On the wall hung six sets of scuba gear—tanks, masks and air hoses. Bolan read the tank indicators. All were full. The set of gear from the first hook was missing.
Red lights glowed on the indicator board, meaning the oil storage tanks in that area were full. One had a green light with a lighted panel below that read
Inspector Inside.
It had to be Lutfi.
Bolan pulled off a scuba harness, unslung his light pack and put on the tanks, then the face mask. He tested the air in the mouthpiece.
He walked down the narrowing corridor to the door with the green light over it. The same Inspector Inside sign appeared on the green panel. The small inspection door had information printed on it describing how the door automatically locked until the level of the crude in the tank was below six inches. Then it automatically unlocked.
Bolan saw that the door was only half open. As he opened the door wider, he stayed behind it.
Instantly four shots sounded from inside the hold. The slugs jolted against the inside of the door that Bolan held.
The Executioner saw a light switch to his left and slipped it off, darkening the dimly lighted inspection room. Then, without a sound, he bent through the opening, stepped inside and moved to his left. He was blind for several seconds.
Then Bolan became accustomed to the dim light. The room he was in was like a huge metal box, the sides soaring upward fifty or sixty feet on all four sides. He stood in six inches of crude oil, and now realized he had not put on the special knee-high boots he had seen outside.
Where was Lutfi?
Bolan breathed evenly from the scuba gear, which he knew was needed because the petroleum would vaporize and create a seriously unhealthy atmosphere for human lungs.
A shot sounded in the gigantic echo chamber. Bolan saw the flash to his right, but how far away he could not say. He chose not to return the fire. It would give away his position. The dim light made it impossible to pick out a figure near the gunflash.
Bolan began working through the petroleum.
Moving was slow, like walking in two feet of water. He concentrated on wading quietly.
He had sloshed a third of the way across the inside of the tank when he heard a piercing laugh and the sound of boots running on metal. Bolan looked up in time to see Lutfi on a raised platform, running for the door that Bolan had left open.
He saw a black form dive through the door into the half light of the inspection room. The door clanged shut, cutting off Lutfi's booming laugh and pitching the tank into total blackness.
Without moving, Bolan concentrated on the spot where he had last seen the outline of the door, then began moving through the murk toward that spot.
He took his pencil flash from his blacksuit slit pocket and snapped it on. It sent a strong beam of light toward the door just ahead.
For two minutes Bolan studied the oval pressure door. He knew it would have a safety device somewhere. On a small panel to the left he found printing etched on a copper plate, in three languages again.
If you are inside when the door is closed:
1) Ring the alarm bell.
2) Attempt to turn the emergency inside wheel to open the door.
3) Use the secret combination to set off the exploding bolts on the pressure door.
Below that solution was a ten-button panel to punch in the code.
He checked the inside wheel. At first it seemed locked in place, but by exerting pressure on it, he managed to turn the spoked metal wheel a few inches at a time.
Ten minutes later the wheel spun easily and the door cracked open. The outside light was so bright it hurt Bolan's eyes. He pushed open the door and stood well to the side.
Nothing happened.
He looked into as much of the inspection room as he could. Lutfi was not there.
Bolan stepped out of the crude petroleum onto the metal floor and felt the oil squishing in his soft-soled boots. He cleared the area to make sure Lutfi was not there, then took off his footwear, stepped into some rubber boots and tucked his oily pant legs inside.
Ten minutes later he stepped onto the deck.
21
A French paratrooper challenged him. Bolan held up his empty hands.
"Hey, pal. I'm on your side," he said.
A curt command came from another voice, and the trooper lowered his automatic rifle and grinned. " Ami?"
"Yeah, buddy, I'm your friend, your ami."
A French officer ran up and saluted.
"Apologies, Colonel. All men do not know you." He spoke in English.
"Forget it. Lieutenant, did anyone else come out of this elevator before I did?"
"No, sir. No one."
"Thanks." Bolan looked at the ship and saw that four more military choppers had landed. Uniformed French troops were everywhere now. The situation seemed to be under control.
Except for Lutfi.
Except for the red holocaust box.
Bolan could see the flames of the sea fire a mile away now. Dawn was coming quickly. His shoulder ached where the bullet had hit him, but he drove the pain out of his mind. He looked back at the fire. Some multinational force was probably converging the spill with all kinds of devices to soak it up, skim it, vacuum it, burn it off or use containment to keep it away from shore. He was glad someone else was handling that problem.
"Lieutenant Dupree," Bolan said, reading the soldier's name tag. "We're looking for a terrorist by the name of Lutfi. He's been wounded once, maybe twice. Last seen wearing a dark blue sweatshirt, green and light blue pants. He's six foot two and slight. Spread the word to watch for him. Dead or alive, lieutenant."
The Frenchman nodded, took a radio from his pocket and spoke quickly into it in his native tongue. The Executioner walked to the elevator.
At the elevator he picked up a phone that he had seen there before. It was answered at once.
"This is Colonel John Phoenix. Who is in charge of the Contessa?"
"The executive officer, Mr. Fisher."
"Put him on."
"He's extremely busy right now, sir and...."
"Put him on the line at once!"
"Yes, sir."
A moment later an older voice responded.
"This is executive officer Fisher. What can I do for you, Colonel Phoenix?"
"Your man in the second control room is dead. Lutfi got him."
"We'll take care of the problem. Are the bombs still active?"
"Yes, until we find Lutfi and get that trigger. Where could he try to hide on board?"
"A hundred places. Everywhere but inside the oil tanks. He wouldn't live ten minutes in a full one or an empty one. But there are hundreds of other places. The French major says he has four bomb squads on board if we find the explosives."
"We'd better find them, Captain. We sure as hell better."
Bolan hung up and stared around the big ship again. Where would the Executioner hide on this tub if he didn't want 200 people to find him? The most unlikely spot. The place no one would think to look. Would not even check.
The empty oil holds, with scuba gear for breathing? Possible. Where else? He looked from end to end on the ship and scowled. Then slowly the idea came to him. He nodded, letting it build. Yeah, right. Where else? In an area no one would even suggest to search—in the radioactive fuel-rod storage area.
Perfect. One of those moon suits and Lutfi would be safe until the big search died down.
Bolan punched the elevator button that was marked Down. He had to find the white moon suits, get himself into one, and then figure out how to pull a trigger wearing those big gloves.
22
It took the Executioner only three minutes to retrace his steps down the elevator, through the corridors and past the control room where he found two technicians protected by a French paratrooper holding a submachine gun.
At the balcony with six doors, Bolan chose the one that was marked Fuel Storage.
The hallway turned once, then slanted down a ra
mp, but soon dropped sharply with a set of steps.
At the bottom of the steps he found a large room with a corridor leading off from it to the right. Ahead he saw movement, a moonsuited figure struggling with a helmet.
Bolan lifted the Beretta. The figure was thirty yards down the gleaming white corridor. The man in the moonsuit suddenly dived clumsily to one side, and vanished behind a dividing wall.
There was no protection in the corridor. Bolan hesitated. Then he charged ahead, the Beretta ready. He pounded hard down the tiled corridor and soon came to a large room with benches and lockers along the sides. On the doors were the words Radiation Protection Gear.
Bolan quickly cleared the room; Lutfi was not there. A hallway leading away had been his escape route. Bolan wasted no time. He knew Lutfi was going into the fuel-rod storage areas.
He grabbed one of the suits from a locker and began getting into it. There were directions on the inside of the locker door. He felt the weight of the lead-lined cloth as he put on the pants and the jacket—the whole thing snapped and overlapped and zippered together for protection. He found boots and stuffed the bottoms of the pants deep into them as directed.
Then he put on the heavy gloves, but found there was no way he could pull a trigger without taking off one glove.
The helmet was the last item. The directions said someone should help him with it. But Bolan had no helper. He took off the gloves and at last got all the flaps, snaps and double protective shields in place. He stared out the small helmet window of lead crystal glass.
He walked down the hall, the Beretta in his ungloved hand.
It took a lot of effort just to move. The first sign he saw read Fuel Rod Storage and had an arrow pointing ahead. Around the sign were three radiation warning symbols.
The next sign read: "Has your Radiation Suit been checked at Inspection Station One?" Mack walked on, watching for hiding spots where Lutfi might be lurking. There were none.
The double doors he came to next were heavy, lead-lined he was sure. He pushed through them and found himself in another hallway of the same type.
Radiation detectors hung on the wall. He took one and ran it over the floor, picking up traces on the readout pointer. He passed it over his boots and sound doubled the floor contamination. He held the probe to his luminous-dial wristwatch and got the same reading as on his boots. Not enough to worry about.
So far, so safe.
A short way forward he found two branch routes.
One led to the reactor reloading center, and the second to fuel storage. He turned right toward storage. Over his shoulder Bolan carried the AK-47. He was not sure how he could use it, but he wanted to have all his weapons.
Twenty feet down the hall he came to another massive door. On the front in two-foot-high letters was the word, STOP!
Smaller printing read: "No one may enter without double-checked, double-protection radiation gear in place."
There was a button to push for admittance. He pressed it and a red light came on, followed by a recorded voice. "Sign in with your name and badge number, then place your right hand on the fingerprint identification pad for confirmation."
Bolan shrugged, put his bare right hand on the plate and the light turned green. Then he saw that the heavy door had not been completely closed and latched. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Lutfi must already be there.
Ahead he saw a dozen cubicles, each with walls six feet high, each wide enough to hold a lead-lined coffin loaded on board an electric cart. All the carts seemed to be in normal positions. With the lead-shielding precautions, this work appeared to be as safe as being an attendant in a nursery. No radiation could leak from the caskets, and if it did, it would not penetrate the lead-shielded clothing.
Bolan took slow steps along the row of electric carts in their cubicles, but saw nothing unusual.
Then near the end he found one cart farther forward than the others, its front poking out slightly from between the high cubicle walls. As he neared it, the rig sprang to life and charged toward him, its electric motor on full power.
Bolan lifted the Beretta and fired one shot. The round hit the casket. Then he saw the moon-suited figure driving the cart. Bolan fired again, the slug slamming into the chest of the figure, but the lead-protective clothing easily stopped the 9mm round and the cart stormed ahead.
It was too late for a head shot. Bolan could tell that the driver's helmet was merely sitting on his head, not snapped and zippered and fastened on correctly. But by that time he had to try to dodge, to leap to one side. But the moon suit would not let him move that quickly—he stumbled and fell, the stock of the rifle going down beside his right leg.
Bolan had fallen in the path of the accelerating cart.
The cart's left rubber wheel hit his right shoulder first, pushing him forward even before its other front tire connected with his groin.
The impact was absorbed by Bolan's bulky suit, but the weight of the cart was crushing, almost unbearable.
A combat trick as old as time: in face-to-face unarmed engagement, let your adversary strike first! Whoever strikes first loses, for a moment, all the best possibilities of furious impact. For the person struck is the one who rebounds with the greater strength. The person struck is the one whose foulest temper is suddenly, instinctively, uncontrollably unleashed to wipe out the opposition.
So it was with Bolan now. Far from knocking him out of commission, the blow from the cart that rose up over him triggered all his rage in one explosive reaction.
Bolan lifted his heavily padded shoulder as the front end of Lutfi's cart rolled across his body.
It was an all-or-nothing uplift that mocked mere mortal strength. His fury sent the cart careening on two wheels, off in the direction of the wall across from the cubicles.
The action had saved Bolan's midsection from being sliced by the whole cart's weight on its two lower wheels, for by the time his surge was complete the cart was almost airborne. The moon suit was a fit adversary of the cart, for it was designed to resist powerful forces. But Bolan, the breathing biological form within it, one arm already punctured by a slug, felt nothing but a single wave of pain rolling back and forth through his body. As usual, the pain would not slow him, would not even be truly felt until the mission was over and the nerve-endings' complaints heard at last.
The cart swerved on for a full fifteen feet, tilted and out of control, building speed all the time. It slammed against the far wall and tipped over. The casket was dumped on its side.
The moon-suited driver lay crushed between the overturned car and the bottom half of the lead-lined coffin. Bolan could not see the fuel rod itself; it lay somewhere behind the life-giving shield of the lead coffin bottom.
Bolan ducked in behind the closest lead casket, wondering if it would provide any protection against massive radiation that must be coming from the opened coffin. He put his glove back on, awkwardly palming the Beretta.
Bolan heard mumbled words and realized for the first time that there was a mini communication system in the moon-suit helmet. He spoke and it sounded strange.
"Lutfi. Can you move?"
There was a long pause. The mumbling stopped. "You're the devil, American. The devil."
The voice sounded eerie, hideous.
"Can you move? Can I get you out of there?"
"Why, American? So you can kill me slowly? So you can put me on trial and watch me die by hanging or firing squad? No thank you."
As Bolan watched, bare arms and hands reached over the top of the lead casket.
"American, I still have the small red box and its doomsday button. With a million and a half tons of crude oil, I can yet make the world's largest bonfire. It will be the most spectacular suicide ever recorded—mine! I'll go down in history for this—and we'll both go out in flames."
"No way, Lutfi. Who will ever know? I'm the only one who knows you're even down here. No one will record it. You'll be swept like dust into a crack of history and be f
orgotten."
"No. Someone must know. These little radios. They must broadcast to the bridge at least."
"If they do, we'll be hearing from someone up there soon."
"I will go down in history, pathetic American! I staged this whole tanker hijacking. I will foul 10,000 miles of beaches all over the Mediterranean. The world will remember me!"
"Forget being remembered, Lutfi. Why don't you live? Push the red box away from your position. Then I'll go for help. We'll get specialists in here who know how to rescue you from radiation exposure."
For the first time Bolan saw a head lift over the edge of the coffin. The suit helmet was torn. The Executioner could see most of Lutfi's face. It was tinged a ghastly gray.
Lutfi's words came through Bolan's helmet. "At least I will not die alone. You will go with me." He paused. When the voice came back it was softer, weaker.
"I was married, did I tell you? I was married." Lutfi paused again. He was deathly sick. "She left me. Took our two children and left me."
"You can find your children, Lutfi," Bolan said into his helmet mike. "They are older now and will have minds of their own. They will want to see you."
A man should always know his children when they become adults."
"No, no, no," gasped Lutfi's voice. "I will never see them again, because I am going to die, here, today. You and I and everyone on this boat will die as soon as I close the switch and push the red button. All die... all die. . ."
"Where are your children now? How old are they?" Bolan asked the fast-fading terrorist.
"They are in Roma. They are fourteen and fifteen, both fine boys. But I'll never see them again."
"Of course you will. I'll help you find them. We'll go together, next week. I'll talk to your wife and you will see your children. She must let you see them. I'll insist."
Lutfi's voice was barely a whisper now through the headset. "She'll never let me see them."
Lutfi lifted his hands higher over the edge of the casket. His right hand held a red box no larger than two packs of cigarettes.
Bolan sighted in with the Beretta, his ungloved finger on the trigger.
Executioner 059 - Crude Kill Page 12