Читать книгу System Corruption - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

The ending could have been marked down as inevitable but for the intervention of one man.

His name was Mack Bolan.

The Executioner.

It began for Bolan on a warm day at Arlington National Cemetery, watching with an old friend as a man buried his only son.

It began with the shadow of betrayal hanging over the proceedings.

With the taint of deceit and the cloak of a cover-up.

It began out of despair. With the plea of a grieving father turning to the only man he knew who could— who would —help.

Bolan, dressed soberly in black, stood a distance away from the main group, as Hal Brognola consoled his friend. That was the only incentive Bolan needed.

Colonel Dane Nelson was the reason for his attendance. It would have taken a miracle of denial to have kept Brognola away, and especially so on such a tragic occasion. Bolan was here for his friend. Dane Nelson was here because he was saying goodbye to his son. The military funeral was in respect for a young man who had served his country with distinction. Brognola, Bolan, Nelson and his son were all linked by an unbreakable bond that needed little verbal expression.

Nelson’s request had reached Bolan via Brognola through a telephone call filtered through various links until it registered on the unlisted cell he carried. Mack Bolan had a small list of people he regarded as friends in an increasingly hostile world. His life cast him as a transient figure, moving in and out of the shadows, waging his unending war against those who regarded the world as their personal playground on which to act out their evil. Bolan never bemoaned his self-appointed status. He considered himself a fortunate individual, able to strike out against the injustice that plagued so many. They were in no position to fight back. The Executioner acted on their behalf. It cast him as a loner, having to stand aside from normality , so any connections he had with his small gathering of real friends were cherished.

Nelson’s request had been, true to the man’s nature, brief and succinct. He gave the date and location of the funeral, asked Brognola to attend, adding that he had something to discuss that wouldn’t keep. Brognola, in his role as Director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had his suspicions about what his old friend wanted to discuss.

So Bolan was here, waiting in respectful silence as the crack of the honor guards’ rifles brought a reminder that while he no longer wore the uniform of his country, he still affirmed his legacy toward its military. He had worn his own uniform with pride, had fulfilled his term and still felt the loss when he was aware of any American who died for the cause. He’d seen pictures of Nelson’s son, Francis, over the years. Brognola told stories of the young man who was a carbon copy of his father. The last time had been just after Francis had donned the uniform. Nothing had been said but Bolan had seen the quiet pride in Brognola’s eyes as he spoke of the young soldier heading out on his first deployment.

Now they were here, watching the boy being buried, and Bolan knew that the father would carry more than just grief in his heart.

Bolan stayed where he was until Brognola and Nelson were alone at the graveside. Nelson’s head bowed, his broad shoulders starting to sag a little. The Executioner walked across the green lawn and joined them, taking his own silent moment to offer his thoughts.

“Thanks for coming,” Nelson said. “Francis would have liked it that you were here,” he said to Brognola.

“Goodbye, Francis. I’ll keep watch over you,” Nelson said. He reached out to lay a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “We need to talk, Hal. I need your help.” He looked at Bolan, who simply nodded.

As they walked the peaceful ground, surrounded by the silence that lay over America’s fallen, Nelson pushed himself erect again. He was as tall as Bolan. Older. In full dress uniform, displaying the campaign ribbons and medals he had won over the years, Dane Nelson was an imposing figure. Still lean and fit, only the graying hair and the faint pattern of lines in his face betrayed his age. Bolan had noticed the lack of shine in his eyes. The death of his son had sucked out some of his pride.

“I need your help,” Nelson repeated.

“Just ask, Colonel,” Bolan said.

“No rank here. Just old friends.” The voice faltered a little as he smiled sadly at Brognola. Then Nelson sharpened his tone. “They killed him. He was murdered, Hal. I know it.” Nelson paused, checking Bolan’s expression. “No questions?”

“I never doubted your word in the past. No reason to start now. What happened?” Brognola asked.

“Francis was investigating some kind of fraud that originated from the Ordstrom Tactical Group. You’ve heard of it?”

“Big corporation, heavily into military ordnance. Jacob Ordstrom is the president. Word is he has the ear of the main people in politics and the military,” the big Fed replied.

“OTG manufactures everything from flak jackets up to armored vehicles. Ordstrom is a heavy hitter. His eye is fixed on the dollar signs in every contract he gains. Met him once, years ago, and I didn’t like him then. Something about the man that made my skin crawl.”

“You always were a good judge of character, Dane,” Brognola said.

Nelson’s brief smile had a bitter twist.

They moved across the carefully tended lawns. Nelson seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bolan and Brognola allowed him his silence until Nelson was ready to speak.

“A few weeks ago Francis was contacted by a friend. Cal Ryan. They had known each other for a number of years. Ryan is a respected journalist. An astute reporter. A smart man. After Francis spoke to Ryan he called me, said we needed to meet. When we did he told me Ryan had discovered anomalies within OTG design specifications. Test results had been doctored and ordnance put into production. Ryan made the first discoveries and began to look deeper. There were similar flaws in other items. When he checked them out he realized that OTG was falsifying test results and putting these specs into production. It appeared that by doing this OTG was saving millions on production and development costs, enabling them to complete contracts well ahead of time.”

“Wasn’t Ordstrom already making enough money?” Brognola asked.

“Ryan told Francis that OTG had gone through a lean patch. Ordstrom needed to keep his cash flow going, so the shortcuts were activated. Ryan made more discreet investigations and found the company was maintaining the deception even after their finances evened out.”

“Ordstrom got a taste for it,” Bolan said.

“Ryan said the man has a lot of palms to grease. Officials in the government’s procurement departments. With all the military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan the need for equipment is ongoing and vast.”

“And the guys on the front line get issued with low-standard equipment,” Bolan said.

Nelson nodded. “That’s the bottom line. It’s more, really. Ordstrom has connections with government, contractors. He’s done some deals for the CIA. Worked with some suspect regimes. Ryan tapped in to sources that hinted at Ordstrom’s covert dealing with illegal backdoor dealing.”

“So how did Francis take it when he heard about the substandard equipment? I’d guess he was pretty upset,” Brognola said.

“You knew his feelings for the military. He had a great relationship with the men he had commanded.”

“Just like his father, if I recall.”

“Francis wanted to blow the lid off the whole thing. He was ready to go rip Ordstrom’s throat out. He took a great deal of convincing to take it carefully. Even Ryan made him promise to back off until he gathered enough material evidence.”

“I see a big but coming.”

“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”

“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.

“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”

“And Francis?”

“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.

“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”

“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.

“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”

“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”

“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”

Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”

“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.

They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.

“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.

“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.

Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”

“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.

“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.

Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”

The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.

Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.

Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.

Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.

Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.

It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.

Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.

And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.