Renegade
The Bell continued to rise, then finally darted forward, tripling its former speed. Grimaldi was still chuckling to himself, as if he knew some secret to which Bolan wasn’t privy. “We’ve still got the guns,” he said.
“And we’ll use them if it comes to that,” Bolan replied. “But they’re our last resort. Now, tell me what you aren’t telling me—whatever it is that’s got you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Nothing much. Just that I actually know a few phrases in Farsi. Not a lot, but like I said, maybe enough to keep them confused long enough to buy us a little wiggle room if we need it.”
The Executioner frowned. “Where’d you pick up these ‘few phrases of Farsi’?” he asked.
Grimaldi continued to grin as the Bell flew on into the night. “I dated a Persian girl for a while a few years ago.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Grimaldi’s chest moved up and down in a chuckle. “I don’t share all of my sordid love life with you, Striker,” he said.
The Executioner smiled. No, Grimaldi didn’t kiss and tell like some high school jock in a locker room, and Bolan wasn’t the type to pry into his friends’ personal lives. So he asked no more questions. Instead he settled back into his seat. It was a relatively short flight, and they were dealing with a Third World country here. Iran didn’t have the sophisticated radar and other detection devices a country like the U.S., Russia or Great Britain employed, nor did their personnel have the same professionalism. There was every chance in the world that they’d lay the chopper skids down somewhere near Isfahan with no one the wiser.
On the other hand, Bolan reminded himself as they flew through the dark night beneath the half moon, the smart warrior never underestimated his enemy. Technology never had, and never would, replace human beings, and while they might be behind in the science department, the Iranians had proved that they were willing to fight during their eight-year war with Iraq.
There was one more aspect to the whole equation, and the Executioner was aware of it, too. New, and better, technology didn’t mean that older technology quit working. There were still people getting killed with single-action revolvers in this day of high-capacity automatic pistols, and an aircraft like the Bell could still be picked up on World War II–era radar.
The Executioner hadn’t slept since the mission began and now he closed his weary eyes. Long years, and many battles in many missions, had taught him that the wise warrior took whatever rest he could get when he could get it. It wasn’t just the ability to fight that kept a man alive during the heat of battle—it was also the ability to think sharply. And no one, no matter how tough, how smart or how well trained, thought as well when they were exhausted as they did rested.
But Bolan’s mind didn’t close as quickly as his eyelids and he found himself reasoning out the decision he had just made. He had ordered Grimaldi into the radar zone to save time, and there was no use in second guessing himself now. They’d either be spotted or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had all the faith in the world in Grimaldi’s ability to elude attack if it came to that, and knew that it made far more sense for him to try to catch a nap than to worry about it.
Besides, the real danger wasn’t being shot down—Stony Man’s ace flyboy would see to that. What worried the Executioner was the fact that, if their presence was discovered, word of it would travel fast. Which would put the cops and military in Isfahan on high alert before they even reached the city.
As if to emphasize Bolan’s concern, Grimaldi broke the silence that had fallen over the helicopter. “Isfahan isn’t quite like Tehran, you know,” he said. “The city sits on top of a high plateau in the Kuhha-Zagros. I can probably find a place to hide this baby but it may not be as easy as Rey was.”
Bolan opened one eye and saw the pilot hook a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he said. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there. Or if anything interesting happens on the way.”
“Like, if we’re about to be blown out of the air?” Grimaldi asked with a deadpan expression.
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “That would qualify.” He drifted off, wondering what he’d do first in Isfahan if he was in Anton Sobor’s shoes.
It had been close to an hour, but seemed like seconds, when the Executioner felt Grimaldi’s hand on his shoulder, awakening him.
“Up and at ’em, Sarge,” the pilot said. “We have company.”
Bolan sat up and saw the lights of an Iranian fighter jet to the side of the Bell. Looking past Grimaldi, he saw another identical aircraft. An angry voice was shouting in a language he couldn’t understand over the radio.
Grimaldi reached out and unclipped the radio microphone from the control panel in front of him.
And Mack Bolan hoped his old friend had been serious about knowing a few phrases in Farsi.
Because if he didn’t, the helicopter stood a good chance of going down in an exploding ball of fire in the next few minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The fighters picked us up about a minute ago,” Grimaldi said as Bolan sat up in his seat. “Right after the radio contact started.” He nodded toward the speaker in the control panel. “At first, the guy sounded calm. But now I’m getting the definite impression he’s running out of patience.”
The Executioner stared out the window at the airplane lights roughly a quarter mile away. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell exactly what kind of craft it was. Probably one of the old Soviet MiGs the Iranians had used for years. “You picking up anything he has to say, Jack?” he asked.
“Uh-uh,” Grimaldi said, shaking his head. “I said I could spout a few phrases in Farsi. But I can’t understand a word.”
Bolan leaned forward slightly, looking past the pilot again. Another plane flew to their left flank, and appeared to be slightly closer. But it was still impossible to make a positive ID on its type. All Bolan knew for sure was that they were being escorted by a pair of Iranian air force jets of some kind. And whatever they were, they would be armed with missiles or at least machine guns, either of which could blow the Bell right out of the sky.
“We’d better head for the mountains,” the Executioner said. “Maybe get over the border into Iraq.”
“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.”
Before Bolan could speak, the screen beeped again. Grimaldi pulled back on the control and the Bell shot upward instead of to the side this time as another missile streaked beneath them. The temperature in the helicopter seemed to rise as a hot projectile went past. Then it raced on through the night, finally exploding on the edge of the city in the distance, and proving to the Executioner that the Iranian air force couldn’t care less about accidentally killing their own people.
Grimaldi turned to face the Executioner. “That’s the last of their missiles,” he said. “But they’ve still got their machine guns, and the closer we get to Oom, the more likely they are of missing us and killing innocents. Or hitting us and killing us, of course.”
It had been a statement rather than a question, but Bolan knew it was also a request to take action. “Do what you’ve got to do, Jack,” he said.
Stony Man Farm’s number-one flyboy didn’t have to be told twice. Suddenly and without warning, the Bell made a 180-degree turn and began flying backward through the air. The mountains and the lights of Oom had disappeared. But the lights on both MiGs could be seen as the Iranian jets raced toward them.
Reaching forward, Grimaldi pushed a button. Bolan felt the chopper vibrate slightly as the missile pod fell into firing position. A second later the little Bell shook even more as the Stinger missile took off.
“I activated a four-second detonator,” Grimaldi said. “It should blow up a few hundred feet in front of him.” He swung the Bell back around as the night sky lit up behind them. “Just wanted to show him we had some teeth of our own. Maybe that’ll drain a little of their enthusiasm.”
Bolan smiled as he watched the mirror next to him. The Stinger had indeed taken a lot of the fun out of the chase for the MiG pilots behind them. In fact, one of the planes had changed course completely and was heading back the way it had come. The other MiG was already gone.
Even the radio had finally gone silent.
Two minutes later they reached the Kuhha-Zagros Mountains. Although the MiGs were gone and no other planes had taken their place, Bolan directed Grimaldi to play it safe, staying close to the peaks where they could drop down at the first sign of further pursuit.
“I can just follow the mountains on in if you want me to,” the pilot said. “Isfahan’s sort of on the edge.”
Bolan looked at his watch. Sobor had been on the ground for at least two hours now. There was no telling where the man might be. So there was no sense in risking further exposure for nothing. “Okay, Jack,” he said. “Take the mountains past Isfahan, then come back up from the south.”
The pilot nodded.
The Executioner suddenly remembered the mustache he had applied to his upper lip earlier in the evening. With a little time on his hands before they reached Isfahan, he unfastened his seat belt, went back to the cargo area and removed it with rubbing alcohol and a towel. By the time he got back to his seat, Grimaldi was banking the helicopter back around. A small village could be seen below them. “Yazd,” the pilot said.
“That more of your dirty Farsi, Jack?” Bolan asked.
“Nope. Just the name of the town.”
Bolan reached into his jacket and pulled out the cell phone again. When he got no dial tone, he directed Grimaldi higher above the mountains. Finally the call to Stony Man went through. “We ran into a little trouble, Barb,” he told Price. “Slowed us down. There’s no telling where Sobor is now. Did Bear check again to see if Dieter Schneider might have booked another flight after he got to Isfahan?”
“He did,” Price said. “No such luck. Dieter Schneider appears to have vanished into thin air. But you might be interested in knowing that a Jean-Marc Bernhardt just checked into the Shah Abbas Hotel in downtown Isfahan.”
KITWANA ASAB STOOD on the peer, staring out at the white-capped waters of the incoming tide. It was beautiful, the way the waves rolled in toward land. They hit the side of the ship, parted and metamorphosed into thousands of tiny ripples as they moved gently on into shore.
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