Stolen Arrows

CHAPTER TWO

Norwegian Sea

Dropping out of the clouds at 990 mph, the five RAF jetfighters streaked toward the Atlantic Ocean until they were skimming along the water barely above the waves. At these speeds, a single twitch of a hand on the joystick or an unexpected thermal, and the multimillion dollar fighters would go straight into the drink. However, the risk was worth it. At this height, the jets would be practically invisible to any ship’s radar until it was far too late and they were in camera range.

“Wing Commander Lovejoy, this is Vivatar,” a nasally voice said into the earphones of the pilots. The RAF controller was using the code name for the local UK air base. “Permission to fire has been granted by the PM. Repeat, you may arm all weapon systems.”

The Prime minister? Bloody hell. “Roger, Vivatar, confirm,” Captain Adrian “Lovejoy” Scott said into his helmet microphone. “Will recon first for friendlies, then proceed to disable engines. Over.”

“Roger and confirmed, Lovejoy. Good hunting, chaps!”

“Disable their engines, my arse,” Shadowboxer said on the pilot-to-pilot channel. “We should blow the bastards out of the water. Miniature nukes, just how crazy are those damn Yanks?” From the rear seat of the two-man Tornado G1-B, his navigator wholeheartedly agreed.

“Cut the chatter, Shadow,” Lovejoy ordered as the radar beeped and a tiny image appeared on the horizon. Preset, the video screen on the dashboard did a zoom to show a cargo ship bearing Australian markings. “Okay, there it is. I’m going in for an ident, Merlin and Red Cat stay on my wings. Shadowboxer, Crippen, maintain position.”

Dropping out of Mach, the front three delta-shaped Jaguars slowed their speed as the two sleek Tornados folded back their wings to peel away at full throttle, soon reaching Mach 2.5, and began to widely arch around the target zone.

With the cool air whispering past the bubble canopies of the Jaguars, the choppy Norwegian Sea below was sable in color, the dull gray cargo ship almost lost in the sheer vastness of the ocean. Which was probably the whole idea, Lovejoy thought.

Still slowing their approach, the three Jaguars flew past the Tullamarine with their video cameras on automatic. The wide cargo ship was probably moving at its top speed, but compared to the British jetfighters it might as well have been nailed in place.

On the dashboard of his jet fighter, Commander Lovejoy studied the relayed pictures from the belly cameras. The infrared scanners had focused on every human-size thermal and showed only sharp images of armed men on the decks. No women, or children, and nobody who appeared to be held as a hostage. Nothing but a room-by-room search would ever truly show if the vessel was completely clear of innocent people, but this was the best the RAF pilots could do at the moment. With any luck, the crew would surrender and the question of civilians would never arise.

“It’s the Tullamarine, all right,” Red Cat said, slowing even more. “I can read the bow.”

Just then there was a fast series of flashes from all over the cargo ship and a flurry of Stinger missiles rose quickly on smoky contrails.

“Incoming,” Lovejoy reported calmly, dropping chaff and flares in his wake. The other Jaguars duplicated the tactic and the Stingers detonated harmlessly in the open air, the expanding halo of shrapnel never even coming close to the speeding jets.

“Target is hostile. Repeat, target is hostile,” Lovejoy announced grimly, banking into a turn. “Shadow, take out their radar.”

“My pleasure, Lovejoy!”

An ALARM missile streaked inward from out of the distance, locking on the signal of the ship’s radar and striking the rotating dish dead center. The explosion blew it apart and damaged a good section of the bridge, windows shattering for yards in every direction

“Good shooting, Shadow.”

“Roger, Commander!”

The crew was running madly around, firing more Stingers and what the RAF computers soon identified to the pilots as LAW and SRAW rockets. The smugglers seemed to be throwing anything they had into the sky and hoping for a lucky hit.

“Shadow and Crippen, keep those Stingers busy while we hit the engine,” Lovejoy directed, dropping into an attack profile and checking the readouts on his console. Fuel good, weapons hot, no damage.

In tight formation, the five jets streaked toward the cargo ship and cut loose with their cannons, the 27 mm rounds of the two Tornados raking the vessel from bow to stern, the fusillade sending a score of men diving for cover as the fat rounds deeply dented the deck and chewed several lifeboats to pieces.

Meanwhile the Jaguars concentrated on the flat stern of the wide ship, their larger 30 mm rounds stitching lines of holes across the steel achieving full penetration. Soon, smoke was pouring from the portholes and the turbulent wake of the vessel went still, the great props rotating to a slow stop.

“She’s dead in the water, boys,” Lovejoy said, then banked sharply as yet another flight of Stingers rose from the disabled ship. “But we don’t yet have their full cooperation.”

“Let’s give them two deadheads in the north,” Crippen suggested, spreading his wings to match speed with the slower Jaguars. “That’ll put the fear of God into them.”

“Sounds good. Splash two hot pickles,” Love joy stated. “But this is their last chance. Afterward, we start them hard. Dover, take the bow, Red Cat, take the stern. Shadow and I will fly the midship to draw fire. And keep it tight! We want them scared, not dead.”

“Shitless, not spitless,” Red Cat said. “Will comply.”

Flying in a staggered line, the fighters raced past the cargo ship, Crippen and Red Cat cutting loose a pair of Sidewinder missiles. With the guidance systems of the missiles turned off, the deadly heat-seekers simply flew straight past the cargo ship, knifing down into the ocean where they violently exploded. Twin plumes rose to throw a spray of hot salt water across the ship, knocking several of the crew overboard.

“Damn good shooting, boys!” Lovejoy stated, but then, incredibly, saw the stuttering fireflies of small-arms weapons being fired from around the open cargo hatch.

Oh surrender already, blokes.

“What is the ETA for the Harriers, Commander?” Merlin asked, slipping sideways in preparation for another attack run.

“Harriers from the HMS Edward III should be here in five minutes,” Lovejoy replied. “RAN helicopters in fifteen, and a Yank Los-Angeles-class submarine will arrive in about half an hour.”

“Thirty minutes? Too slow, chicken marango!” Red Cat quoted with a laugh. “It’ll be all over by…. Wait, what the hell are they doing? They’re dumping something overboard.”

Once again, fireflies danced along the starboard railing of the ship, but this time the crew pointed their weapons low, as if shooting at the water.

“Did they toss something overboard?” Lovejoy asked, dropping lower for a closer inspection when a blinding white light rose from the cold Norwegian Sea to fill the universe.

The expanding fireball caught Merlin and Shadowboxer, vaporizing the jet fighters instantly. Just far enough away from the blast to survive, it took Crippen and Red Cat a full second to realize what had happened. The pilots shoved their joysticks to the stop as they desperately punched for the sky. Their ships were shielded from the EMP blast of a nuke, so if they could just get outside the thermal flash and…

The physical shock wave of air compressed to the density of stone slammed into the RAF fighters, ripping off their wings, the fuselages crumpling around the men and trapping them inside the smashed jets. The damage activated the ejector seats, crushing the pilots into bloody jelly as the charges hurtled the seats directly into the wadded canopies. A split second later, the ruptured fuel tanks detonated, igniting every missile.

In a strident series of explosions, flaming debris rained from the clear azure sky to vanish below the radioactive waves, where soon there was nothing remaining but the empty, boiling ocean.

42nd Street Subway Station, New York

IT WAS QUIET and dark at Mack Bolan’s end of the old subway platform where graffiti covered the walls. The stairs were closed off with a folding iron grating padlocked into place and the door to the access tunnel was equally protected. Aside from the bank of old pay phones, half of them missing all together, there was nothing and no reason for anybody to go to that section of the subterranean platform so far away from the bright lights and busy crowds. Which made it just about perfect for Bolan’s needs.

“Hold on, Striker,” Brognola said over the receiver. “Another fax is coming. Be right back.”

“I’ll wait,” Bolan said, leaning against the dirty tiled wall. In the Executioner’s opinion, there was no way the Scion would have been caught in that stupid a move.

Bolan’s combat sense flared, and he felt that he was the center of someone’s attention long before hearing the approach of boots on the dirty concrete.

“Hey, you!”

Turning slowly, Mack studied the group of six teenagers coming his way. They were shabbily dressed in torn clothing, but the damage seemed to be more deliberate than natural wear and tear. That assessment was compounded by the fact that they were wearing hundred-dollar sneakers and ten-dollar pants. Two were smoking, one was chewing gum with his mouth open and a third was an acne-scarred kid moving to the beat of the music thumping coming from his stereo headphones, a fancy CD player hanging from a wide leather garrison belt. However, despite their youth, each was smiling at the easy mark standing in front of them, a lone man in a secluded section of the subway without a cop in sight.

Stopping a short distance away, the tallest of the group flicked his wrist and a switchblade snapped into existence at the end of a fist.

“Give us your fucking wallet,” he said, sneering. “That fancy watch, too!”

Still holding the phone receiver, Bolan turned sideways and lashed out with a shoe, the tip stabbing the boy hard in the stomach. The air left his lungs in an explosive grunt and the teen dropped his blade to stagger away, clutching his stomach and looking as if he was about to vomit.

As the rest of the gang stared hard at their intended victim, the Executioner gave them a look from the pits of Hell. The would-be predators shifted uneasily under his stern gaze, and most began to back away, splaying their hands in a sign of surrender.