Don Pendleton - Meltdown

"What the hell is going on?" Bolan asked.

"I'll tell you later. We've still got work to do, pal. There's three more in the cave."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I slept there last night."

"Who are you?"

The guy grinned again, extending a gloved hand.

"Name's Cohen, Eli Cohen."

"That may be your name, but I want to know who you are."

"Sure you do. Let's just say we have a mutual friend. That cave is a natural fortress. We'll have to go in after them." The stranger rammed a new clip into his Kalashnikov. "Wait here a second," he said, scrambling back down the slope. He was back in a minute with a second AK-47. "This is a little more appropriate for what we have to do." He handed the Russian weapon to Bolan. "Know how to use it?"

"I've seen my share of these babies," Bolan said.

"I'll bet. Let's go. There's a back door."

Cohen slipped deeper into the trees, Bolan following. When the cave was out of sight, Cohen began to climb the slope. He moved quickly, showing no signs of exertion. Bolan was curious. "Where are we going?"

"There's a secondary tunnel down into the caves. It's on top of the ridge. They know it's there, but they don't know I'm here. I think that gives us a bit of an edge."

At the ridge line, Cohen gestured for silence.

He worked his way toward a cleft in the face of a low, rocky wall that ran parallel to the ridge.

The two men flattened themselves against the wall, one on each side of the opening. There was a low, moaning wind venting through the rocks, but not another sound.

Bolan nodded, and Cohen stepped into the opening. There was no light in the cleft. The footing was secure, but a little slippery. Bolan took careful steps and felt his way along with one hand on the wet wall. The dull shape of his new ally was a few feet in front of him. After they had traveled eighty or ninety yards, the opening grew wider and bent to the left. A faint glow was now visible ahead of them. Cohen slowed his pace.

Putting a finger to his lips, he motioned Bolan forward. They could stand abreast, their shoulders just brushing the walls on either side.

As Cohen sketched the layout in silence, Bolan watched intently. Dropping to his stomach, Cohen edged forward, taking care not to scrape his weapon against the rock.

Bolan was uncomfortable. The big guy was used to being in command. It made sense, and he needed help, but he was the one who usually gave the orders. The light was growing brighter. Bolan thought he could make out the roof of a large truck, just below them. That would make the cave floor an eighteen-foot drop.

The passage was wider now, opening out like a funnel.

Here and there were the marks of a pick. A natural passage had obviously been widened by hand.

A short distance from the opening, Cohen waved Bolan forward. He pointed out the location of each of the three defenders. The one most exposed from the rear would go last. They had to synchronize their shots and take two of the three down. Hard. And fast.

Cohen picked a large man in a heavy overcoat against the left wall. The target had an Ingram MAC-10 in his hand. A small mound of extra magazines lay on a rocky ledge behind him.

Not so smart, after all, Bolan thought. If the guy had to move fast, he'd have to leave his ammo sitting there. Bolan's own target was against the opposing wall. Armed with a Kalashnikov, he was considerably smaller than Cohen's man. His movements were nervous and agile. He might be trouble. The third man was farther back along the same wall. Squeezed into an opening in the rock, he looked more frightened than alert.

"On three," Cohen whispered. "One... two... three..."

Both weapons opened fire, their hammering squeezing Bolan's eardrums unmercifully. He punched a small figure eight, using more than half his magazine. No fewer than five of his slugs found their mark, stitching his man from the left of his chest to his right abdomen. The little guy bounced as he hit the hard rock of the cavern floor. Blood oozed from several holes in his nylon jacket, mingling with the cold, dark water pooled on the rocky floor.

Cohen aimed higher, hitting his man twice above the neck. The first shot took off the lower jaw.

Spurting blood chased bits of broken teeth down the front of the man's overcoat. The second hit plowed through his temple, shattering the skull as if it were an overstuffed parka. The dead man slid down the wall, his snagged coat hiking up toward his shoulders.

The third man seemed stricken. His palsied shaking was the only movement he was capable of. His eyes darted around the gloomy cavern. He didn't understand what had hit his companions. A short burst from Cohen solved his problem. For good.

"Okay, let's check this truck out," Cohen said, slipping feet first down into the cavern. Bolan followed. As he reached the tailgate of the truck, Cohen pulled aside a burlap curtain that hung across the upper half of the trailer.

"You'd never guess what was in this baby, would you?"

Cohen shook his head in wonder.

Bolan nodded grimly. "The main thing is, we got it. I have to let my people know."

Cohen said, "Listen, you never saw me. Understood?"

"Saw who?" Bolan smiled.

Cohen turned and stepped out into the cold, bright mountain air. When Bolan left the cave, Cohen was already gone.

Malcolm Parsons liked to live high on the hog. It was an aspect of his personality that had attracted a great deal of media attention. He was lavish in his treatment of people in a position to do him some good, more lavish still in his treatment of himself. It was this, more than anything else, that made Peter Achison hate him.

The ostentation of Parsons's life-style, public or private, was purely self-indulgent. And Peter Achison longed for the opportunity to indulge himself. Looking around at the faded opulence of the country estate where Parsons secreted himself, he felt only contempt for the antinuke leader. Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, Achison felt his temper rise.

Parsons was forever pointing out, at times subtly, at others with arrogance, that he could pull Achison's strings. But the bastard didn't know half of what was going on around him. By design.

He was useful, sure, but annoying. And things hadn't been going well lately. For all Achison knew, Parsons had something to do with that.

First, four men, imported heavy hitters, had been lost in the bungled Central Park ambush. Now another screwup. It would be interesting to see how Parsons reacted.

Nominally his superior, Achison was unable to control the more flamboyant Parsons, who believed his prominence entitled him to ignore the guidance and discipline that Achison sought to impose. Parsons believed himself indispensable. Only the knowledge of just how wrong that was kept Achison from exploding when Parsons finally appeared.

"Have you been waiting long, Peter?"

"You know damn well how long I've been here."

"How was she?"

"I don't understand."

"Do you really think I don't know what you've been doing while I sat here twiddling my thumbs?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you think I was doing. However, that's not why you're here, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

"Well, then... why have you come?"

"We lost the plutonium."

"You what?"

"You're not listening to me, Malcolm. That's a very bad habit to develop. I said we lost the plutonium."

"In heaven's name how?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"That's preposterous. How should I know?" Parsons got to his feet, one of his nervous habits. He paced back and forth along the length of the large walnut table between them. Looking for something to occupy his hands, he grabbed a poker to stir the ashes in the earth, then busied himself with rebuilding the fire. Finally, unable to stall any longer, he returned to his chair. "Tell me what happened."