HIDE-AND-SEEK

The Himalayas become a deadly hunting zone when a nuclear warhead is stolen from a black-market warehouse in Kathmandu. Knowing the incident could start World War III, the President sends Mack Bolan and a CIA operative to retrieve the weapon in the treacherous border region between Tibet and Nepal.

But the U.S. isn’t the only country in the search. Bolan and his ally are up against cunning Chinese and Russian assassins, and several local warlords are vying for the valuable nuke, as well. These competing parties are determined to reach the weapon first—no matter how many witnesses they eliminate on the way. With few alternatives and the trail of innocent blood growing longer, Bolan accepts the help of an old spy. But can he be trusted? With the harsh mountain terrain working against them, the Executioner will need to rely on his wits to win this race…because coming in second is not an option.

“Jump clear!” the pilot yelled.

“The wings are completely iced over!”

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

That was all it took for the icy air to snatch her. She rolled toward the opening away from Bolan’s outstretched hand.

“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 the chance to grab 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.

Perilous Cargo

Don Pendleton

Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

—Lao Tzu

Anyone who makes himself an enemy of innocent people is an enemy of mine. And he doesn’t have long for this world.

—Mack Bolan

Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Not far from the warehouse, he walked silently over the small stone footbridge that crossed the Bagmati River. Farther upstream, temples lined the banks of the waterway the Hindus and Buddhists believed was holy, but the man was not interested in the spiritual potential of the water—only the rippling, gurgling sound that helped hide his movements. The moonless sky ensured there were plenty of shadows, and the late hour left the streets empty and quiet.

Kathmandu was unlike any other city in the world. It was a city of contradictions—wealthy tourists mingled with poor-by-choice monks and hotels catering to the rich found near ancient shrines. Nepal was a strange place, and Kathmandu, a crossroads of religion, money, crime and constantly shifting political powers, was the hub. He liked it, though he was glad that this night would see him on his way home.

With no fear of being seen by late-night tourists in the remote district, he found the stone shrine he’d been seeking, reached inside to find the switch and slid the hidden panel aside. Cobwebs and dirt covered the handle, but he wiggled it back and forth, eventually pulling it free of its lock. Below the shrine, the opening for the staircase came free, revealing a steeply twisting set of stone stairs. He stepped inside and used another mechanism to close the panel behind him.

The man ignored the torch holders and slipped his night-vision monocle into place. The corridor hadn’t been used in years and he chuckled to himself. Some secrets were just forgotten, waiting to be exposed. He knew many of them, in cities and countries far and near. In fact, some might say he was a walking, talking secret himself.

The descent ended and a long corridor stretched ahead of him. He knew the hallway extended beneath a small market square, then a fenced parking area and, eventually, the warehouse. People walked over this passage every day, ignorant of its existence. Part of it was caved in, but he faced nothing more difficult than scrambling over a dirt mound. He paused, caught his breath and then climbed another set of stone stairs that ended in a sealed door above his head. This one opened onto the warehouse floor.

The escape tunnel had originally been dug by monks decades before inside a small temple. Later, the temple had been torn down and the warehouse had been built in its place. During the fall of the USSR, some factions within Russia had needed a facility and thus purchased it for their own use.

The man peered at the door, then found the small niche that would, hopefully, open it after all these years of disuse. He needed all of this to work. And it did. The door opened a crack, enough for him to pull himself up and inside a small office in the warehouse itself. So far, he’d triggered no alarms.

He slipped in, then snuck through the open office door and moved along the wall toward an interior sentry, half-asleep at his post. The man pulled a knife out of his boot. His movements were so swift the sentry had no time to shout as the man clasped a hand over his mouth and shoved the tip of the blade into his carotid artery. He lowered the guard to the ground as he grabbed his ID. After edging along the wall to the main entrance, the man swiped the guard’s badge along the electronic keypad and watched the lights flash as the bay door began to open.

He sprinted back toward the massive platform truck with the nuclear warhead attached and began to climb into the cab. Shots rang out and ricocheted off the door. He turned, drawing his own weapon, and fired back, knocking the assailant down in one shot. There was no time for playing around.

He got behind the wheel and started the truck. The warehouse doorway was beginning to fill with Russian soldiers, most of them milling around in confusion. He reached out the window and opened fire, scattering the sentries as they looked for cover. He shifted up another gear and drove through the door before they could lower it again.

He didn’t bother to head for the gate, just aimed for the nearest section of chain-link fence and tore through it. The bullets bouncing off the truck didn’t bother him. As soon as he cleared the facility he checked his mirrors. No one was in pursuit. The man smiled, knowing the chaos he’d caused would keep them busy. He shifted into high gear and headed for the Friendship Highway.

Everything would be different now. It was only a matter of time.

CHAPTER ONE

As Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, walked down the silent hallway, he knew that whatever was waiting for him in the Situation Room probably wasn’t something he wanted to hear. He sighed and stopped in front of the door, where a silent Marine guard waited. Brognola removed his Justice Department ID card, held it up for the Marine’s brief inspection, then swiped it through the reader. The Marine opened the door for him, then stepped aside smartly. “Good evening, sir,” he said.

“Want to bet?” Brognola growled under his breath.

Stony Man Farm was a covert operations base whose existence was known by a very few and whose director answered directly to the President. Its missions were varied, ranging from domestic anticrime and terrorism to foreign intelligence operations—anything that the United States couldn’t officially be seen—or get caught—doing. Brognola had been in charge for a long time, which perhaps explained why he went through so many antacids in a given day and certainly explained why he knew that a call from the White House at two in the morning wasn’t good news.

Inside the Situation Room he’d expected to find a large assortment of military brass, but he was startled to see only one man: the President himself. At the moment, his back was to Brognola as he watched some spy satellite footage playing on one of the many video screens in the room. He turned when the door shut.

“Hal,” he said, pausing the feed. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” he said. The two men shook hands. “What’s the situation?”

The President laughed. “You always come straight to the point, Hal. It’s one of the reasons I like you.”

“You don’t call me at this hour if there isn’t a situation, sir. Usually a bad one.”

“True enough, and this one is more precarious than I’d like, Hal, which is why the only people here at the moment are the two of us. If the Joint Chiefs heard about this, we’d have no way to contain it. As it is, I’ve had to seal everything with ‘Presidential Eyes Only,’ and anyone else who’s seen it has been sent on a long vacation with direct orders to keep their mouths shut.”

“That doesn’t sound precarious, Mr. President,” Brognola said carefully. “That sounds like an end-of-the-world kind of problem.”

“The truth is, Hal, we could be looking at a major disaster, but I think—with your help—we might be able to get on top of it.” He turned and restarted the video feed at the beginning. “This is a clip from one of our satellites as it passed over Kathmandu about twelve hours ago. Routine surveillance, so the angle isn’t very precise. The analyst who saw this come through cleaned it up and damn near wet himself.”

Brognola didn’t speak but took up a position next to the President and watched the screen. The blurred images solidified, showing a mobile launching platform, complete with a nuclear warhead and rocket, moving away from a large building. Guards were shooting at the vehicle, but it was heavily armored and kept right on going, hitting the road and then disappearing from the frame. The data analyst was clearly on his game because the next sequence showed the truck on a deserted highway, heading away from the city. Then it was lost again.

“Did he do any still image enhancement?” Brognola asked.

The President nodded and typed in the commands, bringing up the slides. The side of the rocket was in shadow, but the markings were unmistakable. They were Russian.

Brognola nodded thoughtfully, then took a seat at the conference table. After the Cold War, the Soviets had either lost or hidden a large number of nuclear weapons, though which one this represented was impossible to say. “I was right, Mr. President,” he said. “Precarious was an understatement. Who else knows about this?”

“The director and deputy director of the CIA, the Vice President, and you,” he said. “Plus the soon-to-be-vacationing analyst.”

Brognola cleared his throat. “Don’t let the analyst go anywhere,” he advised. “In fact, have him brought in on some pretense. Arrange for him to be held until this is over.”

“You’re afraid he’ll talk?”

“If he hasn’t already, yes, I am. Let’s find out for sure if he’s made any calls or spoken to anyone since his debrief, and hold anyone he’s even said good-night to. He knows there’s a nuclear missile roaming around in Nepal or Tibet. I’d suggest we take him out of circulation immediately.”

The President glanced at his watch. “He’s still in with the deputy director, going over it all one more time. Give me a moment.” He picked up a phone, dialed, then spoke softly into the receiver. “It’s done,” he said. “They’ll keep him at Langley for the time being.”

“Good. Now, who else knows?”

“I already told you, Hal—”

“Excuse me, sir, I mean which countries?”

“Well, we’ve got to assume the Russians know—it’s their damn missile that’s been stolen.”

“Did we have any indication that they were housing arms in Kathmandu?”

“There were plenty of rumors at the end of the Cold War, of course, but that’s all they were at the time—rumors. The intelligence coming out of the former Soviet Republic was terrible. The CIA didn’t have anything concrete or we’d have moved on it long ago.”

“But the CIA had something?”

“One field agent offered up an unconfirmed report, but it was little more than something he’d heard.”

“Based on what we’re seeing here, I’d say it’s been confirmed,” Brognola said.

The President stood and paced while Brognola gathered his thoughts.

“Sir, if China finds out...” he started.

“Then any hope we have for Tibet is lost,” he finished. “Worse, if that damn nuke gets launched into China...”

“Then we could be looking at World War III.”

“Exactly,” the President said. “That seems like a pretty good reason to kick you out of bed, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No complaints, Mr. President.”

“All right, so what do you recommend?” he asked.

“Have we had any contact with the thief? Any ransom or other demands?”

“No, and I think that’s more troubling than anything. Someone after money and power we can negotiate with, but a true believer of some kind or another...”

“In Nepal or Tibet?” Brognola asked. “Is there anything happening with the Chinese that might have motivated this from inside either country?”

“Not that we’re aware of, but I’ll dig a little deeper into that and see if they’ve managed to keep something from us. We don’t know yet what we’re dealing with. If the person who stole it has an agenda, then we’ve got nothing to give them and no room to negotiate. So I’ll ask again, Hal—what are your recommendations?”

“We go in fast and quiet. Striker’s the best man for this kind of job—hell, he’s the only man for this kind of job.”

The President nodded. “Fast and quiet it is, then,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and we can put a lid on this before we’ve got every warlord and criminal in the region going after the warhead, let alone China.”

“It’s possible,” Brognola said. “Anything else, sir?”

“I want to add one to your team,” the President replied. “An expert on the region and in the field. Two is better than one on this hunt in case something goes wrong.”

“Sir, Striker doesn’t always work and play well with others. It’s just his nature.”

“He will this time, Hal,” the President said. “And that’s not nature—it’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Brognola got to his feet.

“Oh, and Hal?”

“Sir?”

“Let’s not drop the ball on this one, okay? I’d hate to have to be the first President since Truman to be responsible for a nuclear holocaust.” The President was staring at him very intently, his eyes clear and focused.

“You know that Striker has never dropped the ball, sir,” Brognola said. “And he won’t now.”

CHAPTER TWO

Mack Bolan had been to the National Mall on a number of occasions, but it was almost never to revel in the monuments to the people and values that had built this country, let alone enjoy the park space. Not that he wanted to play the tourist, but he wouldn’t mind coming here once or twice for reasons less imperative than the end of the civilized world. Still, when Hal Brognola had called him early that morning and said they needed to meet immediately, he knew from experience that somewhere in the world his skills were needed.

As he approached the bench where Brognola had suggested they meet, he was surprised to see a woman seated next to the big Fed. The sun had only recently come up, and they appeared to be the only people out on the Mall at the moment. The pair was deep in conversation, and Bolan cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

The woman turned around slowly. “Colonel Stone, I presume?” she said, rising to her feet. “I feared we’d be waiting on you all morning.” She shook Bolan’s hand and then turned back to Brognola. The action offered an alluring glimpse of her slender neck hidden by long, black hair that fell almost to the small of her back. “I was just running out of stories to tell to fill the time.”

“I rather doubt that,” Bolan said. “Hal.”

“Colonel Stone,” Brognola said, also rising to stand. “Thank you for coming. Let me introduce you to Alina Nischal. She’s vital to the mission we’re about to discuss.”

“Pleasure,” Bolan said.

Brognola handed Bolan a foam cup of coffee. “Let’s walk.”

As they crossed the Mall in the cool morning air, Brognola filled them in on the situation. “Approximately forty-eight hours ago, a small nuclear missile, an RT-2PM, on a mobile launching platform was stolen from a secret Russian holding facility in Kathmandu, Nepal. Based on satellite images, it appears to be a complete system, ready for service. The last image we picked up tracked it leaving the city and heading north, toward the border with Tibet.”

“Is there any chance it’s the Russians stealing one of their own weapons?” Bolan asked. “The black market in that part of the world sells pretty much anything and everything.”

“We don’t think so,” Brognola said. “But we can’t discount that possibility.”

“Do we know who might have access to that base outside of the Russians?” Nischal asked.

“If we did, this mission would be a whole lot simpler,” Brognola told her. “It seems likely that there’s been plenty of money thrown around to keep this facility off the radar, but as of right now we don’t know who has it and what their intent may be.”

“So, you want me to go and recover it?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a little more politically complicated than that,” Brognola replied. “It’s crucial, yes, to recover the weapon, but there’s more at play than just the danger this rogue weapon represents. If we can get our hands on it before the Russians do, we can prove that they haven’t lived up to the treaties we’ve signed. Which means a lot of concessions from them at the bargaining table, especially in regard to places like North Korea and Pakistan.”

“And if the Russians recover it first?” Nischal asked.

“Then they’ll have complete deniability and we’ll lose our advantage. There are other considerations, too. It’s only a matter of time until the Chinese learn something’s going on. Depending on how this plays out, they could decide to launch a military action in Tibet. Worse, if that weapon is launched, then we could be looking at the beginning of World War III.”

Bolan nodded thoughtfully. “That’s an eight-hundred kiloton weapon with a range of over six thousand miles. Whoever stole it could blow a pretty big hole in a lot of places...India, China, the Middle East.”

“Great Britain, America,” Nischal added. “Not to mention that a weapon like this violates the very sanctity of what many in the area believe. It could divide the region, sending many into prayer and others off to war. This weapon could cause huge upheaval even if it doesn’t blow anything up.”

“Hal, how do you want to play this?” Bolan asked.

“It’s straightforward enough. We’re going to send you in fast and quiet. Retake the weapon and deliver it to Delhi, where we’ll have a transport waiting to get it to the United States. After, you’ll go back and ensure that we’ve got on-the-ground intelligence on the facility to confirm our claims.”

“How are we going in?” Nischal asked.

“We?” Bolan said. “Who said anything about ‘we’? I assumed you were here because you had some kind of intelligence on the situation.”

“Colonel Stone, Alina is an expert on the region and she speaks all the languages, including the dialects. Both of you will be going.” Brognola’s voice was firm.

Nischal smirked. “Don’t worry, Colonel. I’m field qualified in weapons, hand to hand and tactics.”

“All right,” Bolan said. “Let’s just hope you can live up to your training. Given the danger, I imagine the alternatives to coming up short will be less than pleasant.”

“I’ll carry my weight,” she replied coolly. “And yours, too, if it comes to that.”

“It won’t,” he said, then looked at Brognola. “What kind of insertion are you planning?”

“We’ve got a B-2 Spirit on ready alert at Andrews. You’ll do a HALO jump just over the border in Tibet.” He brought up a map of the region on his phone and showed it to them. “This is a pretty desolate area, but there are several warlords operating in the region, according to our latest intel, so watch yourselves.”

“What do we have on them?” Bolan asked. “Anything specific?”

“No one passes in or out of that region without at least one of them knowing,” Nischal said. “There is one operative who knows everything there is to know about the players in that area, though.”

“And who might that be?” Bolan asked.

She raised her hand and fanned her fingers in the air, waving them daintily. “Don’t worry, Colonel Stone. I’ll take care of you.”

“Let’s see how it goes in the field before we worry about who’s taking care of who,” Bolan said dryly.

“And on that charming note, I believe I’ll go and get ready. I’ll meet you at Andrews, Colonel.” She turned and added a respectful goodbye to Brognola.

Bolan watched her saunter off and shook his head. Hopefully, she was more than a pretty face and a sharp mind.

“Hal, we didn’t cover this, but how do you expect me to get that damn missile—assuming I can find it—from Tibet all the way to India?”

The big Fed shrugged. “My guess is you’ll have to drive it.”

“Drive it!” Bolan choked. “You’re talking about more than five hundred miles, in hostile territory, in what’s likely to be lousy weather.”

“Don’t forget all the mountains and the wind,” Brognola said, chuckling. “Just like when you walked to school back in the day.”

“Very funny,” he said. “I’m serious. You want me to drive it to Delhi?”

“Unless you come up with a better idea once you’ve got it, that’s the only move we’ve got in this case.”

Bolan sighed heavily and started to say something, but Brognola cut him off. “Before you say anything else about Alina, you know that I can’t override the President of the United States. He wants her along and he trusts her for some reason.”

“Hal, you’re sending us into hostile terrain while we try and track down a nuke. I’ll spend the whole mission trying to make certain she isn’t killed, and that’s assuming she survives a HALO jump out of the cargo bay of a stealth bomber in a country not known for its charming weather conditions.”

“Don’t count her as baggage just yet, Striker. I’ve read her file, and I think she’ll give you a run for your money. She’s the real deal and has been working in the field for the CIA for over a decade. She can handle herself.”

Bolan wasn’t entirely convinced, but the deal was done. There was no point in arguing any further. “Have a nice trip, Striker,” Brognola said. “Try to leave something in Nepal standing. The Chinese will know we’ve been up to something if Mount Everest isn’t there next week.”

“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.

“Fedar,” Vitaly said, stopping and offering his hand. “What’s the situation?”

“Vitaly, it is good you have arrived. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned.”

Fedar wanted privacy, which meant the intelligence provided by the Russian network was either wrong or woefully lacking. Which was not all that unusual in a remote location such as Kathmandu. “As you wish,” Vitaly said. “Return the men to their duties for now.”

Fedar snapped out an order and the men quietly dispersed. He gestured to the small offices attached to the warehouse, and they stepped inside. Although he despised the heat of Yangon, Vitaly was glad to get out of the cold wind. Kathmandu didn’t have the most welcoming climate. Once inside, he found an office that seemed like it had recently been cleaned from top to bottom and emptied out. A plain metal desk and several folding chairs, along with an old coffee percolator, were about all that was left.

Fedar poured both of them a cup and sat down in one of the chairs. “It’s drinkable, if barely. What they call coffee here is not all that different than highway tar.”

Vitaly nodded, sipped a bit of the black brew and grimaced. He gestured vaguely around the office. “You’ve already cleaned this area? Is there anything missing that I need to know about?”

“No, I finished it this morning. Everything appeared to be in order, if a bit lazy. All of the files have been boxed up, locked and sent on to Moscow, but they aren’t going to find anything there that helps with the situation here.”

“So, what is the situation here?” Vitaly asked. “Was this an inside operation?”

“I don’t think so,” Fedar said. “I’ve interviewed all the personnel and accounted for the off-shift staff. I’ve also reviewed the security footage. Everyone was taken by surprise, and no one has gone unaccountably missing. I believe this had to have come from the outside. We found an old underground passageway that was long forgotten. That had to have been his entrance. This facility has never been breached.”

“That’s damn sloppy guard work, Fedar,” he said. “Who else would have known about this tunnel?”

“It’s not even on the retrofit plans,” Fedar admitted. “No one knew of its existence. This place has been left alone for so long, procedures and drills got lax. Hell, most of the people here didn’t even know what they were guarding because they weren’t allowed inside. Did you know it was here?”

Vitaly laughed. “I did, and I warned Moscow about it, but you know the situation. Everything is political now, and everyone is so busy covering their asses and keeping their secrets, it’s a wonder we manage to do anything at all. How long until we can shut down completely?”

“I estimate a few weeks or so, from whenever you give me the go and a direction. The locals are stirred up, and it would be a lot easier to slip out quietly, bit by bit. It will give them less to talk about.”

“You’ve got the go,” Vitaly said. He pulled out his phone and sent a map and some additional information to Fedar. “There’s the destination, too. Put someone you trust in charge of the operation and tell him he has two weeks to get it done. I don’t want there to be a trace of our presence here after that time.”

“And the locals on the payroll that know the truth?”

“Arrange for them to have an accident once the warehouse is cleaned out. I think a gas line explosion or something like that will suit. Be sure to pay off their families to keep them from asking questions, and if need be, pay whatever excuse they’ve got for a police force here to keep their noses out of it. The fewer questions, the better off we’ll be.”

“Easily handled. They’ll all want to keep working as long as possible. Work is hard to find here, so we’ll bring them in as a ‘cleaning’ crew once everything is secured.”

Vitaly sipped more of the horrible coffee. “I’ll want you with me for the rest of this mission, along with a handful of our own men—nobody local, of course. We need men we can trust. Where do we stand with the locals?”

“We’ve begun asking some questions, of course, but I’m afraid none of us has your special touch. There are a few people left to talk to that might be of help, but I think our best bet is a man named Li Soong.”

“Black market or foreign intelligence?” Vitaly asked.

“He styles himself as a professional trader, but he’s a thief through and through. He moves a lot of items on the black market, mostly into China.”

“Have you spoken with him already?”

“I started the conversation, but I can’t give him what he wants and eliminating him would remove a valuable asset in the region. He’s more than he seems and less than he thinks he is. He can be bought.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“He’s waiting for us now,” Fedar said. “I told him to expect us.”

“Take me to him,” Vitaly said, setting down the half-full mug on the desk, grateful to be moving again—and not drinking the vile brew.

Fedar led him off the warehouse grounds and then through the open markets of Kathmandu to a nondescript building on the edge of the more populated areas. There was a storefront selling fabric, and Vitaly made his way around the tables stacked with cloth in what appeared to be every shade of brown and gray. The young boy behind the counter watched him with suspicious eyes and the unrepentant smile of a street urchin until Fedar stepped in front of him.

The smile faded quickly and the boy ran through a curtain and into a back room, only to return a moment later and gesture for them to follow him.

Vitaly and Fedar eased behind the counter and through the curtain. The back room itself was sparsely furnished, with only a desk and a couple of chairs. Fedar had told him on the way that the meeting place was nothing but a front. So far, he’d been unable to determine where Li Soong’s true residence and place of business were located. It would be useful information, should they need to resort to more direct methods with the man. Li Soong himself awaited them in a chair in front of the desk.

He was small, almost tiny compared to Vitaly, and relaxed comfortably in his seat. Nothing about him would draw the eye in a crowd, and no doubt this near-invisibility was in part what made him an excellent thief.

“Mr. Fedar,” he said, bowing from the neck. “I see you have returned, as promised.”

“This is the man I spoke to you about. Mr. Vitaly.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Vitaly. I am always interested in meeting new, ah...customers. How may I help you?”

Vitaly studied him carefully. “Fedar tells me that you are a man who knows things and sees things and hears things in the region.”

“This is true. I know many things. The lifeblood of trade is knowledge, and one cannot make a good trade without knowing what comes in and what goes out.”

“I’m looking for something that was stolen from our...storage facility on the northern side of the city. Something of great value.”

Li Soong laughed softly. “Yes, I know what you seek. I don’t have it.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I am surprised that it was not taken from you sooner. The security at the warehouse over the past couple of years has been...less than conspicuous. Many would have paid a great deal for that information, but the trade was never brought to me.”

“That’s a matter for us to deal with, and no, I don’t believe you have what was stolen,” Vitaly said. “I don’t imagine you would want the kind of attention such an item might bring, no matter how valuable it is, but Fedar seems to believe you have an idea of its location.”

“So far, that has eluded me, but I can point you in the right direction, if we can agree on an appropriate price.”

Vitaly looked at Fedar, who shrugged, and then back at Soong. Like a striking snake, he snared Soong by his lapels and picked him up, slamming him down onto the desk. Guards raced into the room, their weapons drawn and aimed directly at him and Fedar.

“Your guards should move back now,” he said, pitching his voice very low. “I’m not a man to make an enemy of, and I respond poorly to blackmail.”

“Mr. Vitaly, first you must let me go.” Soong smiled. “These men are sworn to die protecting me.”

“Then it looks like they’ll get to keep their promise,” he said, shifting his coat aside and revealing the brick of C4 that was attached on the inside. A small digital timer was counting down the seconds. “The only one that can disarm it in time is me.”

“You would blow yourself up, as well,” Soong said. “This is not good for your business or mine.”

“You seem to think that I would mind that outcome.”

There was a long, pregnant pause and then Soong began to laugh. “I like you,” he said. “You play for the highest stakes of all and you are willing to bet your life for your...business.” He waved his hands at his guards, who lowered their weapons and backed off.

Vitaly pulled Soong to his feet, his eyes asking the question.

“I cannot help much, but your treasure was seen on the Friendship Highway, heading into the mountains. In exchange for a quantity of that pretty clay you are carrying, I might be able to come up with a name for you to hunt.”

Vitaly glared, but Soong raised his hand. “It is not a negotiation, but there are others that I must appease to get the answers that you seek. Information comes at a price and someone must always pay it.”

He reached into his coat and pulled the trigger wire out of the brick of C4 and tossed it to Soong. “There will be much more of that if you get me a name. Find me before the end of the day, or I’ll assume you’ve failed me. I don’t like being disappointed.”

“I will not fail you, Mr. Vitaly,” he said.

“See that you don’t, Li Soong. As you said, we’re playing with the highest stakes.” He turned on his heels and left the store.

Once they were outside, Vitaly turned to Fedar. “Who’s next?”

CHAPTER SIX

Both Bolan and Nischal were awake and waiting for first light before it even kissed the horizon with streaks of predawn gray. Their clothing was finally dry and they dressed in silence, then surveyed their pitifully small inventory. They quickly packed what little they had left and stepped out of the shelter of the cave into the cold, sharp wind of early morning. To Bolan’s eye, the landscape was no more welcoming in daylight than it had been at night. He unfolded the map Nischal had managed to save and studied it once again, trying to get a bearing on about where they were, given the chaos of the jump the night before.

“At least it’s stopped snowing,” he said, looking up at the sky. “For now.”

“Tibet is a beautiful country, but it’s not a very forgiving place this time of year,” Nischal said. “That snow can return quickly and with much more force. This is not a place to be without supplies.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He held up the map and traced a route with his finger. “I figure if we follow the lake south, we’ll come out of this bowl in that narrow valley. Hopefully, between here and there, we’ll find where the plane went down.”

“You know, it’s not too late,” she said. “It’s not wildly illogical to just head for the monastery and get some help. It’s not like we’re loaded down with supplies, and like I said, the weather can shifts on a dime this time of year.”

He shook his head. “No. We need that plane.” She started to say something else, but Bolan wasn’t in the mood to keep arguing, so he turned and began to follow the shoreline. His hopes that the crate containing their supplies was either floating in the lake or washed up on the jagged rocks were rapidly dashed. Nischal must have decided to take the hint because she trudged silently in his wake. They trekked south, doing their best to avoid the worst of the brutal landscape. From the map, assuming he had their position right, they were in a bowl-shaped area that bordered the north side of the mountain range between Nepal and Tibet. There were no villages marked on the map, and given what he’d seen so far, it wouldn’t be surprising if no one really lived here.

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