Terminal Velocity

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan stared at the ground. It was a death sentence for the boy either way — the trip would probably kill him. Kasim needed a properly equipped burn unit if he was to be saved.

  There was no point in breaching the security of their mission. What did the broader strategic implications mean to Tarik Khan? Right now he was just a father sick with worry for his injured son.

  Bolan glanced across at the homemade stretcher. Kasim's eyes were open. He was staring back at the foreigner. Then he gave Bolan a small, brave smile.

  "I shall see what can be done for your son, Tarik Khan."

  6

  "Well, Hal, you must admit that Captain Hillaby's report of the incident shows that Phoenix is at the very least, uh, potentially unstable."

  Farnsworth looked around the table to see if the other men were in agreement with him. Brognola shuttled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He was playing for time and sensed that everyone knew it.

  Inside the small conference room the tense atmosphere was decidedly chill. The Phoenix program was on the line. And Brognola was sweating.

  "Surely you have to agree that Colonel Phoenix appears to be at a snapping point?" Lee Farnsworth tapped the thick buff folder lying on the polished table. "Your assessment makes him sound like the Man of Steel. If that's the case, then he's got the human equivalent of metal fatigue. It can happen to the best of us. Not much shows on the outside but then, without warning, it just gives, breaks, snaps. Do you think that's a fair analogy?"

  Brognola had to show the man some respect. It was the President who had appointed Farnsworth to chair the exclusively small committee that was to advise him on the future of the Stony Man operation.

  But what could he say?

  He knew he could count on Brigadier General Crawford for support. Hell, that wily old veteran and Mack Bolan went back even further than Brognola's own association with The Executioner.

  Andrew Webb was young, but he seemed fair and relatively open-minded. On the other hand Glen Knopfler could twist gently with the changing breeze, anticipating each shift in the highly charged currents of feeling that swirled around the table. In the end, all Brognola could do was shrug and chew down harder on his cigar.

  Realizing that he was not going to get a straightforward admission from the liaison man, Farnsworth looked for support elsewhere. "What do you say, Andy? After all, you were at the Fullerton briefings with him."

  Webb immediately stopped toying with the knot of his Cardin tie. He chose his words carefully. "We were all under a lot of strain. There was a lot of ground we had to cover and very little time in which to do it. Colonel Phoenix impressed me as being very competent..."

  "John Phoenix is more than competent," Brognola interrupted. "He's the best we've got, the best there is! Have you gentlemen studied his record?"

  "We're not questioning his past achievements, Hal, or his technical expertise." Farnsworth did his best to sound conciliatory, but it was unconvincing.

  Brognola ignored the chairman. He appealed to the others. "Do you realize how effective this man and the teams that work with him have been? He's always delivered. He's always come through for us. Here at home and abroad; the Caribbean, Africa, Italy, Japan..."

  "I'm sure I speak for everyone at the table, Hal, when I say we don't doubt the necessity for the Stony Man unit. Until now, that is, when its cover has obviously been blown. But it's because we want it to continue that we must reexamine its leadership. The Stony Man teams handle the dirty and delicate missions, and that's precisely why we have to know that the man heading them up is completely stable. That's the question the President wants answered, Hal. Is John Phoenix still reliable?"

  "I've given you my assessments of every member of Stony Man Farm. You've got the reports in front of you. And there's no one I trust more than Colonel John Phoenix."

  "Your loyalty is commendable," replied Farnsworth with a tight-lipped smile. "But let's face it, Hal, he's your boy."

  "No, Mr. Farnsworth, you've got it wrong," Crawford gruffly corrected him. "He's nobody's 'boy.' John Phoenix is very much his own man. Always has been..."

  "Are you suggesting there's even a remote chance that he might go free-lance if it suited him? Is that a hint that Phoenix might hire himself out to the highest bidder?"

  "No!" Brognola cut in quickly. "I can vouch for the Phoenix program and the man who heads it."

  He glanced round the table and wondered if he could do the same for the select group of advisers seated there. Could it be possible that Mack was right in his suspicions? Was there a mole, a traitor planted long ago at this level within the government? It still seemed preposterous to him.

  Farnsworth's decision cut off any further speculation.

  "This latest Phoenix mission to Afghanistan gives us a few days' grace before we present our conclusions to the President. I can only suggest that we still need more input."

  Both Knopfler and Webb nodded in agreement.

  "Hal, I want you to furnish us with a complete career profile of John Phoenix, going right back to the beginning." Farnsworth lifted his hand to ward off Brognola's objection. "I don't have to remind you who convened this advisory panel, so I'm sure that all the necessary security clearance can be obtained. It'll give us a much clearer picture of who we're dealing with. Everyone agreed?"

  As he chomped on his cigar, Brognola couldn't help wondering about Farnsworth's change of attitude since their meeting with the President and Bolan. Then, Farnsworth's enthusiasm to have the Phoenix program shut down could not be contained. Now, the CFB chief appeared smug; he was the soul of restraint.

  Even more puzzling to Brognola was the President's decision to appoint Farnsworth chairman of this committee, which could seal the fate of Stony Man.

  * * *

  Vichinsky's narrow face was reflected in the grimy windowpane. His cold gray eyes stared out through his reflection at the gloomy woods that flanked the railway line, where green shoots struggled to break through the sheaths of ice crystals that encased them. The melting snow had enlarged the footprints of a fox that had crossed the tracks the night before.

  The Akinova line — like the transport system running north from Potma — is not marked on any map of the Soviet Union. Officially it does not exist. It is a private railroad run by the Ministry of Internal Affairs for the exclusive use of the KGB. But unlike the endless succession of convict cattle trucks that leave Potma for the thirty-six camps of the Mordovian prison system, this short passenger train runs only between Akinova and the main express line back to Moscow.

  An American would feel quite at home in Akinova. That's the idea of the place. It is a precise replica of the kind of small town one might find anywhere throughout the American Midwest, complete with plastic pennants fluttering over a used-car lot, two drugstores and the Stars and Stripes marking the cinder-block post office at the end of the main street. It is one of the three duplicate American towns where the KGB train and prepare their agents for a new life in the United States.

  Stefan Boldin was not destined to cross the Atlantic; the role of sleeper was not for him. But Vichinsky insisted on more than a mere physical likeness to Phoenix. He wanted Boldin to walk like the American, talk like him, think like him.

  Perhaps, in the end, they would only need his impersonation for a few vital seconds, but Vichinsky was leaving nothing to chance. When the time came, the world would have to believe that Stefan Boldin was John Phoenix. Thus he was having the Pole undergo the intensive immersion program at Akinova.

  On this return journey there was no one in the carriage with him, but still Vichinsky looked carefully around before unscrewing the silver top from his flask and pouring out a generous tot of vodka.

  If Boldin's progress had not been so impressive — and Vichinsky was especially pleased with the prisoner's results on the rifle range — then the KGB officer might have felt guilty for having taken a whole day off from his other duties.

  The Thirteenth Section had m
any other pressing problems to deal with: the expected expulsion of ten more agents from the embassy in London and the growing nuisance of Damien Macek and his Unity movement in the Balkans.

  But after what he had seen today, he did not mind working late. The Janus Plan was very much on schedule. He turned his thoughts to his boss, Greb Strakhov.

  The commanding officer of the Thirteenth Section was still compiling his report for the general secretary. It would be two more weeks before he finished, maybe longer. The KGB's activities were so widespread now that it was difficult to digest them into a single catalog. Where was Strakhov's weakness? That was the question Vichinsky turned over in his mind.

  He knew his chief had recently met with Niktov, the Faberge expert; but that was simply to pump the old man for more scraps of information about the Romanovs and not for any illicit dealings in contraband artwork.

  Perhaps Strakhov's family?

  Strakhov was a widower. His only son, Kyril, was a highly decorated test pilot currently serving the motherland in Afghanistan. He was untainted by the slightest whiff of scandal. Vichinsky dismissed the thought. He knew he would never find that kind of leverage to use against Strakhov.

  Perhaps Janus would be enough. When the plot to cut down the Americans' top agent was successful, he would step forward and claim the credit. Then, through Vichinsky, the GRU could assert more control over the Thirteenth Section, and thus the whole security apparatus.

  Vichinsky drew strength and determination from this anticipation of the power that was soon to be his. He poured out another drink and silently toasted his reflection in the glass.

  7

  It was a few minutes after midnight.

  Bolan gave no indication he had just awakened.

  He lay there for a few moments longer, looking up through the bare branches of a withered apricot tree, picking out the familiar constellations to orient himself.

  "Ready?" he whispered. There was no need to shake McCarter. The British commando was prepared for what they had to do.

  Crouching behind the gnarled trunk, they silently gathered their gear. Three villagers were still squatting round the fire, sipping chat and talking.

  "What if one of Tarik Khan's lookouts sees us?"

  "We'll just have to make sure they don't," Bolan said. McCarter knew that the American would let nothing get in his way now. He fell the same.

  They had turned in very early, casually positioning themselves close to a ravine that angled away from Mukna to join the track on the slopes below the village. The night sky was clear and the air chill as the two men sought cover behind the nearest rocks. Bolan led the way, taking care not to send any loose stones rattling as he kept a wary eye on the turbaned guard.

  McCarter half expected the subdued conversation by the fire to suddenly turn into shouts of warning. But no alarm was raised as they began to move faster down the narrow defile. Soon he settled into a mile-eating jog behind Bolan.

  "I figure we should head in that direction," Bolan suggested, gesturing, when they stopped for a one-minute break.

  "Yes, toward the southwest," agreed McCarter. Neither man had to consult the maps in their waist pouches; they had memorized the essential contours.

  "That valley should bring us out on the Sharuf road below yesterday's ambush point." Bolan glanced at his watch. "We'll have to risk using the road. It's the only way we can make it to the airfield before dawn."

  They abandoned all the camera equipment, but kept the footage they had shot of the Dragonfire. They checked their weapons and set off once more.

  The turbulent stream could be heard slapping against the rocks before they reached the road itself. There were no vehicles at this time of night, and they were able to make good time along the gravel track as it meandered toward the Sharuf plain.

  Finally they spotted the column of a ruined minaret perched high on a bare granite dome off to their left.

  "About six miles to go,'' Bolan calculated. "Now it's a race against the sun."

  Some goats standing on a rocky promontory above the road watched as the two men hurried past. If the herdsman was awake, he didn't hear them.

  The only time they had to scramble for cover at the edge of a riverbed was when an old truck rattled down the highway, carrying a cargo of kindling for the townsfolk of Sharuf.

  Bolan set a punishing pace to make up for the delay. McCarter kept up wordlessly.

  Legs pumping, heart pounding, every step fanned Bolan's anger, which only fueled his determination to outwit the Russians. The physical exertion set a rhythm to what had to be done.

  Reconnaissance.

  Penetration.

  Strike!

  The game plans discussed at Fullerton had all revolved around the use of Tarik Khan and his band as a hard-hitting diversion. But now the two-man assault force was alone against the Soviet invasion machine.

  Apart from those few men he fought alongside. Mack Bolan wondered if there was anyone left whom he could really trust. Perhaps it was better this way.

  He thought of Able Team and Phoenix Force. But they were off fighting their own battles, so he and McCarter would have to wage this war on their own.

  The Englishman would have to be a stage army all by himself. It was going to be up to McCarter to provide a noisy distraction while Bolan went in for the chopper.

  Their footsteps echoed hollowly over a wooden bridge as the course of the river curved farther to the south. The road twisted through a close-packed jumble of boulders, then the ground to their right sloped away to a long expanse of bare sand and a coiled-wire fence.

  Bolan found a shallow pit between some rocks that sheltered them from the road. The depression also gave them a vantage point from which to survey the newly built airstrip.

  The mountains were to their rear. Ahead stretched the flinty plain of the Sharuf plateau. It was the only conveniently flat land in the whole region where the Russians could construct an air base.

  Wispy columns of smoke from early-morning fires marked the town of Sharuf itself, about five miles away on the far side of the Soviet installation. The main entrance, administrative buildings, hangars and control tower were all clustered there, too. McCarter handed his colleague a pair of field glasses. He rechecked his weapons.

  Both men carried compact firearms. Bolan had his Beretta 93-R; McCarter was armed with an Ingram M-10 machine pistol. They both carried six-inch-steel combat blades. And there were thin wire garrotes concealed in their belts. This was heavy-duty hardware if they prowled the back alleys of New York or Detroit. But here, facing the odds they did, it was little better than packing a peashooter.

  "Looks like they've been reinforcing their defenses," Bolan said, continuing to sweep the field.

  He pointed below their position to a coil of wire and a couple of spare metal poles that had been left behind by a careless work crew.

  "Must have been in the past couple of days or our Afghan friends would have made off with the booty." McCarter studied the lay of the land. "Still, it makes sense. That's the most likely place for the guerrillas to break in. The Russians can't have enough men stationed here to stand permanent guard duty round the whole perimeter."

  "Yeah, and my guess is that a lot of the open ground down there has been mined."

  McCarter look the binoculars and scanned along both sides of the barbed wire for any telltale signs. "There's a lot of tire tracks running along the inside. They must patrol the fence fairly regularly..."

  Bolan's attention was still focused on the buildings at the far end of the runway. Two Hinds sat on concrete pads, and he could see an Su-25 Frogfoot being wheeled out onto the apron. But which of the three largest hangars housed the M-36? He had to be right first time.

  McCarter turned to scan the jagged hillsides behind them. "I can't help feeling we're being watched, too."

  Bolan began to turn when a distant speck on the road caught his eye. "Look, way back there... what's that?"

  The Briton checked through
his glasses. "A motorcyclist. Courier, maybe? He's alone."

  McCarter patted the snub-nosed submachine gun.

  "No." Bolan shook his head. "No shooting. Let's not bring a patrol out here. I'm going to get that wire."

  Without another word, he jumped down between the boulders to the cleared sand below. There was a finger of almost-bare rock stretching out to the fence. Bolan padded along it, picked up the abandoned wire and posts, then quickly retraced his steps.

  "Russian, all right," said McCarter. "Damn, I've lost sight of him."

  "Quick, take this end, and the post. Make it secure." Bolan dodged across the road as McCarter used a rock to hammer in the short metal pole to serve as an anchor.

  They could hear the bike coming up the far side of the slope. There was no time to conceal the trip wire, and no time to test it either. It just lay straggled over the gravel surface of the track.

  Bolan wrapped his end around the post. When he jerked on it, the wire would spring taut.

  McCarter gave him the thumbs-up signal and ducked behind the rocks.

  The rider appeared at the top of the rise. He was wearing a Russian greatcoat, a local sheepskin cap and had a rifle slung across his back. He kept glancing nervously up at the starkly terraced slopes to his left as he accelerated down the hill.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Bolan pulled back hard on the pole, and the single strand of barbed wire jumped light across the path of the speeding bike.

  8

  Corporal Zumarov was so intent on watching for a sniper in the hills that he did not see the wire until a fraction of a second before he ran into it. Desperately he tried to turn the handlebars, but it was too late.

  The barbed wire snagged under the headlight and the bike reared upward like a frightened horse. The rear wheel slithered around under the obstruction and Zumarov landed heavily on his elbow, rolling over twice as the bike skidded sideways along the track.