Executioner 059 - Crude Kill

by Pendleton, Don

  Bolan pushed open the door and slid inside. He was in some type of control room. There were dozens of gauges and readout dials in a maze of electronic equipment. Another door led him onward and he pushed it open. One man stood near a second maze of dials—a large compass, an assortment of wind, weather, depth readouts and a hundred other knobs and instruments that Bolan had never seen before. High-powered binoculars hung from his neck. The man turned, his eyes friendly. He was about fifty.

  "Where is Lutfi?" Bolan barked, Big Thunder directed at the man's head.

  "Below. So, that explosion was your work." The man said it calmly. "I'm Hans Running, captain of the Contessa . Lutfi lets me watch over my ship. I'm no threat to him."

  Bolan knew immediately from the man's demeanor that he faced friend, not foe. "Lutfi wants to steal your atomic fuel rods," he said.

  "Yes. He told me. He's mad, of course."

  "Agreed. Is there any other way to get the fuel rods to the deck except by that elevator?"

  "None. But in fact your blast probably did not hurt the lift. It has dozens of backup systems. It was built to rigid specs—it would take a hundred pounds of plastique to shut it down."

  "I used enough to flatten a ten-room house."

  "Someone's coming!"

  Bolan swung around, saw the door burst open. Two armed men rushed in. Big Thunder roared twice. Two rounds of 240-grain smoking lead caught both gunmen in the chest, slamming them back through the doorway.

  Captain Running winced at the noise in the confined space. Then he motioned. "That way. Out that door and down the far stairs. You can do nothing up here."

  The Executioner gave a curt nod of thanks, then ran through another lounge to the stairs. He heard someone below. He waited for the visitor to appear around the landing two floors below. A moment later a man leaned out and stared upward. Bolan pegged off two 3-round bursts, slamming most of the slugs into the interloper. The Executioner charged down the steps, stopped and grabbed the dead man's AK-47 assault rifle, then stormed past and gained the freedom of the deck.

  The elevator—was it still working? He had to know.

  He began working through the darkness on deck to where he could see the front of the elevator building. It took him five minutes of pipe hopping and crawling through the gullies between holds to get into position. The elevator door was open. Two radiation-protected men stood on the platform talking to a tall man. Bolan wondered if the man they spoke to was Lutfi. A new sound registered in his mind, gradually becoming a recognizable entity. When he realized what it was, he scanned the dark skies.

  A heavy chopper was coming in.

  So far he had been right, and that was not good. Bolan wished he had more firepower. A Quad-Fifty caliber machine gun groundplower would be about right. . . .

  He checked his backpack and found eight more frag grenades, some white phosphorous grenades and four more quarter-pound blocks of C-4 plastique. It might work, but he had to get close enough.

  Bolan wormed his way among the hatch covers, under the masses of pipes and maneuvered through the dark and light splotches of deck. He watched the chopper wheel in, level out and land on the pad closest to the elevator. Bolan moved again. He had to get within twenty yards of the chopper, and the whole landing pad was now day bright.

  The big bird's cargo doors opened on the side. Twenty-five yards from the chopper a special searchlight mount had been constructed, and soon Bolan crouched beneath it, well concealed in the shadows and the piping.

  He plastered half a block of plastique around the back side of a frag grenade, leaving room for the handle to pop free to arm the bomb. The explosive stuck fast to the metal. He made sure it would not drop off, then prepared another one as backup.

  The pilot had just cut the idle speed of the turning rotors when Bolan pulled the pin on the grenade, let the handle pop off and threw the souped-up bomb at the chopper.

  The 4.4 seconds were not quite burned up when the grenade bounced under the nose section of the helicopter.

  A fraction of a second later the grenade exploded. It acted as a detonator for the plastique, triggering it simultaneously.

  The explosion sent shrapnel drilling into the bird, igniting the forward section.

  A moment later a fuel tank exploded in a high-octane fire that engulfed the entire aircraft.

  The Executioner lay in the valley between the hold covers, waiting for the firelight to die down so he could make his move. He could hear one man screaming in agony, but the voice faded and then was gone. Bolan put the second C-4-laced grenade back in his pack, reloaded Big Thunder, and put a fresh magazine in the 93-R. The AK-47 had a full magazine.

  One chopper killed. Now it did not matter if the elevator worked or not. With no chopper, Lutfi would need an alternate transport plan.

  Before Bolan could calm his racing heartbeat, he heard a sound in the distance—choppers, several this time.

  He watched in frustration as three more of the Huey-type birds soon swung in. They hesitated, then landed at different chopper pads.

  He could see plainly in the landing lights that two of the birds were gunships, bristling with firepower.

  Sometimes things went Bolan's way, sometimes they did not. When they did not, it was his job to turn around the odds.

  It would just be harder that way.

  A lot harder.

  11

  Mack Bolan stared at one of the choppers and for a moment he was back in Nam. Dressed in brown-and green-camouflage fatigues, he was hiding behind a log in a patch of tall grass watching an enemy strong point, a Vietnamese village, as he waited for a high-ranking Cong leader to keep an appointment.

  The mental battle was the same—a fight against fear and frustration brought on by weariness. The physical fight was the same—battle the enemy and win, no matter what the odds, no matter how vicious the opposition. He had to endure, and at the same time, as a man, he had to try to understand the why of it. And through it all came the primary, the most important factor: in order to fight and to win he first had to survive.

  The Executioner knew about surviving—he had lived through a long war against the Mafia; now in the new war against terrorism he had spent another lifetime charging into unthinkable odds. There were new wars to come, as Bolan's personal ability to act in battle came up against the restraints, even possible betrayal, of the labyrinthine organizations that purported to work in their nation's defense. But Bolan would win, if he kept his wits about him at all times, undistracted by any but the most loyal and battle-hardened allies. Bolan would win because he was not only a survival specialist—he was also a death-bringer.

  Lying against the hard surface of the valley between the holds on board the Contessa, Bolan pushed such thoughts out of his mind.

  The closest double-rotor bird had landed fifty yards away, and sat roughly the same distance from the elevator on the far side.

  Firepower. Bolan needed a rocket launcher and six rounds.

  Bolan checked the AK-47 automatic rifle he had taken from the dead man on the steps. It had a full magazine. He decided it was time to go public with his position. The Executioner lifted the Russian rifle and sighted in on the closest chopper. The pilot's side door opened and a figure exited.

  The rifle spoke sharply with a 5-round burst and the pilot was jolted away from the aircraft. He dropped to the deck. At once a machine gun opened fire from the chopper's side door. The rounds slammed dangerously close to Bolan. He ducked below the hold cover and rushed ten feet closer to the bird. He rose and sent six rounds into the cockpit of the helicopter, hoping for a hit on some vital instrument cluster.

  A machine-gun round splattered against the steel only three feet from him. Tiny bits of lead dug into his shoulder. He crawled a dozen feet farther along the depression. He sighted over the pipes and emptied the rest of the AK-47's 30-round magazine into the open door of the chopper. The enemy fire cut off at once.

  Bolan discarded the empty rifle and ran bent over to stay b
elow the pipes. As he moved toward the chopper he saw that the angle would take him within twenty yards of the aircraft. He hoped they were short on guards around the chopper.

  For a moment there were no shots, no roaring aircraft engines, just the soft breeze off the sea. Even the silence seemed threatening. Sharp pain from the minor shrapnel broke through the anesthetic of his combat adrenaline. Flecks of blood from the surface punctures and grazes soaked into the fabric around them. Nothing serious—so far. Bolan checked the magazine in the Beretta, pulled it out and put in a special 60-round magazine he had been saving in the pack. The Beretta manufacturers had recently built a few according to specifications from Andrzej Konzaki, Bolan's weaponsmith.

  He moved more cautiously. His combat senses froze him in his place, the silenced Beretta up, waiting, the fire selector on three shots.

  Ahead a foot scuffed along waterproofed metal. Bolan held his breath, waiting.

  Another step sounded.

  He slowly pulled a throwing knife from a scabbard on his right leg, held the Beretta in his left hand, fingers on the sensitive trigger, and waited. He cocked his right hand over his right shoulder, gripping the stiletto like blade with his thumb and three fingers.

  He was ready.

  Another scrape of a boot. The nightfighter's cold blue eyes stared into the blackness. At last he saw a dark shadow move, then move again, black on black. Bolan waited. His hand was motionless.

  No moonlight shone from above. Threatening clouds now covered the sky.

  He waited another second.

  Then he saw it, the white smudge of a face in the inky space before him. Target acquisition: directly below the smudge.

  The blade flew from his fingers, and a second later a surprised grunt was followed by a long, low rasping whisper and the gushing of the dead man's last breath.

  As the body fell, a gun clattered into the troughlike gutter between the holds. Bolan sprinted the dozen feet to the corpse, picked up his rifle, another AK-47, and checked the man's pockets where he found three more 30-round magazines.

  Bolan collected his war booty and hurried down the trench. Three guards paced nervously around the chopper just at the edge of the floodlights. The body of the pilot had been removed. One dead pilot did not kill the bird. Undoubtedly there would be a backup pilot on every chopper.

  The large cargo doors gaped open. There was plenty of room inside to put one, two or maybe three of the fuel-rod lead caskets.

  It fired his resolve. He could see the machine gun mounted just inside the cargo doors. It was un-manned. From his combat pack Bolan took out two WP grenades. The White Phosphorous was one of his favorite incendiary weapons. The chemical exploded out of the grenade, caught fire when it hit oxygen, and was impossible to extinguish.

  The Executioner judged the distance to the chopper. Close to thirty yards. He was no major-league pitcher, and he could not risk a bobbled throw. He had to move closer. The guard nearest him had turned sideways, watching into the darkness. The sentry wore a paramilitary uniform, which meant he was a mercenary hired for the transport. Fine. He got his paycheck, he took his chances. The Executioner moved in.

  He lifted the Beretta, rested it on the top of the hold cover and sighted in on the guard now fifteen yards away. The man turned and stared into the void toward Bolan.

  The Beretta sneezed once, emitting a tiny shaft of flame near the muzzle of the silencer.

  The mercenary guard took the round through his nose, into his brain where it stopped, mashing up half a dozen life-vital centers and ending a short and unproductive life. . . .

  Bolan crawled on his belly, powering himself forward across the deck with his elbows and feet. He got to the edge of the light spill and realized he was visible. In one surging burst of energy, he stood and ran, darting the remaining distance toward the chopper.

  He pulled the safety pin from the grenade and held the handle down.

  He lobbed the white phosphorous bomb into the open door of the helicopter ten feet away, saw it bounce once and land in the cockpit.

  He turned and charged back toward the friendly darkness. Twin shots followed his steps.

  Then the soft whump of the exploding grenade came from behind him, and Bolan dived into the murk of the shadows beyond the body of the dead terrorist.

  The Executioner rolled twice, felt bullets whipping around him, and then he was in the gully below the hold protectors.

  Warily he peered over the top. The Willy Peter grenade had done its job. Smoke poured from the door of the bird. He could see flames eating away at the interior. A moment later he heard small-arms fire as ammunition inside the chopper exploded from the intense heat. Screams came from the other side of the flames.

  One of the rockets on the fuselage exploded, then two more exploded and the whole deck area billowed in flames as the fuel tanks erupted with a thundering roar, raining aircraft parts down on an acre of decking.

  Two down, two to go.

  Bolan stared at the elevator for the first time since his blast there. The exterior door had been mangled. It had been pulled off and was lying to one side. The interior of the huge elevator seemed to be intact.

  There was no one inside the elevator. As he watched, Bolan saw four guards walking back and forth in front of the lift. They were heavily armed with rifles, side arms and grenades. He would have a tough firefight going through them, and right now he could see no need to try. The other two choppers had to be the highest priority. Bolan could see them in their circles of light behind the elevator. One still bristled with weapons, the other seemed to be purely a cargo craft. He checked his weapons. He still had three phosphorous grenades, six frag grenades and two cubes of plastique in his pack. He also had the two 60-round magazines for the Beretta, and the AK-47 with four magazines. It would have to do.

  A speaker nearby clicked on.

  "Attention. Attention. Everyone listen. Our leader has something to say to you." The words came over the speaker in accented English.

  "This is Captain Lutfi. This is a warning to all those who resist us on board the Contessa. We are in complete control here. We have the crew members as hostages. If there is any more resistance, any force used against our people whatsoever, I will order one of the hostages shot immediately. Any continued disturbances or weapons fire, or any resistance by the unauthorized persons now on board, will lead to another hostage being executed. These deaths will be on your head. I expect complete and unquestioned compliance with this order at once, or fatal results will quickly follow."

  The Executioner stared into the darkness. His priority had just changed. He was going to get Lutfi.

  The guy had to be in the radio room on the bridge deck to make the speech. Or did he? Where were his quarters? Bolan stopped his sudden rush of planning.

  Was he letting the purpose of the announcement destroy his own strategy? Was his humane and automatic instinct to protect the innocents distorting his mission plans and tactics?

  Bolan knew he was at war. In any war there were casualties. Calculated risks had to be taken and losses expected.

  The Executioner knew he was holding the life-death decision in his hands for one or possibly more of the hostages.

  Now he thought through all sides of the problem. He knew what route he had to follow.

  At all costs he had to prevent the loss of the fuel rods.

  If one more crewman on the Contessa died, that would be a tragedy, true. But the larger tragedy would be if ten, twenty, perhaps 100 million innocent human beings died in an atomic catastrophe.

  Mack Bolan carried the AK-47 and hurried through the series of valleys around the hold covers, working under and over the maze of pipes and walkways on the large deck.

  Slowly he came closer and closer to the next helicopter that had to be destroyed.

  His mind was made up. No innocents whatsoever would die.

  12

  Captain Hans Running stared across the small table in his private quarters at the man he desp
ised from the moment he first talked with him on the radio.

  "You will not kill any more of my crewmen," Captain Running said softly.

  "And if I do?" Lutfi asked, sneering.

  "Then surely you, too, will die. Only in wartime does our society grant man the power of life and death over any of his fellow men."

  "Right," Lutfi agreed, "and I'm at war with ninety-five percent of the nations on this earth."

  Hans Running scowled. He was fifty-two years old and had put in enough time to retire, but had not been able to deny himself the challenge of commanding the largest vessel afloat.

  With today's tragedies he wished he had refused command.

  However, during these past few hours he sensed that he had grown in understanding, in simple maturity, and with that feeling came an increased strength.

  "No, Lutfi, you are not at war," he grunted. "You're simply an outlaw, a common low-class hoodlum. Society will not put up with what you are doing."

  Lutfi ignored Running's comments. "You still haven't answered my question, Captain. Which crewman will be the next to die?"

  "None of them—because the forces now on board the Contessa will soon have your pirates captured or killed and you will be forced to give up your dreams of grandeur. You are not a world leader. You are nothing but a common thief, robber, murderer and now a failed hijacker."

  Lutfi smiled. "Thank you, Captain Running. You have just sealed your own fate. You have volunteered to be the next hostage executed. I'll have the word sent out over the ship's communication speakers. I'm proud of you, Captain. Frankly, I didn't think you had the guts to volunteer."

  "I'll be alive twenty years after you're dead and forgotten, Lutfi. Your dream is shattered. You'll never get away with even one of the fuel rods. You know that if any of the fuel rods are moved without proper electronic coding, it will short out the mobile carts they ride on."

  "It doesn't matter. We'll use your forklift trucks to move them. We've thought of everything, Captain."

  "Except for the counterforce group now on board. I saw the leader. He's a big man, six foot three, two hundred pounds. And he had scary eyes. There was a lot of retribution in those eyes. He and his force will have you bottled up within half an hour."