And then Bolan overran the crouching form of Sondre Wiegaard. The kid was waiting for him with the business end of a ski pole poised for the attack, and he came uncomfortably close to reaching his target. Bolan deflected the pointed steel with an arm block, following through with a no-mercy right to the chin, and the kid went limp.
So much for peaceful instincts. Any one who respected life would die fighting. Bolan hoped that the boy would remember that moment—or that he would live long enough to do so.
The time to begin the fight for life was before it was already lost. And perhaps the kid realized that grim truth now.
Bolan realized it—and knew the game well.
He removed the unconscious youth’s skis and slid them toward the top of the pocket, then he primed a grenade for fast release, waited for the crossing audible, and heaved it toward the apex.
Not even that flash was visible except as a shimmery lightening closely contained within the gloom, but the blast eclipsed for a moment all other sounds of that noisy landscape—and one of them never returned. A single buggy was snorting around up there now, and it was no longer in the ellipse. A weak scream from the blast area announced, “I’m hit—I’m hit!”
The pocket fell apart completely at that moment. The two buggies at the lower edge exchanged a quick series of audibles and peeled away. Automatic weapons fire instantly laced into the zone from three sides, triangulating and sweeping in methodical patterns.
The turkeyshoot, yeah—but not exactly as it had been desired. The “pocket” no longer existed and there were options available to a knowledgeable warrior.
Bolan had the kid on his shoulder and he selected his option at the very moment that the firing began, gliding out between the two most promising firing angles into the null zone. He fired a single round from the AutoMag and kept moving, drawing the triangulated fire to that point just vacated. A few seconds of pinpointed fire was all he needed for success in the breakaway. He would have had that success but for a disturbing new element suddenly added to the game—a new sound, a new presence—the groaning and clanking of heavy armored units moving into position directly across his path of retreat.
He went immediately to ground, burying both himself and his burden in the snow as an instinctive reaction to that new threat.
When he looked up, a half-track armored scout car was standing beside him. A powerful carbon-arc searchlight blazed into brilliance and began sweeping the target zone, cutting through the pall effectively though not perfectly. An electronically amplified voice loudly commanded a cease-fire. Bolan stayed put, realizing that he was in the best of possible places, for the moment.
The snowmobiles shut down, presenting an eerie silence broken only by the howling and moaning of the wind sweeping that plateau.
The PA blared again, and this time Bolan recognized the Arkansas drawl of Captain Frank Harrelson. “What’ve you got here, Lieutenant?”
The snowmobile voice of command which Bolan had heard earlier responded promptly from nearby in the blind zone. “We think Bolan. The woman is missing and three of our men are dead, three wounded, maybe more by now. One of our light units is knocked out.”
“So what’re you doing about it, Tom? Throwing snowballs at ’im?”
“We had him in the zipper, sir. Just before you came up. I swear, this guy just doesn’t make sense. It seems that he’s broken out again.”
“Correction, Lieutenant. He broke in. Bolan? Mack? You can hear me. I know you’re here, Sergeant. Look, we tried. Okay? Now we’re running out of time. Enough fun and games. I have a proposition for you. This is Frank Harrelson. Captain Harrelson. Hey, Grunt—we had our moments, didn’t we? We can do it again. Let’s white flag it. A ten-minute truce. We have a lot to talk over.”
Sure. Bolan knew all about Frank Harrelson’s white flags. They had a habit of turning red, very suddenly.
“No tricks, Sergeant. Look, I can let you lay out here and freeze to death, if that’s what you want. You’re not going to break clear, you know. I have a ring of steel around this plateau. But, hey, Sarge, you’re pinning down my elite force. I need to move it on. The fun is over. Now it’s time for work. I’d like to have you on my side. What do you say, hawg? You want to lay out here and turn to ice?”
There was a possibility, of course, that the guy was straighting it.
“I could put you to good use, boy. I’ve got myself a sharpshooter but he’s not nearly as good as you. I can make you a rich man overnight.”
Hell of hells, the kid was coming around. Bolan rolled atop him and placed a hand over his mouth, then guided an outflung hand to the cold steel tread of the scout car.
Harrelson was continuing with his pitch. “Filthy rich. And I can make you a general, if you’d like that. Sergeant to general in one easy step, one easy decision. What do you say, hawg?”
Bolan was not saying a damn thing. Nor was the kid. He was fully awake and aware now, quickly on top of the situation, squeezing Bolan’s hand to let him know.
“I just can’t understand this dumb shit you’ve been into, Sergeant,” Harrelson went on, in that deceptively folksy tone. “I understand and respect your motives, but, dammit, boy, you’re spinning your wheels against the tide of time. Who needs it? Who even wants it? They got your picture hanging in every post office in the country. They’re going to shoot you down like a dawg, first chance they get. It’s a waste, such a shameful waste. You need to come in with people who appreciate what you have to offer. We got a real interesting wingding going here. Hey, you know, I can’t just sit here and talk at you forever, boy. I guess, uh, Mrs. Sanderson already filled you in, huh? Listen, she doesn’t have it all. She even got the wrong slant. We’re not assassins, Sergeant. You know what we are. We’re a military force and we’re on a military mission. I think you’d be interested in it. Course, if you’d rather be a frozen side of beef, well, I can respect that, too, I guess. To each his own, eh. I can only give you another minute. Hey—remember Sin duc Huong? We could do it again, you and me, together. I’ll give you sixty seconds to think it over. White flag. Start your count.”
Yes, Bolan remembered Sin due Huong. And he was having no piece of Frank Harrelson—not until the moment of his own choosing.
A couple of eerily quiet minutes later, the searchlight was extinguished. The scout car’s engine cranked up. Another voice on the PA sent the order to the ski troops: “Button up and put it away. Let the smartass have his frozen turf. Evacuate all wounded to the rear. Coffee and sandwiches in the snack wagon. Well done, boys, well done.”
The vehicle lurched forward then spun in a sharp turn. Boland felt the kid stiffen and clutch at himself but he did not know why until the scout car clanked away and the snowmobiles withdrew. The caterpillar tread had passed over Sondre’s right leg, burying it in harshly compacted snow—but only the snow had saved him from a mangling. There was simply no language communication possible, but Bolan knew that leg was hurt and hurting. He carefully dug it out and probed for obvious misalignments. Finding none, he cautioned the young Viking with a finger across the lips and hoisted him in a fireman’s carry, then set off quietly in what he hoped to be the general direction of the outfit shop.
Only one thing appeared certain now. The kid would not be doing any skiing for awhile.
Nor, it appeared, would Bolan.
Whatever else Frank Harrelson may be, the guy was no idiot. He had not withdrawn from the field of combat as a special grace to an old war buddy.
The guy had meant what he said.
The head of Mack Bolan had lost primacy in the Colorado kill zone. Apparently it was enough, now, to merely contain him in a limited area. Which could only mean that the “other” hit was on, and moving into the countdown.
The Killer Force had proved itself, to someone’s satisfaction.
And it was shaping into a bitter, bitter night in the kill zone.
16: COCK A WHITE HAT
“Sondre thanks you for risking your life to save him.”
“Tell Sondre I like his guts. They were worth saving.”
The lady gave Bolan a smile which could have meant many tender things. She lowered her eyes as she told him, “Undy thanks you, also, Mack Bolan. We both regret Sondre’s unkind words to you, earlier. You are not like the others. You are quite different.”
She hurried away before Bolan could respond to that, returning to the ministrations to the injured leg. They had built a bunk for the boy behind the counter of the outfit shop, the least drafty spot in the small building, and bundled him warmly against the deepening cold. The leg was not that badly damaged, as far as Bolan could determine, but it was painfully bruised and scraped from the knee down. The kid was about half sick, as well, a bit feverish—probably a result of the daylong imprisonment and exposure to the cold.
Things could be a lot worse, of course. And they could get a lot worse. Harrelson had withdrawn to a chosen perimeter simply because there was no military advantage in a blizzard. Almost any confrontation would be a one-on-one situation, and in any such situation, he must have figured that Bolan would have the better chance for survival. Harrelson was too good a soldier to spend men for nothing. He could afford to pull back and wait out the storm, inviting Bolan to then take the initiative, knowing full well that the advantage would then pass to the defense.
No, the guy was no idiot.
Bolan found some kindling in a bin and built a small fire in the potbellied stove.
“Is it safe?” the woman asked him.
“No,” Bolan replied, smiling, “but it’s a lot more comfortable. Isn’t it?”
She replied with a smile and held her hands to the warmth.
“The wind is coming from the northwest,” Bolan elaborated. “That means it’s at their backs. They won’t smell the fire, and I doubt they would see the smoke if they were standing right outside. I think it’s safe enough, for now. Enjoy it while you can.”
“I have tea, and a pan,” she said, still giving him the warm smile. “And with a yard filled with—”
Bolan held up a hand and said, “Say no more. Best idea I’ve heard all day.” He dumped the contents of a small metal trash can into the fire then stepped outside and filled the can with snow.
It was dry stuff with very little water content—excellent for skiing but not for much else. He had to make another trip outside before they had enough water for tea, and it was during that latter excursion that he thought he noted a lessening of weather activity. He did not mention it to the woman but made several trips to the window while the tea was brewing.
She told him, without looking.
“The storm is waning.”
Bolan nodded agreement with that. “Wind shift, too. The front has passed.”
“What will you do?”
He grinned. “I’ll have some of that tea.”
“What will you do?” she repeated, handing him a hot tin bowl.
He sipped it carefully, savoring the warmth and delicate flavor, then told her, “That’s very good, Undy.”
“What will you do, Skade?”
Bolan chuckled soberly. “I’ll have to watch the conditions very closely and try to get the scouting jump on them.”
“What does this mean?”
“Well, it’s been a game of blindman’s bluff. We both know the other is here—but not precisely where. War is a precision game. He who knows best usually does best. I need to find them before they find me.”
“I see. You mean to attack.”
“I must attack, Undy. It’s the only hope.”
“You could go west, Skade. You could do it now, as you could have done before.”
Bolan shook his head to that. “That’s no longer an option.”
“Because of Sondre and me?” She delicately shook her head. “The option remains.”
Their gazes locked above the tin bowls as he told the woman, “No way, m’lady.”
“We will do quite well. You must escape and defeat the plot.”
“You will be quite dead, both of you, and there’s no certainty that I could make it on my own. I’ve done very little downhill skiing and I’m unfamiliar with the terrain. I could be still wandering around those wilds out there while they’re burying the president. Or dead in a snowbank, myself.”
She dropped her eyes and quietly told him, “I do not cherish life at the expense of such a man as you.”
“And Sondre?”
“I speak for the two of us. Sondre could not dance upon your grave.”
Bolan put the tea down and lit a cigarette. He offered it to her and she declined. He asked, “Ever have the feeling, Undy, that you’re repeating some long forgotten experience?”
“Dejà vu?” she replied, wrinkling her nose at that. “Do you accept reincarnation, then?”
He grinned and told her, “I don’t reject it. But I wasn’t speaking of that. I just have the feeling that we’ve known each other before—you and me.”
She said, “Yes, it is a comfortable feeling. I felt it immediately.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I don’t. I simply accept it. Gratefully. How do you explain it?”
“Time out of sync,” he said, smiling soberly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either.” He laughed and reached out to squeeze her hand. The squeeze grew into something prolonged, and warm, and very special.
She whispered, “Please, I am very susceptible.”
So was Bolan, but it was no time for that sort of thing. He let her go and returned to the tea, then went to the window for a weather check, then to Sondre for a patient check. The boy was asleep. The wind was dying. And Mack Bolan’s time was running out. No, it was no time for …
He went over and pulled her to her feet, took her into his arms, held her tenderly. “Time out of sync,” he explained huskily, “is life on the heartbeat. It’s speed time, between the frames. You don’t move along with it. You hover above it, and watch it pass—in any direction you choose. I can’t explain it any better than that, Undy, but I loved you the moment I saw you. And it’s enough, for me—understand? My whole life is out of sync. One heartbeat can expand to fill a lifetime. Does it make any sense?”
Her cheeks were awash with tears. “Yes. Yes, it makes much sense. I thought perhaps it was because I have been so alone but I—just hold me, please. Hold me.”
He held her, and it was enough for two very lonely souls.
They moved together to the window. Bolan said, “Ten minutes, maybe.”
She said, “It outweighs—I—I thought, for the past two years, that I had come to this country to realize a dream, only to find a nightmare … to—to see my husband killed. Such a waste, Mack Bolan. What do you call that kind of time—two years of nothingness?”
“How did he die?”
She sighed. “Realizing a dream. Lars was a champion skier. We came here to find the American dream. Opportunity, progress, dignity. But we were losing it all. So Lars began taking out—side work. He was with the avalanche patrol one day and …”
“And what?”
“The mountain killed him.”
Bolan told her, “Then he died doing what he loved best. Right?”
“I suppose that’s right.”
“How’d you get tangled up with Frank Harrelson?”
“Who is Frank Harrelson?”
“The beast of the east,” Bolan said.
“Oh. The southerner. Sondre found them camped below our slope, one day. They took him into custody. Treated him badly. A few weeks ago, the southerner returned—supposedly to offer an official apology. But then, last week, they returned in force and stayed. Sondre and I became prisoners in our own home.”
“What have they been doing here, Undy?”
She shrugged. “Plotting, scheming, practicing their games.”
“In the snowmobiles?”
“Yes.”
“Without snow?”
“They brought snow machines w
ith them. You know? Artificially created snow? The temperatures have been suitable, especially at night. One reason they selected our site is that the sun’s rays do not strike directly. They were able to maintain a frozen layer. Yes, they have practiced weeks with the snowmobiles. At first, surreptiously on our lower slope. Then, for the past week, brazenly—with Sondre and me confined. We thought at first they were genuine army soldiers. When they took us prisoners in our own home, we knew differently. This does not occur in America.”
“Let’s hope it won’t be occurring again,” Bolan growled. “What can you tell me about Harrelson?”
“Very little. He spends very little time at Snow Trails. The lieutenant, Thomas, has been in charge here. The southerner pops in and out, usually by helicopter. They plot and scheme briefly, and out again he departs. I can tell you that he is a wicked man—the beast, yes.”
“And the others?”
“Not so bad as the southerner. Very firm and officious, yes, but also very proper. Very soldierly.”
Bolan sighed and said, “Yeah. Very soldierly. That is precisely my problem. Those guys are good soldiers, well disciplined. How far away is Vail, Undy?”
“By highway, in good weather, perhaps ninety minutes.”
“And by air?”
She nestled her head on Bolan’s shoulder and replied, “By air, I do not know this. But the president does not visit Vail this year, if that is your thinking.”
“Yes, that was my thinking. Where will he be, then?”
“This year he visits Berthoud Pass, as special guest of—”
Bolan stiffened to attention and interrupted with a growl. “That’s just south of here!”
“Yes. We are adjacent.”
A brilliant new light was illuminating the kill zone, it was a light within Bolan’s own mind, and he was mentally chastising himself for leaping to military conclusions without properly circumscribing the facts. He had initially assumed that Snow Trails was part of the suck plan—then, with the input from Undy Sanderson, that it had figured chiefly as a training area and only secondarily as a suck station. But now, with ground zero revealed at a point a mere few minutes removed, the Sanderson resort was occupying a front line position—the jump point itself—and suddenly it had all come together, the time frames slipping into place, the picture resolving itself into a startling landscape of military determination.
Colorado Kill-Zone Page 10