Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  “Don’t let it go to your head. And hurry up. We only have a few minutes.”

  Grimaldi grabbed the uniform and headed aft while Bolan finished buttoning his own coat. Several rows of ribbons adorned the breast pocket of the uniform jacket, a Combat Infantry Badge and blue infantry braid among them. In this case, it wasn’t far from the truth. Bolan had earned all of them during his years as part of a sniper team in the Army.

  When the two were dressed, they descended the steps of the C-37A aircraft, a U.S. Air Force version of the Gulfstream V business jet. The aircraft boasted advanced avionics, countersurveillance sensor packages and a hidden armory kept fully stocked with assorted pistols, SMGs, assault rifles and explosives of variable type and capability.

  Bolan chose not to wear a sidearm for this visit. He could have secured his Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather beneath the Class A uniform, but he opted not to go that route. They were on a secure military installation, about to transfer to an even more secure location at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. A full-bird colonel showing up with a concealed sidearm or even a loaded pistol in military webbing around his waist would have attracted suspicion. It was Bolan’s skills in role camouflage that had kept him alive these many years, and he wasn’t about to blow it out of a sense of misguided paranoia.

  An airman first class saluted the two officers as he opened the rear door for Bolan. Both men returned the salute, Grimaldi opting to take shotgun. The airman greeted them respectfully but didn’t say anything the remainder of the roughly twenty-minute trip along Norad Drive from the airfield on Fort Carson to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex entrance. After the security police waved them through following a close inspection of their vehicle and Bolan’s orders, stamped and certified by the Pentagon, the airman escorted them into the secure communications area.

  Within minutes they were seated in the office of Bolan’s contact, Lieutenant Colonel Roland Osborne.

  “How do you know this guy?” Grimaldi whispered.

  Bolan seemed to consider the question for a moment. “I met him during my early days with the Stony Man program. I’ve helped him out a time or two since then.”

  “So he knows Brandon Stone’s a cover.”

  “Maybe and maybe not. Actually he knew me back when I used the John Phoenix cover. When I talked to him after he left the message, I managed to convince him that was a cover name I used back then and that Stone’s my real name.”

  “What happens if you ever have to change it up again?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bolan said. “But even if I do, Oz won’t ask any questions. He’s got too much style for that and he understands that what I do for the country may not always fall within strict military guidelines.”

  “Oz sounds like a good friend to have,” Grimaldi remarked.

  “Like another good friend we know?” Bolan said with a smile.

  Grimaldi started to conjure a reply but was interrupted by the opening of a door and the entrance of a black man who by Grimaldi’s estimates couldn’t have been any less than six-foot-six. Nearly as many medals donned the breast pocket of his Class A uniform coat as they did Bolan’s—probably a few more—with the most striking difference being that Roland Osborne bore the deep blue colors of the U.S. Air Force. Aside from that, he was clean-shaved with close-cropped curly black hair that was gray at the temples. He was handsome, distinguished and obviously quite pleased to see Bolan when he first laid eyes on him.

  “As I live and breathe!” he bellowed, his voice deep and resonant. He stuck out a hand that Bolan rose and took immediately. “Colonel, it is damn fine to see you!”

  “Same here, Oz,” Bolan replied easily. He nodded at Grimaldi who now stood, and said, “Meet my...adjutant, Jack Gordon.”

  “Gordon?” Osborne said, offering Grimaldi a warm and dry handshake.

  Grimaldi nodded and, noticing the almost mischievous twinkle in the colonel’s eye, found himself liking the guy right off. He had a vibe that few seemed to possess.

  “Pleased, sir,” Grimaldi said, attempting to retain some official and military bearing. Osborne may not have been blind to Bolan’s real gig, but that didn’t mean Grimaldi saw any reason to go out of his way and advertise the fact. To anybody.

  “No worries, Captain Gordon, just call me Oz and let’s skip all the stiff formality,” Osborne said.

  He gestured for them to be seated and then said to Grimaldi, “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Whenever this man pays a call he’s usually alone.”

  “I only joined his staff a few years ago,” Grimaldi replied simply.

  Osborne nodded, obviously content with that, and then put his attention on Bolan. “So I got your message that you were flying in. I figured since you didn’t say more than that this wasn’t a social visit.”

  “Afraid not,” Bolan said. “I’m here to follow up on that information you passed along to me, Oz.”

  “The signals thing?” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. We still can’t make heads or tails of how the signals got redirected and decoded but we’re narrowing it down, closing in on the source of the hack into our systems.”

  “I’m not completely up to speed on these signals you’re talking about,” Bolan interjected. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Well, you already know part of it, I would assume—at least given your background,” Osborne said. “In typical standard operations, non-classified and general orders or other things, we pipe communications through the normal channels. Emails, phone calls and whatnot. But each and every military operation deemed classified requires very specific protocols be used when transmitting orders.”

  Bolan partially directed his voice at Grimaldi as he said, “You’re talking about all orders for classified missions, regardless of where they come from, have to go through NORAD.”

  “Correct. We then verify the authenticity of the orders before they’re sent on to whatever might be the receiving unit.”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you lost me. What do you mean by ‘receiving unit’? You’re talking a military unit?”

  Osborne gave him a sharp nod. “You betcher ass, Captain. Those transmissions are coded and, regardless of origin, we have to verify the authenticity of the orders before going out. We don’t want somebody, for example, to put out an Executive Order to launch nuclear missiles from a submarine halfway across the Pacific unless we know damn sure the orders were genuine.”

  Grimaldi emitted a low whistle as he looked at Bolan. “Even I didn’t know that.”

  Bolan nodded. “There can’t be any mistakes when you’re talking about coordinating military operations at any given point.”

  “One miscommunication,” Osborne added, “and you could spark the next world war or cause a nuclear response from a country where none was intended. To say nothing of removing America’s advantage in a first-strike scenario.”

  “Okay, Oz,” Bolan said. “That’s fair enough, but how would someone intercept these transmissions? And even if they did, how would they have the know-how to decode them?”

  “I can’t answer that yet. But what I can tell you is that we found some hidden code that we can’t explain. When we decompiled and refactored it we realized it was an inside job—done so well that the source is indeterminate.”

  “So how do you expect to find whoever intercepted the transmissions?” Bolan asked.

  “The program was designed to route the transmissions through a very specific network of internal servers. Now the addresses were masked and we’ve hit the additional snag that the code is self-regressing.”

  “Meaning?” Grimaldi asked with a furrowed brow.

  It was Bolan who replied. “Meaning it was designed to self-destruct if discovered.”

  “Bingo,” Osbor
ne replied.

  “How much more time to do you think you’re going to need to find this place?” Bolan asked.

  “That’s the tough part to estimate,” Osborne said.

  “Best guess?”

  “Another day, maybe two. After that it won’t matter if we don’t have any answers because as you’ve pointed out, the code will have fractured to such a degree it’ll be useless as tits on a bull.”

  “Fair enough,” Bolan said. “But what if I told you I know somebody who might be able to help you speed up the process?”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Osborne said with splayed hands. “At this point I see we got nothing to lose trying everything.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Bolan replied. “Because I have just the right guy for the job.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Talk to me, Bear,” Mack Bolan said.

  “We were able to pick apart the code,” Kurtzman replied. “Akira managed to find the obligatory self-destruct codes and shut them down, so we had enough transitory information left behind. After that it became a cakewalk.”

  “Akira” was Akira Tokaido, one of the best computer hackers in the world, and a valued member of Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber team.

  “So you know where the original intercept program was sourced?”

  “To within a grid about a quarter-mile square.” A pause ensued and then he continued. “The transmissions were sourced from a wireless, high-frequency satellite tower in the central Rockies. I’m uploading the exact coordinates via secure link to Jack’s navigation system. He can then set it from there and put you down on almost a dime.”

  “Unless it’s heavily wooded,” Bolan remarked.

  “I made sure they had rappelling gear aboard, boss,” Grimaldi chimed in. He’d been listening to the conversation through his own headset.

  “Looks like we’re set then,” Bolan told Kurtzman. “Thanks again for the assist, Bear. I’ll be in touch when we know something more.”

  Bolan signed off.

  The beating of chopper blades against the air threatened to vibrate Bolan’s innards down to the bone. Unfortunately the older Bell-Huey was the only thing they could get on such short notice, and the Executioner hadn’t wanted to wait for something more modern. Besides, if Kurtzman’s preliminary information panned out—something for which Bolan had little doubt otherwise—he wouldn’t be spending a very long time aboard.

  Bolan squeezed his frame out of the jump seat in back and began to prepare his equipment. He’d already changed out of his Class A uniform for woodland camouflage fatigues. He donned a web harness that held a portable medical kit, combat knife and four M-67 high explosive grenades. He whipped out his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, checked the action and ensured a round was chambered before replacing it in his hip holster. Finally he slung an MP5K.

  Under normal circumstances Bolan would have preferred something a bit more powerful in a primary assault weapon, but he figured if the terrain happened to be mountainous, he would need to carry light. His judgment had proved sound given the territory Kurtzman described. The model he carried boasted a side-folding stock, quick-detach sound suppressor and a 3-round burst mode. It chambered 9 mm rounds in a 30-round steel magazine.

  Light but durable, yeah.

  Bolan looked forward and saw Grimaldi twirl his finger. He donned the headset. “Go ahead, Jack.”

  “We’re almost on point. Based on what I’m seeing, there’s no place to put down, Sarge. Looks like you’ll be going in the hard way.”

  “Could be just as well,” Bolan replied. “I don’t know what I’m going up against, and I don’t want to risk putting this old crate in harm’s way.”

  “It would mean a long walk home,” Grimaldi said. “Understood.”

  “I’ll get the winch deployed,” Bolan said. “Once I’m through, I’ll find an extraction point and send a homing signal. Might want to take the time to get back and find something a little more...say, robust.”

  “Roger,” Grimaldi stated. “Stay frosty, Sarge.”

  Bolan grunted an affirmation before abandoning the headset and moving to the swing-out winch. He got the rescue arm into position and locked, and then expertly deployed the take-up and belay lines through the rigging just beneath the winch head. Once that was done he quickly put his legs through the climbing harness, put the sling in place and hooked up the carabiner through the working end of the take-up and belay lines.

  Grimaldi piloted the chopper with the expertise that had earned him a reputation with Bolan as perhaps one of the greatest tactical pilots ever to lay a hand on a stick. Flying talent seemed to be something that was part of Grimaldi’s blood, an enigmatic and invisible element that coursed through the man’s veins. Like Bolan’s talents as a warrior, Grimaldi had a natural gift that not only made him a consummate flier but a solid ally in Bolan’s War Everlasting.

  The soldier called a last farewell and then bailed out of the chopper without hesitation as soon as Grimaldi reached hover point. He descended the rope steadily but not too quickly. Even rappelling into the woods held intrinsic dangers, and Bolan had enough experience to know it wasn’t good to rush things. He could fall or slip or experience an equipment malfunction, and descending at a controlled speed under such circumstances could be the thing that saved him from a backbreaking fall.

  The cards were with Bolan and he easily passed through the treetops to find the cool forest earth rushing to greet him. At the last twenty yards, Bolan yanked his arm behind him and jerked twice to slow his descent. A moment later his boots touched the ground and he crouched to absorb the mild impact. He unclipped his belt, released the lines through the carabiner and then donned the portable communications earplug and attached the throat microphone.

  “Striker to Eagle, you copy?” Bolan whispered.

  “Go, Striker.”

  “I’m down and set. Beat feet back to base and get us some modern chops,” Bolan replied.

  “You got it, Striker. Good luck.”

  “You, too. Out.”

  Bolan clicked off and removed the ear bud and mike before stowing them carefully in the pouch at his side. He was now in communications blackout and would remain that way until he either called for extraction or they found his bloody, battered corpse.

  Bolan activated the electronic compass on his right wrist. He checked his bearings and realized Grimaldi had dropped him nearly on the spot of the coordinates Kurtzman had sent them. The soldier began to look around him, but he couldn’t see the tower—not yet, anyway. The dense foliage overhead did a good job of blocking most of the sunlight, and only by the fact it was midday did Bolan have any light at all. He did one last equipment check and set off.

  It took him about ten minutes of walking in ever-widening circles, using the compass as his guide, before Bolan found the tower. He made sure nobody was around before stepping into the small clearing and approaching the base. It was tall, but when he looked up he could just barely see the top of it through the trees. So that was it. They hadn’t spotted it because whoever had erected the structure had managed to camouflage it so it wasn’t visible from the air. Perhaps highly sensitive equipment could have detected it, like the kind found aboard an AWACS. But therein lay the problem—somebody had to actually be looking for the tower. Up until recently, nobody had even known there was anything wrong.

  Bolan turned to study the base of the tower. He gave it the once-over with a critical eye before locating a power panel. Just visible above the forest floor was a heavy, thick cable that ran from the power box and disappeared into the woods. From that point he could see what would have been just passable for a foot trail. He considered following it, but thought better. Daylight wouldn’t last forever and he didn’t have time to risk moving off the target or losing the trail.

  No. Better to let the enemy come to him. />
  Bolan pried the panel open with his combat knife and quickly studied the rat’s nest of connections. He located the neutral and cut the thick cable of twisted-pair wires inside. If the tower was that critical to whomever had installed it here, and the Executioner bet it was, it wouldn’t be long before someone came to investigate.

  Bolan closed the panel and made for the woods as close to the box as possible. He knelt behind thick foliage he found nestled between a pair of giant pines and settled in to wait. Yeah, they would definitely come to him.

  * * *

  BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE to wait long—about fifteen or twenty minutes by his reckoning—before someone approached the tower making enough noise to raise the dead. At first the soldier couldn’t believe it, but when he saw the reason it didn’t seem so incredible. The man who came through the trees to Bolan’s left, just about where he’d seen the makeshift path, was fat and clearly out of shape. Even from a distance the Executioner observed that the man’s face was beet red from the exertion, and he was wheezing loudly.

  The man finally reached the tower and stopped to catch his breath. Droplets of sweat beaded his forehead, those that weren’t already plopping onto the ground from his face and neck. Armpit stains were visible. Why anyone would have sent a guy of this girth and poor physical condition to investigate a tower on a forest mountain was anybody’s guess.

  Bolan stepped out of the bushes and approached the man, the .44 Desert Eagle up with sights pinned on the man’s chest. The man could barely catch his breath and he seemed even less able to do so when he first noticed the big guy dressed in camouflage fatigues toting what looked like a cannon in his hand. The man did nothing to hide the surprise in his expression.

  “Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “What the hell is this?”

  “This is where you stop asking stupid questions and start answering some of mine,” Bolan said coolly. “That work for you?”