Tractor parts had been replaced with automatic rifles, submachine guns and handguns. They were of every make and model, a collection of black market arms worth thousands of dollars. A large crate labeled Generator actually contained smaller boxes of ammunition.

Near the rear door, Bolan's flashlight picked out a small panel truck. His search of the vehicle uncovered two five-gallon gasoline containers, one full, one half empty. Quickly Bolan poured the volatile fuel over the stacks of crates. With the jimmy, he punctured the truck's gas tank, adding its contents to the pyre.

Selecting a LAWS rocket from one of the crates, he slipped back through the door, leaving it open to let the wind inside.

Back across the highway, Bolan took careful aim. With a whoosh like the opening of hell's gates, the rocket streaked across the deserted highway, piercing one of the few intact panes of glass. The elevation was perfect. The LAWS rocket blew with a sound like thunder, igniting the gasoline. In seconds the place was a roaring inferno.

Bolan ran up the block toward his car, reaching it just as the first munitions detonated. In minutes the place would be leveled. Bolan regretted that he didn't have time to stay and watch. But as his Camaro roared to life, he smiled grimly. It wasn't only money, he thought, that could burn a hole in your pocket. And when the pocket belonged to the KGB, you could stand and watch or you could fan the flames.

Either way you upped the ante in the game with the highest stakes in town.

15

"That was quite a fireworks display you put on last night. What the hell was in that warehouse, anyway?" Hal Brognola asked the man seated before him.

"You name it," Mack Bolan answered. "If it could kill somebody, it was there."

"I'm catching some heat about it, you know."

"Why? There's no reason to connect you with what happened. You know that as well as I do."

"You're forgetting something, Mack. I told you the President was taking a personal interest in this matter. You've also been around long enough to know that people like Malcolm Parsons get away with as much as they do because they have connections."

"Look, Hal, you brought me in on this, and I've been working closely with you. It's sensitive, I know that. I also think we're onto something. I'd bet you Parsons didn't even know that stuff was there. Time's running out, and I've got to find Rachel."

"I know you feel responsible for the position she's in, but you can't. She knew what she was letting herself in for, and besides, she's okay," Brognola countered.

"For how long, and how do you know she's okay?"

"Because she's not the only one we have on the inside. Look, our information has been right on the money, hasn't it?"

"So far, yeah, it has."

"So trust me on this. She's the ace up their sleeve. If they feel safe, she's safe. But the minute they get the idea that having Rachel isn't going to help them any, they'll kill her. Nobody pays for insurance that's lapsed, Mack."

Bolan knew Brognola was right. Hell, he could ride around the country for a year, blowing warehouses and wasting punks. He'd wanted to send a message. All right, he'd sent it. And they'd gotten it. He was sure of that. The question was, what to do next?

If he lost sight of his primary goal, he wouldn't help Rachel at all. If he lost his cool and got himself killed, it wouldn't matter what his intentions had been. The best way to help her was to put Parsons, and whoever controlled him, out of commission. That had to be first.

"What do you want me to do?"

"First, I want you to tell me everything you learned last night. All of it. What kind of weapons, their place of origin, the works."

Bolan sketched out the broad outlines for the big Fed, stopping occasionally for a question or two. The debriefing took nearly half an hour. When he had finished, Brognola nodded again.

"It all fits. We got a make on your Mr. Glinkov, and there's no question this is KGB. But it's a lot heavier than we thought. Glinkov is one of the big boys. He's got a free hand in operations. His budget is pretty sizable, and he's got a pipeline to the top. We think Peter Achison may be the KGB point man on this."

"What's Glinkov after? Why do I get the feeling that I'm sitting on a nuke, just waiting for someone to set it off?"

"Because that's just where you are. We got a little intel on Glinkov's next move. If we play it right, we can kill two birds with one stone — get Rachel out and shut the KOB bastard down. Glinkov is going for the long ball. You hurt him last night, and I think you gave him a push."

"How deep is your other man?"

"V."

"When do I get to meet him?"

"You already have."

"Not Eli Cohen?" Bolan stared at the big Fed. Brognola stood up, reaching for his cigar.

"You got it."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"It didn't matter before."

"Does it matter now?"

"It sure does. Eli's the one who knows where Rachel is. And he's the one who knows what's on tap. We need him on the inside. I can't take a chance. But trust me, he's a good man, one of the best."

"Mossad?"

Brognola nodded.

"What's their interest in this? And don't tell me it's the same as ours. They spy on us just like we spy on them."

"Nature of the beast. Look, I'll tell you what Eli's been able to get to us so far. That's the best I can do. You already got a leg up. You know what he looks like, and he knows what you look like. When the shooting starts, and believe me it will, at least you'll know not to blow each other away."

"That's cold comfort, Hal."

Brognola spoke quietly for nearly an hour. He had chewed the better part of four cigars before he'd finished. He yanked the fourth out of his mouth, shook his head and tossed it into a wastebasket. What he said had scared Bolan.

It was obvious now that Glinkov, and not Parsons, was pulling the strings. Parsons might dance better than most, but he was still a puppet. Glinkov's puppet. And there was no longer a mystery as to why Mossad was in on the hunt. The stability of the Middle East hung in the balance. It had been that way for so long that no one, not even Bolan, could imagine it getting any worse. Until now.

Glinkov's plan was brilliant. And economical. Its outlines were simple.

Terrorists would seize Thunder Mountain, a large nuclear reactor in the Hudson River Valley about fifty miles north of New York City.

An ultimatum would be issued, demanding that the United States deactivate all of its nuclear power plants.

Public outcry would be deafening. Those who were already opposed to nuclear power would join the chorus. Even those who weren't would be stunned by the boldness and the ease of the seizure. If the power plants couldn't be defended, then every one of them was a potential powder keg. No one wanted a source of energy, no matter how useful, that had to be defended by military troops.

The kicker was even worse. Unknown to Parsons, another of Glinkov's stooges was going to engineer an "accident" during the seizure that would irreversibly damage the reactor. The result would be a nuclear nightmare that would make the disaster at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in Russia seem like a high school picnic. Millions of gallons of radioactive waste would pour into the Hudson River, killing everything in its path downstream.

Clouds of radioactive steam would billow into the sky and contaminate hundreds of square miles for decades. The immediate vicinity would be uninhabitable for centuries.

The reactor meltdown that would result when the coolant was siphoned off had consequences that would far exceed the Soviet nuclear accident. The reactor's fuel would get hotter and hotter until it passed the melting point, a temperature high enough to melt through the steel and concrete that usually contained the radiation in a safe area. It had a name, China Syndrome, taken from the ultimate destination of the ball of hellfire an uncooled reactor would become. It would take scientists years to determine the extent of damage caused by the incident at Chernobyl. But scientists might not have the same luxury of time if the KGB plot in the U.s. succeeded.