Cold Fury

by Don Pendleton

  He looked to Udom. “Do you have those American mines?”

  “Yes.” Udom reached into the sack and withdrew one of the claymores left by the American military.

  “Excellent,” Rokva said, running his finger over the raised letters on the plastic front of the mine. “You must remember that this side, the side with the English writing on it, must face away from you. It must be placed toward the enemy.”

  “I know.” Udom grinned. “I remember my army training.”

  Rokva smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good. Sergei showed you the location of where to place them? And how to do the detonation?”

  Udom nodded.

  “And do not forget to place the lighted pots along the airstrip to designate where to land,” the mafiya captain told him. “Lure them in. Make them feel welcome.”

  “Very welcome,” Udom said. “Then we will kill them all.”

  Rokva turned back to Galkin and feigned what he hoped would be taken as a sympathetic expression.

  “Believe me, I wish that we could all leave together,” he said. “But the task you have here is too important. It is crucial to our overall success.”

  Galkin’s mouth drew into a tight line and then he, too, nodded.

  Rokva slapped his shoulder, as well, then pointed to the north. “Once our pursuers have been taken care of, use the DHC-6 to get the hell out of here. I am leaving Mikhal with you. He has made the trip through Canada before and knows where to stop to refuel. And there are only ten of you, so you will be very comfortable.”

  Galkin said nothing.

  Rokva removed his cigarette pack and withdrew three smokes, giving one to each of them. After the filters had been crimped, he lighted theirs before he applied the flame to his own.

  “Good luck,” he said. “I will see you both in Vancouver. Now go make sure those charges are set.”

  Udom grinned and turned to hurry away, leaving a trail of exhaled vapors and cigarette smoke after him. Galkin remained a few seconds more, staring at his boss momentarily before he, too, turned to go. He stopped and pivoted.

  “You are not planning to abandon us, are you?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” Rokva worked to make his expression a combination of outrage and sympathy. “You are two of my very best men. And we are all in this together. Like the soldiers we once were. Like comrades in arms. Like brothers.” He waited a few more seconds and added, “As I have said, I am leaving Mikhal, and the plane, to take all of you to Vancouver. After your task is finished here. Just make sure nothing happens to your pilot.”

  Galkin’s nostrils flared for a moment before he turned and began walking after Udom.

  Another one who has outlived his usefulness, the Georgian thought. And one more for Sergei to take care of, if the son of a bitch survived the encounter with their adversaries.

  He pondered that as he removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with his handkerchief. The dark world, illuminated by the scant ambient lights along the runway, merged into a soft blur as Sergei and Leon pushed and prodded the cargo along the walkway and up the staircase of the Learjet.

  This would be their last flight. Once they landed in Vancouver, they could abandon the plane at the private airfield and leave it for the authorities or whomever else to find. Assuming, as he now did, that the SVR was somehow involved, and not just the Americans on his trail, the strategy had to be adjusted somewhat. The SVR would be less restrained in their pursuit, but more restricted as to accumulating additional resources. That they had pursued him this far, and bested Denisov in Wales and Burdin at the logging site, was a feat in itself. But then again, if there had been no one pursuing them, the game would not have been so challenging.

  Regardless, this next stop would be their last, and the timetable was in his favor. Even in the rare event that his adversaries once more came out victorious and bested Galkin and Udom, they would still be hours behind his fast plane and there would be no way they could match his speed in any prop-driven aircraft. The flight to Vancouver was roughly four hours in the jet. They could not catch him, and there was no way their final destination in Canada could be pinpointed.

  When they landed at the airport, the vehicles would be waiting to “unload” the cargo and transport it. Then, once Bram Patel arrived at the warehouse with the money, the new deal could be struck and the red harvest could begin. The problem of the incipient plague would most likely not be evident, and Sergei could do some quick work eliminating the organ donor cargo once the payment was counted and secured.

  Rokva replaced his glasses on his face and appreciated the clarity of his vision. He tossed the burning cigarette butt into the snow, listening for the accompanying hiss and conflating it with the imminent destruction of his pursuing adversaries, be they SVR, or Americans, or both.

  Sergei strolled up to him, ripping the filter off one of his cigarettes before placing it between his lips. “I’m glad we are finally getting to fly out of here in style.”

  Rokva brought his lighter up and ignited the cigarette.

  “These things taste like shit,” Sergei said. “One thing about the Americans, they know how to make good cigarettes. We’ll have to get some when we get back to Seattle.”

  “I am not so sure we are going there,” Rokva said.

  Sergei raised an eyebrow as he exhaled copiously, the smoke mixing with the frosty vapors of his breath.

  “Depending on how things go here, after we depart, will tell the tale. I think we have some agents from the Federation pursuing us.”

  “SVR?” Sergei’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said it was the Americans who were after us?”

  “Perhaps it is. And perhaps it is a combination of the two.”

  Sergei snorted then shook his head. “No matter.” The tip of his cigarette glowed brightly. “I don’t like running. I wish I could stay here and kill them all myself.”

  Rokva shook his head. “The best strategy is to stay ahead of the foe. Let Aleksi and Fedor take care of them. We have a more important job to finish.”

  Sergei drew on the cigarette again, his face showing obvious displeasure.

  “A true warrior is not happy unless he is fighting,” he said.

  “Have you forgotten your military training? A good commander always picks the battlefield best suited for his victory.”

  Sergei’s face gradually transformed into a smile. “That’s my Nikoloz, always thinking, always planning. Okay, tell me. What is next?”

  “Have you advised Aleksi and Fedor to place the American mines at the proper point on the airstrip? Advised them of the procedures for using them?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sergei said, gripping the smoldering butt and taking one final drag before crushing it between his fingers and stripping it down. “Everything is done. Once the fuckers land, they will never know what hit them.”

  Rokva glanced at his watch. “We will be more than halfway to Vancouver.” He took out a package of American cigarettes, held up the pack and pulled the line separating the cellophane covering. “I have been saving these for you.”

  Sergei’s eyes widened and he reached out and grabbed the pack.

  “Are these the ones with the menthol?” he asked. “I love the flavor of those things.”

  “Of course,” Rokva said.

  “I could kiss you for this.”

  “Let’s light two of them now,” Rokva suggested. “Before we get underway and enjoy our last moments here.”

  “And in these United States of fucking America,” Sergei said as he spat on the ground. “This whole damn place can go to hell, except for their cigarettes. And their women.”

  Sergei held out his burning lighter. Rokva cupped his hand around Sergei’s to keep the wind away as he leaned closer and stuck the end of the cigarette into the flame.

  “Onwa
rd to Canada.” Rokva glanced at his watch. Time was on their side once more. With a few more deft moves, victory would be assured.

  Chapter Nine

  Near Fort Mason, Alaska

  After checking on Kournikova, Dimitri and Markov, Bolan went forward and slid into the copilot’s seat next to Grimaldi. The visible sky through the windshield looked black.

  “How far out are we?’’ Bolan asked.

  Grimaldi checked the instrument panel. “Maybe five more minutes. We’ve already started descending.” He reached up and adjusted the fuel mixture and Bolan heard the engines stutter and then catch. “Plus, I’m worried about that damaged strut. It took quite a hit back at the last landing.”

  “Think it’ll hold up?”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “I braced it, and we’ll find out shortly. But I gotta tell you, I’m not liking this whole thing. It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

  Bolan agreed with Grimaldi. He was certain that they were most likely flying into a trap. Again. Kurtzman had mentioned that there was another landing strip on the south side of the fort. If they could do a flyover to see if it was clear, that might be an option. Then it would be a matter of getting out of the plane quickly and containing Rokva’s crew until the backup arrived. Hal Brognola had pulled a lot of strings to get the Alaskan State Police SWAT team to mobilize, but their arrival wasn’t expected for at least an hour, and there was precious little fuel left in their aircraft.

  “We’re running on fumes,” Grimaldi said. “Again.”

  “That’s getting to be the operative word on this one,” Bolan said.

  He glanced at his watch. Another independent variable was Rokva’s departure time. Hopefully, if his plane was in sight during their descent, it would mean he had delayed his departure as he’d promised in the text. If not, it would mean they’d still be playing catch-up. But there was no way the man’s plane could fly to Vancouver without stopping to refuel, and Kurtzman was tracking down any places where that could be done. There was still time to catch him, even if he’d already left.

  But first, Bolan thought, we have to secure Fort Misery.

  “Okay, Sarge,” Grimaldi said, “I’m going to do that flyover.” He turned off the cockpit lights and reduced the illuminated instrument panel to a soft glow.

  Bolan took out his night-vision goggles and put them on. He unfastened his seat belt so he could move closer to the windshield and activated the binocular feature in the NVGs.

  The ground below blossomed into a luminescent, green clarity.

  Bolan saw the outline of the buildings and the bright dots of the burning oil pots that had been placed along the gravel airstrip on the north side of the fort. The base itself was approximately a mile long, with a plowed main road running through the center, bisecting a collection of about twenty-five Quonset huts that straddled the road on both sides. The three arching towers of the once active nuclear power plant were at the west end, adjacent to a U-shaped cluster of buildings.

  Bolan rose from the seat and checked the southern portion of the fort. A wide path led directly to what appeared to be the paved runway Kurtzman had described. It looked to run beyond the length of the fort itself. A plane sat at the eastern end of the runway. It was a twin-engine DHC-6.

  Bolan felt a surge of optimism that they may have actually caught their quarry, after all. He relayed the information to Grimaldi, who grinned.

  “It’s about damn time that we got dealt a good hand,” he said.

  “Just the same, let’s not get overconfident,” Bolan cautioned. “They’re obviously trying to steer us toward that lighted airstrip on the north side. Think you can make it appear we’re going to touch down there, and then land us on the other side? That’s where their plane is parked.”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” Grimaldi said. “Watch this.”

  The plane began dropping and, as they approached the airstrip, Grimaldi kept the engines on high rpm as he came in low, about thirty feet above the ground. A ridge of solidly packed snow, approximately fifteen feet high, was piled along both sides of the airstrip.

  Bolan held the NVGs up to his eyes again and scanned the area. It was obvious from their plane’s speed that they were not going to land.

  A flicker of movement about fifty yards away, on top of the ridge of snow, caught the Executioner’s attention. A dark figure manipulated something then darted away.

  Bolan adjusted the telescoping feature, enlarging the image.

  The dark figure had pushed something into the top of the packed snow. It was a rectangular-shaped box about the size of a large, hardcover book.

  Bolan had an idea of what it was as the amplified image confirmed seconds later.

  Front Toward Enemy.

  “Jack, pull up!” he yelled. “They have a claymore aimed at us.”

  “Shit,” Grimaldi said as he yanked back on the yoke.

  Barely two seconds went by before the yellowish burst of an explosion lit up the night, followed by the tearing sound of the deadly burst of the 700 steel balls arcing outward and upward, striking the right side of the plane. The window next to Bolan was dappled with a cluster of pockmarked holes. Air rushed through a speckling of perforations in the side chassis where the metal was thinnest.

  The blast of another explosion, this one on the left, tore through the velvety darkness and sent a profusion of more pellets skittering over the fuselage. The port side engine fluttered, stopped, and then burst into flame.

  “Shit.” Grimaldi swore as he struggled to hold the plane steady. It bobbled from side to side like a buoy in a rough sea.

  “This is beginning to feel like a bad habit,” Grimaldi said, his voice laced with exertion. “Again.”

  The sound of a third explosion ripped through the night, but the plane was on the ascent now and the impacts were almost negligible. Bolan knew the claymores exploded in a 60-degree arc, so he felt certain they had avoided the worst of the blast. He suddenly was tossed against Grimaldi’s seat as the DCH-6 banked hard to the left and then jerked back.

  Bolan fell back into the copilot’s seat and strapped himself in.

  “Thank you,” Grimaldi said.

  “You need help?”

  “Pray,” Grimaldi said. “Again.”

  The Stony Man pilot managed to level the plane out, but they were dropping fast, perhaps only forty feet above the ground, barely clearing the top of a large Quonset hut and then zooming downward toward the solid expanse of runway.

  “We’re coming in too fast,” Grimaldi said, calmly working the flaps.

  The plane descended for a few more seconds and then smacked down hard onto the runway. It bounced upward a good thirty feet or so and then dropped once more, striking the ground a second time with terrific force. This time the jolt was accompanied by a harsh grating, tearing sound on the undercarriage. They rose and fell again, and the right side bottomed out, the floor directly beneath Bolan heating up from the friction as the whole fuselage listed to the right.

  Grimaldi shut the remaining engine down, but it seemed to do little to reduce the speed of their skid.

  “We lost a wheel strut,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan glanced up and saw they were heading straight for the plane that was parked on the runway. It was only a scant fifty yards away now.

  “Brace for impact!” Grimaldi hollered.

  “It’s going to be a rough one,” Bolan shouted back toward the Russians.

  A shower of sparks cascaded over the pockmarked glass of the windshield. The other plane grew closer and closer until it loomed in front of them like a huge T-shaped roadblock. At the last moment, Grimaldi managed to steer the front end farther to the right, causing the nose to slip under the other plane’s wing as the clunking sound and impact of the subsequent collision jarred both of them forward. Bolan watched as the metal nose crinkled like crushed
paper. His entire body ached from the impact of the collision, but he knew they had to get moving.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Been better.” Grimaldi groaned. “But I’ve felt worse, too.”

  Bolan unbuckled his seat belt and headed aft, calling out to Kournikova.

  “We are here,” she said. “But Markov is wounded.”

  Bolan stopped and went back to the cockpit. Grimaldi, unbuckling himself from the seat, looked up.

  “We need the first-aid kit,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi nodded and reached under the pilot’s seat, coming up with a metallic box. He passed it to Bolan, who then moved back to the cabin. On the way, he looped his left arm through the strap of the backpack containing his weapons and ammunition.

  Several of the steel balls had pierced the cabin wall, and Markov was bleeding from numerous puncture wounds on his forehead, back and left arm. Luckily, the others, seated to Markov’s right, had been spared. Kournikova was pressing a cloth against one of the profusely bleeding wounds on his head.

  “How bad is it?” Bolan asked, opening the first-aid kit.

  She shook her head and grabbed a gauze bandage.

  “We’ve got to vacate the plane,” Bolan said. “They’ll be coming for us, and there’s no cover and no place to run if we get caught on the runway.”

  Bolan glanced back and saw Grimaldi staggering toward him, unzipping his backpack and pulling out his MP-5.

  “Take a look for the enemy,” Bolan said.

  He reached over and flicked the release of Markov’s seat belt then, in Russian, said to Dimitri, “Let’s carry him out of here.”

  The other man nodded, but Markov made a growling noise.

  “No, I walk out.”

  He struggled to get to his feet without the assistance of Bolan and Dimitri.