The footsteps stopped. Somewhere in the dark, not fifty yards away, a man waited. That man, if given the chance, would kill him. He didn't know the man's name. And it made no difference. He would have to kill him first, and there was nothing more anonymous, in the final analysis, than a dead man.
Glinkov held his breath. In the darkness, he could hear the whisper of running water. And the sound of rubber on metal. The ladder was being climbed.
Slowly, carefully, climbed.
Glinkov slid forward. His weapon clinked on the hard stone. There was a whisper behind him, his cuffs dragging on the concrete. He stilled his movement.
He waited.
The ladder thumped softly. The climber placed each foot carefully, quietly. But the care wasn't sufficient. The quiet, not enough. Slowly Glinkov rolled sideways. He could recall approximately where the ladder entered the tunnel mouth. It was on the left-hand side, extending just two or three inches above the lip of the opening. The Russian strained his ears. He heard nothing from farther off. Whoever else was following had either turned back or stopped, waiting to see what happened. The closer man hadn't been Bolan. Of that Glinkov was certain. It reassured him. But suppose Bolan had caught up? Suppose Bolan had switched places? Suppose it was Bolan climbing the ladder? Could it be? Could he afford to believe it wasn't? What the hell should he do?
The Russian asked himself a hundred questions. Time was running, just as surely as water ran in the tunnel below him. The seconds clicked off in measured rhythm as steadily as the water dripped on the rock behind him. And another step on the ladder.
Whoever was coming had a foot less to go. Glinkov placed his flashlight parallel to the barrel of his weapon. If he used the light, he had to be ready instantly to shoot at what he saw. Nervously he rubbed the slide switch on the flashlight. He moved his fingers side to side, unwilling to risk accidental illumination. And the stalker rose another rung on the ladder. That made at least four. One more, and his head should be above the floor of the higher tunnel. One more step, and he would risk the light.
Glinkov was silent. No one could possibly expect him to be there. Even Bolan would believe he was long gone. Running was the only sensible thing for him to have done. So, of course, he hadn't.
But the Russian knew that Mack Bolan was too experienced to make book on such things. It happened so quickly, Glinkov wasn't even sure who it was. He flicked on the light. The piercing eyes burning back at him scared him into an involuntary contraction of the trigger finger. In an instant the man was gone. The face dissolved in bloody spray and there was nothing but the pale, ghostly beam of his torch, dying just as it reached the opposite wall. The man's hair had been gray. The man had been Malcolm Parsons.
And Glinkov gave him credit. He would never have suspected the old man of having such nerve. He must have been mortified to have been so easily seduced. His vanity had gotten the better of him.
A less vain man would have left pursuit to the likes of Bolan. Too bad. But then a less vain man would not have been tricked so easily, would not have been in Parsons's predicament to begin with.
But was it really Parsons? Maybe the light had tricked him. Maybe the beam had been so close it had bleached Bolan's darker hair. Maybe the man he killed had been the Executioner. Maybe there was no Executioner to fear now.
It was tempting to hope so, to think so. And Glinkov held his breath, waiting for a sign. And he wasn't waiting in vain. And the sign came, and when it came, it chilled him to the bone.
"I'm coming for you, Glinkov." The voice was cold, brittle. Deep and resonant in the stony catacombs. He knew it was only a dream. Parsons was dead, after all. And Mack Bolan was on his trail.
The echo seemed to spread out in all directions.
Glinkov couldn't tell where Bolan was. He might be just below, waiting at the foot of the ladder.
Or he could be behind him, in the feeder tunnel, creeping up on him even now. Or maybe he'd gone on past the feeder tunnel, waiting for him to blunder right into his hands.
In any case, it didn't matter. It would soon be over.
Stan Robbins knew water was the only answer, lots of it. But first he had to do something about the temperature in the containment buildings. If it went any higher, the whole thing might blow.
He knew the tunnels to the Hudson were closed.
Even at gunpoint, he'd made sure those gates stayed shut. He'd snookered the Russian. Now he hoped he could snooker fate. With a prayer, he opened a second set of valves. The first step was draining the radioactive coolant from the bottom of the containment building. Then he turned on the pumps. He had to flood the reactor with new, fresh water from the river to get rid of the radioactive waste.
As it was, this place would be off-limits for some time while they tried to clean it up. But if he couldn't cool the core in the next few minutes, there might be nothing left to clean. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the warning lights blink on and off. Finally he saw what he was looking for. The blue light was on, indicating that the complete circuit from the Hudson through the containment building and on into the emergency tunnels was opening.
Two million gallons of water would slosh around the ruins of the Unit 1 reactor until they were ready to be purged. One more glance, and he bit his lip as he pressed the button. The surge of vented waters was something he could only imagine.
Mack Bolan heard it. The water was rushing into the tunnel at an alarming rate. He stepped on something resilient. With a start, he realized it was Parsons. Snapping on his fight, he nearly gagged. It was too late for Parsons.
Way too late. The faceless corpse lay on its back in the middle of the tunnel.
He ran to tile next ladder on the tunnel wall and began to climb. Behind him, he could hear the rushing flood. Stifling heat surged ahead of the incoming water. He wouldn't know until it was too late, of course, but drowning was definitely not the way he wanted to end his life.
No way.
One tunnel ahead of him, Andrey Glinkov heard the deluge begin. The inrush of the water galvanized him. He shuddered at the sound.
Screaming as if confronted by a ravening beast, he climbed desperately to the next level in the honeycomb. And the roar of the water seemed to follow him. Climbing hand over hand, he reached the next tunnel and ran for his life. The sound of the water grew louder. He reached the next ladder and began to climb. Rung after rung. He stopped to look behind him but could see nothing in the dark.
He climbed still higher, his rifle rattling against the steel rungs as he turned to look down again.
He turned on his torch and pointed it down into the abyss. Just beyond the beam he could see, or thought he saw, the white-capped waves of a raising tide. The water, too, was climbing the ladder. Glinkov knew that he was in a race for his life. Either he would soon get out of the water's reach, or the water would rush past him to claim his rightful place at the head of the line. And there could be only one winner in this race.
Then, suddenly, it was over. On his cheeks he felt fresh air-cold winter air. The lock on the grate above him was a simple latch affair. He loosened it and pushed the heavy plate aside to haul himself out into the winter darkness.
Fifty yards away, Mack Bolan did the same. He looked anxiously about for the Russian.
And both men heard the roar at the same time. The chopper was right on time. Achison had made it. Would it make a difference?
30
The incoming helicopter roared overhead. Its running lights were incredibly bright against the dark sky. Bolan recognized the profile immediately.
It was a Cobra gunship. Bolan had seen more than enough of the deadly choppers in Vietnam. The night was split apart by the roar of the 1,100-horsepower engine.