Nuclear Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Still, they might have come to Giri even if Pahlavi hadn’t. It was probable, in fact. A massacre of soldiers was like slapping at a hornet’s nest. Survivors swarmed in search of targets, seeking someone who would bear responsibility. A scapegoat would suffice, if they could not locate the guilty parties.

  And while he, Pahlavi, stood in darkness waiting for the soldiers to withdraw, what had become of Project X?

  It would be moving forward, drawing closer to the day when madmen pushed a button and the whole subcontinent went up in bright, irradiated flames. The moment when society as he had known it ceased to be, when even peasants in a tiny rural village would suffer from the lethal plague of modern science.

  Pahlavi knew he had to survive this day, in order to direct Matt Cooper and unleash him on the enemies of sanity before they launched a global war to satisfy their twisted egos. If that meant he could not help his people at this moment of their glaring need, so be it.

  But it pained him brutally, humiliated him and left Pahlavi feeling impotent. That, in and of itself, was nearly adequate to overthrow all common sense, fling caution to the wind and send him charging up the stairs to meet his enemies with pistol fire.

  It would be suicide, of course, and while Pahlavi had considered something of the sort after his sister was taken from him, yielding to the guilt of having failed so miserably to protect her, he could not allow himself to harbor such ideas.

  Self-pity was a luxury that he could not afford.

  How much longer? he asked himself.

  How long could it take a troop of soldiers to completely search a village of Giri’s size? One hour? Two? Beyond that, he supposed the search would qualify as simple vandalism, aimed at punishing the locals for the simple act of knowing Darius Pahlavi.

  He would pay them back somehow. Pahlavi vowed it to himself. If he survived this night and made it through his mission alive, Pahlavi would return and settle with his people, even if they should demand his final drop of blood.

  It would be worth it, then, to regain their respect. He would have nothing left to prove, no one to please. There was no wife, no children, and no sister now to share Pahlavi’s life. But for the task he had set himself, he would be hard pressed for a reason to go on.

  But Cooper needed him alive. As an interpreter and guide, for insight into Pakistan and the nightmare of Project X. If he was killed this night, Cooper would be adrift—if not exactly helpless, then at least severely handicapped, he thought.

  And what of Ohm? Would it go on without him? Did he even care?

  He’d led two of the small group’s members to their death that very afternoon and couldn’t shake the guilt of it, although he knew that soldiers died in war. It had not been his plan to start a war. His enemies had done that, when they killed his sister, and now the hunting dogs were snuffling avidly along his trail.

  Pahlavi hoped they would not find him where he hid this night. He needed time to settle old accounts and new ones, pay his debts before he went to face the final reckoning.

  With Cooper at his side, Pahlavi was surprised to find that thought less frightening than when it first occurred to him some weeks earlier.

  Losing Darice had stripped Pahlavi of his greatest single fear. The rest was all peripheral, his own life valued only with regard to what he must achieve before he died.

  And thinking of his sister, of his people on the street somewhere above his head, Pahlavi reckoned one of his accomplishments should be revenge.

  10

  Ambika’s men were halfway through their search of houses on the south side of the street, with nothing much to show for it. So far, they’d found an old bolt-action rifle and two shotguns, all presumably employed in hunting for the village stewpot. If his troops found nothing else, Ambika had decided he would take the weapons with him, make examples of their owners with a special punishment.

  He had the three homes marked in mind already, but he hoped they would find something more substantial in the houses that were yet unsearched. Perhaps the fugitive Pahlavi, or a nice fat cache of weapons that would make the exercise worthwhile.

  An outburst from a nearby house drew his attention from the thoughts that troubled him. Ambika turned in time to see two of his soldiers drag a struggling peasant through the open door and shove him down on all fours, in the street. When he tried bouncing back up, one of the soldiers kicked the man in the buttocks, keeping him off balance. As the angry peasant turned, still on his knees, he found two automatic rifles leveled at his face.

  Just then, a third soldier emerged from the same house, carrying two assault rifles. One was his own standard-issue CETME, the other a Russian-made Kalashnikov. Ambika couldn’t tell the caliber or model without looking closer, but it was a momentary lift, knowing that he had finally uncovered something that could pass for evidence of criminal activity.

  Machine guns were as common as stray dogs in western Pakistan, although their sale was technically illegal. By some curious procedure that Ambika did not understand, police and prosecutors managed to ignore the countless vendors selling weapons to civilians nationwide, then voiced their shock when those same arms were used in ethnic feuding or, as earlier that very day, against the symbols of authority. Ambika would have tried a very different tack in that respect, but no one had requested his opinion or advice. Until they did, he was obliged to follow orders and do what he could to stem the tide of violence he witnessed every day.

  Ambika moved with long strides toward the kneeling peasant, who had given up on fighting and tried to plead his case. The rifle was for self-defense and hunting, he insisted. He was not a criminal, had never broken any laws.

  “The fact that you own this,” Ambika told him, reaching out for the Kalashnikov, “is in itself a crime. You must have known that when you purchased it.”

  “Purchased?” The peasant wore a look of wounded innocence. “I found it by the roadside, Captain. I cannot afford to buy a weapon of this sort.”

  “And when you found it, did you not report your strange discovery to the police?” Ambika asked.

  “There are no telephones in Giri, Captain.”

  “And, of course, you never see patrolmen on their rounds.”

  “Sir, by that time, I was afraid of what would happen if I spoke to the authorities. Who would believe me,” the peasant asked, “when a wise man such as you does not?”

  “A cruel dilemma,” Ambika said. “But you could have left the rifle where you found it, or gone back and put it there again, when it began to trouble you.”

  “I was afraid, Captain! If I did that, it might encourage someone else to take the gun and start a life of crime.”

  Ambika smiled, beginning to enjoy himself. “So, you’ve been keeping it at home, I understand, as something of a service to your country? A deterrent not only to crimes against yourself, but to prevent some other innocent from falling into error?”

  “Yes!” The peasant flashed a beaming, hopeful smile. “That’s it exactly! You are wise!”

  “I’m wise enough, at least,” Ambika said, “that I do not believe the pig’s shit spewing from your liar’s tongue.”

  “But Captain—”

  “Silence! You are plainly guilty of a serious offense. The disposition of your case is up to me. I cannot go back to my colonel empty-handed and pretend I found no villains in this nest of crime.” Ambika paused, then stepped in closer, lowering his voice. “But if you help me, there’s a possibility I might forget to take you with me, or to name you in my field report.”

  The peasant glanced around to see if any of his fellow villagers were close enough to hear. “What must I do?” he whispered.

  “Tell me where to find the rebel Darius Pahlavi. If you do this, I will take him in your place, and your transgression of the law shall be forgotten.”

  Hope flared in the peasant’s eyes, but only for a moment. Then his shoulders slumped, a shadow seemed to pass across his face, and with a look of bitter resignation, shook his head.
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  “I cannot help you, Captain.”

  “Cannot, or will not?”

  “It is all the same,” the peasant said, almost weeping.

  “The choice is yours. Perhaps interrogation back at headquarters will change your mind.” Ambika turned to the young soldiers standing nearest him and said, “Arrest this man. And burn his house.”

  The peasant wailed as he was dragged toward the trucks. Behind Ambika, windows shattered and a soldier disappeared inside the captive’s shabby home. When he emerged a moment later, dark smoke billowed out behind him, wafting skyward.

  Ambika waited, let the flames begin to feed, then turned to face the other villagers. Raw hatred radiated from a ring of deadpan faces, showing only in their eyes.

  “I have discovered one felon among you,” Ambika said. “When I have a chance to question him in private, we’ll return to claim the rest. You have one final chance to save yourselves by giving up the traitor Darius Pahlavi.”

  To his left, a young man seemed about to speak, had taken one step forward, when an older peasant struck him from behind. The young man fell, writhing, gasping in pain. Ambika saw the older man clutching a bloody knife.

  A shot rang out, and the older man collapsed, blood spilling from a bullet wound above one eye. Ambika rounded on the soldier who had fired, enraged.

  “Are you insane?” he shouted. “I needed that man alive. Expect a court-martial for this!”

  He snatched the soldier’s rifle, took it with him as he crossed the narrow street to kneel beside the young man who’d been stabbed. “What did you wish to tell me?” Ambika asked.

  Struggling to speak, lips drawn back from his teeth in agony, the wounded man made several gasping, gargling sounds, then hacked a spray of crimson toward the captain’s boots and died.

  Ambika rose and stood above the man his careless soldier had dispatched. Kicking the corpse, he told the crowd, “I want to know where this one lived. No answer? Very well. If no one knows which home was his, we’ll have to burn them all.”

  It took another moment, but a man of middle age stepped forward from the crowd, cheeks glistening with sweat or tears. Captain Ambika couldn’t tell exactly which, nor did he care.

  “You have something to say?” he challenged.

  “There,” the peasant told him, pointing toward a house at the west end of Giri’s single street. “Kalari lived there.”

  “Burn it,” Ambika snapped the order to no one in particular, and waited for his soldiers to respond. When the small house was burning merrily, he called out to the peasant crowd, “We’re going now, but only for a short while. When we come again, all of your rotten secrets will be known.”

  BOLAN STOOD IN THE MIDDLE of the road, smoke drifting lazily around him from the ruins of two homes. Giri’s inhabitants had fought with pails of sand and water to prevent the flames from spreading and had won that fight, but at a cost.

  The bodies—Bhaskar Kolda and Asad Kalari—had been carried off the street and out of sight. Bolan could feel the villagers staring at him with frank hostility, while he stood waiting for Pahlavi to complete his whispered conversation with Rohin Saldani and a couple of the other elders. Finally, the young man shook their hands and doubled back to join him.

  “I have promised to return,” Pahlavi said, “and help rebuild the homes that were destroyed. It may not matter, though. The soldiers threatened to return and raze the village once they’re finished questioning the prisoner.”

  “You know him, too?”

  Pahlavi nodded. “All my life.”

  “You want to get him back?” Bolan asked. “If we play our cards right, maybe we can fix it so the soldiers don’t come back.”

  Those soldiers, anyway, he thought, but kept the negative addendum to himself.

  “What must we do?” Pahlavi asked.

  “First thing, find out where someone stashed our wheels,” Bolan replied.

  Their car had not been visible when Bolan and Pahlavi left the root cellar, and he saw nowhere in the town that the searchers could have missed.

  “I already have that answer,” Pahlavi said. “There’s a gully not so far away, choked full of weeds and shrubbery. Mr. Saldani hid it there, while we were underground.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. “So, we get it back and follow the parade. I don’t suppose you’d know a shortcut that would put us out in front of them? Something our car could handle without four-wheel drive?”

  Pahlavi smiled, a weak effort, but better than the bleak expression he’d been wearing since they’d left the cellar hideout. “There is one way, yes,” he answered. “Whether we can do it fast enough to intercept them is another question. And once doing so…”

  He didn’t need to finish the thought. There was a decent chance that catching up to the retreating soldiers could be suicide. Pahlavi thought he owed his people something, though, and Bolan didn’t feel inclined to disagree.

  “All right,” he said again. “Let’s roll.”

  11

  Captain Ambika felt no remorse. Driving away from Giri, leaving two men dead and two homes burned, he wondered if he might have been too lenient. Still, if he’d shot more peasants, torched more homes without direct proof of involvement in some criminal activity, there was a chance—however slim—that his reaction might have had some adverse impact on the course of his career.

  If nothing else, he had fulfilled the expectation of his colonel. He was bringing back a prisoner, albeit one detained for a relatively trivial offense. Perhaps they would get lucky, though, and scientific tests would trace the confiscated rifle to the slaughter of his comrades. Then Ambika’s star would truly shine, and he’d be sent back to the village with an overwhelming force of men and armored vehicles to arrest the population en masse or kill them all and burn their village to the ground.

  In either case, a victory like that would be a giant feather in Ambika’s cap. He could be credited with solving an explosive mystery and bringing terrorists to bloody justice, all at the same time. Short of a combat field promotion during wartime, he was unaware of any other Pakistani army officer who had done more within a shorter time to help his country and himself.

  Ambika caught himself building castles in the air and was instantly embarrassed. He swiped away the mental image of medals and parades with a wave of his hand. His driver saw it, peering at him closely.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a fly. Drive on and watch the road.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Watch that, Ambika warned himself. If rumors spread that he was “funny,” prone to strange gestures and private conversations with himself, he’d soon wind up in therapy and out of uniform completely. There was no road to advancement through insanity, unless the crazy one controlled a nation and could write his strange whims into law.

  Not yet, Ambika thought, and stopped the budding smile before it cracked his grim facade.

  The rugged hills flanking the highway cast long shadows in his path, reminding the captain that nightfall would soon be upon them. It had been a long day, but very productive. He had a story and a prisoner for Colonel Dalal. If ordered to remain on duty through the night, Ambika was prepared to do so. He would even drive back out to Giri for a dawn raid on the traitor’s nest, if that was his assignment.

  He’d do anything, in fact, to earn the rank and the authority he craved.

  Ambika checked his watch and saw that they were still two hours from headquarters. He had considered calling in, to tell Dalal that he was coming with a prisoner, but then decided nothing would be gained by that. There was no urgency, no other identified offenders still at large for other squads to chase.

  He would arrive, present the gift, then wait as patiently as possible for his superior’s reaction. With a little luck—

  Ambika heard a sound like a backfire, maybe from the jeep behind them, but a backfire wouldn’t crack the windshield of Ambika’s vehicle or make his driver slump over the steering wheel. Blood seeped f
rom a throat wound while the driver gasped and gargled, raising both hands from the wheel to grasp his ruptured neck.

  “For God’s sake, don’t!” Ambika shouted.

  Ambika lunged to grasp the steering wheel, just as a second bullet pierced the windshield, punching through his driver’s head. The man slid lower in his seat, his right foot jammed on the accelerator even as he died.

  The jeep surged forward, revving hard until its lifeless driver failed to shift the gears. Ambika couldn’t reach the clutch pedal, but he hung on to the steering wheel as if his life depended on it.

  Which, he well knew, it might.

  Swerving, the jeep veered off the road, rumbled across the shoulder and began to climb the nearest hill. Ambika knew he couldn’t make it, not with a dead man’s feet blocking the accelerator and the clutch, but he fought hard to keep the vehicle from turning over as it climbed, still veering sharply to the left.

  No brakes, no shift, and in the background he could hear more gunfire, automatic bursts, as the column was engaged. Ambika didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but he knew it was bad.

  And it was only getting worse.

  The jeep stalled with a growling splutter, died, then started retreating, rolling slowly backward, down the hill.

  Directly toward the narrow road that had become a battlefield.

  BOLAN SHOT the driver of the lead jeep first in the hope his vehicle would stall and block the road, but somehow it had veered away and left the highway unimpeded, forcing him to try again.

  It had been touch-and-go, racing the army column on a shortcut that Pahlavi had suggested, cutting corners while the main road curved away and back again to reach its destination. There were times when he thought his rented sedan would shake itself to pieces, but it put them on the spot ahead of their intended targets, leaving Bolan and Pahlavi separated from the main road by a range of rocky hills.