Meltdown te-97

by Don Pendleton

Bolan fired and Cohen leaped. Cohen hosed the shadows and Parsons moved. Foot by foot, they moved forward.

  The progress was agonizingly slow. Time was slipping away, and they had yet to get a clear shot. It was time to quit fooling around, Bolan thought. Time to make a difference.

  Slipping off to the left, Bolan sprinted into the darkness. The overhead lamps were few and far between. It might have been an illusion, but it seemed to the Executioner that they were fading. If he could get an angle on the bastards, he could neutralize their cover. Watching front and side wouldn't leave them any place to hide. The first moments were going to be crucial. He hadn't told Eli he was slipping away. He didn't want any mistakes, and he couldn't take the chance the gunners would realize his intentions. Flat on his belly, Bolan slid under some yard-high conduits.

  He wormed forward, the suit scratching on the rough concrete floor. The hiss of the cloth was serpentine and menacing. It seemed louder than it was in the lowering darkness.

  While he worked forward, he could hear an occasional short burst from Eli's Ingram and Parsons's AK-47. He only hoped neither of his men would mistake him for the enemy. It was a chance, but he had to take it. Another ten yards, and he would have a clear angle of fire. He slid forward under another bank of conduits. Just ahead, there was a stack of wooden pallets standing on end. Bolan cleared the pipes and got to his feet. Sprinting the few remaining feet, he ducked in behind the pallets.

  The flimsy wood wouldn't offer much cover. But he was close now. He could hear the surprised breathing of one of the terrorists as yet another burst of fire came in from Eli's position. One of the stray slugs whined overhead, and Bolan ducked down instinctively. Deadly fire wasn't particular when it came to choosing a victim.

  Now.

  Three men were exposed to Bolan's Ingram.

  Cautiously he raised the weapon. He wanted to take them all out.

  Whittling the odds was all well and good when time wasn't a factor. But not this time. The targets were fidgety. One of the guys was shifting back and forth on his feet. His profile slipped in and out of the shadows. The other two were stationary. Choosing the moment, Bolan squeezed. The sound of the SMG bounced off the tangled pipes and concrete floor.

  It exploded in his ears.

  Spraying his fire in a wide arc, Bolan saw one of the guys go down. The hellfire seemed to lick out of the Ingram's mouth like a dragon's tongue. The second guy heard the fire from his side and turned. Three slugs smashed into his face and blew it away. In the dim light, his backward sprawl seemed staged, like Hollywood's idea of bloody murder. The third man was quick. But not quick enough. As the chattering Ingram swept its tongue toward him, he moved back into the shadows, but there was no room. His dodge bounced him violently back into the path of the incoming fire. With a groan, he was down. But not out. He began to haul himself behind cover, using one arm. The other dangled uselessly at his side. A dark stain covered his left shoulder. Bolan couldn't see its color in the twilight. He didn't have to. He knew it was bright red.

  The guy struggled to get out of the way. Bolan rammed a new clip into the Ingram and let loose. The gun bucked in his hands as he walked his fire across the concrete floor toward the crawling man. Two ricochets caught him in a spray of concrete chips, then three more punched through rib cage and shoulder blade.

  The man lay still.

  After the first burst, Cohen and Parsons caught on. They were alternating fire, just enough to pin the others down. Bolan angled closer to the wall. He could see the huge steel door of the storeroom where, he knew, the hostages waited.

  A large shadow detached itself from the darkness.

  Supple movements and swiftness combined to create the impression of a large predatory cat walking on its hind paws. Bolan caught a glimpse of the movement. But he was too late. The stalker found new cover.

  Bolan was now vulnerable. If he moved to the right, he'd be exposed to fire from his own side. If he moved to the left, he'd be an easy target for the enemy. Quickly he searched the immediate area looking for something anything, to tip the odds back in his favor.

  Overhead, the conduits seemed to extend to heaven.

  Steel beanstalks, he thought. He could climb them to the giant's castle, if he dared. But he didn't have to climb that high. A little more than fifteen feet up, a yard-diameter conduit met the column he was hiding behind. The right-angle intersection led to a point directly over, and eventually behind the remaining terrorists. If he could mount the pipe without being seen, he'd have a chance to end the fight immediately. And in transit he'd be a sitting duck. He'd have to attain his position without being seen. If they spotted him, it was all over. He couldn't carry the Ingram with him, so Bolan laid the SMG carefully on the floor.

  Standing on tiptoe, he could just reach the first flanged joint in the vertical length of the conduit.

  It was wide enough to afford him a grip. He pulled himself up far enough to reach the next joint. Painfully he hauled himself aloft. At the intersection, he paused to catch his breath. Beneath him, the firing continued sporadically, but it seemed distant and ancient. It was as if it were another fight, one he had left behind long ago.

  As he gathered himself for the perilous crawl out over the gunners' positions, he saw Eli Cohen place a new clip in his SMG. At the same time, Malcolm Parsons slammed a new magazine into his Kalashnikov. Suddenly there was a piercing whistle. Both men began firing.

  There was a spurt of shadow off to one side. For a moment, he couldn't place it. Then it hit him. It was Rachel. She was trying the same thing he was, but she kept to the floor to do it. She darted in and out among the shadows, swinging off to one side, trying to slide in behind the attackers. She was holding her fire, hoping for an edge.

  Quickly Bolan made his decision. If he could get into position on the opposite side, they could squeeze Glinkov like a walnut. Cross fire wouldn't be a problem, because they were on two different levels. It was a three-dimensional assault.

  Bolan slid forward on his belly, clinging to the broad, round surface of the pipe. He had to lift himself over each joint without losing his grip. His progress was slower than Rachel's but she had farther to go. If it worked, they'd reach their goals at the same moment. So far the stalking figure below had remained motionless. Either he hadn't noticed Bolan's ascent or he was biding his time. Rachel nipped in beside a broad stone column that supported the building above. Bolan was directly opposite her position, but five yards higher.

  He unzipped the anticontamination suit and unholstered Big Thunder. The .44 AutoMag felt cold in his hands. Its familiar weight was comforting after the feel of the MAC-10. One by one, he sought the positions of his opponents. Straining to peer into the darkness, he checked their locations relative to himself, to Rachel, to Eli and Parsons, and to one another. When he pulled the trigger the first time, he wanted to know where he was going with his second shot. And his third. Rachel had settled on a risky firing position. Unless she nailed two men immediately, either of them would be in a position to fire back. Bolan made his target priority dependent on Rachel. She didn't seem to realize the second of the two men was there. She sighted in on the first guy, who was hunkered down out of the stray fire coming from Eli and Parsons. Bolan drew a bead on the second man. With a little luck, no one below would even realize he was there and firing.

  And it was getting late. He was due for some luck.

  More than a little.

  Rachel opened up, and Big Thunder bucked in Bolan's hands almost simultaneously. His shot plowed into the crouching target, striking him in the forehead just below the hairline. The impact of the heavy slug drove him down and backward. The AutoMag's roar was lost in the cavernous, echoing firefight raging below him.

  The stalker had moved again, this time placing a pillar between himself and Bolan. The man seemed intent on something other than the firefight. And Bolan was the only one who had seen him. He moved once, then again. It seemed as if he were more interested in escaping than in engaging
in combat.

  He moved farther still. And finally Parsons saw him. The old man gave a start. He thought at first they had been encircled, but a nervous scan showed that no one else had moved. He called to Eli, but Cohen didn't hear him. Eli was moving forward now, pressing Rachel's advantage.

  Bolan moved another five yards along the conduit. He reached the point where it penetrated the stone wall, then swung down to the concrete, landing on the balls of his feet at the base of the wall.

  Ahead of him, the remains of Glinkov's attack force was firing frantically. Bolan sighted in on his first target. A squeeze, and the AutoMag moved on. Another squeeze, and two were down.

  One of the terrorists realized Bolan was there.

  Turning, the man sprayed Kalashnikov fire in a jagged line that swept the wall just behind the Executioner's diving form. Bolan squeezed off another round, but the gunner ducked away from Eli's fire. The Stony Man warrior's slug slammed into the column a scant three inches above the gunner's head.

  Four terrorists formed a line and pressed forward.

  Their heavy fire drove Eli backward.

  Parsons seemed to have disappeared. As the charge advanced, Bolan realized it had to be halted at once. If they drove Eli back far enough, two of them could turn back toward Rachel, cutting her off and pinning her against the wall with minimal cover.

  Eli would have his hands full. He wouldn't be able to help her.

  But they didn't realize the Executioner was also behind them. The diving gunner was a problem that had to be solved first. Bolan moved in, deliberately exposing himself to the hidden man's position the guy took the bait. He raised himself carefully, sighting in with deliberation. A look of celebration slipped over his heavy features. It was premature.

  Bolan drilled him just above the left eye. The explosive force of the AutoMag's 240-grain projectile ruptured the gunner's cranium as if it were a ripe pumpkin. The splattered gore on the stone behind him was as dark as death. And just as silent.

  Now for the four horsemen, Bolan thought.

  Eli was holding his ground. Occasionally he searched the area to his right, looking for Parsons. But there was no sign of the old man. There was no time to look for him now. The men were making a push, although none of the four seemed aware of the deadly presence behind them. They were alternating their fire, two shooting and two advancing, then switching. Suddenly the four of them surged forward in unison. Their deadly fire poured in, and Cohen had no choice but to run.

  Pinned down, the advance pressing him too hotly for escape, Eli sprayed fire without looking. His SMG chattered and then went silent. It was too soon for a new clip, Bolan thought. He heard Eli tug on the empty magazine, but it wouldn't budge. A stray slug had struck the weapon. It was jammed. Bolan was pressing in now. He fired twice, taking one of the four just above the left shoulder blade. The gunner fell like a sack of wet cement. His three buddies pushed on. They were in the open and had no choice. Bolan moved forward, pressing his advantage. When the goons realized Eli wasn't firing back, two of them turned to the threat from their rear. The third continued in Eli's direction.

  Rachel rushed forward, calling out to her brother.

  She reached an opening just as the onrushing gunner flanked Eli's position. She closed her eyes and sprayed .45 caliber poison in a broad figure-eight pattern. The hellish spray nailed her target from head to hip. Blood spurted from his neck, and he fell forward heavily.

  Drenched by the bloody spray, Eli caught the failing corpse in his arms.

  The remaining two belonged to Mack Bolan. He reholstered Big Thunder and relieved his last victim of a Kalashnikov and two magazines.

  He slipped a new one into place and dived to the right, hitting on his shoulder and rolling on to regain his feet behind a thick stone column.

  He was acutely aware that thirty odd lives hung in the balance, trapped in a room just behind him.

  Rage at such intentional barbarity gave a manic edge to his movement. What Glinkov was trying to do was beyond loathsome. For Mack Bolan it was beyond all comprehension. Now Bolan was close to pulling the plug on it. He wanted desperately to do it. Do it now. He wanted to shut Glinkov down, but there was a succession of gunners and slugs to go through first.

  Each one made him a little more angry.

  He raised the Kalashnikov and squeezed. The two men in front of him dropped in their tracks.

  The relentless fire seemed like the voice of outrage as it chattered and roared. And then was still. The gun was empty.

  The last two gunners lay in their own blood.

  Bolan wanted Glinkov.

  He wanted him bad.

  And he would have him.

  * * *

  Eli and Rachel hurried the hostages back to the surface. The elevator was running on emergency power, and there were too many people for a single load. On the way, Rachel explained what she knew of the situation. It was decided that the first group to go up should be technical people. Without them there was no chance to reverse the process Glinkov had set in motion. With them, there was precious little, but even a slim chance was worth taking when it was all you had.

  Stevens was still in the control room. There had been no attempt to break into it. Everyone else in the plant had gone to Level 4 — the hostages at gunpoint, Glinkov's men prodding them like wayward cattle, and the others in pursuit. And Stevens had waited. He was determined to get even with the bastards who had killed his friends.

  When Eli Cohen arrived, he knew there was still a chance. But first they had to prevent a meltdown. Eli was no engineer. All he could do was sit and watch the dials. And wait. And pray.

  And his prayers, if not answered, were at least being acknowledged. With the hostages free, there was still a chance to stop the nightmare. Anxiously the security chief paced behind the console as Stan Robbins tried desperately to reverse the damage and prevent a meltdown. It was too late to reinsert the control rods. The interior of the reactor was too far out of control. All he could do was try to cool it down.

  Robbins told Eli that the fuel was already disintegrating. The reactor's internal alignment was so out of whack that there was no hope of a mechanical solution.

  Both men paced and watched the dials. It seemed absurd that an array of colorful lamps could signify so much destruction. There had to be something useful they could do and didn't seem right to sit and do nothing. Finally Eli spoke. "Matt, we have to get outside."

  "What's up?"

  "There's a chopper coming. To pick up the Russian."

  "No way. No way in hell that son of a bitch gets out of here."

  "Let's go, then."

  "Stan, you'll be all right here?" Stevens asked.

  The engineer nodded without taking his eyes off the console.

  "But you should start getting everybody else the hell out of here. There's not much more I can do. And if this doesn't work, I'll be in Boston before I stop running."

  Stevens clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll tell somebody on the way out. I have some business to take care of."

  Rachel joined them, handing Stevens an AK-47. "You'll need this," she said.

  "Not if I get close enough to use my bare hands."

  29

  Andrey Glinkov was running for his life.

  The footsteps following him grew louder.

  Ahead, like the mouth of hell, yawned a fifteen-foot circle in the floor. A steel ladder led down to the floor below. Parsons descended.

  The Russian had underestimated the man called Bolan. It would cost him dearly. Just how dearly, he wouldn't know for some time. If he managed to escape with his life, there was still the question of his superiors. There was no way to obscure the KGB presence in this fiasco. No way but one. Peter Achison was supposed to meet him in a stolen attack helicopter. The original intention was to use the chopper only for his escape. But it was heavily armed. And there was still a chance. If he could hold the world at bay long enough, the reactor would do the rest of his job for him. He'd alread
y set in motion the forces of the chain reaction that would ultimately destroy the reactor complex. He might not be able to lock the hostages into the containment building as he had planned, but they were still in the plant. If he could keep them until he put his plan into action, the radiation would preserve the secret of his participation. But only if no one got out alive.

  Especially Mack Bolan.

  Right now, the odds did not favor that outcome. But it was still possible. Whoever was following him in the tunnel would have to be eliminated first, of course.

  Then he might still be able to hook up with Achison. It would be a simple matter to use the chopper's firepower to prevent escape from Thunder Mountain. As long as the reactor was unchecked, it would eventually achieve his purpose. Sweat began to bead his brow as he ran through the tunnel. He could hear the footsteps of the man behind him. He didn't know who it was, but he couldn't afford to use his flashlight. It would give him away more quickly than it would pick out his pursuer. And if the pursuer were Mack Bolan, he wouldn't make it to the chopper.

  The echo of his footsteps began to pound in his ears.

  He had to catch his breath. He looked into the dark toward the man chasing him. Far behind, he could see a dim light descending to the floor of the tunnel.

  Another man had joined the chase. Was one Mack Bolan?

  He pushed on. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest.

  Each breath brought with it the edge of a razor blade.

  The slicing of the air into his lungs hurt like hell.

  His legs were beginning to feel leaden. His feet felt as if they were encased in concrete.

  It began to get warmer. The air around him seemed to dampen and heat up. The first slosh of water underfoot went unnoticed. And the second. By the third, he realized he was running in shallow water.

  It wasn't until the fourth step that he began to wonder where it came from. The tunnels, he knew, were part of a vast complex that radiated in all directions from the heart of Thunder Mountain. They were all tied together to serve as emergency coolant conduits. If it became necessary to flood the reactor with large quantities of cool water, the tunnels would handle the runoff. If it ever became necessary to drain off the reactor coolant, the tunnels would handle that, too. He had begun draining the reactor. The water under his feet might be some of the coolant. It might be radioactive.