Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “As the proverbial rock. Once we go into full operational mode all they will need is a single call to an arranged number and they will move.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “Lorens’s computer didn’t give us much at first,” Aaron Kurtzman said to those in the War Room. “A few names, most of which we had already. I didn’t believe someone like Lorens wouldn’t have access to top-level Brethren information. So I put his hard drive under the microscope. There was a lot of stuff there. Deleted files, encrypted information. We sliced and diced, cut his hard drive data into sections. I sent some across to Hunt and Akira. It cut down the time it took us to scrape away at all the surface data and get to the hidden stuff.”

  “And?”

  “Lorens had some smart moves in there. He’d really done some work hiding the vital stuff. In the end it was like working a computer game. You get through one level, and it just takes you to the next and you need to break the code to access that level and so on. If you have the passwords, no problem, but we had to find our way in through our code-breaking program. It’s good, but it takes time. Lorens’s main information was hidden within what’s called a vault. So buried it was overlooked twice before Akira spotted it. Kind of like a tomb inside a pyramid, surrounded by false passages and fake destinations. But we—Akira—dug his way through. Once he opened the vault we found what we wanted. And it’s pure gold.”

  Kurtzman tapped his keyboard and the large wall monitor above his workstation flashed into life. Mack Bolan studied the detailed information. There was no disputing Kurtzman’s description of the data.

  “There was the kind of thing we expected. Lorens’s secret bank accounts. Offshore interests. He might have been a Brethren loyalist, but the guy was working his own life on the quiet. I guess he was along for the ride, but made sure he had a rainy-day fund in case things went belly-up. On the militia side he had membership lists. By the way, your local Sheriff Kyle and Deputy Boyd are both in there as fee-paying members. The lists are helpful. Names of contributors. Interesting when you look at some of those names.”

  “I can pass some of those along to interested parties,” Hal Brognola said.

  “You might want to take a close look at these two sections,” Kurtzman said. “Here and here. Even after Akira pulled the data we couldn’t figure what this meant. But the kid persisted and came up with the solution after working his brain to a frazzle. Deciphered, they are grid locations for weapons caches. One in the south side of Chicago, the other way out in the New Mexico desert country. Chicago is an abandoned industrial site. Workshops, steel fabrication shops. The place has been empty for a number of years. Every few years someone comes up with a scheme to redevelop but nothing gets done. So the city has written it off until they can afford to take it all apart and build on it. The New Mexico spot used to be a military base used for training in desert warfare. Cutbacks had it closed, and it got lost in the databases and forgotten about. File information says there were some storage facilities. Small barracks and office blocks. Couple of aircraft hangars. Tarmac road that leads to the main highway about thirty miles to the north. New Mexico holds reserve ordnance for the Brethren. Chicago is a local site for supplying Brethren factions around the area.”

  Bolan studied the detail that was displayed on one of the wall monitors. His mind was turning over the bones of the information. There could be ripe pickings if he and Lyons moved quickly. The Brethren kept in business from two main sources: money to purchase weapons and the weapons themselves. Their main money source, the illegal diamonds from Africa, had been severed. It was unlikely that Seeger would be able to replace the lost finance swiftly, if at all. The donations he received from sympathizers would be unlikely to create such amounts as had been forthcoming from the diamonds. Until he was able to boost his bankroll, Seeger would have to fall back on whatever weapons he already had in his secret caches.

  If the New Mexico site was a major supply point, it needed shutting down.

  And so did the Chicago base.

  “Carl, you’re the city boy.”

  Lyons smiled. “Chicago?”

  “You got it.”

  Kurtzman swung his chair around. “I suppose that means you’re going west, young man?”

  Bolan nodded. “Smile when you say that, stranger.”

  “Oh, while you’re here. Remember the motor cruiser used to let the Brethren team get into Gantz’s place by the back door? It was located by the Coast Guard. It had been run aground up the coast. It was checked out, but all they found were some empty .50-caliber shell casings. No help to us now, but it ties up a loose end.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “I’ve got something else to make you both smile. While we were waiting for you two to come home I gathered a little satellite intel.” Kurtzman provided several sets of digital photographs that would prove useful to Bolan and Lyons. “Those images are no more than three hours old. We can get you more up-to-date ones and download them into GPS units if you need.”

  “Thanks, Aaron.”

  “If Seeger knew we had this, he’d bang his head against the wall,” Lyons said.

  “He can bang it all he damn well wants,” Bolan said. “If Seeger thought our efforts to date have screwed up his plans, wait until he hears about the next round.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” Lyons said.

  “Barb, can you make arrangements. Carl to Chicago. I’ll need Air Force cooperation for a drop over the New Mexico desert.”

  “What are you planning?” Kurtzman asked.

  “Night drop a few miles out from the site. I can walk in and be there by daylight. Carl, we need to liaise with Cowboy. Get him to prepare some explosive charges we can use to make sure those weapons are destroyed.”

  Kurtzman tapped in the command for his computer to print sets of the data and images. Behind him Barbara Price was already on one of the telephones, arranging transport for Bolan and Lyons. Stony Man was maintaining its war footing, and the troops were gearing up for their coming assault.

  New Mexico

  BOLAN FELT THE NIGHT CHILL evaporating as light pushed across the New Mexico landscape. He checked his position using the compact GPS unit Kurtzman had provided and saw that he was well on course for the ex-military base. It lay no more than a mile ahead. The GPS utility was proving to be more than useful.

  The arid terrain around him was featureless—endless miles of undulating, sandy emptiness, the picture broken only by the occasional misshapen cactus, clumps of dry grass and mesquite plants. Some outcroppings showed here and there, but overall it was predominantly pale, dusty sand. With the daylight coming on fast, Bolan could see the wide-open sky, cloudless and clear.

  His Air Force ride had dropped him ten miles out. The crew, told no more than they needed to know, had been friendly enough, but asked no questions. Bolan’s jump master, a fresh-faced youngster, had said to Bolan, “Watch out for yourself, sir.” That had been seconds before he had tapped Bolan on the shoulder to go and the soldier had launched himself into the cold, black night sky over the desert. His descent had been by the book, effortless and silent. He had touched down, stripped off his parachute and buried it in a hole he scooped in the sand.

  Taking out the GPS unit, Bolan had checked his position, then set off toward his objective. That had been at 0420. It allowed Bolan ample time to pace his travel and arrive by daylight.

  Belly down against a soft ridge of sand, Bolan used the compact binoculars he carried in his backpack and viewed the base directly ahead of his current position.

  It was exactly as the satellite images depicted: a number of bleached-out buildings and a couple of hangars. The security fencing that had once closed off the base was sagging, the support posts drooping and half buried by the drifting sand. Even at this early hour, with the heat already rising, a soft wind picked up light swirls of the pale sand and swept it across the landscape.

  Outside one of the hangars
stood a group of vehicles, a large semi-rig backed up close to the open doors of the hangar, a couple of large SUVs and three passenger cars. Focusing in, Bolan saw a number of men transferring long boxes from the warehouse and stacking them inside the semi-rig’s trailer. Moving his binoculars, Bolan saw two of the men carrying what looked like M-16s. By their movements he judged them to be lookouts. He watched for a couple more minutes, then slid away from the ridge.

  The soldier stowed the binoculars in his pack. Before he closed it up again he checked the packages of explosives Kissinger had provided—blocks of C-4. In a separate container were detonators and timers, ready to be inserted into the compound. He completed a check of his weapons before he moved off. Bolan wore a combat rig over his blacksuit, holding extra ammunition for his Desert Eagle and the Beretta 93-R. A Cold Steel Tanto was sheathed against his right thigh and slung across his chest was a 9 mm Uzi.

  He used the sandy ridge to cut off at an angle, circling the open frontage of the base, moving swiftly as the light became stronger. From what he had seen, all activity was going on in front of the one hangar. Bolan’s easiest way in would be from the rear of the base.

  He spent more time checking out the rear approach, seeing no movement and certainly no armed lookouts. Bolan closed in quickly, silently, coming to a halt at the rear of one of the buildings. He knelt in the drifted sand at the base of the wall, freeing the Uzi and cocking the weapon before he started to work his way along the side of the building and the activity by the hangar. As he came to the edge of the wall, he picked up the sounds of conversation. Flattening against the wall, Bolan leaned forward so he could make visual contact.

  The doors of the trailer were being closed, the group of men starting to break up, heading for the waiting vehicles. All but two of the group appeared to be moving out with the semi-rig.

  “Take it easy, boys,” one of the men called. “Don’t hit no fuckin’ potholes.”

  One man, starting to climb into the cab of the tractor unit, looked over his shoulder. “If we do, you’ll hear us, Dane.”

  Bolan, about to push to his feet, the Uzi held ready, picked up a faint whisper of sound behind him. He half rose to his feet, turning. All he saw was a dark shape standing over him, a blurred object swinging down at his head. In the final moment before it struck he told himself he had not been as careful as he should have been.

  But it was too late.

  Something struck him across the side of his skull. The blow pitched him forward, the Uzi slipping from his grasp. Bolan fell facedown, already close to being unconscious.

  And then the day went black around him.

  HE WAS REGAINING CONSCIOUSNESS as unforgiving hands hauled him to his feet and slammed him up against the hangar wall. Bolan felt his weapons being stripped from him, his harness and backpack. A hard fist slammed against his face, drawing blood.

  “You see what this fuck has in his pack? Fuckin’ C-4. Son of a bitch was going to blow us all to hell.”

  “I’ll give him C-4. Shove it up his ass and light the fuse.”

  “Hot damn, I’ll bet this is the puke who took the farm apart. An’ done the Africa shit, too.”

  “He’ll be a fed. A government fuckin’ spook.”

  “Just the kind we’re out to burn. Government assassins.”

  Bolan’s world suddenly became intensely uncomfortable. He felt fists pounding his body, booted feet lashing out at him, heard the strained grunts and gusting breath of angry men lashing out at the enemy in their midst. He fought to stay on his feet, drawing his arms up to protect his face and head. Scuffling boots kicked up pale dust that rose and choked him.

  “Rip the fuck’s head off.”

  “Let me at him…”

  “Wait, guys, wait. Back off. Come on, now, we can’t kill him. We got to let Seeger know. He’ll want to get this shit back to the HQ so he can talk to him.”

  “Hell, Dane, you damn well know how to spoil a guy’s day.”

  The blows lessened and Bolan slumped to his knees, head down, sucking in painful breaths. His body hurt and there was blood in his mouth. He stayed where he was, offering no resistance, aware that right at that moment he was as close to losing his life as he had been for a long time.

  “You guys let me and Chester handle this piece of federal trash. I’ll call Seeger and he’ll tell me what to do.”

  “Dane…”

  “Go on, get the hell out of here,” Dane said. “He ain’t going anywhere. You got a delivery to make. Do it.”

  The delivery teams moved to their vehicles, firing up the engines and dropping into formation with two escort cars in front of the big semi-rig and one tail car. They swung around and drove across the dusty compound, along the dirt track leading to the tarmac road running through the desert.

  Dane stood watching them until they were almost out of sight. He called over his shoulder to Chester. “Get that storage cage opened up. Good enough for this bastard while we find out what Seeger wants to do.”

  Watching Dane through half-closed eyes, Bolan saw the man pick up his harness and the shoulder rig. Dane draped them over his shoulder. The man eyed the big Desert Eagle for a moment, then slid it from its holster, examining the pistol.

  “On your feet, asshole.” He stood and watched as Bolan pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. “Let’s go, hotshot. I’ll feel safer once I got you behind a locked door.” He prodded Bolan in the spine with the Desert Eagle. “Nice gun. I’ll hang on to it as a souvenir.”

  As he reached the hangar door, Bolan made to stumble over the bar step, pausing to grab for the door frame.

  Dane pulled back slightly. The Executioner suddenly spun to his right, stepping away from the muzzle of the Desert Eagle, his movement bringing him on the outside of Dane’s gun arm. He clamped his fingers over the militiaman’s wrist, twisting hard and turning the weapon back on the man. Bolan’s finger slid through the guard, over his adversary’s finger and pressed the trigger. The .44 Magnum pistol blasted its big slug into Dane’s side, shattering his ribs and coring on through to lodge in his heart. Bolan pulled the Eagle from Dane’s limp grasp, turning and hefting the gun as he heard the man called Chester run across the concrete floor of the hangar. He tracked in and put two shots into the moving figure. Chester stumbled, coordination gone, and crashed facedown on the concrete, the SMG he was holding clattering to the floor.

  Bolan bent over Dane’s body and retrieved the combat harness from his shoulder. He slipped it on, ejecting the Eagle’s partly used mag and replacing it with a fresh one. Walking back into the hangar, the Executioner cast around for the weapons’ cache. It didn’t take long. A substantial stockpile of autorifles and ammunition, all still crated in U.S. military boxes, stood on the floor of the hangar. There were also civilian weapons: SMGs and handguns; grenades and launchers. Bolan opened crates until he found what he wanted and when he walked back outside, he was carrying three M-72 A-6 LAWs.

  A black Jeep Cherokee was the only vehicle remaining outside the hangar. Bolan checked it out and saw the keys in the ignition. He debated whether to blow the cache in the hangar first, then go after the convoy. He decided against it. If he blew the weapons cache first, the explosion could be noticed by the convoy and they would be alerted to possible attack. It would be wiser to go after the delivery first, then return and destroy what was sitting in the hangar. Bolan placed the LAWs on the floor of the Cherokee, then went back and retrieved his backpack with his C-4. He placed that in the rear of the big 4x4, then climbed in and fired up the engine.

  BOLAN SIGHTED THE CONVOY ahead of him. Snapping his safety harness in place, he stepped on the gas and sent the SUV barreling along the road, closing fast on the tail car. He maintained his speed, intending to break aside and pass it once he was close.

  Whoever was inside the tail car had to have seen who was driving the Cherokee. There was sudden movement on the rear seat. A window was powered open and a hand gripping a pistol was pushed into view. A man’s head followed.
He raised the weapon and began to fire at Bolan’s vehicle. A couple of slugs clanged off the Cherokee’s hood, one bouncing up to clip the windshield, leaving a visible chip in the toughened glass.

  Bolan refused to back off. Instead he slammed his foot even harder on the pedal and felt the power of the engine throw him forward. The tail car loomed large and he swung the steering wheel to make his pass. He had to swerve to avoid hitting the tail car as it moved to block him. He brought the Cherokee back on line, and the near miss gave him an idea. He let his vehicle fall behind a few yards, then stood on the gas pedal, feeling the heavy 4x4 power up and leap forward. The gap closed with frightening speed, and then the solid front of the Cherokee slammed into the rear of the tail car, the impact pushing it forward with an abrupt jerk. Broken taillights dropped to the roadway. Bolan simply repeated the maneuver, this time increasing his speed and slamming into the vehicle again.

  The tail car swung out of control, and Bolan caught a glimpse of alarmed faces inside. Tires burned against the tarmac, leaving black streaks behind. Bolan had dropped back, letting the fishtailing reach its optimum before he rammed the Cherokee into the car again, catching the vehicle sideways-on. The effect was dramatic as the force of the heavy 4x4 lifted the right rear wheel off the road. The raised wheel was still in the air when Bolan made his final strike, the head-on butt flipping the tail car over onto its side where it seemed to hang for long seconds before rolling again, onto its roof. A wide tail of bright sparks flew from the upturned vehicle as it skated along the road, windows shattering as the weight of the car buckled the roof. It rolled again, and it was like watching a slow-motion movie clip as the car bounced, turned, turned again, debris breaking from it as it suddenly described a cartwheel that took it across the road and into the sandy ground bordering the road. Smoke started to trail from the engine compartment. Moments later flame began to curl out from under the crushed, misshapen hood.

  Bolan saw the crash in his rearview mirror as he hauled his vehicle back on line, feeling his seat harness pull tight. With the tail car out of the picture, he was able to concentrate on his main target, the big rig itself.