Point Position

by Don Pendleton

  “I’m going underground now, Jack,” he whispered into the mike in his blacksuit. “I doubt this’ll transmit for a while, but keep monitoring.”

  “You bet,” Grimaldi replied briefly, not wishing to waste words or time.

  Bolan moved the metal cover to one side of the alley, then lowered his body into the gap, using his arms to support his weight as his feet hung in the air, searching for a foothold. He found the iron rungs and climbed down a little way, until he could grasp the cover and pull it into place over his head.

  The darkness seemed sudden and all-engulfing as the cover slotted back into place above his head, lowered with an infinite gentleness to avoid any sound. Even the barest scrape of metal on gravel and concrete made him wince. In the dark and enclosed space of the ladder tunnel it seemed to be exaggeratedly loud. In truth, it was probably inaudible, blocked by the bulk of his body within the narrow channel.

  There were twelve rungs in the ladder, which seemed to be spaced about a foot and a half apart, so he figured they had dropped about eighteen feet below the surface. On number thirteen—or what should have been—his foot dangled into air. He looked over his shoulder and found a gap opening beneath him, with a dim illumination that seemed as bright as lighting after the darkness in which he’d descended.

  Bolan drew his foot back up to the last rung and stilled his breath, listening intently. Apart from the blood pounding in his ears, he could hear the faint traces of men splashing through the shallows of the storm drain, echoing distantly, to his left, heading toward the openings by the docks, unless he was mistaken.

  Two things occurred to him. If Signella was heading that way and the terrorist cell had a base near the docks, then it was a clear case of hiding in plain sight. And if he could hear Ross and Goldman—and possibly Signella—then it was certain that the Sicilian would realize he was being followed.

  All of which changed the percentages somewhat. It was now possible that rather than a tracking operation, the soldier would find himself walking into a firefight. And it was also a certain bet that his own presence would be detected as he followed.

  Bolan judged the distance between the last rung and the floor of the storm drain and braced himself as he dropped.

  He landed with a splash, as there was half an inch of water gathered on the floor of the giant pipe, flowing sluggishly in the direction of his fleeing targets. He stood silently, listening and allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. The storm drains were large concrete pipes, laid in the last twenty to thirty years and coated with a reflective, luminous paint that enabled them to trap and enhance the light that filtered through at several points from roadside inlets. They were about eight feet in circumference, giving a total of sixteen feet in height and width. The curvature was such that there were no places to hide, and there were no sharp bends. Even as he dropped and acclimatized himself, the soldier was able to see Ross in the distance, at the apex of a slow bend, gradually disappearing from view.

  Taking the time to check his weapons, he made sure the Desert Eagle was loaded and that the Beretta had a full magazine. Other weapons hung from his combat harness: frag and stun grenades, extra ammo, and an AKSU, ready for the collapsible stock to be snapped into place. But for now, he’d stick with those weapons he favored most.

  Bolan set off in pursuit of the three men. He took the outer curve of the pipe, so that he would get a good sighting on the curvature of his quarry when they came into view. He also ran a little way up the curve of the pipe, holding himself at an angle. It was tougher on the calf muscles, but allowed him to gain speed and distance on his prey while making less noise. His left foot lapped at the water, the right thudded on damp but uncovered concrete. It was his hope that the noise would be minimal, and covered from detection by the noise of those he pursued.

  SIGNELLA WAS A TOUGH MAN, but not necessarily brave. He was no longer as drunk as he had been, and his fear was sharpening his reflexes as he moved. When he’d made his escape from the club, he hadn’t dared to look back. He’d run as fast as he could, and had thought that he’d made the alley and slipped down into the storm drain without being heard. It was a route that he had been shown by Jean-Louis Garrault shortly after joining Destiny’s Spear, and was one that the terrorists frequently used.

  They were not the only ones to utilize the drains, and he knew that this would now work in his favor. His original intention had been to take the usual route back to base and warn the rest of the cell. But this had changed. How the hell they had gotten onto him he didn’t know. When he’d shifted the manhole cover and then replaced it after him, he’d taken a look at the end of the alley, and there had been no one in sight.

  But somehow they’d managed to trail him, and he could hear the noise they were making over the sound of his own splashing footsteps. He was sure there was more than one of them. The sounds of running in water were too recurrent, too overlapping for just one pair of feet. Was it the black guy and the lunatic redhead who were ready to waste him? Probably. But what if the dark guy who had first approached him was also on the trail? How the hell could he deal with three of them when he had no weapon?

  There was only one thing he could do. He risked looking back over his shoulder to see how close they were. It was a mistake. He stumbled in the water, his feet slipping on the surface as soon as his attention was distracted. He could see them in the distance, gaining ground. Then they spiraled out of his vision as he tumbled and fell, turning a half somersault into the fetid water. His shoulder and head cracked painfully on the concrete beneath, the stench and taste of the brackish water going up his nose, into his startled and open mouth, making him choke and gag.

  Ironically, the fall may have saved him. The redhead, probably irritated and bored with the chase, had decided to draw his Smith & Wesson .38 Special. As he ran he let loose a couple of shots in Signella’s direction. The bullets passed over the space where Signella’s body had been moments before, and whined as they ricocheted off the concrete of the drain, spilling dust and concrete chips into the sluggish stream.

  Signella scrambled to his feet, the taste of stagnant water in his mouth replaced by the very real taste of fear, his tired limbs suddenly coordinated and infused with the desire to keep living. He heard the black guy yell at his companion. That may or may not stop the idiot from firing again Signella thought, but he didn’t want to take bets on that. He had another plan.

  He kept his head low and started to zigzag as he splashed through the water, tensed for the bullet that would take him out.

  7

  Bolan held the Beretta in front of him as he reached the bend in the storm drain. He heard the shots from Goldman—he recognized the sound of the Smith & Wesson .38—and cursed to himself. If the merc iced Signella, then the lead would be lost, and he would have to deal with the freelance agents before trying to pick up the trail again. It was getting far too messy. This should have been a simple trail and recover operation, but with these wild cards…

  He could hear Ross’s voice. “Jimmy!” the agent yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “He’s away, Errol. What am I supposed to do?”

  Bolan had to suppress a grim smile at the bitter humor of the reply. He slowed as the two men came into sight. Signella was nowhere to be seen, but as Goldman had whirled to face his partner, Bolan was coming right into his line of vision.

  The soldier saw Goldman’s surprise, but there was nothing wrong with the agent’s reflexes as the Smith & Wesson was raised in his direction.

  Bolan was quicker. He put a 3-round burst into the roof of the pipe between the two mercenaries. Ross, his back still to the Executioner, instinctively dived for cover, landing and rolling in the sluggish stream before coming up the right way.

  “Oh great,” he wailed as he realized the water had ruined his immaculate suit.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Bolan shouted as Goldman sighted him. “I can take you both out before you have the chance to get one shell out of
the chamber.”

  “Yeah? But what if—” Goldman began before Ross cut him short.

  “Let it go, Jimmy. All the while we talk, Signella is getting away.”

  Goldman muttered something under his breath but raised both hands, palms out, so that the Smith & Wesson pointed to the roof of the pipe.

  “That’s good,” Bolan said curtly. “Now for some answers, and quick. Where’s Signella?”

  Goldman inclined his head. “There’s an inlet into the pipe up ahead that must lead into the sewage system. He’s gone up that.”

  Bolan was sure that there was more to the underground tunnels of Marseilles than simply sewers. But Grimaldi was the one with the information, and he was off-line while they were this far down. He’d have to play this by ear.

  “Then we follow,” he said simply.

  “Look, whoever you are, I’m with you on that, but can I assume it’s safe for me to get up now without being ventilated?” Ross asked in a manner that veered between sardonic and peeved at the state of his suit.

  “Yeah, but slowly, and hands away from the jacket,” Bolan countered. “Meanwhile, Mr. Hot-tempered goes first—after putting the gun away—because he saw where Signella went. But slowly,” he added as Goldman began to move.

  “How can I do this slowly when we’ve got to follow someone who’s gaining distance?” he grumbled.

  “Because I don’t trust you yet, and you can put on speed when the gun’s out of the way,” Bolan said calmly.

  Ross, meanwhile was on his feet, and as Goldman climbed into the feeder tunnel up which Signella had scrambled, the black agent cast a look back over his shoulder.

  “Look, my friend, we’ve got off to a bad start, but it occurs to me that the people I work for may just also be your paymasters.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said, stopping in the middle of the pipe as Ross followed Goldman. “Now back up and stand with your hands above your heads,” he added as the two mercs were in the smaller tunnel. “I don’t want you to get ideas.”

  The soldier vaulted into the tunnel as the mercs stood well back, hands raised.

  “Lead on, Goldman,” Bolan said. “Which way?”

  “Left,” Goldman said, indicating the junction ahead with an inclination of his head. “And can I put my hands down now?”

  “Yeah, as long as they’re in plain sight,” Bolan replied.

  “One question. You know Jimmy’s name, and—I assume—mine. So who are you? U.S. military, Justice Department, CIA or what?”

  “My name is Matt Cooper,” Bolan said simply. He didn’t answer the other question. Instead he said, “Let’s go.”

  The tunnels were getting smaller, and were made of crumbling brick shored up here and there by joists made of scrap wood tied and hammered together in varying thicknesses to join older sections of tunnel.

  “There’s another fork ahead, and I’m lost from there,” Goldman said.

  “You’d better not be lying to me,” Bolan growled from the rear.

  “Straight up,” Goldman said in a genuinely aggrieved tone. “I only saw him go to the left back at the last turn.”

  “Then we’re all equally in the dark. Well, well, spoke too soon,” Ross murmured, as they hit the junction.

  They were, indeed, no longer in the literal dark. Whatever else these tunnels may or may not have been, they were not sewers. And they were inhabited. These facts could be deduced from the evidence that the tunnels were dry, and were now lighted by a series of lights that were strung on the walls at regular intervals. Some were flashlights tied to stanchions, with the battery power in each of varying strengths. Every fifth or sixth torch, stretching in each direction from the junction, was made of sticks with kerosene soaked rags that burned at a low level, giving off a smoke that drifted in a breeze indicating an opening at each end onto fresher air.

  Catacombs of some kind, Bolan thought. Many old towns and cities in southern France and in Spain had them beneath the town. The questions were, why were they being lit? Who was maintaining this light and for what reason?

  All three men had been standing in silence for some while, listening intently to pick out any sound that may indicate the direction Signella had taken. What they heard was more disturbing. There were multiples of sound in each fork, footsteps and voices and other noises to indicate that the tunnels were in regular use.

  “Cooper, I’m sure we’re both working for the U.S. government in some way, and I’ll bet we’re not even after the same thing, so I’ll cut you a deal,” Ross whispered.

  “There are no deals, Ross,” Bolan replied in a low, level tone. “I’ve been sent after the chemical weapons that were taken. But I’ll bet that wasn’t the real reason for the robbery. There are rumors about a sonic weapon. I’ll take a wild guess that’s what you’re after.”

  “You’re a very well-informed man,” Ross countered. “But you’re only after the chemical weapons. The other is ours.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Cooper, we can’t afford to screw around right now. Can we just call a truce until we’re out of here, because I’ve got a real bad feeling about this. We’ve lost the Sicilian, and we don’t know what we’re about to come up against. We’re going to need one another—or, at least, we could do without being at one another’s throats until we’re out of here.”

  “It would be mutually beneficial,” Bolan said simply.

  “Right, if the United Nations has stopped negotiating and come to some kind of agreement, can we get on with it?” Goldman said irritably.

  “You’ll have to excuse my partner, he can be a little volatile,” Ross said wryly.

  “I think I may have gathered that,” Bolan replied. “Which way, then?”

  “There are more noises down here,” Goldman indicated. “I figure Signella’s turning up might have stirred up whatever’s going on here. Or else there’s just more activity.”

  “That’s what I like about you, you’re so perceptive,” Ross mused sarcastically.

  “Well, what’s your suggestion, then?” Goldman said heatedly.

  Bolan looked back the way they had come and made a quick calculation. “I think we should follow Goldman’s suggestion,” he said. “The area with the greater activity follows the direction of the storm drain, down toward the docks. I had an idea that Destiny’s Spear might be based that way, maybe keeping the merchandise down there with them.”

  “It’d figure,” Ross agreed. “The noise could be a bunch of dubious characters indulging in a little thieving and smuggling, which would account for why they would keep these tunnels well lit.”

  “Great. Now we’ve finished admiring one another’s intuitive perception, perhaps we can move?” Goldman whispered. “And another thing. If there’s danger ahead, I want my gun in my hand.”

  “No, no hardware unless necessary. The state of these tunnels, any loose fire could cause a cave-in,” Bolan stated. He didn’t add that he didn’t trust Goldman to hold that fire if his temper frayed any more.

  “Then you put that Beretta away as well, or we don’t go anywhere,” Goldman said calmly, fixing Bolan with a stare that was assessing the way the Executioner reacted.

  Bolan needed their trust for now. He nodded and holstered the Beretta on his blacksuit’s web belt, now clearly visible as the shirt had become ripped and torn in the chase.

  A small smile crossed Goldman’s lips. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said.

  The three men set off in the direction of the greatest noise, leading them down toward the docks. The tunnel was thicker with smoke as they moved among the torches, the accumulation of the torches filling the tunnel with the stench of kerosene and burning material. But the air was still breathable, and the breeze that carried the fresh air through was now stronger, so that they could feel it on their faces.

  The tunnels were a maze, with a number of crisscrossing corridors of old stone that took them off at obtuse angles from their main direction, but always leading them back towa
rd the right direction as they followed the growing noise.

  “What have we stumbled into?” Ross breathed as he and Goldman rounded a corner and came to an enclave that had been carved out of the tunnel. Bolan, a few steps behind them, was taken aback by the tone of the merc’s voice until he came within sight of what had inspired it.

  At a point where the tunnels had converged, those who used them had, at one point, hollowed out the junction, pushing back the walls until they had made a large room that was no higher than the roofs of the surrounding tunnels, but now consisted of a circular hall. The ceilings had been shored up by a series of joists and pillars that stood in the hall.

  But it was not this bizarre construction that had caused all three men to come to a complete halt. Rather, it was the nature of the people who filled the room. Scattered across the floor, around three small bonfires that did nothing to detract from the smokiness of the atmosphere, was a motley collection of males and females, young and old. The homeless, the alcoholic and the dispossessed, many of them looked as though it had been some time since they had seen daylight, so pale were they beneath the grime that covered them.

  Only a few of them noticed the entrance of the three men. And of those who did, not many were in any condition to do any more than just stare.

  “So this is where the drunks, junkies and the lazy sink to, is it?” Goldman said, spitting on the floor. “Christ, they don’t look like any smugglers or terrorists to me. Looks like we’ve been down the wrong path this time.”

  Bolan remembered what “Mickey” had told him in the club before the action had kicked off. He could well imagine how easy it was to seek refuge beneath the streets. And also what a good cover it could provide.

  “I don’t think we have,” he said quietly. “This would be a perfect cover. We should ask a few questions.”

  “What kind of answers are we going to get from these people?” Ross said with a despair that differed from his partner’s contempt. “They’re too far into their own little worlds to be coherent.”