Bolan raced out from his hiding place. This time he was holding a different wire in his hands — the deadly garrote from his belt. The Russian was still too dazed from the fall to unsling his rifle before Bolan was upon him.
The American's knee slammed into his back. Then the wire necklace snaked around the corporal's neck.
With his fingertips scrabbling uselessly against the choking strand of steel, Zumarov managed to twist around far enough to catch a glimpse of his attacker. As the corporal's eyes bulged horribly his last thought was that there was something odd about the man who was killing him. Zumarov was not at all sure his attacker was an Afghan. But then an explosion of red against black terminated any attempt to solve that final puzzle.
Bolan did not release the relentless pressure until the man's wild thrashing subsided.
McCarter cleared the trip wire off the road and scattered grit into the gouges left by the motorcycle. Then he walked over to pick up the machine. Bolan dragged the body of the dead man behind the rocks and began stripping him.
"Find anything?" McCarter called out. He wheeled the bike to the edge of the track.
"Yeah," replied Bolan, riffling through the officially sealed envelopes from Zumarov's leather satchel.
"Bike's not badly damaged. Headlight's smashed, one of the footrests is bent and the gas tank's got a bit of a dent. But otherwise it's all right."
Bolan shucked his Afghan disguise and picked up the Russian's tunic. The sleeves were too short. He tugged on the trousers and exchanged caps with the dead man. Then he approached McCarter.
"I'll ride through the town and see how close I can get to the main gate and the hangars. Got to find out where they're keeping that chopper."
"What if you find a way to get in?" asked McCarter, still keeping a sharp eye on the road.
"If I don't come back here, you'd better start your diversion tactic at three o'clock. That gives you over seven hours. And it gives me plenty of time to figure out what the hell I'm going to do." The two men synchronized their watches. "If anything happens to me, you'll have to hightail it out of here the best way you can with the film we shot. Here, take this guy's rifle. But if I get to that chopper, you'll hear me coming!"
"Uh-oh, looks like company." McCarter pointed across the airfield to a streaming dust cloud left behind a speeding vehicle.
"Let's see how well this old crate runs." Bolan swung his leg over the saddle and stamped on the kick start. The engine fired first time. He toyed with the throttle for a moment.
Bolan checked the track in both directions and pulled smoothly away. McCarter watched him disappear down the road, then settled back between the rocks. He hoped nothing would arouse the suspicions of the approaching guards. McCarter did not want to start the fireworks ahead of schedule.
* * *
Bolan guided the twin-cylinder Cossack around a series of deep potholes. Lifting one hand, he tugged the scarf tighter around his face.
The Russian patrol was approaching on his right — three men in a Gaz 4x4. The driver glanced up through the fence and waved. Bolan returned the salute without slowing down. They were searching for any obvious breaches in the perimeter wire; none of them gave the passing courier a second thought. The road crested a hill and soon Bolan was out of sight.
A second track led down from the hills, and the two joined to form a single, wider road that followed the curve of the coiled-wire fence.
Bolan overtook a small caravan of donkeys and a solitary camel being led into Sharuf. The town was just ahead of him now. Freshly painted signs gave instructions on where military vehicles were to proceed. Bolan did not need indicating arrows to see that the main entrance to the air base lay to the right at the far end of town.
As long as men had traveled this land, Sharuf had always been there. The reason for its existence was its water supply, that was constantly replenished by a refreshing spring.
A network of narrow alleys and winding streets had spun their intricate web over the centuries. Nomadic tribesmen broke their journeys here. Trucks, buses and, before the Soviet invasion, camper vans full of young tourists had stopped at this market town on the edge of the Sharuf plain.
Bolan obeyed the speed-limit marker and slowed down as he approached the built-up area. At the side of the road, five men in a row prostrated themselves on their mats in prayer.
Despite the incongruous gasoline pumps, occasional plastic shop signs and the three Russian youths ordering coffee at a pavement cafe, some things in this ancient land never changed.
The main street was already buzzing with vendors' cries. Villagers from the surrounding hill country had come down to trade wool, scrawny lambs, baskets of mulberries and dung fuel for needed supplies of tea and sugar, kerosene and tobacco.
Bolan tucked in behind a two-ton truck loaded with sheets of corrugated tin. It seemed that a lot of construction work remained to be done at Sharuf.
When the driver flashed his turn signal, Bolan eased back on the throttle and coasted to a halt outside the deserted bus depot. He wheeled the bike to the gutter and propped it on the kickstand.
The big truck had stopped in front of the black-and-white-striped barrier. The sentry inspected the driver's pass and paperwork, gave a cursory glance at the cargo then pushed open the pole across the gateway. As the driver rolled forward into the base, Bolan squatted and pretended to check the Cossack's carburetor for some offending grit.
Peering over the gas tank, Bolan counted four men through the dusty windows of the guardhouse. And stretching on both sides of the main entrance was a strong link fence. A smooth strip of sand about twenty feet wide was marked off in front of the fence by a single strand of trip wire. Bolan had no doubt that this forbidden sector was thoroughly mined.
One of the large hangar doors was half open, and he could see a team of mechanics servicing one of the Hinds. From this angle his view of the two other sheds was blocked by a low straggle of buildings. He fished out a wrench from the tool kit and began to tinker with the fuel line. Unless he could get inside the base, it did not matter where they hid the Dragonfire.
Bluffing his way through the gate was a long shot. If the sentry took a good look at Bolan's pass it would be obvious that the man on the motorcycle was not Corporal Zumarov. And Bolan had neither the time nor the facilities to forge new id papers. Besides, any one of the guards might well know Zumarov by sight.
There were too many ifs, and they all led to a shoot-out. And if he had to blast his way into Sharuf, the whole base would be alerted before he got anywhere near the gunship. No, there had to be a better way.
A second truck, this one loaded with sacks of cement, was coming along the road. The driver slowed to a crawl, leaned out of the cab window and shouted to the stranded rider.
Bolan pointed the wrench at the carburetor. "Gryazni..."
He was saved further explanation by the earsplitting roar of the Frogfoot firing its MiG turbojets. The truck driver shrugged, shifted gears and rolled toward the gate.
Bolan felt that to linger there might be pushing his luck. From this end of town, the road followed the base perimeter and wound through a series of sculpted hummocks where the wind had pushed loose sand into an array of low dunes. It was the best location he had spotted so far for a serious probe of Sharuf's defenses. He decided to rideout that way and find somewhere to hide the bike.
The Su-25 Frogfoot had taken off, circled the field and was making a low pass overhead. Bolan was carefully studying the wing-tip pods and Phantomlike rear fuselage of the ground-attack jet when he half sensed a car approaching from behind. He certainly couldn't have heard it over the rushing howl of the twin Tumansky R-13s. Even as he turned away the car drew alongside. And Bolan found himself staring at the surprised face of Robert Hutton.
The double-dealing journalist was sitting in the back of the military limousine with a young officer. Hutton caught one glimpse of the American before Bolan pulled the edge of his scarf across his mouth. Bolan saw Hutton'
s lips part in a silent cry of alarm.
Bolan's foot punched the kick start. Hutton had twisted his head to watch through the rear window as the other passenger rapped out an order to their driver. The car mounted the pavement and began to swing around on screeching tires.
Bolan took off and raced through the empty yard of the bus terminal. As he came out into the market street on the far side, he found that his way out of town was blocked by a rug merchant's cart.
From the corner of his eye Bolan could see the drab limo accelerating toward him. The raucous blare of the Cossack's horn sent vendors, customers, chickens and goats scrambling in every direction.
9
Bolan zigzagged through the crowd that thronged the market center. He could hear the driver of the ZIL limousine sounding its horn behind him. Weaving a path through the busy thoroughfare, Bolan was intent on finding an escape route — some narrow alley down which he could lose his pursuers. But every possible opening appeared blocked with stalls or groups of old men squatting around brass samovars.
The malik of Sharuf, making his customary rounds of the market, saw the motorcyclist careering toward him. Calmly he raised his hand, palm outward. He was an official who was used to having his decrees obeyed.
Ignoring the gesture, Bolan swerved to the left. The maneuver caused the bike's handlebar to briefly nudge a heavily laden shelving unit. Goods spilled onto the street.
A farmer pushing a bicycle overladen with strings of onions ran headlong into a table of dried fruit in his effort to avoid the path of the oncoming madman on the motorcycle.
Bolan had almost reached the end of the bazaar. Now he stood a chance of outrunning the car behind him.
A lieutenant, sipping tea at an outdoor cafe, saw the courier pursued by an officer's car. He jumped up from the table and pulled his gun. Bolan twisted to the right as the man fired.
There was a cobbled side street not twenty yards away. Bolan aimed for the gap. A second shot hit the rear mudguard. The American hunched low over the handlebars.
A little girl, holding the hand of her younger brother, skipped out from behind a stall. Their carefree laughter turned to terrified squeals as the big machine bore down on them.
The wheels locked. Bolan plowed sideways into a table of brightly colored shawls.
Machine, clothing, the splintered display stand and Bolan all ended up in a tangled heap.
But the children were unhurt.
Hutton was right behind his officer companion as they leaped from the car. The other Russian came racing across from the cafe. As Bolan dragged his foot from under the bike, he found himself staring into the business end of two pistols aimed at his head.
"You! Into the car!" ordered the captain, waggling the gun just once. His English was icily correct. Evidently Robert Hutton had told him who he guessed Bolan was.
Bolan hobbled toward the car. His ankle hurt, but he was purposely exaggerating the limp. He was going to need any edge he could get.
The driver held the back door open for him. Bolan stood erect, then leaned forward to climb in, followed by the captain.
The driver was ordered back to the base.
"He's the one I told you about, Captain Strakhov," said Hutton. "He seemed very interested in the M-36."
"Ah, my little toy. She is most effective, yes?"
Bolan ignored the Russian and kept his eyes fixed on the Canadian newsman. "So after you fingered the village you stuck around to enjoy the show. I'll bet your friend here likes the pictures you took."
"I'm only doing my job," replied Hutton. "There's no law that says a neutral journalist can't report from both sides."
"Some rules don't have to be written," Bolan replied.
Hutton fidgeted and was glad they were approaching the gate. It gave him the chance to look away from Bolan.
Captain Kyril Strakhov made a small gesture with the muzzle of the Tokarev. "There are rules about dressing up in uniforms that don't belong to you. You will tell me where you got it. And why you were sneaking about here in disguise."
Seeing Strakhov's limousine returning, the sentry trotted straight to the barrier and raised it. No papers were demanded, no questions asked. At least they were taking him precisely where he wanted to go. Even if it was at gunpoint.
"I will tell you nothing," Bolan grated.
"Oh, you will talk, all right. Believe me, before we are through with you, you will tell me everything."
Strakhov turned away to watch a team of mechanics going to work. His eyes lingered on the huge doors to Hangar A. Now Bolan knew where the Dragonfire was located.
Not even the flicker of an eyelid betrayed the fact that Bolan understood the instructions Strakhov issued to the driver in Russian. They were taken to the back of a newly constructed three-story block of barracks. It did not appear to be occupied. Strakhov got out first, opened a pale green door and checked inside, then signaled for the driver to escort their prisoner into the room.
"Find Corporal Lekha," Strakhov said, "and tell him to report here." As the driver turned to leave, Strakhov gave Hutton an impatient wave. "And you can go with him. You wait in my office. The clerk will look after you."
It was obvious the Canadian was disappointed at being so abruptly dismissed. But he followed the driver without voicing any objection.
Because of the slope of the ground at the front of the building, the room was a basement. There were only three small windows set high in the back wall. Too high to see through. And Hutton had closed the door behind him.
Bolan glanced around. There was a Ping-Pong table leaning against the cinder-block wall and some baize-covered card tables stacked untidily in the corner. Strakhov, pistol in hand, picked up a metal folding chair, shook it open and placed it in the center of the bare cement floor.
The Russian motioned with the Tokarev for Bolan to sit. Despite his dismissal of the collaborator, Strakhov seemed compelled to offer some explanation. "Hutton was here just to take some photographs of me shopping in the town... that, and a short interview."
"To show the heroes of the Soviet Union being warmly welcomed by their Afghan comrades?"
"Something like that," Strakhov said, shrugging.
"Don't know why you sent Hutton away. He was present in Hanoi when they questioned some American airmen there." Bolan decided to muddy the water even further. "Of course, he brought back some useful information to our side, too. Robert Hutton has always played both ends against the middle."
Strakhov looked interested.
Bolan continued. "The man's a braggart and a liar. You heard how loose-lipped he was in the car. He'll be back in Pakistan next week telling them what he's seen here. He'll trade it off for some of their gossip."
The Russian gnawed at his lip. The door opened before Bolan had a chance to smear Hutton any further, but he could tell from Strakhov's expression that the seed of doubt had been planted. Whatever happened to him now, the American avenger could take silent satisfaction that Hutton's usefulness was expended.
The morning sunlight was blocked by the huge man standing in the doorway.
"Close the door, Corporal." Strakhov turned to face their uninvited guest. "I am the chief test pilot for the new M-36. So I want to know who sent you to spy on it. I am going to ask you some simple questions. You will answer them quickly and truthfully. If that proves difficult, then Corporal Lekha here can refresh your memory."
He spoke rapidly in Russian to the noncom, who nodded eagerly and stationed himself behind the chair. "First of all, what is your full name?"
"I'm just a cameraman for..."
Bolan caught a fleeting glimpse of Strakhov's nod before the corporal's hand smacked hard into the side of his head.
The blow knocked him sideways off the seat.
Lekha's foul breath wheezed into Bolan's face as the beefy peasant hoisted him back onto the folding chair.
"I don't want him badly marked," cautioned Strakhov. "We've got to leave something for Major Krazkin."
/> Lekha's mouth twisted in a broken-toothed grin. He knew just what the captain meant.
Bolan glared at the corporal.
Lekha did not mistake the fury on the American's face, which only fired his enthusiasm. He raised his fist again, but Strakhov's look restrained him from delivering the blow.
"Now. We shall start again. Tell me your name..."
* * *
David McCarter untied the ragged scarf from his neck and mopped the beads of perspiration streaking his forehead. He wasn't sure if it was the midday sun or the nature of the task that was making him sweat.
From the moment that first morning patrol had gone past, McCarter had been hard at work digging up the Soviet mines from the strip outside the fence. By pressing his cheek to the ground, he could see shallow depressions where the dirt had been scraped out to conceal a mine. In one or two places the detonators had been completely exposed.
Still, the commando had worked very carefully. Using his knife point as a probe, McCarter gently brushed away the sand until he could safely lift out each mine. Then, after filling in the hole, he had relocated each explosive along a selected section of the fence.
There had been two additional jeep patrols slowly circling the perimeter, and on three other occasions local traffic along the road had forced the Englishman to take cover behind the rock.
Despite these circumstances he had transferred more than enough charges to tear out a length of the wire barrier. Now McCarter looked down at the four flat metal canisters lying at his feet. Perhaps he could use these on the road.
He scrambled up between the boulders to search for some suitable potholes. At the very edge of the track he stopped and ducked back out of sight. Half a dozen men were crossing the high ridge behind his position. He watched through the glasses and saw two more guerrillas dodging over the saddleback. McCarter knew then that he'd been right all along. Other eyes had been watching from up there.
Terminal Velocity Page 6
