Fireburst

by Don Pendleton

  “What are they shooting at?” a sailor yelled, wiping the rain from her face.

  “How do I know?” her companion replied, clenching both fists while hunching his shoulders.

  With a lurch, the elevator began to descend into the dark bowels of the great ship. Set askew, the blades of a wrecked Apache were sheared off as it dropped below the flight deck, then the wing of a burning Hornet was nipped off, aviation fuel gushing out like pale blood.

  “All hands, emergency fire procedures!” an ensign yelled, as the fuel rained down from the elevator to splatter on the interior deck, and rapidly spread out in every direction.

  As the sailors rushed for the water hoses, thunder rumbled in the distance, closely followed by the crash of lightning. Everyone flinched at the noise, and several officers irrationally started to draw sidearms, only to slam them back into their holsters. What good was copper-jacketed lead against lightning?

  With a fast series of dull clunks, the huge elevator arrived and locked into place.

  “Hit it!” the ensign bellowed, twisting the nozzle on a quivering fire hose. Instantly, a rock-hard torrent of salt water blasted out to push back the expanding pool of burning fuel.

  A dozen more sailors did the same, the combined wash clearing the deck, and forcing the Hornet and the Apache across the elevator and over the edge.

  Suddenly, the entire carrier trembled as if it had struck a submerged reef, or been hit by a torpedo. Before anybody could react, the overhead lights flared painfully bright, then died away completely, leaving the sailors in total darkness. Then the ship trembled several more times, and a powerful explosion erupted above, closely followed by the agonized shrieks of dying sailors. It was a terrible sound that once heard could never be forgotten.

  Immediately, everybody started to dash for the exit. The ensign blocked the way, and shook his head. There were enough hands on deck to aid those who could be rescued, and any more would simply get in the way or, worse, become victims themselves from additional lightning strikes.

  As the screaming died away, nobody spoke or moved for long minutes. Aside from the rain pelting into the sea, there were no other sounds. The air vents were silent, the elevator had stopped inches away from the flight deck, and even the ever-present background vibration of the main engines was gone. Their beloved ship was dead and completely without power—fifteen miles off the coast of North Korea.

  A few seconds later, the emergency lights crashed into operation, the bright white beams crisscrossing the darkness to highlight fire equipment, weapons caches, medical supplies and exit doors.

  “Okay, back to work!” the ensign shouted through cupped hands.

  “Should we send somebody down to check the reactor, sir?” a young sailor asked, licking dry lips.

  “That might not be a bad idea,” another sailor said, nervously cracking his knuckles.

  “Yeah, maybe so,” the ensign admitted grudgingly.

  Without warning, the entire aircraft carrier shook several more times, the lightning strikes come even faster than before. Everybody stiffened as they felt a faint electric tingle surge through their rubber-soled shoes.

  “Now what in the world… oh, shit. Kill the water!” the ensign yelled, casting away the gushing hose. “Kill the fucking water right now!”

  The ship was hit again, and static charges crackled up the streams of water to reach the inner bulkheads. Unexpectedly, all of the battery packs for the emergency lights exploded, and darkness returned.

  Then an F-14 Tomcat jerked alive. As the turbo-engine surged with mounting power, it started to roll out of a repair stall, the aft flame melting the tools on the wall.

  Everybody raced toward the runaway aircraft, but several sailors were knocked down by the expanding wings. A pilot tried to claw his way up to the cockpit, but he was thrown to the deck as the Tomcat swung about randomly, the fiery exhaust washing across a fully armed Apache gunship.

  At the sight of the burning gunship, everybody ran for their lives. However, they only got a short distance before the fuel in the missiles, the rockets and the hundreds of pounds of ammunition in the hoppers ignited. The entire deck was filled with a searing fireball of gargantuan proportions.

  Trailing dark smoke and starting to tilt, the U.S.S. Esteem continued on its original course from sheer inertia. But, quickly decelerating, it began to drift with the incoming tide, heading straight for the fortified coastal city of Hu˘ngnam, and the main battle fleet of North Korea… .

  Lavagh, Ireland

  A COOL MIST FILLED THE mountain valley. A thick forest of pine trees covered the irregular landscape, masking the many cliffs, crags, swamps, caves and foothills.

  Dawn was starting to break over the mountains when the Black Hawk helicopter started its descent into a small clearing. The flight from India to Ireland had taken the entire night. Hal Brognola had contacts in the Indian military, and he’d arranged to have the team flown to RAF Lakenheath. The Black Hawk was a U.S. Army asset and was on loan.

  “Excuse me, Evil Kenivel, there’s not enough space for the blades!” Kirkland growled, holding on to a ceiling stanchion for dear life.

  “No backseat flying!” Montenegro replied curtly from the pilot seat, both hands busy on the controls.

  As gentle as a snowflake, the military aircraft landed on the lush grass, and she killed the engines. “Thank you for flying Air Montenegro. Please remember to tip your air hostess, and return your seat to its upright position.”

  “Are we there yet?” Bolan asked, yawning and stretching, pretending to have just wakened.

  “Nope, they took us out with a Redeye,” she replied, removing the helmet. “Sorry, we’re dead.”

  “Funny how much that feels like visiting Chicago.”

  “Hell has many names, Matt.” She laughed, running fingers through her hair to loosen the compacted curls.

  “Any radar contact?” Kirkland asked, pressing his face to the bulletproof window to look outside.

  The world below was lush, green and wild. There were no structures of any kind in sight, only sylvan fields of grass, dotted with tufts of heather, and pine trees large enough to support the roof of the world. It was more like something from a fairy tale than reality. Kirkland smiled at that. It was no wonder the Irish loved the country so much, it truly was beautiful. Although, as a Scotsman, he much preferred the rocky Highlands across the Irish Sea.

  “None,” Montenegro answered, locking the blades into position. “Nobody knows we’re here unless they saw us land.”

  “Not impossible considering the pilot.”

  “You used to love how I made things fly,” Montenegro said, seductively batting her eyelashes.

  He grinned. “Sorry, can’t remember that far back. How many years was it again?”

  “I am armed, you know.”

  “Play nice, you two,” Bolan muttered, using a new EM scanner to check the vicinity. “Okay, it looks like the only mag-fields are cable television, power lines and some cell phones.”

  “Excellent. Then let’s go chat with Roger-dodger,” Montenegro said, sliding a clip of rubber bullets into her Glock machine pistol.

  “Be sure also to bring something a little more unfriendly,” Bolan suggested, checking the magazine of rounds in his own Beretta.

  “Not a problem,” Montenegro replied, easing a magazine of steel-jacketed hollowpoint rounds into her other Glock.

  “Ditto,” Kirkland said.

  The team had come t
o Ireland to call on Roger Sullivan, the man the wounded Indian mercenary claimed had hired them to recon the White Tiger base.

  Sullivan was a former IRA assassin, infamous for his many bombings of military personnel while they were off duty. After the Belfast Treaty had been signed, Sullivan had turned freelance, and he now brokered jobs for mercenaries around the world: Sri Lanka to India to Ireland. Wheels within wheels was pretty standard for this sort of operation, and where it would take them next was anybody’s guess.

  The goals of a client were of no interest to Sullivan. He honestly didn’t care if you wanted a church blown up or a child molester executed. Anybody and everybody was fair game to him, as long as the client paid in full and on time.

  Just another mercenary, Bolan mentally noted, checking over his garrotes and knives. These snake charmers seemed to specialize in hiring disposable personnel. That said something important about them, but he wasn’t quite sure what that was yet.

  Bolan knew that most civilians had the notion that a mercenary could be bought off hitting a target. That was completely wrong. If a mercenary could be stopped that way, then nobody would ever hire them to do anything. Sullivan, and others of his ilk, were oddly honest, in their own bizarre way. The man would always keep his word, if only to make sure he got hired again in the future.

  Oddly, everybody in this line of business knew how to contact Sullivan. The man had a webpage. But not even Brognola knew where Sullivan was physically located. However, Bolan did. Roger Sullivan resided at Glen Moor Castle in Ireland, a genuine medieval fortress located on top of an unclimbable mountain peak in an isolated valley. It wasn’t the least-accessible place Bolan had ever tried to infiltrate, but certainly it was one of the top ten.

  “Where is the place?” Kirkland asked, looking through the telescopic sights around the helicopter.

  “A mile down the road, past the next waterfall,” Bolan said, checking the bandage on his ribs.

  “Got it,” Kirkland said, adjusting the focus. “Damn, it’s big!”

  “Ever heard of a small castle?” Montenegro snorted.

  “Only a white one.”

  The gargantuan castle stood crumbling on a rocky escarpment. There were battlements, a drawbridge, a barbican and even a water-filled moat.

  Seeming like something out of a fantasy movie, the ancient stone blocks of the castle were covered with moss and a million leafy creepers. The place looked as if a stiff wind could knock it over easier than a pile of dry autumn leaves.

  Which was proof that looks were often extremely deceiving, Bolan noted.

  “Heat source on the second floor,” Montenegro reported, fine-tuning the controls on the infrared scope. “Nobody seems to be moving around, but there are a lot of oddly-placed hot spots. My guess would be electric wall-heaters.”

  “To confuse any infrared scanners?” Bolan asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Fairy-tale castle, my ass, this is a goddamn military hardsite,” Kirkland stated, sweeping the battlements with the Black Arrow’s scope. “Damn, I love this weapon!”

  Montenegro smiled. “And I thought your favorite was hanging between your legs.”

  “One is for fighting, and one is for fun.”

  “Which one of those is the rifle?”

  “Come closer and I’ll show you,” Kirkland said, easing out the boxy magazine to check the load. Five cigar-size bullets lay inside, shiny with fresh oil.

  “Hey, Matt, your feet feeling good enough to do some running?” Kirkland said.

  “Never better,” Bolan said resolutely, stomping his new boots.

  “But if we give a shout, come in blazing,” Montenegro added grimly.

  “I got your six,” Kirkland growled, levering in a 700-grain round. Then he cursed. “What time is it?”

  “Zero-six-fourteen,” Montenegro replied, tuning the transceiver on her belt. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because the goddamn castle is a tourist site!” Kirkland replied furiously. “There’s a sign out front listing details. The first tour starts at zero-nine!”

  “That’s over two hours from now!” she scoffed, tucking in earbuds. “If we need longer than one hour to bust this dump, then we might as well surrender and go home.”

  “Thirty minutes, max,” Bolan countered. “And we’ll need some kind of a disguise. Any cardboard boxes in here? A wicker picnic basket would be even better.”

  “In this ride? Sorry, nothing like that,” Kirkland apologized. “But there are some heavy blankets tucked under the rear seats.”

  “Ponchos?”

  “Better than nothing, old buddy.”

  Going to the aft of the Black Hawk, Bolan unearthed the blankets and grunted in satisfaction. “These will do,” he said, cutting a hole in the middle of each.

  Sliding the blankets over their heads, Bolan and Montenegro saw that their weapons were fully covered.

  “Not much of a disguise,” Montenegro snorted. “Then again, the mist is chilly, and we only need these long enough to get close.”

  “Okay, let’s go, Heather. Bill, sharp watch for noncombatants.”

  “Roger wilco,” Kirkland subvocalized into his throat mike.

  Leaving the Black Hawk, Bolan and Montenegro stayed off the main road, and moved through the cool forest, ever-watchful for pitfalls, land mines and other traps. However, the area surrounding the castle was clean, without even so much as a hidden video camera.

  “Sullivan is hiding in plain sight, protected by civilians,” Kirkland whispered in their earbuds. “The armor of criminals has always been our own value on human life.”

  “You know my opinion on the matter,” Bolan stated.

  Montenegro nodded. “If you act against society, then you no longer have a moral claim to the protection of that society.”

  “Behave like a mad dog, and you’ll get gunned down like a mad dog,” Kirkland said over the radio link. “I have no real problem with that, Matt.”

  “Many do,” Bolan said, his tone a mixture of feelings, mostly irritation and disappointment.

  About a hundred feet from the castle, they came out of the woods, their hair and blankets soaked with moisture from the leaves and nettles. Strolling boldly to the front door, Montenegro stood guard while Bolan used a keywire gun on the front lock. He shot the lock full of stiff wire, gave a twist and the door silently opened on well-oiled hinges.

  The interior of the castle was cool and dark, the early-morning light making the stained-glass windows softly glow, but not really providing illumination. Velvet ropes closed off sections where the public wasn’t allowed to venture, and there were electric ceiling lights, the beams pointed at suits of armor, oil paintings and other historical artifacts.

  “This really is a museum of sorts,” Montenegro marveled, both hands tucked out of sight under the wet blanket.

  “And dusty,” Bolan replied. “The sign out front says there are daily tours, but nobody has cleaned this place in a month, maybe more.”

  “You think it’s a dead drop?” she asked, scowling, keeping alert for hidden cameras.

  “Let’s find out,” Bolan whispered, removing a velvet rope to start up a long flight of stone stairs.

  The carved wooden door at the top of the stairs was securely locked, but the keywire gun did its usual job, and they were through in only a few seconds. However, as he stepped through, Bolan drew his Beretta at the sight of a towel that had been stuffed under the door. />
  “To hold in gas or keep out smells?” Montenegro asked, swinging up both of her Glocks. Then she scowled as the smell hit. It was the reek of old bologna and pennies—the smell of an old corpse.

  “This way,” Bolan said, following the stench down a side corridor to another locked door.

  Inside, the room proved to be a small washroom with an old-fashioned clawfoot tub situated in the corner near a fireplace. Held in place by duct tape, a heavy plastic sheet covered the tub, the center distended from the pressure trapped inside.

  Removing their wet ponchos, Bolan and Montenegro cut off strips to bind around their nose and mouths, before slicing open the plastic.

  As expected, a decomposing human body lay sprawled in the tub, several black holes in the face proclaiming the cause of death.

  “That him?” Montenegro asked with a scowl.

  “I can’t tell after this much decomposition,” Bolan said, holstering the Beretta.

  Removing his watch, the soldier slid a hand gently under the gelatinous corpse and searched until he located a wallet. There was a disgusting sucking noise as he pulled it free, dripping a thick, viscous fluid.

  At the sink, Montenegro already had warm water running, and Bolan thankfully rinsed off the grisly object before finally easing open the ooze-soaked leather.

  “These belong to Roger Sullivan,” he announced, studying the identification cards. “Could be fakes, however.”

  “Let’s find out,” Montenegro countered, going back to the corpse. Pulling out a Gerber knife, she slashed open the left leg, the jellied flesh falling away to reveal a steel pin in the left hip and a titanium knee.

  “That’s Sullivan,” Bolan stated, tossing the wallet into the sink. “I shot him in that knee a decade ago.”

  “I did the hip,” Montenegro added with a touch of pride. “Tough man to kill.”

  “Somebody got the job done,” Bolan said, rinsing his hands under the stream of water.