Don Pendleton - Aftershock

“Earthquake!” he growled.

Suddenly the dirt at her feet heaved, and a fissure opened up between her feet. She lunged forward, and Stone caught her as soil cascaded into the crack in the earth. The pair lurched away as fast as they could on the flexing ground, and at one point, the dirt seemed to disappear beneath their bicycling feet, only to surge up again and knock Abood to her knees. Bolan tumbled forward, heaved off balance by the surging hillside.

A slope suddenly deepened as the earth continued to flex, and Abood let go of the bag to reach for Stone.

The big man skidded down the slippery slope toward a crack in the ground that yawned and snapped shut, like a pair of gigantic jaws.

Jandarma Major Omar Baydur arrived in his jeep, looking at the aftermath of the battle between his men and the Kurds.

“Major,” one of his men said. He managed to stand at attention, though his right arm hung limply, soaked with blood.

“What happened here?” Baydur asked.

“We lost track of the American journalist. She was taken by a stranger,” the wounded officer stated. “Captain Makal gave us the description over the radio.”

“Where is Makal?” Baydur asked.

“He continued pursuit overland. It appears that Abood and the stranger took off toward Van.”

Baydur frowned. “And what was his progress on the Kongra-Gel search?”

Another Jandarma trooper raised his hand. Baydur recognized this one as Gogin, Makal’s most trusted lieutenant. A white bandage covered a bloody thigh wound.

“We had interrogated a suspect, but the journalist interfered before we could get any results,” Gogin stated. “We think that the man who snatched that witch Abood might be working with the PKK.”

“So why did the Kongras attack him?” the soldier with the injured arm asked.

“The Kongras shot at the man who had the journalist?” Baydur asked.

“Nobody saw for certain,” Gogin growled. “Besides, that bastard killed Etter and the others.”

“We heard. Four men killed, and Makal retreated to find you,” Baydur stated. “You took that bullet in the leg when the Kongras attacked?”

Gogin nodded.

“Strange,” Baydur said with a frown. “You seem to be walking pretty well.”

“It went clean through,” Gogin explained.

“I don’t see a bloodstain for the exit wound,” Baydur stated. “And if it bled that much in this short a time—”

The earth rumbled, cutting off the Jandarma commander. Trees shook and birds took to the air en masse. It felt like a bomb had gone off nearby, but Baydur had lived through enough earthquakes to realize what was happening. He struggled to stay upright, and Gogin collapsed against the fender of the jeep, wincing in pain.

The radio went wild with cries of alarm. The tremors rose in intensity, and Baydur held on to his vehicle’s frame. After what seemed an eternity, the earthquake abated.

“What happened?” Gogin asked, sliding to a half-seated position on the hood of the jeep.

“An earthquake. It was either a small, local one—” Baydur began.

“Sir!” Sezer, his driver, interrupted. “The radio waves are crowded, but the closest I can make out is that Van was hit again. Something big.”

Baydur got into the jeep. “A bomb?”

“Earthquake. As much as I can tell from all the chatter, the landlines have been knocked out,” Sezer answered.

“All right, try to get through on our secure lines. We’re pulling everyone we have to pitch in with the city,” Baydur said.

“What about the bastard who killed our men?” Gogin asked.

“Get off my hood,” Baydur answered. “This whole mess has the stink of someone wanting to get back at Makal for one of his antics. I swear—”

Gogin glared. “Swear what? This animal murdered our own people.”

“I swear, if I find out that Makal’s stepped out of line, and you’re helping to cover for it, you’re going down a very deep hole,” Baydur threatened.

“Sure. Coddle the Commies,” Gogin snarled as he slipped off the jeep’s hood. “Makal gets results.”

Baydur stared back coldly. Sezer threw the jeep into reverse, and the two Turks maintained their glaring contest until the driver spun the vehicle around and turned toward Van.

Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute

VIGO PEPIS COULD ONLY watch in impotent horror as the seismic graph for the Lake Van region suddenly shook off the charts. He shot a glance at Bursa, who swallowed hard.

“It’s at 7.4 and rising,” Zapel spoke up as she read off the graph paper. The needle was going wild. “Seven-five—”

“Oh my God,” Bursa gasped in helplessness. “The minister of the interior just told me that they’ve lost landline communications with Van.”

Pepis could only stare as the needle hit 7.7, and the line still didn’t stop increasing in the violence of its activity. Radio transponders on seismic sensors enabled them to keep up with current data, simply because of the vulnerability of landlines to tremors.

He thought about the region. Van was one of the primary capitals in Turkish Kurdistan, a city of more than two hundred thousand souls, and in one of the most hotly contested parts of the country. Conflicts between the Jandarma and the Kurdish separatists were furious, resulting in thousands of refugees.

It was the bombing of the relief workers that had masked the initial tremors leading up to this earthquake, leaving Pepis alone and unconfirmed as a prophet of doom. Now, the horrors were coming true, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle. It was a defense mechanism, because if he took his eyes off the harshly scribbled ink on the graph paper, he’d think of the ancient city, its people and all that it had suffered before.

Van had seen endless tragedy over the centuries, from when it was first founded, eight hundred years before the birth of Christ. The most blatant horror was the deportation of millions of Armenians from the region, resulting in the deaths of more than half a million refugees, through violence or starvation. Since then, it had only been more of the same, in smaller quantities, but with no less anger or hatred. Now, nearly a quarter of a million people had been struck by the fist of an angry God. Though they were on one of Asia’s largest lakes, Lake Van’s brackish waters were useless for either drinking or irrigation.

“The minister of the interior is on line three,” Zapel announced.

Bursa picked up the phone and spoke in hushed, hurried tones, then hung up.

“Vigo, the military is unable to assist,” he confided. “Whatever is on hand is all that they have.”

“If the desalinization plants weren’t affected, there might be hope,” Pepis stated. “Otherwise—”

“The minister wants to know how bad the aftershocks will be,” Bursa cut him off.

“It’ll be bad. At least in the six range,” Pepis said.

“It went all the way up to 7.83,” Zapel announced. “But it’s starting to die down.”

“It’s going to be hell there,” Bursa said numbly.

Pepis turned away from the graph.

Mack Bolan’s left hand dug into the loose soil, but his right hand dropped instinctively to the Ka-Bar fighting knife he’d bought earlier that morning. The blade sank into the earth and dragged for a few moments, but finally his slide toward the chomping rift below him slowed. He dug the toes of his boots into the ground and he hauled with all of his might. His war bag skidded closer to the edge, and for a moment he reached out for it before the earth seized shut, smashing the bag between stony jaws.

The earth stopped heaving, and Bolan drew back, looking at the satchel clamped in the fissure. He winced as a flood of granite pebbles and dust hit him, eyes snapping shut to protect the vulnerable orbs beneath his lids.