Cold Fury

by Don Pendleton

  “That is Dimitri and Markov,” Kournikova said. “They have come from refueling the plane and brought more vehicles for us. Were you able to find out where Rokva might be?”

  Bolan checked his watch as he turned the sat phone back on. He saw that he had one missed call from Kurtzman’s number. He quickly redialed.

  “Aaron,” Bolan said, “I’m almost out of juice. You find out anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Kurtzman replied. “Your buddy made a call about thirty minutes ago from an old, abandoned military fort down in the southeast.”

  “A military fort?”

  “Yeah. Fort Mason.” Kurtzman chuckled. “Used to be nicknamed Fort Misery back in the day. It was one of two sites for military nuclear power stations in Alaska. Got closed down back in the early nineties when they removed the nuclear core.”

  “Where is it exactly?”

  Kurtzman gave him the coordinates. “It’s in the vicinity of Talkeetna and Glennallen. Southeast of Anchorage.”

  “Who did he call?”

  “As far as I can tell, it was to a burner phone in the Vancouver area.”

  Bolan assessed this information. While organ and tissue donation was highly regulated in North American, it was quite possible that sources in Canada had wealthy buyers lined up for black market organs. And if Rokva had made the call from the fort within the last half hour, it meant that they’d most likely been down resting and refueling. There was still a chance to catch them.

  “What about Fort Misery?” Kurtzman asked. “You going to hit it? Want me to see if I can get you guys some backup?”

  “Yeah, we might need it, but hold off until we determine exactly what we’re dealing with,” Bolan said. “Till then, I’d like to keep things low-key to avoid exposing too many first responders to any pathogens.”

  “Yeah, what’s the story on that?” Kurtzman asked. “They’re being real closemouthed about that thing up in Wales, but I got wind that the CDC was mobilized.”

  “We could be looking at a potential outbreak of bubonic plague.”

  “Damn. What do you want us to do?”

  “Just keep monitoring those calls,” Bolan said. “If we can jury-rig a way to recharge our phones, I’ll call you back.”

  Kournikova reached out and touched his arm. She held up a Russian satellite phone.

  “This belonged to one of the dead men,” she said. “Its battery has been charged.”

  “I have one of the Russians’ phones,” Bolan said. “Let me see if I can call you back on it.”

  “Roger that. I’ll be here.”

  He terminated the call and looked at the chief. “It’s very important that none of your people go near the bodies of the dead men.”

  Samson nodded. “Your woman has already told us that. Her two men gathered the fallen ones and put them on funeral pyres. At first, I thought it a waste to honor them so. Then she explained that they carried a deadly disease.”

  Bolan glanced at Kournikova.

  “I told you that Dimitri and Markov have been busy while I was with you, did I not?”

  Grimaldi’s mouth dropped open. He looked from the Russian agent to Bolan.

  Dimitri and Markov had arrived in the camp and began unfastening the tow rope, freeing the snowmobiles.

  “Let’s get to the plane,” Bolan said. “We’ve got to see if it’s operational and figure out our next move.”

  “Should I try texting Rokva again?” Kournikova asked, still holding the sat phone. “I can pretend that I am his henchman.”

  “Let me think about it,” Bolan said.

  “It worked before,” she said. “And I recognized the man with the phone. His name was Emil Burdin. One of his brigadiers.”

  “If I remember correctly,” Bolan said, “we didn’t exactly fool him. They were waiting for us.”

  “What other option do we have?” she asked.

  Bolan realized she had a point. Sending a text pretending to be Burdin might be a way of verifying Rokva’s position. “All right, but choose your words carefully. He might already be suspicious.”

  The woman smiled. “I am used to manipulating men.”

  After thanking chief once more for his hospitality, Bolan turned and strode toward the two Russian males and the snow machines. Time to leave.

  Chapter Eight

  Fort Mason

  Southeastern Alaska

  Nikoloz Rokva stared at the most recent text. It was in Russian.

  We have finally tracked them down and killed them all.

  Could it be true? Was it really Emil Burdin or another trick by the Americans? Either way, he found this latest communication most welcome. The game was continuing and he obviously still held the advantage. Now it was time to test the veracity and, if he discovered a ruse, also to see how resourceful they might be. If nothing else, this was a source of amusement for him.

  Is that you, Ivan?

  None of his many men was named Ivan. It would be a good first test.

  No. It is me. Emil.

  This gave him pause. How would the Americans know the name of his brigadier? Of course, if the drunken son of a bitch had been captured, he would have no doubt spilled his guts more readily than a hog at the butcher shop.

  But back to the match, he thought.

  He typed another line.

  Why has it taken you so long to contact me?

  The response came back quickly.

  They flew over us. We had to chase them down with snow machines.

  It had come back almost too quickly. He could not imagine Burdin’s thick fingers dancing over the keys with such aplomb. It had to be the Americans. He was certain of it.

  It was time to test their ingenuity.

  Why don’t you call me?

  This time the response was not as immediate.

  I would, but there is too much noise for me to hear. We are testing the plane now.

  Rokva laughed. A good answer. One that he might have thought of himself. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a contest of intellects, whether it be a chess match or something like this. He waited, seeing what would come next.

  He did not have to wait long.

  Are you still at the fort?

  So the Americans knew his location. That was troubling, but he could turn it into an advantage. It opened the possibility of setting another trap for them. And this time he would have someone infinitely more capable in place than the dullard, Burdin.

  Of course. Did I not tell you that before?

  After another brief pause, the reply came.

  Sorry. It has been a long and difficult day. They fought well.

  Were they Americans?

  Yes.

  Rokva thought about toying with them a bit. Of asking if the Americans spoke Russian, but this might be too revealing. Instead, he asked another question.

  Did we lose anyone?

  This time there was a lengthier pause, which told him they were trying to figure out how to reply. If they did not know the right names, they risked revealing their ignorance and their ruse.

  Rudolph is dead.

  So they did have more knowledge than he had thought. But how could the Americans possibly know these names? Even if he were being tortured, the giant would have never broken. He had been through numerous torture sessions at the hands of the best experts in Russia. The Americans were amateurs compared to them. So how, then? Certainly, the FBI might know the names of some of his associates but—

  Now it made sense. The Bureau... The SVR... It was they who were on his trail. That was how they were able to respond in Russian so fluently. And that’s how they knew Rudolph’s name, and Emil’s, too, no doubt. This was both good and bad. They would be a more difficult opponent because of their knowledge about him and also their innate ruthl
essness. They would have no compunction about striking hard and fast in any confrontation, and they would not be hampered by the legal restrictions of the American laws. Conversely, they would also be more limited in their resources and ability to summon assistance from the American authorities. They were illegally on American soil and dependent upon Russian telemetry to trace the satellite calls he had made.

  Unless... Could they be somehow working with the Americans?

  Possible, but most unlikely. Still, a grand master had to consider every move as a match evolved.

  Rokva took out one of his cigarettes and began crimping the filter.

  A new text message came in.

  Are you still there?

  Yes. I was just stunned and saddened that our giant Rudolph is dead.

  The reply came.

  A pity.

  After pressing the alternating pinches to the paper tubing of the cigarette, Rokva pulled out his lighter and ignited the flame. The possibility of another gambit now occurred to him. It was very similar to the previous one, and repeating a move was always a risk in a match, but sometimes repetition was the precursor to victory. Especially if it was not expected.

  He typed.

  Was there any damage to the plane?

  No. We are set to fly now.

  The mafiya captain took a deep drag on the cigarette, rolled the smoke in his mouth and blew a smoky ring at the ceiling.

  Excellent. Fly to the fort. We will have the landing strip lighted for you.

  Good. We are getting underway now.

  Rokva blew out more smoke.

  We will wait for you here.

  The next gambit was set in place.

  And this time he would not be sending a pawn to do the task of a knight.

  Over the Alaskan Interior

  Bolan and Kournikova were in the rear portion of the DHC-6 aircraft, which was as far away from the roar of the twin engines as they could get. Despite that, they had to raise their voices to be heard.

  “Do you see?” The SVR agent smiled as she held up the phone. “I told you it would work.”

  “Sorry, I don’t read Russian.”

  “Oh, pooh,” she said. “I almost forgot that. But you are so brave and so resourceful. I shall make you an honorary Russian, if you like.”

  “I’ll settle for staying American-only,” Bolan said. “Why don’t you translate for me?”

  She read off each text in English, ending with, “And he said that he is waiting for us there. Is that not good? Now we can catch him.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Bolan said. “It sounds like the same setup as last time.”

  Kournikova placed her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. “You are probably correct. Perhaps we had better figure out a new plan.”

  Bolan took the sat phone from her and punched in the numbers for Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm. As it was ringing, he pointed to the phone. “I’m keeping this, by the way.”

  “Consider it a gift,” she said.

  Kurtzman answered after the third ring.

  “We just finished texting Nikoloz Rokva,” Bolan said without preamble. “He says he’s still at Fort Mason and will be waiting to welcome us with open arms.”

  “I can corroborate the first part, but I’m not so sure I like the sound of the second.”

  “I hear ya, which is why I want you to look into getting us an alternate landing site in the area and some assistance for hitting the place.”

  “I figured as much,” Kurtzman said. “And Hal was already looking into that. Trouble is, getting one of our special ops teams for assistance is problematic at best and even then it would be several hours away.”

  “Any chance we could get some assistance from the Alaskan State Troopers?”

  “That’s an idea, but those guys are spread pretty thin, especially with that mess you guys left them up in Wales.”

  “That couldn’t be helped,” Bolan said. “And the way this one’s shaping up, we’re probably heading into another ambush.”

  “Well, if anybody can scramble a team, it’s Hal. He can always say it’s a matter of national security.”

  “That’s not very far off,” Bolan said. “Remember, they’re going to need to take extensive hazmat precautions on this.”

  “And maybe Dudley Do-Right and Sergeant Preston are, too. Your buddy’s made two calls to the Vancouver area.”

  “I wish we knew the significance of those calls.”

  “Hal will do his best to light a fire under those troopers’ asses,” Kurtzman said. “He’s worried about you and Jack going up against those steep odds alone.”

  “We’re not exactly alone. We’ve got some pretty good help with us now.” Bolan paused and looked at Kournikova, who smiled and winked at him.

  “Okay, I’m looking at a small airstrip about five miles from the fort where you could touch down. Transportation from there to Fort Misery could be a bit of a problem, though. The roads might not be totally passable. Like I told you, the place has been closed down for more than two decades.”

  “What do the aerials look like?” Bolan made the assumption that Kurtzman had already done some preliminary scanning and investigation.

  “Well, there’s a gravel airstrip on the north side of the fort that looks like it’s seen some use. The road leading up to and around the main buildings appears to have been plowed regularly, too. Then, on the south end, there’s a mile-and-a-half-long landing strip that looks to be in pretty good condition. I’m showing indications that someone’s been shacking up in the barracks, and there are a couple of trucks with snowplows, a couple of fuel tankers, et cetera.”

  “Any indication how large a force is occupying the site?”

  “I went back and surreptitiously checked several series of our government satellite feeds over the area. It’s showing maybe half a dozen or so thermal images, but there could be more.”

  Bolan considered this information. Kournikova had already told him that she’d originally estimated Nikoloz Rokva’s group to be ten when he left Siberia, not including the ship’s crew. The ship had subsequently left Wales, apparently with all of its crew on board. He’d left five men there to dispose of the bodies and tidy things up, but some could have already been stationed there. That put the departing group at possibly five. He’d picked up twelve more with the crew at the logging camp, but they’d been stationed there before to maintain the place and scare off the locals. And they were subsequently killed during the firefight after their attempted ambush. The Inuit chief had mentioned the airplane had taken off prior to that with around eight Russians and twenty-two women and children. He most likely had more men already stationed at the fort. But how many? The satellite feeds showed at least six, but was that all of them?

  It was impossible to do more than speculate at the moment with all the unknown variables. Kournikova had also mentioned that Rokva’s right hand man was Sergei Dankovich, who would be the most dangerous of the lot.

  Her words came back to Bolan. “He is ex-Spetsnaz. Russian special forces. He is combat tested from our war in Chechnya and is a virtual super soldat.”

  Bolan knew the odds were going to be against them no matter how the deck was stacked. But the alternative of backing off and turning it over to someone else, especially at this point, wasn’t an option. Neither was mission failure. Not only did the lives of the twenty-two hostages hang in the balance, if the infectious plague somehow made its way into the black market organ business of Canada, a pandemic of epic proportions could be unleashed.

  “Anything else I can do?” Kurtzman asked.

  Bolan reviewed what he knew, then glanced at his watch. Approximately eighteen hours had expired since the bodies had been discovered in Wales. With a time constraint of maybe forty-eight hours for the viability of the removed organs bearing down on Rokva, they were f
ighting the clock, as well. That left him with about thirty hours to make the delivery of the organs, if the buyers were set up to receive and immediately disperse them. Would he really take four hours or so, as the text said, to wait at the fort for Burdin? Not likely. But then again, the Russian mobster couldn’t be held to any standard of liability. He could shave off a few hours when he presented the organs to his buyer, who would be the wiser?

  Kurtzman had said the most recent calls had been to Vancouver, and that was at least a five-or six-hour flight, depending on the means of transportation. A prop-driven aircraft would have to stop to refuel at least twice. That most likely meant that Rokva would be departing soon and leaving another welcoming committee behind at the installation to clean things up. Or maybe the contact in Vancouver would be coming to meet him at the fort. It was impossible to figure out the definite scenario. It was like playing chess wearing a blindfold.

  “You still there, Striker?” Kurtzman asked.

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. Whatever way this thing played out, it was clear they were going to need to stuff a couple of aces up their sleeves. “Okay, Bear. Here’s what I need you to do.”

  Fort Mason, Alaska

  Darkness had once again descended onto this inhospitable landscape and vapors of steam rose steadily off on the illuminated lights lining the paved landing strip. Several men sprayed the deicer substance over the Learjet. Nikoloz Rokva stood about forty yards away on the plowed walkway with two of his lieutenants. One of them, Fedor Udom, carried a heavily laden burlap sack.

  “Are you and the others all clear as to what to do?” he asked.

  Udom immediately nodded, like a dog, eager to please his master. His companion, Aleksi Galkin, however, shrugged and then gave a fractional nod.

  His insouciance angered Rokva. He realized Galkin was not pleased at the prospect of being left behind to eliminate their pursuers, but it could not be helped. It was crucial that his men on the ground in Vancouver had the extra time needed to obtain the services of a qualified physician that the buyers would accept without question. Otherwise, Rokva wouldn’t be paid top dollar for the organs. And this was quickly becoming the last big transaction for the mafiya captain and Sergei, at least for a time... Until they devised a new moneymaking plan and course of action. Or at least revise this one. Maybe obtaining the organ products from Asia would have fewer entanglements, but it would require a lengthier round trip and be less profitable.