Don Pendleton - Blood Heat Zero

The trip took them two days.

They passed beneath the bridge near the Russian concession exactly one week after Bolan had driven over it on his way from Akureyri to Egilsstadir.

He looked at the surface workings a lot more closely this time.

They crested a ridge that separated the steep-sided fjord from a smaller arm of the sea that pierced the indented coastline to the west. The narrow neck of land between these two inlets was blanked off by a ten-foot wall approached by a winding mountain track.

"The gates are guarded by men with shotguns," Bjornstrom said, "and there are dog handlers with Doberman pinschers patrolling the perimeter."

The ridge, isolated in this way as much as an island, was leased in its entirety to the Russians, he told the Executioner. The tin roofs of pithead buildings were half hidden by a swell of moorland, but the twin wheels of the colliery-style hoist on their iron pylons were clearly visible against the gray sky.

"What exactly are they supposed to be mining?" Bolan asked.

Bjornstrom shrugged. "Prospecting actually. Tin lodes, veins rich in other minerals, certain ores among the granites and quartzites that form the promontory. Uranium, for all I know. Enough, anyway, to make a believable reason for having surface plant, bore-sinking equipment, the pithead gear that you can see and a shaft with a cage."

"And at the foot of the shaft?"

"That is what we have to find out."

"Any chance of scaling that cliff?" Bolan jerked his head toward the seamed rock face that lay between the coarse grass on top of the ridge and the deep water of the fjord.

"It is possible, but guards patrol all the time. We better can make some entry through the caves."

"Caves?"

Bjornstrom cut the engine and allowed the raft to drift. "If I go farther, they may suspect. We inspect as far as the bridge, where the river becomes tidal."

"You mentioned caves?"

"Yes. This site is well chosen. By road, the nearest village is seven miles away. In a direct line, the nearest is Pvera, on the other side of the fjord." He pointed at the opposite cliff. Some way farther north, slate roofs and chimneys could be seen on the skyline. "But to get there by road is twice as far."

"The caves!" Bolan insisted.

The Icelander pointed seaward once more, this time below the ridge on which the concession was located. A grass-topped spur jutted out from the cliff and curled around toward them.

"The spur is granite," he said. "It is weathered in blocks and cubes, which makes climbing easier. But there is also a basalt dike by the fault that separates the spur from the ridge, and that runs out underwater like a jetty."

Bolan waited patiently.

"Between these two," Bjornstrom said, "there are three caves. The openings above the surface are high enough to allow a rowing boat to enter at high water, a larger craft when the tide is low."

"And you figure there may be a connection between these caves and the mine shaft?" At last Bolan permitted himself to show eagerness at the thought of something positive.

"It is possible," Bjornstrom said "Dressed this way, we are believable as Water Board officials as far as the bridge. To go farther, unless we are fishing or in a coastguard cutter, could alert the guards above."

"So we wait until dark?"

"I think so. As you see, curving this way, that bluff cuts off the view of the caves from anyone across the fjord in Pvera. That could work for us, too. So I say we forget about being Water Board inspectors and go tonight, as ourselves, swimming, to see about those caves. Okay?"

"You got it," Bolan said.

The water was cold as sin, black as a starless night in the south. It wrapped icy fingers around heart and lungs as if it would squeeze every vestige of life away, plastering the wet suits to their bodies so close that the insulating film of moisture was almost neutralized.

Bolan led the way, swimming strongly in a modified Australian crawl that left scarcely a ripple on the dark surface of the fjord. They had paddled the raft silently to a diminutive creek two hundred yards upstream and left it behind a granite outcrop that rose from the water. On this initial recon they were equipped with flippers, face masks, snorkel tubes and electric lamps brow-strapped above the masks. A commando knife was the only weapon each man carried.

They didn't need to use the lamps.

Bolan was not surprised. During the afternoon, hidden among rocks a quarter of a mile away, they had heard unmistakable sounds of activity within the caves. And if there was work, there might be light.

Noises carried clearly along the surface of the fjord, and the Executioner could distinguish the tapping of rock chisels, a scrape of metal, the noise of a distant compressor and even, from time to time, the swish of a concrete mixer. Once he thought he heard guttural commands.

Then whistles blew and there was silence... followed by five small but distinct explosions.

"Blasting," Bolan said. "Between the whistle and the detonation, they all take shelter someplace. It might be a good time to get in there."

Bjornstrom nodded. "And find a place to hide before they come out again and start to work?"

"Right. There has to be a physical connection between the bore they are sinking up top and those caves. If we can hear these noises, so can people from Pvera and boatmen in the fjord. So the Russians must have a plausible reason for blasting and whatever else they do at the foot of the mine shaft."

"Galleries radiating out from there?" Bjornstrom suggested.

"Yeah. But that can't be the real reason, or there'd be no need for them to try and eliminate guys like you and me. My guess is that it's the caves themselves are the target they're up to something big inside those caves that they want to keep secret and the mine shaft beyond them is just a cover, to account for the noise."

"What do you mean, 'something big'?"

"Beats me. I've been racking my brains for days trying to think up a believable reason. Now that I'm sure it's connected with the river and these caves, I'm as much in the dark as ever. Some kind of clandestine propaganda broadcasting unit? A KGB disaffection HQ? Antimissile detection? A military launchpad? None of those makes any sense at all. Not in caves. And certainly not in Iceland."

"So okay, we find out more when we go in," Bjornstrom said.

Before they started to swim, the sky darkened and rain pelted the fjord from the ocean. By the time they were halfway to the cave mouths it had changed to a sea mist a damp curtain of gray that rolled quickly across the wader, settling a thin layer of moisture on rock faces, distorting sounds and blotting out shapes on both sides of the inlet.

They surfaced thirty yards offshore and stared at the cave mouths. The top of the cliff, which rose sheer from the fjord, was hidden in the mist. The far side of the fjord was invisible; there was no conceivable place where a lookout could be posted above or beside the caves.

"We can take our time," Bjornstrom said. His In the gathering dusk a subdued radiance escaped from the largest of the three openings, which looked to be about forty feet wide and seven or eight high. One of the others was almost as far across but the roof was only just above the surface. The third was much smaller.

Bolan pushed up his mask. "That could be the safest way in for us," he said, indicating the third cave. "Providing they interconnect." He swam nearer. The rock bordering the openings was weathered, cracked and split by frost, eroded by wind and salt and then worn smooth by millennia of waves and storms and spray. "I'm going on in and check the entrance," he murmured. "You stick around here as end stop, okay?"

Bjornstrom nodded. Bolan readjusted his mask, dived beneath the surface and disappeared.