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War Everlasting
Don Pendleton
KILLER COUNTDOWNA flight carrying military service personnel goes down in the Bering Sea, and the rescue team vanishes without a trace. Called in to investigate, Mack Bolan goes undercover in an Alaskan fishing city and hones in on a criminal empire fronted by a ruthless union boss. Bolan targets their prime operations one by one, and goes up against their army of criminals.On a desolate ring of islands, Bolan discovers that an active volcano isn’t the only force about to blow. A Russian mercenary and his group of fanatics are working to destroy America’s network of military bases and kill unsuspecting soldiers. But the Executioner is going to turn up the heat on this frozen hell and obliterate this lethal plot with pure molten payback.


KILLER COUNTDOWN
A flight carrying military service personnel goes down in the Bering Sea, and the rescue team vanishes without a trace. Called in to investigate, Mack Bolan goes undercover in an Alaskan fishing city and hones in on a criminal empire fronted by a ruthless union boss. Bolan targets their prime operations one by one, and goes up against their army of criminals.
On a desolate ring of islands, Bolan discovers that an active volcano isn’t the only force about to blow. A Russian mercenary and his group of fanatics are working to destroy America’s network of military bases and kill unsuspecting soldiers. But the Executioner is going to turn up the heat on this frozen hell and obliterate this lethal plot with pure molten payback.
Bolan triggered a burst just as the grenade exploded
A volley of hot lead ripped holes in the gunman’s body, shredding vital organs. The Executioner turned to the sniper, who had taken off in a different direction following the explosion.
The sudden screech of tires demanded Bolan’s attention. Coming up the road at a roaring clip were three squad cars. The soldier scanned the area for the sniper, finally catching sight of the man as he slipped into the brush.
Not that it mattered; it was obvious that the cops were headed right toward Bolan, who took off for his sedan even though he knew the effort was wasted. The three squads ground to a halt, and a half-dozen armed officers emerged, the muzzles of their weapons pointed at Bolan.
The soldier considered his options, then did the only thing he could—he let his weapon fall to the ground and raised his hands.
War Everlasting


Don Pendleton


To plunder, to slaughter, to steal, these things they misname empire; and where they make a wilderness, they call it peace.
—Cornelius Tacitus, 56 AD–117 AD
The empires of some men are built on the wholesale slaughter and exploitation of the innocent. By force and fire, I will prevail over them. I am judgment.
—Mack Bolan
Contents
Cover (#ue12fa0ae-7f93-5803-9cf1-7fae2e31b5f1)
Back Cover Text (#uc920eaef-ce93-581f-8c49-1492f52bfc85)
Introduction (#ub6a3fef5-c52c-5a33-a4f0-79d265e9444e)
Title Page (#u6136319b-bd28-5e7a-8521-173a2057a548)
Quote (#u47d2f174-069b-5f87-bfdc-5d38316b72af)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_237ed9c3-ec23-537c-b5ee-f40de5b6a77d)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_1c5d29a4-acce-5853-b93e-93b324d40302)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c746af37-00ca-57cd-ad4c-bbc3f9bd11b9)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_aa64e7cb-2147-5456-9ee8-5d308c8f71fc)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_1dc9b521-30f2-5e16-9cbb-a899a973869b)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_74843cde-adda-51b5-b20a-c96b6e3d1bcb)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_f00ca334-2f60-5234-9fbd-f5ead5e996e9)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_970d0027-5cfa-55bb-bb07-cd9281549306)
Bering Sea, 166° N, 58° W
As the Cessna UC-35A out of Anchorage, Alaska, banked in a turn bound for Unalaska Island, something went wrong. Warning alarms erupted in the cockpit. Cabin air pressure plummeted, and oxygen masks dropped. The sudden loss in pressure and gross shift in altitude signaled that the plane had just lost an engine, and yet there didn’t seem to be any less power. The lone flight attendant aboard remained in her seat with belt fastened, ass did all the passengers by the captain’s orders.
In the cockpit, First Officer Donna Wickersham glanced at the pilot and waited for orders while trying not to let the panic show in her eyes.
Sweat beaded Captain Leon Garza’s lip as he pulled on the stick with all his might. “I don’t understand!”
“What is it, sir?” Wickersham asked. “We’re still losing altitude.”
“I’m doing my best over here! No matter how far I pull back we continue to drop!”
Garza cursed. “Get on the stick with me!” he ordered.
As Wickersham moved to comply, Garza reached above his head and flipped the switches that would put the entire aircraft on manual control. He also activated the underwater beacon and the automated distress call. The emergency procedures completed, Garza put his attention back to correcting their course by mechanical means.
“There’s still no response, sir!” Wickersham said through gritted teeth.
“I shut off the autopilot!” he replied, even as he began to watch the numbers fall on the altimeter.
Alarms sounded once more, and a voice-over warned that the plane was rapidly continuing to lose altitude and had now descended below safe parameters. Wickersham called off numbers from the various gauges as her job required, but it sounded a bit futile even in her own ears. Garza undoubtedly knew just as Wickersham did that they were losing the battle, and it seemed as if she was counting down to the inevitable finale.
Finally, Garza cut her off. “Okay, we can’t gain altitude, and we can’t pull out of it. Our next best bet will be to cut our airspeed as much as possible.”
“How?”
“Kill the engines.”
“What? But, sir—”
“Don’t argue, just kill them! Hurry!”
Wickersham flipped the switches that disengaged the ignition lock, which prevented any accidental shutdown procedure. Garza could have done it without her assistance, but Wickersham realized he’d wanted to keep her in the loop on exactly what he was doing. Even as he reached for the switch that would power down the engines, Wickersham had engaged the intercom and warned their passengers.
“Attention! Please ensure your seat belts are firmly fastened and brace for impact!”
Neither noise nor panic arose from the cabin, and Wickersham felt a degree of relief. These were military personnel and courageous to a fault. They wouldn’t cry or whine or demand—they would sit calmly and extend every confidence to their crew in spirit. Besides, it was more likely at this point they were all in prayer mode.
Garza kept checking the instrumentation, kept the stick pulled back so tight the knuckles on his right hand were now white, and was flipping every switch possible to attempt to regain some control of his aircraft.
Finally, he looked Wickersham in the eye. “I’ve tried everything I know to pull us out of this. It’s no use. Even with the engines dead, we still can’t get control of the flaps. Suggestions?”
Wickersham shook her head, thinking furiously but sure of the answer. “Nothing you haven’t already tried, sir.”
“Well,” Garza said, turning to look through the cockpit that was now a solid wall of blue-green water. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you, Donna.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” Wickersham said, extending her free left hand to grip his shoulder. “The privilege has been all mine.”
* * *
WITHIN TWO HOURS of the captain’s Mayday call to the tower at the mainland out of Marine Safety Unit Valdez, the US Coast Guard had dispatched a search-and-rescue vessel and low-alt observation aircraft per standard operating procedures for a rescue effort. Nobody at MSU Valdez wanted to speculate on the plane’s fate. Since there had been no contact after the Mayday call and nothing on the radar, it was a foregone conclusion flight 195B had gone down somewhere in the icy ocean north of the Aleutian Islands.
Petty Officer Second Class Sarah Helmut scanned the screens in front of her.The first vessel to respond to the Mayday call from the flight was the USCGC Llewellyn, a Hamilton-class cutter on training maneuvers in Bristol Bay. The ship set course for the last-known position of the aircraft, its HH-65C helicopter traversing the rescue area in advance of the vessel. The ship arrived within three hours of the call, and operations got immediately underway.
“This is USCGC Llewellyn, on scene of the target’s last-known coordinates. No wreckage has been observed yet. I am taking command of the incident,” was the captain’s report.
Helmut smiled. “MSU Valdez receives and acknowledges, Llewellyn. Begin standard search patterns and reporting protocols. Good hunting, sir.”
* * *
AS SOON AS he’d received the last communication from MSU Valdez, Commander Louis Ducati peered out the bridge of the cutter and raised binoculars to his eyes.
The sun gleamed off the whitecaps of the Bering Sea. It troubled Ducati that the crew of the military flight was unable to respond to one of the Llewellyn’s repeated hails. To not respond when capable of doing so violated protocol, and it could mean that something had knocked out their communications. They also weren’t transmitting an underwater beacon, which could mean that the plane was still airborne. Only a full, midair explosion could cause significant damage so that the UWB might not sound.
Which brought Ducati to wonder if the sudden disappearance of flight 195B was an act of terrorism. His worst fears seemed realized in the sentiments of his first officer, as the reports started coming in from the SAR team aboard the HH-65C helicopter.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Gareth Keller informed him, “Halo Two is reporting no findings at or immediately below the surface. They’re not picking up any signals from the UWB, either.”
“What about ultrasonic?”
“Not even a burp, sir.”
“Okay, engage in standard search patterns.” Ducati thought a moment and then added, “Let’s also get a couple of finders in the water, see if we can run across some sort of debris.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” As Keller turned to relay the orders, Ducati turned and stepped outside the bridge to view the search area once more with his binoculars.
It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. If the plane had crashed, why didn’t the UWB sound off? If they’d exploded in midair, wouldn’t there be wreckage spread across a mile or so of water? Wouldn’t they see some indication of the plane’s destruction, something to shed light on what had happened? No, this didn’t make one damn bit of sense, and Ducati wasn’t going to leave until he had some answers.
One way or another, he would find out what the hell happened.
“Lieutenant Commander Keller, recall the chopper,” Ducati called into the bridge through the open door. “She’s got to be starting to run low on fuel, and I want her ready for phase two ops once we find something.”
Keller tossed a salute of acknowledgment and went about the business of passing on Ducati’s orders.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_0d46bc30-5e7b-504f-9255-3f733bbe6cbb)
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan watched as Barbara Price reached out and traced the scar on his chest with her finger, just one of the many scars that were the spoils of his War Everlasting. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, and her honey-blonde hair cascaded across his upper body. He stroked the small of her back with surprising gentleness, although there wasn’t anything weak about that hand. The power and strength that flowed from him seemed almost electric. The buzz of the house phone intercom intruded on the moment, and Bolan had to hold back a groan of frustration as Brognola’s voice came on the line. “Striker, are you there?”
“Yes, I am, Hal,” Bolan replied.
“I need to see you in the War Room, pronto. And I need Barb here, too, if she’s there with you or wherever.”
The immediate clearing of the throat by his longtime friend and ally brought a smile to Bolan’s face. “I’m sure I can find her. Give me time to get cleaned up and I’ll be down.”
Brognola muttered something that passed for a goodbye and then signed off.
Bolan sighed, and Price patted his chest before lifting her head. She left him with a gentle kiss, slid from the bed and padded toward the door to the hall. She would shower in her own quarters and leave Bolan to his own ablutions.
* * *
BY THE TIME the Executioner had arrived in the War Room, Price and Brognola awaited him with expectant glances.
The big Fed sat with an impassive expression and an unlit cigar jammed between his teeth. “Okay, now that you’re both here, let’s get right to business.”
The soldier took a seat. He and Brognola had known each other for what seemed to be several lifetimes. Their relationship had begun as one of lawman against fugitive, but as time and fate would have it, the very nature of that relationship would turn them into close allies.
“So, what’s up?” Bolan asked.
“In short, there have been some incidents in the Aleutian Islands over the past twenty-four hours that have the White House highly concerned.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“The kind that involve the disappearances of American service personnel,” Brognola replied.
“Talk to me.”
The big Fed laid it out for him in no uncertain terms, beginning with the distress call and subsequent disappearance of flight 195B followed by the immediate response of the USCGC Llewellyn. “They reported their response and arrival at the SAR site to Marine Safety Unit Valdez, but at their next scheduled check-in, Valdez received no response. All radar transmissions stopped just fifteen minutes before that. They sent two fighters and a land-based Chinook, and diverted an AWACS. Nothing. It’s as if both vessels simply disappeared.”
“Air national guard planes and US Coast Guard cutters don’t just disappear without a trace,” Bolan said. “Something’s definitely wrong.”
“We thought so, as well,” Brognola said. “Unfortunately, the US Navy acted immediately and sent an Office of Naval Intelligence investigation team immediately. They also put the Elmendorf-Richardson AFB on full alert.”
“Not good,” Bolan said. “It’s going to make it much more difficult to operate inconspicuously in a place crawling with military investigators.”
“Understood, and I can’t tell you how sincerely sorry I am about that,” Brognola said. “But I didn’t have any choice in the matter.
“We thought you’d be able to work best under your military cover of Brandon Stone,” Brognola suggested. “That was until we figured that would draw even more attention.”
“Good thinking, but you were right to dismiss the idea,” Bolan said. “I can get a lot further if I go in as a local looking for work. That will draw much less attention. The military thinks like military, and they won’t be looking at the common folks for the answers. They’ll want to engage members of their own kind. If I mix with the local crowd, it’ll make my inquiries easier and make avoiding them easier, too.”
“Aaron dredged up one of your old cover names. Mike Blansky—that’s with a y, not an i. He did a complete rework on the ID and wiped all previous references. You have brand-new credentials, including an employment history and clean social security number, the works. I even had him add a little questionable material, a couple previous arrests for public brawling, but nothing serious. Just what you’d expect to see for a guy with the kind of cover we thought you’d need.”
“You went the extra mile,” Bolan remarked.
“Correct,” Brognola said.
“We knew it would be important that your cover seem as inconspicuous as possible,” Price said. “This way the military investigators up there probably won’t give you a second glance. They’ve frozen all transportation to and from the Aleutians and are permitting only major commercial air and rail traffic on the mainland. But just before you joined us, I managed to squeak you in under a hardship.”
“What’s my final destination?” Bolan asked.
“You’ll ultimately be headed to the port city of Adak,” Price replied. “You’ll fly into Unalaska, and you can arrange your own transportation from there. You’re slated with experience as a dockworker, so that ought to put you in pretty good with the locals.”
“If anyone will have heard about any strange goings-on in the area, those guys will. It’s a closed society there.”
“There’s one other thing, Striker,” Brognola added. “We don’t know what’s happened to either the flight with a few military personnel onboard or the crew of the Llewellyn. We’re sending you the vitals of the commanding officers who were assigned to those assets, respectively. If this is a terrorist attack of some kind, then there’s no question we’re up against some type of new technology that has the ability to make whole planes and ships disappear.”
“In other words, I won’t just have terrorists to worry about, but anyone else who might want to get their hands on said technology.”
“Correct.”
“As usual, I have my work cut out for me.”
“Right,” Price replied. “Jack’s on his way and should be here within the hour. You’ll take the helicopter to Reagan and then a direct flight to Unalaska with a refuel in Seattle.”
“As soon as I get my equipment together, we’ll be off.”
“Godspeed, Striker,” Brognola said. “And good luck.”
Unalaska
MACK BOLAN LOOKED out the port side window of the Gulfstream C-35 jet as Jack Grimaldi banked the plane for its final approach into Alaska. The city of Unalaska covered all of Amaknak Island and was spread across more than one hundred miles of terrain.
“Wheels down in a few a minutes, Sarge,” Grimaldi announced over the headset.
Bolan gave him a thumbs-up, took the headset from his ears and hung the unit on the wall before fastening his seat belt. He then gave the computer terminal in front of him his full attention. He’d reviewed carefully the files of all four officers in the missing plane and Coast Guard cutter. All boasted impeccable service records, and Bolan had no reason to think they were involved in whatever had transpired in the Bering Sea.
Bolan had considered having Grimaldi make one pass, but the area crawled with boats and planes and he didn’t feel like getting into a hassle. To have appeared in that area would have flown directly in the face of what he hoped to accomplish, and that was to draw as little attention as possible. There wouldn’t be an easy way to explain how they were that far off course when he was supposed to be heading into Unalaska in the hopes of signing on with one of the local shipping companies that operated out of the port city of Adak.
First things, first, however—he had to make his way through the red tape and find a job as a stevedore. It wouldn’t be easy to stay under the radar, even posing as a civilian. The net population in Adak was about four hundred people, and that was a liberal estimate. It was probably less than that. At one time the city had thrived when there was a military station there, but since the closing of the naval air station in the late ’90s the population had dropped dramatically from more than fifteen thousand to just a few hundred. Many businesses had left the area or simply folded, no longer supported by the military community.
Still, Adak had a lot to offer those who chose to live there, with the entirety of the city’s facilities belonging to The Aleut Corp, aka TAC. Bolan would have to visit their affiliate on Unalaska, the Onalash Corporation, if he hoped to get work on the island. Typically they only offered jobs to Alaskan natives, and it was something they stuck to since it was part of their claims settlement with the United States government. They were hard core about their treaties and with very good reason.
Within a few minutes Grimaldi had received clearance to land and touched down without a problem. Bolan managed to bypass any flak with customs since the area was part of the United States, and thus they weren’t overly concerned, despite the heightened sense of security. The events in the Bering Sea had the military on high alert, but the civilian population seemed woefully ignorant of the situation. Somehow they’d managed to keep the incidents about the flight and Coast Guard ship under wraps. Bolan knew it wouldn’t last long.
“You want me to tag along?” Grimaldi asked hopefully.
Bolan shook his head as he slid into shoulder leather. “Not this time, Jack. I need you to stand by here in case we have to get wheels up fast. If I manage to get on the inside of this thing, I’ll need fast transport to Adak.”
“Sure thing,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll be right here waiting, then.”
“Thanks.”
Bolan checked the action on the Beretta 93-R, secured it in the holster and then shrugged into a heavy navy peacoat. If he was going to be a stevedore, he would have to look the part. He didn’t know if he could get work, not being a native, but he was hoping that Stony Man could pull some strings on that score. Bolan descended the stairwell of the plane and climbed behind the wheel of the rented sedan Stony Man had arranged. He cranked the engine, gave it a minute to warm up, then powered out of the terminal and followed the vehicle routing arrows until he reached a gate. He showed a guard the paperwork for the rental. The security man seemed only half interested, apparently more worried about getting back to the ball game that was being piped into the small guard shack via a satellite relay dish.
Within minutes, Mack Bolan had left the airport and was headed toward the Dutch Harbor Development Company in downtown Unalaska. As he drove along Airport Beach Road and headed southwest toward his destination, he considered his angle of approach. The DHDC didn’t necessarily offer employment, but they had the information and connections that would get Bolan on the inside. Something had convinced Stony Man the answers to what had happened in the mysterious disappearances of military resources had to be somewhere in the Aleutian Islands, and Bolan was equally convinced Stony Man’s intelligence was correct. It only followed: if the military transport and Coast Guard cutter had run afoul of terrorists, then whoever was behind the disappearances was somewhere in the Aleutians. And if there was some sort of new satellite technology or weapons that had actually destroyed the vessels, then whoever had pulled the trigger had been close enough to target them, and the only proximal landmass for a base of operations to operate such advanced equipment was the Aleutians.
Regardless of how Bolan looked at it, the answers he sought were in the Aleutians. His premonition became hard reality when sunlight on metal flashed in his peripheral vision. The late model SUV convertible roared down the road perpendicular to the one Bolan traversed on a course that looked as if its driver intended to intercept him. He eased his foot on to the brake—enough to slow but not so much to alert the newcomers to the fact he’d spotted them—while simultaneously reaching into the side pocket of the oversize backpack in the passenger seat. Bolan snatched the binoculars and put them to his eyes, checking the road periodically as he did.
Beside the driver, four men occupied the open-air Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. The passenger had one leg cocked to the side, foot resting on the step-up bar, and cradled a high-powered rifle with scope between his legs. Three men in back all toted what looked like full-sized assault rifles.
Bolan dropped the binoculars on to the seat and eased his foot on to the gas pedal, speeding up so he could reach the area up ahead where the roads intersected. He beat the other vehicle by about a quarter-mile and did exactly what they wouldn’t have expected. Instead of going past, he slammed on the brakes, timed the turn so the rear followed smoothly in a slide, and pointed the nose so it faced the road. He stomped on the accelerator and powered on a direct collision course with the Rubicon.
The occupants were taken by surprise, but they reacted with speed and resolve. Unfortunately for them, they were no match for the mettle of the Executioner. Years of combat had honed Bolan’s skills, and some thugs with guns, even assault rifles, weren’t going to be any match.
He waited until he was nearly on top of them before maneuvering the sedan out of their path. The driver of the Jeep blinked first, however, and the soldier waited until he knew for certain which direction the driver would choose before heading in the opposite one. The Jeep rushed past him, and the driver kept his speed, powering down only a little as he swerved off the road and slowed so that he could turn. Bolan had a different plan, bringing his vehicle to a skidding halt and then going EVA.
From the arsenal in his pack he withdrew a Diehl DM-51 grenade and an FN-FNC assault rifle that was chambered for 5.56 mm ammo. With an effective firing range of nearly 400 meters and a muzzle velocity just shy of a thousand meters per second, it was a lethal tool in Mack Bolan’s hands.
Bolan lined up the sights on the careening Jeep as the driver tried to slow enough to make a turn without flipping the vehicle or tossing out its occupants. He figured the first, best option would be to disable the driver. The gamble paid off as he sighted on the windshield just as the nose of the Jeep swerved in his direction. Bolan stroked the trigger twice, delivering a 3-round burst in each instance. The first three rounds spider-webbed the windshield at the base, effectively blocking the view of the passenger, and the second burst made contact with the driver.
A red smear splashed across the windshield, and the vehicle immediately began to falter and shimmy. The passenger was undoubtedly leaning over the console attempting to keep the vehicle under control, but he had no idea where he was going, thanks to Bolan’s handiwork on the windshield. It had the desired effect, and the three men in back decided it was better to take their chances on foot than stay inside the Jeep bound for whatever crazy and unpredictable path the passenger managed to navigate.
Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into target acquisition before the trio had barely gotten boots on the ground. The first guy managed to stand, but that was all he had time for as the Executioner delivered a volley from his weapon that caused the man to stagger back, his body flailing under the impact of the high-velocity rounds. Another hardman managed to find cover, but not before Bolan winged him with a shot that tore a fleshy chunk from his arm.
The third guy reached cover behind a rock, but that position didn’t give him any advantage over Bolan. The gunner didn’t think his enemy could defend himself against three armed men, and he’d remained ignorant of the fact that Bolan had reduced their numbers by better than half. The gunner broke from the protection of the large outcropping and tore for higher ground that would give him the best advantage against Bolan. The Executioner sighted in on his enemy, leading him just enough to account for wind and speed before he triggered a 3-round burst. All three rounds connected. The impact drove him to the ground where he twitched a few times before going still.
Bolan swung the assault rifle toward the target he’d winged before, and noticed the Jeep was now stopped and the passenger had gone EVA. The guy was definitely toting some kind of high-powered rifle with a scope, probably a hunting piece. Be it 7 mm or .30-06, it didn’t make much difference—if he’d brought that kind of weapon to this game, then odds were good he knew how to use it with proficiency.
The Executioner intended to make sure he never got that chance.
Bolan broke from the cover of the sedan, concerned they might try to take out his transportation if they couldn’t get him directly. If the sniper decided to take out a tire or two, Bolan would be pinned down with no place to go. He had to get in close enough to make some noise and shake up his enemy, and he thought he knew exactly how to do that. The DM-51 grenades would come in handy for this play. He primed the first one as he charged toward the sniper on an intercept course.
The Executioner tossed the grenade at the large rock the sniper had rushed toward, then threw his body prone in the dust just as the wounded gunner shot at him. The soldier rolled to avoid the angry rounds that burned the air just inches above his head or slapped into the dirt where he’d lain a moment before. He got to one knee, steadied the FNC and triggered a sustained burst in the direction of the enemy gunner just as the grenade exploded. A volley of hot lead ripped holes in the gunman’s body, shredding vital organs. Bolan turned his attention to the sniper who had done exactly as predicted and headed in a different direction following the explosion. Unfortunately for the sniper, there wasn’t decent cover to be had nearby. He apparently felt the Jeep was his next best option.
The sudden screech of tires demanded Bolan’s full attention. Coming up the road at a roaring clip were three squad cars. Unalaska police. Bolan looked for the sniper, watching as the man managed to get to some brush—he would be invisible from that angle.
Not that it mattered; it was obvious that the cops were headed right toward Bolan.
The Executioner took off for his sedan even though he knew the effort was wasted. His chances of escape were grim, at best, a prediction that became fact as Bolan reached his car. The three squads ground to a halt with a squeal of tires, and a half-dozen armed officers emerged, the muzzles of their weapons pointed at him.
The soldier considered his options, then did the only thing he could—he let his weapon fall to the ground and raised his hands.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_1779f2d8-9821-5251-8e26-d1272c317ef7)
The woman who pushed through the plate-glass door had neither height nor size on her side. Despite that, she somehow managed to carry an aura of authority.
Bolan sat in the chair of her office—he’d found it interesting that the officers brought him straight into this office instead of depositing him in a lockup—his hands cuffed behind him. The steel bracelets were tight, and they bit into his wrists. He’d thought about asking one of the officers to loosen them, then thought better of it. If he didn’t make any trouble for them, he might get cooperation. He would definitely need it if he planned to talk his way out of this one. The arrival of this woman with brass on her collar and a glint in her eye told Bolan immediately that she might give him the chance he sought.
She stopped just inside her office door, looked him in the eye, and grabbed his shoulder. She nudged him forward in the chair and reached behind him. A moment later, the cuffs eased off his wrists, and she loosened one while using the other, now no longer on his left wrist, to manacle him to the arm of the chair. Since the chair wasn’t bolted to the ground, it wouldn’t do her much good, but he decided not to point that out.
She took the keys and reattached them to the keeper on her police belt, then unbuckled the gun belt and slung it over a nearby coatrack before taking a seat behind her desk. She sighed, glanced over a few papers that the officers had left there with Bolan, then looked at him. Bolan pegged her in her mid-forties. She was an attractive woman, with long dark hair that she wore in a ponytail, and dark brown eyes that looked misty under the bright lights of the office.
“Your ID says your name is Mike Blansky,” she said.
“That’s right,” Bolan replied easily.
“Is that your real name or a cover?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said. “Let’s try this. My real name is Brenda Shaffernik. I’m the deputy chief of the Unalaska DPS. Now it’s your turn.”
“The name’s Blansky,” Bolan replied. “Just like my ID says.”
“Okay, we’ll go with that, then. So why not tell me exactly what you were doing on Airport Beach Road shooting at a bunch of people?”
“Because they were shooting at me first.”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got?” Shaffernik shook her head and sat back, folding her arms. “You know, when they called me out of a conference with the mayor and director to tell me about this, I told them to bring you straight here. I thought maybe this might have something to do with what happened out in the Bering Sea yesterday.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, come off it!” Shaffernik slapped her hand on the desk. “If you’re not military, then you’re a government agent of some kind here to investigate the disappearance of a military aircraft.”
Bolan took a moment to consider her statement and then said, “All right, Shaffernik, I’ll give you the no-bull version. If you’re privy to what’s happened already, then there’s little chance the military will be able to keep this secret. I’m going to trust my instincts over how Wonderland would prefer this be handled. I’m here in a rather unofficial capacity.”
“Special military black ops or something?”
“I’m the ‘or something.’” Bolan pinned her with a cool gaze. “Frankly, I’m a freelancer here by special request of those who would prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Politicos?”
“Let’s just say they’re well above your pay grade.”
Shaffernik nodded with a knowing smile, and that cast a wicked aspect to her dark eyes. “Okay, sounds like you’re leveling with me now. That’s all I want. So how much can I know?”
“Well, maybe if you tell me what’s been happening around here, I can tell you something to help you maintain order.”
“Don’t need much help there,” Shaffernik said. “Keeping order here has never been a problem for me. The director and chief let me run the show. They’re more...politicians. And as such, they handle the politicking and leave the policing to me, although Chief Meltrieger is an experienced and decorated policeman with more than twenty-five years of experience and a hell of a fine cop. I respect him, and I’m honored to be working under him.”
“And I’m sure you can police this island with one arm tied behind your back under normal conditions,” Bolan stated. “Unfortunately, what happened to me today doesn’t qualify as normal. Now, what do you know about the men who attacked me?”
“Nothing, so far.”
“Locals?”
“No, not a single one of them. And before you ask, we had no luck finding your mystery guy with the rifle. This isn’t necessarily a big island, but a guy like that could ditch that thing in the bay and blend in with the locals in no time at all.”
“Maybe,” Bolan said.
“Were they professionals?”
“Depends on your definition of the word,” Bolan said. “They didn’t react like I would expect professional combatants to do. There were also other places they could have chosen to mount an assault like that.”
“Or certainly easier places.”
Bolan nodded at her, suddenly finding a bit more respect when he considered Shaffernik’s observations. He wasn’t dealing with an amateur here by any means.
“So let’s say a professional did send them,” Shaffernik replied. “How would they have known about you or your affiliation with the government? Especially if you’re the freelancer you claim to be.”
“I don’t know,” Bolan said. “But I’m guessing if someone’s smart enough and has the proper resources to bring down military assets, they’re smart enough to figure out I’m not one of the crowd. Which is where I’m going to need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small card with a phone number emblazoned on it. He set it on her desk with a nod. “That’s an encrypted number. It invokes a secure line, no matter where you call from. Talk to whoever answers at the other end and ask whatever questions you want. I guarantee they’ll corroborate what I’ve told you.”
Shaffernik frowned. “I’ll get to it. But for now I’ve decided to take what you say at face value.”
“Because?”
“Because, for one, a common thug wouldn’t be armed with assault weapons and military-grade explosives, let alone get them on to the island successfully with the entire region on high alert. That suggests some sort of strings got pulled. We’re in the aftermath of what our military liaisons have only told us could be a full-blown terrorist action.”
“You see, it’s that kind of information that can help me,” Bolan said. “Exactly the kind of intelligence that might take me hours or even days to get from the US military, even with backing direct from the Pentagon.”
“It would also expose any cover you might hope to operate under.”
“And that’s another reason I think you’d be invaluable,” Bolan said. “You’re a quick study.”
His remark produced an amused expression. “I’m a sucker for short explanations.”
“Me, too,” Bolan said. “So maybe you can give me one regarding the plane that was headed here.”
“Shoot.”
“There were four passengers aboard that military hop, along with two crew.”
“Right.”
“According to their flight plan, they were coming here.”
“Also correct.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why?” Bolan splayed his hands. “There’s no military installation here on Unalaska to speak of, and all the military bases on the other Aleutians are closed except for a couple of remote airspace monitoring stations. Yet there were six military personnel bound for Unalaska, then they disappear.”
“You think something here provoked this? What the hell could it be? There’s nothing of any significant value on Unalaska that I know of.”
“Then how does a rescue ship, also filled with military personnel, fail its check in? A nearly four-hundred-foot cutter vanished without a trace.”
“What?” Shaffernik shook her head emphatically. “All I knew about was the plane. I didn’t know anything about any ships disappearing!”
Bolan wanted to bite his lip and curse, but he refrained. It wouldn’t do any good at this point, and she’d know immediately from his reaction that he’d blundered into saying something he shouldn’t have. He’d just assumed she knew about the ship, too. It wasn’t a mistake he’d make again. The best he could do now was cover his tracks and hope she still wanted to work with him.
“What makes you think they’d announce something like that publicly?” Bolan said. “Especially when they don’t know what they’re dealing with. They’re not just going to come right out and tell you about it.”
“Of course,” Shaffernik said, her complexion darkened by anger. “So...why did you tell me?”
“We were going to be straight with each other. Now you know the full story and why it’s more important than ever that I maintain my cover.”
“So, what could I possibly do to help you? You sure as hell know more than I do about what’s going on.”
“Yes, but you know this island like the back of your hand,” Bolan said. “I have a lead. Now I need to make a connection with someone inside the Onalash Corporation. Know anybody?”
“I might,” Shaffernik said. “I just might. But we have one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s going to look strange if I release you.” She waved at the congregation of officers that were bustling about the central area just outside. “Everyone in my command just observed you brought in on a half-dozen beefs, including violating federal weapons laws and attempted murder.”
“Self-defense,” Bolan reminded her.
“Maybe so, but word gets around quickly. Even if I release you, as I’m not really inclined to do, your cover won’t last long once you’re back on the streets.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
Shaffernik didn’t reply immediately. Then she said, “Look, maybe if I have two officers follow you. I’ll give them a story, that you’re represented by an attorney and I got a phone call from the magistrate advising I had nothing solid to hold you on.”
“You think they’ll believe it?”
“What choice do they have?” she asked with a quirk of her lips. “I’m the deputy chief.”
For the next five minutes she stood up and launched into a tirade, putting on a show and yelling loud enough she could be heard. She even included some nice obscenities just to make the frosting taste all that much better for all of the officers observing her. Then she came around her desk, behind which she’d paced during her angry production, reached down and uncuffed Bolan’s wrist.
“Nice job,” he whispered.
“Thanks.” She pressed her lips together and added quickly, “Let’s just hope I didn’t oversell it.”
* * *
BOLAN USED THE pay phone to call a cab, then placed a second call to Jack Grimaldi.
“So, what’s the gig?” the Stony Man pilot asked.
“I’ll call again once I reach my destination. I’m going to need a resupply.”
“You want it supersized?”
“Better keep it to the minimum, this time.”
“What happened to the other stuff?”
“Don’t ask. Just be ready when I call.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Thanks.”
Bolan hung up and took a quick glance at the central booking and processing area, but everyone appeared to be busy. Two men stood in a corner conversing with Shaffernik. Bolan knew she could sell the plan if she wanted to. That didn’t concern him as much as the fact he’d decided to trust her implicitly. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on—it just...was. The Executioner had learned to trust his gut over the years. Shaffernik was different. He’d meant his remark about her being a quick study.
Only time would tell if his instinct to trust her proved correct.
Bolan’s cab awaited him when he stepped into the street. The light was fading fast, and the temperature had dropped dramatically. The lack of light would last only a couple of hours, so Bolan figured now would be the best time to make the acquaintance of the locals. He found them just where Shaffernik had told him they would be—an old tavern down by the docks short on modern facilities and long on personality—many just off work and still dressed in clothing styles that ranged from uniforms to run-of-the-mill dock wear.
The music in the place had reached a volume that nearly deafened the soldier. It seemed intolerable when combined with the boisterous laughter and shouting of its more inebriated patrons, which Bolan noted most of them were. This was the crowd he’d have to infiltrate, and for a moment he began to wonder if Shaffernik’s words had been a little on the prophetic side. Nothing but a tight-knit crew here, a fact that became obvious when no less than a dozen pair of eyes settled on him as soon as he entered the place.
Bolan kept an impassive, almost tired expression as he sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer on tap. The bartender passed it along to him and shouted to be heard over the noise. “Cash or you want a marker?”
The soldier thought about it for a moment, shook his head, dipped into his pocket and withdrew a wad of bills. Careful to keep the stash covered with his hand, he peeled off a five dollar bill and slapped it on the bar while mouthing “keep it,” before turning to search for an open seat. A dollar tip on a four-buck beer; not miserly but not overt. He figured that ought to solidify his cover some.
There were a decent number of tables crammed into the place, an assortment filling every nook and cranny, and the patrons had every seat filled. Mostly women occupied the chairs and men either sat next to them or hovered close by on their feet. Bolan watched a minute or two, but he didn’t recognize a single face in the crowd, save for the two cops who came through the door a moment later, now dressed in civilian clothes. Bolan watched, noticing that they got the same attention as everybody had given him. The sense of a presence on his right commanded his attention.
Bolan turned and found himself looking into a pair of the darkest brown eyes he could recall seeing. They belonged to a woman who couldn’t have been a day over forty. She had a strong build but how shapely seemed more difficult to determine behind the bulky clothing and reefer jacket. She smiled at him as the song that had been blasting over the speakers came to a close.
“Hi,” she said in a husky voice.
“Hello,” Bolan replied with a nod.
They didn’t say much more to each other, which suited Bolan fine since the music started blaring, and he didn’t really feel like shouting. After a little bit of time, the woman tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“Are you new here?”
Bolan thought about a moment. She was attractive, and as he looked in her eyes he thought he saw just a glimmer of mischief there. He wasn’t sure now would be the best time to let a local latch on to him, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed like a good one. If he could bring her around, a woman the rest of the bar patrons knew, it might be easier to get the crowd to accept him. He could blend in with them—become one of them, really, and that was the whole idea.
“Just got in.”
She nodded in the direction of the two undercover cops who weren’t looking nearly as inconspicuous as they thought they were. “I see you got friends.”
Bolan’s eyes flicked toward the two, then quickly away. He didn’t want to spook them; he needed them distracted for when he made his exit. He decided to play out some line and see who took the bait. “What makes you think they’re here to watch me?”
“Because they haven’t stopped watching you since they came in,” the woman replied.
“You’re pretty sharp,” Bolan said, genuinely impressed.
She laughed. “You look a little out of place.”
“Is that right?”
“I think you’re trying to look like you fit in, but it ain’t working.”
“What would you suggest?”
“You’d have to agree to leave with me,” she said. She waved at his attire, looking him up and down, then said, “Step out of your little comfort zone or whatever it is you’ve got going on here.”
“I’m not really looking for that kind of company.”
“And neither am I. But if you want to fit in, or even if you don’t but you’d like to draw less attention to yourself, there’s another way to do it.”
“Okay,” Bolan said, turning to set his half-finished beer on the bar. “Lead the way.”
As they were walking out, Bolan leaned over and shouted, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“It’s Maddie Corsack. And yours?”
“Mike Blansky.”
She reached up to her shoulder and Bolan took her hand reflexively, resting it on her shoulder as if they were just a couple leaving. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mike Blansky.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_67accf73-28d9-5cff-a7e4-6a4b239b8a86)
They were a half mile from the bar when it all went to hell.
The vehicle came out of nowhere and nearly smashed into the front of Corsack’s SUV, but Bolan was quicker on the draw and managed to grab the wheel in time to steer them off course. The enemy’s vehicle blasted by in a flash of headlights on metal in a bare miss. Corsack stepped on the brakes, and Bolan released the wheel. He’d have to leave the driving to her because the men who bailed from the enemy vehicle looked too anxious to do their jobs.
Bolan went EVA from the passenger seat before the vehicle had fully stopped, Beretta 93-R in hand. It was the only weapon Shaffernik had been able to return to him without drawing attention. The soldier aligned his sights on the first target and took him with a double-tap to the head. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through the guy’s face and blew out the better part of his skull.
The Executioner had already acquired a second target when the roar of a big engine filled his ears—a two-ton pickup truck ground to a halt between him and his attackers. Bolan looked through the side window as it lowered and found himself staring at the grinning face of Jack Grimaldi.
“It’s about time,” Bolan said with a smile.
“Need a lift?”
“Some bigger firepower would help.”
“Got you covered,” Grimaldi replied before sticking his arm out the window, an Uzi in his left hand.
The Stony Man pilot fired a swarm of 9 mm slugs on full-auto burn as he swept the battle zone. The attackers suddenly realized they were no longer up against a lone gunman. They scattered for cover, but Grimaldi didn’t let up, taking two more of them out of the action without ever having to leave the pickup.
Bolan used the distraction to open the passenger door and reached into the long bag he found on the floor. He came clear with an M16A2E2, the stock retracted, and grinned when he spotted the blued finish of an M203 grenade launcher. Bolan dipped his hand into the bag once more and wrapped it around the smooth, oblong shape of a 40 mm grenade. He loaded it, braced the weapon across the hood of the truck, flipped the leaf sight into acquisition on the enemy vehicle and took aim. They never knew what hit them. The high-explosive grenade blew on contact with enough force to shatter the engine into dozens of pieces and lift the front end off the ground. Bolan and Grimaldi ducked as deadly, superheated missiles of shrapnel whistled through the air. The acrid sting of spent explosives assailed their nostrils.
As the remnants of the blast died down, Bolan risked a look around the front of the truck. No more enemy gunners remained to shoot at him. “Thanks, Jack,” Bolan said simply.
“Don’t mention it.”
Maddie Corsack finally climbed from the relative safety of her SUV and stared at the Executioner with interest.
Her reaction surprised Bolan. He would have expected to see shock on her face, perhaps even horror at watching him eliminate their attackers in such a violent manner. Yet she only appeared to watch him with an expression of mixed surprise and mild interest.
“I knew there was more to you than met the eye,” Corsack finally said.
“Looks like you were right,” Bolan replied. He gestured toward Grimaldi, who’d joined them near the hood of the pickup. “That’s Jack.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said with a nod in his direction.
She turned her full attention to Bolan. “Are you with the government?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re here about the plane that went down,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Guess there’d be little point in denying that now.”
“You’re right. And before you try to deny it, I know about the—”
“I hate to interrupt,” Grimaldi told them, “but shouldn’t we maybe beat feet out of here before the cops show up? I mean, you just got out of one scrape with them, Sarge. I don’t think we can afford another one right now.”
Bolan nodded and looked at Corsack. “Is there some place we can go that won’t draw attention?”
“That would depend,” she said. “You got any wings?”
Grimaldi smiled. “Funny you should ask.”
* * *
WITHIN AN HOUR, Grimaldi had Bolan and Corsack off Unalaska and headed to the port city of Adak.
“So, maybe you should explain this to me,” Bolan suggested.
“What’s to explain?” Corsack asked, batting her eyelashes.
“I don’t do coy, lady.” Bolan frowned. “You picked me out of a crowd. You had me pegged as out of place right off, and that’s not something that would be easy for anyone to do who didn’t have a real practiced eye. And you seem to know a lot more about what’s going on around here than even military officials. So spill.”
“I’m not with them, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Bolan shrugged. “I never suggested anything. But you have to admit that I’m right.”
“You’re right,” Corsack said. “Okay, I’ll level with you. Something really strange has been going on in Adak for the past year. And let’s just say your assessment of my insider knowledge of the military and what’s been happening is correct. Although I promise you I didn’t come by my information dishonestly. Or at least I didn’t come by it with the intent to use it for harm. Just the opposite, in fact.”
“That much I can believe,” Bolan observed. “But I inferred from your earlier remarks about the plane that disappeared that you were taking this a bit personally.”
“My husband was killed in the line of duty.” Corsack took a long pull from the beer Bolan had given her, just one of the few refreshments stocked in the jet’s onboard refrigerator unit. “He was a signals officer at Elmendorf-Richardson.”
“How long ago?”
“Not long enough.” Her eyes glistened. “Damn it, but I miss him.”
Bolan cleared his throat. He understood, although he didn’t say it. He knew it didn’t make a bit of difference if he understood or not, because it didn’t assuage the grief and hurt. The men and women of America sacrificed a lot to serve in the military, especially in this day and age, and Bolan felt they weren’t appreciated nearly as much for their sacrifices as they should have been. “Okay, here’s the straight story,” Bolan said. “I work for the US government in an unofficial capacity. Call me a freelancer with connections.”
“The White House?”
“Could be. So that’s what I can tell you. Hell if it’s not all I can tell you.”
“It’s enough,” she said. “After being married to a military man for so many years, I’ve learned the details aren’t nearly as important as the people willing to do the job, day in and day out.”
“So, what was your idea?”
“I’d guess you were at Mookee’s trying to break in,” she emphasized the last words with midair quote signs.
“I figured if anyone had the information I needed it would be local residents,” Bolan said. “The military has competent investigators, but they’re outsiders. The people who work up here aren’t going to let them in easily.”
“You’re right about that. My plan had originally been to take you to a guy I know who could have gotten you a cover working the docks at the Adak port. Now it looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Bolan said.
Corsack frowned. “I wish there was another road to go down, but I’m afraid there isn’t. I just hope you’re as tough as you look.”
Bolan’s eyebrows rose. “You want to read me in?”
“Most of the guys who work and live on Adak are natives, or they know somebody with pull. Everyone who wants to work there who isn’t related to someone in the Onalash Corporation has to earn the respect of those who serve on Haglemann’s union.”
“That’s what I was originally shooting for,” Bolan interjected. “Until we got picked off on the way to wherever you were taking us. So who’s this Haglemann?”
“Davis Haglemann. He’s the local union boss.”
“I can tell you don’t particularly care for him.”
“Now that would be an understatement,” Corsack replied, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Haglemann’s not exactly someone you want to run afoul of. He’s nothing more than a thug—well, maybe more like the boss of thugs. The guy doesn’t have enough gonads to do his own dirty work. He puts that into the hands of his union reps.”
“Sounds like an awfully big organization when you consider the population on Adak Island. What does it run these days, about two thousand?”
“And some change. I see you’re well informed.”
“I try.”
“Well, whatever else you might know, you probably don’t know that everything happens in Adak on Haglemann’s whim. If he says jump, everyone asks how high, and nobody questions him. Except a select few of us, and he just tries to either bribe his way out of it or simply ignore those of us who protest conditions. Truth be told, things are actually pretty good on the island. We all have nice houses, and nobody’s homeless or starving.”
“Poverty and social disorder isn’t good for business,” Bolan said in a matter-of-fact way.
“Right,” Corsack agreed. “That’s why he does his best to keep up appearances and keep any widows or less fortunate appeased.”
“And how exactly does he manage that?”
Corsack snorted and executed a dismissive wave. “How doesn’t he manage it? Everything from big-screen TVs to low-interest loans to cold, hard cash.”
“You mean bribes.”
“Yes, I do mean bribes.”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like someone who likes to exploit the less fortunate.”
“He’s a bastard—real son of a bitch.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“He owns the only exclusive country club on the entire island. It’s right there at Nazan Bay, which is where all the main docking and port facilities are located. The weather’s only good enough between April and October for freight services. The remaining months are basically down time where people mostly stay indoors, drink and screw each other by a roaring fire.” She added quickly, “Not to sound crude, just telling you like it is.”
Bolan nodded. “And it’s exactly that kind of seasonal rotation that gets you a city with a lid on it.”
“Or a whole island. It also keeps out any of the undesirables, or so that’s what Davis calls them.”
“Any thoughts about whether he’d sell out his own people to a terrorist group?”
“He doesn’t have any of his own,” she replied. “He’s a business entity through and through, and not the least bit interested in the problems of the locals. He’s practically turned that town into a police state. And nobody has enough money or power to stop him. Most people just look the other way, as long as they got food in their bellies and roofs over their heads. Anyone who makes too much noise gets told to leave and a free one-way ticket out of paradise.”
“Why have you stayed?”
Corsack downed the last of her beer and sniffed before replying. “Guess I’m just the beat-up, stubborn old serviceman’s widow and not willing to give up. Not yet, anyway.”
“Not so old,” Bolan said with a gentle smile.
“Sweet of you to say,” Corsack said. “But you’re not really my type.”
“Noted,” Bolan said, wholly unoffended by Corsack. Actually, he liked her. She was tough and spoke her mind, and he admired her convictions. The two of them were more alike than he’d originally thought.
“So you were telling me about this alternate plan to get me on the inside.”
“Yeah,” she said, crumpling the beer can in her hand and tossing it in a nearby wastebasket. “But you aren’t going to like it very much.”
Nazan Bay, Adak Island
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN you don’t know what happened to them?” Davis Haglemann shouted into the receiver. “How the fuck do you lose one out-of-towner who stands out like a sore thumb with one of our locals?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice on the other line said. “Somehow they managed to escape both tries.”
“Quit whining like a little girl.” Haglemann sighed and sat back in his chair. He could feel the swell of anger in the form of blood pooling at the base of his neck. The doctor had ordered him to reduce his stress. Screw the old bird; he didn’t know what he was talking about, anyway. Haglemann had been pumping the guy’s old lady off and on for months.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“And quit saying you’re sorry! You are sorry...a sorry bastard. You said he was with that Corsack bitch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She may bring him back here,” Haglemann said. “And nobody enters or leaves this island without me knowing about it. If they do come here, I’ll take care of it. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and if he does show up again, take him out. Immediately. And try not to fuck it up again. Got me?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Haglemann slammed the phone into its cradle with an angry wheeze. He stared at it a moment before letting his eyes meet the bemused gaze of the red-haired, swarthy man seated before him. If he hadn’t needed Vladimir Moscovich quite so badly, he would have shot that stupid smirk off the Russian’s face.
“What are you grinning at?”
Moscovich’s expression didn’t wane. “You really need to take these things a bit less personally, my friend. You’ll live longer.”
“Let’s get something straight, Vlad,” Haglemann said. “We’re not friends. You got that? We’re business partners, and that’s it. Furthermore, how I choose to react to my own people and problems is none of your fucking business!”
Moscovich raised a hand and shook his head. “Don’t take offense so easily. I meant nothing by it.”
“You meant something by it, all right. You’re trying to make it sound like I can’t do my job, and you’re patronizing me. So just cut it out before I decide to toss you out of here on your ear myself. And don’t think I’m too old or too weak to do it. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your connections or your personal score with America. We’ve got a strict business deal here, and you only got to worry about keeping up your end of it.”
Moscovich appeared to study his fingernails and look unconcerned. “How you handle security is your business, yes. But if that handling compromises my people or mission, then I have a direct interest in its outcome. Da?”
The Russian mercenary’s expression turned flinty, and he did nothing to hide that challenging countenance when returning Haglemann’s own iron gaze.
The union boss tried to pretend as if it didn’t bother him, but it did, and Moscovich knew it did, and that only pissed off Haglemann more. Part of him wished he’d never made a deal with the Russian, but he needed the guy if he planned to keep the resources isolated on Adak.
Haglemann decided to take a different tack. “Do you realize, comrade, that it had never been the desire of the natives to have a union?”
Moscovich visibly bristled at the slur behind Haglemann’s use of that arcane word. “Now who’s being insulting?”
Haglemann continued without missing a beat. “It took everything I had to get the corporation to even negotiate with my people. Fortunately, the workers prevailed, and now I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”
“What’s your point?” Moscovich asked.
“My point is that I was running things here long before you brought along your little network, and I’ll be running things here long after you’re dead and buried. And the fact is it was your little activities here and that gadget you’ve developed to crash instrumentation on military planes and vessels that’s created the panic to start with. Soon this place will be crawling with military investigators, not just one or two government agents from who-knows-what agency.”
“Your cooperation isn’t really necessary,” Moscovich replied. “And I find it more than interesting that one man has managed to escape your people not once but twice. Even the police you have on the payroll in Unalaska cannot seem to keep tabs on him. The sheer ingenuity and elusiveness of this man reminds me what happened a number of years ago in New York City.”
“And what was that, pray tell?” Haglemann asked, making a show of yawning and looking at his watch.
“A similar matter and not without serious consequences to my associates, to be sure.” Moscovich shrugged. “Although they were not so careful, and they led this particular man right into the very heart of St. Petersburg.”
“And what happened to this man?”
Moscovich shrugged. “Nobody seems to know. He disappeared and was never heard from again. We think perhaps he may have been eliminated by a rival or an ally. We have many allies, as you know.”
Haglemann nodded. “How could I forget, as often as you remind me?”
“He may also have gone into hiding, being the coward he was.” Moscovich rose. “In any case, it’s as you’ve said. This is your problem and not ours. I would appreciate if you took care of it quickly and quietly, and don’t make it become ours. I have little time for these distractions.”
“Just make sure you keep to your end of this agreement, and that the payments come on time from your—” Haglemann mimed quote signs “—many allies. I’ll take care of this issue, I assure you. Because, despite what you may think, I’m still top dog around here.”
Moscovich waved casually as he left Haglemann’s office. “Fine. Let us hope you don’t get neutered while pissing on the neighbor’s tree.”
When the door closed behind him, Haglemann muttered, “What a prick.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_17dea0ba-cde9-560f-8668-40222f8fc092)
They were near a dockside tavern similar to the one Bolan had visited on Unalaska when the roar of a crowd reached them.
Bolan thought Corsack would lead him into the tavern, but instead she made a beeline off the main path and headed for a short, squat metal building that looked to be some sort of small warehouse. The main door to the building was cracked, and the noise had come from there. “Is this the part I’m not going to like?” Bolan asked as they approached.
“Yes,” she said with a wicked grin. “But don’t worry—I’ll protect you.”
“Who’s worried?” Bolan asked.
They passed through the small crack where the massive doors parted, and Bolan realized it wasn’t a warehouse but a small plane hangar. Just on the inside of the door two burly men stopped them, nearly identical with their towering heights and rippling biceps adorned with tattoos, scars and other marks of dubious origin. They relaxed when they recognized Corsack, who just tossed her head at Bolan. The men parted like mechanical pillars to admit the pair.
Beyond them the crowd had formed in a circle, and Corsack had to push and shove a path to the edge. A massive rope, thick like the kind used to moor freighter ships, lined the inner circle. Three men occupied the center, two circling each other attired in nothing but shirts, pants and plenty of blood. The third, the referee, kept watch on them.
The two fighters had been searching each other for an opening when Bolan first laid eyes on them, but now one had obviously seen an advantage and attempted to seize it. He went low for a single-leg takedown, but his opponent countered by driving an elbow into his spine. The blow missed direct contact, glancing off the right shoulder blade at the last moment. That was good for the attacker, Bolan knew, because the counter might otherwise have paralyzed him.
Men and women all around them shouted, one very close to Bolan’s right ear. He could almost feel the crowd’s bloodlust. The fight continued for several minutes, neither of the fighters really gaining much of an advantage, until one of them finally scored a lucky punch to the jaw that dazed his opponent. Seeing how the blow rocked the guy’s head, he immediately followed with another and another. Finally, a well-placed haymaker floored the dazed fighter, and the crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and groans. The referee knelt, made a quick inspection and declared the fighter left standing a winner by knockout.
The cheering resumed for another minute, but then it passed, and the noise died to excited chatter as the crowd dispersed. Some moved away with swaggers, and others with dejected expressions. From this alone, Bolan could tell the winning betters from the losers. Corsack didn’t move, and he waited patiently beside her for a sign. She continued to scan the area around the roped section, searching for someone specific. Finally, she nodded and gestured for Bolan to follow.
The two made their way down to the rope barrier, shouldering through the spectators who were now rushing to get out what appeared to be the only main door. Eventually, they arrived at a point that seemed to serve as the entry and exit for the participant fighters. Bolan sized up most of the men and the couple of females present, but none of them seemed extraordinary. Two of the fighters parted at the last moment, accompanied by their managers, who were obviously pocketing the winnings, to reveal a metal-gray card table.
An old man, with a grizzled countenance and gray-white hair that seemed to erupt from his head in shocking tufts, sat at the table. Three formidable types, all built similarly to the pair at the door, stood behind him like stone-faced statues. Bolan’s eyes noted the metal lockbox on the table next to the old man. The guy sat calmly counting a massive wad of cash. Bolan wondered why Corsack hesitated, but then realized she was waiting until he’d finished counting.
He finally completed his task, loaded the cash into the lockbox and secured it. He then passed the box to one of the men behind him with a grunt before rising from the table. Once he was on his feet, he looked at Corsack.
“Well, hello, Maddie. Haven’t seen you down here in a while.”
“Hello, Otto.”
The old man nodded toward Bolan. “Who’s your friend? I don’t recognize him.”
“He’s new in town.”
Lustrum sighed deeply and shook his head. “And naturally you thought you’d bring him here to me. Honestly, Maddie, you really need to stop picking up strays. People are starting to talk, you know.”
“Talk about what?” Corsack remained impassive, but there was no mistaking the icy tone.
“Let’s save that conversation for a more private venue,” Lustrum replied with a deflective wave. “For now, what can I do for you?”
“My friend needs work.”
Lustrum gave Bolan the once-over. “Looks strong. Capable. You’re willing to vouch for him?”
“I am.”
“And he understands what’s required in order to earn a place among us?”
Bolan had been patient as long as he could. “Talking about me as if I’m not here doesn’t really work for me, friend. I’m good to speak for myself. Just what exactly is it I have to do to get some work?”
“You can start by showing a little more respect...friend,” one of the bodyguards said.
Lustrum raised a hand. “Easy, Rov. There’s nothing wrong with showing a little backbone. We need more men like this here on Adak.”
“Like what?” Bolan asked.
“Tough men, resourceful men. Working on the docks is a hard life. If you don’t—”
“I think you misunderstand,” Bolan said with a cool smile. “I’m not here to become a dockworker. My talents lie in other areas.”
“I see.” Lustrum looked at Corsack. “I think, Maddie, you’ve brought your friend to the wrong man. I’d be more than happy to get him work here at the port. But that’s it. I can’t relegate him to any other position.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Corsack asked.
“We’re at a critical juncture right now. Davis doesn’t want to risk any more poor decisions. His business concerns are under scrutiny.”
“Davis doesn’t run things at this end, Otto,” Corsack pointed out. “You do—or at least you did.”
Lustrum’s expression went hard, but there was something more to it than that. Bolan understood what Corsack was trying to do, and he had to admit the lady knew her stuff. Bolan wasn’t sure exactly what Lustrum did, but from what Corsack had just said, there was some relationship between Lustrum and Davis Haglemann. Chances were good this would get him on the inside if he played his cards right.
“Okay, Maddie. Okay.” Lustrum scratched the back of his neck. “You’ve done me a lot of favors over the years, so maybe I owe you one. I’m willing to give your man a shot here. But no way am I letting him into one of the crews overseen by Davis. He works for me or not at all.”
“Fine.”
Lustrum returned his gaze to Bolan. “Of course, the only question remains is, are you up to it, Mr.—?”
“Mike Blansky. Depends. What do I have to do?”
“If you want to work for me, I’ve got to know you can hold your own, no matter what.” Lustrum turned to the man who’d lipped off to Bolan earlier. “Rov, you seem to have taken a personal shine to Blansky here. I think I’ll give you the opportunity to put him to the test. His mettle against yours until one of you stays down.”
Bolan chuckled. “You want me to fight him to prove myself?”
“That’s right.” Lustrum grinned.
Bolan looked the man called Rov in the eyes. He saw the killer instinct there, understood it because he’d seen it before. But the soldier saw something else; an uncertainty that he knew he could exploit. Rov might have acted tough, maybe even been tough, but he was young, and that meant he didn’t have the experience that the Executioner did.
“Fine,” Bolan said. “It seems a little sadistic, but I’m willing if he is.”
Without hesitation, Bolan turned and ducked under the rope barrier, glancing to ensure Rov was following. It wasn’t the way he would have preferred to get on the inside, but he had to play the role if he was to gain the trust. Whatever had been going on in this region of the world the past few days, Bolan was sure Davis Haglemann and his people had something to do with it. Or at least they were involved somehow, if he were to believe even half the things Corsack had told them on the flight.
Rov came under the rope from the same point Bolan had, but instead of squaring off he lunged at the Executioner with surprising speed, arm already cocked to land a punch. The soldier sidestepped in time to take the blow to his right shoulder, thankful he had since the blow landed hard enough to cause pain. Had it connected, it most likely would have broken Bolan’s jaw. Bolan waited until the last moment when Rov’s impetus carried him past, then stuck out his foot and dropped to his side with a slap against the thin mat. He executed the leg sweep perfectly, and Rov went down like a ton of bricks. The soldier immediately regained his feet and waited for the next attack to come. He didn’t have long to wait.
Rov got to his feet and charged low, encircling his beefy arms around Bolan’s waist in a body-block tackle. The soldier had no way to move out of the line of attack and had to go down with his opponent, but at the last moment he twisted so that Rov would land on his back. He used the brief opportunity in the superior position to drive a palm strike into the man’s sternum just below the notch of the breastbone. The air left Rov’s lungs as the strike winded him. He gasped and wheezed, trying to suck in air, finally jostling Bolan out of position with a buck of his hips. The Executioner tried to maintain superior position, but his thighs couldn’t find purchase and he came free.
Rov moved with surprising grace and speed, gaining the top role and driving his forearm against Bolan’s throat. The Executioner tried to break the choke, even knowing that brute strength would never accomplish it—especially not with Rov using all his weight behind it. The only way to counter such a move was to gain leverage, and he knew exactly how to achieve it. The Executioner wrapped his right hand against the hand of the forearm holding him down and drove his thumb into a pressure point, a move meant to distract more than debilitate. Hot, stale breath gushed from Rov, who was already sweating profusely at straining to hold his adversary down. The distraction did its job, enough so that Bolan could get his left arm snaked into the crook of the elbow.
Twisting his body and using the motion of his hips to put strength behind the joint lock, the maneuver broke the choke hold and took Rov off balance. Bolan continued the twist until he’d executed a full-on arm bar with enough pressure to bring Rov’s elbow to the point of snapping. The soldier used that leverage to pry off his adversary and continued the motion until he’d regained his feet. Rov tried to break free by yanking his arm, but Bolan now had him in a jujitsu hold that proved very difficult to counter, unless one was well-experienced in such tactics.
Every time Rov tried to move, Bolan applied more pressure to remind the bigger man of his precarious situation. Despite the pressure on his arm, Rov continued to resist his opponent until the Executioner thought he might have to break the man’s arm. Finally, Bolan extended the technique so that he could maintain the hold while actually driving Rov’s force toward the ground. In that moment, gravity did the rest until Bolan had Rov’s right arm pinned to the floor and a knee in the back of the man’s neck. He tried to rise, but his position proved so unwieldy that Bolan had little trouble holding the man pinned to the ground.
The soldier finally looked in Lustrum’s direction. “He’s not going anywhere. I can hold him this way all day. Are we done?”
Lustrum thought about it for a minute, while Rov continued to shout and curse, the sounds almost unintelligible. He knew if Lustrum declared Bolan the victor that it would not only mean they had to accept him, but Rov would lose face and reputation in front of his peers. That didn’t matter to Bolan. Even if it had gone another way, or he beat Rov without disgracing him, he’d have to watch his back all the same. This was a closed society, just as Corsack had said, and no matter how this ended, Bolan would still be considered an outsider.
“Tell me we’re done!” Bolan commanded.
“You’re done,” Lustrum said.
Bolan released his hold, and Rov produced a small grunt of relief.
As the pair climbed warily to their feet, and Bolan started to turn, the reflection of light on metal flashed in Bolan’s peripheral vision. Rov was charging once more, but this time he held what looked like a fighting knife in fist. Bolan’s reflexes saved him from being gutted like a fish, the blade whistling past as it narrowly missed his midsection. Bolan managed to grab hold of Rov’s wrist as it went past. He locked the elbow and yanked back while simultaneously driving the meaty portion of his forearm against Rov’s elbow. The bone snapped with an audible pop, and the knife jumped from fingers numbed by nerve damage.
With a guttural roar of pain, Rov managed to draw a Beretta Tomcat pocket pistol with his other hand.
Before his opponent could make a move to fire the weapon, Bolan swung him in an arc, then ducked through and executed a throw that landed the guy on his back. He twisted down on the damaged arm, locking the shoulder to the floor, before stomping one boot onto Rov’s throat. Pink, frothy blood spewed from the man’s mouth as the cartilage and bone cracked beneath Bolan’s heel.
The Executioner stepped back, breathing heavily with the exertion and sudden charge of adrenaline, watching with a flare of anger tinged by sympathy while the light left Rov’s eyes. Quickly and inevitably, Rov’s breathing slowed to a stop.
Bolan turned to look at Lustrum who sat with his two remaining bodyguards. They had seemed to watch the entire thing with utter impassivity.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Bolan said.
“Couldn’t end any other way, Blansky,” Lustrum replied.
Bolan’s eyes shifted toward Corsack, and she gave him a sad half smile. He could tell behind that small gesture she felt tortured by what he’d been forced to do. Part of Bolan understood it, and they shared a moment in that glance, but it still stung his sense of fair play. Rov had been silently challenged and committed to a fight, one that couldn’t have ended any other way unless he risked disgrace.
“So you got what you wanted,” Lustrum said. “What are you crying about? Rov wasn’t going to let you live, and he wasn’t going to give up. If he’d allowed you to shame him, he would have found a time to reclaim his honor or he would have been forced to leave.”
Lustrum rose slowly from his chair and turned to leave. “Relax, Blansky. Nobody has to know it was you. The waters of Nazan Bay run cold and deep. Heh. Yeah, many untold stories at the bottom of that puppy. Many stories.”
Bolan thought he could hear almost a cackle as he watched the old man saunter away accompanied by his two bodyguards. He stared at Rov’s motionless body one last time before turning on his heel and heading toward Corsack.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know he’d do anything like that. He’s always just...well, I mean in the past he—”
“Forget it,” Bolan said. “I did what I had to do. Rov didn’t leave me any choice. And this is too important to worry about right now.”
Corsack just nodded.
“Now what happens?” Bolan asked, watching Lustrum make his way toward the exit.
“He’ll be in touch,” Corsack said, laying eyes on Lustrum, as well.
“When?”
“Soon. Or as soon as he can check you out.” She lowered her voice and continued, “So I sure as hell hope whatever you got set up wasn’t done in a slipshod manner, or we’re going to have bigger problems than we’ve got right now. Otto likes me, but he won’t hesitate to come to my house in the middle of the night and cut both our throats.”
“Maybe I should go back to the plane and wait,” Bolan said.
“No, it’s much better if you stay at my place,” she replied. “You go back there, it’s going to look suspicious.”
As they made their way out of the hangar, Bolan remarked, “You were right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t like it.”
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_b514d2ec-8c79-510f-8f45-555a50993c88)
Maddie Corsack’s place was Spartan but comfortable. The house wasn’t very large—it looked like one of the smallest of the similar houses on the block—but it didn’t lack a woman’s touch.
“It doesn’t seem as if you’ve lived high off Haglemann’s proverbial hog like your neighbors,” Bolan observed with interest.
Corsack shook her head. “I take the payments. Haglemann calls them dividends, supposedly from investments of our union dues. But I don’t spend any of it on myself. I donate it to a fund for widows of servicemen killed in action.”
“Nice.”
“I’m sorry for what you had to go through,” she said hesitantly, canting her head in the general direction of the docks. “Back there, I mean. I know you didn’t want to have to do what you did. You’re not a cold-blooded killer.”
“How do you know that?”
“I see it in your eyes. I think you actually care about other people. I think it’s why you do what you do. And you clearly didn’t want to kill Rov. He left you no choice.”
“I’ll move past it,” Bolan said. “But thanks for your concern. I’m more interested to know how much you know about Rov. And about Lustrum.”
She nodded. “I call them the Red Scourge. I know, it’s not very PC of me, but then I’ve never been known for my tact.”
“So both Rov and Lustrum are Russian?”
“No, not Otto. But Rov is definitely Russian.” That piqued Bolan’s interest. The very low population on Adak, along with the high use of Alaskan native laborers, would have eliminated the place as a melting pot. Yet here was a business magnate, a union boss, operating with complete autonomy and using Europeans and Scandinavians as little more than thugs.
“How long have you known him?”
“A long time. Lustrum took over as chief of operations down on the docks for Haglemann’s various corporate ventures about eight years ago. Haglemann’s like a spoiled rich kid, and Lustrum, while he may try to be tough, is little more than another one of Haglemann’s errand boys. The way he goes panting after the guy sometimes is sick. Of course, he uses the thugs to enforce things and ensure they’re done his way, since nothing he does is in the interest of the workers. Other than the kickbacks and money he puts in everyone’s pocket. He somehow has managed to keep it all legal and aboveboard. And as long as people are getting paid, they’re willing to look the other way.”
“These union thugs he’s using—is that the job Lustrum’s going to recruit me for?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Corsack said with a shrug. “But it’s probably a good bet. He’ll either stick you on a dock crew or he’ll have you working security at the private club.”
“He has a club?” Bolan asked.
She nodded. “It’s really Haglemann’s club. Haglemann’s got everything here. He’s practically turned this into his own private island.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“Well, I assume someone has developed some sort of background identity for you.”
Bolan nodded.
“If it’s not too clean, you should be okay. Lustrum will definitely check it out, and when he’s satisfied he’ll be in touch.”
“No offense, and I appreciate the insight, but I can’t just wait around here for something to happen.”
“You may not have a choice,” she replied.
“There’s always a choice.”
“If you jump the gun on this, Mike, it could blow up in your face.”
“Listen to me,” Bolan said. “There are two US military assets missing, not to mention more than a hundred service members. Now, I think Haglemann had something to do with it, and even if he didn’t I’m betting he knows who did. If those men and women are still alive, I owe it to them to get results as soon as possible.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“What I do best,” Bolan replied. “But I have some questions first, and you’re the only one who can answer them.”
* * *
VLADIMIR MOSCOVICH PLANNED to kill Davis Haglemann. Not right away—he needed the guy at the moment to keep the workers in line until he could accomplish his mission. But the time was coming soon, and when it did, Moscovich would act on it. For now, he had to entertain the liberal bastard’s whims and avoid doing anything that would arouse suspicions. If anything, the Russian understood that Haglemann commanded a much larger following. He knew the area better, and he had greater resources from which to draw.
Moscovich and his fifty men would be no match for the hundred or so guns at Haglemann’s disposal.
“Granted, they don’t have our experience,” Moscovich told his second-in-command, Alexei Vizhgail.
“But what they lack there they make up for in sheer numbers. That is not a battle I think we can win.”
“Agreed. It has always been my contention that we must avoid a fight if we’re to complete our mission.”
Indeed, it was critical that they finish what they’d started. The technology had now been used twice with very favorable results, and those back at headquarters in St. Petersburg were pleased with his reports and progress. But it still meant little this far north.
“Maybe it won’t have to come to that, my friend,” Moscovich said.
Once they were in the sedan and headed for the plane awaiting them at the harbor, he said, “Yet these small tests feel like a hollow victory, despite our success. I want to take this much further, to make the Americans pay for what they did to us. Well, at least what one American had done. One man! It is still almost unthinkable to me!”
Indeed, it had been difficult to believe even when he’d first learned of it. Famed network leader Yuri Godunov, head of the organization’s operations in New York City, had masterminded a brilliant plan to overtake America’s banking systems. Thanks to a cowardly hacker who’d managed to get himself captured, the plan was exposed and all the players were either captured or destroyed. Somehow, a lone government agent had managed to penetrate the Godunov family security and wreak havoc from the inside out. The trail eventually had led this enigmatic killer back to St. Petersburg where he’d murdered both Godunov and an NSA asset they had managed to turn, Gregori Nasenko. The pair had been shot dead in their downtown office, Nasenko in the head and Godunov in the back as he’d attempted to flee.
“Executed in cold blood” was how Moscovich’s masters had described it.
Those words had haunted him for the next few years. He’d been childhood friends with Stepan, Godunov’s nephew, who had also allegedly met his demise at the hands of the mysterious American agent. These events had affected him deeply, and when the opportunity to get revenge came, Moscovich jumped at it.
They arrived at Adak Port, the hive of activity for Nazan Bay. Of course, it was dark and there wasn’t much happening at that time of night. By the time they reached their destination in the nearby Rat Islands it would be daylight again, a common occurrence in this part of the world. Many thought that it was cold and dark most of the time, but, in fact, the opposite was true. At least from the aspect of sunlight. The more northern the territory, the more hours of daylight. Of course, even more sunlight could not stop the bitter cold and storms, but that was hardly news.
This environment didn’t bother Moscovich or his men. They had trained for it in some of the coldest regions of Russia. They were used to it, knew how to survive in its inhospitable embrace, and they were all the better prepared for it. Of course, their base of operations was another matter entirely.
Within minutes of arriving at the port, they were aboard their motor launch and traveling at high speed across the Bering Sea. Thanks to Haglemann’s influence, they could come and go at will without having to jump through hoops. They didn’t need any clearances, naturally—it wouldn’t do to slam into another boat just to protect their autonomy—but it was better than attempting to travel by aircraft. Especially since word had it that the military had turned most of the area into a no-fly zone. But nobody questioned them, and no customs or police agents showed up to inspect their boat. Not that it would have mattered. Haglemann had the Adak police department under his thumb, too. They operated independently, but they didn’t really concern themselves with Haglemann’s specific business interests.
Greed. The entire show was run by greed, and Moscovich had been trained to take advantage of that selfish desire, particularly among American citizens.
The boat reached the island four hours later at a makeshift dock nestled along the southern fringes of the Rat Islands. Moscovich and Vizhgail left the dock and headed toward an outcropping, making their way behind the rocks and eventually reaching the entrance to a cavern concealed behind a wall of brush. Mounted to an oval frame of aluminum tubes was a heat-scattering material designed to diffuse the signature that marked it as a heat source.
They had landed on Semisopochnoi Island, though their team had taken to calling it Semisop for short. The fact that it was uninhabited was one of the main reasons for choosing it, but also because it was highly challenging terrain for outsiders to negotiate. At only three-hundred-sixty square kilometers it had four peaks that were between seven hundred and almost thirteen hundred meters. Its last volcanic eruption, in Mount Cerberus, had occurred in 1987, more than one hundred years after the previous one. However, its magma chambers were still quite active and not as viscous, so they tended to flow much faster and build up gases at a higher rate, too. All in all, it wasn’t the safest place to be, but it was abandoned and drew very little attention outside the scientific community. Nobody would bother them there—nobody would even bother to look for them there, so Moscovich was convinced they could conduct their work undisturbed.
So far, he’d been right. Semisop also had the added advantage of being a perfect prison, as could attest the group of military personnel who sat under round-the-clock guard while jailed behind giant fishing cages.
After Moscovich and his team had successfully used the new jamming technology to down the plane—there had been no survivors—they’d tested its efficacy against the USCGC Llewellyn. The device had performed with spectacular results, although Moscovich didn’t really pretend to understand all the technical achievements behind it.
All he knew was that they now had a fantastic weapon to use against the Americans.
Of course, there had been some survivors aboard the cutter that they had been forced to take prisoner. Moscovich didn’t fancy himself a soldier, but he also wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. He did not murder unarmed personnel, be they American military or otherwise. He sought only to further the ambitions of his people by stripping America of her identity and her wealth. If he could do that, nature would do the rest, as history had repeatedly shown its abhorrence of a vacuum. Then again, the prisoners hadn’t proven to be much bother. Once the key troublemakers had been dispatched by Moscovich’s group of commandos, who’d been schooled in the finest tactics by former Spetsnaz and GRU trainers, the remaining navy personnel had fallen in line quickly.
Moscovich and Vizhgail moved past the group and advanced deeper into the cavern until they reached the main operations area. The lights were powered by long-life battery cells, which were recharged using a series of small diesel generators. They had plenty of potable water hauled in regularly from Port Adak, along with food and other supplies that could last them a month, maybe two if they had to ration.
They could have operated here perhaps indefinitely. But it was damn hot, the result of molten lava that rose through natural vents in the dense basalt and rock. The operations supervisor, Benyamin Tokov, one of the toughest and smartest men he had ever known, greeted them with a curt nod. “How did it go?”
“Not well,” Moscovich replied. “I had to exchange the usual pleasantries with Haglemann.”
“I wish we could just kill that sloth. He’s a thorn in our sides.”
“We can’t let him deflect us from our mission. And I’m more concerned about the recent reports from his people on Unalaska.”
Tokov’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”
“Apparently not twelve hours after our operation against the cutter, a man showed up at the main station. His flight was last minute, unannounced and not a regular scheduled courier or freight hauler. Naturally, Haglemann was suspicious and ordered his men at the airport on Unalaska to check it out.”
“Ultimately, there was a conflict, and Haglemann’s men got their collective asses handed to them,” Vizhgail added.
Tokov frowned and locked eyes with Moscovich. “That sounds almost like—”
“Yes,” Moscovich cut in. “That was my thinking, as well.”
“Could it be a coincidence?”
“I don’t know,” Moscovich said. “But it moves up the timetable, regardless. Haglemann won’t be able to keep this newcomer out for long. Eventually someone will come to Adak and begin asking questions, and that will inevitably lead them to us. We have to move before that happens.”
“But the sub is still a month or better out.”
“We’re going to have to ask for it to come sooner, then.”
Moscovich turned to Vizhgail. “Alexei, make contact with them and take care of it.”
When Vizhgail left them, Tokov guided Moscovich out of earshot of the technicians and guards. “I would assume if this is who we think it is, you don’t plan to let him leave alive.”
Moscovich put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my brother. I would move Mount Cerberus if it meant I could have the pleasure of dispatching this man. We will find him and eliminate him if that fool Haglemann cannot. I swear it on my last breath.”
* * *
AFTER BOLAN LEFT Corsack’s house, he returned to the plane where Jack Grimaldi waited for him. The pilot could see from the grim look on Bolan’s face that things hadn’t gone well.
“What’s wrong?”
“A lot,” Bolan replied. “If my suspicions are correct.”
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. Do you remember the mission I took a few years ago in Boston? The one that led to that terrorist operation against the banking system?”
Grimaldi frowned as he pondered the reference. He scratched his neck and finally replied, “Yeah, I think so. Wasn’t that when the Russian Business Network tried to use one of their computer hackers to develop a system that would run amok inside the framework right there on Wall Street?”
“One and the same,” Bolan said. “And I have a feeling it’s the RBN behind this current situation.”
“What? How’s that possible?” Grimaldi looked skeptical. “I mean come on, Sarge, I trust you all the way. But don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch? I don’t see how the RBN could have the resources to pull off something like this, never mind a motive.”
“The motive’s unimportant. And the evidence the RBN’s behind this is overwhelming.” Bolan told Grimaldi the story of his encounter, leaving out none of the details. He concluded his narrative by saying, “The RBN may not have the resources alone to do something like this, but you can bet they would if they’re manipulating Davis Haglemann in some way. The guy’s practically established his own empire on Adak, and he’s done it right under the nose of the US government.”
“And you think the RBN’s been keeping it quiet in exchange for...?”
“A port free of customs inquiries,” Bolan said. “They can come and go as they like on Adak as long as Haglemann’s in charge. And meanwhile all the traffic looks legit, so nobody asks any questions. He’s paying the top brass big money to keep quiet.”
“So he gets rich and the RBN gets what?”
“That’s the answer we don’t have,” Bolan said. “Yet.”
“Okay, let’s assume you’re right. What’s the plan?”
“Corsack was able to give me the lowdown on information relative to a private club Haglemann runs here. I’m going to poke the bear and see what happens.”
Grimaldi chuckled. “Poke the bear—no pun intended, of course.”
“Of course,” the Executioner replied.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_d04921e3-bd66-58fb-845d-719be9851656)
As soon as darkness fell, Bolan geared up and left the terminal. The only transportation available was a motorcycle, a cold venture for this time of year, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The Executioner wore a thermal-insulated black suit, along with boots, goggles and a full mask to protect Bolan’s lungs from breathing icy winds. The Beretta rode in well-oiled shoulder rigging, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle occupied its usual place of honor on his right hip. Finally, a carbine version of the FN-FNC was slung across his back. Manufactured by Fabrique Nationale de Herstal, the FNC had proven a versatile and trustworthy companion on many of Bolan’s missions. This wouldn’t be any exception, especially since Bolan had no idea what he was up against and had almost no intelligence to go on.
The Executioner made his trip to the clubhouse unchallenged and parked his motorcycle in an unpaved area between two run-down buildings. It surprised him that a guy as allegedly fastidious as Haglemann would permit such structures to exist anywhere near his club. The club itself was modern, laid out with plenty of space, and attractive. A small flight of flagstone steps led to the grand entrance, which consisted of heavy double doors of carved wood and a generous overhang.
Bolan withdrew night-vision goggles and scanned the terrain. He could make out only a little behind the fuzzy, gray-green rendering. There wasn’t much light to speak of, even when the NVDs were set at the highest level. At least the infrared seemed to be working, and Bolan could see the remnant heat signatures from at least four separate figures. Bolan had suspected from what Corsack told him the place was a hard site, and this only confirmed it. If this had been the security or the job for which Lustrum had Bolan in mind, the Executioner could do worse going in.
Yeah, it was time to shake things up a bit and see just how deep Haglemann and Lustrum had thrown their hands in with the RBN.
* * *
YORGI ZAKOFF HATED the Americans and cursed the day he’d been forced to work with them—especially this crew. When Moscovich had first ordered him to stand in for Lustrum, Zakoff had obeyed without question. After all, there were certain sacrifices that had to be made if they were to achieve their goal of visiting retribution on America. But now, having spent the past few months working with Lustrum’s guys, a bunch of uneducated dockworkers who were neither as tough nor as smart as they thought themselves, Zakoff had just about reached his limits.
Seeing Rov die at the hands of the newcomer hadn’t done anything to improve his mood. He couldn’t believe that Lustrum would have even entertained the notion just because some dumb bitch had asked him for a favor. Not that it had been all Lustrum’s fault. Rov should have waited until another opportunity to take the American, a place and time of his own choosing. Attacking the guy after it had been declared finished had been foolish, and now Rov was dead. Not that Zakoff didn’t hold Lustrum responsible. When the time came, he’d find a way to pay back Lustrum and the newcomer.
“Jeez, Otak, would ya play a goddamn card already,” Hans said. “My legs are falling asleep waiting on your slow ass!”
Melburn, the other native worker who’d been born on Unalaska and raised on Adak, let out a guffaw. Consumption of too much beer had already started to slur his words. “He probably lost count, Hans.”
Zakoff shook his head as he watched the three stevedores play cutthroat spades. They’d invited him to sit in, but he’d refused—just another reason to dislike these men. They were supposed to be security for the club, but instead they liked to drink beers and play cards all night. He’d pointed it out to his boss once, but the team leader had just thrown it back in his face, advising that nothing ever happened, anyway, and nobody was stupid enough to cross Davis Haglemann. After that, Zakoff didn’t broach the subject again, instead musing that even if they did encounter trouble, they probably wouldn’t be able to handle it if they were stone-cold sober.
The thought went through Zakoff’s mind just a moment before Hans’s head exploded from the bullet that went through his skull. Gory aftermath splattered Hans’s teammates and their card table. Otak and Melburn reacted with rather incredible speed, considering they had been drinking, let alone they had never encountered anything like this before. On the other hand, Zakoff had been trained for years to respond to just a situation like this and he acted as training dictated. The Russian whipped out his .357 Magnum SIG Sauer P239 pistol and went for cover.
Melburn and Otak had jumped from their seats and looked for their own shelter, but only Otak succeeded. Melburn caught a round in the side that punctured a lung before lodging in his heart, and a second ripped away the better part of his jaw. Melburn’s body was slammed sideways, and he landed on the flimsy table, which collapsed beneath his weight.
Otak turned at the last moment, a move that would ultimately save his life as another round came through the window and clipped his left arm but a millisecond earlier would have entered his back at the level of his heart. Otak went down, shouting with pain and grabbing at the messy, bloody wound left in the wake of the bullet. He lay on his good shoulder near the overturned table, whimpering like an injured dog with frozen horror blasted into his expression.
Zakoff could only shake his head at this. What a pathetic bunch Vizhgail had lumped him with—two were dead because of their ignorance, and the third was a coward. Zakoff was so angered by Otak’s response and annoyed at the whining that he aimed his pistol and fired point-blank into the man’s face. That wiped the stupid expression off Otak’s face and shut him up, which satisfied the Russian’s outrage with immense satisfaction.
He crawled from the room, and as soon as he reached the safety of an inner corridor he scrambled to his feet and headed toward the nearest phone to call for reinforcements.
* * *
SCRATCH TWO, MACK BOLAN thought as he peered through the optic sight attached to his FN-FNC.
Bolan watched carefully but didn’t see any further movement. The other two who had been visible through the window were either hugging the floor or had already managed to crawl out of harm’s way. In any case, they were no longer in range, so Bolan would have to go inside and pick them off. He entertained the thought of just leaving, but that wasn’t an option. He planned to send a clear message to Haglemann, and sniping a couple of guns wouldn’t really be enough to shake up the guy. No, this first contact had to be more...spectacular.
The Executioner climbed to his feet and rushed the club, mounting the flagstone steps two at once until he reached the massive covered porch. He wouldn’t have much time. If the reports from the rifle didn’t bring Haglemann’s personal police force on the run, then the survivors inside would surely call for backup. Bolan needed to make his statement before that happened, since a skirmish with any sort of significant force would bring more attention than he wanted.
Bolan shattered a glass window with the metal folding stock of his weapon, then lobbed a smoke grenade through it. The bomb popped a moment later, and a loud hissing noise ensued as the smoker filled the foyer with a gray haze. As soon as the grenade kicked off, Bolan shot the lock off the door and pushed through. He swept the surrounding area with the muzzle of his carbine, ready to meet any resistance, but nobody showed to challenge him.
The Executioner proceeded through the foyer and into the main seating area of the club. Davis Haglemann had chosen to ally himself with the Russian Business Network, or at least Lustrum had, and the lives of American military had been snuffed without regard. That and that alone was unacceptable to Mack Bolan, and he planned to send a clear message that said as much to Haglemann and the Russians.
Bolan navigated his way to the kitchen, and as he walked through, a flash of movement drew his attention toward one corner. A lone, armed assailant broke cover and angled for a good shooting position. He might have succeeded had it not been for Bolan’s reflexes. Two rounds burned the air near Bolan’s head as the soldier took cover. He swung his weapon into target acquisition and triggered a few short bursts, but none hit the target, who darted from his place and headed toward concealment behind a long, stainless steel preparation counter.
Bolan snatched the NVD goggles off his face and set them at his feet. He then dropped to his belly and crawled along the back side of the counter, moving slowly and carefully to prevent making noise that would allow his enemy to pinpoint his location. They guy’s eyes had obviously adjusted, and there was enough gloom that the NVDs no longer gave Bolan a tactical edge. Stealth would be the key to securing a victory here, a truth that proved out a moment later when Bolan detected the shadowy figure emerging from his spot and heading directly toward his position. A dim hood light presented a silhouette, and Bolan quietly reached to his hip and withdrew his Desert Eagle. From that prone position he extended his arm, aimed center mass and squeezed the trigger. The proximity of the shot actually drove home with enough force to flip the target on to his back.
The ringing in Bolan’s ears took a minute or so to subside. He ignored it as he frisked the body for identification, lifted what papers he found, then set about the task of rigging the joint to blow. Being in the kitchen would make it simple enough. The Executioner located several propane storage tanks and packed them with C-4 plastique from his satchel. He primed the high explosive for detonation on a timer and set it to eight minutes, then made his exit out the rear and circled back to the spot between the two houses where he’d left his motorcycle.
As Bolan expected, the reinforcements arrived right on schedule—it looked to be a mix of civilian vehicles along with an Adak police vehicle. As the collection got out of their cars, the club suddenly went up in a massive blast and a whoosh of red-orange flame that had to reach heights of a hundred feet or better. Under the cover of the explosion, fire and secondary blasts, Bolan kick-started the motorcycle to life, and within thirty seconds he’d departed the area completely unobserved.
He’d sent his first message to Davis Haglemann. Now it was time to wait for the reply.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“THE RUSSIAN BUSINESS NETWORK?” When Barbara Price nodded, Hal Brognola shook his head. “I knew we hadn’t heard the last of them, but I didn’t think they had these kinds of capabilities.”
“Frankly, Hal, neither did I,” Bolan replied. “Godunov and his cronies demonstrated they had significant resources when they tried to take down Wall Street. But in order for them to pull off something like this, they’d have to be in bed with members of the Russian government. And they’re apparently in bed with Davis Haglemann, too. They come and go here on Adak as they please.”
“Barb,” Brognola said, “what’s the Russian government’s official position on the RBN?”
“Well, of course, they officially disavow any relationship with them, although they’ve never officially taken any sort of direct stance.”

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