Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  Zelenkov stretched the wires from the fuse to the timer and spoke into his radio. “How much time you want?”

  Everett did the mental calculations. The ship was thirty miles out from Puerto Rico now, and closing at a rate of twenty-four knots. Setting the timer for fifty minutes would give them plenty of time to escape the blast radius. They would be flying back to the island in the Osprey, which had a cruising speed of 313 miles per hour. More if they pushed it. They wouldn’t even be cramped, with Everett, Rinzihov, Tanner and the pilot on board. Zelenkov could take his group of fifteen away in the Hind.

  Everett didn’t feel completely at ease with the Russians, but he’d need Rinzihov’s expertise again if they were able to recover that second warhead from the sub. But Monk was a different story.

  Everett looked at him. The man had visibly aged since this thing had begun. He already looked like death warmed over, and he knew far too much for Everett to let him live.

  “Fifty minutes should do it,” he said into his radio. “But don’t start it quite yet. And leave Mr. Monk down there with the bomb so he can see the numbers.”

  Everett wondered if Monk had heard the transmission. He was resigned to death, anyway, probably anxiously awaiting it. A walking dead man.

  Zelenkov, Rinzihov and the others were, too, for that matter, but they didn’t know it yet. You didn’t sacrifice all your pieces while your opponent still had most of his on the board. Everett had plans to address that task a bit later.

  His reverie was interrupted by Tanner’s urgent voice on the portable radio. “Boss, we’ve picked up an incoming aircraft on radar.”

  Everett didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind?” He held up his hand to signal Zelenkov.

  “Unknown,” said Tanner. “Doesn’t look commercial. Seems to be slowing down a bit. Should be on us any minute now.”

  Had they discovered him? How could they? But he couldn’t afford to panic. Not when he was this close. Everett regretted having removed the belly-mounted gun turret from the damn Osprey for weight considerations, but it still had the fifty caliber M-2 on the loading ramp. He scanned the dark sky, saw nothing, then used the night vision binoculars to check again. Still nothing. Then he caught the sound of engines drumming. He focused the binoculars toward the sound, and the source came into view—a plane. No, not just a plane... The oversize propellers told him it was a damn Osprey. No wonder Grimes hadn’t answered his calls.

  There was only one explanation: Cooper.

  It goes to show, Everett thought as he lowered the binoculars and put his hand on the Desert Eagle, if you want something done right, do it yourself.

  * * *

  “NO ROOM ON the fantail,” Grimaldi said as they made their first flyby. “The old Russian copter’s there. And that starboard helipad’s got another Osprey on it.”

  Bolan looked down at the elongated tanker. Men scrambled from a hold near the bridge as an electronic cover slid over the opening.

  “That looks like our target,” Bolan said, and turned to Grimaldi. “Can you put us down on the port helipad?”

  “There is no port helipad,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “But I won’t let that stop me.”

  “Okay.” Bolan unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the copilot’s seat. “You back us in and then take off. Put as much distance between you and the ship as possible.”

  “Bullshit,” Grimaldi said, swinging the aircraft around and slowing some more. “I’m in this, too.”

  Bolan knew Grimaldi’s loyalty was unwavering, so he didn’t argue. “Okay, get ready to lower that loading ramp. I’ll man that fifty.”

  “Glad we’re not exactly toothless,” Grimaldi said as he slowed the Osprey and began working the thumb control to rotate the nacelles to their vertical position. “Man, I’m going to hate losing this baby, but I ain’t going to take the time to chock the wheels and tie her down.”

  Bolan slapped him on the shoulder and moved back toward the others. Their faces were grim.

  “Jack’ll swing around once the loading door is down,” Bolan told them. “I’ll give you cover fire with the M-2, then follow as you reciprocate. Stay low and remember to conserve ammo when you can. Our target is a cargo hold about three hundred yards aft, right in front of the navigation bridge. Move forward from cover point to cover point using suppressing fire. Communicate your positions with the radios, like we did at the compound. I’ll be swinging around the starboard. Try to flank them by taking the high ground. Once I’m in position, we’ll have them in a cross fire. Remember we’re dealing with a possible WMD, so move quickly, but cautiously. We’ve got about fifteen to twenty adversaries between us and the bomb. Some of them are ex-Spetsnaz. We’ve got some Navy SEALs on the way to assist us, but we have to go now and hold the fort till they get here. Any questions?”

  No one spoke. Kournikova tapped the magazine in her M-4. Tyler did the same.

  The Osprey banked and then leveled out. Bolan felt the craft hover and begin its vertical descent, the pinging of rounds hitting the fuselage like skittering mice.

  Sounds like they’re anxious to see us, Bolan thought as the top of the loading door began to move away from the frame. He stepped past the others and crouched by the M-2 Browning. Green tracer rounds zipped through the night toward the Osprey as its wheels touched down.

  As soon as the door had opened far enough, Bolan started up the .50 caliber machine gun, sending a steady burst toward the superstructure. The green tracers stopped as Bolan rotated the M-2 in a sweeping pattern while shouting, “Go, go, go!”

  Ivan, Natalia and Tyler darted down the fully extended ramp. The Osprey shifted to the right and Bolan glanced back toward the cabin.

  “Get ready,” Grimaldi yelled, opening the port-side door. Bolan continued firing the M-2 until the ammo belt was expended, then lurched forward and rolled down the ramp. The green tracers began zooming by him, but were met with a flood of red streaks from the M-4s.

  Too bad it’s not Christmas, Bolan thought.

  “We are at cover,” Kournikova said over the radio.

  Grimaldi ran around the edge of the Osprey, firing his M-4 on full-auto. Bolan scrambled to his feet and followed, bringing his own rifle up for a quick burst. Both of them ran to a low breakwater barrier about twenty-five feet in front of them. Bolan flipped down his night vision goggles and saw Ivan, Kournikova and Tyler going over the breakwater wall. He fired off several bursts. Grimaldi did the same. When the others had reached their next cover point, Bolan and Grimaldi made their dash forward.

  They veered left as rounds streaked between them. Bolan dived behind a solid fire hydrant and Grimaldi flattened next to a cargo derrick. Two hostiles appeared around one of the pipes, aiming their rifles at Grimaldi’s back. Before Bolan could swing around, both men were caught up in a flurry of streaming red tracer rounds as Ivan suddenly came from under the crossover pipes. Grimaldi looked at the big Russian and nodded his thanks. Ivan nodded back and disappeared into the shadows.

  They’d advanced perhaps fifty yards.

  At least two hundred more to go, Bolan thought.

  “We’re on the move now,” he said into his radio.

  Three men advanced from the right side, holding their AK-47s at the ready. Bolan took them out with a sweep of his M-4. The trigger told him he was out of ammo, so he dropped the magazine and slammed in another one. He hit the bolt release, chambering a round, and ran to the place where the three assailants had fallen. They’d obviously come down from the navigation bridge using the raised center deck pipes for concealment. Bolan did the same, working his way to a new cover point. Behind him, the fiery exchange of red and green tracers continued, and Bolan realized he’d almost flanked the first group of assailants. About forty feet away, a man crept between the pipes with an AK-47. Bolan shot him in the head.

  Rounds chewed
up the deck around him, eliciting a reply of red streaks from Ivan, Kournikova and Tyler. Bolan continued his advance, firing off short bursts as he ran. He got to another breakwater section and ducked down, surveying the area behind him. He’d lost track of Grimaldi.

  “Ready to give you cover,” he said into his radio.

  “Roger that,” Tyler said. “Moving now.”

  Bolan sent several quick bursts from his M-4 toward the last enemy position he’d seen. The other team was about fifty feet behind him. When they radioed that they were set, Bolan ran parallel to the breakwater wall until he got to the end, then vaulted over it, stopping behind the steel latticework of a middeck antenna. He peered through the night vision goggles again, and saw he’d flanked four more hostiles. They were crouching behind a series of pipes, holding their AKs above their heads and firing in full-auto in an undisciplined manner.

  Spetsnaz, my ass, Bolan thought as he snapped the selector lever to semi and took out the first two men with head shots. These guys were amateurs. The third one noticed his companions slumping down, stopped firing and looked around. He tapped the fourth guy on the shoulder and pointed as Bolan squeezed off two more rounds in quick succession, each one hitting its mark.

  A flurry of green tracers flew toward the superstructure. Bolan saw Ivan moving up, holding a captured AK-47 in each hand, firing on full-auto.

  “We are advancing,” Kournikova said on the radio.

  “We’re green,” Tyler added. “Using enemy weapons.”

  Bolan took the opportunity to move farther aft himself, clicking back to auto and firing off more bursts from his M-4.

  The deck under him began to pitch and sway.

  Must have hit some rough water, Bolan thought, adjusting his balance.

  Rounds were zipping by and ricocheting. A sudden grating, metal-on-metal noise interrupted the firefight. Bolan glanced over his shoulder. About a hundred fifty yards behind him, their Osprey had toppled off the raised section of the deck and was listing to the side. The huge ship pitched the opposite way, and when the corresponding shift came about thirty seconds later, the Osprey smacked the deck hard, with more grating noises, before tumbling into the ocean.

  Bolan was already on the move again, hoping the Osprey’s temporary distraction would give him a little wiggle room. He took cover by a set of perpendicular pipes and checked his ammo. His second magazine was empty, so he dropped it and inserted his third—and last—mag. The bridge was still about a hundred yards away.

  Another group of assailants appeared in front of him, running down a gangway. Bolan flattened on the deck and shot three quick bursts into their midst before they could react. Three of them fell, tripping up the two behind them. Some red rounds zipped over Bolan’s head and he glanced back. Grimaldi was firing from behind a corner. Two more hostiles fell in a spasmodic dance of death. Grimaldi dropped his magazine and inserted a fresh one. From the looks of it, he was about thirty rounds from empty, as well.

  “We’ve got a low-ammo alert,” Bolan said into the radio. “Jack and I are both down to one mag each.”

  “Roger,” Tyler said. “We’re a little better off than you. Ivan’s been picking up extra rifles like it’s going out of style.”

  Ivan’s turning out to be a one-man wrecking crew, Bolan thought. And Tim’s shaping up well under fire.

  “Advance now,” Bolan said into the radio. “I’ll cover you.”

  After the acknowledgment, Bolan stepped up on a metal support stanchion between the pipes, looking for targets. He saw a group of five or six ensconced by a cargo bay about forty yards away. He zeroed in on them and began firing. Two men on the perimeter twisted and fell as the rest ducked down and began to return automatic, but largely ineffective, fire. Bolan continued to spray them until his bolt locked back. He crouched down between the pipes, dropped his rifle and took out his Beretta 93R.

  The soldier checked the area in front of him, then advanced, signaling for Grimaldi to accompany him. Keeping low, they ran alongside a series of pipes, pausing for cover at fire hydrants, hoses and derricks, pipe extensions and breakwater walls.

  “We’re making a move for the bridge now,” Bolan said into his radio as he ran. He hoped the others heard him, but if their hearing had been as affected as his was by the firefight, it was unlikely his words were getting through. They sprinted to the raised pipes at center deck and used them for concealment as they continued heading toward the stern. When the pipes ended, they were about thirty feet away from the first level of the superstructure. Bolan paused and looked at Grimaldi, who nodded. Without speaking, the two men ran across the open area and ducked under the overlapping canopy of the second level.

  “Let’s try for that railing around the side,” Bolan said, pointing starboard. He holstered his Beretta, took a running start and pushed off the three parallel rungs of the railing to give himself enough upward thrust to grab the edge of the second level. He swung his foot onto the flooring, then pulled his body up and under the second-floor railing. After doing a quick survey of the landing, Bolan signaled for Grimaldi to make his move.

  The pilot took the same running start that Bolan had, but wasn’t quite as adept at the ascent. Bolan reached down, grabbed his wrist and hauled him up, helping him secure a solid grip on the metal railing. From there, Grimaldi was able to climb up and join him. They proceeded down a gangway to an open, rear deck area. Bolan noticed a wall that sloped from the third story down to their level. He stopped and climbed onto the railing, turned and jumped, catching the edge of the next floor.

  Grimaldi grinned at Bolan, then shook his head. “Who the hell are you, Spiderman? I’ll find some stairs.”

  Bolan nodded and watched him disappear under an awning. This section housed the swimming pool, he noted. Its water sloshed over the sides as the ship continued to pitch and roll with the sea waves. The navigation bridge was one more level up. Bolan could see bright lights shining through a series of rear portholes, periodically interrupted by shadows. The bridge was occupied.

  Bolan moved to the section of wall adjacent to the pool. It had two big windows, and through them he saw what looked to be an officers’ lounge. He glanced up at the next level and gauged the distance, then took a running start, jumping upward and striking the windowsill with the toe of his boot, using it as a boosting point. This allowed him to grab the edge of a tapering wall that slanted up to the stern. He did a pull-up to gain a better grip, and then bellied over the edge, straddling the wall. The ship was swaying too much to risk standing, so Bolan crawled toward the railing of the fourth and final level. He glanced to his right. The engine room must be below. The sound of pistons grinding was faintly audible.

  Bolan managed to grab the bottom rung of the railing and swing his body off the wall. His chest hit the solid shelf below the railing, knocking the wind out of him. He hung there for a few seconds, forcing the air back into his lungs. Then, knowing he had to move, he did an arms-only hand climb, grabbing the successive rungs of the railing until he could roll between them and onto the floor. The bridge was only a few feet away, separated by a solid hatch and a large window.

  Someone yelled inside the enclosed navigation bridge—an American, by the sound of it. Bolan took out his Beretta and crept closer, positioning himself next to the hatch so he could peer through the bottom corner of the window. Inside, the area was well-lit, and he saw a man holding a pistol to another’s man’s head as he knelt in front of the instrument console. A third man stood off to the side holding an AK-47 at port arms.

  “We’ve got the ship’s autopilot set,” the man holding the gun said into his radio.

  “Roger that,” came the reply. “Get rid of the captain and meet me at the Osprey immediately. We’ve got to get out of here now to get beyond the blast area.”

  Even with the constant ringing in his ears, Bolan recognized the voice on the radio: Ever
ett.

  The man holding the pistol shot the kneeling man in the head. He jerked and his eyes rolled back. His face struck the floor with a solid thump. The man holding the pistol turned toward the other one, and Bolan used the opportunity to grab the handle on the hatch and yank it open. The eyes of the man across the room registered shock as he swung his rifle forward.

  Bolan double-tapped him, putting two in his chest and then one in his head. As he crumpled forward, Bolan readjusted his aim and shot the second man in the upper back as he started to turn. Unsure whether the hit was incapacitating, Bolan shot him again, this time in center mass, and the man collapsed, his knees folding under him as he dropped to the floor.

  Bolan advanced and kicked the gun from his hand. He recognized the face from pictures Brognola had emailed: Vincent Tanner, another of Everett’s lackeys.

  “Who are you?” Tanner said. His voice sounded weak, desperate.

  “U.S. Justice,” Bolan said. “Where’s the warhead?”

  Tanner didn’t answer. Three gasps escaped from his mouth, along with a mist of blood.

  “The warhead,” Bolan said, pointing the Beretta at Tanner’s face.

  “Get me some help,” the man said. “Please.”

  Seconds later, Grimaldi burst through the hatch on the opposite side of the room, his rifle at the ready. He surveyed the scene. “Looks like you’re doing just fine on your own,” he told Bolan.”

  The soldier knelt next to Tanner. More blood leaked from the man’s mouth.

  “Last chance,” Bolan said. “Where’s the warhead?”

  “Cargo hold one,” Tanner said. “Now get me some help.”

  Bolan stood and looked at the massive instrument panel on the console in front of him. “Jack, do you know how to turn off the automatic pilot?” He went to a first aid box affixed to the wall and removed a gauze dressing.

  Grimaldi stepped over to the panel and shook his head. “If it doesn’t have a stick or a yoke, it’s out of my league.”