Perilous Cargo. Don Pendleton

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      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 СКАЧАТЬ