Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

Mervin’s glare was beautiful in the purity of its hate. It was his own fault, and Mervin knew it. He had refused to believe that one man could disrupt his machinations, and now he appeared foolish for that insistence. The men, who had never respected the Tick-Tock Man, had even less reason to do so now.

  “Help the others get the plane under cover while Boyd and I wait for our pursuer,” Kraft said, hefting the Stinger and heading for one of the structures.

  Boyd followed Kraft, hauling the satchel that held the SAMs. The buildings weren’t tall, but they were surprisingly sturdy for their age and state. Kraft climbed one with a swift simian grace and Boyd followed suit, albeit more slowly. “He doesn’t look happy,” Boyd said.

  “Mervin is rarely happy,” Kraft replied, preparing the Stinger. “This escapade is not going according to plan, and that gives him the twitches.” He sighed. “Still, this will be good for him. He needs to learn that life and death cannot be so callously planned. There is a difference between men and cogs, and he would do well to remember that.”

  “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Boyd asked a few minutes later.

  “Not long,” Kraft said. He jerked his chin at the clear gray sky. “I caught sight of them an hour back. They’re pushing that little plane hard.”

  Boyd whistled. “That was quick,” he said, peering at the approaching dot. He glanced at Kraft. “You didn’t say anything...”

  “What would have been the point?” Kraft shrugged and stood. The Stinger was a sturdy presence on his shoulder and he peered through the targeting sight. “As I said before, he is determined. As determined as we are. Which means he will waste no time in following us,” he said. Kraft pulled his face away from the Stinger and sighed. “It seems a shame, however. To kill such a man like this is wasteful.”

  “You mean sensible,” Boyd said.

  “I mean what I say. I understand that you lack the heroic instinct, but do try and understand. Destiny, Boyd, holds us in its claws. There will be songs sung of this quest in the years to come. The great Aryan empires which will arise to take their rightful place as masters of this wounded globe shall tell our story to children, to teach them of the harsh heroism required of the sons and daughters of Thylea.” Kraft looked at him sadly. “It is only meet that we clash with an enemy equal to our heroism. That man speeding toward us, he is just such an enemy. And it makes my soul cringe to deal with him thus.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you before,” Boyd said pointedly. Kraft looked at him. The lanky Canadian met his gaze blandly, as if he had made a simple statement rather than an accusation. Kraft grunted.

  “You are wise, in your way,” he said.

  “I’m a goddamn philosopher, Kraft. Now blow them bastards out of the air so we can get on with this,” Boyd said dismissively. He gestured at the dot. It had drawn close enough that they could make out the number on the plane and hear the engines.

  Kraft looked at him for a moment longer. Then, with a grimace, he did as the other man suggested. The SAM shot from the Stinger’s muzzle and tore through the air, splitting the distance with a mechanical wail. The plane bucked and skewed sideways as the SAM struck the rear portion of the craft and tore it asunder. Trailing smoke and fire, the aircraft tumbled out of the sky. Kraft watched it fall with a dour expression. Then he shoved the Stinger into Boyd’s arms and climbed down from his perch.

  “What was that? Is it him?” Mervin shouted, running toward them.

  “It was,” Kraft said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 15

  “What was that? What the HELL was that?” Blackjack screamed as warning lights flashed on the instrument panel. The frigid wind clawed its way into the cockpit through the hole that had been newly ripped into the side of the plane.

  Bolan twisted in his seat and cursed as he grabbed his gear. “Probably a surface-to-air missile,” he said. “I guess they don’t want us to follow them.” He could tell it had only been a glancing hit. If the missile had struck them full-on, it would have ripped the small plane apart.

  “You think?” Blackjack shouted, banging her fist on the instrument panel. “We’re a stone duck, Cooper! Our engine is gone!”

  “Can you guide us in?” Bolan asked. The plane was tumbling through the air and only his safety belt was keeping him in his seat. His stomach lurched as the plane corkscrewed downward. The taiga loomed, filling the windshield.

  “I can try!”

  “What about parachutes?”

  “Fortier doesn’t trust them,” Blackjack said, fighting with the controls. “I can guide us in, no problem. No problem.”

  Bolan bit back a curse. There was no time to think, no way to fight the cruel clutch of gravity. It wasn’t often that the Executioner was forced to rely on others, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  “We’re going in!” Blackjack said. “Hold on to your butt!”

  Bolan tensed. The impact, when it came, was thunderous. Bolan was jerked forward and back, tossed about by the force of their landing. His head connected with something hard and he heard the teeth-shuddering sound of trees snapping and splintering. The world spun crazily for a moment and then blackness engulfed the Executioner.

  Bolan had no way to tell how much time had passed when a growl woke him from his hazy dreams of blood and death. He hadn’t been unconscious, not quite. The growl came again. It was a low-frequency rumble that Bolan’s ancient ancestors would have recognized, even if he had not. It wasn’t mechanical. The body of the plane creaked as a great weight jostled it. He looked around blearily. He was upside down.

  Something stung Bolan’s eyes. He touched his head and winced. His gloved fingers came away stained with red. Instinctively, he jerked his knife from its sheath and cut the safety belt holding him in place. He thudded down, and the plane’s frame creaked again. Bolan could hear a snuffling sound, and a large brown shape passed through his limited field of vision.

  “Bear,” Blackjack said. She, too, was hanging upside down in her seat, held tight by her safety belt. She looked woozy and several shallow cuts marred her angular features. “Smelled the blood,” she added, her words slightly slurred, “Probably scared it when we crashed.” Bolan looked her over quickly. Thankfully her injuries were, like his, superficial. Neither of them seemed to have a concussion or any broken bones. He turned, his eyes surveying the interior of the cockpit. He couldn’t see his UMP anywhere. It was likely lost in the crash. He could smell the strong stink of fuel, however.

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t convince him to go somewhere else,” Bolan said, levering himself around so that his feet pressed against the door. Besides the bear-stink, the smell of spilling fuel was getting stronger. They needed to get away from the plane as quickly as possible. Blackjack reached for him, her eyes wide.

  “That’s a grizzly bear!” she said. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m well aware of what it is, and probably, yes.” Bolan pulled his legs back for a kick. “I’m going to lead it away. As soon as it’s clear, put some distance between yourself and the plane. Grab as much of our gear as you can, but be quick.” That said, he put all of the force he could muster into the blow. The door, already weakened by the crash, burst off its hinges and rattled across the ground. He heard the bear give a startled grunt but didn’t hesitate. Combat knife in hand, he slithered out and climbed to his feet.

  The grizzly was resting half on top of the plane, its bulk balanced awkwardly. The bear’s eyes met his and its jaw sagged as it leaned forward and gave a bellicose roar. Bolan didn’t flinch. There were few dangerous animals of one sort or another that the Executioner hadn’t encountered in his long war. Familiarity, however, did not breed contempt. While Bolan had few compunctions about killing a dangerous man, he rarely killed animals unless absolutely necessary. That said, if it came down to it, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  The grizzly was a
stereotypical example of the species—ursus arctos horribilis, the North American Grizzly bear. It was a male, for which he was thankful. There were few things more dangerous on the planet than an enraged she-bear, especially where its cubs were involved. Bolan made a quick estimate.... The animal was close to eight hundred pounds of muscle and fat, the latter indicating that it was preparing to go into hibernation, which also explained why it was looking at him as if he were the tastiest salmon in the river. The bear rumbled as it hunched forward, letting all of its weight fall onto the plane. Abused metal popped and squealed. Bolan stepped back. He needed to get it away from the plane. The Desert Eagle might put it down, if he hit the bear somewhere vital, but if he missed, he could set off the fuel that was spilling from the plane’s ruptured fuselage. He held his hand out to the side and turned the blood-daubed fingers toward the bear. The cold breeze would carry the scent right to the big animal’s quivering nostrils.

  “You still alive?” Blackjack called out from within the plane.

  “Yes, and stop distracting the bear, please,” Bolan snapped.

  “Just checking,” Blackjack replied, sounding unduly cheerful. Bolan wondered whether she did have a concussion, after all. She’d obviously managed to get herself out of her seat. He hoped she’d have the good sense to remain out of sight until he’d lured the bear away.

  The grizzly moved off the plane like a slow-motion avalanche of fur and muscle. Copious amounts of drool clung to its jaws and its square head swung from side to side as it looked him over. Then, with a grunt, it reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air.

  Bolan’s guts turned to ice as he looked up at the titanic beast. The Desert Eagle on his hip wasn’t as reassuring as it had been a few moments earlier, and the combat knife even less so. As slowly as possible, he drew the pistol and held it down by his side. The bear bobbed its head as it sniffed the air. Bolan wondered whether it could smell the fuel, and whether the stink was confusing it.

  He really didn’t want to shoot. There was no telling whether the first shot would drop it, and if it didn’t, there was a good chance he wouldn’t get a second shot.

  Snow began to spiral down from the gray sky as man and bear faced each other. The bear dropped onto all fours and grumbled. Bolan slowly raised the pistol. The animal gave a querulous grunt and Bolan readied himself. If it came at him, there was no way he could outrun it, so he’d have to take the shot.

  His eyes met those of the bear. If it wanted a piece of him, it was going to have to earn it. Then a rifle cracked and the bear gave a startled whine and lumbered past him, leaving Bolan to stare after it in disbelief.

  Blackjack leaned across the shattered wing of the plane, a rifle in her hands. She rolled off the wing and trotted toward him. “You missed,” he said.

  “I didn’t try to hit it. You were keeping it occupied so I figured a scare would convince it to leave.” Blackjack tossed him his gear. She was wearing a backpack and had a bone-handled hunting knife belted to her waist. “No call to kill a critter if we don’t have to.”

  Bolan holstered his pistol and knife and slid into his gear. “Smart thinking, regardless,” he said.

  “Would you really have taken it on?” she asked, peering at him.

  “If I’d had to, yes,” Bolan said, meeting her gaze.

  “You aren’t very smart, are you?”

  Bolan smiled and said, “Nope. Now, let’s—hsst!” His smile was wiped from his face by the sound of feet crunching through the snow. He grabbed Blackjack and pushed her into the trees. Then, acting quickly, he grabbed a branch dislodged by the crash, and used it to obliterate their tracks. A moment later they were crouching behind a fallen tree.

  “Bear tracks,” someone called out in a muffled voice. Two men stepped into sight, AR-15s in their gloved hands, their fur-lined hoods up over their heads and their faces hidden by ski masks. Kraft had sent men to check on the crash site. Blackjack raised her rifle. Bolan caught the barrel and pushed it down. He shook his head. The sound of gunshots would travel quite far, and now that he knew his enemies were listening, he didn’t want them hearing anything that would bring more men running. There was no telling how far they were from the rest of the Society gunmen, but if these men could lead them back...

  “Blood, as well,” the other said, sinking to his haunches with his rifle across his knees. He touched the red splatter on the snow with two fingers. “Though not much,” he added.

  “A bear might not leave much,” the first one said doubtfully. He sounded nervous.

  “What—it carried them off? Get real, bears don’t do that,” the second said dismissively.

  “How do you know what bears do?”

  “I watch television,” the second replied.

  Bolan shifted his weight and dug his hand into the hard-packed ground. He tore loose a fairly dense chunk of sod and hurled it overhand at the plane. It connected with a thump. The nervous one spun about and his assault rifle chattered, stitching the wreckage. The spilled fuel caught and the plane blew with a monstrous roar. Bolan caught Blackjack and shielded her as wreckage went flying, and burning debris scattered about the clearing. The two gunmen were knocked sprawling but scrambled quickly to their feet to stare in consternation at the burning wreckage.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” the second man snarled.

  “I thought it was the bear!”

  “Idiot.” The second man shoved his companion toward the trees. “Let’s get out of here. Kraft will want to know that there aren’t likely to be survivors.”

  As the two Society of Thylea gunmen moved off, Bolan rolled off Blackjack, who cursed quietly. “Harry is going to kill me,” she said.

  “It was for a good cause,” Bolan replied, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t let me shoot them,” she grumbled, following suit. “I thought that was the whole reason we came out here.”

  “No, that’s why I came out here. You invited yourself along,” Bolan said. “And we need them to lead us to where we need to go. Unless you’ve got a GPS handy.”

  “No, but I do have a map,” she countered.

  “Good. See any reference points? Do you remember any from before we crashed?” Bolan asked calmly. She glared at him. He kept his expression serene. “No? Me, neither. I guess we follow them.”

  “I still don’t see why you had to blow up the plane.”

  “I didn’t want them sticking around to search for us. Between the bear tracks and the explosion, they’ll assume we’re dead. Which is the best advantage we could hope for at the moment, given that we’re severely outgunned and outnumbered.”

  “If we’re that bad off, why are you smiling?”

  “Because,” the Executioner said. “I’ve got them right where I want them.”

  Chapter 16

  Some hours later, Bolan crouched in the darkness, watching the flickering light of the campfire dance through the trees. They had reached the river after a hard day’s hike, and now Kraft and the others had apparently made camp for the night. Bolan and Blackjack had followed at a distance, keeping well out of sight behind the cover of brush and rock. Blackjack had proved to have a sound knowledge of woodcraft, moving almost as quietly and quickly as the Executioner, though without his surety. She now hugged the rifle she’d salvaged from the plane as she lay on the cold ground, watching the flames alongside Bolan.

  “How are we playing this?” she murmured softly as she blew into her hands. It wasn’t quite winter yet, but it was plenty cold. Bolan could hear the burble of the Noatak nearby.

  “We’re not. I am,” Bolan said. Carefully, he stripped off his coat and gear. The cold had its claws in him instantly, but he took several deep breaths, and felt his blood begin to circulate. The adrenaline would keep him warm, he knew. “You stay here.”r />
  “That’s it?”

  “No,” Bolan said. He tapped the rifle’s scope. “How good are you with one of these?”

  “I wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t know how to use it,” she muttered, sounding offended. Fortier, the owner of the crashed plane, might not have believed in parachutes, but he did believe in self-defense. The rifle was a Winchester Model 70, a sporting rifle loaded with .458 Magnum cartridges, fully capable of bringing down big game animals. Fortier had apparently shot at least one bear, according to Blackjack. She had a box of cartridges in her coat pocket and a yen to use them, though Bolan suspected she was more than comfortable employing the buck knife on her belt in a life-or-death situation.

  “Then cover me,” he said. With that, he began to move toward the light of the fire. There would be sentries. Probably at least three, spaced at regular intervals.

  Slowly, Bolan crept through the scrub, at one with the darkness. He’d rubbed dirt onto his features and onto the blade of his combat knife. He slid between the trees with a silent grace that a wolf would have envied. The first sentry was standing about twelve yards from the clearing where the group had made camp. His forearms were braced against the length of his rifle, which was slung across his body. He wasn’t paying attention to anything in particular.

  Careless, Bolan thought. They had little reason to be wary, but the sentry displayed a certain laxity that Bolan wouldn’t have tolerated in his own men. Bolan slid around the sentry, moving between him and the light of the fire. The man noticed when the light dimmed and he turned. Bolan struck swiftly, grabbing his mouth and jaw in one hand and yanking his head back as he drove the KA-BAR combat knife up through his back and into his lungs. With a short, brutal twist of the blade, he pierced the man’s heart a moment later. Then, holding tight to the trembling body, he lowered it to the ground, taking care to retrieve the sentry’s weapon.

  In the dim light, he checked the AR-15. A snapping twig alerted him to the approach of another gunman. “Hess? You got a smoke?” the sentry murmured. “Hess?”