Arctic Kill Read online

  “Justice...? Shit,” she hissed. “I knew it. I knew they weren’t from the goddamn Department of Natural Resources. One of ’em is German, for God’s sake.” She tapped the air compressor with her wrench. “Stupid!” More bullets ripped through the hangar. “Stop shooting up my hangar, you bastards! It’s full of fuel!” she shouted.

  “I think that’s the idea,” Bolan said. He peered over the top of the compressor and saw that Kraft had climbed into the cockpit, shoving Mervin aside. His men were pulling the doors shut as the plane began to roll toward the runway.

  “They’re taking my plane,” the woman said. “My goddamn plane!”

  “Maybe not.” Bolan sprang out from behind the compressor, UMP rising as he headed for the hangar doors. There was a chance he could disable one of the engines and prevent the plane from taking off. But even as he raised his submachine gun, Kraft kicked open the cockpit door and swung half out, a flare gun in one hand. He grinned wildly and bellowed, “To Valhalla with you!”

  Kraft fired, and the flare streaked into the hangar. The woman shot past Bolan, running in the obvious direction. The Executioner, knowing what was coming, followed suit, and just in the nick of time.

  The hangar exploded a moment later, and the world was filled with fire.

  Chapter 13

  “They took my plane,” the woman said, coughing, as Bolan helped her to her feet.

  “I noticed. They also blew up your hangar.” Bolan looked at the flames and then back at her. She was quite attractive, he noted. For a moment another face, with a similar sort of toughness, superimposed itself over hers and Bolan shook his head, dismissing the thought.

  “I’m going to kill them,” she snarled.

  “No, I am,” Bolan said, more harshly than he’d intended. The plane had taken off. It was hurtling northwest as fast as its engines could carry it. Thanks to Ferguson, however, he knew where it was headed. There was an old trading post near HYPERBOREA, abandoned since the beginning of the twentieth century. The government had used it as a layover point, to drop off supplies and pick up passengers from the research base, which was reachable only by hiking or by boat. A quick, terse inquiry and he got confirmation from the woman.

  “Yeah, that’s where they were going, all right. I thought they were heading into the Noatak Preserve for some hunting, the way they were talking. There are plenty of old fur-trade setups out there and a lot of campers use them as way stations.” She looked at him. “It’s Blackjack, by the by.”

  “What?”

  “My name,” she said, wiping dirt off her trousers. “Ida Blackjack.”

  “Mine’s—”

  “Cooper, yeah, you said. What are they—terrorists?”

  “Something like that,” Bolan replied. “They’ve got some unpleasant plans, and I need to stop them.”

  “A plane is what you need,” Blackjack said, looking across the airfield.

  “That would be helpful,” Bolan agreed. There was no give in Blackjack. She was tough and adaptable, as well as quick thinking. Bolan admired those qualities.

  “You need a pilot, too,” she continued.

  “I’m capable of flying a plane,” Bolan said.

  Blackjack gave him a look. “Hey, me, too, but they stole my plane. I want it back. If you’re going after them, I’m going with you.”

  Bolan hesitated but not for long. He didn’t have time to argue. “Fine, but I’m in charge.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blackjack said, saluting casually. “Hot damn, let’s go commandeer us a plane, huh, Cooper?” She clapped her hands together and strode off determinedly, leaving the warehouse burning merrily behind them. Bolan followed her more slowly. Men and women were hurrying toward the warehouse and shouting questions. He could hear fire engines and the more strident whine of police sirens. Merrill Field was about to be swarming with various elements of local authority.

  Bolan paused only to retrieve his cold-weather gear, including a heavy coat and a more durable version of his satellite phone, insulated against low temperatures. They weren’t heading into the Arctic as such, but they’d be close enough. Bolan had operated in a variety of low-temperature theaters throughout his war, and he knew better than to leave such things to chance.

  “There we go. That’s Old Man Fortier’s plane. He still owes me from that poker game last month. Plus, I know he keeps the fuel tanks topped up, just in case he gets a drop-in booking.” They picked up the pace, heading for a brightly painted Maule M-7-235. Blackjack ducked under a wing and reached beneath a strut. “He always keeps a spare key down here. Get in,” she said.

  Bolan did. A fire engine raced past, sirens blaring. “Why are you coming with me?” he asked as she began flicking switches. “Really, I mean.”

  “The way I see it, I owe you a flight. You saved me back there,” Blackjack said. “Plus, like I said, they took my plane. I want it back. You have a problem with that?”

  “If I did, you wouldn’t be here,” Bolan said, strapping in.

  “So who are they? They didn’t look like any sort of al Qaeda agents to me.”

  “Terrorists come in all shapes and sizes,” Bolan said.

  They taxied onto the runway. A voice squawked querulously on the radio, and Blackjack switched it off. She leaned forward, peering up at the sky as the Maule rolled forward, engine rumbling. “I think we’re clear.”

  “You think?”

  “Pretty sure,” Blackjack said. The Maule didn’t require as long a runway as some of the larger planes, and they bumped into the air relatively swiftly. Bolan leaned back in his seat as the single-engine plane climbed to its flying altitude. He fished a first-aid kit out from under his seat and began to patch the cut on his cheek. It wasn’t deep, but it would likely leave a scar. Another one for the collection, he thought with grim amusement.

  Despite having a chance to rest on the flight from Seattle, a bone-deep ache still afflicted him. He’d pushed his body close to its limits, and it was informing him in no uncertain terms that he was fast approaching the wall. He pressed himself farther back in his seat and tried to relax.

  Eyes closed, Bolan called to mind the map of Alaska he’d memorized before leaving Seattle. The Executioner had trained his mind to operate with an organizational clarity second to none. He knew that the Noatak Preserve had been established in 1978 to protect the area around the Noatak River Basin, above the Arctic Circle. HYPERBOREA was just north of that, somewhere close to the Chukchi Sea. If his enemies followed the Noatak River 70 or 80 miles upstream, they would run right into the base. It would mean several days of hard travel, but the Preserve often played host to sport hunters. A group of armed men wouldn’t attract much notice.

  He felt a certain grudging admiration for Saul Mervin—from what Kurtzman had been able to scrounge up, the so-called Tick-Tock Man was a first-class criminal mind. Mervin had crafted more than a dozen schemes for the Society of Thylea.

  The man’s current plan was like clockwork, in its way, clicking along with a ruthless, mechanical surety. There were a dozen separate elements at work, and the timing had been all-important. If Ferguson hadn’t brought Brognola in, and if Bolan hadn’t been in Reno at the right time, they would never have caught up to the bad guys before Ackroyd was taken to Alaska. As it was, he was still a step or two behind. His only real advantage was that they had no idea who he was or what sort of resources he could bring to bear. At the same time, thanks to Sparrow, Bolan knew enough about them to tailor his plans appropriately.

  From Ferguson, he knew that Ackroyd was the sole remaining individual who knew the code to open HYPERBOREA—likely the reason the Society wanted him. He was also the only man alive who knew anything about Ymir. From Sparrow, Bolan knew that Ackroyd’s absence wasn’t a deal breaker. They’d just as happily blow the doors down and risk damaging the very thing they sought. They weren�
�t stupid, but they were fairly single-minded. They’d slug their way through any obstacles and take the quickest, most direct route to their destination. Which meant...what? Traveling overland would take them far too long, especially now. So that left the river.

  His eyelids cracked open. “This trading post you were dropping them off at, have you ever been there before?”

  “Only to pass over it on the way to Wainwright or Noatak,” she said. “It’ll take us about three hours, depending on the weather. They’ve got a half hour lead, but we’re lighter, so we might be able to catch up, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even if we don’t, we won’t lose them.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” He frowned. “How much equipment did they have?”

  “A good bit,” Blackjack said.

  “Did any of it resemble an inflatable motorboat?” Bolan asked. “They might have had the motor itself broken down into its component parts.”

  “Could have been,” she said doubtfully. “You think they’re planning to go upriver?”

  “I’m counting on it,” Bolan said. “They’ll be moving quickly, and even traveling upriver, against the current, they’ll move faster than trying to hoof it.” He shrugged. “It’s what I would do, at any rate.”

  “And you think like them, huh?”

  “Close enough,” Bolan said.

  “You’re an odd guy, Cooper,” Blackjack said.

  “So I’ve been told.” Bolan leaned his head against the door and looked down as the natural beauty of Alaska passed beneath him.

  “I didn’t know they were terrorists,” she said, after a few minutes of silence.

  Bolan looked at her. “Did I say you did?”

  “I just wanted to make a point of it. For the record,” she said. Her tone was defensive. “I don’t want you sending my ass to a federal pen or something. I want it clear that I wasn’t aiding and abetting or nothing like that.”

  “I’ll make a note of it in my report,” Bolan said, fighting back a smile.

  “You do that. Also, you think I’ll get reimbursed for my hangar? Since I’m helping you and all?”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  She fell silent. After a moment, she said, “What I can’t figure is, why not just head up to Noatak and then go downriver? It’d be quicker.”

  Bolan had wondered this himself. “It might be quicker, but the likelihood of interference is higher. Everything I’ve seen so far implies that these men are prioritizing speed and a lack of interference over everything else. Frankly, if they hadn’t tried to kidnap a man, no one would have been able to stop them. No one would have had time. When one strategy failed, they immediately implemented a second. If the weather had been bad, or I had been delayed in some way, I wouldn’t have caught up to you in time.”

  “And my hangar wouldn’t have been blown up.”

  “And you would be dead,” Bolan said. She didn’t meet his gaze. She was a tough one, but even the toughest hesitated to contemplate her own demise. “They would have killed you, not because they bore you any grudge, but because that’s what they do. If it’s expendable, they get rid of it. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a building or a person—they’ll even sacrifice their own people.” He turned away. “Still glad you came?”

  “Man, you know how much a plane costs? That thing is all I got. Flying is all I got. I slept in that damn hangar, I ate at the airport canteen, I got drunk at the airfield bar and I flew. If I don’t get that plane back, I might as well not even exist.” The words were heavy with feeling. Blackjack was a woman who lived close to the surface, and Bolan felt a subliminal tug as he looked at her strong features and dark eyes.

  “If we don’t stop them, that’ll go for a lot more people than just you,” Bolan said.

  “I still don’t get it. What the hell is up here? It’s a damn nature preserve!”

  Bolan said nothing. It wasn’t his secret to share. And in truth, the fewer people who knew about Ymir, the better. The Society of Thylea wasn’t the only group of psychopaths around for whom a prehistoric disease would make the perfect party favor.

  While he hadn’t cleared it with Brognola, the Executioner fully intended to end the threat posed by HYPERBOREA and the deadly secrets contained within. The pestilential threat that Ackroyd had described was just too monstrous to sit unprotected. If one group of madmen had found it, others could, as well.

  One way or another, the Executioner wouldn’t let that happen.

  Chapter 14

  The DHC-6 landed with a soft bump. Kraft guided the bush plane to a stop and leaned back in his seat. Despite his distaste for the mud woman, he had to admit that she’d taken care of her craft. The three-hour flight had been as smooth as butter.

  Although Kraft knew how to fly most types of planes, his experience with smaller aircraft was limited. That was one of the reasons they had hired a pilot in the first place—better to be safe than sorry.

  Kraft looked out through the plane’s windshield. The trading post was a ghost town, its three structures withered by the elements and close to a century’s lack of upkeep. The single street had been widened and flattened several decades previously by the United States government, and now it served as a makeshift landing strip. There was also a station where a plane could be rolled beneath a tarp and protected from both the weather and airborne spies.

  The paranoia of the American government was exceeded only by that of their enemies. The Cold War had been a strange time for everyone. Mervin would have been right at home, he thought, not unkindly.

  “It is a bit unprepossessing, I admit, but Mervin says this is the place, so it is the place.” Kraft unbuckled his safety belt and looked across at Mervin, who was huddled in his seat, whey-faced and tight-lipped, as he had been since Merrill Field. Their attacker had rattled him. “It is the place, yes?”

  Mervin didn’t answer. Instead, he tore off his safety harness and flung open the door. He tumbled out onto the ground and vomited noisily. Kraft sighed and climbed out of the plane. Muted laughter threaded among the others, but Kraft ignored it. He circled the plane and saw Mervin on his knees, trying to pry a cigarette from his pack with trembling hands. “I hate flying,” he croaked.

  “Yes. You do not travel well.” Kraft examined the cuts he’d sustained in the fight with their attacker. The man had been a devil with a blade. Kraft had rather enjoyed their brief set-to.

  Mervin stabbed the cigarette between his lips and scrounged for his lighter. “They’re laughing at me.”

  “Yes. I’ll discipline them shortly,” Kraft said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the plane. “Do you still consider him irrelevant?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” Kraft chided.

  “No,” Mervin said. He gave a triumphant grunt as he found his lighter and applied it to his cigarette.

  Kraft grimaced. Sometimes Mervin’s addiction made him wonder about the other man. Mervin had one of the most impressive minds Kraft had ever encountered, but his insistence on cramming chemicals into his system was as blindly stupid as anything Kraft had ever seen.

  “No, most definitely not,” Mervin continued. “He’s very determined, that one.” He got to his feet and peered down the road. There were few trees this close to the Arctic, and the horizon was barren. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter about himself. “We’re almost there. A few days’ travel upriver and we’ll be there.”

  “Yes,” Kraft said. He pushed himself away from the plane and followed Mervin’s gaze. “Jotunheim,” he murmured, looking about. In many ways, Alaska was the land of his dreams. A land of frosty wastes and cold forests, where beasts still roamed and the gods might still walk. It was one of the last, almost pristine wildernesses left on the planet, where a man might test himself against nature. His breath plumed in the frosty
air, and for a moment, he thought he could see strange shapes in it. The gods were watching them, he knew.

  “Don’t you mean Thylea?” Mervin asked.

  “One and the same,” Kraft said. “You realize that he will follow us.” Mervin looked at him and Kraft sighed. “Blackjack survived. She knew where we were going. I have no doubt she will share that information.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We outnumber him.”

  “That didn’t seem to bother him overmuch at the airfield.”

  “Then what would you suggest?” Mervin asked.

  “We wait. And then we end his interference, once and for all.” Kraft called out to Boyd and the latter brought him a heavy duffel bag. Kraft sank to his haunches and unzipped the bag. Carefully, he removed a weighty length of equipment. Mervin gaped.

  “What the devil is that?”

  “This is an FIM-92 Stinger. It fires a SAM, a portable surface-to-air missile.” Kraft frowned slightly. “You did ask me to prepare for all eventualities, you’ll recall.”

  Mervin stared at him. “How many weapons did you bring?”

  “Enough.” Then, more seriously, he said, “Your plans are brilliant things, Mervin, but they are fragile in their intricacy. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of creating backup plans, just in case.” He ignored Mervin’s insulted blustering and stood, the Stinger in his hands. “We will wait, and I will remove our nameless friend from the equation. Then we will continue, unimpeded.”

  “How do you even know he’s coming? Or that he’s coming by plane?” Mervin demanded, chewing on his cigarette. His normally pale features were flushed and Kraft reflected briefly on the stresses his charge was under. Mervin had insisted on accompanying them, despite his obvious distaste for fieldwork.

  “How do I know that he’s coming? Because, Mervin, that’s what I would do. How do I know that he’s coming by plane?” He smiled slightly. “He was at an airfield.”