Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  That was one way to inspire loyalty. Grimes smirked.

  Rinzihov laughed softly and placed his palm on Everett’s shoulder. “Willard, my friend, you must learn the value of patience.” His words were laced with a heavy Russian accent. “They must proceed with caution and prudence. The cameras have already verified that there is at least one intact RU-100 Veter inside. Why do we not engage in a game of chess and let your men do their work?”

  That would be a godsend, thought Grimes. Rinzihov squeezed Everett’s shoulder. The boss made everyone on the platform nervous with his constant scrutiny and temper tantrums. If Rinzihov could get him away from the control booth and into a game of chess for a while, it would go a long way toward making this delicate part of the recovery run smoother.

  The old Russian had been an expert in the now-defunct Soviet nuclear program. Everett had recruited him after the end of his involvement with Iran’s nuclear research program. He was one of the lucky ones. The other five Russian nuclear scientists that had been “assisting” Iran had been killed in a mysterious plane crash a few years ago. At the time, Rinzihov had been in Canada trying to promote his diamond business. The Russian scientist was smart enough to know the crash had been no accident, and promptly accepted Everett’s offer to go underground in hopes of furthering his diamond project.

  That project was eventually abandoned, however, when Everett’s drilling survey crew found something far more interesting: a sunken Soviet Oscar class submarine resting on the ocean floor in the Caribbean. It was, as Everett called it, a message from God. And the plot to begin the deadly salvage and the subsequent “Operation Big Boom” had begun. Now, they’d finally cut through both hulls of the submarine, removed the thick rubber cushioning in between, and reached the crucial point: entry into the missile compartment. So far, everything was holding firm—radiation levels stable, no shifting of the wreckage on the seabed, no breach detected in the reactor compartment, and two SS-N-16 Stallion missiles with attached atomic warheads—everything Everett needed to change the world.

  “We’re too close for me to concentrate on chess,” Everett said. He refocused his gaze on the screen. “What are they doing now?”

  “Getting ready to remove the first missile from the compartment, sir,” the technician said.

  Grimes noticed the tech was sweating so heavily that the armpits and back of his blue uniform shirt were sodden.

  “We don’t need the whole missile,” Everett said. “Just the warhead.”

  Rinzihov laughed again. “It is far easier to grab hold of the bigger fish at three thousand meters than only the top. If the top were to slip from their grasp it would be like combing the bottom for a lost seashell.”

  “Everybody shut the hell up,” Everett bellowed. He leaned over the tech’s shoulder, his face only a foot from the screen, and watched intently. “Get me a damn status report from down there.”

  The tech radioed the submersible for an update.

  “We’ve secured the target.” The voice sounded tense as it came through the speaker. “Beginning removal process at this time.”

  Everyone stood transfixed. Finally, the tech managed to say, “Roger,” into the microphone.

  Bubbles floated up from the side of the wreckage. No movement. No sound. The scene seemed frozen in the greenish glow of the underwater lighting. Finally, the mechanical arm turned and began to pull back. A long, conelike tip began to emerge from the hole.

  “Andrei,” Everett said, his voice hushed, breathless, “is that it?”

  The old Russian leaned over, patted Everett’s shoulder twice and said in a reassuring voice, “Indeed, my friend, it is.”

  * * *

  THE THREE POLICE jeeps rolled up, sirens still wailing, as Bolan was getting out of the shot-up Citroën. The first two jeeps contained four officers each, and the last one was driven by Sergeant Gipardieu, with Captain Le Pierre in the passenger seat. The squad of island policemen jumped out of the vehicles brandishing pump action shotguns, and proceeded to point them at Bolan, Grimaldi and Tyler. Bolan’s hands were empty so he raised them above his head. Grimaldi holstered his SIG Sauer and did the same. Tyler, however, still seemed to be in shock. He stood there holding his weapon with the slide still locked back.

  “Better drop your gun,” Grimaldi said. “I don’t think they realize we’re the good guys.”

  Tyler blinked twice, looked at the pistol and then let it fall to the ground. He, too, raised his hands.

  Sergeant Gipardieu marched toward them, a refrigerator on legs, and barked orders in French to the policemen holding the shotguns. Captain Le Pierre slowly got out of the jeep and sauntered forward, his hands clasped behind his back like a prince surveying a formation of the royal guards.

  “Hey, Capitaine Le Pierre,” Grimaldi called out. “How about calling off your boys so we can lower our hands?”

  The officer ignored the request, but scrutinized each of them as he walked by. Bodies and brass casings littered the ground and crunched under Le Pierre’s shiny shoes. He went to the young couple, who were still cowering on the other side of the plateau.

  Tyler called out to him, “Captain Le Pierre, it’s Special Agent Tyler from the FBI.”

  If he heard, Le Pierre gave no indication. He kept his leisurely pace as he approached the tourists.

  “You know,” Grimaldi said, “I don’t think he likes us for some reason.”

  “Just relax,” Bolan said. “After getting through that firefight, we don’t want to get shot at this juncture.”

  They held their stances, hands elevated, for a good five minutes while Le Pierre engaged in a long conversation with the young couple. Occasionally, he turned his head toward the three of them. Finally, he shook hands with the two young people, then turned and came back to Bolan, Grimaldi and Tyler. When he was about ten feet away he said something in French to Gipardieu, who in turn bellowed an order for the island policemen to lower their shotguns. Le Pierre strolled up to the FBI man.

  “Agent Tyler,” he said, “my apologies for not responding to you sooner. Can you tell me what has occurred here?”

  Tyler compressed his lips, held the expression, then said, “Isn’t that obvious, Captain? We were attacked by some gunmen.”

  Le Pierre lifted his eyebrow again as he glanced around. “That is obvious. And how did this come to be?”

  Tyler looked frustrated and about to snap. Not wanting to deal with a confrontation, Bolan stepped forward. “Captain, I think if you take a look at that body over there you may get some answers.”

  Le Pierre turned toward him with a crisp pivot. “Oh? And how do you know this?”

  Bolan held up his hands, palms outward as he walked to the corpse of the Russian man. He moved with slow deliberation. When he got to the body, he squatted and pulled up the dead man’s sleeve, revealing an intricate latticework of blue-and-black ink. Le Pierre showed no reaction.

  “This guy’s probably associated with the Russian Mafya,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said, “you don’t get tats like that at the local tattoo parlor.”

  Le Pierre shook his head. “No, these men are obviously island thugs. They work for a master criminal named Boudrous. I shall have him brought in for questioning.”

  “Round up the usual suspects, huh?” Grimaldi asked.

  Le Pierre’s eyes flashed at him, then back to Bolan. “And who are you really, Monsieur Cooper? I strongly doubt that journalists would be carrying the weapons you used here.” He paused, then issued a command in French. The policemen raised their shotguns once again. “That reminds me. You will all surrender your weapons at this time.”

  “Weapons?” Grimaldi said with a smirk. “What makes you think we have weapons?”

  “Do not play games,” Le Pierre said. “I am not in the mood. Those two people told me you have
sophisticated weapons,” he said, gesturing at the tourists. “You will surrender them now.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe they didn’t see things too clearly,” Grimaldi said, crossing his arms. “Considering they were cowering on the pavement the whole time.”

  Le Pierre smiled again and snapped his fingers. “Sergeant Gipardieu. Search them.”

  “What?” Grimaldi said. “You can’t do that.”

  Le Pierre’s thin mustache lifted on the left side of his mouth. “Do you wish me to advise you of our rights?”

  “Jack,” Bolan said, “stand down. We’ve got to pick our battles, and this isn’t one of them.”

  “Excellent advice, monsieur,” Le Pierre said. “I suggest you both obey it.”

  Grimaldi frowned and raised his hands above his head. “Go ahead, then.”

  Bolan raised his arms, too.

  Gipardieu patted down Grimaldi and ripped the SIG Sauer out of his shoulder holster. The sergeant turned to Bolan, whose open garment revealed his shoulder rig. Gipardieu grabbed the butt of the pistol sticking out of holster and pulled it out, staring at the Russian Tokarev 9 mm.

  “This is your weapon?” Le Pierre asked, his eyebrows rising skeptically.

  “I hope you realize that if we didn’t have some firepower these assholes would have wiped us off the map,” Grimaldi said.

  “That is not my concern,” Le Pierre said. “You have violated French law. And may I remind you that I lost one of my men in this fracas?”

  “Corporal Gaston’s death was unfortunate,” Bolan said. “Any idea how these guys might have known we were meeting your man and Agent Tyler up here?”

  “I told you. Boudrous. The man has ears all over the island.” The captain muttered something to Gipardieu and the sergeant stuck Grimaldi’s SIG and the Tokarev into the leather belt surrounding his ample middle.

  “Captain,” Tyler said, stepping forward. “I must formally protest. These men are members of an official government agency of the United States.”

  “That must be verified through proper channels.” Le Pierre smiled benignly. “But you will be able to keep your weapon, out of professional courtesy, of course.”

  “This is outrageous,” Tyler said. “I’m going to—”

  “Tim,” Bolan said, “let’s split the difference and let the State Department work things out.” He turned to Le Pierre. “Do you need us to make a formal statement right now?”

  Le Pierre stood silently for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “That will not be necessary at this time. However, you must come by my office in the morning. As I said, this is obviously the work of one of our local bandits, Arsen Boudrous. An illegal Haitian. We will assemble a force and begin a search.” He barked some commands and the island cops began collecting all the fallen weapons from the dead as they worked their way back to their jeeps. Two of them went to retrieve their fallen compatriot.

  Grimaldi’s jaw dropped. “You’re not going to process this crime scene?”

  “I will leave two of my men here to guard it, and send another contingent to have this area cleaned up,” Le Pierre said. He began heading back toward his vehicle. Gipardieu glared at Bolan and Grimaldi, then gestured to the young couple and turned to follow his captain. The two tourists stood shakily and slid into the backseat of Le Pierre’s jeep. Their Citroën would clearly not be moving anytime soon.

  “Hey, what about us?” Grimaldi called. “The tires on our car are all shot to hell.”

  “Then I suggest you begin walking, if you so wish,” Le Pierre said over his shoulder. “I will send a taxi for you when I get back to headquarters.”

  “How about a receipt for my SIG?” Grimaldi yelled.

  Le Pierre settled himself into the seat and lifted his lip in a sneer. “Sans discussion. Come by my office in the morning.” He made a sharp gesture and Gipardieu shoved the jeep into gear and roared away. The other cars followed, each pair of eyes shooting daggers at them as they passed.

  The two remaining island policemen walked to the edge of the plateau, leaned their shotguns against the concrete barrier and began smoking cigarettes.

  Tyler’s face sagged into an anxious frown. “I don’t know what to say about all this.” He tried to holster his pistol, realized the slide was still locked back, then fumbled as he tried to release it. Grimaldi took the weapon from him and freed the magazine.

  “You got another mag?” he asked.

  Tyler nodded and reached into his pants pocket. He gave the magazine to the pilot, who inserted it and hit the slide release, chambering a round. He pressed the decocking lever to make the weapon safe, and handed it back to the FBI man. Then he turned to Bolan. “What now?”

  Before the soldier could answer, he heard the high, whining sound of an engine, and the three men glanced toward the bend in the road. Bolan ran to the Citroën, pulled open the door and reached into the backseat. Seconds later he emerged with his Beretta 93R.

  Bolan held the weapon down by his leg as a sporty Jaguar roared around the curve and sped toward them. The two policemen stayed where they were, placidly watching the sports car but taking no action to try to stop it. The vehicle swerved around the litter of bodies on the plateau and came to a stop in front of Bolan, Grimaldi and Tyler. The driver was an exquisitely beautiful woman in her mid-thirties with a mane of blond hair. Her green eyes surveyed the scene, taking in the corpses and finally centering on the dead Russian.

  “What happened here?” she asked in French.

  “Do you speak English?” Bolan asked in her language. “So my friends can understand.”

  She smiled. “Ah, Americans, I take it? And, it appears, very busy ones.” She gestured at the carnage.

  “Traffic accident,” Grimaldi said. “Real bad one.”

  “A pity.” The woman canted her head and looked at him, then back to Bolan. “And your car is disabled, as well. Perhaps I could give one of you a ride back to your hotel.”

  Bolan turned to Grimaldi, his back to the woman. “I’ll go with her and organize a ride for you two. You stay with Tyler and keep an eye on these cops,” he whispered, subtly shoving the Beretta into his belt.

  Grimaldi glanced over at the police officers, who still seemed uninterested in anything but their smokes. Bolan turned, opened the door of Jaguar and slid into the passenger seat. “This is very kind of you, miss. Name’s Matt Cooper.”

  Chapter 6

  She was wearing blue shorts and a sleeveless white blouse. Cool attire for an equally cool lady, Bolan thought as he watched her right hand glide the gearshift through the six positions until she leveled it out at about sixty miles per hour on the straightaway portions of the road. The sharp bends required constant downshifting, which she also handled with the aplomb of a professional driver. Bolan glanced appreciatively at her muscular legs as they worked the clutch and gas pedals.

  “What part of Russia are you from?” Bolan asked.

  “And how did you know I was Russian?”

  “Your lovely accent.”

  She flashed a devilish smile, displaying perfect white teeth, except for a gold crown next to the right incisor. “Am I making you nervous, Mr. Cooper?”

  Bolan remembered the old Soviet Union stainless steel crowns and figured her to be from the new generation of recruits. The Russians knew how to attract excellent candidates at a very young age. “Not at all,” he said. “I love to fly.”

  She tossed her head back and laughed, then downshifted again as they went around another hairpin curve. “So are you going to tell me what brings you to this lovely little island?”

  “Me? I’m a journalist, covering the big movie being filmed down here. How about you?”

  “Vacation, of course,” she said. “Every Russian girl dreams of one day going to the Caribbean, especially after a cold Moscow winter.”


  “This island in particular seems quite popular with your countrymen,” he said.

  “Perhaps.” Her lips formed a sly smile. “I would not know. I am here with a friend.”

  They rounded the final turn and the roadway leveled off as the line of beachfront hotels appeared, perhaps a half mile away. She accelerated and shifted back into sixth gear.

  “Was that big, bald-headed dead guy back on the plateau one of your friends?” Bolan asked.

  She made a tsk-tsking sound and shook her finger in his direction. “You should know better, Mr. Cooper.” She tilted her head again, giving him a long, appraising stare. “Have we met before, Mr. Cooper?”

  Bolan smiled. “You must have me mixed up with someone else. My evil twin brother, maybe. But since I’ve introduced myself...”

  “My name is Natalia Valencia Kournikova.” Without asking which hotel he was staying at, she drove down the main thoroughfare and pulled up in front of the Omni. She stopped the Jaguar and glanced at Bolan with her piercing eyes. “How is this?”

  “You’re a good guesser,” Bolan said. “This is the right hotel.”

  “A coincidence,” she said. “I am staying at this hotel myself.”

  Bolan started to get out of the car. “A coincidence indeed. Thanks for the lift. Or should I say spasibo?”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, holding out a card. “As we said, maybe we will meet again.”

  “Another time, then,” Bolan said, taking it. “And hopefully, another place.”

  He closed the car door and watched as she pulled out of the drive and zoomed back onto the thoroughfare. The card had Cyrillic lettering on the front, and 1204 and a phone number written on the back. Bolan didn’t believe for a second that this woman was on the island to soak up the sun. She was obviously working for Russian intelligence. The question was whether she was GRU, SVR, or FSB.

  * * *

  “WHAT THE HELL do you mean, it didn’t go well? That’s putting it mildly.” Everett slammed his fist onto the polished wood coffee table. “It sounds like a goddamn clusterfuck.”