here, like a cornered animal, he hoped to manage it with some shred of his dignity intact.

  And take some of the soldiers with him when he fell.

  9

  Captain Ambika was determined that the search of Giri village would be thorough. Never mind that he believed the task assigned to him was both demeaning and a waste of time. He would exert himself the same way as if he had been called to rescue the prime minister himself. No clue would be ignored, no stone unturned. Ambika would use every trick he knew, in order to succeed.

  And that was bad news for the peasants standing in his path.

  Ambika kept a firm hand on his holstered pistol as they rolled into the village, even though he doubted whether any of the peasants would resist. There were guerrillas in the countryside, no doubt about it, but they wouldn’t be in Giri—or, if so, they wouldn’t jeopardize their sanctuary by provoking skirmishes with troops. It would require a special goad to make the traitors drop their masks.

  Like turning up an arms cache in the village, for example, then arresting those who kept it on a treason charge.

  A group of peasants came to meet Ambika on the street, the men in front, their women hanging back with children clutched against their skirts. Ambika took his time surveying them before he stepped down from the jeep and moved to face the
m.

  One of them, apparently the village elder, ducked his head beneath a faded turban, not quite bowing to Ambika, flicking glances at Ambika’s rank insignia.

  “Captain,” the man said, “how may we be of service to you?”

  “I am seeking out a nest of traitors,” Ambika said, voice raised so that all could hear him. “And one traitor in particular. This afternoon, a government patrol was ambushed and destroyed. Two of the men responsible are dead. The others passed this way.”

  It was a total lie, for all Ambika knew, but it was necessary to command the respect of the villagers. He could not do that with vague generalities. Above all, he would not permit them to believe that they were safe, objects of mere peripheral concern. They had his full attention for the moment, and Ambika would have theirs.

  “We know nothing of any incidents,” the village spokesman said.

  “Nothing? No incidents at all?” Ambika mocked him. “Life in Giri must be very dull indeed.”

  The man blinked at him, as if confused, then said, “We mind our business, Captain, and respect authority.”

  “I have no doubt about the first part, anyway,” Ambika said. “As to the other, I must satisfy myself. Does no one here know Darius Pahlavi?”

  There was stirring in the crowd, but only silence in response until the man said, “He lived here as a child.”

  “And comes no more?” Ambika challenged.

  Answered with a shrug. “No, sir.”

  Ambika scanned the faces, looking for a nervous liar, then declared, “We shall begin to search at once for fugitives and contraband. Cooperation is required. Resistance will be punished. Am I understood?”

  The man ducked his head again, but made no verbal answer. Rather than compel him to reply, Ambika turned to face his men, raised one hand overhead and whipped it through a short, circular motion, as if twisting an invisible crank. At once, his troops began unloading from their jeeps and trucks in a dramatic rush, boots stamping, weapons rattling.

  “I say again,” he told the huddled villagers, voice raised to reach the homes around them, “we are here to search this village. Any contraband or fugitives discovered will result in charges being filed. I may feel generous, however, if such individuals or items are surrendered now, thus saving us the effort of pursuing them.”

  Dead silence met his suggestion. With a shrug, Ambika turned and told his men, “One-third of you remain with me. The rest, split up and start the search from each end of the village, working toward the middle. First, the north side of the road, then cross and do the south side. Make a thorough job of it and use all necessary force.”

  A pair of sergeants organized the teams and sent them off to carry out Ambika’s orders, while the captain waited by his jeep, watching. His comment about “necessary force” gave them the nod to ransack any shop or dwelling as they liked, crash doors and ransack cupboards, trampling all the contents underfoot.

  Ambika had no realistic hope of finding much beyond a little hashish and a few stray guns, but he was going through the motions with a vengeance. None of his superiors could look back, later, and pretend that he had coasted on this job, tackling the exercise with anything but absolute commitment.

  It was hard on Giri’s residents, of course, but life was always hard on peasants. How else would they learn their proper place and hold to it when they felt stirrings of rebellion deep inside? In truth, although they did not recognize the fact, Ambika thought he would be doing them a favor when his soldiers tore their shops and homes apart. A little inconvenience now could save a world of grief later, in case they harbored any notions of consorting with traitors and rising against the regime.

  Ambika watched as doors were kicked in at the far ends of the village, to his left and right. His soldiers likely would not try the knobs to find out if they were unlocked. Sweeps like the present one acquired their own momentum, often led to certain excesses if a commander didn’t keep a sharp eye on his men. Ambika had no tolerance for rape or outright looting, but if his troops roughed up a few stray villagers, he saw no harm in that.

  Ambika reckoned peasants were undisciplined and lazy, as a rule. It was his duty, as a military officer, to teach them all the error of their ways. And if those errors should include some kind of criminal activity, no matter how mundane or trivial, he was obliged to punish it.

  Beginning now.

  THE STOUT FLOOR OVER Bolan’s head echoed with tramping footsteps, as invaders worked their way around the house. At one point, dust rained down into his face and made him step away and move closer to the stairs he couldn’t see. A faint shuffling beside him indicated that Pahlavi had done likewise.

  The sounds from upstairs were muted and distorted in the cellar. Voices hardly carried through the floor at all, while the report of heavy objects falling echoed through the chamber underground, as if Bolan was standing on the inside of a massive kettledrum.

  He heard the soldiers slinging furniture around, pictured the humble dining table and its ring of simple chairs. The sound of smashing crockery made Bolan grit his teeth. It would be such an easy thing, he thought, to rush upstairs, surprise the soldiers at their ruthless work and drop them where they stood.

  But what would happen next?

  He guessed there would be two or three troopers assigned to the house, while the rest searched elsewhere or watched from the street, held back in reserve. At the first show of resistance, their commander would be ready to pounce with full force.

  And how much was that?

  Bolan had glimpsed two trucks, with two jeeps leading, and there might be more behind. Assuming that he’d seen it all, there could be fifty soldiers in the village. They’d all have automatic weapons and presumably know how to use them. Even if the Executioner could drop them all, with or without Pahlavi’s help, the enemy would still have ample time and opportunity to slaughter some of Giri’s residents.

  The risk was unacceptable.

  Bolan would fight if forced to, if his enemies discovered the trapdoor and charged downstairs, but he would not provoke a massacre simply to keep his hosts from losing plates or furniture.

  Pahlavi, on the other hand, was getting antsy. Bolan couldn’t see him, but he felt the Pakistani standing close beside him, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, breathing heavily. He wasn’t hyperventilating yet, but if he kept it up, he might get there. Bolan reached out for him and gripped his shoulder, felt Pahlavi flinch and gasp.

  Leaning across to him, Bolan whispered in the general direction of his ear, “Calm down. You blunder into this, you’ll only make things worse.”

  He felt Pahlavi nod and hoped his words had gotten through the rush of nervous energy. There would be guilt, too, he imagined, feeling how Pahlavi trembled underneath his hand. By now, the Pakistani had to be thinking that his journey home for comfort hadn’t been the best of his ideas.

  Perhaps it was a lesson that Pahlavi should have learned the first time, when his sister disappeared. In some respects, he was a stranger in his homeland now, hunted by soldiers. Bolan wondered how much punishment the people of Giri would absorb before they cut their losses and betrayed him, and the stranger he had brought into their midst.

  The upstairs search had swept past the hidden trapdoor and was moving into the small home’s remaining rooms. More crashing, banging sounds reverberated through the floor. It sounded as if the invaders were deliberately wrecking everything that they could reach.

  Bolan knew precisely how they felt, those hostile men in uniform. He’d been there, after losing friends in combat, suddenly confronted with civilians who most likely fed his enemies at every opportunity, their expressions stopping just short of defiance. And a soldier knew that when he turned his back the peasants would be grinning, laughing to themselves about his comrades who had died in agony, beset by fear.

  It was an easy thing to act on impulse, punish those available instead of those who pulled the triggers. By the time the smoke cleared, an embarrassed warrior m
ight convince himself they were one and the same.

  But no gunshots echoed through the rooms upstairs, and after several more moments, the tramping boots retreated, exiting into the street. More homes to search, more families to terrorize. Beside him in the darkness, Darius Pahlavi slowly let his pent-up breath escape like air leaking out of a punctured tire.

  Bolan stood fast, knowing the noisy exit could’ve been a trick. Suppose their hosts had pointed to the trapdoor early on, or in their last extremity. What would prevent some of the soldiers from departing ostentatiously, while one or more remained upstairs, automatic rifles pointed at the door. The others could be waiting in the street, to rush back in at the report of gunfire. Bolan would not risk it. Better to remain exactly where they were until Pahlavi’s friends came back to signal that the coast was clear.

  He found an earthen wall and leaned against it, not relaxing for a moment his firm grip upon the AKMS rifle.

  Pahlavi’s palms were sweating, where they clutched his pistol, and he took turns wiping them against his pants. Never once did he consider letting down his guard, slipping the heavy weapon back inside his belt. It might be needed any moment, in case the soldiers doubled back to check for any hiding place they might have missed.

  Pahlavi was concerned. There he was, in his own village, with his people all around him, and he’d brought them danger, pain and suffering.

  Pahlavi would not blame them if they turned against him. Some of them were probably considering betrayal. The young man whom they’d met upon arrival, who had visibly disliked Pahlavi at a glance—Asad Kalari.

  Would he be the one to spill the secret and reveal them to the enemy? What would become of young Kalari in the village if he did so. Once upon a time, Pahlavi knew, a traitor to his people would have been eliminated swiftly, ruthlessly. Kalari’s own father would have been first to wield the knife, to purge his family’s shame.

  But now?

  Pahlavi wasn’t certain that he had a single true friend left in Giri—or, if there had been some to begin with, whether any would remain after the havoc being wrought above ground. It was easy to convince himself that everything the soldiers did to his people had to be his fault. The invaders were looking for him, after all, and for the tall American who sheltered with him in the basement.