MacK Bolan No. 62: Day of Mourning (2 page)

Grimaldi held the big Harrier at a sustained hover thirty feet above the choppy ocean where Mack Bolan had disappeared, almost a half hour before.

The pilot tried to ignore a nagging worry that plagued him.

He and Bolan had survived plenty of action together, on lots of hot missions in both Bolan's old Mafia war and in the Executioner's hits out of Stony Man. He had seen the Mafia-busting Bolan "die," then to be reborn as Colonel John Phoenix, under full White House sanction.

Yet through all those battles, the man born Mack Samuel Bolan had never changed.

No way.

Grimaldi knew the blitzing guy better than just about anyone, maybe even better than April Rose, because Jack had seen so much more of the real, unleashed fury of this incredible fighter. Shared combat forged strong bonds of friendship.

The pilot had faith in the big warrior's ability underwater.

But the ace flier had sensed that something was troubling Mack. Grimaldi had seen it plain enough before the communications screwup with the Farm.

He had noticed it during their last mission, too. Of course Bolan was too much of a pro to let it affect his performance. When he fought, he fought. But something was on Bolan's mind.

The pilot was hoping like hell that it would not interfere with this mission.

What the hell was going on with Stony Man?

Where the hell was Phoenix Force?

And all Grimaldi could do was wait, bucking the rowdy air currents of the Atlantic.

He kept trying to reach Stony Man Farm on the radio, alternating the mission red priority frequencies.

Nothing.

Grimaldi itched for action.

He got it.

Three beeps appeared on the radar-scan map console, approaching rapidly from the southeast.

Grimaldi tried to establish radio contact.

There was no response.

Those three fast-approaching beeps could be Phoenix Force, but Grimaldi quickly dismissed that thought.

Phoenix Force was scrambling to this rendezvous at sea from their last Stony Man assignment. Since the five-man combat team was heading here from one point, it didn't make sense to Jack Grimaldi that they would split up in transit. But he couldn't be sure until visual contact was made.

Grimaldi bristled in the Harrier's cockpit.

Phoenix Force should have responded to Grimaldi's attempt at radio contact, but there was the communications foul-up with Stony Man to consider. It might somehow be affecting a linkup between Grimaldi and Phoenix Force.

Three choppers suddenly emerged from the low thunderheads.

Grimaldi's doubts were confirmed as they immediately opened fire on the Harrier.

He was ready for it. He tugged the jet fighter into a sharp evasive maneuver the instant he recognized gunflashes from the three approaching aircraft. He heard a line of bullets thud into his plane's body somewhere behind him.

Grimaldi recognized the approaching gunships as Cobras, probably surplus from the Vietnam War.

They'd been hanging back beyond the Harrier's radar range and were probably carrying replacements for the divers Bolan was now fighting underwater.

The Cobras were equipped with rockets, 40mm cannons and miniguns.

Grimaldi left the hammering of those weapons far behind. The best chopper pilot alive was no match for the Harrier's jet-action capabilities. The Stony pilot could easily have outrun the three helicopters, but he could not desert the area in case Mack surfaced. He had to get the Cobras away from there somehow.

The Harrier screamed into a hard fast bank. He faced the enemy.

The three choppers started to break formation, fanning out to opposite sides. The Cobra in the middle was sailing in to engage the Harrier. The chopper's miniguns blazed twin streams of lead tracers that sailed wide of Grimaldi's plane.

Grimaldi triggered a sidewinding heatseeker that blasted the approaching enemy copter. The chopper exploded into a fireball before plummeting into the ocean.

One down, two to go.

Goddamn, Phoenix Force, where are you? Grimaldi wondered.

He arced the big bird back from the four streams of upcoming fire and rockets from the two remaining aircraft.

Grimaldi caught himself shredding his lower lip between his teeth.
If they get me, Bolan will be dead when he shows his head above water.

It was time to face the two wild Cobras.

But the two gunships had maneuvered themselves for a run at the Harrier from two directions. Even the mighty Harrier could only take on one of them at a time.

Grimaldi prayed for the best and sent 30mm zingers at the chopper nearest him.

The thundering explosion of the hit cut through the roar of the Harrier as another Cobra disintegrated into a ball of flame.

The Stony pilot shifted his war bird to track on chopper number three.

While the fighter jet's cannon had been busy canceling the second chopper, Cobra number three had got the Harrier in its sights.

Grimaldi saw it too late. A missile from the Cobra came whistling at the Harrier.

The ace pilot had just begun to tug the responsive jet into an evasive action.

But his luck ran out.

He bit off one last curse. He felt the mighty plane respond to his touch, but not fast enough.

The missile caught the Harrier's tail in a hellfire of sound and fury.

For Jack Grimaldi, everything went black.

Mack Bolan made an ally of the ocean's dark floor in the same way he would befriend the night on any other hit.

The Executioner swam through the gloomy depths ten meters off the bow of the sunken vessel.

He saw the enemy divers douse their dive lights.

In the illumination of the underwater lamps amidships, he saw the terrorist force breaking up, merging with the deeper shadows of the ship.

Bolan sensed movement to his left. He bent his body backward and swam away.

He registered a momentary glimpse of an approaching diver, holding what looked like an infrared scanning device.

This would be the team leader, Bolan knew. They would not all be entrusted with costly IRs.

The high-intensity lights were extinguished.

The frogman leader did not see his enemy.

Bolan propelled himself faster, gauging the approximate position where he had last seen the diver with the IR.

In the darkness, it was impossible to know for sure.

The deep-sea pressure made every move slower, more laborious.

Bolan unsheathed his knife, then risked switching on his dive light for one second to confirm that he had homed in on his target.

The terrorist frogman could not turn around in time to react.

Bolan plunged the blade into Jesus DeSilva's throat. The thrust severed the terrorist's breathing system.

The man's body thrashed for an instant then hung suspended as a dark cloud spread upward.

The IR scanner tumbled into Bolan's grip.

He used the infrared device to advantage to take out two more divers.

Bolan entered the ship and swam on through the maze of corridors, guiding himself with the IR, searching.

He came upon the body of a trapped seaman, the ghastly corpse already half devoured by fish.

There was no sign of sharks now.

He swam on, pedaling his way the length of the sunken wreck.

He glanced at his watch. Only ten minutes of air time left. He had to find that nuclear device. He considered radio contact with Grimaldi, but decided against it. He still did not know how many men were left. They were around him in the gloom of this sunken ship. He could feel it. They would be listening.

Bolan continued his search, thinking about his air supply.

He was running out of places to look for the nuclear device.

He found it in the middle of a row of three nondescript lockers: a suitcase-sized container with the markings Bolan was looking for.

And with it, Bolan found them.

The underwater compartment blazed to life with a high-noon glare that pinned Bolan in its center.

These divers had split off from the others and found the cargo they were looking for. Then they waited for the invader to swim his way into the kill-ground.

Bolan twisted sideways as weapons began to rumble, spitting projectiles where he had been an instant before.

He unleashed a round from his shark gun that took out the lamp and pitched the killzone into total darkness.

He had been forced to drop the infrared device. The Executioner fired off a close pattern of heavy slugs from his weapon, aiming from memory at the positions of three divers before the lights went off.

He waited for a few moments and no one challenged him.

He chanced a quick scan with his diver light on. He found and retrieved the IR.

He flicked the infrared device upward and gazed through it. He saw three floating corpses, trapped from rising any farther by the walls of the compartment. The water around the divers took on a deeper hue in the IR viewer.

Bolan returned his attention to the nuclear device.

There were two handles on the container. He gripped one handle and began swimming away from the underwater killzone, holding the scanner up before him as he retraced his route.

He wondered if the damn thing would be intact. Or had these men all died for nothing. No. Nothing is ever for nothing.

The dead divers had consciously chosen this path. But they had been brought unwittingly to this appointment with their executioner. Whether they were motivated by greed or power, Bolan could not know. But it did not matter now. Their evil deeds had culminated in a fitting demise in the hellish depths of the dark Atlantic.

Now the bastards were shark food.

All that remained for Bolan was withdrawal.

Gripping the container, he swam on.

The underwater warrior conserved the remaining air in his tanks, breathing shallowly despite his effort.

He turned on the diving light and began to swim clear of the dead ship.

He ran into no further opposition as he moved upward.

Bolan released the IR and stroked faster toward the surface with the deadly cargo.

It was time to alert Grimaldi, up in the Harrier, to get ready for him. He would have to spend time in the decompression chamber on the boat then a quick flight back to the States. The communications blackout with Stony Man still troubled him.

"Stony Man One to Stony Bird. I'm coming up, Jack. I've got it. Do you read me?"

No response.

Bolan was about to try to raise Grimaldi again when the watery world around him thumped with a loud, hollow sound.

Bolan looked up.

And saw Death descending.

The massive shape of Grimaldi's Harrier was coming toward him.

Its misshapen hulk was sinking like an oversized stone, plunging directly at Bolan.

Bolan did not try to swim out from under the fast-descending tonnage of the Harrier.

He reversed his course and dived back down the way he had come. He gained cover within the sunken hulk of the Liberian freighter.

He made it with one heartbeat to spare, still gripping the nuclear device.

The tips of his fins cleared the entranceway to the tilted superstructure of the ship just as the heavy weight of the Harrier impacted the submerged vessel. Bolan was socked by the nearest wall of the companionway as the ship jarred.

He reversed himself and swam out of the companionway to find the Harrier lodged against the superstructure and the ocean floor.

The downed fighter plane was still making strange little underwater sounds as it settled into its new environment. The Harrier had sustained a serious hit to its tail section.

Bolan's gut constricted with apprehension.

Grimaldi!

He approached the plane with extreme caution despite his concern for Jack. He raised the shark gun, which was slung around his shoulder by its strap. He now scanned the vicinity of the wreckage for terrorist divers he might have missed.

There was no one.

Bolan found no sign of Grimaldi in or around the Harrier's cockpit. The pilot was not strapped into his seat. Jack had not sunk with the plane.

The tanks strapped to Bolan's back were almost empty. Any more time spent down there would be suicide.

Once more Bolan began to swim toward the surface, the shark gun again strapped across his back. Using his free arm and both fins, he propelled himself up and away from the ship toward the first glimmer of dull sunlight that drew closer and closer overhead.

Bolan broke the surface on the swell of a cresting wave. He bobbed like a cork on the endless expanse of rough ocean. His face mask cleared water, and he looked around to get his bearings.

There was no sign of Jack.

A jet turbine Bell chopper, boasting 5.56mm mini-guns and 40mm cannons mounted externally on turrets, hovered clearly against the low grim cloud ceiling.

A cable hung from the open door of the Huey. The cable was pulled taut by the weight of Jack Grimaldi, who was being winched up toward the aircraft.

Bolan could make out four members of Phoenix Force crowded in the side opening of the Huey: Gary Manning, the Canadian explosives expert; Keio Ohara, the Japanese martial-arts master; David McCarter, the British brawler; and Rafael Encizo, the Cuban underwater demolitions specialist.

That meant it was Yakov Katzenelenbogen, the Israeli-French intelligence vet, topkick of Phoenix Force, who was flying the chopper.

Bolan glimpsed the smoldering debris of what had been another helicopter on the surface of the water. The wreckage was slowly disappearing into the hungry rolling waves.

The boat that marked the site of the terrorist salvage operation bobbed on the stormy Atlantic.

Bolan knew he would need decompression time aboard that boat.

He saw the men of Phoenix hoist a very wet Grimaldi into the safety of their gunship.

Bolan lifted a victorious thumbs-up sign to the guys.

He punched into the tac net as he swam.

"Is that you, Yakov?"

"You were expecting Jacques Cousteau?" grumbled the Phoenix Force honcho from behind the chopper controls. "Get yourself onto that boat and into decompression, Striker. Then we talk."

Bolan fought the sea toward the boat and the DC. He tugged along the nuclear device that had gotten so many men killed this day.

There were still too many things left unexplained. They chewed at him inside, demanding action. Like a communications screwup that could only mean more trouble...

"Yeah,'' Bolan replied grimly as he swam toward the wind-tossed boat on the rough sea. "Then we talk.''

One hour later, Jack Grimaldi was still wearing the widest ear-to-ear grin that Bolan had ever seen.

"Man, I'm here to tell you," the ace pilot was telling Bolan and Yakov, "I must've aged ten years in the ten seconds it took those terrorist bastards to shoot me into the drink. I was never so glad to see one of these big Hueys coming to the rescue. Not even in Nam."

Grimaldi was now at the controls of the Huey.

The helicopter was in the same stationary hold it had maintained while Bolan did his time in decompression.

Then Colonel Phoenix was pulled aboard the chopper by the same winch that had rescued Grimaldi from an Atlantic death.

Two vessels now rode the ocean beneath the Huey. The terrorists' boat had been joined by another trawler while Bolan was in DC; a trawler that was in fact a well-disguised U.S. spy boat sailing with computerized eavesdropping capability and armed with torpedoes and missiles.

The spy ship had been ordered from its regular course for this "accidental" rendezvous with the chopper.

"After all the times you've airlifted this guy out of hotspots," said Katz to Grimaldi, with a nod to indicate Bolan, "I'd say you've damn well earned yourself some luck, my friend. It was our pleasure, Jack."

"Where are the others?" Bolan asked Katz.

He was referring to the other members of Phoenix Force. They were not aboard the Huey.

Katz pointed down at the raging sea.

"Rafael is supervising the cleanup inside the sunken ship," the Phoenix Force leader told the Executioner. "It's ours in accordance with open-sea salvage regulations."

Bolan fired a cigarette. He felt good to be above water again.

"Any idea where those Cobras were from?" he asked Katz.

Katzenelenbogen shook his head.

"The spy trawler down below has a far wider radar range than this Huey, or the Harrier Jack was flying."

"Don't remind me," groused Jack from behind the Huey's controls. "I feel terrible losing that plane."

"Like hell, Jack," said Bolan. "You did everything you could. You nailed two of them before they hit you." He nodded to the nuclear device at their feet. "And this mission is a success." He looked again at Katz. "What did the trawler's radar turn up?"

"A few maybes. The choppers could have come from a modified trawler like the ones below, fixed to handle the salvage crew and the choppers to ferry them around without drawing attention to the actual site. No way to check them out, though, unless you want to take the time now."

Bolan grimaced.

"Damn. I'd like to. But this device has got to be delivered. And there's that other thing."

Katz stared down at the nuclear bomb.

The hell bomb was still sealed in its innocent-appearing suitcase disguise.

"Hard to believe that something so inconspicuous could be worth so much killing."

"Keio might be the only one among us who can truly appreciate the horror of this little baby," said Bolan. "He lost members of his family at Nagasaki."

"That's what makes Keio so intent on these missions," Yakov said, nodding. "He reminds us all that what happened before must never happen again."

"Set a course for home, Jack." Bolan turned to the Phoenix Force leader. "We'll lower you now, Yakov. Thanks for flying-in this Huey."

Katzenelenbogen shrugged off the thanks. He moved toward the open doorway, to the winched pulley rope.

"This helicopter is modified with auxiliary fuel tanks, Striker. You'll make it to that carrier for refueling easy enough. There's a jet waiting outside Miami to take you back to Stony Man."

Then Katz got a grip on the thick rope.

"The trawler will see you away when you're done here," said Bolan. "Others besides those terrorists will be on their way here soon, Katz."

"Like the European end of the deal?" asked Katz. "Able Team is working that angle right now. They could have something on it already. And there could be something more than a bomb aboard that sunken freighter. Rafael has them going over the captain's quarters, Striker. The safe, that kind of thing. If there's anything salvageable down there that we can use from an intel standpoint, we'll bring it home with us."

"See you at Stony Man, then. Good luck," said Bolan.

He activated the winch.

It began lowering Katz toward the U.S. spy ship below.

"Mack, find out what the hell went wrong on that communications blackout."

"I intend to," said the big blitzer grimly. "That's a promise."

When the Phoenix Force team boss was aboard the deck of the U.S. trawler, Bolan slammed shut the door and shouted to Grimaldi above the constant, high-pitched whine of the chopper.

"Home, Jack."

"You know it, bossman," said the flyboy, grinning.

The pilot eased them away from the site with a gentle increase of power. The bobbing trawlers became specks on the choppy Atlantic. The Huey lifted off into the gray sky in a northwesterly course for home.

America.

The U.S. of A.

A place Mack Bolan was seeing less and less of these days.

What would he find waiting for him at Stony Man?

The mission was successful. There were no casualties for the Stony Man soldiers and the hell-bomb device, whether it survived the ship's sinking intact or not, was on its way to the proper authorities.

Any other time, Bolan's pulse would have slowed down by now from the adrenaline rush of that underwater action. Now he thought of home and those good people who shared the burden of these terrorist wars every step of the way: Hal, Kurtzman, Konzaki. And of course his lady, April, who made the wheels turn and was always there for Bolan with a candle in the window.

Stony Man.

Right.

Everything this big warrior held near and dear.

His thoughts were on these people now, sure. But it was not the warmth of a reunion to be anticipated. It was the nagging concern he had felt since they had first lost connection with Stony Man prior to the undersea hit.

Bolan's adrenaline was still pumping.

The spy trawler's computers had their own satellite linkup. An operator aboard ship had worked on the problem while Bolan was in decompression. When a connection with Stony Man Farm was finally achieved it was via a communications patch into an unscrambled phone line at the Stony Man command center.

Bolan spoke briefly with Hal Brognola. The head Fed did not mince words or tip anything that would breach security.

Hal spoke seven words over the staticky connection, saying nothing to ease Bolan's concern or slow the adrenaline down.

"Come home, Striker. ASAP. There's big trouble. "