Perilous Cargo

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always do,” he said. “That’s why I’m sending you.”

CHAPTER THREE

The city of Yangon, which had been the capital of Myanmar until the early years of the new millennium, was a mix of the old and the new. Temples and shrines in gold and silver and white upheld the glory of years past, while the city center itself contained both colonial and modern buildings—most of which were tied to the government in one way or another. Much of the hidden work of the regional government was still done in this city, rather than the new capital. The media, including television, radio and the internet, were all tightly controlled, and access to technology was expensive. It was an unhappy place in many ways, despite the charming landscape. Tourists came here and saw nothing of how the population was segmented, keeping to their own areas and minding their own affairs, trying not to be noticed by the oppressive government. Citizens sat on the streets, drinking tea praying at the temples or selling tokens to travelers.

Nizar Vitaly despised the city with a true passion. His mother was Russian, and he never truly felt at home anywhere else.

Like most government buildings in the area, the Russian Consulate was an older colonial brick building, left behind from when the British ruled the nation. And the heat was as oppressive as any ruler had ever been, too, Vitaly thought as he walked into the main entrance. He was a big man, six foot four, and a solid mass of two hundred and twenty pounds, but he moved like a panther—and he knew it. Vitaly was a man completely aware of himself and his own place in the universe.

He passed the main desk and climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor. He followed a short hallway down to the consul’s office and managed to contain his surprise when he saw Anisim Grigori, the head of Russian Intelligence, sitting behind the consul’s desk. Vitaly closed the door behind him but noted two other ways to get out of the office if this meeting did not go in his favor for some as yet unknown reason. Certainly, he would not be the first operative killed by his own agency. Being aware of one’s own place in the universe meant being aware of one’s own mortality, first and foremost.

“Vitaly, it’s good to see you,” Grigori said, rising to his feet. They shook hands formally. “You are missed in Moscow.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” he replied. “I am surprised to see you, I admit. What brings you to Myanmar?”

“There is a problem that I would like you to deal with.”

Vitaly kept his peace and waited.

“You are aware, I think, of our...interests in Kathmandu?” Grigori raised a bushy eyebrow.

“You know I am, sir. I recommended changes to the facility’s security systems months ago, but my report was filed away.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the report and I’ve seen to it that those who chose to file it rather than share it with the chain of command are seeing their future in a very different light. A very different light, indeed.”

“What has happened?” Vitaly asked. “It must be serious to bring you all the way from Moscow.”

“Please, sit,” Grigori said, gesturing to the nearest chair. “There is no need to be quite so formal.”

Vitaly sat, watching the man who had built the new Russian Intelligence of the internet age with interest. He was dangerous, yes, but he could be a very powerful ally. Vitaly had no interest in doing field work for the rest of his life, and Grigori could secure his future—or destroy it—with a few simple words.

“So, as you say, the matter is serious,” Grigori continued. “One of the weapons was stolen and taken into Tibet.”

“Do we know who the thief is?”

“No, the identity is uncertain. You will retrieve it and remove all trace of the facility’s existence.”

Vitaly nodded. “It will be done. In fact, we have options here in Myanmar that are suitable for relocation, and the government is very cooperative.”

“I will leave all of that in your hands, Vitaly. Just secure the weapon and wipe the Kathmandu facility off the map. Send me your needs by this evening and I will see to it that you have everything you require.”

Vitaly considered the situation. “Once I have the weapon, we’ll still have a personnel problem in the region. Too many people know about Kathmandu—especially now. That many will never stay silent.”

“I am sure you have heard the phrase, ‘dead men tell no tales’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I need to say more?”

“No, sir.”

“And one more thing, Vitaly. I do not hold any doubts that the Americans may be behind this, or possibly the Chinese. I should not have to tell you how delicate this is for our country. We cannot afford to lose our bargaining position now. Make certain that anyone who knows about the weapon or the facility is removed from the equation.”

Vitaly smiled. It was the kind of fieldwork he enjoyed most, and it was much better than skulking around Yangon. What was most important was controlling the information Moscow received. After all, the black market paid far better than the government, though he enjoyed the power and income from both sources. “It will be as you command. No witness will be left alive.”

* * *

ONCE HE ARRIVED at Andrews Field, Bolan changed into tactical clothing, then headed to the hangar where he found Nischal already waiting for him.

She, too, had switched clothing, and he noticed that she’d chosen appropriately for the mission and the terrain. She nodded as he approached. “Good to see you made it on time, Colonel.”

Bolan nodded a curt greeting.

“Look, let’s clear something up,” Nischal said. “The truth is that I don’t usually work with anyone else, either, so I’m probably just as prickly about it as you are. If you think you can’t handle it, I’m happy to take the mission on myself.”

Bolan allowed himself a smile and a chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. We may not like working with others, but when the President gives an order, we follow it. On that much, we can agree. Let’s get this show on the road. Wherever that nuclear missile is, it won’t find itself.”

They carried their gear aboard the Spirit of Kitty Hawk. The pilot and mission commander were already in the cockpit. The intercom system pinged on. “Good evening, Colonel Stone, Ms. Nischal. I’m Major Gage, and your pilot is Lt. Colonel Elliot.”

“Gentleman, thanks for the lift. We’re ready to go whenever you are. Do you have a specific drop zone in mind at this point?”

“No, sir,” the major replied. “All I’ve got is Tibet. I was told that Ms. Nischal would be providing the drop information en route.”

Bolan looked a question at her. “I’ve got the map data uploaded to my smartphone,” she said. “I’ll shoot it to them once we’re in the air.”

“Fine,” he said. “Major, we’re all set. Let’s hit it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The intercom system pinged off and Bolan turned back to Nischal. “It’s your map and region, so let’s hear what you’ve got in mind.”

She took out her phone and tapped the keys, bringing up a map of Tibet, then zooming in. “Take a look at this,” she said. “This is the village of Nyalam—sort of a crossroads village about twenty miles north of the border with Nepal and about sixty miles west of Mount Everest as the crow flies.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why there?”

“Well, we know the nuke was headed north, and there aren’t very many roads. Most are little more than goat paths or dirt tracks that lead to monasteries. There’s only one major highway, and anyone who wants to get anywhere has to use it. This isn’t exactly the easiest terrain in the world. If you know the area it’s easy to disappear, but a truck that size has to go somewhere. And wherever it goes, someone will see it.”

“So, you’re thinking whoever took the weapon had to pass through Nyalam. In other words, we have a place to start looking.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And if makes you feel better, Nyalam used to be called the Gate of Hell because the old trail was so treacherous. No one is moving fast through there, even on the Friendship Highway.”

Bolan studied the map a minute more, then nodded, impressed. “That all sounds fine to me. You obviously know the area.”

“Like the back of my hand,” she said.

“Here’s what I want to know,” Bolan said. “Tibet is a whole lot of empty. Even the capital has less than a million people in it, and most of them are too focused on tourists, religion or dealing with China to be worried about stealing a nuke. Where would someone be taking a weapon like that, given how much they would stick out?”

She shook her head. “On that score, I don’t know. If they wanted to disappear, they’d get off the highway and use the mountains as cover. There are hundreds of places to hole up—if you can get to them. There’s the plateau region, but it’s wide-open. Our eyes in the sky would pick them up before we landed. So, that leaves the road or the mountains. As far as who would take it...that’s really the bigger question. This isn’t a region that’s known for trading in weapons, but I suppose that there’s a first time for everything.”

The jet began to taxi out of the hangar and the major suggested that they get buckled in, which they did. The seats, such as they were, promised a long, uncomfortable flight. Nischal leaned back and shut her eyes. “Let’s just hope someone spotted them before they disappeared, or that they’re stuck on the highway in some bad weather traffic jam.”

“Somehow, I have my doubts,” Bolan said, stretching his legs out.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because that would mean we’d been incredibly lucky. My missions don’t tend to run along those lines. Usually, it’s just the opposite.”

“Same with mine,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone whose missions run perfectly smoothly. They don’t usually call people like you and me when things can be handled with a simple stop.”

Bolan knew the long flight would only be made longer by worry. Still, he couldn’t help but think that anyone willing to steal a nuclear warhead and head into Tibet was either crazy or really smart—and knew exactly what they were doing. That was a serious cause for concern.

CHAPTER FOUR

The flight was scheduled to take about thirteen hours, including the midair refueling. Bolan and Nischal passed the time by double-checking their gear, the map and the very brief intelligence file and, finally, in desperation, by playing mercenary poker. The boredom was palpable enough that when the jet hit a severe pocket of turbulence and the intercom system pinged with a quick warning to strap themselves in, both of them were stunned for a moment before they leaped to their feet and got back into their safety harnesses.

“What’s the situation, Major Gage?” Bolan asked.

“We’re about an hour away from your drop zone, sir,” he said. “But a major storm is brewing over the Himalayan range. We’re going to try and climb out of the worst of it.”

“All right,” Bolan replied. “Keep us informed.”

They could feel the jet rocking in the storm as it climbed, closing in on forty-five thousand feet. Still, the winds lashed at them, and the pilot was slaloming from one pocket of turbulence to the next. After a few minutes, the plane leveled out, but the situation didn’t noticeably improve.

“Colonel Stone, radar shows this storm blowing up right in our flight path and your drop zone,” Major Gage said. “I’m going to recommend you consider aborting the drop.”

“I appreciate that, Major, but we don’t have a choice,” Bolan said. “We’re on a clock and can’t afford to lose the time.” The plane bounced jarringly as he spoke.

“I understand, sir,” he said. “We’ll do our best. I recommend you go ahead and suit up and move to the cargo bay.”

Bolan looked at Nischal. “Have you ever done a HALO jump before?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, though I’ve never attempted one in weather like this.”

“It could make it interesting,” he admitted. They moved to the cargo area, and Bolan affixed the drop chute to the metal equipment container, which held everything they couldn’t carry on their persons—weapons, MREs and tactical communication and observation gear, for the most part.

Nischal was studying the altimeter on the wall. “We’re all over the place,” she said, bracing herself as the plane dropped suddenly, then came back up. “We should prep as if we were going to jump from forty-thousand feet.”

“Let’s put on the oxygen masks now, then,” Bolan said. “This is no time for either one of us to get hypoxic.”

As the plane continued to bump, shudder, rise and fall through the storm, Bolan checked the wall gauges again. At the moment, they were at thirty-two thousand feet.

And dropping.

The plane shuddered all around them, and Bolan keyed the intercom system. “Major, what’s going on up there?” he barked.

“We’ve got facing wind speeds of sixty-plus miles an hour, and we’re icing over, sir,” he said. “The flaps are...”

Bolan’s stomach rolled as the descent became sharper, then leveled slightly. “The flaps are what?” he shouted.

“We’ve got ice warnings in the wing system. Having trouble maintaining altitude and direction.”

“Damn it,” Bolan muttered. “Keep us in the air, Major!”

“We’re trying, sir,” he said.

“Get your chute ready,” he told Nischal. The plane shuddered once more, paused and then began to descend again.

“I’m all set,” she told him.

Bolan checked the altimeter again. Twenty-eight thousand feet. “We’re out of time. We’ve got to go right now,” he said, punching the button that would open the cargo bay doors.

“We’re iced over completely!” the pilot yelled. “Jump clear, jump clear!”

The doors opened and immediately the wind and pelting ice slashed at them. Bolan shoved the container forward, trying to push it into the opening. Nischal leaned down to try and help, then stumbled in the gusting winds.

That was all it took for the icy air to snatch her. She rolled toward the opening and Bolan tried to grab her but missed.

“We’re going down!” the major yelled. “Get clear! We’ll hold it as long as we can!”

Nischal continued the slide and Bolan saw her reach for and miss grabbing one of the support struts on the ramp. She spun around again and her chute snagged on a piece of metal sticking up from the very edge of the ramp. He couldn’t hear it over the howling wind, but he could imagine the tearing sound it made.

Her eyes met his and he knew there was nothing for it. He jumped, trying to catch her, but by then she’d torn free and begun the long fall to the ground. Bolan glimpsed the ragged remains of her parachute, still hung up on the cargo bay doors and, at the edge of the ramp, their equipment. Then he, too, was free-falling into the storm.

The cold was breathtaking and his goggles were frosting over. He straightened his body, trying to pierce the darkness of the night and the storm. Long seconds passed that felt like minutes. Finally, he saw it: the telltale flicker of her shoulder light. Bolan dived straight at her, almost missed, and for a long minute, they were tumbling through the sky together.

“Hold still, damn it!” he yelled, and she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, locking herself in place. Bolan saw that they were at eight thousand feet, and with no clue of their location, he pulled the cord on his chute, praying like hell they didn’t come down in a crevice, an avalanche zone or, worse yet, right in the middle of Nyalam, where the guards would surely have some interesting questions for them.

Nischal was trembling against him as they fell through the storm. “We’re okay,” he said into her ear. “It’s going to be all right.”

She tipped her head back and he saw that she wasn’t crying. She was laughing.

“You think this is funny?” he roared.

She didn’t reply, but he could tell by the shaking of her shoulders that her mirth continued. Bolan didn’t find it funny at all, but then he realized their fears about things going wrong had already come true, and he smiled wryly.

Twisting in the sky, he tried to see if he could spot the jet. In the poor conditions, it was nearly impossible to see anything. Lightning flashed all around them, a better guide to the ground than the altimeter on his wrist. He caught one last glimpse of the tail of the plane heading to the ground to the south. He shifted his grip on Nischal and reached for the flare gun tucked on the outside of his pack. He shot the red flare downward. The light was initially swallowed by the flurries of snow, then he saw it hit, flickering faintly as it bobbed in some body of water below them.

Bolan grabbed the steering toggle on his chute, bringing the canopy in on one side to pull them closer to shore.

“I hope you can swim,” he yelled.

“Why?”

Nischal craned her head just as they splashed into the water. The gear from the HALO jump weighed them down, dragging them into murky depths. Bolan broke the surface, gasping for air. The water was frigid, almost cold enough to freeze over.

He’d lost his hold on Nischal when they’d hit, and he urgently searched the darkness for signs of her. The red flare floating thirty feet away was the only light. Bolan pulled a blade from his boot and cut the chute free, shoving it as far away as he could. He took a deep breath and dived under. The blackness engulfed him, but he pushed farther, deeper. He reached out for another stroke to take him deeper still and connected with what was left of Nischal’s pack.

Grasping it tightly in his fist, Bolan kicked for the surface, feeling her weight still connected to the pack. When he reached the surface he pushed onto his back, pulling Nischal onto his chest. She coughed and sputtered as he swam, moving them closer to shore. After ten minutes, the bank was only ten yards out and Bolan felt like his legs were on fire. Both of them were shivering uncontrollably. Nischal began to kick, as well, and they finally made landfall. They hit the shore and the snap of the cold air hit them like a fist. Their clothing began to freeze almost immediately.

“We have to get out of these wet clothes or we’ll freeze to death,” Nischal sputtered through her chattering teeth.

Bolan pulled a high-intensity flashlight from his sodden pack and aimed it around the shoreline. “Look,” he said, pointing. “There’s a small cave or at least a place with some cover over there. Let’s move.”

They broke into a ragged jog, stripping their clothes the minute they were out of the wind. Bolan dug through his pack and found two T-shirts that weren’t perfectly dry but were an excellent improvement over their current clothing situation. He didn’t pause as he handed Nischal one of the shirts and pulled the other over his head. He also had extra pants in the bag, but they were too wet to bother with. Everything would need to be wrung out and dried once they had a fire going.

Reaching the cave, he set to the task, silently thankful that he’d managed to keep at least his personal gear together. There was enough scrub brush in the area that it took little time to get a decent base fire going. As he built it up, Nischal huddled closer to it, trying to absorb the warmth. Bolan sat next to the fire and pulled her close, rubbing her arms and legs.

“Normally, I’d object,” she muttered.

“Normally, I wouldn’t offer. But we’re each other’s best defense against hypothermia.”

Her shivering began to ease and she leaned forward to rub her hands close to the flames. Bolan didn’t move, watching the firelight flicker on the shadows in the cave. He studied the woman in front of him, curious about her, how they had landed together. There were few people in the world that he felt comfortable with, but her light banter had put him at ease. He noticed a small cut on her arm.

“We should dress that.”

She glanced at the small wound.

“I didn’t even realize I had it.”

Bolan fished a small first-aid kit from his pack.

“Well, you’ve managed to pull out clothes and medicine from that bag... You don’t happen to have a communications array, extra weapons and food socked away in there, do you?”

“No,” he said. “But at first light, we’ll do an inventory and see what we have left to work with.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have much. I think most of my personal gear is in the bottom of the lake, and the rest is wherever the plane went down.”

“I bet we’ll be able to find enough to get started, and by then our clothes will be dry, at least. Once we’ve got a handle on that, we’ll go to the crash site.”

“What?” she asked, incredulous.

“It’s possible those pilots survived. They could be out there somewhere.”

“They aren’t our mission,” she said.

“And our mission is going to be pointless if the Chinese find evidence of a stealth bomber in Tibet. We’re going to need to do what we can to make sure they don’t find any evidence.”

She shook her head. “We don’t have the time or the equipment to try and hide plane wreckage.”

“We’ll just have to improvise,” he said. “Right now, we don’t even know where we are for sure.” He held up his phone, showing her the shattered screen. “We don’t have GPS or communications to tell us our location, let alone tell anyone else. We’ll have to wing it.”

“That much, at least, I can help with.” Nischal reached for her pants, which were drying by the fire, and pulled out a map. She carefully unfolded it to keep the damp paper from ripping. “We’re isolated and we’re going to need support. There’s a monastery about ten miles south along the Bhote Koshi River. We can get help there and then go and look for survivors.”

“No, we go after the plane. That’s the mission now. We have to make it the priority or there will be war with China. No one can know we’re here. After we get to the plane, we’ll figure out the rest.”

“You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I generally do.”

“So do I,” she said. “But you’re right. If the plane or the pilots are found, this whole region is going to fill up with Chinese military.”

“We’re agreed, then?”

She nodded. “Yes. Now we’d better get some sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Tomorrows tend to work out that way.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The Russian Mi-26 helicopter had the paint style and markings of a civilian aircraft, but if trouble arrived, it was a fist inside a velvet glove. Usually used as a troop transport by the military, this one had been custom outfitted with a variety of hidden surprises, paid for by funds siphoned from other military divisions. Hidden inside the nose cone was a belt-fed .50 caliber machine gun that could be extended free of the aircraft and used to strafe ground personnel on nearly a hundred-and-eighty degree angle. On each side of the cabin, two S-5 fragmentation rockets added to the armament. The chopper’s registry was civilian, too, and even the transponder code would come up as a private aircraft registered to a holding company based in the Cayman Islands that didn’t actually exist. All of these, in addition to the helicopter’s interior comfort, were among the reasons Nizar Vitaly used it to travel when his presence was required elsewhere in the world and why he took it to Kathmandu. Under the circumstances, it was impossible to predict what he might be dealing with, and a little local air support might come in handy.

As he stepped out of the helicopter and made his way across the pad to the waiting team, he realized he still far preferred fieldwork over the intrigue of urban intelligence. He was a hands-on kind of man, and those who knew him gave him the respect he’d earned in the field, not by playing word games at cocktail parties. The waiting men all snapped to attention as he approached, and a few of the younger ones looked nervous. It appeared that his reputation preceded him, which meant that his advance man had done his work well. Vitaly liked the unease most people felt around him—it offered an edge that few men enjoyed, let alone knew how to take advantage of. His advance man was waiting at the end of the silent receiving line.