Nuclear Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “Is that still going on?” asked Bolan.

  “Not so much, here in Balochistan,” Pahlavi said. “We still have bandits, kidnappers and such, but there are no great leaders like the old days that my papa used to talk about. If we went farther north, perhaps, into Azad Kashmir or the Northwest Frontier, we’d have a better chance of meeting private troops.”

  “Maybe some other time,” Bolan replied. “Running from one army’s enough for me.”

  “But you forget the men of Project X.”

  “Aren’t they the same?” Bolan inquired.

  “I’ve never been completely sure. Darice—” his voice still caught at mention of his sister’s name “—mentioned that military men would sometimes come around the lab, but its security was managed by civilians led by Kurush Gazsi, formerly a member of the state security police.”

  “Former?” Bolan asked.

  Pahlavi shifted in his seat, stared out the window at the passing countryside. “I’ve heard some stories about why he left. They vary, but most revolve around brutality toward women. I don’t like to think…But what is done cannot be undone, yes?”

  “Sometimes it can be punished,” Bolan told him. “Getting even may be stretching it, but sometimes tabs get paid.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Forget it. How much farther?”

  “One mile, unless my memory has failed.”

  “When was the last time you were here?” Bolan inquired.

  “Nearly five years ago.” In answer to a glance from Bolan, he went on. “It’s not so long. I have no family remaining here, but there are friends I trust.”

  I hope so, Bolan thought, remembering that trust could sometimes be misplaced. “No enemies?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Pahlavi said, “but in times like these…” Another shrug.

  Bolan tapped the Land Rover’s brake and said, “We’ve still got time to turn around, try somewhere else. Once we’re inside the village, it may be too late.”

  “No, we’ll be safe,” Pahlavi said, insistently. “From my people, at least.”

  Another qualifier, they were grating hard on Bolan’s nerves. He eased off on the brake and drove ahead, regardless, following the narrow road that had branched off the highway six miles back. At least, he thought—or hoped—they’d be less likely to encounter military units on this route, the rough equivalent of a neglected one-lane county roadway in the States.

  Or maybe not, if any kind of full-scale search was under way. The countryside might well be crawling with patrols, for all he knew, and overflights by spotter planes or helicopters could detect them just as readily as any watchers on the ground. More easily, in fact, if they had broadcast an alert.

  The countryside had changed dramatically over the course of their long drive, from flatlands cloaked in scattered forests to rugged mountains, fading back to gently rolling hills. Geologists no doubt could’ve described the area’s prehistory from what they saw around them, but the Executioner was more concerned with present-day events and what they held in store for him.

  Like being caught up in some madman’s scheme to launch a first-strike nuclear attack against his next-door neighbor, never thinking—or perhaps not caring—that the aftermath would leave his homeland a disaster area, unfit for human habitation in the present century. What would be gained from such insanity?

  Did anybody ever simply stop and think?

  “We’re almost there,” Pahlavi warned.

  Bolan eased back on the accelerator, slowing through a long curve that revealed, at last, the first glimpse of a smallish village nestled in a vale with hills on either side. Smoke spiraled skyward from a dozen chimneys, and he picked out human figures moving on the one street he could see.

  “Last chance to change your mind,” he told Pahlavi.

  “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Famous last words, Bolan thought, but he followed his guide’s direction, rolling toward the village at a steady thirty miles per hour on the narrow road where grass sprouted through fissures in the pavement.

  All movement in the village stopped as they drew closer, save for some inhabitants calling their children from the street, to go inside. A few adults stood waiting, watching, as the car approached. Pahlavi rolled his window down, as if to give them all a better look at him, but Bolan wasn’t conscious of their attitude appreciably warming.

  “There,” Pahlavi told him, finally. “Pull over there, outside that store.”

  Bolan obeyed, parked parallel to the low curb and killed the engine. Feeling hostile eyes upon him, he kept one hand near the SIG-Sauer beneath his jacket.

  “Here we are,” Pahlavi said, smiling. “I’m home.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Wait,” Pahlavi said at last, and stepped out of the car.

  Bolan remained behind the steering wheel, with one hand on or near his hidden pistol.

  Standing in the street beside their vehicle, Pahlavi scanned the old, familiar facades of the shops and homes that lined the street. He breathed in the aromas from the bakery and from the kitchens where some women had already started preparation of their evening meals. There was no restaurant in Giri, and no industry to foul the air, but with a little effort he could smell farm animals, the ripe scent of manure that was never far away in an agricultural community.

  Pahlavi focused on the people next, having supplied them with ample opportunity to study him. The nearest was an old woman he recognized, although his mind would not disgorge her name upon command. Pahlavi smiled at her regardless, greeting her with proper courtesy and turning toward a clutch of three men standing near the entrance to the bakery.

  The youngest of them was a stranger to Pahlavi, but he knew the other two, both more or less his father’s age, if only Haj Pahlavi had survived to middle age.

  Pahlavi moved around the car, as he neared the men. His smile was cautious and reserved, befitting one who speaks to elders after many months away from home.

  “Mr. Saldani. Mr. Kolda. It is good to see you both. I trust that you are well.”

  “Is this young Darius Pahlavi?” Kolda asked. Pahlavi couldn’t tell if he was talking to the others or himself.

  “It is,” Pahlavi answered, then corrected it. “I am. It has been long since I returned to visit, but I often think of Giri and its people while I’m working in the city.”

  “You live in Karachi now,” Mr. Saldani said, as if remembering some arcane bit of knowledge from the age before recorded language. “I remember that.”

  “You are correct,” Pahlavi said.

  “Who is the stranger in the car?” asked the younger man, stepping forward as if he would interpose himself between Pahlavi and the older men.

  “I do not know your name,” Pahlavi said. He judged the young man to be several years his junior, very early twenties at the most. “Perhaps, if we were introduced…”

  “I am Asad Kalari. Will you answer me?”

  Pahlavi turned deliberately from Kalari, toward the older men who knew him, answering to them out of respect. “My friend is an American. He comes to help me seek Darice, my sister, who has disappeared.”

  It was a lie, of course, but close enough to truth for conversation in that time and place. Asad Kalari fumed at being bypassed, while Saldani and Kolda nodded thoughtfully, considering his answer.

  “She worked also in the city, I believe,” Saldani said.

  Pahlavi nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “It is an evil place,” Kolda said. “No man knows his neighbor. Vile habits proliferate.”

  “There is much truth in what you say,” Pahlavi granted, nodding humbly.

  “Would you bring those troubles back to Giri with you?” Kalari asked.

  Once again, Pahlavi spoke past him, addressing those he knew from childhood. “I bring nothing with me but my history among you, and a friend who volunteered to help me in a time of difficulty. If it troubles anyone among you for us to
remain—”

  “It troubles me,” Kalari said.

  “Be quiet,” Kolda ordered, and the younger man retreated, glowering in anger but too wise or frightened to rebel. Pahlavi knew he would bear watching if they stayed, and that he might be tempted to betray them even if they left immediately, though he couldn’t understand the instant enmity that Kalari harbored.

  “All sons of Giri may find welcome here,” Saldani said. “It is too bad your parents are not here to greet you.”

  “I hope that they may guide me, nonetheless,” Pahlavi said, “and help me find Darice.”

  “We have not seen her since the last time that you visited together,” Kolda offered. “Some supposed that she had married in the city and would not be seen again.”

  “She was not—is not—married,” Pahlavi said. “There was no man in her life.”

  Both older men stood silent for a moment, nodding in something like commiseration. “It is sometimes hard for young ones,” Kolda said at last, “no matter where they live. But in the city, worst of all.”

  “With your permission,” Pahlavi said, “I will introduce my friend.”

  “By all means, let us meet him,” Saldani said.

  Moving to the car, Pahlavi beckoned Bolan from the driver’s seat, the older men watching the tall American unfold and turn to face them.

  “Matthew Cooper,” he began, “meet Bhaskar Kolda and Rohin Saldani, elders of our village.”

  “We are not so old,” Saldani said, “as some would have you think.”

  “A pleasure,” Bolan said to both of them, shaking the hands they offered, then returning to his place beside Pahlavi.

  “We all have much to talk about,” Saldani said. “Starting with why the two of you are wearing guns.”

  CAPTAIN SAHAN AMBIKA checked his watch and wondered how much longer it would be until they reached the peasant village. He resented being taken from the bandit hunt to search a clutch of hovels where he had no realistic hope of finding outlaws or guerrillas, but Ambika always followed orders.

  The alternative was unacceptable.

  His squad consisted of forty men besides himself, riding in two jeeps and two open trucks. The second jeep in line was equipped with a heavy machine gun, while his men all carried automatic rifles. He was confident that they could cope with any threat they might encounter in the countryside.

  And yet—

  Ambika knew—had known—Sachi Chandaka and believed he was a capable lieutenant. Still, somehow, Chandaka had been slaughtered with a complement of thirty men, supposedly by bandits he’d encountered on the highway. Now, Ambika was assigned to search the village that had spawned some radical reported missing from Karachi, as if that had anything to do with what was happening.

  Ambika knew that nothing was impossible, and if his mission took him out of danger’s way, he should be grateful. At the same time, though, he craved action, wishing that he could find the men responsible for wiping out Chandaka’s company, punish the men in his own way for their crime against the peace and their grave insult to the Pakistani army.

  “How much longer?” he demanded of his driver.

  “We are nearing the coordinates, Captain,” the soldier answered. “I have never been to Giri, so I do not recognize the landmarks, sir.”

  Of course not. No one he knew had ever been to Giri, Ambika thought. There were countless tiny villages scattered throughout the width and breadth of Pakistan, most of them represented only on the largest military maps, ignored by nearly everyone outside their own small settlements. Only in crisis or catastrophe did average Pakistanis hear about such villages, and having absorbed their fleeting tragedy, quickly forgot them once again.

  But if Ambika found the slayers of his comrades in the Giri settlement, it would be long remembered as the place where they were slaughtered to the last man, without quarter. He would be the hero of the hour, suitably rewarded for his courage and his tactics on the battlefield.

  Granted, headquarters wanted one of them alive, at least, to spill his guts for the interrogators and explain precisely why Chandaka’s men where killed. Ambika would do everything within his power to obey those orders, but the lawless types rarely surrendered without some display of force. And once his men had tasted blood…

  “Bring me a prisoner,” Colonel Anish Dalal had ordered, “and I will remember you.” That couldn’t hurt an officer’s career, but if the enemy was armed and stubbornly resisted all negotiations, what more could Ambika do?

  Dalal would not be happy to receive news of another massacre…unless, perhaps, the dead this time were those who’d killed his soldiers earlier that day. A victory was always welcome, even more so after an embarrassing defeat. And who could say? Perhaps Captain Ambika would capture alive one of the men he sought.

  For the moment, he concentrated on finding the village called Giri, where a small-time radical named Darius Pahlavi had first seen the light of day. Colonel Dalal had not been generous with details, as to why he sought Pahlavi, and Ambika had not dared to ask. The little he was told frankly confused him, double-talk about a group of scientists or enemies of science—he was not exactly sure—who somehow jeopardized the national security. The link between such matters and a bandit massacre of troops eluded him, but it was not his job to question orders from above. Only to follow them as closely as he could, while trying cautiously to grab some glory for himself.

  That was the trick, he thought, advancing without stumbling over hidden obstacles or stepping into snares that others had prepared for him.

  Thus far, Ambika had enjoyed a relatively smooth and prosperous career. He claimed awards and decorations, shared in certain graft that came his way—never ostentatiously—and generally brought credit to the service and himself. If he was not exactly loved by those in his command, neither was he despised like some who had been murdered by their own troops on patrol, or while they slept. Ambika tried to strike a happy medium, ensuring that his happiness came close behind that of his nominal superiors.

  “Quarter of a mile,” his driver said, remembering just in the nick of time to add the “sir.”

  Ambika shifted in his seat, trying to get a better view around the curve, but simple physics foiled his effort. Burning nervous energy, he drew the service pistol from his holster, jacked its slide to put a live round in the chamber, set the safety and returned the weapon to its place on his right hip.

  Whatever happened in the village, he would not be unprepared.

  A moment later, he could see the clutch of humble buildings ahead, shrouded in dusky shadows. Faint lights in a number of the windows told Ambika this was one more rural village with, at best, a rundown generator to provide erratic power—and perhaps it would have none.

  Life in the Pakistani countryside was like that, sometimes. Something from the nineteenth century, or even from Medieval times—until the tricky bastards came up blasting with a new black-market automatic weapon.

  Taking up his two-way radio, Captain Ambika spoke. “All troops. The village is in sight. Be on alert for any danger, but fire only on my order unless fired upon. Repeat, fire only on my order unless fired upon. Captain Ambika, out.”

  8

  Bolan’s spoon was poised halfway to his mouth, bearing another bite of savory lamb stew, when the alarm sounded. He didn’t understand the words, but from the tone of voices calling in the street, he knew it had to be trouble. Bhaskar Kolda, seated at the same table with Bolan, Darius Pahlavi and Rohin Saldani, rose and swiftly moved to stand before an open window.

  Bolan swallowed his stew, together with an urge to ask Pahlavi or his hosts exactly what the trouble was. They would explain it soon enough, he thought, and if the village elders weren’t scrambling for guns, he might not need his own.

  Kolda said something, turning from the window, and Pahlavi translated. “Soldiers.”

  This time, he had to ask. “How far away? How many?”

  More fast talking between Kolda and Pahlavi, followed by a ter
se response to Bolan. “Four vehicles, with forty men, at least. They are outside the village and approaching.”

  Bolan pushed back from the dining table and drew the heavy duffel bag into his lap, but Kolda raised a hand as if to stop him, speaking earnestly in words that meant no more to Bolan than the sound of rain on shingles.

  “Wait,” Pahlavi translated. “He says there is a place for us to hide, while they inspect the village. We’ll be safe.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Such patrols are not unusual,” Pahlavi said. “They come, ask questions, sometimes search the houses.”

  “That’s a problem,” Bolan said.

  Kolda spoke rapidly, while Pahlavi nodded in understanding.

  “We will not be in a house, but underneath it,” Pahlavi said, rising from his chair. “Come, we must hurry now!”

  Bolan swallowed his misgivings, rose and followed as the others left through a back door. Hidden from the view of any soldiers entering Giri by the main road, they passed along behind two houses, to another door where Kolda knocked, then entered without waiting for a summons.

  Four new bodies made the small room crowded, since it already contained a family of five. Bolan immediately stopped and shook his head.

  “Not here,” he told Pahlavi. “There are too many civilians in the way.”

  “They have the best root cellar,” Pahlavi said. “Also the best-hidden.”

  “Have him take us somewhere else,” Bolan insisted. “Let us hide with him, instead of jeopardizing children.”

  “We will find no better place,” Pahlavi argued, clearly trying not to shout in his excitement.

  Even as they quarreled, Kolda and Saldani joined the master of the house in bending to a wall of paneling beneath a short, steep stairway to the attic. Bolan couldn’t see the catch, but it was there, one skilled touch opening a trapdoor that was perfectly invisible when closed.

  “Inside!” Pahlavi urged him. “We go downstairs now, and wait.”