Contagion Option

by Don Pendleton

  With a satellite dish listening in on the collapse of civilization, once there had been enough mayhem, and governments were weak and reeling, Stevens would step forward and present himself as the man who could provide all the answers. In his decade of research, he’d developed a cure against CJD, at least the airborne version he’d developed. He still had trouble trying to clean up the mutant proteins transferred by digestion, but governments wouldn’t worry about that. They wanted something to protect themselves from the silent, deadly strain that would rain down on them from explosive shells.

  The terrorist networks that would receive his artillery shells would also have the means of replicating the prions. And while he doubted that most of them could do anything with such formula, at best the bathtub biochemists would simply infect themselves with their own duplicates of CJD, killing themselves off and reducing their threat to his future leadership of the world.

  Stevens-Mojo was going to trade the secret of survival for only one thing.

  Raw political power.

  The helicopter swooped over his ranch and he looked at the transport planes parked on the snowy runway. The powder had been crushed flat by a bulldozer to allow the aircraft traction to take off. He knew that each was only half full, the last remnants in the trucks he’d ordered to break off and come to his ranch.

  Stevens knew that he wouldn’t have long, but he had enough men on hand, with automatic weapons and training, to hold off a small army.

  He got on the phone and called the leader of his personal security team.

  “Block off the roads, and get the antiaircraft weapons set up,” Stevens ordered. “We’re expecting visitors.”

  “Yes, sir,” Viktor, his handpicked mercenary commander, answered. “Nothing on radar, yet.”

  “Good.” From the window of the JetRanger, Stevens watched as heavy trees toppled to block the road leading to his base. Only one road was left wide open, and that would be closed off by an avalanche as soon as his convoy of trucks arrived. Swedish 40 mm Bofors antiaircraft guns, bought with a grateful Iraqi’s money, rose from their hidden turrets, quad barrels sweeping the sky to greet any aerial assault on the camp. Short of sending in a squadron of fighter-bombers with napalm and antiradiation missiles, there was no way any force was going to hit his valley without suffering devastating losses.

  And yet, the mysterious man in black had taken on equally dangerous facilities.

  Stevens wanted out of Utah as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Arctic Cat Z570 ESR was five hundred pounds of powerful trail-riding machine, and Mack Bolan revved it up to full power as he followed Stan Reader and Kirby Graham, riding in tandem on the two-seater 570 Bearcat that was Reader’s alternate ride. Though the 570 ESR single-seater was a couple of years older than Reader’s tandem seater, it was well maintained and the three men rocketed across the countryside at sixty miles an hour, the engines razzing noisily in the early morning silence. By taking back trails, they hoped to avoid others, and except for a small film crew cutting in another direction toward some peaks, they were alone in this part of the woods.

  As it was, the trio had divided the long guns they’d rapidly gotten from Reader’s arsenal and stuffed them into duffel bags. Reader played a hunch and led them toward the one roadway to Stevens’s ranch where he indicated could be blocked off by avalanche.

  “That is where he will likely direct his convoy, reserving the most irreversible terrain change for the final blockade,” Reader had told them.

  “And we can intercept the trucks there,” Bolan had noted.

  “Right,” Reader’d confirmed. “In fact, look at this map. We can set up an ambush, but I’m not certain where.”

  “This hairpin,” Bolan had pointed out. “They’ll have to slow down. But we’d need three mobile forces.”

  “I only have two snowmobiles, but I am a cross-country skier,” Reader’d advised, “and a biathlete.”

  “Shooting from skis,” Bolan had mentioned, pointing to spots on the map. “Works for me. We’ll drop you off at the block end, and Graham and I will swoop in here and here to catch them off guard.”

  Reader hopped off the Bearcat and Graham took over. The biathlete quickly strapped into his skis and took the rifle from his pack. Under Bolan’s advice, they left the M-16s behind. In the cold, snowy terrain, they needed a rifle that could cut through winter clothing or a truck cab. The security men at the gates of Dugway had proved ineffective with their M-16s, so they had 7.62 mm or heavier with them.

  Reader had a Heckler & Koch G-3 rifle. With a 20-round magazine, the durable, reliable rifle was heavy, but its collapsing stock and superb engineering were perfect for cold weather, and its 7.62 mm cartridge was more than sufficient to smash through a truck windshield or render an engine useless junk in even the sturdiest of trucks. Bolan had an Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Precision rifle in .300 Winchester Magnum with a scope. The 10-round magazine and bolt-action design was no hindrance to the Executioner. He was swift and accurate with the relatively low-technology sniper rifle. The action had been originated in the nineteenth Century, but the AWP .300 was made of space-age fiberglass with a sleek, modern optical sight. Launching a 180-grain slug at 3200 feet per second, the .300 WM cartridges would stop anything smaller than a grizzly bear with one shot, or cause mayhem with the soft-skinned transport trucks.

  Graham had an Armalite AR-10, the 7.62 mm version of the M-16, slightly heavier to handle than the larger, more powerful cartridge, but maintaining the same balance, reliability and operation as the smaller M-16. Graham and Reader had both opted for Aimpoint scopes, tough little optical units that allowed for fast and easy aiming. The three of them were also equipped with fragmentation grenades, 250 rounds of ammunition for their rifles, their handguns and spare ammunition.

  It was a heavy load, but Bolan anticipated that they wouldn’t have a chance to stop off for more gear. Stevens had to be stopped here and now.

  Reader understood what that meant. While Graham had informed Bolan that the scientist had doubts about the morality of a covert direct-action team the likes of Stony Man Farm’s forces, the reality of Kent Stevens-Major Nelson-Mojo had shown him the truth. Sometimes you had to go outside the law to save the lives of millions.

  It was a moral struggle that Bolan had long ago come to terms with, and he hated having to subject anyone else to such a dilemma, but this emergency had forced him to recruit the young scientist. Reader sliced through the woods on his skis to his part of the ambush, and the Executioner spun and rushed to the back door of the ambush, a low hill that allowed him to overlook a mile of road.

  He parked the snowmobile, ready to start with a flick of the ignition, in a copse to one side, and settled down behind the AWC .300. The Bushnell scope gave him a clear view of the trucks heading up the road. Packed snow stretched out in front of the convoy.

  “They’re coming,” Bolan said. “Give it a minute.”

  “Right,” Graham said. He’d taken position at the trunk of a heavy fir tree, giving him a wide arc of free fire across the road. When Reader blasted the lead truck, he would cut loose on the middle three trucks, while Bolan crippled the rear vehicle. Graham had the widest field of fire, but he had to be the most careful, since he could too easily rake the munitions in the beds of the trucks. If a .308-caliber slug struck a shell, there was the possibility of detonation.

  Graham knew the risks, though. He’d focus on the cabs and the wheels of the trucks.

  Bolan caught movement at Reader’s position, and he scanned the scientist as he packed two grenades into the flattened snow, covering them lightly with some loose powder to disguise them. Reader skied back to the roadside and hunkered down, adjusting his rifle.

  An improvised landmine. Bolan knew that demolitions disposal teams used 7.62 mm rifles to shoot grenades to detonate them. Reader had thought of that, and he was going to use that trick to set off the grenades under the lead truck, trusting the undercarriag
e of the heavy transport vehicle to protect the deadly payload in the back while being wrecked by the blast and fragmentation.

  Bolan watched as the trucks crawled past. While they had been rolling fast and hard down the road, the hairpin slowed them down. It would take a while for the driver to bring the big vehicle back up to speed, but on the snow-packed road, overloaded with munitions, they couldn’t risk hitting the curve at top speed.

  That would give Reader his chance.

  Bolan didn’t doubt his skill. As an Olympic Biathlon contender, Reader was used to hitting five-inch metal plates from one hundred yards away. While those were shot with a .22-caliber precision rifle, the range was shorter by a quarter, and Reader hadn’t crossed three hundred yards of rough, snowy terrain in the space of a few minutes. Rested and braced, Reader could hit the grenades with his superbly accurate Heckler & Koch. If not, he could empty the magazine into the windshield and grille of the truck as a last-ditch effort.

  The last truck passed the Executioner’s position, and Bolan sighted on the rear wheel.

  Stan Reader pulled the trigger and a muffled explosion thumped under the front wheels of the enemy truck. The out-of-control transport skidded, spewing up snow from its rear tires, and crashed into a roadside ditch.

  The second truck accelerated to try to squeeze past the first vehicle, but Kirby Graham opened up with his AR-10, filling the cab with a storm of high-powered rifle bullets. The driver and his partner jerked violently as Graham’s sniper fire tore through the driver’s door and punched through both men before finally expending the last of its energy digging into the passenger’s door. The truck, its occupants no longer in control, slid out of control and rear-ended the first truck.

  Bolan pulled the trigger and his .300 Winchester Magnum slug slammed into the hub of the last truck’s rear axle. The power of the bullet fractured the axle. With the weight and the stress of the snowy road, the wheel tore off on the next bump and the rear bumper sunk into the road, dragging along and pulling the vehicle into a fishtail that blocked the two previous trucks from backing up.

  The driver opened the door on the fourth truck and pulled a pistol from its holster. Bolan swung and punched a round through his forehead. The Magnum hunting round tore off the top of the gunman’s skull in a halo of blood and tissue that sprayed across the hood of the truck and the snow behind. There was no other movement in the cab, which wasn’t surprising as Bolan and Graham had killed three of the smugglers back at Dugway, cutting down on the opposition here.

  Six down, from Graham and Bolan’s actions, and in the distance, Reader exchanged fire with the crew of the first truck. From the sound of things, one of them had a submachine gun.

  Stan Reader popped his bindings and rolled in the snow, clutching the G-3 tightly as autofire chopped into the snow in his wake. He finally reached the cover of a tree trunk as 9 mm slugs plunked impotently against the tree. Reader poked the G-3 around the side and saw the guy with the submachine gun reloading. The slender scientist pulled the trigger twice and caught the gunner in the upper chest. Both bullets were lethal shots, smashing through ribs, lungs and blood vessels, causing horrendous internal damage.

  The man dropped his machine pistol and collapsed off the truck’s running board, blood pouring from the massive holes. Stunned by the twin hammering impacts, the gunman’s heart hammered, squirting blood out into the snow, turning it to a puddle of crimson beneath him.

  The driver ducked behind the hood of his vehicle and burned off the Beretta’s magazine, trying to reach Reader behind cover. Unfortunately the driver hadn’t noticed Kirby Graham. A single 7.62 mm slug smashed into the base of the shooter’s skull, 175 grains of lead detonating violently and hurtling splinters of bone and spongy brain tissue in all directions. Nearly decapitated, the driver slumped down the fender of his truck, sightless eyes bulged in their sockets from the hydrostatic force of Graham’s shot.

  Two remained, the drivers of the third and last trucks. They both hurled their pistols into the snow, crying out for mercy.

  “Come on out!” Graham ordered. Bolan crawled onto his Arctic Cat snowmobile and raced up while Reader mounted his skis and closed with the third truck. Bolan took the fifth truck’s driver prisoner at the point of his revolver, while Reader kept the third driver quiet at the end of his rifle, giving Graham the opportunity to drive the Bearcat down to the convoy ambush. Reader went back to the first truck and retrieved the submachine gun after Graham took possession of their other prisoner. He turned the chatterbox over to Bolan for close-quarters mayhem. It was an Uzi, and the guy riding on security had three magazines for it. Bolan added the loot to his arsenal.

  “Get in the driver’s seat,” Bolan ordered, taking the fifth driver to the side of the fourth truck. He loaded his war bag into the passenger seat well, and slid alongside his prisoner. “We’re staying the course.”

  The driver knew what Bolan meant.

  Graham rode shotgun with the other prisoner. The third and fourth trucks had been the only undamaged vehicles, and Reader sat on the tailgate of the third truck. Their plan had called for taking at least one of the vehicles without obvious damage. The drivers surrendering was the icing on the cake. Reader would jump ship before they reached the airfield, swinging around so as to take up a sniper’s roost while Bolan and Graham got up close and personal.

  It was still a risky plan, but they had one ace in the hole back at Hill Air Force Base—Jack Grimaldi.

  “THERE’S BEEN GUNFIRE reported,” Viktor told Stevens as the planes were being prepared.

  “Damn. They must have caught up with the convoy.” Stevens cursed. “Get in touch with the drivers.”

  “Already on it,” Viktor said. He handed the cell phone to the mastermind.

  Stevens turned on the phone. “Report.”

  “This is Anderson,” the driver replied, out of breath. “We lost three trucks.”

  “What happened?” Stevens asked.

  “They used one of the stealth helicopters to cut us off. They laid an ambush, and tried to cut us off using handguns and grenades,” Anderson responded. He sounded frightened. “First the attack at the warehouse…”

  “How many are left?”

  “Four of us. We got lucky that they took the Hughes. It didn’t have enough armor to hold off submachine-gun fire,” Anderson said.

  “We didn’t hear a crash,” Stevens snapped.

  “The pilot was good. We damaged the bird, but they came down too far from the road. We’re bringing everything we can,” Anderson replied. “But we’ll need more vehicles to grab the rest of the stuff from the other trucks.”

  “They didn’t damage the cargo?” Stevens asked. He snapped his fingers and Pave, now armed with a pair of short-barreled AK-47s, nodded.

  “No. They must have been afraid to set off the live munitions,” Anderson answered. “We’re about five minutes out.”

  Stevens nodded to Pave who slung his rifles and opened a firing stud on a console. The hulking bodyguard pressed the button, and in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  A sixty-inch base of thick, fresh snow cracked loose under the avalanche-inducing explosives.

  Stevens was closing the road early. Too bad about the drivers, but he had enough to start his war against civilization. “Get the planes ready for takeoff.”

  In the distance, rumbling snows crashed down the slope of the cliff in a tidal wave of white death.

  ANDERSON HAD MISLED Stevens on the other end of the line. Sure, they normally would have been five minutes out, but Bolan knew the moment that the driver called in to his master, whatever plans he had to seal off his ranch would be put into place.

  Anderson was charging his truck along, as was Graham’s driver, Dykstra, at 100 miles an hour. It was an insane rate of speed on the snowy roads, but with the cliffs above, they had no choice. Avalanche-causing charges could have been placed anywhere along the line.

  Reader, on the tailgate of the previous truck, waved frantically. A furi
ous white cloud signaled the rush of a snow slide, and Anderson’s face paled at the sight of the fifty-foot-tall cloud tumbling down toward the road ahead. Bolan saw the driver’s foot flex harder against the gas, squeezing everything out of the engine that he could get.

  “Come on,” Bolan whispered as the two-and-a-half ton truck tore over the slippery road. They were lucky that the weight of their cargo was enough to stabilize the trucks on the snow-slicked back roads. Still, if they had to make a turn at this speed, they’d wipe out.

  “Oh hell, we’re not going to make it,” Anderson muttered. “We’re not gonna—”

  “We’ll make it. Keep going!” Bolan snapped.

  The relationship between prisoner and captor had evaporated in the face of the avalanche. Now they were allies, bound by the desperate fear of hundreds of tons of hurtling snow. Even the Executioner’s vast battle experience was useless in the face of a collapsing mass of snow that ground everything in its path. Armies were mortal, but the rocketing slough was an invulnerable juggernaut, the force of nature given a horrific face.

  The torrent of snow was thick and gray now. Instead of pure snow, chunks of shattered trees and loose rock were mixed in. Even if it were only slough-off snow and ice, at ninety miles an hour, the avalanche would sweep even the fully loaded transport trucks aside like children’s toys. The accumulation picked up more mass as it hurtled along, growing in size and increasing in velocity. Right now, one of the snowballs would hit with a force that made even the .44 Magnum revolver in the Executioner’s fist seem like the caress of a snowflake on a cheek.

  All Bolan could do was hope that Anderson’s truck was fast enough. The wall of snow, a cloud churning a dozen feet over the road, hit the tree line and Bolan braced himself. Life was measured in heartbeats now, and while they were at the extreme edge of the avalanche, they still had a few more yards to cross before they escaped the wall of death roaring down toward them. He glanced ahead as a spear of icy runoff glanced off the rear fender of the truck ahead.