"Very good. I'll leave that to you then. But I have something else I want you to handle first."
"What's that?"
"A little package in the trunk. It might come in handy later, I should think." Glinkov handed him the keys. "Open the trunk, Eli."
Cohen, curious, did as he was told. "What the hell is she doing here?"
Fortunately Rachel was asleep, or unconscious. At first Cohen feared she might be dead, but her chest was moving slightly.
"I think our Mr. Bolan might like to see her, don't you agree? He has seemed, shall we say, upset by her disappearance. I should like to dispose of him here where we can control things more readily." Turning to Parsons, he continued, "I think some sort of reference to her presence should be worked into your first communique, Malcolm."
"What do we do with her in the meantime?" Cohen asked.
"Keep her under tight security, segregated from the other hostages. I want to know where she is, and I don't want anyone, I repeat, anyone to go near her. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Eli said. "Let's leave her in the car until we secure one of the buildings, then I'll move her inside."
"Very well. Let's move on. It's getting cold, and I'd like to be enjoying the warmth of a raging fire."
19
As the Blazer vanished over the hill, Mack Bolan realized he'd been had. But why? He knew that the answer would not be found back at the Parsons place. Parsons wasn't the type to lead an armed assault on Thunder Mountain. But Achison had been in the Blazer. That could only mean one thing: Glinkov.
Bolan floored it, pulling back onto the highway, fishtailing for a hundred yards until the tires gained traction. They were clever, all right.
They'd bought themselves plenty of time, but Bolan was determined that it wouldn't be enough.
Thunder Mountain was forty miles away, nearly an hour's drive over winding, ice-slick roads. And Bolan had no idea what he would be up against once he got there. But there was no time to consider possibilities. There was only time for a direct attack. As he maneuvered the Camaro through the slippery turns, always riding on the thinnest edge of control, Mack Bolan knew that he was the only man who stood between order and chaos, and the only man who stood between Rachel Peres and certain death, unless Eli Cohen was still on the inside. With less than twenty miles to go, Bolan had decided only one thing. He had to approach the place carefully. There was no margin for error. If he blew it once, the ball game would be over.
Bolan pulled off the road to check a map of the Thunder Mountain installation, but it showed him little he didn't already know. He'd have to trust his instincts, and hope for a little luck, something that had seemed in short supply the past few days. He rammed the car back into gear. The menacing roar of the Camaro echoed through the trees, filling the car, and Bolan's head, with the rumble of combat. Every battle he had ever fought paled before the coming confrontation. Never had the threat to innocent civilians been so enormous.
With five miles still to go, Bolan decreased speed. Glinkov was no fool; he might have more resources than Bolan realized. He had to prepare for the worst, and that was going to him time, time he didn't have. But there was no other way to go.
A warning sign on the right told him that the plant was just a mile away now. Bolan began looking for sentries that Glinkov might have posted on the approach road. He hoped the Russian was cocky enough to ignore that precaution. Such arrogance would be Bolan's ally, as it had been so often in the past. Seldom did the outcome of a battle hinge on one major mistake. It was an accumulation of errors that made the difference.
Thunder Mountain's glow lit up the trees now. They were starkly etched against the gray background. Bolan pulled into a small clearing, driving the Camaro past a bend in the narrow road and slamming it hard into a snowdrift to get it as far out of sight as possible. Approaching on foot, Bolan decided to check the main gate first.
It was the easiest point of entry. If Glinkov had taken the plant already, it would be most obvious at the main gate. The cover thinned as he neared the entrance, and the deep drifts among the trees hampered his approach. Finding a vantage point fifty yards from the fence, Bolan noticed nothing unusual. There were uniformed men in the main guardhouse. The gate was closed, and a patrol Jeep stood behind the small building.
While he watched, one of the sweep patrols rolled past, and a guard waved to the gatehouse. The driver beeped his horn, but kept on moving.
Bolan had no choice. He'd have to get over the fence and close enough to the gatehouse to hear what was going on. If Glinkov hadn't yet taken the plant he would be stopped. If he already had... Well, Bolan didn't want to make odds on the outcome.
Pulling back into the trees, the Executioner followed the fence as he moved away from the gate.
Bolan checked for the next Jeep patrol. Moving tightly against the heavy wire, he noticed footprints. The snow had been trampled by several pairs of feet. Above his head, the concertina wire dangled uselessly where it had been severed.
Footprints on the inside of the fence moved in the direction of the guardhouse. He was too late. The plant had been taken. But the attackers hadn't bothered to repair the fence. That might mean they weren't expecting anyone, at least not so soon. They were cocky, all right, maybe just cocky enough to give Mack Bolan the edge he needed.
Vaulting the fence, Bolan landed lightly on the inside and moved swiftly toward the guardhouse.
Approaching from the rear, he flattened himself against the building. Pressing an ear against the wall, he could make out the hum of conversation, but the words were obscured. Moving toward a window, he kept an eye peeled for the patrol Jeeps. The engine noise would give him some warning, but his position was exposed. Directly beneath the window, Bolan could hear the conversation more clearly. Two men inside were playing cards. There was no way to tell whether they were legitimate guards unaware that their defenses had been breached or Glinkov's men relaxing just a little too soon. There was another window, and Bolan slipped along the rough wall to a spot directly beneath it. The window was lighted, but no sound came from within the small room.
Stretching to his full height alongside the window, Bolan strained to hear, but the room was silent. He'd have to chance a look. Inside, several men, bound and gagged, lay on the floor.
There was no blood visible, and they appeared unharmed. But there was no way to get them out without going through the front. It was too risky.
Bolan would have to try another tack.
Watching for the next patrol, Bolan sprinted along the fence, leaving the guardhouse behind. Just ahead was a stand of trees that approached the fence, creating a small gap through which the Jeep would have to pass.
Bolan headed for the trees, pulling at his Beretta while he ran. Once in the trees, he could watch, unseen, and nail the first Jeep that came along. Cutting down on the patrols would limit the possibility of discovery before he could get some help. He had to find Eli Cohen. The Jeep rumbled into view from the direction of the guardhouse.
Its two occupants seemed more concerned with their conversation than they were with surveillance. Bolan knew there were supposed to be four patrols. If Glinkov had kept to that practice, that meant eight men. There were several men in the guardhouse and probably several more elsewhere in the plant. It meant Glinkov had a substantial force at his command. Bolan didn't like the odds, but he knew he had no choice. The Jeep was rapidly approaching. The men continued their conversation. The Executioner set his Beretta for a three-shot burst and crouched among the trees to take aim at the driver. The Beretta whispered, and all three slugs punched through bone and brain. A spray of death's shadow flew from the driver's skull, raining on the passenger who flew forward as the Jeep careened into the trees.
Bolan moved swiftly, reaching the Jeep just as the second guard scrambled to his feet. A second burst from the Beretta slammed into the man's chest and found his heart. He fell like a tree, slamming his head into the frozen ground. His feet kicked spasmodically for
a second and then he lay still.
Bolan wasted no time in celebration. Quickly he hoisted the dead man and tossed him into the rear of the Jeep. The driver was slumped forward over the wheel. The Executioner shoved him aside, slipping in to restart the stalled engine. He had to get the Jeep out of sight before the next patrol came along. The engine coughed reluctantly, then caught. Slamming the Jeep's transmission into reverse, Bolan gunned the engine and backed away from the trees. The radiator had been punctured by the impact with the trees, and a cloud of steam billowed around the struggling vehicle.
Sputtering and choking, the Jeep labored into the woods, back away from the fence. When Bolan was sure it was out of sight, he killed the engine. As he leaped from the Jeep he grabbed the passenger's Kalashnikov. He checked both corpses for ammo, and additional weapons. Three clips for the AK-47 and a pair of fragmentation grenades evened the odds. A little. The key was whether these guys would be missed. What he had so far seen suggested they wouldn't be. Two down, but Bolan knew he had a long way to go. Before he could make up his mind what to do next, he heard the roar of another Jeep. It was heading his way fast. It was too early for the next patrol. No one could have heard the suppressed fire of the Beretta. What the hell was going on? Moving silently toward the fence, Bolan spotted the Jeep hugging the fence and running flat out in his direction. Like its predecessor, it would have to pass through the narrow gap between the trees and fence. The Executioner resumed his former position, bracing for round two. The Jeep slowed suddenly, then veered into the trees. The driver was looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit, or working against the clock. While Bolan watched, the Jeep roared into the trees, pushing far into the snow. The driver leaped from his seat as he killed the engine. He reached into the back seat, withdrawing an Ingram MAC-10. The man bent down, out of Bolan's sight for a moment, and when he straightened up, he threaded a sound suppressor onto the Ingram's snub nose.
Crouching low, the man moved back toward the fence, heading in Bolan's direction. Backing off, Bolan watched silently. The newcomer took the position Bolan had just relinquished. He dropped to one knee, examining the snow, then turned slowly, his eyes searching the trees. He had noticed signs of Bolan's presence. Before he could finish scanning the area, the sound of another Jeep filtered through the trees. It was some distance away and running at a crawl, probably the next patrol. The man turned his attention to the approaching vehicle, looking back to check the trees one more time. He edged forward, placing a small cluster of evergreens at his back, and slipped out of Bolan's sight.
He was about thirty feet away, too close for Bolan to risk moving. It appeared as if he was going to ambush the next Jeep, but why?
Before Bolan could answer that question, the headlights of the approaching Jeep stabbed through the darkness, scattering shadows across the snow where Bolan crouched. He couldn't see the newcomer, who hadn't made a sound since taking up his position. The Jeep was close now and had slowed to a near crawl.
Bolan could hear the guards discussing something. The Jeep stopped. The passenger dismounted and walked toward the front of the vehicle.
"Look here, Stan. Tracks. Somethin' went off into them trees."
"It's probably nothing. Somebody had to take a leak, I'll bet. Come on."
"You sure?"
"Hell, there ain't nobody here but us chickens, pal." The driver laughed. "Let's go."
The passenger turned to get back in the Jeep.
The cough of the Ingram caught him by surprise. The rain of .45 caliber hellfire stitched the driver across the chest, slamming him backward into the seat.
Bolan saw the second guard dive for cover.
Too late. The Ingram sought him out, catching him in midair. His body slammed sideways as the rapid fire shattered his ribs. He spun, hitting the ground in a roll and coming to rest against the fence.
The hidden man suddenly appeared, crossing behind the Jeep to reach the fallen man at the fence.
He grunted, then dragged the body toward the Jeep to dump it in the rear seat. Crossing behind the Jeep a second time, he pushed the driver into the passenger seat.
Reaching into the rear again, he tugged a large piece of canvas from the back seat and dragged it across the snow toward the fence. He rushed back to the Jeep and swung it around, aiming its headlights toward the fence. Using the canvas, he quickly obscured any signs of a confrontation, kicking loose snow from the base of the fence onto the bloodstain that stood out in the bright lights from the Jeep.
Out in the open, the newcomer had his back to the trees. Bolan raised his Beretta and moved forward. The running engine would cover his approach.
He reached his initial firing position just as the man finished. Bolan drew a bead on the man's back. And waited.
When he turned back to the Jeep, the man's features sprang into bold relief for the first time since his arrival. The Executioner inhaled sharply.
The man was Eli Cohen.
Mack Bolan watched while Cohen got into the Jeep and swung it around. He headed into the trees just as Bolan had done with the patrol he had taken out earlier. But this time there was a difference.
Cohen had his own Jeep. As the vehicle disappeared into the trees, Bolan walked toward the area where Cohen had concealed his own Jeep earlier.
Bolan heard the engine die, and the lights went out. In a few moments, he heard Cohen floundering through the snow. Placing the Jeep between himself and the approaching man, Bolan dropped to one knee. As Cohen broke into the clear, Bolan bent to conceal himself behind the rear of the Jeep.
Eli Cohen was nearly out of breath from his exertions. He trudged heavily toward the Jeep.
With twenty-five feet remaining, he stopped and scanned the trees. In a loud whisper, he called, "Bolan? Bolan, are you here?"
"Who wants to know?" Bolan answered.
"Thank God!" Cohen sighed, turning toward the sound of Bolan's voice. "We better get a move on. We don't have much time."
Bolan stood up, still holding the Beretta.
"Where's Rachel?" he demanded.
Cohen hopped into the Jeep and cranked it up. "Get in," he said over the roar of the engine. "I'll tell you everything I know. But we have to hurry."
Bolan knew he had no choice but to trust the man. He wasn't sure he should, but unless he missed his guess he couldn't win if he didn't. Bolan climbed into the Jeep, keeping the Beretta in his lap. Cohen saw the pistol and smiled.
"Nice gun," he said.
20
The main control room of Thunder Mountain's Unit 1 reactor was crowded. The chaos was getting to Malcolm Parsons. He wasn't used to such a commotion unless he was at its center. He felt like a bystander, and knew that, in fact, that was all he was. Glinkov's men had just returned with the last group of hostages. The Russian was huddled with one of the raiders, stopping occasionally to issue orders. Parsons had had enough. He charged over to Glinkov with his arms waving. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" Parsons demanded.
"Hold your water, pal," the man with Glinkov snarled.
The Russian placed a hand on his companion's arm. "Give me a moment with Malcolm, would you, Steven?"
Grudgingly the man withdrew a few steps, turning his back to watch the disposition of the hostages.
"Malcolm," Glinkov said, trying to soothe the older man's irritation. "I'm very busy. Why don't you wait in that office over there. I'll be with you as soon as I can."
"What's happening here? Who are all these people?"
"In a minute, Mr. Parsons. Kindly wait in the office."
Parsons wasn't happy, but he did as he was told.
Glinkov watched him go, a thoughtful expression dulling the forced smile. When Parsons had closed the office door, Glinkov returned to his lieutenant. "Do you have them all now?"
"Yeah. We checked the time cards. Everybody's here. Thirty-two of 'em."
"Not as many as I would have thought," Glinkov said.
"Well, only one reactor's o
perating, and these damn things practically run themselves. So much automation, computers and all that shit. All that power, and hardly anybody watching it."
"A good thing, too. Our task would have been much more difficult otherwise. It's time for the next phase, Steven. Get all the hostages into one location. Use that backup control room. It will be easy to secure."
"Right."
"All except Ms Peres. I want her separated from the rest. Keep her someplace downstairs that's more difficult to get to. And I want her watched by two men at all times. If Bolan shows up, which I fervently hope, I want some warning. He'll be after the woman first. Put two men on her — expendable men. And let me know where you're keeping her."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"No. Have you seen Eli?"
"He left a half hour ago. Said he wanted to check on the security patrols. You want him?"
"No hurry. Tell him to see me when he returns. I have to see our Mr. Parsons. He's upset, it seems."
Steven orchestrated the confinement of the hostages.
The terrified workers were milling about, anxiously watching their captors. Prodded with weapons, they moved quickly into a concrete room with a heavy steel door. When they had all been herded into the bunkerlike holding pen, Steven stood in the doorway.
Grabbing two men, he pointed to Rachel Peres.
Glinkov watched as Rachel left with the three men.
When they had gone, Glinkov walked toward the office where Parsons could be seen pacing nervously.
Glinkov entered, and Parsons charged forward.
"When are we going to get the media in on this?" he demanded. "This can get us some major coverage. It proves how poorly defended these nuclear plants are. I mean, hell, we just charged right in. If a bunch of amateurs like us can do it, just think what trained guerrillas could do. Washington will be made to look the fool over this."
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