Orbiting Omega

by Don Pendleton

  "Not as long as I'm not a prisoner and can keep my gear."

  "No sweat. If anyone asks, I gave you the hardware." He shut down the bird. "Let's go get this over with. I really don't like generals."

  The general was busy in his small, hot tent. He was pleased with the radio report of Yamaguchi's death, and it took only five minutes for Bolan to explain what had happened. He slid over the explanation why he and his wife were in the area. He said simply that Yamaguchi and his army had challenged them and refused to let them past and that had made Bolan mad.

  "Hell, General. We heard on our radio what was going on and found out that this guy had something to do with it, so when he tried to get away, I had to try to stop him."

  Leslie corroborated the end game and when the general looked at Yamaguchi's body, he turned away in surprise, shook his head quickly, and dismissed Bolan and Leslie.

  The pilot breathed a sigh of relief and relaxation. "Always glad to get that part over. Now, Dr. Dunning was not in too good shape when we got to him. There was more than just a nasty bump on the head. He said he'd get the MIRVs back to their proper owners after he rested for a couple of hours. He slept the rest of the night after we brought him in. Your wife said she was a nurse and would sit up with him in case he needed anything."

  Bolan tensed. "Why don't we go and see them now?"

  "Uh-huh. They're right up there at the side of the valley. That tent under the trees."

  They walked to the tent and the sentry on duty nodded at Leslie and let them inside. The tent had an interior screen, two folding chairs and behind the screen, two cots. No one was in the tent.

  Leslie's face flared with alarm. Bolan held a finger to his lips for quiet.

  "What the hell?" Leslie said.

  Bolan took him to the back of the tent. "My 'wife' is really a KGB agent. She must be trying to kidnap Dr. Dunning with his expertise about satellites and our missile defenses." Bolan's voice fell to a whisper. "Let's talk normally and go out as if nothing has happened. Then we try to find them. She can't be far if he's in bad shape."

  "You must be CIA. Sure, whatever you say."

  They conversed in normal voices for a while and went out saying goodbye to Dr. Dunning so the guard could hear them.

  Outside Leslie spoke to the guard. "Dr. Dunning is going to take another nap. See that no one disturbs him for at least two hours. If the general yells, tell him I'll be glad to talk about the medical problems we could have here."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Leslie," the guard said.

  The Executioner and the FBI agent wandered back to a smaller tent where Leslie stepped inside and came out with an M-16 and four magazines. He nodded toward the woods. They walked down the edge of the valley and stepped into the brush and trees. Bolan took the lead, then doubled back to the rear of the medical tent. He quickly found signs of passage. It looked as if someone was dragging something, perhaps a foot.

  "Did Dr. Dunning have a stroke, anything like that? Could he walk?"

  "Last time I saw him he could walk. Maybe he's putting up something of a struggle," Leslie said.

  They moved through the trees. It was a simple trail to follow, which worried Bolan for more than one reason. They had angled away from the upward slope to the trailer. Instead, they worked around the side of the valley, moving a little deeper into the brush. At a more heavily timbered section, the trail turned uphill and went over the low ridge and started into the next small valley.

  "What the hell is she doing?" Leslie asked.

  Bolan shook his head. He had shifted the Childers shotgun to full auto and held it ready.

  "She must have a contact out here or can call one in. She had a little radio, and I never thought to check it. The thing received standard bands, but right now I'm sure it was more than it appeared. Probably she can reach her shadow operative with the transceiver. She was on a high-level operation, so she must have backup."

  "Let's hope we can get there first," the FBI man said. "What are the odds?"

  "How long has she been gone?"

  "I talked with her three hours ago."

  "Lots of luck," Bolan said.

  They trailed faster. A half hour later they came to the bottom of the hill and swung along the side of a small, open valley.

  Both men remained motionless, listening. Bolan pointed and they spread apart twenty yards, with the Executioner at the fringe of the trees around the pasturelike clearing. Slowly they worked forward, keeping each other in sight, moving by hand signals, crouching low when they stopped to listen.

  Bolan heard a cough ahead. He waved to Leslie and mimicked the sound. They advanced. Forty yards farther along the fringes, the Executioner saw a man standing beside a tree looking in the same direction Bolan was moving. The Executioner hurried to a big tree that would hide him if the lookout turned this way.

  Bolan waited thirty seconds, then looked around the base of the ponderosa where he squatted. The spotter could have been a hunter, except he carried a submachine gun and wore a determined expression. Bolan pulled the Childers up and stormed around the tree, the muzzle covering the guard who saw him coming too late to jerk up his weapon.

  "Quiet!" the Executioner growled. "One sound and you get a belly full of double-ought buck!" The man was in his thirties, a veteran. He glared, but remained silent. "Put the chatter gun on the ground, quietly, then stretch out on your face, hands over your head." The man did as ordered.

  Bolan knelt with his knee in the middle of the man's back. Leslie came up and covered them, his M-16 ready.

  "Where are they?" the Executioner asked. The man did not respond. Bolan grabbed the lookout's hand and bent one finger back until the man groaned. "One more chance. Where are they? Another ten seconds and I'm going to break your finger. Then we'll go for another one."

  "They're all up ahead about two hundred yards."

  "Who and how many?"

  "Three and the chopper. Pilot, the woman and a scientist. They're almost ready to leave."

  "Who are you?"

  "Local guide."

  "KGB?"

  "Hell, no. They hired me to find this valley, and that's all I know."

  "Maybe." Bolan tied his hands behind his back with some of the monofilament fishing line and bound his ankles. "If you're telling the truth, somebody will be back to get you. Otherwise, you'll starve to death in about three weeks."

  Bolan and the FBI man moved forward, spread again, alert, ready. Before they got there they heard an engine start.

  Bolan knew it would take at least three minutes to get a cold chopper engine warmed up and ready. They both ran. The pain in Bolan's leg stabbed him with every stride, but he kept charging ahead. They both broke into the clearing to make better lime, and saw the bird just over a small rise.

  "Shoot for the tail assembly and the engines!" Bolan shouted. "We can't let them take off!"

  They were still fifty yards away when the four-place chopper began to rise slowly.

  Bolan closed the gap and lifted the shotgun. With the shot spread he would have to be closer to keep from killing everyone in the bird. He fired one just ahead of the Plexiglass bubble and saw two slugs star the glass.

  Leslie used his M-16, powering two 4-round bursts into the main engine. Bolan ran faster. At thirty yards he fired again, aiming for the engine, hoping the spread was not as wide as he feared. He blasted three rounds without letting up the trigger. The chopper kept climbing.

  Bolan held the weapon sideways and fired three rounds. The slugs bore into the main engine compartment. The M-16 sang its death song as Leslie emptied a magazine and changed to a new one.

  The Executioner ran again, getting closer, holding the weapon more firmly this time, knowing where it was moving. He put six rounds into the chopper's main engine compartment and heard the engine stutter and then die. The big rotors slowed and came to a stop. The bird landed heavily on its skids.

  Bolan kept running, saw that the door was not open and that there were no window areas for fields
of fire. He slammed against the side of the chopper and leveled the scatter gun at the door.

  "Open up!" Bolan bellowed. "We've got you zeroed in from three sides. Come out one at a time. If Dr. Dunning dies, the rest of you are turkey meat. Move it, now!"

  Bolan slammed his open hand against the fuselage metal, and he saw the door unlatch. The panel swung outward and to Bolan's surprise, Dr. Dunning stepped out and held the door. There was no obvious disability Bolan could see.

  "Gentlemen, thank you for your timely arrival. I kept telling them I hadn't even purchased a ticket for this flight."

  A long, shapely leg came out of the doorway, then the rest of Kitty. She was wrapping a bandage around her left arm.

  "Kitty, what a surprise!" the Executioner said.

  "Bastard! No shotgun can fire that many times."

  "I see it nicked you. Where's the pilot?"

  "Dead. Your rounds also nicked him. I had to push Dr. Dunning to the floor."

  "Thanks. You just saved yourself one MIRV in outer space. Now drop the purse."

  She did.

  Leslie came up cautiously, went through the chopper door, then came out a minute later.

  "He bought the farm. Mack. No way this bird will fly again. Looks like it's walk time."

  "No way. Rest time. Everybody under the trees. Then you can use that radio in your pocket and call in friendly air." Bolan looked at the scientist. "Dr. Dunning, are you okay? You did a fine job of marking a trail for us to follow. How did you work that?"

  The man who knew more about U.S. missiles and missile use and defense than any man alive chuckled. "Quite simple, really. I faked a small stroke, claiming my right side didn't work. They all bought it. I wanted some time to sort this out."

  "Had enough time, Dr. Dunning?" Leslie asked.

  "Good Lord, yes! When I knew for sure this attractive woman was KGB, that made up my mind. We'll make them pay a high price to get their MIRV back. I hope to confer with the President shortly. I think I can convince him to take all of our MIRVs out of the heavens. That was my only purpose in the first place. I'm not sure that I've even broken any laws.

  "I can negotiate that with the President. I see no hurry in turning the keys to the access codes back to the governments. No rush at all. And I'll bet the President will agree with me."

  Leslie cleared his throat. "Mack, it's time I called in."

  "I figured you would. One request. The little lady and I have something to settle — an old appointment you might say. Unfinished business."

  "Five minutes, while I talk to the general."

  Bolan nodded, took Kitty by the arm and walked her down the edge of the timber where they sat on a downed log.

  "You lose, KGB. I win."

  "It seems so. You will turn me over to the FBI?"

  "It's Leslie's bust. He helped stop you. Let him have the credit."

  "Generous of you. I do have something to tell you. I have been halfway in love with you since we met. Perhaps I have lived here too long. Ten years now. Maybe we could make that halfway affair into an all-the-way one once more." She leaned toward him, her eyes closed, her lips slightly open.

  Bolan lifted his brows, leaned toward her and caught the motion of her right hand. It darted to her open-neck blouse faster than he thought possible and came away with a three-inch knife, which she jammed toward his chest, lunging forward with all her weight behind it.

  His one brief glimpse of her snaking hand gave him time to move to the left and roll off the log. She leaped toward him, the knife tracking for his heart.

  The M-16 chattered six times and five of the slugs caught Kitty in the chest, throwing her over the log into the grass. Bolan looked up at the FBI agent who held the rifle. Then the Executioner jumped over the log and knelt beside her.

  Kitty was still alive. He held her head in his lap. No one dying should be alone. Her eyes flickered, came open.

  "Just a scratch," she said, her voice husky.

  "Of course. Better luck next time."

  "No next time for me." She coughed and red smeared her lips and cheek. "I really did love you there at the end. You are the best I've ever seen. You should have been on our side."

  She coughed again and trembled. Watching him, she continued, "It was a good fight all the way. Somehow I knew it would end this way. Only I thought you would pull the trigger."

  She shuddered and cried out in agony, then the spasm of pain passed and she smiled.

  Soon the pain was more than she could stand. Her head rolled in his lap and her eyes blinked open for the last time.

  The Executioner looked up at Leslie. The FBI man walked closer.

  "It wasn't your fault, Mack Jones. She was dead from the moment I knew she was KGB. When she tried for you with the knife, she just gave me an easy excuse. Want to take a ride?"

  "No. Tell them I got lost in the big shootout. It's a nice day. I think I'll walk. If I go back with you there'll be too many questions."

  "I figured. I know you aren't CIA. I checked. I don't know who you are, but I'm damn glad you were here." Leslie waited a minute. "Anything I can do for you?"

  Bolan shook his head, looked once more at Kitty, now so white and growing cold, just the way April Rose had. Everyone looked the same dead. He turned and walked away across the meadow, away from it all.

  Epilogue

  Nearly two thousand miles west of Washington, Mack Bolan leaned back in a wooden chair against the porch wall of a general store. He looked at a pair of elderly men already in position and handed each a bottle of Pepsi Cola.

  "Morning," Bolan said.

  The men exchanged suspicious glances.

  "You're late for the third time this week," one said, tipping the soft drink.

  "Damn. Hope you ain't gonna run off at the mouth the way you been doing," the other old man said with a sly smile.

  "Nope," Bolan said. He sipped the cola, tipped the San Diego Chargers football cap down over his eyes and relaxed.

  This one was finished. After Kitty died he had walked back to his rental car and stowed his weapons in the trunk. For a day he sat in the mountains and treated his shot-up leg with antibiotics. He dressed the wound again, and saw it begin to heal. Then he drove into Clints Well, sat in the sun outside the general store, and every day since had bought the old men colas.

  The old-timer nearest Bolan winked at his cohort.

  "Say, stranger, you think it's gonna rain any more this month and what for if it does? You reckon the rain will hurt the rhubarb?"

  "Nope," the Executioner said, without opening his eyes.

  "Lord a'mighty. I knew it. There he goes again, just talking his fool head off like we didn't have nothing else to do but sit here and listen to him carry on. I tell you it shore ain't like it used to be. I mean, a man had to earn his right to sit in these chairs. Now just any shoot-off-the-mouth who wants to can come in and sit and talk your leg off. I had me a guy who come by here last summer. City feller he was, and he got to talking and there just warn't no stopping him. I told him..."

  The Executioner relaxed totally. He nodded, listening to the old men talk. Then his chin fell to his chest and he slept, at peace for a short time, an extremely short time.

  The Turning Point

  It seems aeons ago now. yet I can recall vividly the total upheaval of emotions that pervaded my world when I first learned of the deaths of my parents and sister, and the critical condition of my younger brother.

  So many gray areas have been clarified now in my mind that I feel compelled to chronicle these thoughts.

  I pleaded with the base-camp chaplain to tell me the details surrounding my family's tragedy. Why my family? Why me? These questions echoed through my mind. But I knew the clergyman would not have any answers for me.

  "Listen, my son. These are the questions that are never answered. Any attempt at an explanation on my pan would be trite. Dare I suggest fate? Their lime had come? I really don't know.

  "What I do know is that this event is
part of the master plan of your life. So I would implore you to try and understand that it's not so much an issue of the tragedy as much as the inextricability of your future with their past. Because I do believe that the path of your life has been clearly demarcated. I feel that you have been given control of your destiny."

  I left the cleric's tent, thinking that his words did not make a whole lot of sense for me. Nor did they diminish the unbearable sadness and loneliness that now bore down on me with crushing force.

  That night I sat on my bunk, questioning my very existence and circumstances outside my control that had brought me to Vietnam. Was I fighting to make the world a better place for everyone, indeed, for my family? God knows they never had too much in their sorry lives. Perhaps only love. And somehow in those hard times, love was just not enough. Would that I were there to keep them from harm.

  I rummaged through my Army trunk and found the letters from my sister, Cindy. As I fingered the correspondence. I tried to picture Cindy's lovely face in my mind. But the image was as blurred as the words that swam before my eyes.

  Cold dread clutched my gut as I tried .to understand the powerful force that had choreographed the interplay of lives-mine and my family's — some 8.000 miles apart.

  Did it mean that a nail was inexorably hammered into my relatives' coffins each time I squeezed the trigger of my rifle? Who directed that scenario? Was it God. or Satan? I would have no way of knowing until I returned home.

  Those were the thoughts that assailed me then. They haunt me still, but in retrospect I feel free of any blame or guilt. Because today I understand the naivete of my ruminations in those dark hours. Just as I now understand the meaning behind the chaplain "s words. My destiny is justice.

  Mack Bolan