He had to find out whether he was heading in the right direction. He needed someplace to use a light for a minute, a place to get his bearings. A place to look at his map. He had to know whether he was heading toward the reactor or away from it. The water under his feet would mean certain death if it were radioactive.
Shielding a small flashlight with his palm as he ran, he sprayed a small beam against the wall for a second or so at a time. He was looking for someplace to duck in out of the main tunnel.
Every so often, he knew, there would be a ladder. They led from one level of tunnels to another. If he could find one, he could climb out of this tunnel into another, higher one. Once there, he could use his light to find out where the hell he was. And to ambush the men on his trail. The beam wavered. Snapping it off and on, he was taking the chance that he might miss one of the ladders. The third time the light went on, he saw a dim shadow against the wall.
Long and thin, it had to be a ladder. He doused the light and began to clamber up the rungs, taking care not to let his feet on the metal give him away.
At the top of the ladder, there was the mouth of a second tunnel. He climbed into the higher tunnel and ran thirty yards into it. Flicking on the light, he tried to place himself by referring to the map. With no idea exactly where he stood, he'd have to find a marker.
He played the light along the wall, moving farther into the new tunnel. Somewhere, he knew, there had to be a sign. Something with a number on it. There had to be some key to enable someone inside the tunnels to locate himself. After another thirty yards, he found it. There was a small metal sign bolted into the wall.
It identified the tunnel he was in, and the section. With some careful scrutiny, he placed it on his map. He'd been heading toward the Hudson River. That was good and bad. Good, because it would get him closer to the place where Achison was supposed to land the chopper, but it also meant he was heading in the same direction as the reactor. He had no idea what the consequences would be if he was exposed to the draining coolant.
He had no idea how deep the water might get, or how much of it he would encounter. At the moment, he could avoid it by keeping to one side of the tunnel. The rivulet of water in the middle of the tunnel bottom might just be draining snowmelt.
If he was lucky. But he hadn't had much luck so far. The footsteps of the approaching man started to boom through the high mouth of the tunnel. Whoever it was — it was getting closer. Glinkov doused his light and moved swiftly back toward the main tunnel. He had to move cautiously. He couldn't afford to run off the floor of this tunnel into the main tunnel. The drop was high enough to break a leg. And someone was chasing him.
Someone who wanted him dead.
Someone who was willing to see to it.
In his gut, Andrey Glinkov knew that Mack Bolan was right behind him. Glinkov had to get out of the tunnel. And Mack Bolan was determined that he would never make it. Glinkov was too uncertain of his path to outrun the pursuit. He had to stop and find out where he was from time to time. Glinkov knew that timing was his only hope. He couldn't outrun the people behind him. If he got where he was going and the chopper wasn't there yet, he was finished. If he got there and the chopper had come and gone, it was all over. But if he made it out while the chopper was still there, he had a chance.
As if from another world, distant echoes drifted through the network of tunnels. Barely perceptible, Glinkov had the brief impression that they might have been older than he was, the last dying sounds of a long-dead war. Or the last stand of his crew, hastily assembled as it had been. Idiots, most of them. How could he have expected to succeed with such incompetent help?
And in his heart, he knew it was a sham. He knew he couldn't truly blame his failure on the men who followed him. But it didn't much matter.
They were finished. If he survived, his version would be history. If he didn't, he wouldn't much care, either.
The footsteps stopped. Somewhere in the dark, not fifty yards away, a man waited. That man, if given the chance, would kill him. He didn't know the man's name. And it made no difference. He would have to kill him first, and there was nothing more anonymous, in the final analysis, than a dead man.
Glinkov held his breath. In the darkness, he could hear the whisper of running water. And the sound of rubber on metal. The ladder was being climbed.
Slowly, carefully, climbed.
Glinkov slid forward. His weapon clinked on the hard stone. There was a whisper behind him, his cuffs dragging on the concrete. He stilled his movement.
He waited.
The ladder thumped softly. The climber placed each foot carefully, quietly. But the care wasn't sufficient. The quiet, not enough. Slowly Glinkov rolled sideways. He could recall approximately where the ladder entered the tunnel mouth. It was on the left-hand side, extending just two or three inches above the lip of the opening. The Russian strained his ears. He heard nothing from farther off. Whoever else was following had either turned back or stopped, waiting to see what happened. The closer man hadn't been Bolan. Of that Glinkov was certain. It reassured him. But suppose Bolan had caught up? Suppose Bolan had switched places? Suppose it was Bolan climbing the ladder? Could it be? Could he afford to believe it wasn't? What the hell should he do?
The Russian asked himself a hundred questions. Time was running, just as surely as water ran in the tunnel below him. The seconds clicked off in measured rhythm as steadily as the water dripped on the rock behind him. And another step on the ladder.
Whoever was coming had a foot less to go. Glinkov placed his flashlight parallel to the barrel of his weapon. If he used the light, he had to be ready instantly to shoot at what he saw. Nervously he rubbed the slide switch on the flashlight. He moved his fingers side to side, unwilling to risk accidental illumination. And the stalker rose another rung on the ladder. That made at least four. One more, and his head should be above the floor of the higher tunnel. One more step, and he would risk the light.
Glinkov was silent. No one could possibly expect him to be there. Even Bolan would believe he was long gone. Running was the only sensible thing for him to have done. So, of course, he hadn't.
But the Russian knew that Mack Bolan was too experienced to make book on such things. It happened so quickly, Glinkov wasn't even sure who it was. He flicked on the light. The piercing eyes burning back at him scared him into an involuntary contraction of the trigger finger. In an instant the man was gone. The face dissolved in bloody spray and there was nothing but the pale, ghostly beam of his torch, dying just as it reached the opposite wall. The man's hair had been gray. The man had been Malcolm Parsons.
And Glinkov gave him credit. He would never have suspected the old man of having such nerve. He must have been mortified to have been so easily seduced. His vanity had gotten the better of him.
A less vain man would have left pursuit to the likes of Bolan. Too bad. But then a less vain man would not have been tricked so easily, would not have been in Parsons's predicament to begin with.
But was it really Parsons? Maybe the light had tricked him. Maybe the beam had been so close it had bleached Bolan's darker hair. Maybe the man he killed had been the Executioner. Maybe there was no Executioner to fear now.
It was tempting to hope so, to think so. And Glinkov held his breath, waiting for a sign. And he wasn't waiting in vain. And the sign came, and when it came, it chilled him to the bone.
"I'm coming for you, Glinkov." The voice was cold, brittle. Deep and resonant in the stony catacombs. He knew it was only a dream. Parsons was dead, after all. And Mack Bolan was on his trail.
The echo seemed to spread out in all directions.
Glinkov couldn't tell where Bolan was. He might be just below, waiting at the foot of the ladder.
Or he could be behind him, in the feeder tunnel, creeping up on him even now. Or maybe he'd gone on past the feeder tunnel, waiting for him to blunder right into his hands.
In any case, it didn't matter. It would soon be over.
* * *
Stan Robbins knew water was the only answer, lots of it. But first he had to do something about the temperature in the containment buildings. If it went any higher, the whole thing might blow.
He knew the tunnels to the Hudson were closed.
Even at gunpoint, he'd made sure those gates stayed shut. He'd snookered the Russian. Now he hoped he could snooker fate. With a prayer, he opened a second set of valves. The first step was draining the radioactive coolant from the bottom of the containment building. Then he turned on the pumps. He had to flood the reactor with new, fresh water from the river to get rid of the radioactive waste.
As it was, this place would be off-limits for some time while they tried to clean it up. But if he couldn't cool the core in the next few minutes, there might be nothing left to clean. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the warning lights blink on and off. Finally he saw what he was looking for. The blue light was on, indicating that the complete circuit from the Hudson through the containment building and on into the emergency tunnels was opening.
Two million gallons of water would slosh around the ruins of the Unit 1 reactor until they were ready to be purged. One more glance, and he bit his lip as he pressed the button. The surge of vented waters was something he could only imagine.
* * *
Mack Bolan heard it. The water was rushing into the tunnel at an alarming rate. He stepped on something resilient. With a start, he realized it was Parsons. Snapping on his fight, he nearly gagged. It was too late for Parsons.
Way too late. The faceless corpse lay on its back in the middle of the tunnel.
He ran to tile next ladder on the tunnel wall and began to climb. Behind him, he could hear the rushing flood. Stifling heat surged ahead of the incoming water. He wouldn't know until it was too late, of course, but drowning was definitely not the way he wanted to end his life.
No way.
One tunnel ahead of him, Andrey Glinkov heard the deluge begin. The inrush of the water galvanized him. He shuddered at the sound.
Screaming as if confronted by a ravening beast, he climbed desperately to the next level in the honeycomb. And the roar of the water seemed to follow him. Climbing hand over hand, he reached the next tunnel and ran for his life. The sound of the water grew louder. He reached the next ladder and began to climb. Rung after rung. He stopped to look behind him but could see nothing in the dark.
He climbed still higher, his rifle rattling against the steel rungs as he turned to look down again.
He turned on his torch and pointed it down into the abyss. Just beyond the beam he could see, or thought he saw, the white-capped waves of a raising tide. The water, too, was climbing the ladder. Glinkov knew that he was in a race for his life. Either he would soon get out of the water's reach, or the water would rush past him to claim his rightful place at the head of the line. And there could be only one winner in this race.
Then, suddenly, it was over. On his cheeks he felt fresh air-cold winter air. The lock on the grate above him was a simple latch affair. He loosened it and pushed the heavy plate aside to haul himself out into the winter darkness.
Fifty yards away, Mack Bolan did the same. He looked anxiously about for the Russian.
And both men heard the roar at the same time. The chopper was right on time. Achison had made it. Would it make a difference?
30
The incoming helicopter roared overhead. Its running lights were incredibly bright against the dark sky. Bolan recognized the profile immediately.
It was a Cobra gunship. Bolan had seen more than enough of the deadly choppers in Vietnam. The night was split apart by the roar of the 1,100-horsepower engine.
Behind him, the plant loomed ominously. It was wounded and, like a wild animal, it was more dangerous that way. Glinkov had to be nearby. Bolan had seen him slip into a vertical shaft and head out of the tunnels. With the flood raging in behind, there had been no time to follow the Russian. But he must be on the surface by now.
The chopper hovered just over a stand of trees, then drifted slowly left toward a clearing in the woods. Glinkov had been the consummate professional up to this point. That meant there was a prearranged LZ for the chopper. The Russian wouldn't have left his most crucial rendezvous to chance.
Rather than waste time trying to find the KGB man in the darkness, Bolan headed toward the LZ. The chopper touched down, but was still visible behind a thin stand of evergreens. The engine chugged away, whirling the forty-four-foot rotor. Cobras could carry an array of armament, Bolan knew. Anything from machine guns to pods of 2.75-inch missiles.
And there was no way this one was unarmed.
The pilot had to be Peter Achison. Rachel had said he was coming to meet Glinkov in a chopper.
That meant he would have a shot at the man who had killed Robert Hanley. Bolan had been trying to piece things together since he'd first seen Achison at the Parsons place. There had been something familiar about the tall, balding man. Now he knew why. Achison was the same man he'd seen through the window at Hanley's farm — the guy who had slipped out at the last minute, after shooting the defenseless engineer in the head.
It was all coming together now. All the scores Mack Bolan had to settle, all the debts he had to pay. Everything could be taken care of right here. The slate could be wiped clean.
No, not could be.
Would be.
In the distance, Bolan heard the wail of approaching sirens. Somewhere out in the darkness, police cars were rushing to the plant. Matt Stevens's man must have gotten through. But there was no time to wait for the cops. If Glinkov made it to the chopper, he'd be gone. If he got out of Thunder Mountain, there'd be no way to catch him.
Crunching across the frozen snow, Bolan knew he was only going to get one shot at the Russian.
And if he didn't nail him, the Cobra was capable of finishing what the Russian had started. In its crippled condition, the reactor was a time bomb, just waiting to go off. Rockets from the Cobra could destroy the containment tower. If it blew, the whole complex could blow. And if that happened, the lower third of the Hudson Valley was going to be a dead zone for decades.
As he neared the trees, Bolan saw a shadowy figure a hundred yards ahead of him. The guy was running straight for the chopper. It could only be Glinkov. Bolan fired a burst from his Kalashnikov. He sprayed deadly 7.62 caliber fire in a narrow arc. The man was well within the AK-47's effective range, but he was dodging among scattered shrubs.
The figure disappeared, and Bolan thought for a moment that he had nailed the Russian. Return fire told him he hadn't. Glinkov had cut loose with his own weapon. The slugs tore up the snow just ahead, and Bolan hit the deck.
He had to nail the bastard before he got to the chopper. If Glinkov got airborne, Bolan would be a sitting duck. As it was, the chopper wasn't a threat. The trees were too thick for it to fire on him. Bolan waited until the shadow resumed its flight. When Glinkov made his move, Bolan was right with him. In better shape than the Russian, he was closing the gap, but there wasn't enough time. Glinkov was too close to his goal.
Behind him, Bolan heard a shout. He turned to see Eli and Rachel racing toward him. Eli knelt to fire toward the tree line. If they could rotate their fire and keep Glinkov pinned down, Bolan could catch the Russian.
Eli emptied his magazine, and then Rachel began firing. Bolan waved and resumed the chase.
Angling to one side to keep out of the line of fire, Bolan didn't bother about his own weapon. When he reached the undergrowth, he had closed the gap to fifty yards. Glinkov had seen him but held his fire.
As the undergrowth thickened, the big guy's progress was hampered. And he lost sight of the Russian. The firing continued from behind him, so Glinkov was still visible to Cohen and Rachel. Working his way through the bushes, he could hear the chopper off to his right. He stopped to peer through the trees. The chopper was outlined against the snow. Only one man was visible in the cockpit.
Another ten yards, and
Bolan would be between the chopper and the fleeing Russian agent. The odds were getting better. And time was getting shorter. The sirens were drawing closer as the police raced toward the main gate to Thunder Mountain.
There was a deep rumble, and the ground shook for an instant. The sound died away slowly as the lights on the plant winked once, went out altogether for a moment and then came back on.
Glinkov was still pinned down among the trees, but he'd have to make his move without much delay. Bolan pushed on. He could just make out the clump of trees in which Glinkov had taken cover.
There was another rumble, this one deeper, and sounding as if it were close by. Then a geyser of steam and hot water shot up among the trees.
There was an earsplitting hiss, and the water continued to spew into the air, drenching the tops of the taller trees. The snow on their branches melted, and a large circle of earth appeared as the snow melted around the mouth of a tunnel access grating.
Another hiss and another geyser. Then a third.
All through the trees, the coolant was gushing into the air. With the Hudson drainage valves close, and water from the river pumping through the containment building and into the tunnels, the pressure buildup was forcing the water to the surface. Then Glinkov bolted.
Heading straight into the open, he dodged through the few small bushes that rimmed the clearing. The chopper sat in the center of the clearing like an insect. Its rotor whumped away in the darkness. The air was full of mist, wind-borne from the fountains spraying the forest on all sides.
In the clearing, the running man was an easier target than he had been earlier. Bolan fired a short burst, then the Kalashnikov was empty. He had no more magazines for it. Hurling the weapon aside, Bolan hauled Big Thunder from its sling and charged after the Russian. Eli and Rachel had reached the far side of the woods and were plunging into the trees. Bolan aimed carefully and squeezed. Just as the AutoMag barked, Glinkov tripped and fell headlong. The skull-busting .44 caliber slug sailed harmlessly over his head.
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