“You take it easy. I’m going to call Aaron to see if he can give us any updates on the area.”
Grimaldi nodded and glanced at the instrument panel.
“I give us ten minutes or so,” he said. “And we’re practically running on fumes. That carb heat’s using up more gas than I figured.”
Bolan punched in Kurtzman’s number and waited.
“I’m glad you called,” he said after he picked up. The sound of his voice was barely audible over the noise of the twin engines. “I intercepted a phone transmission from our buddy. He’s somewhere south of you. Way south. And he was talking to somebody where you’re heading.”
Bolan considered that. Rokva was on the move but he’d left a reception committee.
“I’ve been doing an internet search of those coordinates,” Kurtzman said. “And it looks kind of hinky.”
“How so?”
“It appears to be an old logging camp. Been closed for about three years or so. The company was in a battle with the local indigenous personnel, namely the Inuit. They claimed it was a violation of tribal lands. Closed the mill down after they lost in court.”
“What about the airstrip?”
“I emailed you a couple of pictures. Didn’t you get them?”
“Nothing yet. Not sure internet service is all that reliable around here,” Bolan said.
“Damn.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“The camp’s got a gravel road that runs through the place and beyond. Connects up to the Alaska Highway, but it’s probably snowbound about now. From the looks of it, they converted part of the road into a landing strip, but I can’t find anything definitive.”
“Can you locate any updated images? I want to get an idea of what we’re walking into.”
“Just a sec,” Kurtzman said. “Okay, I’m intercepting a satellite feed, but it looks like it won’t be passing over your area for another ten minutes or so.”
More bad news.
“Anything sooner than that?” Bolan asked. “We’re getting ready to land.”
“Not unless you can make the earth spin a little faster. How about I describe what I’ve got so far?”
It was better than nothing.
“Go ahead.”
“Okay, like I said, I’m showing the road going up and around into a straight section, which I’m assuming is now the airstrip. It’s about two hundred yards long, maybe thirty across. At the eastern end, there’re a couple of buildings. One looks like it was a sawmill. The other building is adjacent and much larger. Probably a storage facility.”
“Does it look like they’re inhabited?”
“The images of the mill look pretty dilapidated,” Kurtzman reported. “Roof’s caving in. The other one looks like it’s been spruced up a bit. There’s a row of portable toilets along the east side and what appears to be a tanker truck and a couple other vehicles, looks like four-wheel-drive SUVs, parked in between the two buildings.”
That definitely meant that there were more men there. If they were as tough as the ones back in Wales at the Eskimo village, Bolan knew they were in for a fight and once again up against an unknown number of adversaries.
“Aaron, do you see any alternate landing sites in the area?”
“The road branches out. Extends toward the village. If you can extrapolate the extension of the airstrip and go just beyond the ridge of trees on the edge of the camp, you could probably land there.”
“Probably?” Bolan said.
“Yeah. The only problem is the bunch of tree stumps off to the side of the road. If the damn thing’s covered with a couple of feet of snow, it could be tricky, even for Jack.”
Bolan weighed the information. “Okay, I’m going to brief him on what you told me. In the meantime, call me back when you get those satellite images of the current situation.”
“Roger that,” Kurtzman said, and faded away.
Bolan turned and saw Kournikova standing behind him. Her expression looked grim. He could see her two male cohorts about ten feet behind her.
“What is it, l’vionak?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m just trying to give us an edge. Another option in case we find out we’re flying into a trap.”
A smile traced her lips. “And as I recall, that is something you are very good at doing.”
“You better get buckled in.” He stepped back into the cockpit.
Grimaldi looked at him, his face grayish.
“I’m gonna be bringing this one down on a wing and a prayer,” he said.
Bolan slipped into the adjacent seat and buckled himself in. He briefed Grimaldi on what Kurtzman had described.
“Tell me more about that area beyond the trees,” Grimaldi said.
“If you do an imaginary extrapolation of the road-turned-airstrip, you should see it. It’s straight, but Aaron doesn’t know if it’s been plowed or if it’s totally unobstructed.” He waited a few moments before dropping the rest of it. “There are tree stumps along the side of the road.”
“Tree stumps? And they might be covered with snow?”
Bolan said nothing. He didn’t have to. The danger was evident.
“Marvelous,” Grimaldi said. “When I’m at my positive worst, I need to be at my most excellent best.” He flashed a weak smile. “Oh well, I’ve always said that a landing’s nothing more than a controlled crash anyway.”
“Can we make a flyover first?”
Grimaldi shook his head. “We’re flying on fumes now. If I try to turn this baby around, we’ll be running on empty.”
Bolan hoped that Kurtzman had miscalculated about the arrival of the satellite imagery as he punched in the cyber wizard’s number.
As the phone rang, he looked out through the small, slanted windshield. The sky was a sea of gray being steadily infused with an invasion of pink over the peaks of the mountains in the distance. They were on the descent now and the ground seemed to be rushing up at them. The top of the carpet of trees became more visible as the plane continued its angled descent, their skeletal branches forming an uneven ridgeline against the sky.
“Striker, you there?” Kurtzman’s voice was imbued with urgency. “I just intercepted that satellite feed.”
“We’re coming in for a landing,” Bolan said.
“I don’t like this,” Kurtzman said. “I’m seeing thermal images of about five or six figures on each side of the airstrip by the ending portion. Looks like an ambush.”
The Executioner glanced out the window again. The tops of the trees were perhaps forty feet below them now. Ahead, the airstrip was visible, a series of burning oil pots lining each side.
“Roger that,” Bolan replied. “Jack,” he said, “it’s no good. This is a trap.”
“Hold on,” Grimaldi told him and pulled back on the yoke, sending the nose of the plane arching upward.
Bolan felt himself being thrust backward and then forward as the plane’s twin engines screamed loudly.
“Got to get over those damn treetops,” Grimaldi said, his voice laced with the strain of his effort.
The fuselage began to vibrate as the engines quivered.
Bolan’s eyes shot to the left. Grimaldi’s face was a frozen grimace covered with a brocade of sweat.
“You need help?” he asked.
“Pull back on the yoke until we get over the damn trees.”
Bolan gripped the yoke but wasn’t sure if he was making a difference. They were heading for a solid wall of branches, black lines delineated against the pinkish-red sky.
The plane’s nose began to slowly rise. Inch by inch. A cacophony of scrapes, rips and crackles whispered upward from the plane’s undercarriage.
“Okay,” Grimaldi said. “I got it. Let go of the yoke.”
Bolan released his grasp.
&nb
sp; “Hold on,” Grimaldi said. “I’m bringing her home.”
Bolan instinctively turned to check the right-side engine again. It was still operational, but was beginning to sputter, then stopped completely.
“The port’s out, too,” Grimaldi said, his face like stone. “Let’s hope we got enough lift to glide on in.”
The plane banked to the left, its wing dipping as Grimaldi’s mouth twisted. He eased back on the yoke, his fingers white with tension.
They were about fifty feet above the ground now, and lowering fast. Bolan instinctively grasped the area above the instrument panel with both hands.
Forty feet...
The trees on either side of them loomed large, devoid of leaves, their branches reaching outward like beckoning, skeletal arms.
Thirty...
“I hope we don’t encounter any of those tree trunks,” Grimaldi said.
Seconds later the skids touched down hard. The aircraft bounced upward then crashed down again, but continued forward. The scenery on each side of them was rushing past, like they were on some kind of fast train, then suddenly their movement began to slow perceptively. Grimaldi manipulated the flaps, slowing the momentum, and the coarse whisper of the skis over the powdery snow sounded like a silk handkerchief being traced over glass.
After coasting another forty yards without encountering any obstructions, the shock of a sudden loud thump, accompanied by a grinding rumble, echoed through the cockpit.
“Shit,” Grimaldi said. “That didn’t sound good.”
Bolan said nothing.
The coasting continued slowing incrementally until the plane came to an almost gentle stop.
“Good job, Jack.”
“Good?” Grimaldi said, his voice sounding joyous but weak. “I thought it was pretty damn great.”
“That, too,” Bolan said. He put the sat phone to his ear again. “Aaron, you still there?”
“I’m here, Striker. You guys all right?”
“We are. Jack pulled us through.”
“Well, I never expected anything else.” Kurtzman laughed. “I wish I could tell you I watched the whole thing on that satellite image feed, but I’m still hovering over the camp.”
“Any activity discernible?”
After a few seconds, Kurtzman’s voice, laced with tension, came back on the line. “Ah, it looks like your friends are mobilizing. At least twelve of them. You’d better find some cover pronto.”
Bolan terminated the call and put away his sat phone. It was time for round two. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood.
“Come on, Jack. We’ve got to get out of this plane.”
Grimaldi’s head was leaning back against the headrest, his eyes closed, his face still dripping wet.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“You have to make it. We’ve got gunners on the way.”
Grimaldi’s mouth gaped. He took in three deep breaths, unbuckled his seat belt and tried to rise, only to fall back into the seat.
“It’s no good,” he said. “I’m just can’t move.”
Suddenly, Bolan heard something. A faint buzzing sound, like motorcycle engines.
No, not motorcycles, he thought. Snowmobiles.
Chapter Six
Lower portion of the Alaskan Interior
Burdin’s text infuriated him.
They did not land here.
What was that supposed to mean?
Rokva punched in the number for Burdin, striking the keys on the pad with a savagery borne from frustration and anger.
When the big man answered, the crime boss lashed out at him verbally.
“You stupid idiot. Have you messed up again? What happened?”
“The plane...” Burdin sounded out of breath. “It flew over us.”
“What do you mean?”
Burdin’s voice sputtered. “It a-appeared to be landing and t-then jumped over the trees and beyond.”
“Did it crash?’
Silence.
“Do you see any smoke?”
“Huh? S-smoke? No. Nothing,” Burdin stated.
“Then they must have landed elsewhere. Go find them and kill them. Do you have fuel for the snow machines?”
“I have already sent six of them.” Burdin’s voice had begun to regain some of its swagger. “The rest are being gassed up as we speak.”
“Good. Call me back when it has been done.”
Rokva terminated the call and stared at the now illuminated horizon beyond the window of the aircraft. The sky was changing from the pink to a more neutral grayish blue. He took off his glasses, wiped his face with his handkerchief and massaged the bridge of his nose. When he looked around, everything was in a soft, myopic blur. Nothing was in clear focus. Almost emblematic of the conundrum he now faced.
Somehow the Americans had anticipated the ambush. Evidently the subterfuge of the texts he’d sent had not been as convincing as he’d hoped. Or perhaps Denisov or one of his men had been captured and tortured into speaking. But what would Denisov know about the planned attack at the logging facility? No, the Americans had to have been alerted another way. That had to be the explanation. But if they’d flown over the airstrip, how had they managed to land the plane without crashing?
Replacing his glasses, the world returned to sharp detail.
In the end, it did not matter. Burdin would either track down the Americans or, if they were resourceful enough, they would kill him. Then the chase would continue.
A smile crept over Rokva’s lips.
The Americans were turning into a worthy adversary, after all.
The game was getting more interesting.
* * *
Bolan assisted Grimaldi out of the pilot’s seat. Half carrying, half dragging the man through the narrow passageway to the plane’s cabin, he found Kournikova and her two partners removing their weapons from their duffel bags.
“That was quite an interesting landing,” she said.
“Tell me about it.” Bolan cocked his head toward the door. “We’ve got to get out of here. It sounds like we’re going to have company soon.”
“We should defend from the plane,” one of the Russians, Dimitri, said. His English was the better of the two.
“We’ll be sitting ducks in here,” Bolan said. “They’ll surround us, and this thing offers little to no ballistic protection. We’re better off in the trees.”
She said something quickly in Russian and Dimitri’s mouth puckered, but he moved to the door.
“Grab your snowshoes,” Bolan said. “You’ll sink otherwise.”
The Russians stopped and slipped the snowshoes onto their feet.
The sound of the approaching snowmobiles was getting louder.
Bolan slipped on his own snowshoes and grabbed his MP-5 from his duffel bag. He checked the magazine and then the chamber before making sure the weapon was on Safe and slinging it over his right shoulder. Grimaldi was too weak to walk, so Bolan hoisted him over his left shoulder and headed for the door. Dimitri and Markov had already jumped down from the fuselage. Dimitri had his AK-47 raised and pointed in the direction of the approaching snowmobiles.
Nothing was visible yet and Bolan figured they could make it to the trees. He was feeling a bit weak himself, but shook it off, hoping for a flash of adrenaline to see him through the pending confrontation. He edged closer to the open door. Kournikova was already standing there. She spoke quietly in Russian again and Markov slung his weapon and turned to face the open door of the plane, his arms outstretched.
“He will carry him,” Kournikova said.
Bolan nodded and lowered Grimaldi into the waiting Russian’s arms. He sank about six inches into the snow as he received the barely conscious body.
“I am sink,” Markov said.
“Too much heavy him.”
The Executioner jumped down, unslung his MP-5, then slipped off his parka and spread it on the ground.
“Markov,” Bolan said in passable Russian, “set him on here, then drag him.”
The man dropped Grimaldi onto the coat and extricated his sunken snowshoes from the substantial white layer.
“Get to the tree line.” Bolan pointed to a thick section about twenty-five yards away. “Hunker down there and wait for me to get in position and flank them. Then open fire and stay behind cover. I’ll do the rest.”
Dimitri stared at Bolan for several seconds then he nodded.
“But you will freeze,” Kournikova said. “It is too cold to be without your coat.”
Bolan shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
But he was already beginning to feel the frigid temperature piercing the layers of his BDUs. The icy air seemed to freeze the moisture on his face and sear the inside of his nostrils. He began to move on top of the snow as quickly as he could, staying in the Russians’ tracks as long as possible before branching off at an angle away from the others. The awkward gait caused by the snowshoes made fast travel difficult, and they were all leaving noticeable sets of tracks. It would not take their adversaries long to figure out which direction they had taken, but hopefully Bolan’s departure wouldn’t be immediately discernible.
Checking the perimeter and listening for the sounds of the approaching vehicles, he estimated their logical point of egress. It had to be the roadway.
Bolan was about ten yards from the tree line now and running parallel to it. The sound of the approaching snowmobiles was growing louder. He searched for a break in the frozen foliage that would offer him shelter, as well as some concealment. Snapping off a low-hanging branch, he had just managed to obliterate some of his tracks as best he could when a group of snowmobiles became visible. Bolan brushed the snow behind him as he moved farther away and then into the trees. The cold was numbing his limbs, but at least he’d been able to keep his mittens even though he’d have to remove at least the right hand one to fire his weapon.
He dropped the branch and took up a cover position within a row of large pines. Their bristling limbs had dropped a carpet of needles along the ground, forming a natural pathway that led between the trees and afforded him some freedom of movement. After traveling about thirty-five yards along the needle-encrusted trail, Bolan knelt next to one of the more substantial trunks.
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