Perilous Cargo

“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 (#ulink_7f474ced-f6a4-5a62-9c8d-eaafbddef13d)

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.