Terminal Velocity

by Don Pendleton

  * * *

  "Yahoo!" whooped McCarter.

  Bolan was still rubbing his neck as he returned to the cockpit.

  "Never seen anyone improvise an air-to-air missile before!" said the commando, grinning. "I like your style."

  "You held up your end well, too," replied Bolan. "Now let's go and pick up Tarik Khan's son."

  Both men kept a sharp eye for any sign of movement on the barren terrain below. They knew that Strakhov would be coming up after them. Bolan had no idea how much work remained to be done on the Hind in the hangar to make it fully operational. But sooner or later the proud Russian captain would be dogging their trail.

  Sporadic pockets of greenery marked those few places where irrigation was possible in the endless desolation below. There were regions of Afghanistan that were pleasantly fertile, but these ravaged, rumpled drylands stood in stark contrast to the well-farmed river plains of Jalalabad and the far-off Hari Rud.

  "That looks like the minaret of Ghazarid! Way over there..."

  "Got it," confirmed Bolan. He turned ten degrees left. "And that must be the Sufisa range ahead. I make it about six minutes flying time to Mukna."

  * * *

  One suspicious tribesman took a potshot as the hated chopper came in to land. McCarter risked his neck by standing at the hatch, furiously waving his off-white native shirt. Every gun in the village was trained on the doorway as the two foreigners emerged. The tribesmen lowered their guns only when Tarik Khan appeared satisfied at the presence of the two men.

  "So you got what you came for?" The muscles along the leader's jawline worked tautly as he indicated the Dragonfire.

  "I have come back for your son, Tarik Khan," Bolan replied simply.

  He gave the tribal chieftain a brief explanation: if the boy did not receive modern medical aid very quickly, he would die.

  It did not take long to convince the leader, who felt instinctively he could trust the blue-eyed warrior.

  "You will fly out under cover of darkness?"

  Bolan shook his head. "We cannot wait. We must leave immediately."

  He did not reveal the crucial timing of their refueling rendezvous to Tarik Khan. In the remote wastes of the Baluchistan desert a commercial gasoline tanker loaded with aviation fuel would be crossing the little-used Makran highway. It would wait only thirty minutes for them at the Sakshan Wells. That was when they needed the cover of darkness.

  McCarter explained what had happened when he'd joined forces with Abdur Jahan and the other mujahedeen. Tarik Khan shouted out a brief translation of the more colorful parts of their attack and the villagers gave a rousing cheer.

  "We cannot delay our departure, either," said the chief, as he watched his son being loaded onto a makeshift stretcher. "After what has happened at Sharuf, the Communists will strike out at anyone in reprisal. But Jahan will know where to find us."

  McCarter made sure the pallet was securely wedged on the floor between the tanks. Tarik Khan fastened the restraining straps himself as he bade farewell to the boy.

  "May Allah watch over you..." he looked up at the two Westerners and encompassed them both with a sweep of his hand "...over you all!"

  * * *

  Bolan glanced at the fuel gauge. He made a few rapid calculations. They would just be able to make it. He corrected their course and cut back the cyclic slightly for maximum fuel efficiency.

  McCarter eased himself through the cockpit. "I'll see how young Kasim is doing."

  The boy was resting uneasily. McCarter slid the hatchway back and looked out. Beneath them he saw tiny dots where a herd of karakul sheep was grazing. Farther off, he made out the plodding line of a camel caravan heading for a pass through the distant snowcapped mountains. They were the only signs of life on the barren terrain. Suddenly an angry, buzzing black speck appeared in the distance.

  He tapped Bolan on the shoulder. "I think I saw..."

  "I know. The radar picked him up two minutes ago. Damn, lost him again."

  "He's hedgehopping." McCarter forced a tight grin. "Or maybe I should say dune jumping."

  "You stay with Kasim," Bolan said. "I'll try to outrun him. We can't risk a dogfight with the boy aboard.

  "Two can play at that game! Hang on. I'm dropping lower. Got to see if I can lose him."

  Bolan shut the throttle, split the engine and rotor needles, and went into autorotation; at this speed it made for a dangerously rapid descent. They dropped below the skyline of the barren hills. Bolan flared out, recovered power, then accelerated away to the south.

  A startled goatherd scrambled for shelter as the helicopter skimmed over his village and plunged into the broad valley beyond.

  In less than a minute they had covered more than three miles. The deep trough began to swing back toward the east, toward Russian-held territory.

  Bolan flew along the contours of the right slope and slipped between the jagged peaks, wheeling like a hawk as he thundered through the gap, pushing on for the safety of the Baluchistan border.

  The mottled landscape ahead was split by a triangular wedge of arid hills. Bolan touched the rudder. He was going to take the deeper canyon to the left.

  Just as he was about to make the turn, he saw Strakhov's attack chopper drifting toward them. The bastard had cut them off at the pass! Bolan threw the M-36 into a sharp bank to the right.

  13

  McCarter grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. He had seen the Hind, too, arrogantly waiting for them. Why hadn't the man fired? Strakhov must have had them in his sights long enough to launch a missile.

  Bolan knew why. Strakhov's attempt to imprison and interrogate the American might have failed miserably, but the Russian wanted to show them who was the better pilot. The captain had to prove he could outfly his enemy before he blasted them out of the sky.

  Bolan reoriented himself with a brief survey of the instruments. The hairs on his neck prickled. Was the Russian on his tail even now? Gloating? His internal radar told him they were still within range. Damn, Strakhov was playing with him.

  "Recognize where we are?" shouted Bolan, He was pushing it flat out. The needle had just passed 330 km/h.

  "Yes, I think so. This must be the top end of the Khazani Valley." It was where the German cameraman had first filmed the Dragonfire.

  "Right. Any sign of him?"

  "I think he's still hanging on back there. But..."

  "Yeah?'' Bolan was concentrating on the split-second timing of what he was about to attempt.

  "You're bloody low, Mack. These cliffs close right in at the pass. Remember the movie?"

  "The gap's a good seventy feet across, maybe eighty feet wide." The Khazani Pass lay two miles dead ahead.

  "Well, sure, at least seventy feet," agreed McCarter, "but that only gives us..."

  "Seven feet of clearance on either side!"

  It didn't take McCarter too long to figure the odds. "Go for it! I'll stay with the lad."

  Bolan sat squarely in the seat. The slightest miscalculation now and they were all dead. He watched the narrowing gap zoom closer through the illuminated rectangle of the rangefinder. He aligned the central cross hairs with a broken-toothed pinnacle far beyond and, scarcely daring to breathe, flew straight for it.

  The rotorwash dislodged stones from the surrounding cliffs, sending them bouncing down into the creek below as the Dragonfire roared through the deadly pass.

  They were through and out into the open in a whirling flash. The mammoth stone walls fell back on either side like great folds in a faded curtain.

  "Hold on!" Bolan kicked the rudders, skidding across the updrafts, juggling the stick and the collective as he brought the Dragonfire to a sickeningly fast stop. He allowed a half rotation as he began to ascend. The craft lurched alarmingly as the nose began to lift.

  * * *

  Strakhov saw the Dragonfire vanish through the defile. What did that crazy American think he was doing? The Soviet pilot shook his head. It was a gesture partly in respect for th
e other man's daring, partly a refusal to ignore the obvious challenge. So now it was "follow the leader"; well, they wouldn't shake him off that easily.

  Buffeted by the turbulent eddies left in the wake of the big gunship, Strakhov hammered through the pass. But the sky ahead was empty!

  He glanced right — nothing — then swung left, suddenly fearful that he might have been outwitted.

  Then he saw them. The M-36 was rearing up against the clifftops above him. Strakhov banked into a climb.

  The game was over.

  It was time for the kill.

  Strakhov watched that horrible silhouette swinging into his sights. He had flown in her, sweated in her and exulted in her power and agility. Once when he had run out of fuel near the Arghandab River he'd slept in her. He had put that helicopter through her paces. And she'd tested him, too.

  The Dragonfire was his ship.

  The only thing Strakhov had never done was attack her. Now he was going to blast her out of the sky.

  The M-36 was aligned dead center — just as Strakhov was in Bolan's visor.

  The last thing the Russian pilot saw as he reached for the button was a blazing stream of liquid fire streaking toward him.

  The cabin was instantly engulfed in a hissing, crackling smear of superheated chemicals. The cockpit imploded as the searing, choking blanket sucked out the oxygen. The wiring melted, the hydraulics wilted and the controls fused. Then the intense heat set off the ammunition supply.

  * * *

  Smaller explosions were triggered within the already raging fireball. McCarter watched as the flaming wreckage dropped onto the valley floor, while several chunks of smoking debris fluttered down in slower trajectories.

  Bolan eased the Dragonfire away from the crumbling walls of the ancient rift, soaring up to the cleaner air above. He did not look back as he touched the rudder and pointed the war machine south for the border.

  * * *

  The American fighters closed up slowly in the darkness. The lead escort approached on the port side, blinked his lights, then tipped his wings in salute.

  McCarter fiddled with the radio until he made contact with the pilots.

  'There's a big deck waiting out at sea for you, sir." The young pilot's voice crackled with excitement, his eagerness betraying how thrilled he was to be flying this welcoming mission. "Follow me home, Big Phoenix!"

  * * *

  Bolan jumped down onto the carrier deck as a crowd of officers and technicians swarmed around the stolen gunship. It would be lowered out of sight within minutes.

  McCarter shuddered involuntarily in the crisp sea breeze.

  "Careful with the boy. He's in bad shape," Bolan told the medics.

  "Wake up the surgeon," said one of the junior officers. "Tell him there's work to do."

  The orderly trotted away.

  Bolan searched among the congratulating well-wishers for a familiar face. He finally saw Brognola standing there chewing on a bedraggled cigar butt. Bolan's friend looked older than The Executioner ever remembered. Quite simply, he looked shaken to the core.

  Part Two

  The Bear That Walks Like a Man

  14

  "This is the part I could do without," admitted McCarter as they were led through the steel maze of companionways to the debriefing cabin where they would be individually questioned. "Just give me a hot shower and cool sheets!"

  Bolan nodded in agreement. He looked the Englishman straight in the eye. "Thanks, David. That was a tough one. I needed the job, and I needed you."

  "Wouldn't have missed it for the world, sport," McCarter said. "You can call on me anytime, Colonel. You know that."

  Both men had been through the procedure on countless occasions, so their initial reports were concise. Still, the debriefing sessions took a long time.

  McCarter was quizzed on the mujahedeen. He provided details about what he had seen of guerrilla ordnance, their state of training and effectiveness, drew maps to show the latest Afghan redoubts and assessed as best he could their morale.

  It was as if Brognola knew precisely what had been running through his mind. And right now Bolan didn't need anyone playing on his deepest feelings of loyalty and patriotism.

  "How are the others? What's the condition of our people?"

  "Things aren't so good," Brognola admitted. "I don't think Kurtzman is ever going to walk again. Of course, he swears he'll be up and about in no time, but Dr. Ogilvy told me the Bear will be in a wheelchair for the rest of his days. The whole operation will have to be reassessed. In fact, it is being reassessed right now. There's an investigation."

  "Oh? And what conclusions have been reached?"

  "Nothing yet, the report isn't complete. But I'm sure this latest success is going to weigh heavily in your favor."

  "What the hell's going on, Hal? You make it sound as if I'm the one on trial!"

  "No. No, it isn't that, Striker. It's just... Look, however unorthodox the Stony Man operation is, it's still tied in to the government. So there has to be an inquiry, a committee..."

  Bolan angrily flung the towel to the floor. "We've been through too much together, Hal, for all this bureaucratic crap. Tell me exactly what's happening. What the hell's eating you?" Bolan snarled.

  Brognola looked almost relieved to have been cornered. "When you first suggested there might be a mole, an agent planted close to the President, I listened, said yes, maybe, and went along with your suspicions. But I didn't really believe it. I couldn't. It didn't seem possible."

  "And now?"

  "Now I do. Deep down in here I think you're right." Brognola patted his gut and winced, as if he had the worst case of indigestion in the world. "I'm putting the pieces together. Slowly, I admit, but I'm convinced..."

  "As soon as we get back, I'm gonna nail that bastard," snapped Bolan. "Whoever he is, he's living on borrowed time. I don't give a damn who it is, Hal, but I promise you that within forty-eight hours I'll have his hide."

  "That's just it, Mack. If this thing goes right to the top then it's too delicate for you to go charging in to crucify the guy. This whole situation requires careful handling." Brognola slumped on the bunk, his head in his hands. Then he looked up at Bolan as he continued, "Think about it. In Britain, France, West Germany, this sort of thing has brought down governments and often ruined the careers and reputations of innocent people as well as the guilty ones. Let's not give the Kremlin the satisfaction of destroying our administration. Give me some time, another week or two. That's all I'm asking."

  Bolan stared at the bulkhead, his fists clenched; backing off wasn't his way. He looked at Brognola who was now hunched over the phone issuing terse instructions to make a stateside connection. It wasn't easy for his old friend either, Bolan realized, to have to admit that a Soviet sympathizer seemed to have gotten so close to the President.

  For years U.S. intelligence and security agencies had had their resources and energy sapped by the running battle to justify themselves with a hostile and loose-lipped segment of the media. It was this atmosphere of distrust that the top-level mole had taken full advantage of, and ruthlessly exploited.

  Sitting there in his rumpled suit, the man from Washington seemed to be taking a personal responsibility for this lack of vigilance. Bolan knew Brognola wasn't after glory or the opportunity to prove his heroism; he was only asking for the chance to redeem himself in his own eyes.

  Brognola replaced the phone and looked up. "For too long I've watched you go out there in the field. I issued instructions or made suggestions, and you put yourself on the firing line. Well, it's time I picked up the ball and ran with it myself."

  Bolan nodded.

  "Good," Brognola muttered, "then I want you to take a short break. Just for a few days. Actually, General Crawford has a favor to ask of you — they're patching him through now — and it comes at just the right time. You deserve a little time off."

  A soft repetitive buzz signaled the call was coming through. Hal Brognola pushed the
chair back and gestured to the phone. Bolan picked up the receiver and identified himself.

  "I understand that congratulations are in order, Colonel." The Arkansas drawl was unmistakable. "The Stony Man operation has proved itself once again."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I won't go into the developments here in Washington. Hal Brognola can give you all the pertinent details. I'm calling to ask a personal favor of you, Mack. It's about my daughter, Kelly. You've met her."

  Bolan hoped the general's daughter had not gotten herself into more hot water. For the old man's sake. He didn't deserve it.

  "The day after tomorrow she's flying to Zubrovna to take part in the International Students Invitational Games."

  "Sir, I wasn't aware that Kelly was involved in athletics."

  "Oh, yes, Mack. She's been a star athlete for me some time, another week or two. That's all I'm asking."

  Bolan stared at the bulkhead, his fists clenched; backing off wasn't his way. He looked at Brognola who was now hunched over the phone issuing terse instructions to make a stateside connection. It wasn't easy for his old friend either, Bolan realized, to have to admit that a Soviet sympathizer seemed to have gotten so close to the President.

  For years U.S. intelligence and security agencies had had their resources and energy sapped by the running battle to justify themselves with a hostile and loose-lipped segment of the media. It was this atmosphere of distrust that the top-level mole had taken full advantage of, and ruthlessly exploited.

  Sitting there in his rumpled suit, the man from Washington seemed to be taking a personal responsibility for this lack of vigilance. Bolan knew Brognola wasn't after glory or the opportunity to prove his heroism; he was only asking for the chance to redeem himself in his own eyes.