Skysweeper

by Don Pendleton

  "A few blocks of C-4 plastique."

  "Give me half an hour. Right back here." He started to leave, then made a phone call and talked quietly. When he hung up he pursed his lips. "You know this is a setup, don't you? They are using the girl to draw you out."

  "I know. She may already be dead, but I have to check it out."

  "I'm going along to help."

  "No. You've got to get Operation Skysweeper finished. I'll see you right here in thirty minutes."

  Bolan got a map from Dr. Peterson's secretary and studied it. The location was north, twenty miles past Trona at the edge of the Panamint Range, which was partway into Death Valley.

  The meeting point was a fork in a desert dirt road well off the highway, the voice on the phone had said. There was a highway sign marked Panamint Valley pointing toward it, which Bolan could not miss.

  An ideal spot for a transfer, Bolan thought. Impossible to plant a squad since the kidnappers were already on site. But from sitting in the desert for a few hours they would be tired, hot and, he hoped, exhausted.

  A plan was starting to form in his mind. By the time Dr. Peterson returned, it was fleshed out ready to go.

  The physicist had a barracks bag containing the grenade launcher, ammunition and explosives that Bolan had requested. The scientist's eyes fell on the map.

  "Mack, I know that area, right next to Death Valley park. A hell of a rugged place. You go in by car and I'll take the chopper I have available, and we'll coordinate our hit on the site. We'll both have two-way radios I can get..."

  Bolan held up his hand.

  "Thanks, but this one is mine. I didn't get the girl involved in the game, but I didn't keep her safe after I tried, so it's my responsibility. If I don't come back your project rolls along. If you end up with a pair of .45 slugs in your brain, there will be a real hassle to finish the work here. No arguments."

  As he talked Bolan checked the launcher. The 40mm grenades were the right type. He shook hands with Dr. Peterson. Then Bolan was gone.

  The barracks bag was safely stowed in the trunk of Bolan's rented Ford. At the gate there was a friendly wave and he was away.

  It took him nearly an hour along Highway 178, then north toward Trona, and at last he shook out the twenty miles to the sign that said Panamint Valley. He saw an unused trail that angled away to the east into the desert and dry hills toward Death Valley. Bolan stopped and considered the situation. He had no way of knowing how far it would be to the fork in the road.

  The Panamint Valley road was little more than a scratch through the arid terrain, with perhaps a road-scraper blade sent over it once a year after the cloudbursts.

  The moment he got on the dirt trail he would send up a plume of dust behind his rig that could be spotted for twenty miles. There was no way around it. For just a second he realized he was dealing with professionals. They knew their business. He hoped they underestimated him, and he would give them every chance of doing so.

  He had the silenced Beretta 93-R hidden under a lightweight sport jacket. He nosed off the road into the dirt track toward the target valley. Bolan stopped there and took his weapons case out of the trunk. He assembled the M-16 and attached the grenade launcher. Then he fitted an HE round into the tube. Next he slapped a fresh magazine into the weapon and laid it on the seat. Six of the HE rounds came in a small plastic vest pack that could be slipped over the neck and arms. This he placed beside the M-16.

  Bolan knew he was early. He moved down the road at ten miles per hour and checked behind him. There was a telltale plume of dust even at that rate, so he pushed down the pedal and hit twenty-five, which was maximum without shaking the car to bits.

  The road went straight for six miles, with a road sign at each mile marker designating the "four mile road" and the "five mile road." Only there were no crossroads, not even a trail.

  The route began to climb slightly. As he looked ahead he saw the afternoon sun glinting off some highly polished metal. Chrome? He couldn't tell how far away it was. Bolan knew distances on the barren desert were difficult to estimate.

  He passed the ten-mile marker and then ahead he could see the shimmering dark blob of two cars. He guessed he was still a quarter of a mile away, and instead of slowing down he gunned the Ford, jolting unmercifully over the rough road. He approached the other vehicles at fifty miles per hour and roared right past them.

  As he sped by he heard a shout and a shot fired, but nothing hit his rig. Then he eased off the gas, slowed, turned around and came down the slight incline with only his eyes showing over the driver's window. He had hunched down so he could work the brake with one hand.

  He stopped thirty yards away, slammed the lever to neutral and pulled on the emergency brake but left the motor running.

  "Where is she?" Bolan bellowed.

  A black man, stripped to the waist, emerged from behind the first car, a gray Lincoln Continental.

  "Right here, man. That little woman is safe and sound. Got the cash?"

  "Not yet. Show me the girl, I mean in the road, and I want to see the other gunmen you have behind those wheels."

  "A cautious man."

  "Live longer that way."

  The black waved at the car farthest from him and Malia got out slowly, rubbing her wrists as if they had been tied. Bolan had his hand on the M-16, the snout resting on the door padding, ready to fire.

  "Now the gunmen, all of them."

  The black laughed and shrugged. He waved again and three men stood, one on each side of the other car, the third next to the Lincoln. Two were Mexicans, one was white. They all held handguns.

  In a sweeping glance Bolan saw the road that forked to the left. When it had been made, the road grader or a bulldozer had created a minor ditch for drainage. A new plan came to him in a heartbeat.

  "Come on, mother. Where's the money?" the black shouted.

  Bolan had put three hundred dollars' worth of twenties together and bound them with a rubber band.

  He unlatched the Ford's door and swung it out, then with his left hand he held the bundle up so they could see it. His right hand still caressed the M-16.

  "All here. And this is the deal. I'll throw the package up the road. The woman picks it up and tosses it to you. Then she comes over to my wheels."

  The black man grinned. "Sounds fair, man. I don't want no trouble, and the brothers don't want no mess. Clean and easy. Let her fly."

  Bolan wondered if they would try a round each when he lifted up to throw, but at ninety feet it was one hell of a long pistol shot. He lobbed the bundle exactly where he wanted to, in the ditch across the little road from the men behind the cars. It hit the edge of the trail and skidded into the depression. It had to be deep enough to protect one small woman's body.

  "What the.?.."

  "So I'm not a big-league pitcher. Send the girl to get it."

  "Just stay cool, everybody," the black said. He motioned for his prisoner to move, and Malia walked to the ditch, grabbed the money and looked at Bolan.

  "Throw it to them just as we agreed," he said, hoping that she could figure out the tactic he was trying. She flung the money toward the Lincoln.

  Almost at the same instant Bolan lifted the M-16 and fired the grenade launcher at the black man. Then the Executioner turned the M-16 toward the other men and triggered a six-shot burst.

  The HE grenade exploded just behind the first car where the black ran for protection. The Executioner heard a scream and emptied the rest of the clip. Then he ducked below the dash and slammed in a new magazine. Two slugs pierced the Ford's windshield, shattering the glass and thudding dully into the backrest of Bolan's seat.

  Bolan looked over the door to where the girl lay. She was face down in the ditch, her hands over her head.

  He saw one head poking out from behind the first car and Bolan sent three 5.56mm whizzers toward it. Two creased the side of the car and slanted away. The third bullet missed the car, but plowed into the gunman's right eye, almost shearing off
half his face.

  Bolan heard the engine of the other car roar to life, then die. He slipped another grenade into the cylinder, lifted the weapon and fired. The round went wide. The engine caught, the car backed around. Bolan reloaded and triggered the grenade launcher. This one hit the other car's front tire and exploded, the concussion momentarily lifting the vehicle, the heavy shrapnel shredding the wheel, mangling the fender and blowing off the hood.

  Bolan fired two more HE rounds at the tail end of the Lincoln. The second grenade impacted the gas tank, setting the car on fire.

  Only the crackling of the flames disturbed the peaceful Mojave desert. Then a human voice intruded.

  "Dammit, I give up. No more fucking grenades!" The black leader stood, his hands in the air, his right arm and a slash across one thigh dripping blood.

  "Where are the other three men?" the Executioner called, still not showing himself. He glanced at Malia. She was in the same position.

  "Wasted, man. You win, now give me a ride into town to the damn hospital."

  "Did you rape Malia?"

  "What difference does that make now?"

  "Did you?" Bolan pressed.

  "Well, she didn't exactly agree. But you know how it is with these ladies. Say no when they mean yes."

  "Damn right. I know."

  Bolan triggered a six-round burst. He saw holes appear in the man's chest, surprise and anger on his face as he jolted backward and writhed in the desert for a moment, then lay still.

  "Stay down, Malia!" Bolan shouted. "You okay?"

  She turned and looked at him. "Yes."

  Bolan had a fresh clip in and a grenade in the launcher chamber as he zigzagged from his car to the Continental. One man lay in the driver's seat, a fatal shrapnel wound just over his nose. The second man lay behind the car with three M-16 rounds in his chest. A third corpse lay halfway to the second car, which was still burning. The Executioner ran back to Malia, helped her up and they dashed to his Ford. The windshield was completely shattered, but little other damage showed.

  "Let's get out of here before some curious tourist comes in to see what's burning.''

  He floored the accelerator, rattling over the rutted desert track until they reached the highway.

  Traffic was light on the road that connected Trona with parts of Death Valley.

  When they turned onto the state highway heading south, Malia started to cry. She leaned against him and sobbed into his shoulder. He had seen it happen many times. Witnessing sudden death is a jolting, terrible experience for most people. Ten miles down the road she leaned back and wiped her eyes.

  "Hey, it's over. My only concern was to get you out of the line of fire. You were a professional. You did exactly what I wanted you to."

  "I think I better confess that I messed up," Malia said softly. "I didn't trust the motel phone and went out to use the pay phone across the street. Evidently somebody saw me. Those men... back there said they had checked every motel for ten miles before they found me."

  "It doesn't matter now."

  "Still, I admit I fouled up. It won't go in my report, but you know. Now, tell me about the test. How did it go, and what happens next?"

  "The shot went perfectly. They are getting a handle on the dispersant problem. Kara Ralston was one of Smith's people. Her number was on that list in the safe. She's still deeply involved. I had a date with her at four but I'll miss it. But we still have another problem. Where do we hide you?"

  "Another motel?"

  "No, too obvious."

  They had entered the village of Trona and Bolan pulled in at a filling station and used the telephone to call Dr. Peterson in his office. He talked with the scientist for a few minutes, then returned to the car.

  "For the next few days you are going to stay at the Unmarried Women Officers' Quarters in the Naval Weapons Center."

  One hour later Bolan and the DIA operative pulled into the center. Dr. Peterson escorted Malia to her new quarters and showed her the operation. There was a separate mess, and she'd be allowed to use the base facilities. But he cautioned her to stay in the room as much as possible.

  Back in his office, Dr. Peterson motioned Bolan to a chair.

  "We're compressing our time schedule. Dr. Ludlow and I have eliminated a week of testing. We both agree there is no need for it. We have corrected the dispersal problem as best we can without some new breakthrough."

  "And all this means..."

  "We've set our final test for tomorrow. Vandenberg Air Base will have a missile shot ready for us somewhere around noon. We're going to try for an air-to-air hit on a missile that will be more than three hundred miles high and two hundred miles downrange over the Pacific Ocean."

  13

  Mack Bolan listened to Dr. Peterson as they sat in his office at the center.

  "So you expect this shot tomorrow to be the most important test of the series?"

  "That's right. And I don't think the project is safe yet. I wonder what the hell the Smith crew of KGB pawns will try tomorrow?''

  The Executioner stood and paced around the room. "They tried to hit us from inside and it didn't work. I'm sure they had only one man on the plane crew. Looks as if the only logical move would be to try for some kind of hit at the shot from outside."

  Dr. Peterson scratched his chin. "Outside the plane?"

  Bolan nodded. "If they could disable your KC-135 it would delay the shot.''

  Dr. Peterson picked up the phone and ordered the guards tripled on the Stratotanker. Then he hung up and looked at Bolan.

  "Chase," the Executioner said. "You should have two Tomcats flying cover for you. They can slow down to your speed and monitor the air space around you all the time.''

  Dr. Peterson nodded and picked up the phone again. Two minutes later he smiled.

  "Done. We'll have two F-14 Tomcats in the air flanking us the moment we get to ten thousand feet."

  "What about your crew?"

  "I have a good crew for tomorrow. Some of the people rotate. If any of them report in sick, I'll be damned careful who I pick as a replacement."

  Bolan felt an old tingle. An instinct, a second sight, but Bolan had been using it for years to stay alive. It came again and he frowned slightly. Then he pounded one fist into his other open palm.

  "The attack must come from outside. They know we will tighten up security inside so their backup will be an outside shot."

  "Vandenberg doesn't matter. If their missile doesn't track right or blows up on the pad, we just postpone, it isn't a negative for the program. So they will hit us here. Where is the damn hole in our defenses?"

  Bolan looked out the window, saw a plane lifting off from Armitage Field in the distance. A smaller form moved with it for a while, then pulled up and hovered. He snapped his fingers.

  "Dr. Peterson. You said ten thousand feet is where the Tomcats will start to give you coverage. Our hole is low-level protection. From ground zero up to ten thousand. It would have to be a business jet once you got up a few thousand feet. But at low level almost anything could do you in, a rifle, a ground-to-air shoulder-mounted missile or an armed helicopter. Did you say you had a chopper available?"

  "Yes, but it's unarmed."

  "Could you get an Air Force Cobra gunship up here by morning?"

  "We have quite a few Air Force ships here, but no reason for a Cobra. Doubt if I could get one moved in here that soon. That would take interservice work. Tough."

  "Forget it. I'll fly cover for you in the chopper. I'll be in the air just before you take off. Tell your pilot to climb at maximum rate to get away from any potential groundfire."

  "Captain Cranston flew in Nam, he'll put some moves on anyone on the ground. But what can you do in an unarmed bird?"

  "I won't be unarmed. I still have that barracks bag of yours. Let's go out to the hangar and check on the guards around that plane."

  An hour later they had been challenged three times trying to walk toward the KC-135. Once, an officer raced up in a jeep
bristling with soldiers packing loaded M-16s.

  Satisfied, the two men returned to the Bachelor Officers' Quarters where Dr. Peterson had arranged for two rooms for the night. After the Executioner had settled into his quarters he dialed the room where Malia was staying.

  She answered on the second ring.

  "Mack, good to hear from you. Nothing's happened and I still want to do something."

  "We went over that. Just sit tight. You did all the preliminary work right through to this point. Now your cover is blown, so you can't expose yourself. Happens."

  "I never did thank you for saving my life out there in the desert."

  "There'll be enough time for that."

  Bolan hung up and stared into the darkness of the Spartan room. His target was still the KGB, but in the meantime he had inherited this babysitting job with Dr. Peterson. He had to dig into the conspiracy and find the shadow agent, and whoever was behind it all.

  The Executioner had to find them.

  He had made a vow to April Rose when he cradled her in his arms after the attack on Stony Man Farm.

  His mission in this life was to stamp out as much of the evil in the world as he could. The Mafia, the terrorists, and now the ultimate in human degradation and inhumanity to man, the KGB.

  He would enter each confrontation with a desperation that came from knowing he was right. He was on a collision course with eternity, he knew that. But while he drew breath he would never surrender in his single-minded purpose to erode the dark forces that motivated Animal Man.

  Bolan stood for everything that the KGB tried to suppress. There was no doubt in his mind that the total domination of the world was the base purpose of the KGB and the Russian dictatorship.

  He closed his eyes and for just a moment he felt the cold, still form of April Rose.

  Enough! Time to turn it off and get some sleep so he could function flat-out tomorrow. He had a hunch it was going to be a crucial day.

  Deliberately he turned over, and tried to clear his mind. Dark images swirled, merged, smoothed and mingled with black on black.