Aftershock

4

Cat Abood checked her watch. They reached Colonel Stone’s stash of backup supplies a good four minutes early, but then, she knew that Stone hadn’t counted on walking at a pace to escape his frustration. She looked at the big man as he paused and checked the rugged chronometer on his wrist.

“You’ve still got four minutes to make your decision. I promised you that much,” he said curtly.

“I’m not the enemy. This is more than just about a story. Do you think you can do everything by yourself?” she challenged.

Bolan remained as silent as his namesake as he pulled off his battle harness. He slipped on a pair of jeans over the skintight leggings of his blacksuit, then slid the Jericho into its holster and cinched the belt tightly. He unhooked his shoulder holster from its place on the combat harness and slipped it and the sleek machine pistol that it housed across his broad back. A rumpled leather jacket came out of his war bag, and he threw it on over the outfit. “Three minutes.”

He busied himself, snapping on a sheath for a concealed knife and spare magazines for his two handguns as well.

“Can I at least lead you to the warehouse? I’ll hang back,” Abood said. “I promise not to get in the middle of a firefight.”

Bolan remained tight-lipped for a few moments. He snapped the folding stock shut on his AK and slipped it into the bag. He glanced at her.

“Give me your rifle,” Bolan said.

“How am I going to protect myself?” Abood demanded, gripping the AK more tightly.

“You have your pistol,” he answered. “Besides, if you’re going to walk through the streets of Van with me, I’d rather you not attract a lot of attention carrying a loaded rifle.”

Abood looked down at the ugly weapon in her hands, then surrendered it to him. “So I can take you there?”

“Don’t get in my way,” he said, finger aimed at her. “And keep your head down.”

Abood nodded. “You’re in charge.”

Bolan folded his arms across his muscular chest. Under the jacket, the blacksuit looked like a skintight T-shirt, the kind that weight lifters wore to show off their well-honed torsos. His words helped to distract her from the way he seemed poured into his jeans.

“You’re right. I’m in charge. And no mention of my involvement in the story,” Bolan explained. “I have people who can squelch the story if anything comes out. I’d hate to see you waste your time.”

Abood held up her hands in surrender. “I don’t even have a camera. Your secrets are safe with me. I’ll take them to the grave.”

Bolan’s jaw tightened.

“Sorry, poor choice of words,” Abood apologized.

“This isn’t a joke,” Bolan stated. “This is real.”

“Yeah. I have the bruises to prove it,” Abood agreed. “You’re forgetting that I’m not a tenderfoot.”

Bolan’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. He wasn’t amused.

“You’ll be kept confidential,” Abood stated. “Anything you let slip—”

“I won’t.”

Abood swallowed. He’d been so friendly nearly an hour before, prior to her wanting to deal herself into the recovery of the missing medical supplies. But, from what he’d said, she understood the change in tone. He’d been expecting to drop her off, safe and sound with no worries. Now, he was going to bring her close to the flames, and he didn’t want her wings to ignite if she got too close. He’d taken responsibility for her, just like he’d taken on the sole responsibility of recovering the drugs.

Abood had heard rumors across the years of such lone wolves, solitary crusaders reporters had occasionally run across. He was like a guardian angel, drawn to the most dangerous spots on Earth, performing good deeds, saving lives and providing aggressive, decisive strikes to those who would harm others.

Abood understood. There was something about the man called Colonel Stone that inspired her to feel not only loyalty, but the desire to protect him. She thought maybe it was because she was a reporter who hunted out the truth and fought for justice in her own way. He was on the same side, waging the same struggle as she did, except with force of will and arms instead of words. Either way, they were both working toward the same cause.

“Thanks for letting me help out, Stone,” Abood said softly.

“Call me Brandon,” Bolan said. “Sorry for being such an ass, but it’s for your own good.”

“I know,” Abood replied.

“All right. Can you hold the bag?” he asked her. “It’s heavy, but…”

“I’ll manage,” Abood said. She took it, and sure enough it was about as heavy as her dad’s range bag when he went to test rifles and pistols for his gun rags. It was nothing she wasn’t used to. “What are you going to do?”

Bolan winked. “I’m going to borrow some wheels.”

“Yeah, I got the bag. See if you can get something nice, like a Corvette,” Abood quipped.

“I’ll see what I can do—”

The ground vibrated beneath her feet, and she looked down. Bolan whipped around and looked at the city as the tremors grew in force.

“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.

5

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.

6

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.

“Brandon!” Abood called. He looked up to see the young woman extending one long leg toward him. “Grab my leg!”

Bolan hauled himself up on the knife and grabbed her ankle. With the extra leverage, he managed to crawl to the lip of the cliff. Abood slid back from the edge and sighed.

“We lost the rifles,” Bolan announced.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“No permanent damage,” he answered as he looked toward the fissure. He could see a half-loaded box of ammunition sprawled in the dirt, bullets glinting in the sun.

“How much do you have?” Abood asked.

Bolan checked his harness. “Four loaded magazines for the Jericho, and four more for my own Beretta.”

“You usually carry all that ammo?” Abood asked. She shook her head. “Sorry…I forgot. You’re a spook in hostile territory.”

“I’ll get by,” Bolan said. He looked around, then grabbed the root of a tree trunk, stretched down and pulled his knife out of the dirt. “It’s not worth the risk to climb down to grab more ammo, but the knife will be useful.”

Bolan looked toward the city. In the frantic slide to death when the ground first shook, he’d only been concerned about keeping himself and Abood alive. Now, the city of Van had changed drastically from when he’d seen it only moments before. Columns of thick, choking smoke rose lazily into the sky from fires. Clouds of gray-white dust from collapsed buildings formed a hazy fog in the wake of the brutal earthquake.

“Good God,” Abood whispered.

Bolan couldn’t speak. Already his mind was racing. He was going to have to navigate through a city where buildings had been compromised. He knew that in the aftermath of such violent earthquakes, lethal aftershocks ripped through the terrain, causing nearly as much damage when shifting earth gave that one final tug that brought down weakened buildings and power lines, or split streets to expose jets of invisible, highly flammable gas into the air. In all of the Executioner’s years of warfare, he had seen only a few cities as thoroughly destroyed, and usually those were the targets of coordinated, concentrated bombing, and the destruction was spread over hours, not moments.

“We’ve got to do something,” Abood said, breaking the numbed silence.

“We don’t have anything to help them with,” Bolan answered. “Unless we recover those medical supplies.”

“Don’t you have contact with your superiors?” Abood asked.

“No. I was en route from another mission,” Bolan said. “This was sort of a pickup.”

Abood looked at him in disbelief.

“If the law finds out that I’m intruding in their territory, there will be hell to pay,” Bolan admitted. “Which was why—”

“Which was why you didn’t want me along,” Abood concluded. “One of the reasons, at least. Your mystery bosses give you carte blanche in racking up collateral damage?”

“No, my boss doesn’t want any collateral damage at all,” Bolan answered firmly.

Abood narrowed her eyes. “Something tells me that I’m looking at your only boss right now.”

“Are you going to conduct an interview, or do we find those stolen medical supplies and save a few thousand people?” Bolan asked.

Abood grimaced for a moment, then her irritation dissolved and she smiled softly. “You got me there, soldier.”

“Come on,” Bolan said. “It’s fifteen minutes by brisk walk to the closest street. If we run, we can find some wheels and get those medical supplies even more quickly.”

The Executioner turned toward a safe path down the cliff and started jogging.

Abood was right on his heels.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“A FEW MINUTES BEFORE the earthquake, we picked this up,” Barbara Price said as she handed the translation to Hal Brognola.

“Tall man, six, to six-and-a-half-feet tall, heavily armed, indeterminate nationality,” Brognola murmured as he read it. “Who put out the word?”

“That was under Jandarma’s known frequencies,” Price answered. “Bear thought it best to keep our ears open on the police scanners, give Striker a bit of assistance in the region if he should call in.”

Brognola frowned. “I wished he’d taken the time to hook up properly with us before tearing off after the Kongras.”

Price sighed and folded her arms. “Striker said that time was of the essence. The Kongras wouldn’t hold on to the stolen medical supplies for more than forty-eight hours, maybe even less. He said he had to be on the ground and operating before they had a chance to move that stuff out to the black market.”

Brognola squeezed the wrinkled knot between his eyebrows, then blinked away his frustration.

“Hal, you’ve known him longer than almost anyone,” Price said. “You know that Mack isn’t going to turn his back when he can do some good. Now, it’s even more vital than ever for him to get those relief supplies.”

“How bad was the earthquake?” Brognola asked.

“Kandilli Research Institute measured it at 7.8,” Price responded. She set aerial photographs of the city of Van in front of Brognola.

“Christ, it looks like it’s been hit by a bomb,” the big Fed stated.

“According to Aaron, a 7.8 earthquake is nearly as powerful as the bomb that hit Hiroshima,” Price stated. “Or it at least released the same amount of energy as an atomic weapon.”

Brognola shook his head. “What do we have in the region that can help out?”

“Not much. Turkey is still sensitive about the Iraq invasion, so our resources in the area have been drastically trimmed,” Price stated. “Politics will keep people dragging their feet, and even if there was a way to get major supplies in, it would still take at least three days before we could have a strong enough presence there.”

“What would we be talking about?” Brognola asked.

“The President has two aircraft carriers he can deploy,” Price stated. “One off Kuwait, and one in the Mediterranean. Between their desalinization plants, they can airlift enough fresh water to turn the tide.”

“Airlift fresh water?” Brognola asked. “There’s a huge lake right near the city.”

“It’s a saltwater lake,” Price answered. “It’s not fit for drinking or irrigation. The best we can hope for is for one carrier to make port in Iskenderun and ferry supplies across four hundred miles of Turkish airspace.”

Brognola pursed his lips. “And the Turkish government is still sensitive about our craft using their airspace to penetrate Iraq airspace. “All right. What about the teams? Can we dispatch them to give Striker some backup?”

“Able Team and Phoenix Force are fully occupied. Able Team would be free in thirty-six hours, then factoring in travel time…. There’s nothing we can send right away,” Price stated.

“None of our assets in the region are available?” Brognola asked. “We have former blacksuits in every branch of the military and a lot of embassy posts.”

“Nobody on hand,” Price admitted. “Our military people have their work cut out for them, and any who would be dispatched to the scene are going to be busy with conventional relief efforts.”

Brognola picked up his cigar and began chewing on it to relieve his frustration. It took a moment for the old stress mechanisms to take effect, and his mind cleared. “Just keep your ears open for Striker. You never know. He might be able to contact us. I want the cyberteam to give him every assistance and up-to-date satellite intel. Paths through the city, aftershock warnings, what we hear from the Jandarma…”

Price nodded.

Brognola looked at the translation. “He killed them while they were questioning an American journalist.”

“You know how the Turkish paramilitary forces work, Hal. If Striker dropped the hammer on them, the only questions asked were ‘who do you want to rape you first’ or ‘head or gut, where do you want to be shot?’”

“Yeah. It’s just going to make things a lot more difficult if we have to call in some favors to help him out,” Brognola stated.

“I put the word out to our people. If anyone’s cozy with the Jandarma, we won’t ask them for help. It’ll narrow down our resources, but…”

“Just do it,” Brognola said. “I’ll inform the President that we have Striker on the ground.”

“Hal,” Barbara spoke up.

“Mack will be okay. He’s been hunted by far worse than the Kongras and the Jandarma.”

“The Mafia and the KGB might have had better technology, but the Kongras and the Jandarma are as brutal as anything he’s ever faced,” Price stated. “They’ll peel a man alive for a week just to make him hurt.”

Brognola looked back at the photos. “You don’t make reassuring you any easier.”

Price nodded. “Reassurance is one thing. Outright lying is another.”

Brognola frowned. “If Striker’s alive, he’ll make it through. It’s what he does. He’s survived on his own for so long….”

The head Fed’s words trailed off as he looked at the stricken city in the photograph. If Mack Bolan had survived the earthquake, he’d do as much as he could to recover the relief supplies and save the shattered people of Van. Bolan was a man who would move heaven and earth to save lives, no matter what odds were stacked against him.

But Brognola realized full well that with two renegade paramilitary armies, and the aftermath of an earthquake against him, the Executioner was in for the struggle of his life.

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