When Eli Cohen arrived, he knew there was still a chance. But first they had to prevent a meltdown. Eli was no engineer. All he could do was sit and watch the dials. And wait. And pray.

And his prayers, if not answered, were at least being acknowledged. With the hostages free, there was still a chance to stop the nightmare. Anxiously the security chief paced behind the console as Stan Robbins tried desperately to reverse the damage and prevent a meltdown. It was too late to reinsert the control rods. The interior of the reactor was too far out of control. All he could do was try to cool it down.

Robbins told Eli that the fuel was already disintegrating. The reactor's internal alignment was so out of whack that there was no hope of a mechanical solution.

Both men paced and watched the dials. It seemed absurd that an array of colorful lamps could signify so much destruction. There had to be something useful they could do and didn't seem right to sit and do nothing. Finally Eli spoke. "Matt, we have to get outside."

"What's up?"

"There's a chopper coming. To pick up the Russian."

"No way. No way in hell that son of a bitch gets out of here."

"Let's go, then."

"Stan, you'll be all right here?" Stevens asked.

The engineer nodded without taking his eyes off the console.

"But you should start getting everybody else the hell out of here. There's not much more I can do. And if this doesn't work, I'll be in Boston before I stop running."

Stevens clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll tell somebody on the way out. I have some business to take care of."

Rachel joined them, handing Stevens an AK-47. "You'll need this," she said.

"Not if I get close enough to use my bare hands."

29

Andrey Glinkov was running for his life.

The footsteps following him grew louder.

Ahead, like the mouth of hell, yawned a fifteen-foot circle in the floor. A steel ladder led down to the floor below. Parsons descended.

The Russian had underestimated the man called Bolan. It would cost him dearly. Just how dearly, he wouldn't know for some time. If he managed to escape with his life, there was still the question of his superiors. There was no way to obscure the KGB presence in this fiasco. No way but one. Peter Achison was supposed to meet him in a stolen attack helicopter. The original intention was to use the chopper only for his escape. But it was heavily armed. And there was still a chance. If he could hold the world at bay long enough, the reactor would do the rest of his job for him. He'd already set in motion the forces of the chain reaction that would ultimately destroy the reactor complex. He might not be able to lock the hostages into the containment building as he had planned, but they were still in the plant. If he could keep them until he put his plan into action, the radiation would preserve the secret of his participation. But only if no one got out alive.

Especially Mack Bolan.

Right now, the odds did not favor that outcome. But it was still possible. Whoever was following him in the tunnel would have to be eliminated first, of course.

Then he might still be able to hook up with Achison. It would be a simple matter to use the chopper's firepower to prevent escape from Thunder Mountain. As long as the reactor was unchecked, it would eventually achieve his purpose. Sweat began to bead his brow as he ran through the tunnel. He could hear the footsteps of the man behind him. He didn't know who it was, but he couldn't afford to use his flashlight. It would give him away more quickly than it would pick out his pursuer. And if the pursuer were Mack Bolan, he wouldn't make it to the chopper.

The echo of his footsteps began to pound in his ears.

He had to catch his breath. He looked into the dark toward the man chasing him. Far behind, he could see a dim light descending to the floor of the tunnel.

Another man had joined the chase. Was one Mack Bolan?

He pushed on. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest.

Each breath brought with it the edge of a razor blade.

The slicing of the air into his lungs hurt like hell.

His legs were beginning to feel leaden. His feet felt as if they were encased in concrete.

It began to get warmer. The air around him seemed to dampen and heat up. The first slosh of water underfoot went unnoticed. And the second. By the third, he realized he was running in shallow water.

It wasn't until the fourth step that he began to wonder where it came from. The tunnels, he knew, were part of a vast complex that radiated in all directions from the heart of Thunder Mountain. They were all tied together to serve as emergency coolant conduits. If it became necessary to flood the reactor with large quantities of cool water, the tunnels would handle the runoff. If it ever became necessary to drain off the reactor coolant, the tunnels would handle that, too. He had begun draining the reactor. The water under his feet might be some of the coolant. It might be radioactive.

He had to find out whether he was heading in the right direction. He needed someplace to use a light for a minute, a place to get his bearings. A place to look at his map. He had to know whether he was heading toward the reactor or away from it. The water under his feet would mean certain death if it were radioactive.

Shielding a small flashlight with his palm as he ran, he sprayed a small beam against the wall for a second or so at a time. He was looking for someplace to duck in out of the main tunnel.

Every so often, he knew, there would be a ladder. They led from one level of tunnels to another. If he could find one, he could climb out of this tunnel into another, higher one. Once there, he could use his light to find out where the hell he was. And to ambush the men on his trail. The beam wavered. Snapping it off and on, he was taking the chance that he might miss one of the ladders. The third time the light went on, he saw a dim shadow against the wall.

Long and thin, it had to be a ladder. He doused the light and began to clamber up the rungs, taking care not to let his feet on the metal give him away.

At the top of the ladder, there was the mouth of a second tunnel. He climbed into the higher tunnel and ran thirty yards into it. Flicking on the light, he tried to place himself by referring to the map. With no idea exactly where he stood, he'd have to find a marker.

He played the light along the wall, moving farther into the new tunnel. Somewhere, he knew, there had to be a sign. Something with a number on it. There had to be some key to enable someone inside the tunnels to locate himself. After another thirty yards, he found it. There was a small metal sign bolted into the wall.

It identified the tunnel he was in, and the section. With some careful scrutiny, he placed it on his map. He'd been heading toward the Hudson River. That was good and bad. Good, because it would get him closer to the place where Achison was supposed to land the chopper, but it also meant he was heading in the same direction as the reactor. He had no idea what the consequences would be if he was exposed to the draining coolant.

He had no idea how deep the water might get, or how much of it he would encounter. At the moment, he could avoid it by keeping to one side of the tunnel. The rivulet of water in the middle of the tunnel bottom might just be draining snowmelt.

If he was lucky. But he hadn't had much luck so far. The footsteps of the approaching man started to boom through the high mouth of the tunnel. Whoever it was — it was getting closer. Glinkov doused his light and moved swiftly back toward the main tunnel. He had to move cautiously. He couldn't afford to run off the floor of this tunnel into the main tunnel. The drop was high enough to break a leg. And someone was chasing him.