A school of streaks streamed back from the man with the weapon. Bolan kicked his body into as straight a horizontal line as possible and held up the bulky surveillance light as a shield. The salvo of projectiles streamed all around him.

The surveillance light shuddered and its beam went out as several darts crashed through its gla.s.s lens and shattered the bulb. There was a metallic clank as a dart bounced off the top of Bolan's rebreathing tank, and something tugged at his left swim fin. Sudden fire shot up the soldier's arm as something skewered his left biceps. He released the ruined surveillance light and stuck his right arm straight out as he fired his last rocket at the remaining Red Falcon. The man had bent over beside the swim vehicle. Bolan couldn't see what he was doing in the gloom, but he suspected the man was reloading.

The terrorist suddenly moved, and the rocket hissed over his shoulder and pinged against the hull of the swim vehicle. The Executioner reached down his leg and drew his MK III diver's knife, ignoring the stabbing pain in his left arm, and swam forward as fast as he could.

The Red Falcon raised the weapon and slapped the bottom of his fresh magazine. He shoved the weapon out, and Bolan twisted his body away as the muzzle suddenly spurted flashing fire. The automatic weapon thumped rapidly as it fired over Bolan's shoulder. The Executioner reached out, grabbed the barrel and pushed the weapon away.

Bolan kicked forward and plunged his knife into the man's chest. The terrorist's weapon continued to fire on full auto as the man's finger clenched on the trigger. The soldier punched the knife through the man's wet suit a second and third time before the body went limp.

The Executioner released the corpse and kicked it out of the way. He swam on top of the swim vehicle and pulled the body off the rack. A large square object sat there covered in clear plastic. Bolan frowned. It was too dark to see the control panel. He struck out and grabbed the corpse of the man who had been working on the charge and removed the flashlight from where it hung around his wrist. The soldier swam back to the slowly sinking swim vehicle and played the light onto the charge.

The control panel beneath the plastic wrapping was open. Bolan's skin crawled as he peered closer. The timer had been set to minimum, and the arming light blinked a dull red in the flashlight beam.

The charge was going to detonate.

Bolan knew of no way to defuse the charge, much less defuse it underwater without tools. The only advantage he had were the seconds ticking away. The nuclear-demolition charge was a tool. The designer had never envisioned the need for it to be immediately detonated with the push of a b.u.t.ton on the charge itself. The operator would set a timer and then escape. The only way to immediately detonate the charge was with a radio signal, and radio didn't work underwater. When Bolan had surprised the Red Falcon, the man had used the quickest means possible to detonate. He had dialed the timer to the minimum setting and flipped the arming switch. The sequence was locked in. The charge would blow in ten minutes.

The soldier calculated rapidly. The Theodore Roosevelt and her escorts were approximately six miles away and relatively safe. The USS Baton Rouge was just over a thousand yards off to his left, and the shock wave from the blast would shatter its hull.

Bolan grabbed the lanyard dangling from his dive belt and pulled up the sonar phone. He pressed the transmitter against his mask and got a m.u.f.fled squawk. Playing the flashlight over the sonar phone, he saw that a steel dart protruded from the transmitter's plastic body.

The soldier cut the lanyard and dropped the useless device into the depths. The Baton Rouge was listening pa.s.sively, and would have heard the underwater gun battle. They would know something had happened. Short of an explosion, a metallic clank was one of the noises that transmitted best underwater. Bolan took his diving knife and hammered it against the hull of the swimmer-delivery vehicle in a rapid rhythm. It was a simple four-word message in Morse code: "Run, run, run a Belasko."

Two seconds later Bolan's whole body clenched as a wall of sound seemed to slam through his body in a single giant pulse. The Baton Rouge had heard his signal and realized the sonar phone was down. They had gone active with their bow sonar and acknowledged his signal with a thunderclap of sound. Bolan shook his head to clear it. Being pinged wasn't a pleasant experience for an exposed diver.

The submarine would be blowing all ballast for the surface, then steaming for their lives. But to get to safety the 688-cla.s.s submarine would need time and distance. Their escape time was set and fleeting with every instant. Distance-wise, Bolan could still give them an edge.

He could sink the charge to the bottom of the Adriatic Sea.

The swimmer-delivery vehicle was sinking already. It had no ballast tanks, and like a shark, it either moved forward under its own power or it sank. There was no time to let it finish its drifting descent. Bolan pushed the dead steersman out of the saddle and peered at the rudimentary instrument panel. Pushing forward and back controlled the dive planes, and foot pedals controlled its movement from side to side. Bolan revved the throttle and shoved the control bars forward. The swimmer vehicle nosed forward and dived.

Like a motorcycle the swimmer vehicle required someone on the throttle to give the engine power. He would have to rig the throttle. He took the diving knife off his wrist and wrapped the lanyard around the throttle on the control bar. He held the throttle down, then twisted the plastic cord around it tightly to hold the swimmer vehicle on full throttle. It surged forward. Bolan pushed the control bars down into a steep dive, then jammed the diving knife into the rubber-gasketed crotch of the steering column. The swim vehicle began to rapidly descend into the darkness.

The soldier kicked away from the vehicle and began to swim upward. He could see the surface as a dim gray vault above him, and he resisted the urge to swim as fast as he could. The bends would kill him in this situation as surely as the impending nuclear fireball below.

A shape suddenly occluded the surface above, and Bolan yanked himself to a halt as a dim glimmer of steel slashed at him.

One of the Red Falcons was still alive, the terrorist he'd shot in the leg and shoulder.

A hard object slashed against his forearm and rasped off of Svarzkova's knife as Bolan instinctively raised his left arm to block. Bolan balled his knees into his chest and kicked backward to put distance between himself and his attacker as he pulled the bayonet from its sheath.

The injured Red Falcon descended after him but couldn't maneuver very well.

Bolan swam backward as the knife lunged toward his chest. As the blade recoiled, the soldier twisted his hips and lunged forward. The AK-47 blade punched low into the terrorist's stomach. Down in the murky depths there was no room for mercy. Bolan pushed the blade in to the hilt and ripped upward with all his might. It stopped on the Red Falcon's sternum, and the man cringed fetally around Bolan's arm.

The Executioner yanked the blade out and pushed off the dying terrorist. Time was running out. Bolan kicked toward the surface. The sea above him seemed a uniform dark gray as dusk descended, and the vault of the sea seemed endless. Without warning, Bolan suddenly broke the surface. His hands went to his mask, and he yanked it back over his head and breathed the salt air. The sun was a dim glow on the horizon, and the sea was dark around him. Bolan keyed the radio on his chest strap.

"This is Belasko, calling for immediate extraction. Look for the strobe." On Bolan's other chest strap was a small but powerful strobe the size of a penlight. He pushed the oversize switch, and it began to blink almost as brightly as a camera flash. Almost immediately he heard the sound of rotors beating the air over the Adriatic.

The Executioner trod water as the landing lights of the helicopter swooped toward him out of the sky. A brilliant light lit the dusk, and Bolan was nearly blinded as the Seahawk's spotlight hit him. The aircraft slowed to a hover overhead, and the soldier waved his right arm in a circle as the blast of the rotor wash mashed the sea flat around him. The bright orange hoop of the hoist came down, and he grabbed it and hooked it under his shoulders. After he gave the helicopter the thumbs-up, Bolan was hoisted out of the water.

The hoist seemed to move at a crawl, but finally Svarzkova and one of the airmen grabbed Bolan and pulled him into the helicopter. "We're going to have a detonation in seven minutes. Tell the pilot to radio the battle group and have them move north of this position at full speed."

The airman gaped and moved to the c.o.c.kpit as Bolan sat on a bench in the cabin. He handed Svarzkova back her knife. "Thanks. It came in handy."

The Russian agent looked at Bolan's arm in alarm. "You are hurt!"

He leaned back against the cabin wall. The aching weariness and cold were worse than the pain. "Yeah. You could pull that out of my arm if you want to."

Bolan tensed as Svarzkova smoothly pulled the dart out of his arm. There was little else to be done until he could strip out of his wet suit. She held up the five-inch arrow of steel and peered at it quizzically. "They had APS underwater a.s.sault rifles?"

Bolan shrugged. "Apparently."

Svarzkova put the dart in her pocket. "You killed them all?"

Bolan nodded.

She looked at the Executioner intensely. "Was Baibakov among them?"

"No. You were right. Baibakov didn't go on the mission himself."

Svarzkova nodded. "What has happened to the nuclear charge?"

Bolan glanced at his watch. "It's at the bottom of the Adriatic and should go off in about three minutes."

Bolan rose and looked out over the Adriatic Sea. The Baton Rouge had broached and was steaming behind them at full speed. Bolan's face tightened. They were in for a h.e.l.l of a ride. The seconds crept by as the helicopter headed back to the fleeing battle group. Bolan blinked. For a second there was a barely distinguishable pulse of light. It was more of a momentary lightening of the water than a flash. Seconds later the sea seemed to heave itself up in a ma.s.sive fountain. The noise was almost a subliminal thunder over the beating of the helicopter rotors. The column of water rose like a mountain of gray water, then collapsed back on itself. The explosion was over almost before it had begun.

Svarzkova frowned in disappointment. "It was not as interesting as I had imagined."

"It's almost dark, and the detonation was over two hundred fifty yards below water. It would have been a lot more interesting if the detonation had occurred on the surface against the hull of the Roosevelt. Ask the boys on the Baton Rouge tomorrow how exciting it was, and they'll tell you a different story. Surfacing eliminated the danger of crushing pressure, but they're about to get hit by one h.e.l.l of a shock wave."

Svarzkova nodded. "I hope they will be all right."

Bolan sat back down. "They should be. The 688 is a fine boat."

The woman sat next to Bolan. "So, what do we do now?"

The Executioner leaned his head back against the cabin wall and closed his eyes. He suspected it was a rhetorical question. There was one last piece of unfinished business. It was a seven-foot psychopath named Igor Baibakov.

22.

Mack Bolan's lips tightened as he flexed his biceps. The wound twinged when he flexed his arm, but the limb was fully functional. Puncture wounds weren't very debilitating if they didn't go into vital areas. His shoulder actually ached more from the teta.n.u.s shot the ship's doctor had given him. The needle had been just about as large as the Russian dart, and its payload was almost guaranteed to cause swelling.

He rolled out of his bunk as a polite knocking sounded against the door. "It's open."

A petty officer opened the door. "You have a priority message, sir."

"Lead the way."

The Executioner followed the petty officer through the maze of pa.s.sageways and up to the Theodore Roosevelt's communications room. The executive officer nodded as Bolan entered and handed him a phone. The Navy men discreetly left the room.

Hal Brognola's voice came across the phone.

"Well, Striker, the President is relieved."

"Thanks for letting me know. How's the Baton Rouge?"

"It took a h.e.l.l of a beating, but they came through it. Some seamen got tossed around, and a lot of their electronics got knocked out of line. But they steamed under their own power into Rimini for repairs."

"Baibakov is still alive."

"So I gathered."

"He'll go back to Bosnia."

"The President is of two minds about it. He wants Baibakov terminated, but his advisers are still leery about covert action in Bosnia outside of peacekeeping activities. They're saying the Red Falcons have been smashed, and their terror campaign against the United States is a failure."

Bolan's tone grew cold. "He has friends and sympathizers in Bosnia. He'll jump-start the Red Falcons again if he has to do it himself."

Brognola sighed. "That's what the Bear said. What do you want me to tell the President?"

In the Executioner's mind there was only one option. "Tell him to send me to Sarajevo. I'll take Svarzkova and make contact again with the Muslim militia. The drill will be the same as it was from the start. We'll hunt down Baibakov and take him out. I'll make myself his number-one priority. If I fail, we are all deniable by the administration. Have Grimaldi fly in my full battle kit."

"All right. I'll tell him."

Baibakov looked down from the Jahorina mountain range. Sarajevo lay below him nestled in snow. The USS Theodore Roosevelt still sailed, along with all of her escort ships. He had seen the detonation from the island of Bisevo. Other than a small tidal wave hitting the island, the effects had been negligible. Anton, Peter, Michael and Nicolas had gone to a watery grave. More likely they had been dissolved into their component atoms. The Red Falcons were almost finished.

Tomas Broz had managed to escape into Canada with two of his men, and the Russian mafiya in Montreal had repatriated them to Bosnia. Along with Madchen Krstic, they numbered exactly four. Baibakov's brow furrowed. He had been foiled again. He couldn't prove it, but his gut told him the American commando had been responsible. From long ago in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona to the Adriatic Sea, the American had beaten him. The American had beaten him every time.

Red rage began to suffuse Baibakov's vision as he thought about his string of defeats. His knuckles whitened and cracked, and the remaining three Red Falcons took several cautious steps back away from him. Madchen Krstic stayed at his side and looked up at him, waiting for his command. With an inhuman effort of will Baibakov reined in his fury. As long as the commando lived, he would be a thorn in his side.

It was time to finish him.

Baibakov looked at his remaining troops. It wouldn't be hard to raise more. The former Yugoslavia was full of men who wanted vengeance, or to pursue the old feuds. But first he would have to take care of the American once and for all.

To do that he would have to attract the commando's attention. At that thought, Igor Baibakov smiled horribly. He would vent his in the streets of Sarajevo. He would leave calling cards written in blood until the American came for him.

Then he would hunt the American down and remove his head from his shoulders.

Bolan sat with Svarzkova in the bar of the Holiday Inn of Sarajevo. He glanced at his watch. They had agreed on eight o'clock, and it was now two minutes after.

Viado Sarcev came through the entrance to the bar and scanned the interior. The little man's face looked haggard. He didn't smile when he saw Bolan. The Muslim militia leader walked over to the table and looked at Svarzkova warily.

"Who is your girlfriend?"

Svarzkova glared. Bolan spoke before the Russian agent could say something more. "She's Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova, Russian Military Intelligence. She was a friend of Constantine Markov's." Bolan held the little man's gaze squarely. "She has come to kill Igor Baibakov."

Sarcev looked at Svarzkova with renewed interest. "I am sorry your friend was killed. He died bravely. I regret your loss."

The lieutenant dropped her glare and nodded. "Thank you. Baibakov is here?"

"Yes. The Giant is here." Svarzkova pressed. "You are positive?"

"Yes. I am positive. You would not ask this if you had seen what I saw this morning." The little man turned and looked at Bolan. "You remember my RPG man, Jup?"

"I remember him."

"He is dead. We found him yesterday. He had been mutilated and hung from a tree outside of his house while his family slept. The Giant came and left like a ghost. Only he could do something like this. There have been three other killings in the past two days. All in the Muslim neighborhoods, all known militia fighters. The Giant is here."

Bolan nodded grimly. Baibakov hadn't run and hidden after his defeat in the Adriatic. The second he had returned to Sarajevo, he had begun a new series of atrocities. The man was daring him to come out and fight. The Executioner finished his ice water and looked at Sarcev. "It is time to put an end to this."

The militia leader's face set. "I can get you fifty men. A hundred if you need them. We are ready."

Bolan shook his head. "With fifty men we will never see Baibakov. He'll just fade away. We need to make him come out."

Sarcev considered this. "I agree. How many do you suggest?"

"Three."

"Three?" Sarcev repeated.

"Three."

The little man looked at Svarzkova. Her blue eyes stared back at him steadily as she held up three fingers. "Three."

Sarcev held up his hands helplessly. "If any other man had said this thing to me, I would say he was insane." He dropped his hands. "Perhaps you are both insane. The Giant is certainly insane. Perhaps this is what is needed to kill him."

Bolan and Svarzkova looked at the little man until he threw up his hands again. "Very well. Let us do this thing."

Tomas Broz ran into the cabin breathlessly. "Commander!"

Baibakov rose from his chair. "What is it?"

Broz took a step back. Even to those who knew him, Baibakov's sheer size was intimidating. "The American! Our contacts in Sarajevo have spotted him! He is at the Holiday Inn, as you said he would be!"

The Russian nodded. He had known the commando would come, and he had known he wouldn't try to hide his presence. "Is anyone with him?"

Broz nodded quickly. "Yes, the woman was with him. She checked into the hotel as Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova."

Baibakov considered this piece of news. The vast majority of female lieutenants in Russia were medics. However, this Svarzkova had proved herself in combat. That would make her an intelligence agent. Baibakov smiled as the pieces came together. The Russian government had decided he was a liability, and he was to be terminated. Baibakov's grin grew. The Russian services were extremely clannish, and he was Spetsnaz. Spetsnaz was under the direct command of Russian Military Intelligence.