“Um, yeah...just...easy, man. I’m not in a hurry to get killed.”
“And yet you’re still talking.” That shut him up. “What’s your name?”
“Ah...Ducken,” the guy replied. “Horace Ducken. Look, can I...? Can I put my hands down? My arms are getting tired.”
Bolan almost cracked a smile. Ducken was a heart attack waiting to happen. He’d only had his arms up a moment. The Executioner thought about making him keep them up, a little incentive not to try anything, but then he nodded. Might as well let the guy off the hook. Maybe it would buy him a little good will.
“So tell me, Ducken...” Bolan began. “What are you doing up here and what do you know about this tower?”
“I just maintain the thing, man.”
“Alone?”
“Alone? No, hell...shit no.”
“Then start telling me something of substance,” Bolan replied. “Or I may make you put your hands up again and keep them up forever.”
“Look, I’m not doing anything wrong,” Ducken said. “I lost my job with Paradine-E and—”
“Wait a second,” Bolan cut in. “The electronic security firm contracted to the DOD?”
Ducken nodded.
“All right, go on.”
“I was just trying to make some cash, man. My mom had to put up for a second loan on her house after I lost my job, and I couldn’t afford to let her lose it.”
“How did you come into this work?” Bolan asked, nodding in the direction of the tower.
“They came to me, man. I mean, I’m no Snowden or nothing. I didn’t tell them anything about what I did for Paradine-E. I just got hired because I knew—”
He cut his words short and a look of horror crossed his face, as if he’d just almost given it all away.
Bolan considered what Ducken had said so far. It sounded plausible enough, and this setup was nothing he could’ve done on his own, especially not in his physical condition. He’d just about killed himself just climbing a slight incline to investigate the issue. Not to mention, the fat and socially awkward man in front of him didn’t strike Bolan as any sort of criminal mastermind.
“The tower’s not working because I cut the power. You think you can repair that?”
“Yeah, I guess. Depends on how bad you cut it.”
“Not enough that any simple splice job couldn’t fix.”
“And then what?” Ducken asked, scratching his neck as he considered the grim visage of the Executioner.
“If you repair it, they’ll be expecting you to return,” Bolan said, his plan already formulated. “They won’t be expecting us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “You help me, and I’ll make sure you’re out of the way when it all goes south.”
“Oh, shit,” Ducken said. “You’re about to put me out of work again—aren’t you?”
“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “Fix that thing.”
Ducken turned his attention toward the power box, and as Bolan suspected the young man had it up and humming in just a few minutes. Fortunately there had been a toolkit secreted in a nearby compartment that Bolan had thought was a transformer box, as it was labeled such, but in fact contained an array of tools and replacement parts. At least Bolan had some inkling he was dealing with an ingenious enemy.
But who?
The question troubled him and he pondered it as Ducken led him into the woods and down the slight hill. They proceeded for what Bolan estimated was at least a quarter mile, Ducken wheezing and panting the entire trip, until they arrived at the main facility. It wasn’t impressive at first glance, mostly because it was obscured with heavy camouflage—a bunker of sorts with a low-hanging entrance and sloped dirt walls covered by brush and the tops of pine trees. Additionally there was radar-scattering camouflage netting woven into that.
Bolan grabbed Ducken by the shoulder and pulled him up short, putting his lips close to the tech’s ear while he jabbed the muzzle of his MP5K PDW into a spot near Ducken’s left kidney. “Hold it. Where are the guards?”
The tech shook his head emphatically. “No guards, man...no guards.”
Ducken held up a card and Bolan realized at a glance it was a coded access card. “Fine. What sort of security inside?”
“Just a few guys with pistols, a sort of roving guard.”
“Are they on any sort of predictable schedule?” Bolan asked.
“No,” Ducken said. “They just appear every so often, look things over and then they leave. They go to some area that’s off-limits.”
“How many like you inside?”
“You mean workers?”
“Yeah.”
Ducken shrugged. “I think there’re about a dozen of us, all told. But usually we rotate in twenty-four-hour shifts of four. Each shift has a technician, a couple of data guys and a microwave tech. That’s me. That’s what I do.”
“Fine. You’d better be telling me the truth, Ducken, because lies won’t end in anything good for you. Now let’s move out,” Bolan said as he nudged the tech with the MP5 for emphasis.
The pair continued down the path until they reached the entrance to the bunker. Ducken looked back at Bolan, who met his gaze and nodded, and then swiped his card. The amber light turned green and Ducken opened the door. Bolan gestured for the guy to go ahead and he followed behind.
They passed through a very narrow corridor, so narrow that Ducken’s girth barely managed to walk along without his arms brushing the walls. The floor of the corridor was composed of metal grating and traversed a decline path until leveling out where it opened onto a large room. The light there was minimal, most of it coming from computer workstations with large screens. Somewhere Bolan could hear the steady thrum of power generators.
True to Ducken’s words, three other people were in that room, and they didn’t even notice Bolan at first because Ducken obscured him. The soldier’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and he spotted the empty seat that had to belong to Ducken. He shoved the guy toward it and then brandished his weapon high in two hands so all those present could see it clearly.
“That’s enough,” Bolan said. “Take your hands off the keyboards and put them up where I can see them.”
One skinny kid with an unlit cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth squinted. “Who the hell are you?”
Bolan turned toward the young man. “I’m the guy holding the hardware, so I would guess that puts me in charge. Is that good enough for you?”
The youth’s haughty mask melted and he sat back in his chair, all signs of potential defiance fading. Meekly he replied, “Yeah, it sure is.”
“Now, your pal here tells me there are a few guards in this place. Where might they be?”
“They come through there,” a young woman, the only female in the group, said, pointing to a door in the corner. “About every hour or so.”
“When was the last time they came through?” Bolan asked even as his ice-blue eyes flicked toward the large, tinted plate glass that spanned one of the walls.
“Maybe...maybe forty minutes?” she replied.
“Fine. You guys—”
The Executioner never finished the statement because the glass “wall” disappeared in a massive shock wave of splintered glass shards followed by a blast of autofire. One of the young men at a terminal, the only one who hadn’t spoken, was the first to buy it as a half dozen rounds slammed into his lithe frame. One blew part of his head off and the impact knocked him off his rolling chair. He crumpled to the ground a bloody mess of mangled flesh.
“Get down!” Bolan ordered as he went into motion and beelined for cover.
On the move, Bolan swung the MP5K in the direction of the fire and triggered a short burst of his own. His eyes were still adjusting, and through the one pane of shattered glass fragment
s he could make out several shadowy forms approaching. All were toting weapons, the evidence of that fact in the winking muzzles followed by the angry cloud of rounds pelting the opposite walls.
Equipment was shattered, terminals emitting showers of sparks as the remaining three technicians jumped out of their respective seats and made best possible speed for the floor. Bolan got behind a console just as the next volley of rounds passed overhead and then peered over the top long enough to deliver a sustained burst.
Bolan had finished spraying his magazine and was exchanging it for another during a lull in the firing when something metal sailed through the window, bounced off the wall-length tabletop that had served to house two of the workstations and skidded to a stop near his foot. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but Bolan could make out its shape well enough to know what it was.
Putting all fear aside, the Executioner reached for the grenade.
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.
Critical Exposure Page 4