Renegade. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      “The fighters picked us up about a minute ago,” Grimaldi said as Bolan sat up in his seat. “Right after the radio contact started.” He nodded toward the speaker in the control panel. “At first, the guy sounded calm. But now I’m getting the definite impression he’s running out of patience.”

      The Executioner stared out the window at the airplane lights roughly a quarter mile away. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell exactly what kind of craft it was. Probably one of the old Soviet MiGs the Iranians had used for years. “You picking up anything he has to say, Jack?” he asked.

      “Uh-uh,” Grimaldi said, shaking his head. “I said I could spout a few phrases in Farsi. But I can’t understand a word.”

      Bolan leaned forward slightly, looking past the pilot again. Another plane flew to their left flank, and appeared to be slightly closer. But it was still impossible to make a positive ID on its type. All Bolan knew for sure was that they were being escorted by a pair of Iranian air force jets of some kind. And whatever they were, they would be armed with missiles or at least machine guns, either of which could blow the Bell right out of the sky.

      “We’d better head for the mountains,” the Executioner said. “Maybe get over the border into Iraq.”

      “If we can reach the mountains we won’t have to cross into Iraq,” Grimaldi said. “Once we hit the hills, I can lose them. The trick is going to be getting there in the first place if they decide they don’t want us to.”

      The voice on the radio was still speaking and it had taken on a definite threatening tone. “Now might be a good time to test out whatever Farsi it is you know, Jack,” the Executioner said.

      Grimaldi nodded and lifted the microphone to his lips. He began to speak, and it was obvious that he was mumbling, hoping to stall for even more time by making whoever it was on the other end think there was air interference. When he finally quit talking, the radio went suddenly silent for several seconds. Then the voice came back on with a strange, questioning tone.

      Bolan silently nodded his approval of the pilot’s charade. He couldn’t understand the words the man on the other end of the radio was speaking, but his inflection made it clear that Grimaldi had, at least temporarily, stumped him. It sounded as if he was requesting that the transmission be repeated.

      Grimaldi began to mutter into the mike again, making the same unintelligible sounds he’d made just a moment ago. Again, there was a long pause. Then confused voices could be heard on the other end talking among themselves. Whoever was in charge of the radio had keyed the mike open while he, and those around him, were still trying to figure out what was going on.

      “What did you tell him, Jack?” Bolan asked.

      Grimaldi shrugged. “I said ‘You look very pretty tonight.’ At least I think that’s what I said. It’s been a while since we dated.”

      Even under the circumstances, the Executioner couldn’t help but chuckle.

      A second later the voice on the other end of the airwaves spoke to them again. This time, it sounded angry rather than confused.

      “Don’t know what that meant,” the Stony Man pilot said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same thing she used to say when I told her that.”

      “Cut the lights,” Bolan said, “then drop below them, and let’s head for the mountains.” He turned and glanced out at the plane still paralleling them on the left. “It’ll take the jets a little while to get turned around. Maybe we can make a break for it and get there before they catch up.” Beyond the wings of the Iranian jet, he could just make out the rising slopes of the Kuhha-Zagros Mountains silhouetted against the dark blue sky. They looked a long way away from where he sat. On the other hand, reaching the rugged terrain and finding a place to hide was their only hope.

      Grimaldi cut the lights and suddenly they were falling through the sky. For several seconds Bolan felt the seat belt tug hard across his abdomen as his body tried to rise. Then, just as suddenly, they leveled off and made a forty-five-degree turn.

      Bolan caught a flash of the lights on both sides of the Bell as they seemed to rise in the sky and fly past them. The radio man came back on the air, yelling now.

      Grimaldi grabbed the microphone and spoke again. Bolan didn’t recognize these new words any more than he had the ones before. But the dispatcher evidently did, and he went absolutely berserk, screaming, yelling and making a thudding noise the Executioner suspected came from him banging the microphone up and down on the control table in front of him.

      “Do I even want to know what you just said?” the Executioner wondered.

      “I don’t think so,” Grimaldi answered. “I just requested that he perform a certain act on me which is still illegal in a few U.S. states and undoubtedly against the law here.” He shrugged.

      The only lights on the Bell were the ones on the control panel now, and Bolan glanced at the screen as Grimaldi coaxed every ounce of power out of the little chopper, racing through the sky toward the mountains. Twisting slightly, the Executioner could see both of the Iranian aircraft circling back toward them in the sky.

      The man on the other end of the radio had calmed down but hadn’t stopped speaking. Again, Bolan couldn’t understand what he said. But you didn’t need to be fluent in the language to realize that it amounted to something along the lines of “This is your last chance.”

      “The plane on the left,” Grimaldi said, staring at the mirror on the side of the chopper. “You see it?”

      “I see it,” Bolan said.

      “Tell me when it’s directly behind us. My guess is he’s about to drop down to our level and fire.”

      The Executioner glanced quickly at the pilot. “How do you know that’s what he’s going to do?”

      Grimaldi shrugged again. “Because it’s what I’d do under the circumstances,” he said.

      “Were СКАЧАТЬ