Terminal Velocity Read online

  Bolan paused only long enough to snatch up a long rope and shackle lying coiled on top of an oil drum. Then he slid back the helicopter's portside hatch. As he fastened the shackle to the handrail, he thought he saw the small door at the back of the hangar swing open for a moment. He fired a burst into the shadows, and the magazine ran dry. But no answering fire came.

  There was little room inside what in other combat choppers would have been the troop compartment; most of the space was taken up with long-range fuel tanks and containers for the flamethrowing mixture. Bolan squeezed through to the cockpit.

  He checked the crawl space to the weapons operator's seat. A flight helmet lay on the floor. Bolan grabbed it and strapped himself into the pilot's seat.

  The controls were eerily familiar. Geoffrey Miles had done an excellent job with the mock-up at Fullerton. Bolan scanned the crowded banks of gauges, readouts, screens, dials and switches. He shut out the noise of the camp and concentrated utterly on the start-up procedure that had been drilled into him back in the States.

  * * *

  "Captain! " panted Khomalev. "Captain Strakhov!" The agitated electrician tugged at the officer's sleeve.

  "What the hell is going on?" Strakhov demanded.

  "Hangar A... attacked... a corporal... I don't know who he..."

  "I do! It's the M-36 he's after." Strakhov waved down a truckload of soldiers on their way to ward off the guerrilla attack on the far side of the field. "Follow me!"

  * * *

  Bolan flipped on the fuel switch, checked that the throttle was closed and hit the booster button. Three seconds of full-rich mixture, then he cut it back. He tried the ignition; the two Isotov turboshafts fired up.

  The noise within the hangar was barely dampened by the padded flight helmet. As Bolan was making sure the exhaust fans were running he felt something nudge him on his shoulder.

  Twisting around, he saw a white-faced Robert Hutton crouching in the hatchway behind him. Terrified though he appeared to be, the journalist had a steady grip on the stolen pistol aimed at Bolan's ear. So the door had opened then; Hutton was the rat that had sneaked into the hangar...

  "You got me into this shit," shouted Hutton. His mouth worked like a struggling fish. Bolan didn't have to lip-read to catch his drift. "Now you're going to fly me out!"

  There wasn't time to argue the point.

  Bolan checked the revs and oil pressure, then switched on the alternator. His right hand rested on the cyclic controls, the other gripped the throttle. Hutton braced himself in the doorway as the helicopter lifted off.

  The hangar door completely filled the rectangular sight within Bolan's visor. He unleashed a missile...

  11

  Strakhov shouted encouragement to the men bunching for a frontal assault. He turned away and signaled for the second squad to follow him to the rear just as the doors exploded outward. Jagged sheets of torn metal whirled about on the hot blast.

  The Dragonfire emerged, spitting death as it clawed its way through the fiery turbulence and up into the open air. The twisted bodies of groaning men formed a carpet beneath the rising aircraft. Bolan scythed through the Russians scurrying for cover. Behind him, the front of Hangar A began to sag inward. The building swayed but held its ground.

  Bolan continued to use the dual firing controls to lay down a withering hail of hot lead. Gouts of dirt spurted up in a jittery row until they reached a speeding GAZ patrol car. The driver slumped over the wheel. The vehicle swung out of control, plowed through the door of the nearest hut and exploded.

  Strakhov, weighed down by the lifeless body of Khomalev, watched as the monstrous shadow of the Dragonfire blocked out the sun. He struggled to sit up, awkwardly shifting about to scan the southwestern sector of the sky. Where was Nekrovich? He should be returning from his patrol at any moment. Strakhov pushed aside the corpse and got to his feet. And what about the helicopter the technicians had been working on — was it in flying order?

  Bolan was rising steadily now. He could see the dust trails left by the troops racing toward the smoke-wreathed ambush across the field. He manipulated the rudder and took aim at the Frogfoot. Another Spiral missile belched from beneath the Dragonfire's stub wing. It plunged into the bomber's fuselage immediately below the cockpit and ripped apart the central core of the plane.

  The officer in the control tower was screaming into his microphone when he glanced out of the window and saw the Dragonfire hovering outside. Two of the solid-fuel rockets leaped from their pods and turned the tower into a twisted, melting inferno.

  Another touch of the rudder pedal and Bolan accelerated away from the airstrip. Strakhov watched him go, curious about the rope that trailed from the craft.

  The soldier at his feet was moaning through blood-flecked lips. A fragment from the shattered hangar door was embedded deeply in his chest. He was pleading for a medic. Strakhov stepped over him without a downward glance and strode into the shambles of the hangar.

  * * *

  "Back! Get back!" McCarter urged Abdur Jahan and his men to withdraw farther up the hillside.

  The Russian soldiers in the convoy had been given a baptism by fire. The survivors from the rear of the column had taken cover amid the nearest rocks, where a senior NCO had instilled some order in them. He directed a steady stream of gunfire at the rebel hiding places above.

  McCarter could see the reinforcements speeding toward the wire. The sounds of their own firefight found a popping, crackling echo in the action around the distant buildings.

  There was a searing orange-red flash as the top of the control tower exploded. Then McCarter spotted the Dragonfire rising from the wreckage of the Soviet camp. His job was done. They had inflicted all the damage they could here.

  The ex-SAS commando peppered the rocks below until the Ingram was empty, then, taking advantage of the brief lull he'd forced, followed the retreating mujahedeen.

  * * *

  Bolan glanced over his shoulder. Hutton was still jammed in the doorway. He appeared composed. The gun aimed a; Bolan was rock steady. The Canadian had picked the winning side again — for now, at least.

  "Let's get out of here!" Hutton shouted. "We're wasting time."

  "I'm going to pick up my partner," grunted Bolan. "But I'm sure you won't understand that."

  He shook his head and focused the rangefinder on the three truckloads of reinforcements fast coming up. There was no way Hutton would shoot him. Certainly not while they were in the sky.

  Bolan looked down, the computerized nerve system transmitting the precise coordinates to the electronically controlled guns, and pushed the firing button. The desert floor churned and shook as he shredded the opposition.

  He banked right. Now Bolan could more clearly see the extent of what David McCarter had accomplished. The road had been deeply cratered where the GAZ tankers had exploded. Through the bullet-proof blister he could pick out the antlike figures of the Russian resisters crawling from cover to cover, firing up the slope at the fleeing Afghans.

  McCarter was trying to reach an open stretch near the top of the first ridge. It would take him a few moments yet.

  Bolan zoomed down until he could see the white ovals of the soldiers' upturned faces. They were cheering him on! They had been too occupied with troubles of their own to witness the carnage on the airfield behind them. None of them realized the Dragonfire had fallen into determinedly hostile hands. Now they were going to find out.

  Hutton was shouting empty threats as the chopper twisted above the smoldering devastation of the convoy. Bolan flipped open the cover of the flamethrower switch. He was about to give the Soviets a further taste of their own medicine.

  The NCO who had taken charge was flapping his arms, frantically trying to communicate that the pilot should be chasing after the departing rebels.

  In the final instant, the whirring hawk hovering above him changed from a symbol of relief to one of terrifying menace. A long tongue of bright fire unfurled, spraying the unlucky su
rvivors with the scorching agony of sudden death. Now it was the turn of Abdur Jahan's men to cheer. For once the terrifying dragon machine was on their side.

  The guerrillas paused just long enough to see the chopper swooping down to incinerate their pursuers. The hunters had become the prey. The Dragonfire's attack had ensured that the rebels could safely escape over the high ridge.

  One blond recruit was sprinting away down the track. The back of his tunic was ablaze. He tried to shed the jacket as he ran, but his undershirt was on fire, too. Bolan glanced down at him and pressed the trigger. A complex of integrated circuits did the rest. Victim and machine were fused into one killing event.

  Bolan's face was a taut mask as he completed the grim task. He was fighting a private war now, for private reasons.

  Through the flames and smoke below, Bolan could see the courageous smile of Tarik Khan's little boy. He felt the presence of April Rose with him, too.

  And memories of other comrades slain or maimed on far-flung battlefields crowded in on him. No, The Executioner was not fighting because of covert instructions or in the name of some abstract ideal, but for people, very real people who had made a very real difference in this endless war.

  Even Hutton was sickened by the stench coming up at them from the burning ground. They were flying so low that they would have been engulfed in the same black smoke they were creating if it were not blown away by the backwash of the multibladed rotor above.

  Hutton watched as the man at the controls methodically, dispassionately eliminated his enemy. His lips pulled back in a harsh smile, because he had finally recalled the sergeant's real name.

  It had come to him in a flash. It was Bolan, Sergeant Mack Bolan. From Pittsfield. The pilot of the Dragonfire was not quite as Hutton remembered him from that affair at Hoi Binh, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was indeed the same man.

  Bolan made another pass parallel to the road. There was no sign of movement. The slaughter was complete. An entire convoy had been totally wiped out. Then he banked and rose, closing in on the patch of bare rock where McCarter was bidding farewell to Jahan and his band.

  Bolan crooked his finger. Hutton bent forward to hear him say: "I'm going to pick up my friend now. If there's any trouble, we go down together. Understood?"

  As if to emphasize the point, he decreased the collective and dropped the machine sharply. Hutton nodded. Understood.

  The end of the long rope was brushing the surface of the bare rock. With a final wave to the brave mujahedeen, McCarter caught hold of the lifeline and hauled himself up hand over hand.

  Bolan took advantage of those few moments, hovering, to switch on the radar scanners and infrared sighting systems. The glowing screen showed a blip coming in from the southwest. It was moving fast. Bolan activated the Nevski antimissile system. The Dragonfire was ready for trouble.

  McCarter got his elbow hooked over the edge of the floor and swung himself aboard.

  He was surprised when he saw Hutton holding a gun. The Canadian jerked the pistol, and McCarter brushed past him. The Englishman gave Bolan a thumbs-up signal for their success so far but raised an inquiring eyebrow with regard to Hutton.

  Bolan waved him through to the weapons-control station and then, as McCarter's body blocked the newsman's view, made a clear sign that the Englishman should take over the controls.

  McCarter clambered down into the forward section of the double cockpit. Bolan kept his hands exactly in place but released the pressure of his grip when he felt McCarter take control of the ship.

  "My God, there's a chopper coming after us!" Hutton shouted in alarm. "Over there, look! Let's get out of here."

  "First we're going back for Kasim." Bolan looked up as he unplugged the helmet wiring. "The boy who got burned."

  "The hell with that! We're going south," blustered Hutton, sneaking another nervous glance out the door. "We've got to save our own skins. Who gives a shit about the kid?"

  "I do."

  "But that's going deeper into the country, you fool. They'll cut us off... hunt us down."

  "We'll have to risk it. I gave my word, but you won't understand that, either."

  Bolan got his feet well clear of the rudders.

  Hutton stole another glance at the approaching Hind. Nerves fraying, he was caught off guard when Bolan leaped up and threw himself forward. Hutton felt his wrist clamped in a bone-crushing grip as he was slammed against the rear wall.

  The Dragonfire was climbing steeply, trying to clear the razor teeth of the mountaintops. McCarter juggled the controls, compensating for the sudden shifting of weight as his partner went for Hutton. McCarter was powerless to help Bolan. The Englishman had his hands full eluding the Hind.

  McCarter caught a bright wink of flame as the Russian pilot launched a missile.

  12

  Fire at the new M-36? Nekrovich felt uneasy. Despite the chaos he'd seen, he double-checked with Strakhov. The chief test pilot's angry voice had crackled through the static: bring down the Dragonfire at ail costs!

  Nekrovich made a last visual of the airfield. Strakhov still hadn't got the other Hind aloft. And the stolen chopper was about to vanish over the long sway-backed ridge ahead of them both.

  The young pilot remembered the discussions in the mess last year concerning the South Korean airliner incident. Orders were orders — that's what had been concluded — and they were not to be questioned.

  His fingers stabbed at the Fire button...

  * * *

  McCarter knew the drill, but he wasn't going to place all his faith in the Nevski defenses. Not enough was known about the system. That's why they'd been sent in to steal the Dragonfire. He dropped out of sight over the looming cliffs in an effort to outmaneuver the projectile.

  The sudden swooping motion threw the other two men off balance. They fell back, and Bolan found himself pinned against the bulging walls of the chemical containers. Hutton recovered first and rushed the American, ramming his knee into Bolan's groin. The pistol slithered uselessly about the floor with every sudden movement of the chopper.

  McCarter made an allowance for the updrafts and let the chopper slide in a shallow cross-slope descent. The massive rock walls ended with a solitary conical spire. McCarter aimed straight for it as the missile plunged over the ridge in hot pursuit.

  The Dragonfire banked sharply around the granite finger. Bolan had to release his grip on Hutton's shirt and grab at a metal retaining bracket to save himself being flung out the door.

  The chopper's abrupt maneuver caused the loose band of hemp to buckle in the open entrance. Hutton snatched it and looped a coil around Bolan's neck. The Executioner's free hand snaked toward his boot, where he still had Lekha's bayonet hidden. But the next lurch threw them both rolling on the floor.

  The Englishman pulled back on the cyclic stick as he decreased the collective. The M-36 responded to his touch immediately. It came to a quick midair stop on the far side of the stone column.

  Hutton was winded as he slammed into the cushioned side of the doorframe, but he still had Bolan tangled in the rope. He forced the big man's head and shoulders out beyond the edge of the floor. Bolan hooked his instep around the fuel tank support to stop himself from sliding out.

  The rocket was closing in for the kill. The guidance telemetry, built with components hastily designed from computer circuitry stolen from the West, made a last-minute correction. But the missile was thrown into a tight turn too late to avoid the tall spire. There was a vivid flash as the explosion tore out huge chunks of rock and hurled them into space.

  McCarter was already climbing fast. Jockeying the controls, he pushed the Dragonfire into a perilous S-turn as he sought cover in the nearby crags. The enemy pilot's sensors couldn't detect them through millions of tons of mountainside.

  Bolan had struggled free of the rope, but now he had to clutch at the handrail to prevent the Canadian from pushing him clear out the doorway.

  Hutton made a desperate lunge to dislo
dge the American meddler. Bolan, still grasping the vertical handrail, swung himself bodily into the slipstream. The journalist hung in the doorway for a moment, trying to regain his balance, but he couldn't. As he tumbled past Bolan out the open hatch, his flailing hand seized the only thing left — the rope.

  Hutton felt it burning through his fingers as he fell. With a desperate effort he grabbed hold of it with both hands. He was swinging in midair, trailing back under the chopper, his screams whipped away by the wind. The strain was intolerable.

  Bolan looked down: they were positioned almost directly above the other gunship. He whipped out his blade and hacked through the braided hemp.

  "Save me!"

  "You had your chance." Bolan sliced through the last strands.

  Hutton plummeted like a stone, still clutching the rope and screaming. It was like pushing steak into a grinder — the spinning rotor blades below made mincemeat out of him.

  McCarter glanced out from the cockpit and saw the Hind momentarily surrounded by a shimmering pink halo.

  * * *

  Nekrovich eased the Hind along the face of the reddish gray cliffs. He had heard the explosion before clearing the ridge. He saw the smoke ball and was now warily scanning the slopes below for some sign of the wreckage.

  It didn't occur to him to look up and behind his shoulder. The Dragonfire was positioned slightly behind and four hundred feet above the Hind.

  He felt a tremendous shudder and struggled to keep his craft under control. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the sinister death shadow of the Dragonfire. Then came the flash of a wing-mounted missile. His tail rotor disintegrated, and he lost all directional stability.

  The Hind slowly began to spin in the opposite direction to its main rotor. It was still waltzing sedately as it struck the solid wall of rock and mushroomed into a thousand flying fragments of metal, perspex and fiberglass. The fuel tanks exploded, and the Hind left a smoke-blackened stain against the mountainside as the last pieces rattled down on the scree below.