He climbed still higher, his rifle rattling against the steel rungs as he turned to look down again.

He turned on his torch and pointed it down into the abyss. Just beyond the beam he could see, or thought he saw, the white-capped waves of a raising tide. The water, too, was climbing the ladder. Glinkov knew that he was in a race for his life. Either he would soon get out of the water's reach, or the water would rush past him to claim his rightful place at the head of the line. And there could be only one winner in this race.

Then, suddenly, it was over. On his cheeks he felt fresh air-cold winter air. The lock on the grate above him was a simple latch affair. He loosened it and pushed the heavy plate aside to haul himself out into the winter darkness.

Fifty yards away, Mack Bolan did the same. He looked anxiously about for the Russian.

And both men heard the roar at the same time. The chopper was right on time. Achison had made it. Would it make a difference?

30

The incoming helicopter roared overhead. Its running lights were incredibly bright against the dark sky. Bolan recognized the profile immediately.

It was a Cobra gunship. Bolan had seen more than enough of the deadly choppers in Vietnam. The night was split apart by the roar of the 1,100-horsepower engine.

Behind him, the plant loomed ominously. It was wounded and, like a wild animal, it was more dangerous that way. Glinkov had to be nearby. Bolan had seen him slip into a vertical shaft and head out of the tunnels. With the flood raging in behind, there had been no time to follow the Russian. But he must be on the surface by now.

The chopper hovered just over a stand of trees, then drifted slowly left toward a clearing in the woods. Glinkov had been the consummate professional up to this point. That meant there was a prearranged LZ for the chopper. The Russian wouldn't have left his most crucial rendezvous to chance.

Rather than waste time trying to find the KGB man in the darkness, Bolan headed toward the LZ. The chopper touched down, but was still visible behind a thin stand of evergreens. The engine chugged away, whirling the forty-four-foot rotor. Cobras could carry an array of armament, Bolan knew. Anything from machine guns to pods of 2.75-inch missiles.

And there was no way this one was unarmed.

The pilot had to be Peter Achison. Rachel had said he was coming to meet Glinkov in a chopper.

That meant he would have a shot at the man who had killed Robert Hanley. Bolan had been trying to piece things together since he'd first seen Achison at the Parsons place. There had been something familiar about the tall, balding man. Now he knew why. Achison was the same man he'd seen through the window at Hanley's farm — the guy who had slipped out at the last minute, after shooting the defenseless engineer in the head.

It was all coming together now. All the scores Mack Bolan had to settle, all the debts he had to pay. Everything could be taken care of right here. The slate could be wiped clean.

No, not could be.

Would be.

In the distance, Bolan heard the wail of approaching sirens. Somewhere out in the darkness, police cars were rushing to the plant. Matt Stevens's man must have gotten through. But there was no time to wait for the cops. If Glinkov made it to the chopper, he'd be gone. If he got out of Thunder Mountain, there'd be no way to catch him.

Crunching across the frozen snow, Bolan knew he was only going to get one shot at the Russian.

And if he didn't nail him, the Cobra was capable of finishing what the Russian had started. In its crippled condition, the reactor was a time bomb, just waiting to go off. Rockets from the Cobra could destroy the containment tower. If it blew, the whole complex could blow. And if that happened, the lower third of the Hudson Valley was going to be a dead zone for decades.

As he neared the trees, Bolan saw a shadowy figure a hundred yards ahead of him. The guy was running straight for the chopper. It could only be Glinkov. Bolan fired a burst from his Kalashnikov. He sprayed deadly 7.62 caliber fire in a narrow arc. The man was well within the AK-47's effective range, but he was dodging among scattered shrubs.

The figure disappeared, and Bolan thought for a moment that he had nailed the Russian. Return fire told him he hadn't. Glinkov had cut loose with his own weapon. The slugs tore up the snow just ahead, and Bolan hit the deck.

He had to nail the bastard before he got to the chopper. If Glinkov got airborne, Bolan would be a sitting duck. As it was, the chopper wasn't a threat. The trees were too thick for it to fire on him. Bolan waited until the shadow resumed its flight. When Glinkov made his move, Bolan was right with him. In better shape than the Russian, he was closing the gap, but there wasn't enough time. Glinkov was too close to his goal.

Behind him, Bolan heard a shout. He turned to see Eli and Rachel racing toward him. Eli knelt to fire toward the tree line. If they could rotate their fire and keep Glinkov pinned down, Bolan could catch the Russian.

Eli emptied his magazine, and then Rachel began firing. Bolan waved and resumed the chase.

Angling to one side to keep out of the line of fire, Bolan didn't bother about his own weapon. When he reached the undergrowth, he had closed the gap to fifty yards. Glinkov had seen him but held his fire.

As the undergrowth thickened, the big guy's progress was hampered. And he lost sight of the Russian. The firing continued from behind him, so Glinkov was still visible to Cohen and Rachel. Working his way through the bushes, he could hear the chopper off to his right. He stopped to peer through the trees. The chopper was outlined against the snow. Only one man was visible in the cockpit.

Another ten yards, and Bolan would be between the chopper and the fleeing Russian agent. The odds were getting better. And time was getting shorter. The sirens were drawing closer as the police raced toward the main gate to Thunder Mountain.

There was a deep rumble, and the ground shook for an instant. The sound died away slowly as the lights on the plant winked once, went out altogether for a moment and then came back on.

Glinkov was still pinned down among the trees, but he'd have to make his move without much delay. Bolan pushed on. He could just make out the clump of trees in which Glinkov had taken cover.

There was another rumble, this one deeper, and sounding as if it were close by. Then a geyser of steam and hot water shot up among the trees.

There was an earsplitting hiss, and the water continued to spew into the air, drenching the tops of the taller trees. The snow on their branches melted, and a large circle of earth appeared as the snow melted around the mouth of a tunnel access grating.

Another hiss and another geyser. Then a third.

All through the trees, the coolant was gushing into the air. With the Hudson drainage valves close, and water from the river pumping through the containment building and into the tunnels, the pressure buildup was forcing the water to the surface. Then Glinkov bolted.

Heading straight into the open, he dodged through the few small bushes that rimmed the clearing. The chopper sat in the center of the clearing like an insect. Its rotor whumped away in the darkness. The air was full of mist, wind-borne from the fountains spraying the forest on all sides.

In the clearing, the running man was an easier target than he had been earlier. Bolan fired a short burst, then the Kalashnikov was empty. He had no more magazines for it. Hurling the weapon aside, Bolan hauled Big Thunder from its sling and charged after the Russian. Eli and Rachel had reached the far side of the woods and were plunging into the trees. Bolan aimed carefully and squeezed. Just as the AutoMag barked, Glinkov tripped and fell headlong. The skull-busting .44 caliber slug sailed harmlessly over his head.