Bolan turned to look at his old friend. “They’ll be speaking Farsi, Jack,” he said. “When you don’t respond, they’ll probably switch to Arabic, which you don’t speak, either. You’ll be ordered to land—in both languages—and neither of us will even know it.” He glanced at the interior controls which operated the Stinger missile pods and the 60 mm machine gun, and saw Grimaldi looking the same way.
The Bell continued to rise, then finally darted forward, tripling its former speed. Grimaldi was still chuckling to himself, as if he knew some secret to which Bolan wasn’t privy. “We’ve still got the guns,” he said.
“And we’ll use them if it comes to that,” Bolan replied. “But they’re our last resort. Now, tell me what you aren’t telling me—whatever it is that’s got you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Nothing much. Just that I actually know a few phrases in Farsi. Not a lot, but like I said, maybe enough to keep them confused long enough to buy us a little wiggle room if we need it.”
The Executioner frowned. “Where’d you pick up these ‘few phrases of Farsi’?” he asked.
Grimaldi continued to grin as the Bell flew on into the night. “I dated a Persian girl for a while a few years ago.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Grimaldi’s chest moved up and down in a chuckle. “I don’t share all of my sordid love life with you, Striker,” he said.
The Executioner smiled. No, Grimaldi didn’t kiss and tell like some high school jock in a locker room, and Bolan wasn’t the type to pry into his friends’ personal lives. So he asked no more questions. Instead he settled back into his seat. It was a relatively short flight, and they were dealing with a Third World country here. Iran didn’t have the sophisticated radar and other detection devices a country like the U.S., Russia or Great Britain employed, nor did their personnel have the same professionalism. There was every chance in the world that they’d lay the chopper skids down somewhere near Isfahan with no one the wiser.
On the other hand, Bolan reminded himself as they flew through the dark night beneath the half moon, the smart warrior never underestimated his enemy. Technology never had, and never would, replace human beings, and while they might be behind in the science department, the Iranians had proved that they were willing to fight during their eight-year war with Iraq.
There was one more aspect to the whole equation, and the Executioner was aware of it, too. New, and better, technology didn’t mean that older technology quit working. There were still people getting killed with single-action revolvers in this day of high-capacity automatic pistols, and an aircraft like the Bell could still be picked up on World War II–era radar.
The Executioner hadn’t slept since the mission began and now he closed his weary eyes. Long years, and many battles in many missions, had taught him that the wise warrior took whatever rest he could get when he could get it. It wasn’t just the ability to fight that kept a man alive during the heat of battle—it was also the ability to think sharply. And no one, no matter how tough, how smart or how well trained, thought as well when they were exhausted as they did rested.
But Bolan’s mind didn’t close as quickly as his eyelids and he found himself reasoning out the decision he had just made. He had ordered Grimaldi into the radar zone to save time, and there was no use in second guessing himself now. They’d either be spotted or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had all the faith in the world in Grimaldi’s ability to elude attack if it came to that, and knew that it made far more sense for him to try to catch a nap than to worry about it.
Besides, the real danger wasn’t being shot down—Stony Man’s ace flyboy would see to that. What worried the Executioner was the fact that, if their presence was discovered, word of it would travel fast. Which would put the cops and military in Isfahan on high alert before they even reached the city.
As if to emphasize Bolan’s concern, Grimaldi broke the silence that had fallen over the helicopter. “Isfahan isn’t quite like Tehran, you know,” he said. “The city sits on top of a high plateau in the Kuhha-Zagros. I can probably find a place to hide this baby but it may not be as easy as Rey was.”
Bolan opened one eye and saw the pilot hook a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he said. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there. Or if anything interesting happens on the way.”
“Like, if we’re about to be blown out of the air?” Grimaldi asked with a deadpan expression.
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “That would qualify.” He drifted off, wondering what he’d do first in Isfahan if he was in Anton Sobor’s shoes.
It had been close to an hour, but seemed like seconds, when the Executioner felt Grimaldi’s hand on his shoulder, awakening him.
“Up and at ’em, Sarge,” the pilot said. “We have company.”
Bolan sat up and saw the lights of an Iranian fighter jet to the side of the Bell. Looking past Grimaldi, he saw another identical aircraft. An angry voice was shouting in a language he couldn’t understand over the radio.
Grimaldi reached out and unclipped the radio microphone from the control panel in front of him.
And Mack Bolan hoped his old friend had been serious about knowing a few phrases in Farsi.
Because if he didn’t, the helicopter stood a good chance of going down in an exploding ball of fire in the next few minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The fighters picked us up about a minute ago,” Grimaldi said as Bolan sat up in his seat. “Right after the radio contact started.” He nodded toward the speaker in the control panel. “At first, the guy sounded calm. But now I’m getting the definite impression he’s running out of patience.”
The Executioner stared out the window at the airplane lights roughly a quarter mile away. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell exactly what kind of craft it was. Probably one of the old Soviet MiGs the Iranians had used for years. “You picking up anything he has to say, Jack?” he asked.
“Uh-uh,” Grimaldi said, shaking his head. “I said I could spout a few phrases in Farsi. But I can’t understand a word.”
Bolan leaned forward slightly, looking past the pilot again. Another plane flew to their left flank, and appeared to be slightly closer. But it was still impossible to make a positive ID on its type. All Bolan knew for sure was that they were being escorted by a pair of Iranian air force jets of some kind. And whatever they were, they would be armed with missiles or at least machine guns, either of which could blow the Bell right out of the sky.
“We’d better head for the mountains,” the Executioner said. “Maybe get over the border into Iraq.”
“If we can reach the mountains we won’t have to cross into Iraq,” Grimaldi said. “Once we hit the hills, I can lose them. The trick is going to be getting there in the first place if they decide they don’t want us to.”
The voice on the radio was still speaking and it had taken on a definite threatening tone. “Now might be a good time to test out whatever Farsi it is you know, Jack,” the Executioner said.
Grimaldi nodded and lifted the microphone to his lips. He began to speak, and it was obvious that he was mumbling, hoping to stall for even more time by making whoever it was on the other end think there was air interference. When he finally quit talking, the radio went suddenly silent for several seconds. Then the voice came back on with a strange, questioning tone.
Bolan