they’re some kind of MiGs. Specifics aren’t too important at the moment. No matter what they are, they’ll be toting enough firepower to blow us up several times over.”
The Executioner kept his eyes glued to the sky as the plane on the left finished its circle and began lining up directly behind them. The other aircraft had made the turn, too. But it stayed several hundred feet above them as all three planes flew on toward the darkened hills ahead.
“Okay, Jack,” Bolan said. “He’s on us.”
Grimaldi looked down at the radar screen just as it began to beep. “He’s firing,” the pilot said, suddenly cutting to the right. Bolan was thrown over toward the pilot, his seat belt and shoulder harness all that kept him in place. Grimaldi himself smashed into the window to his side.
A split second later something whizzed by in the night, then exploded in a shower of sparks against the side of a mountain a mile or two in the distance.
“Radar warning receiver,” Grimaldi said as he leveled the chopper off and headed for the mountains again. “I think we can safely say we’re facing something in the MiG-23 family.” He paused for a second, then added, “So hold on to your chewin’ gum. RWRs come in pairs.”
A second later another beep sounded from the screen. This time, Grimaldi threw the Bell to the left and it was Bolan whose face nearly smashed into the glass. Another missile streaked by, barely missing them, and lighting up the terrain ahead like a Fourth of July celebration.
Bolan returned his eyes to the rear and saw the Iranian MiG pull up and away. But the other craft quickly dropped through the sky and took its place.
“Two down, two to go,” Grimaldi said. He turned in his seat to face the Executioner. “This new guy, the one who’s falling in behind us now, will have literally had a bird’s-eye view of my maneuvers. Which means he’ll compensate for them.”
Bolan nodded. The Bell had scampered out of the way left, then right to avoid the first two missiles. So the pilot would pick one way or the other and lead them. He had a fifty-fifty chance each time he fired, and he had two shots.
The Executioner stared into the night. In the distance, he could just make out the lights of a city. According to the map of the area, it had to be Oom.
The beep sounded on the screen again. Grimaldi twisted them to the right, and this time the little Bell actually shimmied in the air as the missile flew past. Another giant sparkler show lit up the mountains, which were growing closer with every second.
“Okay, that one I could feel,” Grimaldi said. “We’ve been lucky so far.” He stared ahead into the night at the mountains. “We’re getting close. But this ain’t horseshoes, and close isn’t good enough.” He glanced into the mirror at the plane he knew would fire again in a matter of seconds, then squinted into the distance once more.
“The bottom line,” the pilot said, “is that we’re not going to make it. Even if we’re lucky enough to miss getting hit this fourth time, they’ll both come in on us with their machine guns.”
Before Bolan could speak, the screen beeped again. Grimaldi pulled back on the control and the Bell shot upward instead of to the side this time as another missile streaked beneath them. The temperature in the helicopter seemed to rise as a hot projectile went past. Then it raced on through the night, finally exploding on the edge of the city in the distance, and proving to the Executioner that the Iranian air force couldn’t care less about accidentally killing their own people.
Grimaldi turned to face the Executioner. “That’s the last of their missiles,” he said. “But they’ve still got their machine guns, and the closer we get to Oom, the more likely they are of missing us and killing innocents. Or hitting us and killing us, of course.”
It had been a statement rather than a question, but Bolan knew it was also a request to take action. “Do what you’ve got to do, Jack,” he said.
Stony Man Farm’s number-one flyboy didn’t have to be told twice. Suddenly and without warning, the Bell made a 180-degree turn and began flying backward through the air. The mountains and the lights of Oom had disappeared. But the lights on both MiGs could be seen as the Iranian jets raced toward them.
Reaching forward, Grimaldi pushed a button. Bolan felt the chopper vibrate slightly as the missile pod fell into firing position. A second later the little Bell shook even more as the Stinger missile took off.
“I activated a four-second detonator,” Grimaldi said. “It should blow up a few hundred feet in front of him.” He swung the Bell back around as the night sky lit up behind them. “Just wanted to show him we had some teeth of our own. Maybe that’ll drain a little of their enthusiasm.”
Bolan smiled as he watched the mirror next to him. The Stinger had indeed taken a lot of the fun out of the chase for the MiG pilots behind them. In fact, one of the planes had changed course completely and was heading back the way it had come. The other MiG was already gone.
Even the radio had finally gone silent.
Two minutes later they reached the Kuhha-Zagros Mountains. Although the MiGs were gone and no other planes had taken their place, Bolan directed Grimaldi to play it safe, staying close to the peaks where they could drop down at the first sign of further pursuit.
“I can just follow the mountains on in if you want me to,” the pilot said. “Isfahan’s sort of on the edge.”
Bolan looked at his watch. Sobor had been on the ground for at least two hours now. There was no telling where the man might be. So there was no sense in risking further exposure for nothing. “Okay, Jack,” he said. “Take the mountains past Isfahan, then come back up from the south.”
The pilot nodded.
The Executioner suddenly remembered the mustache he had applied to his upper lip earlier in the evening. With a little time on his hands before they reached Isfahan, he unfastened his seat belt, went back to the cargo area and removed it with rubbing alcohol and a towel. By the time he got back to his seat, Grimaldi was banking the helicopter back around. A small village could be seen below them. “Yazd,” the pilot said.
“That more of your dirty Farsi, Jack?” Bolan asked.
“Nope. Just the name of the town.”
Bolan reached into his jacket and pulled out the cell phone again. When he got no dial tone, he directed Grimaldi higher above the mountains. Finally the call to Stony Man went through. “We ran into a little trouble, Barb,” he told Price. “Slowed us down. There’s no telling where Sobor is now. Did Bear check again to see if Dieter Schneider might have booked another flight after he got to Isfahan?”
“He did,” Price said. “No such luck. Dieter Schneider appears to have vanished into thin air. But you might be interested in knowing that a Jean-Marc Bernhardt just checked into the Shah Abbas Hotel in downtown Isfahan.”
KITWANA ASAB STOOD on the peer, staring out at the white-capped waters of the incoming tide. It was beautiful, the way the waves rolled in toward land. They hit the side of the ship, parted and metamorphosed into thousands of tiny ripples as they moved gently on into shore.
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