Perilous Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  “Let’s plant these up above the wreckage and bring down the rocks to cover up most of it. Barring someone coming in on foot, it should do the trick,” Solomon said.

  Bolan turned the brick of explosive over in his hand and eyed the older man. There was something off about the whole situation. Bolan’s instincts weren’t telling him that he was in danger, but there was more to this story than Solomon and Nischal were letting on.

  “Where did you get this?” Bolan asked. “Once you retire, you hardly need to keep a handy supply of plastique, and why would a monk need something like this?”

  “The answer to both questions is none of your business,” the former spy said. “Do you want to get to work or not?”

  Bolan considered the rocky cliffs that jutted out above them. “I guess we’ll get to work. The pilots are dead?”

  “More dead than I am,” Solomon quipped. “And nothing really salvageable, either. I suppose you lost your supply crate in the drop?”

  “In the lake,” Nischal told him. “We’re lucky we got out when we did. These mountains don’t like giving up their secrets.”

  “The Himalayas are almost as tough on planes as they are on people,” Solomon agreed.

  They gathered as much of the wreckage as they could and placed the charges beneath the rock shelf. Each brick was set with a remote electric charge, powered by a small receiver with a battery, and a nine-volt detonator. They counted down and triggered the explosions.

  The blast would be heard for miles, but they could do little about that. It seemed like there were few people in the area, anyway—other than a spy who was supposed to be dead and a boy who still hadn’t uttered a single word.

  “Done,” Solomon said once the echoes had faded. “And well, too. Not much left to see unless you’re looking for it.” He wiped his hands together briskly and gestured at the boy. “Come along, Raju.” They began to leave.

  “That’s it?” Bolan asked.

  “The problem is solved, and now I will go back to my monastery. Good hunting, Colonel. Alina, it was charming to see you again.”

  He turned on his heel, the boy close by his side.

  “Nick!” Nischal shouted. “If you can’t tell us what we need, any road will do!”

  Solomon paused, then shook his head. “You can come to the monastery to rest. To deny you this aid would not be in keeping with the traditions of the monastery.” He glanced at the sky. “It will storm again tonight, and we have a long walk ahead of us. Let’s get moving.”

  Sighing in relief, Nischal began walking behind Solomon and Raju, who set a brisk pace. After a minute, Bolan followed them. This mission had already become more complicated than he’d like, and adding a man like Nick Solomon to the mix could have all kinds of consequences. Was the old spy truly retired, or was he yet another player in the game?

  Either way, he’d soon find out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What do you mean, it never showed up?” the President asked.

  The Situation Room in the White House was silent, though the video monitors used by the Joint Chiefs were still turned on, showing a variety of tactical displays ranging from troop dispositions to satellite patterns. Hal Brognola looked over the latest reports from Delhi again, which included ground crew confirmations and complete satellite photos of the airport where the plane was supposed to have touched down.

  “Just as I said, sir. The stealth bomber never reached Delhi. Our last contact with them was before they entered Nepalese air space. After that, they were flying dark.”

  “Damn it,” the President said. “I think we may have outfoxed ourselves. That’s the problem with these kinds of missions, Hal. When something goes wrong, we don’t know it.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume that they went down somewhere in the Himalayan range, Mr. President. The satellites showed a massive storm system moving over the area in the same time period.” Brognola got to his feet and pointed to the area on the satellite feed where Bolan and Nischal were supposed to have jumped. “This front and another one from the south collided over the range at about the time they were entering the area.”

  “And you’re certain that the likely culprit is the weather and not a hostile action?”

  Brognola shook his head. “I don’t want to rule anything out just yet, sir, but there’s no indication from the Russians or the Chinese that they knew about this mission. If they’d shot down one of our B-2s, we’d already be hearing about it. Hell, it would probably be on CNN before we heard about it ourselves.”

  The President raked a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “Hal, what about guerilla forces in the area? Could they have the technology to pull something like this off?”

  “I won’t say it’s impossible, but I think it’s unlikely. Regionally, only the Chinese military have those kinds of weapons, and any kind of radar lock would’ve shown up in the B-2’s systems, and they’d have either aborted or at least sent out a secure message. I believe the most likely scenario is that the pilots underestimated the severity of the weather or pushed on, anyway. Striker wouldn’t have been willing to abort under the circumstances, and the plane probably crashed somewhere in the mountains.”

  The President considered this thoughtfully, then nodded. “In that case, it’s unlikely there were any survivors—and we’ve got no real way to know that, either. Hal, I think we have to call this mission dead and start investigating other options.”

  Brognola leaned his chair back and smiled grimly.

  “For crying out loud, Hal, what part of this is worth smiling about? We’ve lost an eight-hundred-million-dollar aircraft in hostile territory and at least four people, and there’s a stolen nuclear warhead loose in the same region!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I don’t mean to make light of the situation. It’s obviously serious, but the idea that a mere plane crash could take out Striker is, I have to admit, pretty funny. In all seriousness, though, I don’t think he’s dead. If the plane was obviously going down, he would’ve jumped early. Risky, but not necessarily as fatal as smashing into a mountain at six hundred miles an hour.”

  “I can’t believe I’m even thinking this is salvageable,” the President said. “But let’s say you’re right. What do you recommend?”

  “I recommend that we wait. He’ll find a way to contact us.”

  The President clicked through the feeds again and then turned back to Brognola. “I’m not willing to put all of my eggs in one basket here. I need another option.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brognola said. “Frankly, my biggest concern at the moment is some Tibetan goat herder finding the plane and reporting it to the authorities. I don’t think we want them reverse engineering our aircraft.”

  “Agreed,” the President said. “I think we need to get in touch with Felicks Kolodoka.”

  The name rang a bell. “Wasn’t he a Russian spy back in the day?”

  “A very good one,” the President said. “Now he’s a diplomat. Let’s put a little pressure on the Russians and see what shakes loose. If nothing else, it may give the Chinese something to think about besides what’s really happening on the ground.”

  “Just because we’re talking to a former spy...” Brognola mused. “A good idea, sir.”

  “Even a President can get one of those once in a while,” he said, finally allowing the ghost of a smile to cross his face.

  * * *

  THE SUN HAD disappeared behind the towering western mountains, leaving the sky an iron gray color that made the monastery appear almost menacing. A long, winding staircase led to a walled-off collection of pagoda-style buildings rising up the harsh face of the mountain. All the way up they passed monks, carefully hooded and silent, their eyes downcast. Bolan had expected there to be a sense of peace in this kind of place, but instead he detected sorrow a
nd an undercurrent of anger.

  They passed beneath the ruins of what had been a heavy wooden gate into a large courtyard. From the new vantage, Bolan could see that the buildings were carved directly into the mountainside, and though he was no archeologist, he’d have guessed this monastery to have been here in one form or another for hundreds of years.

  Out of the blue, the boy spoke, his high-pitched voice and accent made harder to understand by the raw emotion in his tone. “You will have to forgive the fear that you see from many here,” he said. “We were attacked...”

  “Raju!” Solomon snapped, and the boy instantly fell as silent as the monks. “Forgive him,” he said. “Our troubles are our own. Let’s continue up to the main building.”

  Raju tucked his head down and walked ahead of the group at a faster pace. Bolan scanned the sanctuary again, and as they moved to an inner courtyard he saw the damage from the attack. Broken stones had been stacked in a pile, and the side of one building had been blackened by fire.

  “What happened here?” Bolan asked.

  “We were attacked. Many were killed. There is nothing else to say. The matter does not concern you. We take care of our own,” Solomon said curtly.

  “But why were you attacked?” Nischal asked. “This doesn’t appear to be a warrior-training monastery.”

  “A bully doesn’t need a reason to pick a fight. He just does.”

  “Is that why you had the C4?” Bolan asked.

  Solomon gave him a cold stare, then continued to walk without answering. They entered the largest building, which offered shelter from the brutal wind. Solomon remained silent as he showed them to two rooms no bigger than jail cells. Each had a single cot, a small writing table with a basin and pitcher and an oil lamp.

  “The evening meal will be served in an hour. Down the hall, you will find a place to clean up and refresh yourselves. We’ll talk more later.”

  Solomon walked away without another word, and Nischal kept her own silence as she disappeared into her room. After a moment, Bolan entered his own small cell and set down the bag that held the meager remains of their supplies. A narrow window looked out over the courtyard below. The few monks he could see moved raggedly, as though their very steps were haunted by whatever had occurred here. All of them seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, and they kept glancing over their shoulders. These were men, he realized, who felt hunted, though why that would be the case, Bolan did not know.

  Perhaps the monks’ demeanor was just a result of the attack, but he had a nagging feeling that there was more to that than Solomon had revealed. He’d find out, in due time, but if the man’s behavior thus far was any indication, Bolan wouldn’t have an easy time getting information out of him.

  Bolan stretched out on the uncomfortable cot. It was good to rest the body, even if his mind continued to work on the current situation. He needed two things right now—a phone or some other way to contact Brognola because by now he’d have figured out something had gone wrong. The other thing was more complicated.

  The fact that Nischal and Solomon knew each other was maybe a coincidence. But that he’d just happened to be in the area, found where the plane had gone down and had some handy bricks of C4...it was too much to believe. There was more to this than either one was letting on, and as far as Bolan was concerned, secrets like that could doom a mission before it even started. He had to at least consider the possibility that there was more to the events of the past day than a thunderstorm and a plane crash.

  When it was time for dinner, Bolan got to his feet and stepped into the hall. Nischal was coming out of her room at the same time, appearing a little more put-together than before and certainly cleaner. She’d obviously been grateful for the chance to rest and refresh. Even if they learned nothing else here, a dry, almost-warm place to stay for the night would help the mission all on its own.

  “Feel better?” he asked as they moved down the hallway.

  “A bit, yes,” she said. “It’s not a room at the Four Seasons but better than another night in the cave.”

  “Agreed.”

  They entered the large dining hall. Monks sat at long, low tables with floor cushions for seating. On top of the tables, large bowls of plain rice, steamed vegetables and heavy bread offered plain but filling fare. Hot tea and water were the only beverages Bolan could see. Solomon saw them enter and waved them over.

  He was seated with a man in orange robes, like the other monks, but this man also sported a red sash with intricate, embroidered lettering. Bolan assumed he was the lama of the monastery. Other than a vague gesture for them to sit and eat, no one spoke. The only sounds in the hall came from eating and drinking, and even those were strangely muted. As they neared the end of the meal, the monks began to file out of the room. The lama stood, offered them a short bow and also left, while Solomon stayed put. Bolan and Nischal kept their seats, as well. They sipped on small cups of tea and waited for privacy to have a very necessary conversation.

  “So,” Solomon said, “who wants to go first?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I’ll start,” Nischal volunteered.

  Bolan was surprised but kept his silence for now. Perhaps if he let her talk, she’d give something away without realizing it.

  “The situation is straightforward enough, even if the circumstances aren’t,” she began. “A few days ago, a Russian nuke on a mobile launching platform was stolen from a warehouse in Kathmandu. It was last seen heading into Tibet.”

  “And your job is to hunt it down, I suspect,” Solomon said. “And save the world in the process. Is that about the size of it?”

  “That’s the size of it,” she replied. “Of course, they don’t want anyone to know we’re here doing it, either.”

  Solomon laughed dryly. “Well, you’ve botched that part, haven’t you? What were you thinking, bringing a B-2 over the Himalayas this time of year? That was a bit reckless, wouldn’t you say?”

  Nischal blushed, which raised Bolan’s curiosity. Why should Solomon’s scolding matter to her in the least? “It was the best way to get us in,” she said. “No one could’ve predicted a storm like that, let alone that it would be strong enough to hamper a stealth bomber.”

  “We played our cards,” Bolan added.

  “And lost,” Solomon interrupted. “It happens. Now, how do you plan to proceed? You’ve got no supplies, an unfriendly country and not the first clue where to even look.”

  Nischal put a hand on his arm. “Nick, a little help would be nice. This isn’t the first time an operation has gotten off on the wrong foot. We’ll make do with what we have, but if you can assist us...”

  “A phone would be an excellent start,” Bolan said. “The shelter and the meal are appreciated, but I don’t want to disturb your...retirement any more than we already have.”

  “We don’t have a phone here,” Solomon said. “Your handlers will just have to have faith.”

  “Interesting,” Bolan replied. “So C4 is handy, but you don’t keep a sat phone around, not even for old times’ sake?”

  “That’s enough,” Nischal said, sending Bolan a stern look. “Nick?”

  “Are you asking for my help?”

  “If you have help to offer, we’d appreciate it,” she said. “Yes, I’m asking.”

  Solomon turned his attention from Nischal to Bolan, who leaned forward and placed the small knife he’d been twirling in his fingers on the table.

  “You already know we lost most of our gear, and there’s no realistic way for us to resupply. I guess I’m asking, too, and if all I can appeal to is your sense of professional courtesy, then that’s all I’ve got. You were on the team once, even if you’ve stopped playing the game.”

  Solomon stared at them for a long minute. “All right, then, yes,” he said finally. “I can probably help, but I don�
�t think you’ll like what I have to say.”

  “Why not?” Nischal asked.

  Solomon took a last sip of his tea and set the cup down. “Because I think the guys you’re looking for are probably the same ones who attacked the monastery.”

  “Why would you think that?” Bolan asked.

  “The theft you’re describing would require resources that very few people in this part of the world have. Jian Chen is one of them, and he has the contacts to try and sell the weapon, too, if that’s his intention.”

  “And this Chen is the local bully who attacked the monastery?”

  “He’s more than a bully, Colonel. He’s a regional warlord, of sorts. Lots of men, lots of weapons, some black market trade.”

  “And why did he attack you?” Bolan probed.

  Solomon laughed. “He didn’t attack me—he attacked the monastery. The lama refused to help him when he asked for a place to use as a base. Chen doesn’t like being told no.”

  “I see,” Bolan said. “You understand that if Chen is our man that would be an awfully big coincidence. And I—”

  “Don’t believe in coincidences,” Solomon finished. “Of course you don’t. It’s part of your job to not believe in them. But I’ve lived long enough to understand that they happen all the time.”

  “Even if Chen isn’t the one who stole the nuke, he might know who did,” Nischal suggested. “Many of these regional warlords are more plugged into what’s going on than the intelligence community, which isn’t very organized around here, even where it exists. Most intel comes through the black market.”

  “Look, Colonel,” Solomon continued. “I understand where you’re coming from, but Chen likes to flex his muscles from time to time, and the lama made him angry by defying his thugs. It’s no more complicated than that. I merely suggest that he’s a likely possibility for your nuclear weapon thief.”

  “I’m surprised that he would attack a monastery. Won’t that incite the rest of the populace in this area?” Nischal asked.