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CHAPTER TWO
Norwegian Sea
Dropping out of the clouds at 990 mph, the five RAF jetfighters streaked toward the Atlantic Ocean until they were skimming along the water barely above the waves. At these speeds, a single twitch of a hand on the joystick or an unexpected thermal, and the multimillion dollar fighters would go straight into the drink. However, the risk was worth it. At this height, the jets would be practically invisible to any ship’s radar until it was far too late and they were in camera range.
“Wing Commander Lovejoy, this is Vivatar,” a nasally voice said into the earphones of the pilots. The RAF controller was using the code name for the local UK air base. “Permission to fire has been granted by the PM. Repeat, you may arm all weapon systems.”
The Prime minister? Bloody hell. “Roger, Vivatar, confirm,” Captain Adrian “Lovejoy” Scott said into his helmet microphone. “Will recon first for friendlies, then proceed to disable engines. Over.”
“Roger and confirmed, Lovejoy. Good hunting, chaps!”
“Disable their engines, my arse,” Shadowboxer said on the pilot-to-pilot channel. “We should blow the bastards out of the water. Miniature nukes, just how crazy are those damn Yanks?” From the rear seat of the two-man Tornado G1-B, his navigator wholeheartedly agreed.
“Cut the chatter, Shadow,” Lovejoy ordered as the radar beeped and a tiny image appeared on the horizon. Preset, the video screen on the dashboard did a zoom to show a cargo ship bearing Australian markings. “Okay, there it is. I’m going in for an ident, Merlin and Red Cat stay on my wings. Shadowboxer, Crippen, maintain position.”
Dropping out of Mach, the front three delta-shaped Jaguars slowed their speed as the two sleek Tornados folded back their wings to peel away at full throttle, soon reaching Mach 2.5, and began to widely arch around the target zone.
With the cool air whispering past the bubble canopies of the Jaguars, the choppy Norwegian Sea below was sable in color, the dull gray cargo ship almost lost in the sheer vastness of the ocean. Which was probably the whole idea, Lovejoy thought.
Still slowing their approach, the three Jaguars flew past the Tullamarine with their video cameras on automatic. The wide cargo ship was probably moving at its top speed, but compared to the British jetfighters it might as well have been nailed in place.
On the dashboard of his jet fighter, Commander Lovejoy studied the relayed pictures from the belly cameras. The infrared scanners had focused on every human-size thermal and showed only sharp images of armed men on the decks. No women, or children, and nobody who appeared to be held as a hostage. Nothing but a room-by-room search would ever truly show if the vessel was completely clear of innocent people, but this was the best the RAF pilots could do at the moment. With any luck, the crew would surrender and the question of civilians would never arise.
“It’s the Tullamarine, all right,” Red Cat said, slowing even more. “I can read the bow.”
Just then there was a fast series of flashes from all over the cargo ship and a flurry of Stinger missiles rose quickly on smoky contrails.
“Incoming,” Lovejoy reported calmly, dropping chaff and flares in his wake. The other Jaguars duplicated the tactic and the Stingers detonated harmlessly in the open air, the expanding halo of shrapnel never even coming close to the speeding jets.
“Target is hostile. Repeat, target is hostile,” Lovejoy announced grimly, banking into a turn. “Shadow, take out their radar.”
“My pleasure, Lovejoy!”
An ALARM missile streaked inward from out of the distance, locking on the signal of the ship’s radar and striking the rotating dish dead center. The explosion blew it apart and damaged a good section of the bridge, windows shattering for yards in every direction
“Good shooting, Shadow.”
“Roger, Commander!”
The crew was running madly around, firing more Stingers and what the RAF computers soon identified to the pilots as LAW and SRAW rockets. The smugglers seemed to be throwing anything they had into the sky and hoping for a lucky hit.
“Shadow and Crippen, keep those Stingers busy while we hit the engine,” Lovejoy directed, dropping into an attack profile and checking the readouts on his console. Fuel good, weapons hot, no damage.
In tight formation, the five jets streaked toward the cargo ship and cut loose with their cannons, the 27 mm rounds of the two Tornados raking the vessel from bow to stern, the fusillade sending a score of men diving for cover as the fat rounds deeply dented the deck and chewed several lifeboats to pieces.
Meanwhile the Jaguars concentrated on the flat stern of the wide ship, their larger 30 mm rounds stitching lines of holes across the steel achieving full penetration. Soon, smoke was pouring from the portholes and the turbulent wake of the vessel went still, the great props rotating to a slow stop.
“She’s dead in the water, boys,” Lovejoy said, then banked sharply as yet another flight of Stingers rose from the disabled ship. “But we don’t yet have their full cooperation.”
“Let’s give them two deadheads in the north,” Crippen suggested, spreading his wings to match speed with the slower Jaguars. “That’ll put the fear of God into them.”
“Sounds good. Splash two hot pickles,” Love joy stated. “But this is their last chance. Afterward, we start them hard. Dover, take the bow, Red Cat, take the stern. Shadow and I will fly the midship to draw fire. And keep it tight! We want them scared, not dead.”
“Shitless, not spitless,” Red Cat said. “Will comply.”
Flying in a staggered line, the fighters raced past the cargo ship, Crippen and Red Cat cutting loose a pair of Sidewinder missiles. With the guidance systems of the missiles turned off, the deadly heat-seekers simply flew straight past the cargo ship, knifing down into the ocean where they violently exploded. Twin plumes rose to throw a spray of hot salt water across the ship, knocking several of the crew overboard.
“Damn good shooting, boys!” Lovejoy stated, but then, incredibly, saw the stuttering fireflies of small-arms weapons being fired from around the open cargo hatch.
Oh surrender already, blokes.
“What is the ETA for the Harriers, Commander?” Merlin asked, slipping sideways in preparation for another attack run.
“Harriers from the HMS Edward III should be here in five minutes,” Lovejoy replied. “RAN helicopters in fifteen, and a Yank Los-Angeles-class submarine will arrive in about half an hour.”
“Thirty minutes? Too slow, chicken marango!” Red Cat quoted with a laugh. “It’ll be all over by…. Wait, what the hell are they doing? They’re dumping something overboard.”
Once again, fireflies danced along the starboard railing of the ship, but this time the crew pointed their weapons low, as if shooting at the water.
“Did they toss something overboard?” Lovejoy asked, dropping lower for a closer inspection when a blinding white light rose from the cold Norwegian Sea to fill the universe.
The expanding fireball caught Merlin and Shadowboxer, vaporizing the jet fighters instantly. Just far enough away from the blast to survive, it took Crippen and Red Cat a full second to realize what had happened. The pilots shoved their joysticks to the stop as they desperately punched for the sky. Their ships were shielded from the EMP blast of a nuke, so if they could just get outside the thermal flash and…
The physical shock wave of air compressed to the density of stone slammed into the RAF fighters, ripping off their wings, the fuselages crumpling around the men and trapping them inside the smashed jets. The damage activated the ejector seats, crushing the pilots into bloody jelly as the charges hurtled the seats directly into the wadded canopies. A split second later, the ruptured fuel tanks detonated, igniting every missile.
In a strident series of explosions, flaming debris rained from the clear azure sky to vanish below the radioactive waves, where soon there was nothing remaining but the empty, boiling ocean.
42nd Street Subway Station, New York
IT WAS QUIET and dark at Mack Bolan’s end of the old subway platform where graffiti covered the walls. The stairs were closed off with a folding iron grating padlocked into place and the door to the access tunnel was equally protected. Aside from the bank of old pay phones, half of them missing all together, there was nothing and no reason for anybody to go to that section of the subterranean platform so far away from the bright lights and busy crowds. Which made it just about perfect for Bolan’s needs.
“Hold on, Striker,” Brognola said over the receiver. “Another fax is coming. Be right back.”
“I’ll wait,” Bolan said, leaning against the dirty tiled wall. In the Executioner’s opinion, there was no way the Scion would have been caught in that stupid a move.
Bolan’s combat sense flared, and he felt that he was the center of someone’s attention long before hearing the approach of boots on the dirty concrete.
“Hey, you!”
Turning slowly, Mack studied the group of six teenagers coming his way. They were shabbily dressed in torn clothing, but the damage seemed to be more deliberate than natural wear and tear. That assessment was compounded by the fact that they were wearing hundred-dollar sneakers and ten-dollar pants. Two were smoking, one was chewing gum with his mouth open and a third was an acne-scarred kid moving to the beat of the music thumping coming from his stereo headphones, a fancy CD player hanging from a wide leather garrison belt. However, despite their youth, each was smiling at the easy mark standing in front of them, a lone man in a secluded section of the subway without a cop in sight.
Stopping a short distance away, the tallest of the group flicked his wrist and a switchblade snapped into existence at the end of a fist.
“Give us your fucking wallet,” he said, sneering. “That fancy watch, too!”
Still holding the phone receiver, Bolan turned sideways and lashed out with a shoe, the tip stabbing the boy hard in the stomach. The air left his lungs in an explosive grunt and the teen dropped his blade to stagger away, clutching his stomach and looking as if he was about to vomit.
As the rest of the gang stared hard at their intended victim, the Executioner gave them a look from the pits of Hell. The would-be predators shifted uneasily under his stern gaze, and most began to back away, splaying their hands in a sign of surrender.
“What are you waiting for?” the leader snarled, forcing himself to stand upright. “Kill that motherfucker!”
“Striker, you still there?” Brognola said over the receiver.
Bolan grunted in reply, watching the scene play out. How much authority the leader of the street gang held over his people would decide if blood would be spilled. Did they follow him out of simple fear, or respect?
“Hey, mister, we didn’t mean nothing,” a bald kid said, backing away. “Be cool. No corpse, no crime, right?”
“Wrong,” Bolan said, the one word hanging in the air between them like a rumble of thunder.
“You punk-ass bitches leaving?” the leader snarled. “Then I’ll ace him myself!”
Lurching forward, the teen threw an overhand haymaker at Bolan that would have broken bones if it hit. Dropping the receiver, Bolan went under the swing, then stood again with coiled-steel speed, driving two stiff fingers directly in the teenager’s armpit.
Yowling in pain, the gang lord staggered backward, tears running down his face, the arm dangling impotently at his side like meat in a butcher’s window. Bolan swept back his sports jacket to expose the Beretta 93-R riding in a shoulder holster.
“Go home,” he said in a voice from beyond the grave. “Now.”
The rest of the gang simply turned and ran, one of them scrambling so fast he slipped on some trash and almost went over the edge of the platform onto the abandoned tracks below. Only the leader sneered hatefully in reply and staggered away, cradling his damaged arm.
“Striker?” Brognola’s voice called through the receiver in concern.
“Right here, Hal,” Bolan said, drawing the Beretta. Reaching up with the weapon, he used the sound suppressor to smash the exposed fluorescent lights overhead. As darkness crashed around the man, Bolan stepped farther into the shadows and leveled the weapon in preparation.
“Okay, I just got a report from the President. Goddamn it, how did you know?” Brognola said irritably. “The NSA just relayed a message to the Oval Office that the thermal flash of the blast registered only one Zodiac. Not four, just one. Zalhares and his people nuked an entire cargo ship, plus a full wing of RAF jets just to fool us into thinking they were dead.”
There was a movement behind the iron grating covering the sealed-off stairs; the gray muzzle of a gun stuck out a few inches at about waist level. Bolan did nothing, waiting for the kid to make the choice. In a rush of speed, the teenager stepped into plain view holding a Glock .45 pistol. Bolan fired once, the muzzle-flash of the Beretta brightening the shadows as the 9 mm Parabellum round smashed into the Glock. The damaged pistol went flying onto the train tracks with a loud clatter. Cradling his broken hand, the gang lord staggered away, sobbing and cursing at the same time.
“If there hadn’t been a Keyhole satellite sweeping the area, it might have worked, too,” Brognola continued.
“Not for me,” Bolan said, holstering the Beretta. “The Scion is famous for its traps, and for playing dead. That’s Zalhares’s favorite trick. Whenever possible, he strikes from behind.”
“That’s not mentioned in his personnel file, but I’ll take your word.”
For a brief moment Bolan gave a rare smile. “Smart man. What I need now is a good description of a Zodiac, with as much detail as possible.”
“Better than that. The design was taken from the most popular briefcase sold by an upscale luggage manufacturer. I can tell you the exact number of the model the Pentagon used.”
“Good. Start talking,” Bolan said, brushing some flecks of broken glass off his sleeve. Listening closely, the Executioner filed away the information as the big Fed told him the make and model of the matching briefcase, then how to arm and disarm a Zodiac. The process was slow and complex, but then these weren’t battlefield weapons where speed of operation was considered an imperative.
“Got it,” he said at last. “Thanks, Hal.”
“Stay hard, Striker. These people mean business.”
“I’m depending on it,” Bolan answered. “A merc’s lust for money is what always brings them down.”
Disconnecting, Bolan then lifted the receiver and dialed randomly to scramble the memory on the machine.
Leaving the subway via the main entrance, the Executioner melted into the crowds and walked directly to a major department store downtown. He used cash to make a few purchases, then exited the building, pausing in a nearby alley to open the packages and throw away the wrappings. He then roughened the shiny leather of the new briefcase by rubbing it against a brick wall. When satisfied, Bolan returned to his car and plugged a small soldering iron into the dashboard outlet to quickly assemble an array of electronic components into a maze of wires and circuit boards that wouldn’t fool anybody trained in nuclear ordnance, but might do the job on the Scion.
According to the CIA dossier, most of Zalhares’s people came from farms and had little or no education, aside from military training. They may not know a mock-up from a working nuke. More importantly, the weight should be about the same because of the addition of two blocks of C-4 plastique and a fully functioning radio detonator. Bolan might never have any use for the decoy, but it was always wise to plan for what an enemy could do, not for what they might do.
Grabbing a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a corner deli, the soldier mapped out a battle plan while eating lunch. He was interrupted when a group of businessmen walked by carrying briefcases and, from out of nowhere, a raggedly dressed man darted from the curb to grab one of the cases, wrestle it away from the owner and take off at a run holding the prize. Furious, the owner shouted after the thief.
The incident had just been a simple robbery; nobody was even hurt. But if done to the Scion, a city would be obliterated from the map.
No longer hungry, Bolan left a decent tip for the old waiter and headed across town. New York City was the nerve center of international crime, and he could find out almost anything if he asked the right people, using the right kind of persuasion. The numbers were already falling on this, and it was time for him to start the hunt for Zalhares.
CHAPTER THREE
Central Park, New York City
A gray-haired man was sitting on a park bench tossing bread crumbs to the cooing pigeons. His clothes were clean and well pressed, the crease in the pants sharp, almost as if he were wearing a uniform of some kind. It was a peaceful, secluded section of park, near enough to see the lake, but well off the bike trails. There was nobody around but the old man and the pigeons.
A short, wiry man walked into view along the lake. He was neatly attired in a dark suit that was extremely out of date.
Strolling along, the newcomer detoured widely around the flock of pigeons to finally sit at the other end of the park bench. For a few minutes neither man spoke.
“Okay, Pat, nobody seems to have followed me. So what the hell is going on?” Brian Kessel, the director of the New York branch of the FBI, demanded in a soft, conversational tone. “Why the secret meeting away from our offices?”
“Too many ears,” Police Chief Patrick Donaldson said, tossing another handful of crumbs to the fluttering pigeons. Then he rolled the bag shut and tucked it into a pocket of his coat. “Heard the news lately?”
Spoken that way, the news could only mean something in their line of work, and there was only one topic of conversation these days—the unsolved string of murders.
“Bet your ass I have,” Kessel said, not looking at the other man. “But it’s not us, if that’s what you’re hinting about. I can assure you of that.”
“Thirty-six hours,” Donaldson said, leaning back in the bench. The birds were gobbling up the crumbs and strutting around looking for more. Such a little act of kindness, feeding the hungry birds, it brought a sense of balance into the violent life of the top Manhattan cop. “It has been less than thirty-six hours and nineteen of the top weapons dealers in the world have been whacked in my town. I’m not a happy man, Brian. This smells like a goddamn secret government kill team.”
“No way,” Kessel replied curtly. “Impossible. If the CIA or some black ops group tried that, I’d have their balls for breakfast.”
“I thought that’d be your response.”
“Look. It could be the Yakuza, the Russian Mob, the Chinese Tongs, Rastafarians, Colombians,” he growled softly. “It’s been a fucking feeding frenzy the past few years.”
Watching the pigeons peck for more bread crumbs, the police chief shrugged. No matter how much he gave, they always wanted more. Sort of like his job. There were goals, but they were always replaced with more goals. In police work, the reward for a job well done was always a tougher job.
“Let the creeps blow each other away, that’s fine by me,” Donaldson stated in frank honesty. “I don’t give a shit. Twenty little mobs are a hell of a lot easier to control than one huge invisible empire. Just ask the OCD.”
“The Organized Crime Division can kiss my ass. Vigilante justice undermines the very fabric of society,” Kessel stated with an angry growl.
“So it really isn’t the Bureau?” Donaldson asked.
“No.”
“Damn.”
For a while the two lawmen sat on the concrete bench, listening to music from somewhere nearby and the shrill voices of children at play. Opening the bag again, Donaldson tossed the birds another handful, then offered it to Kessel. After a pause, the FBI director took some and sprinkled it across the pavement. The birds flocked around the cops, utterly ecstatic.
“So, who do you think is next on the list?” Kessel asked.
