"And no one's trying to do it now, Mr. Simms. To be perfectly honest, sir, the extra money I've paid you to install the special transmitter comes out of my own pocket. Helping to organize this OPON Festival is my biggest job yet in America, and if I pull it off, I'm hoping I'll get enough employment from it to stay here permanently. You can see why I'm especially nervous, yes?"
Simms nodded sympathetically. "Sure. I didn't know. Still, Skytypers Inc. are the only ones in the country who do this, and we're damn good at it. We know when and where to release our chemical compound. Jeez, Mr. St. John, your message will be more than one thousand feet tall and six miles long. So don't worry. People will be able to see it for about four hundred square miles."
"I just want the crowd at the festival to see it," said the Russian.
"They'll have the best view of all. We'll be right smack over them. Can't miss."
Zossimov smiled. "Perfect."
"Yeah, but we do have to take off soon. There's so much air traffic over the festival that they've got their own control tower. And there's strict FAA regulations about—"
"Yes, yes, I'm certain," Zossimov interrupted impatiently. He checked his watch. "I suggest you get your pilots prepared. If the signal doesn't come within five minutes, take off without it. Satisfactory?"
"Yes, sir. That'll do." Simms touched his finger to his cap bill and walked back to the office where his pilots were waiting.
Zossimov allowed his smug grin to inch across his face. It was almost over. Within minutes the five North American SNJ-4 Navy training planes would be airborne and on their way to dump a payload of agony and death on half a million people.
Of course the pilots knew nothing about it. They thought they were doing what they were paid to do, skytype a message of welcome to the audience at the festival. Five planes flying in precise formation, releasing their special cloud-making compound at computerized intervals, puffing out letters more than 1,000 feet tall and 75 feet wide: white letters taller than the Empire State Building. A 20-character message would span six miles. Six hundred fifty dollars was the usual rate for this kind of job, but Zossimov had paid them four times that to make sure everything went right. Especially to have them install the transmitter-receiver in the lead plane, the one with the controlling computer. Simms imagined "St. John" was just a fussy character anxious about his job, so he'd agreed. What the American did not know was that once the planes flew within a certain range of the transmitter that Dante had set off, the computer controls would lock, releasing the contents of the planes' tanks. And there would be no way manually to stop it.
Of course, the simple "smoke" solution that they normally used for their messages had been replaced last night by two of Zossimov's agents. The new solution was much more complicated and would have a decidedly more extreme result than a mere message in the sky. More extreme even than what J.D. Dante had planned.
The pathetically naive radical thought the planes would spray a highly diluted chemical solution similar to Agent Orange. The result would have been mass illness and a few hundred deaths of those susceptible to respiratory ailments. Babies, old people, those already suffering from breathing problems.
A shortsighted plan.
Zossimov's compound, specially developed by expert Soviet chemists, would have a much more devastating result. Only part of that result would be the belated realization by Zossimov's enemies that the KGB was undoubtedly the most murderous organization operating today—and that, increasingly, the KGB was everywhere. The big result would be that some very heavy stuff fell from the sky and burned a bunch of civilians all to hell.
Simple process, really. Usually the skytype solution is injected into the plane's exhaust manifold, where it is steamed and compressed. From there it is forced through a ten-foot pipe bolted to the right wing of the plane. When the solution hits the cold air, the white puff is formed that makes up the letters.
But Zossimov's formula changed that.
Instead of harmless white smoke dots, virtual time bombs that fall fast would be planted across the sky.
The altered solution contained the aluminum salt formed when mixing naphthenic and aliphatic carboxylic acids. Combined with a stabilizing compound, the mixture was a napalm like substance completely harmless until the exhaust manifold evaporated the stabilizing additive.
Once the mixture began to condense, it formed heavy clumps that would fall to earth. The warmer temperatures would cause the sleet-size globs to self-ignite as they fell.
The result: a rainstorm of sticky drops of fire. Napalm rain.
Whatever each drop hit, it would cling to until it had burned itself out. By which time the damage would have been done.
Zossimov wished he could be flying one of the planes himself so he could watch the fireballs pelting the screaming mass of panicked people.
Right now they are hypnotized by their own humanity, loving each other as they love the whining music they listen to. But within a few minutes they'll be trampling to death that same neighbor they're singing with now.
Zossimov rubbed his hands together and muttered, "Beautiful."
By the time the holocaust was sorted out by authorities, he would be across the country, dining with the Soviet ambassador. But first he would meet with his "partner" Dante. Of course, he would have to kill the rude young man. Leave some incriminating evidence. That way the police would be happy, the press would be happy and his own bosses would be happy. And Zossimov, in his new office at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, would be happiest of them all.
Meantime, Dante and thousands of people who attended the festival would be dead. Thousands more would be horribly mutilated, their bodies burned and scoured by a fire they could not extinguish.
"Mr. St. John!" Simms waved from the tiny building where he and his pilots were waiting. He jogged over to Zossimov. "The signal. We just picked up your friend's signal. They're ready for us."
"Wonderful. Go ahead."
"Yes, sir." Simms, a short powerfully built man with a black mustache, smiled. "Been looking forward to this all day. My wife and two-year old daughter are at the festival. It's going to be the first time my daughter sees me in action. She's never seen what I do."
Zossimov grinned. "I'm sure she'll never forget it."
"Yes, sir. I hope you're right." Simms half-saluted, turned and jogged back to the other four pilots.
Sentimental idiots, Zossimov thought, shaking his head in contempt. It would have been so much easier if he could have bribed this fellow Simms. But these American pilots fairly bristled with integrity and pride. Well, let's see how they feel once they discover what they have done, he thought. As he watched the five pilots walk briskly toward their planes, Zossimov felt his own heart trip-hammering against his ribs.
A rain of fire. If only he could be up there to see it himself. Ah, well, he'd have to content himself with watching it on the news tonight. If any of the cameras or crews survived the flames.
Nothing more to do here, he sighed, waving at the pilots as he headed toward his car. Soon it would all be history. And like most history, it would be written in blood.
"THERE, MACK! Over there!" April yelled.
Bolan jammed the accelerator to the floor and spun the car off the narrow side street that ran the length of the tiny private airport. He aimed the car at the chain link fence. The Camaro fishtailed, streaking the pavement with a rooster tail of black rubber.
"Head down," Bolan ordered as the car straightened out and rammed the fence, ripping it off a post. The sharp jutting edges of metal scraped the car's roof and fenders. The noise inside the Camaro was intense as the car tore through the fence.
A hundred yards down the runway sat five red-and-white single-engine planes. Bolan recognized the type, used mostly as training planes for Navy and Marine pilots during World War II. And he knew the 650-horsepower Pratt & Whitney radial engines could wing them at about 210 miles per hour flat out.
Five pilots in blue flight uniforms were wildly waving t
heir arms at him, gesturing him off the runway. But Bolan continued tear-assing toward them.
"Get their attention," he said to April.
She leaned out of the window and fired a burst from the Linda.
The five pilots ran back to the building, diving through the door to safety.
Bolan nodded. "That ought to keep them out of the way for a while."
"You see Zossimov?"
"Not yet."
"Maybe he left already."
"No way," Bolan said above the engine whine. "He's a perfectionist. He'd hang around until they were up in the air. He didn't get his reputation by being sloppy at the last minute." "See that parking lot on the other side of the hangar?" April pointed ahead of them to the left. "Let's try there."
Bolan roared toward the walled lot, then jumped on the brakes, wrestling the car to a halt at the corner nearest the hangar. Their doors were already flying open before the car had stopped.
April rested the Linda on the top edge of the low cement wall, scanning the near-empty parking lot. Bolan leaped atop the hood of the Camaro for a better look. With one hand shading his eyes and the other clutching the Beretta, he scrutinized the parking lot for movement or cubbyholes to hide.
"Unless he's lying under one of those four cars, he's not there." Bolan hopped down from the hood and started for the small building where the pilots were. April fell in step next to him.
"At least we stopped them from taking off," she said.
"I want him," Bolan said, letting his icy eyes bore into hers. "No prisoners, and no escapes."
As they approached the building, Simms's voice called out to them. "I'm warning you two. I've just called the police. They'll be here within minutes. You'd do well to haul ass out of here."
"Don't worry, guy," Bolan replied, tucking the Beretta back into his waistband and holding up his hands. "We're not outlaws and we're not here to hurt you. We're looking for a guy named Fyodor Zossimov."
Simms voice was wary. "Don't know any Zossimov."
"He's probably using another name. Tall, thin, distinguished looking, graying at the temples."
"You mean Mr. St. John. Guy from the OPON Festival that hired us. He was just here a second. . . . Hey!"
Fifty feet down the runway the lead plane's engine shook and grumbled, the propeller twirling in an almost invisible circle. The plane began to roll.
In the pilot's seat sat Fyodor Zossimov.
The cockpit canopy was still open. Zossimov expertly poked and prodded the controls.
"Stop! Stop!" Simms called as he bolted after his plane.
Zossimov twisted suddenly in his seat, his hand pointing a Tokarev TT-33. It bucked twice in his hand and Simms doubled over, clutching his chest.
April opened fire immediately. Slugs chipped away ineffectively at the old training plane's fuselage.
The plane turned onto the longer runway and began to pick up speed.
Bolan had already made his choice, perhaps even before they'd arrived at the tiny rural airport. He had made it back in Melissa Stowe's apartment after watching the videotapes, when he first realized the skytyping planes were the key. It was the only logical way they could affect so many people at once. And maybe he knew then that it would have to end here.
He hiked up the left pant leg of his chinos and yanked free the clip he had taped to his leg. The pain from pulling the tape was sharp but short. Expertly Bolan ejected the old clip from the Beretta and slammed in the new one. He dropped to one knee and aimed, swiveling the gun so it tracked the forward movement of the plane. He swung the gun ahead of the plane, anticipating its path.
And waited.
When the fuselage and its 180 gallons of fuel crossed his sights, he squeezed the trigger.
The special tracer bullet, with its column of pyrotechnic composition in the base, flashed through the air on a jet stream of its own making before it rammed through the fuselage.
But the plane kept rolling, picking up speed. Bolan squeezed the trigger again, twice.
Two more smoky white lines appeared. The second tracer bullet ignited the fuel supply.
The front end of the plane bucked off the ground from the explosion, sending the propeller spinning off on a solo flight without the rest of the airplane. It soared harmlessly through the air, bounced on the runway, spun some more, came to rest in sparks and screeches on the asphalt.
Flames whooshed around the cockpit as Zossimov scrambled out, jumping down to the right wing.
Bolan and April silently lifted their guns and aimed.
The second explosion boomed before they had a chance to pull the triggers. A tornado of flames whirled around the plane, splashing thick burning globs around the runway.
Napalm. KGB style.
And in the middle of the fiery tornado, Fyodor Zossimov's Savile Row suit ignited. He batted frantically at the flames as he tumbled off the edge of the wing onto the pavement. He rolled himself on the ground, trying to smother the greasy fire. But the flames would not die.
As he watched, Bolan saw what had been in store for the half-million people singing and celebrating less than twenty miles away.
As he beat at the flames on his body, Zossimov's hands suddenly ignited, too.
A flame licked at his head and his hair was immediately alive with fire.
He screamed, began running toward Bolan and April and the four pilots gathered around their dead buddy.
He held his burning arms away from his sides as he ran, like a giant blackbird with flaming wings.
Bolan lifted his gun to end it, but April gently pushed the barrel aside.
"Let justice run its course," she said. "It doesn't get the chance often enough."
He deferred to her, was resigned to accepting the liberty April had taken of him. He lowered the Beretta.
April Rose had dived deep into the caldron of boiling hellfire this mission. Therefore he encouraged her true caring and compassion to speak its terrible price. Zossimov burned.
They stood and watched as the flapping, charred bird, consumed by hungry flames, stumbled toward them, fell, crawled a couple inches, then collapsed. Zossimov's body continued to twitch in agony as the flames devoured what was left.
No Phoenix would ever rise from those ashes. Would that the whole KGB burned so completely. . .
19
"What's in the package?" Hal Brognola asked as he entered the room.
"A present," April said.
"For me?"
Bolan shook his head. "Nope. For your niece. A graduation present." He slid it across the table.
The Fed clamped his cigar between his teeth and picked up the box, jiggled it slightly. "What is it?"
"A tennis sweater with 'OPON Festival' stitched discreetly on the sleeve."
"Hey, terrific," he beamed. "She'll love it. She did nothing but nag my sister about not being able to go. You sure you got the right size?"
"You've shown us enough photos to have a good idea."
"Well, what's the point of being an uncle if you can't brag?"
April's face radiated relief, determination, calmness. "Go ahead and brag all you want, Hal. Someday she'll be bragging about you."
"Maybe." A wide smile creased his face.
They could hear the gentle patter of Virginia rain outside.
"How long's this weather supposed to last?" Bolan asked.
"Day or two," Brognola answered, settling into a chair. "Why, is it interfering with your California tan?"
"I guess I prefer it to the Weatherman's forecast," Bolan said. "For heavy violence."
Brognola flicked a thick ash from his cigar. "At least Zossimov won't be back." He furrowed his brow and looked at April. "How's that wound of yours?"
"Fine. Only hurts when I do handsprings." Brognola looked at Mack. "What kind of shape are you in, Mack?"
"I've been hurting since the Paradise mission in Colorado. My leg's all messed up. Usual stuff."
"You two did fine out there," Hal said, wishing he h
ad the command of language to be able to read out and grant peace to these warriors, to mend them and sustain them. "Damn fine, the both of you."
He pushed himself to his feet and departed, leaving the two of them alone.
Bolan looked at April a minute before speaking. "You did do a hell of a job. He's damn right."
"I don't feel like I did. I can see all the mistakes I made."
Bolan nodded. "It's a feeling that goes with the job. It never gets any better."
"What ever does?"
"The world, maybe. With a little help."
She went to him, leaned over his chair and kissed him firmly on the mouth.
With lips still pressing tightly against hers, Bolan eased her over the arm of the chair and into his lap. Overhead he could hear the rain tiptoeing across the roof. He could smell her distinctive sweet scent, feel her soft cheek brushing against his rough skin.
She pulled back, her fingers caressing his face. "This is the right stuff," he said, grinning. "What stuff?"
He kissed her again before answering. "The stuff dreams are made of."
"I like it," she laughed.
Don Pendleton on
MACK
BOLAN
Since the early days of Mack Bolan's war against the Mafia, I've relied on the skills of a team of "scholars of organized crime" to keep The Executioner series factually accurate and to meet the growing demand for my books. Now the team includes a handpicked corps of writers.
I've chosen men like Ray Obstfeld whose novel Dead Heat was nominated for the Edgar Award for our kind of fiction. I trust Ray in the same way Mack trusts the personnel of Able Team and Phoenix Force. I believe he's bested himself with Flesh Wounds. In these back pages, I'll continue to introduce members of my team during the exciting future developments in Mack's career.
Here's just a hint of what's to come. . . The whole Stony Man program is jeopardized by the twisted workings of the Western intelligence bureaucracies. Phoenix Force and Able Team continue the fight under the president's sanction, but warrior Mack Bolan goes further and further into the cold to confront the KGB's worldwide strategy-of-terror head-on.
Executioner 057 - Flesh Wounds Page 12