Meltdown te-97 Read online

  The immediate problem was time. Bolan knew from the intel reports that the Libyans were coming to pick up the plutonium. They would truck it to Philadelphia where it would be loaded onto a freighter and shipped God knows where. The Libyans were desperate for a bomb. They'd tried to buy one, and to steal one. They didn't have the technology to build their own, but there was more than one country that would be happy to take the plutonium in exchange for a sample of the finished product.

  Mack Bolan realized he had only two options: get the stuff back now, or wait and try to take the Libyans with it. The first was easier, no question about it. But which was better? He might never have a second chance to take a little wind out of the Libyan sails. His decision made, Bolan settled in for a long night. The switch might be made under cover of darkness, but he didn't think so. The logging roads were little more than ruts.

  Only a fool would try to negotiate them in the dark with such a cargo. And Mack Bolan knew his enemies were no fools. Otherwise his fight would long since have been over. It was precisely because they were so good that Bolan still found himself watching mankind through a rifle sight. It wasn't pleasant... just necessary.

  By dawn, he was chilled through. Flurries during the night had added to his discomfort, and he had slept only sporadically. At first light, he settled his binoculars on the cave mouth again. One of the goons was stretching himself A big guy in white coveralls did a few knee bends to loosen his joints, and then a few jumping jacks. While Bolan watched, the gunner took his own glasses and checked the logging road. That meant it would be soon. Bolan started working his way down toward the bottom of the valley as soon as the sentry had gone back into the cave. He wanted to be close. If he was going to pull this off, it would have to happen swiftly. Time was a luxury Mack Bolan rarely had.

  As he reached the foot of the opposing ridge, a muffled rumble echoed through the trees. They were here to make the switch. Bolan hurried up the rocky slope, checking the road behind him twice. He heard a door slam before he saw anyone. There were only two of them. Good, Bolan thought. That cut the odds a little.

  Working his way closer, he watched the newcomers climb toward the cave. Bolan put the glasses on them. Dressed in jeans and denim jackets, both men were armed, and they weren't bothering to hide the fact. The weapons were assault rifles, probably Kalashnikovs. About fifty yards away from the cave, one of them stopped while the other continued on up to the cave mouth. He stepped inside and called to the others, then walked back to join his companion.

  Maybe luck was with him, Bolan thought. If they all came out in the open, it would be a hell of a lot easier, provided he could get between them and the cave.

  He scrambled up the slope to a niche in the rocks. He had a better angle now. All it would take was patience. A minute later three men came out of the cave. The goon in coveralls was followed by two smaller men in combat fatigues and parkas. They walked down to the newcomers. Bolan sighted in on the man closest to the cave. If he took him out, the others would move away from the cave.

  They'd have cover in the trees, but that didn't bother the Executioner. The Weatherby was cold in his hands, but it steadied him. It seemed appropriate.

  Death, too, was cold. Steady. Now! Bolan squeezed and immediately sought a second target. The guy in coveralls flew backward. The impact of the ribcrushing Weatherby slug slammed him into a boulder. The sound of the second shot was lost in the deadly reverberation of the first. A puff of parka down, and two were gone. But the rest weren't going to be as easy. The first shot had stunned them; the second galvanized them. The three remaining men dived for cover. They had no idea where Bolan was. One by one, they poked their heads out, desperately seeking the source of the hellfire.

  If he were lucky, he'd nail a third before they spotted him. Keeping an eye on the cave mouth, Bolan waited. And waited. A shout echoed in the cave, but no one showed. Whoever was inside, and however many there were, they knew to stay put.

  One by one, Bolan located the three men in the open. They still seemed bewildered. He could hear them talking among themselves. But they were too confused to mount a counterattack. Backing more securely into the niche, he picked his target. The guy didn't know it, but he had been sticking his head up a little too far for his health.

  Bolan squeezed gently. The slug homed in, taking the guy just above and to the left of his nose.

  Bolan heard the bullet strike. A pale cloud of bone and brain tissue rained silently behind the rock. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

  The remaining two had seen Bolan. A sudden chatter of automatic fire chewed eagerly at the rocks around him. He couldn't stay where he was for too long. A ricochet might nail him, even if he kept his head down. They knew where he was; they didn't have to see him now to kill him.

  Both weapons were firing at once. The men would have to reload at the same time. If he could get their timing down, he could get out of the rocky vise before it became his coffin. There was a lull in the firing. At the next reload, he would make his move.

  Bolan reached into his heavy coat for the .44 AutoMag. Getting out was going to take some firepower, and the Weatherby was too tough to handle on the run. The spray of bullets and fragments of rock was merciless. The whining of the slugs seemed as if it would never end. And then it came — the pause he was waiting for.

  Scrambling to his feet, Bolan darted out from behind his cover. Big Thunder's deadly eye scanned back and forth, watching for an opportunity. To the left, there was a small stand of trees. Squeezing off several rounds, Bolan dived into the shelter of the trees, landing on one shoulder and rolling among needles and leafy litter.

  Finding a small hollow, Bolan swung around to face his foes. Stationary, he could use the Weatherby. He refilled the magazine and sighted it on the mouth of the cave. It was time for the rest of the boys to join the fun. Staying down, Bolan slithered through the prickly needles on the forest floor. He wanted to angle around and down and get himself in position to pick off anyone unlucky enough to get careless in the cave mouth. They still didn't know whether he was alone. For the time being, they would assume he had help. They'd be cautious, and slow. But Bolan knew that wouldn't last.

  The two gunners down the slope had quit firing. The denim cowboys were getting it together.

  Swinging his glasses around, Bolan swept the area where he had last seen them. There was no movement.

  Either they were playing a waiting game or they had moved. Scanning the cave mouth, he picked up a shadow on the far wall. He put the glasses down and trained the Weatherby scope on the shadow, then moved it to the rocky edge of the cave mouth.

  After thirty seconds, someone dashed out of the cave. He got about five yards before the Weatherby boomed. The shot caught him in the side of the chest.

  Thrown sideways, he sprawled face downward on the rocky scree and slid another ten yards before smashing into the base of a tree. His legs kicked convulsively, and then he lay still. Four down. But how many to go? Bolan wondered. Three?

  Four? Did it matter? Bolan knew he'd have to get them all, or he wouldn't get out alive.

  A flash of light caught his attention. Down below, among the rocks, someone was moving. The reflection was barely discernible. The morning light hadn't really burned through the overcast of the night before.

  But it had been enough. Again the reflection. This time closer. One of the gunners had spotted him. Rather than risk a shot at long range, he was moving in. Okay.

  Showtime.

  The guy was good. In covering seventy-five yards he hadn't made a sound. It was too bad they were on opposite sides. Mack Bolan was the consummate warrior. And like the best in any field, he acknowledged skill, even in the enemy. It wouldn't help the guy any, though. Not now. Bolan realized the guy was good, but he was going against the best.

  He was close now. Maybe twenty-five yards away, and still he hadn't made his move. There he was, his rifle to his shoulder. Bolan sighted in on him. His finger found the trigger. He began
to squeeze, but something stopped him. The guy was aiming, all right, but not at him. Bolan was watching so intently that he flinched at the sound of the shot. Instinctively he turned to find the target, in time to see another gunner fall from behind a tree. What the hell was going on? The rifleman turned and gave Bolan the thumbs-up. Then he signaled for Bolan to cover him. The guy crawled toward him, expertly using rocks and the trunk of a fallen tree to cover his approach. When he joined Bolan in the trees, he grinned.

  "What the hell is going on?" Bolan asked.

  "I'll tell you later. We've still got work to do, pal. There's three more in the cave."

  "How do you know?"

  "'Cause I slept there last night."

  "Who are you?"

  The guy grinned again, extending a gloved hand.

  "Name's Cohen, Eli Cohen."

  "That may be your name, but I want to know who you are."

  "Sure you do. Let's just say we have a mutual friend. That cave is a natural fortress. We'll have to go in after them." The stranger rammed a new clip into his Kalashnikov. "Wait here a second," he said, scrambling back down the slope. He was back in a minute with a second AK-47. "This is a little more appropriate for what we have to do." He handed the Russian weapon to Bolan. "Know how to use it?"

  "I've seen my share of these babies," Bolan said.

  "I'll bet. Let's go. There's a back door."

  Cohen slipped deeper into the trees, Bolan following. When the cave was out of sight, Cohen began to climb the slope. He moved quickly, showing no signs of exertion. Bolan was curious. "Where are we going?"

  "There's a secondary tunnel down into the caves. It's on top of the ridge. They know it's there, but they don't know I'm here. I think that gives us a bit of an edge."

  At the ridge line, Cohen gestured for silence.

  He worked his way toward a cleft in the face of a low, rocky wall that ran parallel to the ridge.

  The two men flattened themselves against the wall, one on each side of the opening. There was a low, moaning wind venting through the rocks, but not another sound.

  Bolan nodded, and Cohen stepped into the opening. There was no light in the cleft. The footing was secure, but a little slippery. Bolan took careful steps and felt his way along with one hand on the wet wall. The dull shape of his new ally was a few feet in front of him. After they had traveled eighty or ninety yards, the opening grew wider and bent to the left. A faint glow was now visible ahead of them. Cohen slowed his pace.

  Putting a finger to his lips, he motioned Bolan forward. They could stand abreast, their shoulders just brushing the walls on either side.

  As Cohen sketched the layout in silence, Bolan watched intently. Dropping to his stomach, Cohen edged forward, taking care not to scrape his weapon against the rock.

  Bolan was uncomfortable. The big guy was used to being in command. It made sense, and he needed help, but he was the one who usually gave the orders. The light was growing brighter. Bolan thought he could make out the roof of a large truck, just below them. That would make the cave floor an eighteen-foot drop.

  The passage was wider now, opening out like a funnel.

  Here and there were the marks of a pick. A natural passage had obviously been widened by hand.

  A short distance from the opening, Cohen waved Bolan forward. He pointed out the location of each of the three defenders. The one most exposed from the rear would go last. They had to synchronize their shots and take two of the three down. Hard. And fast.

  Cohen picked a large man in a heavy overcoat against the left wall. The target had an Ingram MAC-10 in his hand. A small mound of extra magazines lay on a rocky ledge behind him.

  Not so smart, after all, Bolan thought. If the guy had to move fast, he'd have to leave his ammo sitting there. Bolan's own target was against the opposing wall. Armed with a Kalashnikov, he was considerably smaller than Cohen's man. His movements were nervous and agile. He might be trouble. The third man was farther back along the same wall. Squeezed into an opening in the rock, he looked more frightened than alert.

  "On three," Cohen whispered. "One... two... three..."

  Both weapons opened fire, their hammering squeezing Bolan's eardrums unmercifully. He punched a small figure eight, using more than half his magazine. No fewer than five of his slugs found their mark, stitching his man from the left of his chest to his right abdomen. The little guy bounced as he hit the hard rock of the cavern floor. Blood oozed from several holes in his nylon jacket, mingling with the cold, dark water pooled on the rocky floor.

  Cohen aimed higher, hitting his man twice above the neck. The first shot took off the lower jaw.

  Spurting blood chased bits of broken teeth down the front of the man's overcoat. The second hit plowed through his temple, shattering the skull as if it were an overstuffed parka. The dead man slid down the wall, his snagged coat hiking up toward his shoulders.

  The third man seemed stricken. His palsied shaking was the only movement he was capable of. His eyes darted around the gloomy cavern. He didn't understand what had hit his companions. A short burst from Cohen solved his problem. For good.

  "Okay, let's check this truck out," Cohen said, slipping feet first down into the cavern. Bolan followed. As he reached the tailgate of the truck, Cohen pulled aside a burlap curtain that hung across the upper half of the trailer.

  "You'd never guess what was in this baby, would you?"

  Cohen shook his head in wonder.

  Bolan nodded grimly. "The main thing is, we got it. I have to let my people know."

  Cohen said, "Listen, you never saw me. Understood?"

  "Saw who?" Bolan smiled.

  Cohen turned and stepped out into the cold, bright mountain air. When Bolan left the cave, Cohen was already gone.

  10

  Malcolm Parsons liked to live high on the hog. It was an aspect of his personality that had attracted a great deal of media attention. He was lavish in his treatment of people in a position to do him some good, more lavish still in his treatment of himself. It was this, more than anything else, that made Peter Achison hate him.

  The ostentation of Parsons's life-style, public or private, was purely self-indulgent. And Peter Achison longed for the opportunity to indulge himself. Looking around at the faded opulence of the country estate where Parsons secreted himself, he felt only contempt for the antinuke leader. Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, Achison felt his temper rise.

  Parsons was forever pointing out, at times subtly, at others with arrogance, that he could pull Achison's strings. But the bastard didn't know half of what was going on around him. By design.

  He was useful, sure, but annoying. And things hadn't been going well lately. For all Achison knew, Parsons had something to do with that.

  First, four men, imported heavy hitters, had been lost in the bungled Central Park ambush. Now another screwup. It would be interesting to see how Parsons reacted.

  Nominally his superior, Achison was unable to control the more flamboyant Parsons, who believed his prominence entitled him to ignore the guidance and discipline that Achison sought to impose. Parsons believed himself indispensable. Only the knowledge of just how wrong that was kept Achison from exploding when Parsons finally appeared.

  "Have you been waiting long, Peter?"

  "You know damn well how long I've been here."

  "How was she?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Do you really think I don't know what you've been doing while I sat here twiddling my thumbs?"

  "I'm sure I have no idea what you think I was doing. However, that's not why you're here, is it?"

  "No, it isn't."

  "Well, then... why have you come?"

  "We lost the plutonium."

  "You what?"

  "You're not listening to me, Malcolm. That's a very bad habit to develop. I said we lost the plutonium."

  "In heaven's name how?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  "That's preposterous. H
ow should I know?" Parsons got to his feet, one of his nervous habits. He paced back and forth along the length of the large walnut table between them. Looking for something to occupy his hands, he grabbed a poker to stir the ashes in the earth, then busied himself with rebuilding the fire. Finally, unable to stall any longer, he returned to his chair. "Tell me what happened."

  "I don't know what happened. The plutonium left West Virginia, but it never got to Philadelphia. None of the men have returned, and there's no one at the rendezvous point."

  "No one?"

  "That's what I said."

  Achison, sensing he had Parsons on the defensive, stood up. Crossing to the other side of the table, he stood behind Parsons, placing his hands on the back of the seated man's chair.

  "There was nothing, and no one, there."

  "I knew something like this would happen. I just knew it. I told you no one was to be hurt. Those policemen, you shouldn't have done that."

  "I already told you. We had no choice. Besides, that's spilled milk. What matters is the plutonium."

  "How did you find out?"

  "When the shipment didn't show up in Philadelphia, our clients contacted me. Understandably, they were upset. They thought, perhaps still do, that someone was trying to pull a fast one on them. Of course, I reassured them on that score. I only wish I were as certain as I claimed to be."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that until I know what did happen I have to assume anything could have, might have."

  "Are you suggesting that I had anything to do with this?"

  "You knew where the plutonium was, didn't you?"

  "Of course. I was the one who organized the transportation. You know that."

  "How about your people? How trustworthy are they?"

  "I can vouch for them all."