Terminal Velocity

by Don Pendleton

  The Briton continued his surveillance but lost sight of the men in the crinkled folds of tortured rock. He waited, scanning the upper slopes, but the small band of mujahedeen had melded into the barren scenery.

  The Russians might not be the only ones to get a surprise this afternoon, thought McCarter.

  The mines would blow a bloody great hole in the airfield fence. He'd found some brushwood in the ravine where he had hidden the dead courier. Together with some oily rags that had been lying by the track, the kindling should make a fair show of smoke. And he had the Soviet rifle and the Ingram to provide a noisy diversion.

  McCarter went back to work enlarging the first pothole. Yes, in about three hours he should be able to put on quite a show.

  He straightened up and stared at the Soviet encampment. Where was Bolan now, he wondered. McCarter had absolute faith in his American friend. He was confident that the big warrior had found some way to get inside Sharuf.

  * * *

  The darkness receded with a roar. It sounded as if the Frogfoot was landing inside his head.

  Bolan opened one eye, then the other. He was staring up at a dazzling square of sunlight. It was painful. He shut his eyes again for a moment. He tried to move. That was painful, too.

  Mercifully the noise of the jet trailed off. Bolan sat up groggily. As well as he could remember, he hadn't given any information to his captors. But the insolent mixture of silence and sarcasm that he'd stuck to had extracted its price. Bolan wondered when that giant noncom had finally gotten tired of hitting him.

  Nothing seemed broken — least of all his spirit — but he carefully tested his body part by part as he slowly stood up. He had to clutch at his trousers. They had taken away his belt. And his boots. The Beretta and its holster had been stripped off, too.

  Bolan looked around.

  He was alone in a different room, but he presumed it was still in the new barracks. It had the same smell of cheap paint, drying mortar and freshly shaved wood. And the cinder-block walls were identical.

  Blinking at the sunlight streaming through the high-set window, Bolan moved slowly across the room to check what was out there. That was when he noticed his fingers. Faint traces of black ink were still trapped in the ridges and whorls of his fingertips. He sniffed at them and detected the astringent scent of cleaning fluid.

  Obviously Strakhov had taken his fingerprints while he was unconscious. Bolan guessed they would have photographed him, too. Strakhov must have been quite anxious to find out who he really was.

  Bolan hauled himself up to window level. A guard stood outside, as he'd suspected. The fellow was chatting with another soldier, keeping a careful eye in both directions as he took a couple of drags on his friend's cigarette. Bolan grimaced in pain as he dropped silently back to the floor.

  Judging by the length of the shadows outside, he assumed it was early afternoon. Two o'clock perhaps. Maybe two-thirty. That peasant had really put him to sleep. Bolan knew he had to make his move soon. There was little time to waste.

  Of course, there would be an armed sentry stationed on the other side of the plain wooden door. Chance dictated the man was going to get hurl. Maybe badly. Bolan hoped it was Corporal Lekha in the corridor outside.

  * * *

  The Su-25 taxied to a halt. Strakhov waited as patiently as he could for the turbojets to shut down before repeating his question. He was still fuming at Lekha. That dumb peasant didn't know his own strength.

  "Don't worry, Captain," bellowed Sergeant Belenko over the whining engines, "your ship is all fueled up and fully loaded. I had my men check her out before we started this job."

  The sergeant looked back at the Hind with an unhappy shrug. Some Afghan marksman had got lucky: a bullet had punctured the tail-rotor gear box.

  "That's not what I came to see you for!" Strakhov's eyes were narrowed as he shouted to make himself heard. "I want a couple of short electrical cables, the kind with spring clips on the end."

  "You'll have to ask Khomalev. He looks after that sort of thing." The sergeant jerked his head to indicate the maintenance electrician. "He'll fix you up with what you need."

  It didn't matter now if Major Krazkin returned and claimed the prisoner, Strakhov thought. The American's fingerprints and pictures were already sent directly to Moscow. The package had left on the lunchtime truck. This was one intelligence coup the ambitious major would not be able to hoard and claim for himself. Strakhov anticipated the great pleasure he would derive in making the prisoner talk before the KGB detail returned from Bas-i-Dam that afternoon.

  "Khomalev, I want you to find me some electrical cables."

  10

  Lekha was still smarting from the captain's rebuke. So maybe he had hit that damn American a little too hard. But the man had asked for it.

  At least it was cooler inside. Better than standing guard out in the sun like Private Satnik. The corporal squatted on his heels, cradling the well-oiled Kalashnikov on his lap.

  He spat out a curse when the prisoner started banging on the door. Lekha ambled down the corridor and unlocked the door.

  He took two paces backward. He moved very quickly for a man of his bulk. He didn't want to let the prisoner get within range to grab at his rifle.

  The American now stood in the doorway, gesturing that he needed to use the toilet. The corporal signaled with the barrel that he should move off to the left.

  Bolan walked slowly down the passage with both hands held clearly away from his sides. Lekha snapped in Russian, 'The door on your right." Bolan glanced back as if he didn't understand, then obeyed the Russian's gesture and pushed open the door to the washroom. Lekha lounged in the entrance while Bolan used the stall.

  It was an inside room. The only opening in the wall was a ventilator shaft high in one corner. It was securely covered with a wire-mesh grille, the duct barely large enough to accommodate a man. The place was not completely finished yet. The towel rails still had to be installed, and soap dispensers, rare in Afghanistan stood in a cardboard box at the end of the row of washbasins. Lekha watched as Bolan moved across to rinse his hands.

  "Hey, Corp!" It was the other guard shouting down the corridor. Lekha stepped back and waved that everything was all right. Bolan could hear the relief in the private's voice. "Oh, you're there. I looked in the window and couldn't see him..."

  From his position now, Lekha could not see Bolan. The American warrior figured this was the only chance he might get. And he seized it.

  Bolan snatched up one of the plastic soap bottles and squirted its contents on the floor behind him. The oily puddle began to spread across the tiles.

  Then he jumped up onto a sink and reached for the ventilator grille. Lekha heard the rattle of the wire mesh. He poked his head around the doorjamb just as Bolan had the covering half torn off.

  "Stop!" shouted the corporal, stepping into the room. His foot came down squarely in the soap slick. Lekha was still looking up at Bolan and bringing his rifle to bear as his foot skidded out from under him. The startled Russian threw his arm out to regain his balance but it was too late.

  Bolan leaped down as the corporal crashed onto the floor.

  He grabbed the big noncom's ankle and dragged him forward, careful not to slip in his own trap.

  The AK-47 clattered on the tile floor. Lekha opened his mouth to shout, but Bolan's knee, backed by his full weight, dropped across the jailer's exposed windpipe. The scream was squashed at its source.

  With stiffened fingers, Bolan followed through with a rabbit punch aimed straight into the hollow of the Russian's throat. Lekha could make no more than a horrible rasping sound as he feebly tried to throw off the American.

  Bolan tangled his fingers in the man's hair and dragged the guy's head up before smashing his skull onto the bare tiles. The force of the blow shattered the occipital bone.

  Bolan could hear boot steps echoing down the corridor. He scooped the knife-styled bayonet from Lekha's scabbard just as the other sentry raced in
to the washroom. Bolan's hand swept forward in a fluid arc, hurling the razor-edged weapon with deadly accuracy.

  The guard was utterly surprised to find himself grasping at the hilt protruding from his solar plexus. His jaw dropped open slackly, and he collapsed without making a sound.

  Bright rivulets of blood leaked from under both bodies. Bolan took the private's boots and belt, then grabbed Lekha's assault rifle. He also recovered the bayonet from the soldier's body and wiped it on his uniform. He slipped the blade into his boot.

  Bolan hurried up the steps, checked that no one was passing in front of the building, and strode out purposefully across the compound.

  * * *

  Everything was ready. A series of explosives was partially concealed by the fence. McCarter had stacked the oily rags and some broken kindling together. The potholes were enlarged to take the last four mines. The Englishman hadn't planted them yet, in case he blew up some innocent Afghan traveling to the town.

  As he stood judging where he should position himself on the slope to safely make the shot that would explode the barrier wire, he heard the clink of a loose pebble. McCarter ducked back into the hollow between the rocks. The sound had come from off to the left.

  There was another faint scuff of grit. It came from closer this time.

  The top of McCarter's cap was just visible above the curved edge of the boulder. The headpiece was propped on the end of the Soviet rifle; McCarter himself was already crouching thirty feet away.

  A cloaked figure padded into view, intently watching the decoy. McCarter advanced to intercept his unknown stalker. The man froze on the spot when he felt the hard point of the snubnosed weapon prod into his ribs.

  Abdur Jahan's eyes almost popped at being taken unawares. Then, recognizing the "foreign correspondent," his fleshy lips parted in a smile. His jowls began to shake with suppressed mirth. "Your friend shoots better than any newsman. And you're a better tracker!"

  McCarter nodded. There was no point now in denying it.

  "You might have taken my life, if Allah had so willed it." Jahan let out a piercing whistle. Seven more freedom fighters appeared. "But it would have cost you dearly."

  Again McCarter nodded. There was no point in denying that, either. He recognized half the men from the ambush setup.

  "This morning, when we found you had vanished, Tarik Khan sent us to track you down."

  "You've been following the wrong party. Robert Hutton is the man who betrayed your village. It's not the first time he's done it."

  "And you, what are you doing here?"

  "Creating a diversion for the work my friend has to do. I intend to make as much noise and smoke as I can to distract the Russians. Make them think it's a raid on the airfield."

  Abdur Jahan looked up at the steep rock-strewn slopes that towered behind them. He shook his head. "If they send the helicopter..."

  "If the Dragonfire comes, my partner will be at the controls."

  One of the men barked out a warning. He was pointing back to the road, where a cloud of dust signified the rapid approach of vehicles. McCarter lifted his field glasses: a jeep, trucks, a couple of tankers followed by some troop carriers. It was the biggest convoy he'd seen yet. It was time to plant the mines.

  McCarter glanced at his watch, trying to figure out the convoy's ETA at the spot below. They might get there a moment or two before three o'clock, but this was too good an opportunity to miss.

  "Tell your men to give me a hand! I've got some mines over there. Let's make sure we give the Russians a proper welcome."

  * * *

  Bolan marched between two rows of prefabricated huts, with Hangar A looming to his right. A door squeaked open as he passed. A soldier sauntered out, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. The man paid no attention to the "corporal," and Bolan kept walking.

  Bolan turned at the end of the huts and made it to the cover of a parked truck just as Strakhov appeared. The captain came out of the wicket gate set in the huge doors of Hangar A. He was humming to himself as he walked along with a pair of electrical cables dangling from his hand.

  Bolan waited only a moment before hurrying along the side of the giant shed. A jumble of empty crates was heaped up at the back. The big American squeezed behind them and found a small window. It had been left open for whatever ventilation it could provide.

  Bolan wriggled through into the rear of the hangar. It was a storage area for tires. New ones were laid out by size on metal racks; the used tires were stacked on the oil-stained floor. Bolan paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

  The noise of a drill had covered his unauthorized entrance. Three men in coveralls were standing under the tail of a Hind D. Two more were working at a nearby bench, and a uniformed guard was lounging against the far wall. He was the only one actually carrying a gun. Parked parallel to the chopper the men were working on was the Dragonfire.

  Hangar A was cavernous. It had room for the maintenance and storage of at least four helicopters, but the Hind and the M-36 were the only ones inside the building. Within the confines of the hangar, the Dragonfire appeared even more sinister than against the backdrop of a blue sky.

  The assault chopper was fifty-five feet in length, with a five-bladed rotor. Pairs of AT-6 Spiral missiles hung under the tips of its stub wings, which also carried launch pods bristling with S-5 rockets.

  Random reflections from the working lamps trained on the Hind glinted from the bulletproof glass encasing the dual cockpits.

  On the underside Bolan could see the sinuous bulges of its sensor pods, which housed the infrared, low-light television and computerized defense systems. The gunship squatted there on its retractable landing gear like a flying lizard still gorged on its last meal.

  The high-pitched whine of the drill cut off abruptly. One of the mechanics shouted. Bolan stood absolutely still, ready for anything. But the technician was only calling for the guard to give them a hand moving a heavy wheeled gantry into place alongside the Hind. The soldier rested his rifle against a wall and walked over to help.

  Bolan glanced at the clock over the workbench. It showed four minutes to the hour. He checked the Kalashnikov. He trusted David McCarter would hit the perimeter fence right on time. Bolan knew he was going to need the noise and confusion to cover the shooting in the hangar.

  He'd only have seconds to reach the chopper and start it up because when he pulled the trigger, all hell would break loose.

  He didn't have to wait.

  Strakhov had discovered the sentries' bodies in the washroom.

  A Klaxon blared out the alarm.

  * * *

  Major Krazkin was pleased with himself. He had good reason to be. The tiring trip to Bas-i-Dam had proved most rewarding.

  Krazkin was also thankful to have met up with the new detachment on its way to Sharuf; with tankers carrying the combustible mixture for young Strakhov's flamethrowing prototype, it was a stoutly defended column.

  Too much firepower for those mujahedeen madmen to risk attacking. He felt a great sense of relief at having got through the narrow mountain passes without incident, especially with the report of an attack on a convoy near Mukna. He smiled now as his jeep led the well-armed convoy on the last few miles to the air base. Not far to go.

  Krazkin was in a good enough mood to offer his driver a cigarette. The man had just taken his hand from the steering wheel when the vehicle bumped over the last of McCarter's mines.

  The right front wheel was blown off, and the jeep slewed violently before rolling over and crushing its occupants.

  Krazkin was not killed outright. His shattered torso was trapped under the weight of the wreckage. He lived just long enough to see the first of the big ZIL fuel transports hit two of the mines. They exploded fore and aft, followed a millisecond later by the white-hot eruption of the bulk-chemical tank.

  The driver was vaporized as the roadway turned into a river of fire engulfing men and machines alike.

  The concussive force of
the explosion stunned McCarter. Somewhere amid the pounding reverberations he remembered thinking that if this was meant to be just a stage-army diversion, what the hell could he do for an encore?

  * * *

  The moment the Klaxon began its rhythmic braying, the uniformed soldier ran back to the wall to pick up his rifle. The mechanics merely looked puzzled.

  The tin sheeting of the hangar rattled as it was buffeted by the first shock waves of a massive explosion. Seconds later a mighty deep-throated rumbling reached them.

  One of the mechanics raced toward the wicket door to see what was happening outside. Conflicting orders were being shouted, jeeps and trucks were starting up, and men ran about in confusion.

  Even Bolan was surprised at McCarter's splendid effort to divert the Russians. He glanced at the wall clock — one minute to three! He silently commended McCarter on his timing.

  He stepped out from behind the cover of the tire rack. A second violent explosion shook the building just as Bolan squeezed the trigger of the Kalashnikov, taking the guard out.

  The 7.62mm bullet shattered the man's spine. Bolan let the gun drift to the right, and the same burst killed the mechanic standing by the drill bench. Jars shattered, cans bounced and cardboard boxes jumped off the shelves as Bolan sprayed the work area.

  One of the technicians tried to clamber down from the work gantry. He slipped under the railing and started to fall to the floor. Bolan's next burst caught him in midair. He was dead when he hit the concrete.

  The Executioner raced toward the Dragonfire. He aimed the assault rifle at the wicket door, but the panicking Khomalev had already tumbled through it and scrambled out of the line of fire.

  The last two Russians were felled with single shots, neither of them understanding why he was being killed by one of his own corporals.