Читать книгу Critical Exposure - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

Under other circumstances the soldier might have chosen a different strategy when faced with imminent dismemberment by an HE grenade at such proximity. These circumstances were different. Bolan no longer had himself to think of, but these young souls—these ignorant people who barely passed as adults—who had allowed themselves to be involved with terrorists. They were guilty of nothing more than being really brilliant at what they did and having no decent and safe outlet for their collective genius.

Such were the ideal victims of America’s enemies, Bolan’s enemies, lured by the temptress of prestige and money. When it came right down to it, that wasn’t something for which any of them deserved to lose their lives.

Bolan didn’t do anything as cavalier as throw his body on the grenade. He was no good to this salvageable crew under such circumstances. So he did the only thing he could—he scooped up the grenade and got rid of it. The bomb just barely cleared the frame of one of the shattered windows before it blew, but Bolan had managed to gain shelter under one of the heavy shelves serving as a makeshift desk. His ears rang from the explosion and he choked on the heavy coat of drywall dust that rolled through the darkened room, but otherwise he and the people he’d just saved were unharmed.

“Get out!” he told them, gesturing furiously toward the open door through which he’d first made his entry. “Keep on your hands and knees!”

They did as ordered while Bolan scrambled in the opposite direction, heading toward a door on the far side. He didn’t know where it led but anything had to be better than playing the role of sitting duck. If he could get a little combat stretch, it would make a difference, at least in terms of buying the technical crew time to get clear while Bolan strategized a way to turn this holding action into an offense. The soldier didn’t know where the door would take him, or if he could even access whatever awaited him on the other side, but he had to try. He couldn’t afford to just wait there for his enemies to come to him.

Remaining crouched, Bolan reached for the knob and found that it turned. He opened the door and pushed through, keeping as low as possible. The interior had a musty smell and at first Bolan thought he’d entered a closet, which would have trapped him with no place to go. The Executioner’s luck held out as he spotted yet another door to his right. He pushed through it and emerged in a narrow corridor that dipped even farther underground. Bolan looked to his right and saw the wide-open area from which his enemy had approached.

Bolan almost grinned at his good fortune, totally obscured in the deep shadows of the walkway while his enemies, three in total, moved toward the control room, apparently convinced the grenade had done its grisly work. Bolan extended his arm and leveled the MP5K. He opened up, sweeping the muzzle in a rising burst of sustained autofire. The results were devastating for the unsuspecting guards, and while they managed to bring their weapons to bear, it proved wholly inadequate under the marksmanship of the Executioner.

The first hardman fell under a double-tap to chest, the 9 mm rounds punching through lung tissue and tearing out good portions on their way out the other side. The second man tried to get cover, but Bolan dropped him midstride. The survivor managed to get off a short burst before the soldier caught him with a volley that cut across the man’s guts and shredded his insides.

Bolan crouched and waited a long time—he couldn’t be sure how long but it had to have been a few minutes—before rising and continuing down the walkway that ended at yet another door. He opened it to find a corridor to his right, which he followed with his back to the wall. He’d slung the MP5 and now he held his trusted friend, a Beretta 93-R in front of him at the ready. Bolan got close to the end of the walkway and one more door. Beyond that he found the remnants of some half-eaten Chinese takeout and an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts and some security camera feeds.

So that’s how they’d known he was coming, Bolan thought.

The soldier shook his head as he left the room and proceeded up the wide-open area in the center of the bunker. He couldn’t understand what a room of this size could be used for. Was there another entrance? The place was certainly large enough to park a few cars inside. Bolan whipped out a flashlight and swept the ground around him, realizing that it was concrete. He swung the light to the wall opposite the walkway he’d first come down, but found nothing of interest. He finally swung his light upward with no expectations. What he saw surprised him.

The Executioner studied the roof over the bunker carefully for a few minutes, and then nodded and switched off the flashlight. He frisked the three bodies for ID but found nothing that gave a clue to their identities, which he had expected. Then he marched off in search of the technicians he’d saved, assuming they’d hung around. Based on what he’d just seen, he’d figured they would. Where else could they go? And even if the others split, he knew Ducken wouldn’t get very far in this rugged terrain. Especially not if the large area in the center of the bunker was what he thought it was. No, they wouldn’t go anywhere. Bolan needed them to help him retrieve all the information from the computers—at least the ones that were still operable—so he could get it to Stony Man Farm.

Yeah, it was turning out to be one hell of a day for Mack Bolan.

* * *

“A HELIPAD?” BARBARA PRICE repeated.

“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “I noticed small puddles of what I think are hydraulic lubricants here and there, either left by the chopper or by the hydraulic doors overhead. The terrain is too rugged for any vehicles other than four-wheelers or mountain bikes. No roads in or out. When I questioned the workers, they confirmed it. Choppers bring in the new technical and guard crews every twenty-four hours and rotate out the previous shift.”

“You didn’t want to wait for the next chopper to come in?”

“They came in this morning,” Bolan said. “I don’t figure we have that kind of time. One of them gave me a description of the chopper. Jack thinks it’s an Air Force job, pretty modern.”

“So whoever we’re dealing with has either modified it to look like a USAF chopper or it’s a real one.”

“Based on the descriptions, which were quite accurate, we think it’s an actual bird from the fleet.”

“Okay,” Price said. She reached for the printout on her desk that Kurtzman had given her minutes before Bolan’s call. “Aaron disseminated and organized the data you sent. There’s no doubt the codes being used are legitimate, not to mention the work is highly technical. So adding that to what we know about this chopper and—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bolan said. “There are definitely military personnel involved in this somehow.”

“Right.”

“Did he get anything that would indicate a source?”

Price clenched her jaw as she studied the Executioner’s grim visage on the large wall screen in the Computer Room in the Annex. “According to the intelligence we gathered, all of it points to Tyndall Air Force Base.”

“Florida?” Bolan asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I don’t get the connection.”

“You will when I remind you that the Continental NORAD Region directs all air sovereignty activities over the Continental U.S. It’s the official designation of the 1AF/NORTH, which is headquartered at Tyndall.”

“Sounds like that’s the place I need to go next,” Bolan said. “I’ll maintain my Stone cover, but I’ll need some new credentials. I’m thinking Defense Intelligence Agency placement.”

“Done. We’ll have them delivered to your present location, so please don’t leave without them. What about this chopper that’s expected to drop off the next shift?”

“Osborne’s already indicated he can take care of that,” Bolan said. “He has F-16 Falcons from the Air National Guard at Peterson AFB on full alert. When they spot the chopper, they’ll send the fighters to conduct an intercept.”

“And if they refuse to cooperate?”

“Knowing Osborne, he’ll order them blown out of the sky,” Bolan said. “But I see no point in my waiting here to find out. Assuming they surrender peacefully, Osborne said he’d forward any intelligence they got to me ASAP.”

“I’d prefer you remain there to handle it,” Price said gently.

“I need to keep moving, Barb,” Bolan countered. “We’ve already had three military special ops missions compromised in the past forty-eight hours. Good men have been killed. Chances are there’ll be more, and I can work best if I get in front of it as soon as possible.”

Price nodded. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Bolan said. “Out.”

The screen winked out a moment later.

Panama City, Florida

IN ADDITION TO the CONR First Air Force, two other major units operated out of Tyndall AFB: the 325th Fighter Wing, home of the F-22A Raptor and primary training site for the same, and the 53rd Weapons Evaluation Group. The latter was also responsible for training personnel that operated many of the Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle programs and positional stations aboard E-3 Sentry AWACS. Much of the intelligence about the physical specifications as well as operations was considered above even Top Secret—a name so secret it didn’t have a real name except that known to a few—so the base also provided technical MI knowledge training to members of the NSA, CIA and DIA.

Bolan knew he’d be viewed as an outsider unless he could imitate membership in at least one of those intelligence agencies, and given most of what had happened up to now it seemed posing as DIA would be the best choice.

Upon his arrival at Tyndall, his guess was confirmed. Straight from the airfield he was shuttled by military sedan to DIA offices adjacent to the 53rd WEG HQ. A tall man in an AF uniform with the rank of major and a nametag that read “Shoup, R.” came out of his office and greeted Bolan where he’d been waiting in a chair near the secretary’s desk.

“Colonel Stone?” the officer said in greeting as he stuck out his hand. As Bolan shook it he continued, “Major Randy Shoup, DIA Operations Officer. Please come in.”

Shoup led Bolan into his office, offered him a drink, which Bolan politely declined, and then settled behind his desk and sat back. Bolan watched the man’s eyes carefully, meeting his gaze with a striking stare that was neither friendly nor frosty. He didn’t know who he could trust at this stage, since whoever had been funneling inside information to America’s enemies hadn’t yet been identified. Not that it would have made a difference.

Bolan didn’t think he could trust anyone in this case. He’d have to play his cards close to the vest.

“Major, you’ve been briefed about my reasons for being here?”

Shoup shook his head. “Frankly, no. I just got a communication from B Ring less than an hour ago to expect your arrival. My orders are to cooperate with your investigation.”

“Good,” Bolan said with a nod.

Shoup didn’t miss a beat as he continued. “And I’ll be happy to do that just as soon as I know exactly what it is you’re investigating. For example, if you’re here to pick apart my unit, then I have to be up front and tell you that isn’t going to happen, orders or no goddamned orders. With all due respect, sir.”

Bolan forced his expression to remain impassive. He had a traitor to sniff out, but being rude or confrontational wouldn’t buy him any love in the shut-up-and-mind-your-own-business world of military intelligence. Not to mention that if Shoup or his men thought Bolan was here to find wrongdoing on their parts, they’d close ranks as if it was nobody’s business and that wouldn’t help Bolan in the progress department. No, best to play it cool and be as honest as he could without compromising his identity or mission. Still, there were some things on which he’d have to play hardball if he wanted to gain Shoup’s respect.

“Since you’ve set the tone for us so eloquently,” Bolan began, “then let me get you clear on a few things, Major.

“First, I’m a superior officer and here at the behest of the Pentagon, so you’ll follow my orders or I’ll personally rip that cluster off your lapel. Second, I’m not here to pick apart your unit. There’s a lot of evidence to support the fact we have a traitor in the MI community. I’m here to expose the traitor while trying to make as little noise as possible, so if the traitor isn’t among your crew you have nothing to worry about.

“Last, and I can’t stress the importance of this enough, there have been a lot of good military personnel who have died in the past forty-eight hours due to the actions of this individual. I’m going to need your cooperation to make sure no more service personnel come home in a flag-draped coffin. You get me, mister?”

Shoup’s face was stony and his cheek twitched as he replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Now as I understand it, you may already have information on this potential traitor. Tell me about what you’ve found.”

Shoup reached to a nearby locked filing cabinet. He inserted a key and then swiped his thumb over the cabinet and the biometric reader beeped once before Bolan heard a locking mechanism release. Shoup opened the middle of the three doors, thumbed through a number of files and finally came out with a thick manila folder labeled in red and white along its edges. The Executioner immediately recognized the top-secret labeling as Shoup handed the file to him.

“This is eyes-only, sir,” Shoup said. “You technically shouldn’t even see it.”

Bolan nodded as he took it. “I’ll take it as a sign of good faith. And don’t worry, Major, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“I hope so, sir,” Shoup replied. “Because what you’re going to see in that file isn’t pretty.”

Bolan glanced through each page, skimming most of the text. Eventually he came upon a snippet of information regarding a USAF chopper that had been transferred on loan to the 21st Medical Group at Peterson AFB. This had supposedly been at the request of the USAFSC-HQ adjutant. Oddly, the chopper had recently been reported out of service after an accident that occurred while trying to assist in a civilian air rescue operation in the forest just northeast of Durango, Colorado. Bolan continued through the rest of the information, watching as the intelligence analysts followed the trail of paperwork and odd requests.

Finally, Bolan looked up and met Shoup’s waiting gaze. “Then the trail just ended?”

Shoup nodded. “Yes, sir. I mean...in a way.”

“What way is that?”

“Well, a field intelligence officer with the NSA, who’d been working jointly with us, tried to pick up the trail after it went cold. That was where we decided not to catalog or record any of the information until he could get us something solid. He eventually traced those tracks to a site in the Guatemalan jungles.”

Bolan nodded. It made sense, considering that terrorist groups all over the world had been using points in Central America to stage operations. Silence could be bought rather cheaply in poor countries such as Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Plus, it provided terrorists with bases closer to American soil than they could ever hope to get anywhere else, and a natural pipeline for information and personnel by piggybacking onto the drug and arms trades.

Shoup continued. “Unfortunately we hit a snag. Our guy in the NSA disappeared on his last assignment into Guatemala. He hasn’t been heard from in over a week. We had another guy in place, a local, actually, we tried to put on the trail but he’s disappeared, too.”

“Seems like whoever you’re after doesn’t want to be found,” Bolan remarked.

“That was our assessment, as well. Fortunately we do have an informant who’s been able tell us with some accuracy where both of these individuals might be found, but we’re only about sixty percent confident in the accuracy of the information. I’m trying to decide if it’s enough to act on.”

“At least it tells you something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re on the right track. So what was your next move?”

“We’ve put a plan in motion, more of an information gathering than anything else,” Shoup said. “We’re hoping to be able to call it a rescue operation, but who knows if we’ll get our way on that count. The devil usually deals the cards the way he wants.”

“And often they’re not in our favor,” Bolan added.

“Right,” Shoup said with a curt nod.

“Okay, I’m game to go along with this plan. But I’m going to take over the operation.”

Shoup’s lip twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

Bolan put up a hand. “And before you go all territorial on me, you’ll still be in charge of your men. All of them. And you’ll call the shots in this reconnaissance. I’ll handle how we act on any intelligence we find. And if it comes down to a rescue operation and we get enough evidence either of these men are alive, I’ll accompany you on the op but you’ll get full credit. My name need not even come into it.”

“And what if it goes south?”

“Then the whole thing falls on my shoulders,” Bolan said. “I’ll take full blame and responsibility.”

Shoup appeared to consider it for a long moment and finally nodded. “Colonel, sounds like you got yourself a deal.”