Don Pendleton: Renegade

“If we can reach the mountains we won’t have to cross into Iraq,” Grimaldi said. “Once we hit the hills, I can lose them. The trick is going to be getting there in the first place if they decide they don’t want us to.”

The voice on the radio was still speaking and it had taken on a definite threatening tone. “Now might be a good time to test out whatever Farsi it is you know, Jack,” the Executioner said.

Grimaldi nodded and lifted the microphone to his lips. He began to speak, and it was obvious that he was mumbling, hoping to stall for even more time by making whoever it was on the other end think there was air interference. When he finally quit talking, the radio went suddenly silent for several seconds. Then the voice came back on with a strange, questioning tone.

Bolan silently nodded his approval of the pilot’s charade. He couldn’t understand the words the man on the other end of the radio was speaking, but his inflection made it clear that Grimaldi had, at least temporarily, stumped him. It sounded as if he was requesting that the transmission be repeated.

Grimaldi began to mutter into the mike again, making the same unintelligible sounds he’d made just a moment ago. Again, there was a long pause. Then confused voices could be heard on the other end talking among themselves. Whoever was in charge of the radio had keyed the mike open while he, and those around him, were still trying to figure out what was going on.

“What did you tell him, Jack?” Bolan asked.

Grimaldi shrugged. “I said ‘You look very pretty tonight.’ At least I think that’s what I said. It’s been a while since we dated.”

Even under the circumstances, the Executioner couldn’t help but chuckle.

A second later the voice on the other end of the airwaves spoke to them again. This time, it sounded angry rather than confused.

“Don’t know what that meant,” the Stony Man pilot said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same thing she used to say when I told her that.”

“Cut the lights,” Bolan said, “then drop below them, and let’s head for the mountains.” He turned and glanced out at the plane still paralleling them on the left. “It’ll take the jets a little while to get turned around. Maybe we can make a break for it and get there before they catch up.” Beyond the wings of the Iranian jet, he could just make out the rising slopes of the Kuhha-Zagros Mountains silhouetted against the dark blue sky. They looked a long way away from where he sat. On the other hand, reaching the rugged terrain and finding a place to hide was their only hope.

Grimaldi cut the lights and suddenly they were falling through the sky. For several seconds Bolan felt the seat belt tug hard across his abdomen as his body tried to rise. Then, just as suddenly, they leveled off and made a forty-five-degree turn.

Bolan caught a flash of the lights on both sides of the Bell as they seemed to rise in the sky and fly past them. The radio man came back on the air, yelling now.

Grimaldi grabbed the microphone and spoke again. Bolan didn’t recognize these new words any more than he had the ones before. But the dispatcher evidently did, and he went absolutely berserk, screaming, yelling and making a thudding noise the Executioner suspected came from him banging the microphone up and down on the control table in front of him.

“Do I even want to know what you just said?” the Executioner wondered.

“I don’t think so,” Grimaldi answered. “I just requested that he perform a certain act on me which is still illegal in a few U.S. states and undoubtedly against the law here.” He shrugged.

The only lights on the Bell were the ones on the control panel now, and Bolan glanced at the screen as Grimaldi coaxed every ounce of power out of the little chopper, racing through the sky toward the mountains. Twisting slightly, the Executioner could see both of the Iranian aircraft circling back toward them in the sky.

The man on the other end of the radio had calmed down but hadn’t stopped speaking. Again, Bolan couldn’t understand what he said. But you didn’t need to be fluent in the language to realize that it amounted to something along the lines of “This is your last chance.”

“The plane on the left,” Grimaldi said, staring at the mirror on the side of the chopper. “You see it?”

“I see it,” Bolan said.

“Tell me when it’s directly behind us. My guess is he’s about to drop down to our level and fire.”

The Executioner glanced quickly at the pilot. “How do you know that’s what he’s going to do?”

Grimaldi shrugged again. “Because it’s what I’d do under the circumstances,” he said.

“Were you able to get a make on the two planes?” Bolan asked.

Grimaldi shook his head. “Not completely. But they’re some kind of MiGs. Specifics aren’t too important at the moment. No matter what they are, they’ll be toting enough firepower to blow us up several times over.”

The Executioner kept his eyes glued to the sky as the plane on the left finished its circle and began lining up directly behind them. The other aircraft had made the turn, too. But it stayed several hundred feet above them as all three planes flew on toward the darkened hills ahead.

“Okay, Jack,” Bolan said. “He’s on us.”

Grimaldi looked down at the radar screen just as it began to beep. “He’s firing,” the pilot said, suddenly cutting to the right. Bolan was thrown over toward the pilot, his seat belt and shoulder harness all that kept him in place. Grimaldi himself smashed into the window to his side.

A split second later something whizzed by in the night, then exploded in a shower of sparks against the side of a mountain a mile or two in the distance.

“Radar warning receiver,” Grimaldi said as he leveled the chopper off and headed for the mountains again. “I think we can safely say we’re facing something in the MiG-23 family.” He paused for a second, then added, “So hold on to your chewin’ gum. RWRs come in pairs.”

A second later another beep sounded from the screen. This time, Grimaldi threw the Bell to the left and it was Bolan whose face nearly smashed into the glass. Another missile streaked by, barely missing them, and lighting up the terrain ahead like a Fourth of July celebration.

Bolan returned his eyes to the rear and saw the Iranian MiG pull up and away. But the other craft quickly dropped through the sky and took its place.

“Two down, two to go,” Grimaldi said. He turned in his seat to face the Executioner. “This new guy, the one who’s falling in behind us now, will have literally had a bird’s-eye view of my maneuvers. Which means he’ll compensate for them.”

Bolan nodded. The Bell had scampered out of the way left, then right to avoid the first two missiles. So the pilot would pick one way or the other and lead them. He had a fifty-fifty chance each time he fired, and he had two shots.

The Executioner stared into the night. In the distance, he could just make out the lights of a city. According to the map of the area, it had to be Oom.

The beep sounded on the screen again. Grimaldi twisted them to the right, and this time the little Bell actually shimmied in the air as the missile flew past. Another giant sparkler show lit up the mountains, which were growing closer with every second.

“Okay, that one I could feel,” Grimaldi said. “We’ve been lucky so far.” He stared ahead into the night at the mountains. “We’re getting close. But this ain’t horseshoes, and close isn’t good enough.” He glanced into the mirror at the plane he knew would fire again in a matter of seconds, then squinted into the distance once more.

“The bottom line,” the pilot said, “is that we’re not going to make it. Even if we’re lucky enough to miss getting hit this fourth time, they’ll both come in on us with their machine guns.”