Meltdown te-97

by Don Pendleton

  "Slow down, Malcolm. Everything in due course. You must be very careful about what you say, don't you think? It won't do to meet the press unprepared. I think you ought to prepare a few carefully chosen remarks for the morning press conference. I'll make arrangements for that in a while."

  "But you don't have to. I have all the contacts we need. There are several journalists sympathetic to our cause. They'll be here as soon as I call them."

  "That won't be necessary."

  "But..."

  "Never mind, Malcolm. Just do what you do best. Get your statement ready. Let me handle the rest of it. I'll call you when it's time."

  Glinkov didn't wait for a reply. He closed the door, leaving Parsons staring at a blank sheet of stainless steel. Out in the main control room, the crowd had diminished. A few armed men sat in small groups, smoking and talking quietly. Two guards stood at the door to the backup control room.

  Glinkov had no intention of using Parsons any further. There would be no communique. He had different plans for Thunder Mountain. And for everyone here. But he wanted Parsons out of his hair for a while. When more important matters were out of the way, Mr. Parsons could be dealt with. The Russian looked up at the massive banks of dials and gauges on the control boards that were arranged in an oblique U, all visible from the two swivel-based control chairs. A distant hum was the only evidence of the massive power that could be unleashed from the room. A console swept away from the chairs in an arc on either side. The most important work of the power station could be directed, or misdirected, by walking no more than twenty feet to either side of the swivel chairs.

  Glinkov sat in one of the two chairs, scanning the wall of gauges and dials, instinctively reaching out for the controls. He didn't even realize that Steven had returned to the room.

  "Kind of like Star Rek, isn't it?" Steven laughed.

  "Star Trek?"

  "Yeah, you know, the TV show. Starship Enterprise, and all that. This place gives me the creeps."

  "I think we better begin the next step, Steven."

  "Okay, you're the boss."

  "Yes," Glinkov whispered, "I am."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "We'll need two men who understand this, what it does." He gestured broadly, sweeping his hands across the range of equipment arrayed before them.

  "Why two?"

  "We can hardly afford to make a mistake now, can we? And a second man will be able to confirm, or contradict, whatever the first man tells us."

  "Be right back."

  Steven crossed the wide white floor to the steel door. He paused a moment to open it, then stepped inside. The hostages, who were seated on the floor, stopped their whispering.

  "All right, folks, listen up," he snapped. "We need some help out there, and I'm going to have to ask you to cooperate. That way, nobody gets hurt."

  One of the captives rose to his feet. "Do you mind telling us what's going on here? Who are you people?"

  "You don't need to know anything about it, pal," Steven said. "Like I said, we don't want anybody to get hurt. Now, are you going to cooperate or not? It doesn't make any difference to me."

  "Then we won't cooperate. Not until you tell us what's going on here."

  A murmur of assent and encouragement greeted the statement. Steven stared at the challenger a moment. Quietly he unslung the Kalashnikov draped over his shoulder.

  Holding it casually, almost carelessly, he waved the assault rifle back and forth in front of the captives. No one spoke. No one moved.

  The gunfire sounded like an explosion in the concrete room. The Kalashnikov bucked in Steven's hand. Four slugs slammed into the standing hostage, blowing his face in every direction with their impact. Blood sprayed the captives seated behind the dead man's body, and bright crimson flowers bloomed on their white clothing. Shreds of brain tissue clung to the bare concrete wall.

  There was silence.

  "Well, there you go," Steven smiled. "Somebody got hurt after all." He surveyed the seated audience. "I'll be back in five minutes. When I come back, I want two men who know how to operate this plant ready to come with me. Think about it. Five minutes."

  He turned smartly and left the room, closing the door with a dull clang. Leaning against the door, he lit a cigarette. The killer marked time, glancing at his watch as smoke from his cigarette curled silently toward the overhead ventilation fans. When his deadline arrived, he ground the butt underfoot and reopened the door.

  "You ready?" he asked.

  Two men were standing beside the door; the others were still seated. They stepped forward.

  "That's more like it. Come on." He gestured with the Kalashnikov, and the two men preceded him through the door. When it closed again, he said, "I hated to do that, you know. But it's like the old joke about a mule. First you have to get his attention." He led the men toward the office where Glinkov was waiting.

  Waving them in, he closed the office door and leaned against it. He nodded to Glinkov, who smiled.

  "Gentlemen," the Russian began, "I'm not an engineer, but I have some acquaintance with nuclear energy. I want you clearly to understand that, because we don't have much time. I have much to do and little patience. I want you to cooperate and to answer my questions clearly and quickly. Are you prepared to do that?"

  Both men nodded reluctantly. Neither looked at the other.

  "Very well then, shall we begin?" He rose and led them back into the control room. Sitting in one of the console chairs, he patted the other. "One of you sit here."

  When the hostage was seated, Glinkov continued.

  "What I want to do is quite simple really. You can direct me or you can instruct me. Either will suffice."

  "What is it you want to do?" the seated man inquired.

  "First, I want to override the automatic controls. I want this reactor on manual operation. Then, I want to drain the reactor coolant and make sure the flow of additional coolant is shut down. Finally, I want to withdraw the control rods from the reactor. That's all."

  "But you can't do that. It, I mean the reactor will..."

  "I know very well what will happen to the reactor. And that is precisely why I am here. Now, shall we get on with it?"

  The man was shocked.

  "So, how do we override?"

  The sight of Steven's Kalashnikov was the man needed to encourage him to talk.

  "Push the red button there, next to the computer keyboard."

  "That's all?"

  The man hesitated.

  "I said, is that all?"

  "Yes, that's all, but..."

  Glinkov interrupted him. "Thank you. Now, which controls open the drainage valves?"

  "The blue handles here. Push them up to open, pull them back to close." He looked nervously at his colleague.

  "Very well. And which gauges monitor the coolant level and temperature?"

  "Up there on the board. That bank in the yellow rectangle marked Number I tells you everything you need to know about the reactor's pressure vessel. The other gauges under Number I are all secondary functions."

  "Thank you. So, if I do this," Glinkov asked, drawing the pair of blue handles toward him, "we will begin to drain off the coolant? Is that correct?"

  The engineer nodded. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, that's correct." His voice was hoarse.

  "I'm sorry you feel compelled to lie to me, Mr..." he glanced at the engineer's identification badge "...Anderson. Now, I told you I wanted cooperation. And you are refusing to cooperate." Glinkov stood. "Steven, Mr. Anderson is of no further use to us. Take him back to the others, would you please."

  Steven prodded the man in the back with his rifle.

  Anderson got to his feet. Steven poked him again with the rifle, more deliberately this time, and the man stumbled back toward the backup control room.

  Glinkov read the second engineer's badge and gestured to the empty seat. "Sit down, Mr. Robbins. Would you like a cigarette?"

  Robbins nodded, and Glinko
v withdrew a pack of Marlboros from his jacket. Taking a cigarette for himself, he extended the pack to Robbins. When each of them had a cigarette, Glinkov replaced the pack and took out his lighter. Lighting his own first, he leaned forward to light Robbins's and said, "We can resume as soon as Steven returns." He smiled, exhaling a narrow plume of smoke.

  Robbins steeled himself against what he knew was coming.

  Still, at the burst of gunfire, he could feel a trickle of urine run down his leg. A moment later and Steven returned.

  "All set?" he asked.

  Glinkov nodded. "I think Mr. Robbins understands his responsibilities in this situation. The controls are color coordinated, are they not, Mr. Robbins?"

  "Yes."

  "A pity your friend Mr. Anderson thought I would overlook something so obvious. I can understand his reluctance to cooperate. But he shouldn't have taken me for a fool. You won't do that, will you, Mr. Robbins?" When Robbins shook his head, Glinkov smiled. "I should certainly hope not. I wouldn't want to have to do this all by myself. So, when I pull the yellow handles back, I begin to drain the coolant from Reactor 1. Correct? Good. Next, I want to shut off the flow of emergency coolant. No point in draining it away just to put more in now, is there?" Glinkov watched the temperature gauge as he followed the engineer's instructions. Soon, he knew, the needle would begin to climb. They were on their way.

  21

  "I don't have much time," Cohen said as the Jeep bounced along the trail that wound through the sparse trees. "We have to get the other two patrols and get me back to the plant."

  "I'm not sure I understand what's going on here," Bolan said.

  "I'll explain later." Cohen smiled. "Right now all I care about is getting my sister out of there."

  "Your sister? You don't mean?.."

  "Yeah. I do."

  So that explained it. Sort of. Rachel and Cohen were sister and brother. The Jeep was angling toward the fence. Bolan was watching for another spot where the trees closed to within a few yards of it. The going was rough. Cohen was driving without lights. He was trying to keep the engine noise down as well.

  To their left, they could see the eerie outline of the plant through the trees.

  "That looks like a good spot up ahead." Bolan pointed to a group of conifers about a hundred yards in front of them. The gap was wider than the last one, but they'd have to chance it.

  "No good." Cohen shook his head. "There's a surveillance camera close by. We took one out getting in here. If another one goes down, somebody might notice."

  "Suppose I just cripple the sweep mechanism. They're not as likely to realize it isn't moving."

  "I guess we can chance it," Cohen said. "We'll have to hurry, though. The next patrol will be here any minute. There's another Ingram in the back. That AK-47 makes too much noise. You might as well chuck it."

  Bolan reached into the back seat for the SMG. Its sound suppressor was already in place. There were some ammo clips as well. He grabbed two and stuffed them into the pockets of his coat.

  Cohen killed the engine, and the two men sprinted toward the fence. Cohen dropped to his belly and wormed his way forward. Bolan did the same.

  "There. See it?" Cohen pointed to a small projection on the top of the fence. It was nearly fifty yards past the spot they had chosen for their attack. "Think you can get it?"

  "Watch me," Bolan said grimly. "I'm not ready for a TV career." Bolan waited to catch the dull flash of the camera lens, which meant it was pointing directly at him. When it came, he counted to ten and then sprinted for the fence.

  Positioning himself at the base of the wire under the sweep area of the small camera, he studied the mechanical mount. A small servomotor was housed in the base. The sweep rate was slow. The servo emitted the barest of hums.

  The camera was high above him. Getting to it without being seen was going to be tough. The lens was slowly panning back and forth. A small coaxial cable ran out of the camera's body and down the post into the ground. But there was another, smaller wire. It didn't run into the camera at all. It fed directly into the servo mount. The motor was on a separate line. He could cut the line without taking out the camera. It would freeze, but it would still work.

  Bolan reached into his coat and withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. The six-inch tempered steel blade was more than enough to sever the power line. Now all he had to do was time it right. As he watched the camera move, he heard the sound of the patrol Jeep.

  "Hurry up. Here they come," Eli Cohen urged in the world's loudest stage whisper.

  The camera reached its limit and began to pan back away from the oncoming patrol. Wait.

  Wait. And... now. Bolan sliced through the small cable and held his breath. The camera jerked once, then was still. They were home free.

  And not a minute too soon. The headlights of the oncoming Jeep danced along the fence. Bolan sprinted back to Cohen and checked his SMG.

  "Remember, we have to hit them before they get to that camera," Cohen cautioned. "Ready?"

  Cohen made Bolan uncomfortable. The guy was a natural leader. A take-charge kind of man.

  Two of them working together would lead to friction eventually. But there wasn't time for that now. They had too much to do. And too little time to do it in.

  The Jeep cleared the last bend. Coming straight on, its riders looking nervously into the trees.

  "You take the driver," Bolan said.

  "Gotcha."

  Closer, closer. The Jeep was now fifteen yards away, well within the Ingram's effective range.

  "Now," Bolan whispered.

  If Cohen replied, Bolan didn't hear him. He squeezed the Ingram's trigger and swept a tight figure eight with the SMG'S muzzle. It was too dark to see much, but Bolan had no doubt that the guard in the passenger seat never knew what hit him.

  Cohen's target was the easier of the two. The driver had turned toward his passenger as if to confide in him. The burst from Cohen's Ingram caught him leaning. A narrow column of death stitched the man's side from neck to hip. The impact of the slugs drove him sideways. The steering wheel followed, and the Jeep careened into the fence.

  The man's foot was still on the accelerator. The engine strained against the fence. Cohen was up and running, reaching the Jeep just as the fence post was beginning to bend. Cohen grabbed the driver by both shoulders, yanking him from the Jeep. The engine sputtered, then died.

  "Three down and one to go," Bolan said as he joined the Israeli agent.

  "Let's get this mess into the trees." Cohen hopped into the driver's seat. He restarted the engine and backed the Jeep hurriedly away from the fence.

  Bolan grabbed the driver's corpse and threw it roughly into the back of the Jeep, then climbed in beside the dead man. The Jeep bounced through the snowy undergrowth. Straining through the occasional drifts, the engine seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

  Bolan glanced at the man beside him and knew it wasn't that loud. Curious, he searched the dead man's pockets. There was nothing but a wallet.

  He opened the wallet and flipped through the papers.

  There was a driver's license, a couple of credit cards, business cards, a matchbook cover with a scribbled phone number, a couple of receipts.

  In the photo section were several snapshots. Some showed the dead man, a woman who was probably his wife and two kids.

  There was always something to make you wonder, Bolan thought. Wonder why a man would do the sort of things this guy did. And, worse, why you did what you did.

  Why couldn't these assholes make the connection between people they cared about and people others cared about?

  The Jeep stopped and Cohen jumped down. Bolan sat, staring idly at the photographs.

  "Something wrong, Mack?"

  Bolan sighed. He closed the photo section and flipped the wallet closed. He tucked it into the dead man's pocket and climbed from the Jeep. "No, nothing's wrong. Let's go."

  Cohen looked at his watch. "I've been out here nearly an hour. I'll
have to get back soon before Glinkov misses me."

  Bolan nodded. "Listen, Eli. That son of a bitch is mine, understand? I want him."

  "That all depends, Mack."

  "On what?"

  "Rachel. If she's okay, he's yours, but..."

  Bolan clapped a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. He squeezed gently. He didn't have to speak. Cohen turned silently, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and rubbed his jaw. "We got work to do," he said.

  The two men walked back to their own Jeep.

  Each felt alone, and, as they walked side by side, the feeling was intensified by the knowledge of the other's loneliness. Cohen started the engine and backed the Jeep out into a small clearing where he could turn it around. He drove to the fence. Bolan hopped down and covered the evidence of their latest encounter. Back in the Jeep, he scrutinized Cohen's face, looking for some trace of Rachel. He saw none.

  None but the ghost of her present situation, which haunted her brother. Bolan knew the Israeli felt as helpless as he did. The odds confronting them were enormous.

  And the pain of that helplessness was as old as mankind.

  Bolan knew that. He knew that the Spartans at Thermopylae had felt it, and the Jews at Masada, too. It must have robbed Roland of sleep at Roncesvalles and lain down beside the farmers' sons at Valley Forge. Hell, for all he knew, the same sense of powerlessness had haunted the Vietcong in the tunnels at Cu Chi. Sure, he knew all that. And it didn't help one damn bit.

  "One more and we're golden, Mack." Cohen tried to joke, but his voice betrayed his feelings.

  Both men knew that the next Jeep didn't mean the ball game. It was just the end of the first quarter. And Glinkov was no rookie.

  Cohen revved his engine, and the Jeep lurched forward. Once again, he threaded his way through the trees. "I think I know the best place for our next play."

  Bolan looked at Cohen, waiting for more.

  "It's risky, but it will save us some time."

  "Are you going to tell me more?" Bolan asked. "Or do I have to guess?"

  "What's the matter, Mack, don't you like guessing games?"

  "Not tonight I don't."