Читать книгу Desert Impact - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Chapter 2

From the top of Holtanna Peak in Antarctica, Mack Bolan took a deep, cleansing breath. The landscape was pure, white snow, broken only by jagged shards of brown rock. Here, there were no human enemies to fight, no wars to win. The cold, the wind, the challenges of climbing, skiing and BASE jumping in this region were daunting, but for a man known as the Executioner, this kind of activity was his idea of rest and relaxation.

The tall pillar of Holtanna topped out at almost nine thousand feet. Standing alone in the middle of the Antarctic, the “hollow tooth” was an obstacle meant to be conquered. Bolan and his climbing companion, Gerard Casias, led the way, setting ropes for the other two climbers. Even with his winter gear, the cold penetrated deep into his bones. Each time he pushed in with the ice spikes on the soles of his boots, sharp pins of pain radiated through his frozen skin and up his leg. He wiggled his toes to increase the circulation before he looked for his next foothold. The chimneys within the rock were choked with snow, making the climb slow and arduous. Bolan paused to look out over the pristine white landscape. The sheer beauty of the environment pushed him onward. He placed the next piton to hold the permanent rope for the rest of the crew to climb behind him.

At two a.m. in Antarctica, the sun was high, but the temperature was not. The light beard Bolan had grown to help protect his face was frozen. The trek had taken them twenty-four hours of straight climbing.

Standing now on top of the bottom of the world, Bolan saw an incoming aircraft and pulled out his field goggles to identify it. A P3-K Orion, which meant that his time off was about to be cut short. Someone was using U.S. Naval resources to find him.

He took one last look at the beautiful surroundings, then zipped the last of the closures on his wingsuit. The material created the illusion of wings and a tail.

“Who will count it off?” Gerard called out.

“I will,” Bolan said.

He waited by the ledge, took two strides and launched himself into the abyss. The wind rushed past him, but the edges of his suit broke the speed and created a nice glide through the air. Bolan experimented with the directions of his arms and the angle of his body as he played on the breeze. Closing in on his mark, he deployed the parachute and glided safely to the ground. The others were right behind him. He unclipped the parachute, waved to the other climbers and sprinted off toward the plane as it taxied to a halt.

Gerard would see to it that the others got back to camp and would most likely stay for another few weeks, enjoying a life of adventure that didn’t involve the kinds of dangers the Executioner faced most every day of his life.

The cabin door opened on the aircraft and a ladder was tossed through the opening. Bolan stopped and looked up to see a grizzled E-7 staring down at him. “Colonel Stone?” the man shouted, trying to make himself heard over the props.

“That’s me,” Bolan yelled. “You must be my ride.”

“Yes, sir! We’ve got orders to get you back to the States as fast as possible.”

Bolan started climbing the ladder, and after a couple of minutes, he stepped on board. The chief petty officer gave him a quick once over. “You don’t look like a colonel,” he quipped.

“I’ve been off-duty,” Bolan replied. “Let’s get moving.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, pulling in the ladder and slamming the cabin door shut.

Bolan moved to the cockpit and opened the door. Two officers—the pilot and the copilot—were inside. “Gentlemen,” he said.

“Colonel Stone,” the pilot said. “I’m Captain Sikes, and this is Lieutenant Commander Olsen. Glad we were able to find you so quickly. We’ve got orders.”

“I figured as much,” Bolan replied. “What’s our route back?”

“We’ll go via South America,” Sikes said. “We’ll take on a new crew there, and then get you home.”

“Sounds like a long, boring flight,” he said.

“That’s just how we like them, sir,” Olsen replied.

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable in back,” Sikes added.

Bolan nodded and headed to the cabin, where he found the other man already seated in the front row. He stopped in the galley long enough to grab some hot coffee, then moved to the back of the cabin and took a seat. The props began to spin faster and the plane completed a long turn, then started down the rough landing strip before heading into the sky.

From his inside jacket pocket, Bolan pulled out his handheld and powered it up. It took a good minute for it to sync with the satellite system it used for communications. As soon as he had a good signal, he put his thumb on the screen and unlocked the device. He opened his contacts and hit a speed-dial number. It took several seconds for the call to connect but only one ring before Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, to answer.

“Tell me you’re on the plane, Striker,” he said, skipping any formalities.

“I’m on the plane,” he assured him.

“We’ve got a situation and I need you in on it.”

Stony Man Farm was a clandestine organization whose action teams fought terrorism and crime all over the world. When the mission was such that official agencies couldn’t openly take it on, Stony Man stepped in, thus allowing the U.S. Government to disavow involvement. Bolan worked with the Farm at arm’s length, taking on missions when it was crucial or appropriate and bringing in new missions when he needed backup in terms of technology, weapons and sometimes manpower. For Brognola to have back-channeled him into a Navy plane using his Colonel Stone identity, the situation must be pretty dire.

“What’s the problem, Hal?” he asked.

“Well, the good news is that you’re going somewhere warmer.”

“Anywhere is warmer than here,” Bolan said.

“True enough,” he admitted. “The situation is this—one of our field assets in Phoenix got in touch with us two days ago. She was contacted by a U.S. Border Patrol agent named Colton Rivers.”

“Hmm...there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Bolan said. “He’s one of their field ops guys on the border. We crossed paths a while back when I dealt with that rash of agent kidnappings.”

“Same guy,” Brognola said. “He didn’t know how to find you, so he asked around and eventually connected with me.”

“So, what’s going on that Rivers thinks he needs help from people like us?”

“The smuggling situation down there has taken a turn for the surreal. He was out with a team in the desert near Douglas and they were ambushed by illegals from the other side.”

“That’s probably not all that unusual,” Bolan replied. “It’s a war zone, Hal. A quiet one, but still war.”

“If that were all, I wouldn’t be talking to you. There’s more. The weapons the illegals were using were U.S. Army issue. Not surplus, either. Someone is selling them military weapons, and if it’s hot down there now, a cartel armed with God-knows-what could turn that quiet war-zone into a full-scale disaster area.”

“That’s attention-getting, all right. Does this have anything to do with the whole Fast and Furious mess the ATF created? If so, isn’t it the government’s problem?”

“I don’t think so,” Brognola said. “Most of that has been cleaned up, and those were small weapons. These are .50 caliber machine guns, mounted on all-terrain dune buggies. The men were armed with standard-issue assault rifles, too.”

Bolan whistled. That was heavy hardware. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Rivers now if you can forward me his number. Where am I landing in the U.S.?”

“Phoenix, by way of Dallas,” Brognola replied. “According to our Naval contacts, you’ll be on the ground in Arizona in less than twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Bolan said. “I’ll need a vehicle and a basic field set—you know what I need.”

“It will be waiting for you at the airport. Do you want me to organize backup for you? I can hook you up with a Phoenix-based agent, Nadia Merice.”

Bolan considered it for a moment. “Not just yet,” he said. “Send me her dossier and contact information. Let me go down and assess the situation first. If I need her, I’ll get in touch.”

“You’ll have all of it shortly, Striker. Keep me informed, please. We don’t want this spiraling out of control.”

“Will do,” Bolan said, then hung up the phone. A few moments later, the number for Colton River came through as a secured text message. He dialed it.

“Rivers,” the vaguely familiar voice answered.

“Agent Rivers, Matt Cooper,” he said. “I heard you were trying to find me.”

“Cooper! I didn’t think I’d be able to track you down. Not really.”

“It’s a small world,” Bolan said. “What can I do for you?”

Colton quickly explained his situation, and it lined up with what Brognola had told him. “I know you’re not...well, official, but I think that’s just what we need. Especially if official people are involved.”

Bolan lay back in his seat and listened, rolling the information over in his head. Rivers was a good man, and he was obviously in a bit of a panic. He’d stopped talking, but Bolan was unwilling to speak for the moment. The silence made the agent nervous.

“Cooper, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, staring out the window. Below, the edge of the ice was giving way to the choppy waters of the Southern Ocean.

“Thank you, Cooper. I didn’t know who else could handle this kind of thing.”

“It sounds sticky. We’ll talk more when I get there,” he said, then disconnected the call. Brognola was right about at least one thing, he thought—he was going somewhere warmer.