Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  “You can’t stop it,” Tanner said, a strange smile pulling at the corners of his bloody mouth. “And even if you could, it’d take thirty minutes or more to dismantle. The coast is less than ten miles away now. You don’t have enough time.”

  Bolan squatted down, pressed the dressing to the pulsing wound on Tanner’s chest, and cupped the man’s head in his hand.

  “Vince,” he said. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  “Huh?” The man’s face had a dreamy expression now, and Bolan figured the delirium of shock and blood loss had almost pushed him out of reach.

  “The crew, Vince. Where’s the crew?”

  “Cargo hold two,” he managed to reply, before his eyes took on the unfocused, sightless look of death.

  Bolan dropped Tanner’s head, stood up and peered through the window to the deck below. He pointed. “That’s got to be cargo hold one. I saw some men scrambling out of it before.”

  Tanner’s radio crackled. “Tanner, where the hell are you?”

  Everett.

  Bolan picked up the radio and rubbed his thumb over the mic, speaking in a distorted voice. “On the way.”

  “Rinzihov and Zelenkov are arming the warhead and setting the timer now,” Everett said. He sounded breathless. As if he was running. “Get to the Osprey now or I’ll leave you. We take off in five.”

  Bolan clicked the mic quickly to indicate a reply.

  “Doesn’t sound like we have much time,” Grimaldi said.

  “No,” Bolan replied, “but we have one thing going for us. I’ll bet you’re one of only two people on this tub who can fly that V-22.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll go take out the pilot and rich man. You go defuse that nuke.”

  Bolan nodded his agreement as he held up his own radio. “Sitrep,” Bolan said into his mic.

  “Tyler has been hit,” Kournikova said. “I am with him now.”

  Bolan swore. “How bad?”

  “I can’t tell. It’s his right side. I’m trying to stop the blood.”

  “We’ve taken the bridge,” Bolan said. “Everett has a group moving back toward his Osprey. I need you to stop them from leaving. I’m going for the warhead.”

  “Understood,” she said. “Ivan will stop them.”

  Bolan acknowledged and grabbed the AK-47 from the dead man, checked it and tossed it to Grimaldi. “You go find the crew. See if one of them knows how to stop this thing, or at least avert the collision with the shore.”

  Grimaldi slung the Kalashnikov and checked the magazine in his M-4. “You know anything about defusing a nuclear warhead?”

  “I’ve come across more than my fair share of these things,” Bolan replied. “Every one seems a bit different. But I’m a fast learner.”

  “For all our sakes,” Grimaldi said with a worried look, “you’d better be.”

  The two men nodded to each other and headed for the stairwell. They stopped at the bottom and stayed in the shadows. Bolan took out his satellite phone.

  Brognola answered before the first ring was finished. “What’s up?” His voice sounded tense.

  Bolan gave him a quick sitrep. “Those jets on the way?” he asked.

  “They are, but we’re holding off on the order to fire, hoping we’d hear from you.”

  “How far out are those SEALs?”

  “Fifteen minutes max.”

  “Can’t wait that long,” Bolan said. “This’ll be over in five. I’ll get back to you then. If not...”

  “Godspeed,” was all Brognola said.

  Bolan crept up to the entranceway with his Beretta to give Grimaldi cover fire if he needed it. He flipped down the visor and surveyed the deck through the night vision goggles.

  Nothing moved.

  Grimaldi flashed a thumbs-up and made a dash toward cargo hold two. Bolan waited for ten more seconds, then ran around the massive lid covering the hold of the first one. A sign in Farsi, English and several other languages was posted in block letters. DANGER: OIL WASTE STORAGE AREA.

  He pulled up the hatch and saw that the area below him was well-lit. Noxious vapors wafted up as he assessed the staircase into the hold. It looked clear. He began a quick descent with his Beretta ready. The cargo bay was huge, at least a hundred feet deep and seventy feet across. The lower area was filled with rows of drums, and metal scaffolding ran perpendicular to them, creating catwalks along the wall adjacent to the hatch. Bolan saw three men about thirty feet away, on the topmost catwalk. One was lying on his side, his arms handcuffed behind him. The other two were bending over the bucket portion of a Bobcat front loader containing the pointed end of the warhead. One of the two was older, with a professorial air.

  Rinzihov.

  The other man was muscular and dressed in dark BDUs. He stretched some wires from the warhead to a small box.

  Zelenkov.

  Bolan ran down the stairs, pointing his Beretta at the men. “Freeze and put up your hands.” As he repeated the command in Russian, he saw that the device in the big man’s hands was a timer.

  Zelenkov smiled. “Ah, you speak Russian.”

  “And you speak English,” Bolan said, motioning upward with the Beretta. “Misters Rinzihov and Zelenkov, I presume.”

  “You fool,” shouted Rinzihov. “If you fire that weapon you’ll ignite the fumes and incinerate all of us.” He pointed to one of the multilingual signs along the wall: CAUTION! HIGHLY FLAMMABLE VAPORS PRESENT. NO OPEN FLAMES. NO SPARKS.

  “I do not think he will use that pistol, Professor,” Zelenkov said.

  Bolan kept the Beretta aimed at them, but didn’t squeeze the trigger. The smell of oil and gasoline was strong, and Bolan didn’t know if a muzzle flash would, in fact, set the fumes off. But with the warhead sitting twelve feet away, he did know he couldn’t take the chance. He holstered his Beretta as he came down the stairs, and flipped open his Espada knife.

  Zelenkov cocked his head, motioning for Rinzihov to back into a corner. The big man pulled out a huge knife with a serrated blade with his right hand, and motioned Bolan forward with his left. Then he pressed one of the buttons on the timer and red numbers began counting down from 45:00.

  “I shall kill you quick, my friend,” Zelenkov said, “for the clock, as they say, is ticking.”

  Bolan circled away from him, sizing him up. He was at least six-five, probably close to three hundred pounds, none of it fat. The man moved with the fluid grace of a bear, his boots gliding over the metal floor in sync with the ship’s slow movement.

  44:46.

  Zelenkov held both hands up in a boxer’s stance. Bolan did the same. They edged closer to each other. The Russian’s knife had the edge in overall thickness and length. Bolan’s knife blade gleamed with a razor’s sheen.

  The distant sound of more gunfire filtered down through the hatch.

  “My men are destroying the last of your team,” Zelenkov said with a grin.

  “Or my team’s finishing off yours,” Bolan replied.

  Zelenkov’s knife hand shot out with a quick slashing motion as Bolan leaped away, the blade almost catching him. He thrust with his Espada knife, but Zelenkov avoided the blow with ursine grace.

  They danced back and forth, each making tentative thrusting and slashing moves, but neither connecting. In his peripheral vision, Bolan saw the red digits continuing their deadly countdown: 43:34, 43: 33, 43:32...

  Zelenkov’s right arm zipped forward again with a quick jab. Bolan tried to spin away, but the blade sliced across his left forearm. Seconds later the tear in the black material darkened and displayed a bright crimson center.

  “Ah, first blood,” Zelenkov said.

  Rinzihov yelled something in Russian that sounded like an encouragement.

  Bolan delivered a low
kick to the big man’s knee. The blow caused him to stumble slightly, but even as he regained his balance he executed a backhand slash with his knife. Bolan ducked under it and managed to run his blade across Zelenkov’s left calf.

  Both men backed up fractionally and continued their jabs and thrusts.

  41:39, 41:38, 41:37...

  Another of Zelenkov’s slicing arcs caught Bolan’s right arm, near the wrist. His grip still felt strong, so he didn’t think any of the tendons were damaged, but a searing pain came seconds later, accompanied by a rush of warm blood.

  Sensing an advantage, Zelenkov jumped forward, cocking his knife hand back and driving it downward in a death strike. Instead of meeting the bigger man head-on, the Executioner moved inside the blow and at the same time thrust upward with his Espada knife, sinking the long blade into Zelenkov’s belly under the rib cage. He dodged Zelenkov’s knife, then clasped his left hand over the other man’s wrist. The two opponents struggled together momentarily, which enabled Bolan to twist his knife in for another deep thrust.

  Zelenkov used his superior size and strength to shove Bolan away. The soldier went flying backward, trying to maintain his footing, but tumbled onto his back as he hit the floor. Rolling to his feet, Bolan expected an imminent and fatal attack from the Russian, but instead saw the man stumbling around in a semicircle, holding his gut, a red fountain flowing through his thick fingers. Zelenkov stared at Bolan for a moment, then toppled to the ground.

  Rinzihov ran to the timer. He fell forward, grabbing for it. Bolan rushed over and tried to tear it away from him, but the old man held it fast as his thumb depressed one of the buttons. The red digits raced by in a blur. Bolan slashed Rinzihov’s hand with the Espada, then ripped the timer out of his grasp. He plunged the blade into Rinzihov’s neck, finishing him, and glanced down at the clock.

  1:10, 1:09, 1:08...

  Bolan scanned for a stop button but couldn’t find one. He traced the wires back to the package and a maze of red, black, blue and yellow wires winding around two bricks of C-4 and disappearing into a black canvas bag.

  00:52, 00:51, 00:50...

  Bolan cut open the bag holding the explosive device. The wires stretched to the warhead, where they were linked to another set of wires extending inside the hollowed out portion of the projectile.

  That has to be the fuse, he thought. The explosion ignites it, and the fuse in turn causes the plutonium inside to implode, thus setting off the chain reaction.

  00:39, 00:38, 00:37...

  Bolan took a deep breath and looked at the device, trying to decide which wires to pull.

  00:29, 00:28, 00:27...

  Not much time to decide, he thought, but it’s not going to make much difference in a few seconds, anyway.

  00:15, 00:14, 00:13...

  He gripped the left wire, the black one, and twisted it loose.

  00:11, 00:10, 00:09...

  He twisted one from the opposite side, knowing if he wasn’t right at least he’d have only a few seconds of regret.

  00:07.

  The red digits remained frozen.

  Bolan let out his breath as relief flooded over him. His euphoria was short-lived, however, as the sound of more automatic weapons fire filtered in from above. He set the timer down carefully and removed the rest of the wires, then cut open more of the canvas bag until he found the detonator caps. He pulled those out of the C-4 and stood, looking down at the warhead.

  Hopefully, the big one will keep for the moment, he thought, stepping over to Rinzihov’s limp body to check for a pulse. The man’s head was surrounded by a red puddle, his eyes sightless. Bolan then moved to Zelenkov’s prone form, squatted, and flicked his thumb across the Russian’s open eye.

  No reaction.

  Both these men are definitely dead, he thought. I wonder how many more are still up there, alive and kicking?

  He then approached the handcuffed man. It was Herman Monk, unconscious, his breathing rapid and shallow. Bolan knew they both had to get out of this polluted environment, so he slung the man over his shoulder and strode quickly to the stairwell. The oil and gasoline in the air was making him nauseous, and as he climbed the stairs he thought about how good it would feel to inhale the fresh sea air.

  He popped open the hatch and took a quick look around.

  Nothing moved; no more shots sounded.

  He pulled his radio out of his pocket and whispered, “Jack, sitrep.”

  “I think Ivan just took out the last of his fellow countrymen up here,” Grimaldi said. “What about the nuke?”

  “So far, so good. Where do we stand on getting this tub stopped?”

  “The first officer speaks English,” Grimaldi said. “I sent him up to the bridge to try and turn this thing away from the coast. In the meantime, we were spreading out looking for Everett. Ain’t found him yet.”

  Bolan climbed the rest of the way out of the hatch and carefully set Herman Monk’s unconscious body on the deck between the cargo holds. The soldier could feel the steady flow of blood down his arm, and the bandage Kournikova had affixed to his eyebrow had been ripped off. More blood trickled from that wound.

  Bolan put the radio to his mouth and said, “Nikita, how’s Tyler?”

  No answer.

  He repeated his transmission.

  Still nothing.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Grimaldi said. “We’re coming up to your six now.”

  Bolan assumed a crouch. He felt weak, dizzy, but he was sure it was more from the noxious fumes he’d inhaled than from blood loss. He keyed the radio mic. “Jack, what was her last location?”

  “She’s right here,” Everett’s voice said from the darkness about thirty feet to Bolan’s left. “She was playing Florence Nightingale with your wounded boy wonder instead of keeping watch.”

  Bolan brought his Beretta up and scanned the area, snapping down the night vision goggles again. The space in front of him turned to a clear greenscape, and in the center, behind one of the cargo derricks, he saw a vertical tangle of two bodies. Everett had his left arm around Kournikova’s neck, his fingers wrapped in her long hair. His right hand held an enormous semiautomatic pistol, a Desert Eagle from the looks of it, with a mounted Aimpoint sight. Not that he needed it, as the barrel was pressed against Kournikova’s right temple.

  “This is a .50 caliber, Cooper,” Everett said. “I’ll blow her fucking head off.”

  Bolan raised his Beretta and tried to aim at Everett’s head. The swaying ship made a perfect sight picture problematic.

  “It’s over, Everett,” the soldier said. “Don’t make it worse for yourself. Let her go.”

  “Bullshit,” Everett said. “Your Russian ape killed my pilot, but I know one of you bastards knows how to fly that Osprey, and me, him and the girl are getting out of here right now.”

  “I’m the pilot,” Grimaldi said, moving out of the shadows. Ivan stood next to him, and Bolan saw a ragtag group of what he assumed were the Iranian crew members behind them. “Let her go and take me instead.”

  Everett laughed. “You think I’m a fool? Get your ass over here now.”

  Grimaldi took a step forward, but Ivan pushed him back. The big Russian charged at Everett, who swung the pistol away from Kournikova’s head and aimed it at him. The red dot of a laser sight glowed in the darkness for a split second and was replaced by the flash and roar of the Desert Eagle’s barrel.

  Ivan recoiled, but kept moving forward. Another gun flash went awry as Kournikova shoved Everett’s arm upward. Bolan acquired his sight picture in a second and fired. Everett jerked to the side, as if he’d been hit. Kournikova pushed away from him. He managed to raise the Desert Eagle again, but Bolan’s next rounds double-tapped him in the chest and left cheek.

  Everett twisted as he dropped, the movement
coinciding with a lurch of the ship. He tumbled against the starboard railing, clutched at it, then fell onto his side. The ship pitched back rhythmically, and this time Everett rolled under the lowest metal rung and disappeared.

  Bolan and Kournikova reached Ivan at the same time. Grimaldi was already there, holding his hand against the wound on the big man’s chest. Ivan puffed twice, each breath sending a cascade of blood from between his lips. His eyes had acquired a dreamy, vacant look and his mouth twitched into a smile as he spoke in Russian, his voice a faint whisper.

  “What did he say?” Grimaldi asked.

  “It was, ‘Goodbye, my brother,’” Kournikova said.

  The pilot cradled Ivan’s head to his chest as the Russian’s eyes glazed over. “Ivan, my man. Oh, shit. Why did that have to happen?”

  The sound of helicopter rotors in the distance chopped through the darkness. A Blackhawk zoomed over the ship, banked and swung back around. Bolan saw several lines dropping from the side doors. He took out his satellite phone and hit Brognola’s number.

  The big Fed answered immediately.

  “The cavalry just arrived,” Bolan said. “If you’re in radio contact with their command, tell them not to shoot us. We’re up by the cargo holds near the bridge.”

  “Sitrep?”

  “I think it’s about over.”

  “Roger that,” Brognola said. “Give me a minute.”

  Bolan watched as the SEALs fast-roped down to the deck. They spread out in expert fashion and began moving silently and efficiently toward them. Bolan holstered his Beretta and scanned the group of Iranian sailors for any weapons, but saw none.

  “The U.S. Navy’s here,” he said to them.

  One crew member said something in Farsi and the group cheered. They were all smiles.

  “Navy SEALs,” another loud voice said. “Put up your hands and identify yourselves.”

  “U.S. Justice Department,” Bolan said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  The soldier stood, raised his hands and looked at the young SEAL standing a few feet away. He was clad in camouflage BDUs, Kevlar helmet, night vision goggles, and holding an M-4 with a banana-clip magazine. A SEAL team leader had never looked so good to Bolan.