Читать книгу Dark Savior - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

3

Sierra Nevadas, California

Descending from the ancient pine tree was a slow and awkward process. Bolan relied mostly on touch, as swirling snow and frosted goggles prevented him from seeing more than a few feet in any direction. Swiping the goggles clear meant letting go of a branch, a dicey proposition, but he risked it periodically to keep himself from being completely blinded.

Another problem: Bolan’s high-topped jump boots were designed to save his ankles from a break or sprain on landing, and for marching the necessary distance to his goal, but their lug soles quickly caked with frozen snow, putting him at even more risk for a fatal slip.

He felt exposed up in the tree, knowing that anyone who’d seen him drop could wait below for an easy shot and pick him off, no problem. On the upside, Bolan thought he was at least a mile from Holy Trinity. That meant a grueling hike through knee-deep snow, but it also limited the possibility of encountering an enemy.

If there were shooters in the neighborhood, they would be headed for the monastery, bent on finishing their work and getting out again before the storm trapped them there. Meeting a hostile party here and now would be a fluke, defying logic and the odds, though it was not out of the question.

As for the High Sierras’ natural predators, they would be deep in hibernation or long departed for warmer elevations by now, or at the very least huddled in shelter from the storm. The checklist wasn’t long to start with—mountain lions, bears, coyotes, rattlesnakes. If he met killers here, they’d be the worst that nature had to offer: human beings.

And the Executioner was used to those.

A heavy-laden branch snapped under Bolan’s feet. One second he was balanced, pausing to wipe his goggles, and then his perch dropped out from under him, its crack sounding as loud as rifle fire.

Sixty feet of empty air yawned underneath him, broken only by the branches that would bruise and break him as he fell. Bolan had one hand on a limb, and he felt his fingers slipping through the slush. His free hand found another one in time, but only just, and dangling there in space, his shoulder sockets burning, Bolan knew he was in trouble.

He would have to find another branch to stand on, then use as his next handhold, which meant moving closer to the pine’s trunk, and inching to his left or right until he found another limb to take his weight.

A bare inch at a time, he worked his way toward the trunk. It was too stout for him to wrap his arms around, but with one hand on the branch overhead and the other hugging the tree, Bolan was hopeful he could extend a leg to the left or right and find another perch before he lost his grip and fell. The pine’s bark, normally as rough as ancient alligator hide, was glazed with ice that made it slicker than a polished fireman’s pole.

It took the better part of ten minutes to pull it off, each minute giving an advantage to his enemies if they were closing in on Holy Trinity. Even if they weren’t—say that the storm had overtaken them in the foothills somewhere and prevented them from getting to the monastery—time still mattered. Bolan had to find the place, wangle a way inside, find Arthur Watson and convince him that he had to finish up the job he’d signed on for.

All that, and then get Watson out alive through snow that might be chest-deep by then, with no flat, open ground to let Grimaldi land, if he could even fly in the blizzard. Did Watson have cold weather gear? The monks, presumably, would stay inside when weather canceled gardening or other chores, huddling by their simple fires or meditating in their Spartan living quarters. Bolan would carry Watson out swaddled in homespun blankets if he had to, but he didn’t like the odds of surviving that scenario.

Bolan’s foot found the branch he had been searching for and he shifted his weight forward, still bracing against the trunk. When he was certain the limb would hold him, he swung his other leg onto it, leaning into the tree for stability. He rested briefly, and when he could feel his arms and hands again, resumed his grueling descent toward whatever awaited him below.

* * *

THE SNOWCAT WAS A Thiokol 601 Trackmaster, designed originally for the U.S. military and adapted over time for various civilian tasks. It was bright orange—or had been, before snow and ice had crusted over it—and reminded Spike O’Connor of a school bus jacked up to accommodate tank treads. The heater worked all right; in fact, he felt a little sweaty, packed in with eleven other guys. The heavy-duty windshield wipers were another story, snow-clotted and leaving more behind than they were clearing on each pass. Not that it mattered in the near-whiteout conditions they were facing.

Denikin handled the driving. Who better to navigate a winter wasteland than a Russian who had done part of his Spetsnaz training in Siberia?

O’Connor left him to it. The other members of his team, clad in all-white uniforms, were from Germany, South Africa, Australia, Israel, Italy, England and the USA, but each possessed that look common to men who had been tested in the fire of battle and proved themselves. Their weapons had been chosen for utility and uniformity. O’Connor and the seven others carried Galil MAR assault rifles, the compact models with folding stocks and eight-inch barrels that still provided the parent rifle’s full firepower, feeding 5.56 mm NATO ammunition from thirty-five-round magazines at seven hundred rounds per minute in full auto mode. Two men packed Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns, twelve-gauge semiautomatics with collapsible stocks, loading six rounds in the magazine plus one up the spout. Two others, their snipers, carried Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifles topped with Schmidt & Bender 3-12x50 PM II P telescopic sights. They fed 7.62 mm NATO ammunition from ten-round detachable box magazines, but O’Connor’s marksmen rarely needed second shots to do their job.

As far as handguns went, he’d left it up to each individual, half of them choosing Glocks, most of the rest drawing various SIG Sauer models. The lone exception was their German, Kurt Mueller, who carried a Walther P1 identical in its appearance to the old P38 his forebears might have carried into battle during World War II. Nostalgia, maybe, or brand loyalty to the Fatherland.

O’Connor was frustrated by the snowcat. They were grinding along at ten miles per hour at best through the drifts and high winds, but at least they were still on course, their vehicle’s GPS device providing turn-by-turn navigation to Denikin. There were no cliffs in the immediate vicinity, and even if the Trackmaster veered off the narrow, snowed-in road a bit, its treads would bring them back in line. O’Connor’s major worry now was fallen trees, which could prevent the snowcat from proceeding and leave them on foot, with five miles left to go.

If that happened, so be it. They had a job to do and had been paid half in advance. The snafu in New Mexico had been a setback, but O’Connor wasn’t dwelling on it. If they failed this time, however, then they might as well die trying. Their employers were like elephants, forgetting nothing, and they didn’t know the meaning of forgiveness.

This was do or die at thirty-five below and dropping, arm’s length visibility and winds that forced a strong man to hunch over.

This time we get it right, O’Connor told himself, or we’re not going home.

* * *

WHEN BOLAN’S BOOTS met solid ground he stopped and leaned back against the pine tree’s massive trunk to get his bearings and catch his breath. The air he inhaled through his woven mask was frigid, making his throat burn, while the hairs inside his covered nostrils had a crisp and brittle feel. His arms and legs were strained from the descent, but there was no time to relax, no place to sit or lie down in the snow, which was more than knee deep and was accumulating rapidly.

He had to push on. Forty-odd lives depended on his perseverance, along with the indictment of three parasites who had grown bloated on the blood of innocents.

Before proceeding, Bolan shed his parachute harness, took a lightweight parka from his field pack and slipped into it, then removed a GPS device from one of his jumpsuit’s pockets. Switching it on, he waited for the LED display to orient him in a world of blinding white. The screen told him he was 1.5 miles south-southwest of Holy Trinity.

He spent another moment checking out his hardware: a Steyr AUG assault rifle with white polymer furniture and translucent double-column magazine; a Beretta 93R selective fire machine pistol; six M26 fragmentation grenades; and a Mark I trench knife with a seven-inch blade and a brass knuckle handle. When he’d verified the items were in their proper places, all undamaged, Bolan struck off through the drifts.

Fighting the wind, which was against him, and the snow, which made each step feel as if his feet were mired in tar, he strode toward Holy Trinity. Flakes were settling on his hood and shoulders, clinging to his sleeves and gloves. He’d kept his tinted goggles on, to guard against snow blindness and the biting cold, and he scanned the white landscape incessantly, watching out for movement and for any sign of tracks.

So far he seemed to be alone.

No reason why the hunters should have come this way, of course. In fact, he highly doubted that they would have jumped into the mountains as he had. He figured there had to be a team, as in Las Cruces, when they’d taken the U.S. Marshals down and missed their prize. Multiple jumpers in the storm likely would have been separated, maybe scattered over rugged miles, losing precious time while they regrouped, assuming all of them survived.

So, Bolan calculated, they’d be coming overland. The question was when.

He’d scouted the terrain as best he could, with satellite photography Brognola had provided, learning that a single narrow, winding road linked Holy Trinity to the outside world. On clear days, it would take a driver in a 4x4 about three hours to reach the nearest town, Groveland, 3,136 feet above sea level and a population of just over six hundred. A small town, obviously, boasting one main drag and two hotels competing for the tourist trade, no doubt including someplace where determined men with cash in hand could rent or buy adequate transportation to the high country.

Not simple SUVs in this weather. Land transport to Holy Trinity on a day like this meant snowmobiles or something larger that could flatten three-foot drifts and cling to icy pavement without mishap.

Snowmobiles were loud. As for the larger possibilities...

Bolan stopped short, blinking behind his goggles. Ahead of him, partially obscured by blowing powder, a wall stretched as far as he could see from right to left. It was approximately twelve feet high, no razor wire on top, just ice and snow to make it slippery.

Something he’d anticipated.

Dropping his field pack, Bolan opened it and reached inside.

* * *

BROTHER THOMAS LOVED the snow. Its chill and silence stilled his memories of the chaotic desert hell where he had served three tours of duty among people who despised him, wished him dead and did their level best to make it so. The hush a deep snow brought to Holy Trinity was music to his ears and to his soul.

In truth, though, Brother Thomas loved all seasons at the monastery. He was pleased—not proud, worst of the deadly sins—to be a member of the small community devoted to communion with the Lord and greater understanding of His plan. The brotherhood demanded nothing of him that involved deciding who should live or die, walk free or be confined pending interrogation by the faceless men who called the shots outside the monastery’s walls.

Snow shovel duty was his lot this afternoon, a task that might seem futile with the storm still raging, but it kept him fit and served his brothers as they went about their daily tasks. It was an hour past None—one of the Little Hours, celebrated with psalms at 3:00 p.m.—and Brother Thomas had three paths to clear before Supper at half-past five. Someone else would likely have to do the job all over again before Vespers, the day’s last Major Hour, when the monks gathered to celebrate sunset.

As he began to clear a path serving the refectorium—what would have been the mess hall in his bygone military sojourn—Brother Thomas warmed from the exertion. Work was deemed a privilege at Holy Trinity, not something to be borne, but rather celebrated as a service to the brotherhood and to their Lord. It varied with the seasons, gardening from late spring into early fall, woodcutting for the stoves and fireplaces, whatever maintenance the monastery might require year-round. The best part was that none of it involved divesting any other soul of life or liberty.

The path was almost clear when Brother Thomas heard a sharp metallic clinking. It had come from somewhere to his left, in the direction of the monastery’s high west wall, and was alarming in its unfamiliarity. He stopped and listened, but the sound was not repeated. Leaning on his shovel, Brother Thomas pondered whether he should put it out of mind or go investigate.

It’s likely nothing, he decided. But what if it was something that required repair?

Taking his shovel with him, Brother Thomas moved in the direction of the sound, his boot tracks quickly fading as snow filled them up. His view of the west wall improved as he advanced, but snowy gusts still masked it. Was there something moving on the wall, descending toward the garden plot inside?

A trespasser, dressed all in white, his movements deft and spider-like.

Brother Thomas clutched his shovel like a weapon.

As the man in white touched down, boots crunching into snow, Brother Thomas called out, “Who are you?”

* * *

INSTEAD OF ANSWERING, Bolan slowly turned, his right hand drifting automatically to the Steyr AUG’s smooth pistol grip.

“You need to answer me,” the same voice said.

The man who stood before him was approximately Bolan’s height, possibly bulkier beneath his thick parka. Below the coat’s hem, Bolan saw the dark sweep of a snow-dusted robe over black rubber boots. Gloved hands clutched a broad shovel as if it were an ax. The man’s ebony face was grim but handsome.

“Names aren’t important,” Bolan said.

“Then you won’t have a problem sharing yours.”

“I’ve come to help you.”

“With your handy Steyr AUG?”

The brother knew his weapons, and he had a military bearing—feet apart, the shovel held up defensively.

“It’s for protection,” Bolan replied.

“Uh-huh. Against what, the abominable snowman?”

“Trouble’s coming.”

“Looks to me like it’s already here.”

“I’m telling you—”

“No weapons on the monastery grounds. You need to give it up.”

Bolan considered that, released the Steyr’s pistol grip and raised his free right hand. “I’ll trade it for a face-to-face,” he said. “Take me to see Brother Jerome.”

The shovel-bearer frowned. “You know the abbot primate?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Bolan replied. “But I’ve got news he needs to hear.”

It was the monk’s turn to consider his options. Finally, he said, “I take the rifle and you walk ahead of me.”

It was a gamble, but the other choices ran against the grain. “Okay.”

“Unsling it, hold it by the telescopic with your left hand and pass it over to me. Any fancy moves, you get to sample my Paul Bunyan imitation.”

“With a shovel?”

“You’d be surprised how sharp it is, from all those years of scraping ice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He passed the Steyr over, and the monk received it with respect and confidence. “You know your weapons,” Bolan said.

“Used to, but I still recall enough. This way.” He gestured with the Steyr’s muzzle and Bolan preceded him across the courtyard to a path partially cleared of snow. The monk set down his shovel there, leaving both hands free for the AUG.

Two minutes later, they were standing at a massive, ironbound wooden door. “Go on,” the brother said. “It isn’t locked.”

Bolan opened the door and passed into the lobby of a stone-and-mortar building. The floor under his dripping boots was gray tile. In front of them a broad staircase ascended to the second floor.

“Upstairs,” the monk directed. “Then the first door to your right.”

Bolan began to climb the stairs. A younger brother met them halfway up and hurried on his way after he saw the gun. When Bolan reached the second floor, he turned right, stopped and waited for the monk’s next move.

He knocked, keeping his eyes on Bolan the whole time. A deep voice on the other side said, “Enter!”

“Go ahead,” the monk said.

Bolan stepped into an office with a simple desk and wooden chairs, cheap filing cabinets against one wall. The setup seemed out of place beneath a twelve-foot ceiling. Multicolored light came through a stained glass window set in stone behind the desk. Christ in a garden of olive trees. Even without a clear sky behind it, the window was impressive, ancient-looking, wrought with care.

A tall man in a drab brown habit rose from where he had been seated at the desk, examining the new arrivals through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “What on earth is this?” he asked the brother holding Bolan’s AUG.

“He came over the wall, Father,” the monk replied. “With this.”

“A firearm.”

“Yes, Father.”

The abbot turned to Bolan. “Who are you?”

Rather than debate it, Bolan used the name printed on the ID he’d left with Jack Grimaldi. “Matthew Cooper.”

“Named for a disciple?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Brother Thomas,” said the abbot, “I’ll relieve you of your burden.”

“Father—”

“Please. And wait outside.”

It was the monk’s turn to obey, passing the Steyr to his boss, shooting a warning glance at Bolan as he left and closed the door.

Brother Jerome studied the rifle for a moment, placed it on his desk and said, “I won’t ask why you’ve come. It’s sadly obvious.”

“Or maybe not,” Bolan replied.

Brother Jerome cocked one gray eyebrow at him, clearly skeptical. “We have a visitor among us, claiming sanctuary. He desires to be a postulant. Intruders from his old life seek to take him from us. You are one of them.”

“You’re half-right,” Bolan granted. “But I’m not the only one who’s coming, and I’m on your side.”

“We don’t need men with guns to help us do the Lord’s work, Mr. Cooper.”

“There are others coming,” Bolan said again. “They’ve killed already, would’ve taken your visitor long before he got here if they hadn’t missed him. He got away once. Between your setup and the storm, I can’t imagine he’ll be lucky twice.”

“Who do you represent?” Brother Jerome demanded.

“No one who’ll acknowledge me,” Bolan replied. “We’re off the record here.”

“I see. Perhaps I should inform you that I’ve spoken to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, and someone claiming to be a deputy attorney general. I have told them all the same thing. Sanctuary is a sacred principle that I am not prepared to violate.”

“That’s why I’m here, and not a SWAT team,” Bolan said. “Nobody’s looking for another Waco, but the men tracking your guest are only paid to do one thing—and I can promise you they don’t leave any witnesses.”

Brother Jerome stood silent for a moment, fingertips pinning the Steyr to his desktop. Finally, he said, “The choice cannot be mine. Brother Thomas!”

In a second flat, the monk who had delivered Bolan stood beside him. “Father?”

“Please fetch Brother Andrew and the postulant at once. I need to speak with both of them.”