Bolan had always been a loner, Crawford recalled. Even in Nam he was a man who had done things his way; that had been his strength. But now... Could he have gone over the edge? Crawford had seen too much — in love and war — to entirely rule out that possibility.
The red light on the console in front of Brognola flickered briefly. He picked up the phone, turning away from the others to murmur his reply.
"Excuse me, gentlemen."
Farnsworth watched him walk heavily from the room. The summons of only one man could take precedence over this extraordinary meeting. The President must have read Farnsworth's hasty note and now wished to discuss the matter directly with Hal Brognola, the man who had served him diligently as liaison officer with Phoenix since the inception of the Stony Man program.
"I do not deny that there might be some other explanation," Farnsworth conceded to the others, as soon as Brognola had left. His tone was calm, reasonable. "But we must proceed on the assumption that we've got a very dangerous renegade on our hands."
"That's my opinion, too," said Webb, fiddling with his tie. "It's time to cut our losses."
"And cover our asses," added Knopfler. The presidential adviser turned to General Crawford. "Mr. Brognola would like us to give Colonel Phoenix the benefit of the doubt. But we cannot risk being wrong. It's too big a chance to take."
"Then I take it we're in agreement," announced Farnsworth, shutting the Stony Man file with a snap. "Put out the word to all agencies, all operatives: Operation Bad Apple is to take effect immediately. It's a global sanction. Eliminate John Phoenix. Find him and kill him!"
23
The couplings slackened and the buffers clanked into one another in a noisy rippling succession as the train began to slow down. Bolan peeked out from beneath the canvas cover. There were ghostly patches of mist still drifting in the deceptive half-light just before dawn.
They had stopped twice during the night. Once they had pulled off the main track for an interminable delay, waiting for an overdue passenger express to come whistling past them. Then they had stopped again outside Novigrad for a change of crew.
Radic squirmed over the lumpy cargo of sugar beets to join the American. "Look, there are the mountains," he said.
A low jagged line, frosted in patches with a scattering of snow, spanned the northwestern horizon. Radic shivered and peered through the gap in the canvas. Those glittering peaks, reflecting the first rays of sunlight, still looked a long way off to him. "What are we stopping for this time?"
Bolan risked lifting back the corner of the tarpaulin a little more. The flatcar was immediately in front of them, so they had a good view of the front of the train.
"Someone's waving a light. Three men, no, four, standing beside the track. Here, we'd better trade places. See if you can catch what's going on."
The freight train came to a complete halt. The driver leaned out of the diesel cab window and spoke to the fellow holding the lamp. He shouted in reply.
"He says the train's got to be searched... wanted men... two murderers from Zubrovna," Radic translated. "Now the engineer's telling him they've already received orders to pull into the yard at Trajevo. There's an army squad waiting to search the train from end to end."
The two railroad workers stared at each other in a frustrated standoff.
"It's a bureaucratic foul-up," commented Radic. "Typical!"
"Shh. Listen!"
"The local official says he's got his orders to follow."
The driver ducked back into the cab for a hasty conference with his assistant, then he spoke to the men waiting by the track.
"He's invited them to climb aboard and start the search, but he's going on to Trajevo. He's got to follow his orders, too."
Two men climbed up into the engineer's compartment. The other pair started walking toward the rear of the train.
"They're coming this way. Two of them, carrying pick handles."
Bolan pulled Radic down inside the wagon and tugged the canvas back in place over their heads. His fingers curled around the Beretta as the railroad men approached. Their feet scrunched in the gravel as they trudged past.
"What were they saying?"
"Complaining about their boss, wishing he'd left everything up to the army," Radic whispered.
"It's time for us to get out onto that flatcar."
The train rolled forward again.
Bolan went first. He slipped over the wooden wall of the freight wagon, balanced on the buffer bar and jumped onto the flat planking of the car ahead. Radic followed him.
Scanning the ground on both sides of the track, Bolan pointed to a gap in the trees ahead. "Looks like a small river coming up on the left. Stay loose, and roll when you land."
There was no time for further instructions or encouragement. The ground sloped away to form the marshy banks of a shallow stream that meandered through the woods. They were fast approaching a low iron bridge.
Bolan jumped. His feet hit the incline and skidded in the damp grass. Then he sprawled forward into a dead bramble bush.
Radic stood on the edge of the flatcar watching Bolan's precipitous landing. The reporter froze — the train was going too fast. The trees rushed past in a blur. Suddenly he was looking down at the river.
"Halt!" A man was standing on the roof of the boxcar in front. He was pointing his pick handle at Radic.
The young Zubrovnan leaped for his life, barely missing the end of the bridge. He tumbled headlong down the steepest part of the bank, arms and legs flailing wildly.
The diesel continued rumbling down the track.
Radic landed in a clump of rushes with one foot twisted awkwardly under him and the other in the water.
Bolan trotted over to the far side of the bridge. The photographer sat up groggily, rubbing his shin.
"You okay?"
"Nothing seems to be broken," said Radic, assessing his condition. He climbed to his feet, took one step, winced and swore. "Must have sprained my ankle."
"Can you walk on it?"
"I think so. Give me that stick, will you? We've got to get away from here."
Bolan led the way, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that Radic could keep up with him.
The young man hobbled along, occasionally leaning on the walking stick to catch his breath, then pushing himself a little faster up the path that led away from the stream. Overgrown in places with a tangle of weeds, the narrow dirt trail wound through the trees until it merged with cart tracks that skirted the edge of a meadow.
Bolan did his best to bolster his companion's spirits, but it was becoming obvious that they would soon have to secure some sort of transport. The honed warrior could make it alone. Bolan knew he could reach the safety of those mountains in little more than a half-day's hard march, or in one night if the enemy sent up spotter planes. But Bolan would not desert the Unity worker who had helped him escape the trap in Zubrovna.
He saw Radic force a grin when he turned and caught him limping badly.
"Take it easy, my friend. Rest for a while. I'll scout around and see if I can find us a car or something."
Radic looked relieved. "I'll wait for you in those trees over there. Good luck, Mr. Bailey."
Bolan moved fast. He was not motivated solely by a concern for George Radic; he wanted to get out as quickly as he could. He had no doubt that the KGB had mounted a far-reaching campaign to completely discredit him before he had the chance to unearth their mole in Washington. They had provided both sides with an excuse to blow him away — if they could. Bolan did not intend to give anyone the opportunity.
He returned within forty minutes. Radic had torn his vest into strips and used them to bind his ankle. He still looked pale. The jump from the train had shaken him up badly.
"There's a quarry on the far side of that hill. It's less than two miles."
Radic nodded. He could make it that far.
"I saw a truck drive in. It's our best bet. We have to steal it."
"They know we're in this area. The theft will not give us away," agreed Radic. "So, as you say: let's do it!"
They kept watch from the cover of some bushes until they saw the truck driver summoned by the quarry foreman. Radic was close enough to overhear the conversation. They talked, then the driver shrugged and the two men walked toward a wooden shack sheltered behind a steep mound of broken rock.
"They are going to detonate some charges in the cliff face," Radic translated.
"Let's go," Bolan said. With machine pistol ready — the 93-R was set to fire 3-shot bursts — the Executioner skipped nimbly from cover to cover. His companion zigzagged more slowly behind him.
They ducked behind some dust-caked hoppers waiting on a narrow-gauge track and approached the truck from its blind side.
"Climb in," ordered Bolan, "and slide across."
Radic grunted as a shaft of pain lanced through his ankle. He struggled past the steering wheel, cleared some of the driver's gear from the end of the bench seat and huddled in the corner of the cab.
The unsuspecting driver had left his keys in the ignition.
"Stay down till she blows... then we go."
They both crouched below the level of the windows.
A massive explosion split the air.
The concussive effect made the truck sway on its springs. The rocks shook. Streamers of dust escaped from a thousand new fissures; the whole cliff face seemed to slide down to the quarry floor in slow motion.
Bolan hit the starter. It fired first time. Loose stones were rattling off the roof as he rammed the gear lever into reverse for a fast turnabout. The truck accelerated down the quarry road, plumes of grit spewing from the tires.
Radic sat up, his ears ringing, and glanced in the side mirror at the choking cloud that blotted out the sky behind them.
"If we're lucky they'll hang around in that shack having a smoke until the dust settles. Then they'll come out and find the truck's missing..."
Bolan slammed on the brakes, reaching across with his right hand to prevent Radic from sliding forward. They skidded to a halt and Bolan jumped down from the cab. There was a series of short poles running alongside the gravel track carrying two telephone cables. To buy them time, he slashed through both the wires before proceeding.
Radic began to examine the things he'd swept off the seat. He opened up the driver's grease-stained lunch bag.
"Hmm. Bread, some slices of sausage and a piece of cheese!" He put on a flat cloth cap and divided the food.
"Those hills look a whole lot closer now, don't they?" said Bolan, between mouthfuls of a king-sized sandwich.
Radic stared out at the thickly forested slopes ahead of them. "The only pass I know is the one beyond Mokravina. It's the main highway through the mountains."
"No good. It'll be guarded night and day. I don't think we'd stand a chance of bluffing our way through."
"There are other paths that were used during the war. But I don't know who could show us the way now."
"There are some houses coming up. Stay down. Here, give me that cap."
It was a small village — twenty or so dwellings drawn up around a muddy market square. Bolan slowed down. He figured reckless speeding would only attract unwelcome attention.
Glancing through the rear window, Bolan noticed a small wooden crate in the cargo box.
"What's that we're carrying?"
Radic turned to look. "Just a wooden box."
"Can you read what's stenciled on it?"
"My God! It says Handle with Care: Dynamite!"
"Well, it hasn't blown us up yet. It'll just have to stay there."
Radic did not look too happy about the arrangement. He sat fidgeting for a while, staring out the window.
The truck rattled around a tree-lined bend. Ahead of them Bolan saw a car approaching.
"Short-wave antenna. Must be cops! No, don't move, George, it's too late to duck. We'll just drive right by them."
Bolan steered as close to the ditch as he dared, leaving plenty of room for the unmarked cruiser to pass.
Radic exhaled in a noisy rush. He had to look through the rear window. Nothing could have stopped him. "They're going straight on! I guess they can't have heard about the truck."
Bolan was still watching the mirror. The police car was vanishing around the curve. In the last fraction of a second he caught sight of a taillight blinking red. "No, they're braking. They know who we are all right."
The morning sun flickered faster through the trees as Bolan pushed the truck to its limit.
"You're right," shouted Radic. "Here they come."
"How's your leg? Can you drive?"
"Yes, but... but you're not going to stop now?"
"No. Slide over. I'm going to open my door. Got the wheel? Now wedge your toes on top of the accelerator."
Bolan eased himself out of the door. Radic was doing his best to avoid the potholes. Bolan hooked one leg over the edge of the cargo box, judged the right moment and levered himself into the back.
A cop leaned out of the chase car and fired a round. It whizzed over Bolan's head as he dropped to the floor. He was now shielded by the tailgate. The policeman did not fire again. They were gaining steadily.
Bolan forced the lid off the crate with the flat of his knife. Several fuses of different lengths were coiled on top of the box. He brushed off the sawdust and started pulling out the dynamite.
He bound five sticks together with the longest fuse. The shortest one he used for its proper purpose.
"Faster, George! They're getting too close."
He tried one shot from the Beretta, but bouncing along at this speed it was pointless.
Bolan risked bobbing up again to check the road ahead. The woods were even thicker now. There was no place to turn off.
It was a straight race. And they were losing. He lit the fuse. Holding the explosives until the very last moment, Bolan tossed them ahead of the truck at the base of a large pine.
The bomb went off on impact. The shattered conifer keeled over the road as the explosion shattered the windows of the truck. Radic peered over the wheel and brought the truck through the diminishing gap between toppling tree and road. The trunk bounced off the back of the truck. The police driver tried to stop but the car smashed head-on into the tree.
Bolan leaned over to speak to Radic through the cab window. "Are you okay to keep going?"
"Yes, I'm fine, Mr. Bailey..." Radic frantically tapped the fuel gauge "...but I don't think this truck will take us much farther. We're almost out of gasoline!"
24
"Did you hear that? Listen!"
Radic rested heavily on his improvised walking stick, turning to cup his ear in the direction indicated by Bolan. The sound came again, clearer this time — the baying of eager dogs.
"They're a long way off," Radic said with a sigh of relief. "Those hounds are farther away from us than we are from the mountains. Let's stay on this footpath for a while. We're heading the right way."
It had been two hours since they had abandoned the truck. They were moving toward the mountains. The leafy track wound along the slopes of a river valley.
Bolan surveyed the terrain to their left and ahead of them, searching for the best route through the high country beyond. Bare outcrops of weathered rock towered over the greenery of scattered timber. Only the tallest peaks still shouldered a mantle of snow; the lower elevations were clear.
The sun was hot overhead. Off to their right the river sparkled through the willows that fringed its banks. The two men paused behind cover to watch a military jeep speeding along the road on the far side of the water. It was not cause for immediate alarm; there was no bridge in sight.
They walked on in silence for another twenty minutes. Bolan abruptly signaled a halt. The trees thinned out ahead, giving way to a boulder-strewn meadow. He could see the outline of a vehicle parked behind a clump of bushes.
A danger signal had alerted the Executioner — they were being watched.
From behind. In the rocks they had just passed... He whirled, drawing the Beretta from beneath his jacket. A startled Radic was standing right in the line of fire.
The stranger already had them covered with a double-barreled .410 shotgun. It was aimed true and looked big enough to blow a hole in them if they did not obey the man's gesture to walk on ahead of him.
A second man appeared, his shirt-sleeves rolled back to reveal walnut-brown forearms. He tilted back his battered felt hat and said something to his partner who had the gun. Bolan could not recognize the language.
As they turned into the sheltered dell, Bolan got his first good look at the vehicle, then he understood the strangeness of their tongue. "They're speaking Romany."
"Gypsies." Radic said, nodding. He tried addressing them in the local dialect. After a moment's hesitation the older man replied.
Bolan let them talk. He was brooding over what had happened back there. His reactions had been slow, dangerously dulled. He and Radic were being worn down, exhausted by the chase, and those mountains still stood between them and the freedom of the frontier.
The Gypsies' caravan would have lifted anyone's spirits. Built onto the chassis of an antique Italian truck was a traditional Romany vardo, the kind of gaily decorated wagon that might have been drawn by plodding horses.
A young woman leaned on the sill of the Dutch door at the rear, nursing a baby swaddled in an embroidered shawl. She made no attempt to adjust her blouse but, at a signal from the man with the shotgun, her husband, she retreated modestly into the interior of the caravan.
Two other women appeared from the woods. They were carrying a wicker basket full of mushrooms. The younger one, presumably the daughter, was extremely pretty, with luminous eyes and dark hair pulled back beneath a cotton print headscarf.
"They are all one family," Radic explained. "The old man and his wife, their two daughters and the son-in-law. They've come for a fair to be held near Mokravina."
The man placed his firearm against the wheel rim and crouched by the small open fire. He picked up a blackened pot and poured tea into two tin mugs.
Terminal Velocity Page 15