"Why would something so secret be written on equipment?" Bolan asked. "Perhaps this is a company or something, a business with that name."
Hashi-san grunted. "I will have my people look into it for you."
"Thank you," Bolan said, then added, "Is it possible for me to borrow a car from you? I think I'm going to shake up the situation a bit."
"What's mine is yours," Hashi-san said. "I will have Dr. Mett bring something around for you."
"Would you like... someone to go with you?" Junko asked.
Bolan shook his head. "Not this time. Where I'm going no one but me can get in."
* * *
Lieutenant Kendo Ichiro sat on the shiny yellow plastic bench at Shinjuku Station and thought about all the trouble he was going to get into over this one. The travelers and shoppers were lined up near the platform, waiting for the trains that he had used emergency authorization to halt while the chikatetsu tunnels were searched by his men.
The station like most train stations in Japan, was buried under a shopping mall of stores and restaurants. At this moment he was staring at the bottom level of the Odakyu Department Store. Perhaps they'd need a floorwalker if he lost his job over this. He might not mind the convenience of such a job, he thought. In Tokyo it was possible to travel by train from a distance, shop all day, watch a film and eat dinner without once ever walking out into the sunshine or leaving the station. Progress.
Meanwhile, he thought about Bolan and the mark he'd left all over the city. From the pachinko parlor explosion to the highway massacre to the fight at La Bomba to the destruction of the plant on the docks, he saw the indelible fingerprints of the Executioner. The man was doing Ichiro's job for him in ways that the lieutenant knew he never could. Unfortunately, the entire country was in an uproar. So, while he checked out leads suggested by Bolan, his superiors were screaming for the same man's head. The investigation of the subway system was a desperate attempt to justify Bolan's actions. If it failed to uncover anything, he'd have to go after the big man with everything he had, perhaps at the expense of losing to the Sonnojoi.
The walkie-talkie sitting beside him squawked loudly. He picked it up, dreading the worst. "Ichiro," he said.
"This is Natsume," came the static reply.
"What do you have?"
"We've found three drunks and hundreds of wild cats and dogs," Ichiro's assistant said. "After that, all we've come across is some substandard tunnel repair."
Ichiro sighed loudly. "Make a note of the areas that need work, then bring everybody back. We'll need to get these trains running as quickly as possible."
Ichiro turned the walkie-talkie off and rose slowly from the bench. When they got through with him, he'd be lucky to have an ass to sit on. He shouldn't have listened to Bolan, but there was something, something about chikatetsu that rang a bell with him. He just couldn't quite place it.
* **
Bolan pulled the Mercedes sports car across the street from the main gate of Yokota Air Base to a spot in front of the Boston Tailor shop. His weapons were locked securely in the trunk. The owner of the shop told Bolan that he was an ex-lifer who had fallen in love with the country he'd been stationed in and had decided to stay when his tour was over. He was more than happy with the twenty dollars Bolan offered him to watch the car.
Bolan waited out the thick traffic, then ran across the wide boulevard to come up near the gate.
It was time, he'd decided, to make a move. He'd kicked them in the ass hard enough to scare them, probably into picking up stakes and moving on. Now that he had the quarry running, it was time to flush it out into the open. It was a dangerous game he was playing, but one that was necessary. He'd heard enough from Hal Brognola on the phone to know that any real action was going to have to come from his end. Bolan knew that government wheels grind too slowly to catch the quick red fox. It was up to him. Always. And from the look of how much coke the Air Force had hauled away from the docks, the outcome would be of deadly importance to a great many people.
Bolan walked through the gate and past the AP shack sitting beside it. A tech sergeant walked out of the shack to intercept him. He didn't recognize this one, but he bet there were people in the hut who recognized him.
"Halt!" the sergeant said, and Bolan accommodated him.
"Hello," Bolan said casually, pulling his Charles Reeves passport out of his back pocket, and handing it to the man. "No rain for once."
"No, sir," the sergeant returned in clipped tones. He looked at the passport. "What business do you have here, Mr. Reeves?"
"I'm an American citizen visiting American soil," Bolan replied. "Do I need more of a reason than that?"
"There have been problems lately," the AP began, "with terrorists."
"You have the right to search me for weapons, Sergeant," Bolan said. "But beyond that, this is the U.S. taxpayers' property and I'm a taxpayer. You can't keep me out."
"Will you step against the wall, sir?" the man requested politely and then searched Bolan when he complied.
"All right," the AP said, his disappointment obvious. "You can go in. You have access to all parts of the base except the flight line, which is restricted to everyone without proper authorization."
"I understand," Bolan said and walked into the base.
It was a huge base, one of the largest in the world. It had served the Japanese Air Force well during the Second World War and was performing a similar function for America now. Should Japan be successful in dislodging the U.S. from its soil, it would undoubtedly house the Japanese Air Force again.
He walked north, past the BX, toward a cluster of white frame buildings that undoubtedly made up Base Ops. Bolan knew that General Wentworth was the CO. He was the man the Executioner intended to talk things over with.
Bolan found the building that housed the general by asking around, then simply walked across the small, manicured lawn, up the wooden stairs and into the reception area.
A Waf in an E-3's uniform sat behind a desk, pounding away on an old manual typewriter. She looked up in surprise when he walked in, not expecting to see anyone wearing civilian clothes on the base.
"Hi," Bolan said.
"Can I help you?"
"The general in there?" He pointed to a door that had Base Commander on it.
"Yes, but..."
"Don't get up." Bolan smiled. "I'll surprise him."
He hurried to the door before she could intercept him and walked right in. The general looked up in astonishment when he entered.
"What do you want?" the gray-haired man demanded.
"Five minutes of your time," Bolan said.
The woman came in right behind Bolan. "General Wentworth, I'm sorry, but..."
"I'm here to save you from being drummed out of the service in disgrace, sir," Bolan said. "Believe me, five minutes, no more."
Everything stopped. Wentworth picked a green cigar out of a beanbag ashtray and lit it, puffing vigorously. "Wait outside, Davis," he told the clerk. "If this man isn't out of here in five minutes, call the Air Police."
"Yes, sir!" the woman said and disappeared.
"This better be good, Mr..."
"Reeves," Bolan said and leaned against the desk. "I'll make it very simple. You have a captain in your command named Jamison. I assume he's CO in charge of the Air Police...."
Wentworth puffed on his cigar without saying anything, so Bolan continued.
"Captain Jamison is a renegade, busted down from colonel during the Vietnam War. He's gone to a great deal of trouble to fill his command with ex-convicts, people he's carefully pulled from parole hearings all over the world. I strongly suspect that Captain Jamison and his men have been engaged in a large-scale operation code-named Operation Snowflake that is flying tons of pure cocaine to American air bases. Their activities also include murder, and they are involved in the disappearance of a top American scientist."'
"Do you have any proof of these preposterous allegations?" the general asked casually, though Bol
an could tell that the calm was forced.
"I personally watched an Air Force convoy last night pick up a shipment of cocaine from a factory on Tokyo Harbor that processed it. The factory has been destroyed. You might have seen it in the papers."
The general remained silent.
"I also was involved in a firefight with several of your APs in Tokyo the night before. They were in the process of trading cocaine for the bodies of innocent Japanese girls. I know you've heard about that one."
Wentworth nodded. "Why do you come to me now?"
"They've got to be stopped, and soon. I can't do it alone. You, as base commander, have power over this installation. You can search it, you can stop anything."
"If I believe you," Wentworth said and looked at his watch. "Your time is almost up."
"Don't believe me," Bolan said. "Check the records on your APs. See where they're all coming from and ask yourself why."
Wentworth took the cigar out of his mouth and wrote something on a piece of paper. He handed it to Bolan. "This is a direct line in here," he said. "Call me in a few hours."
"You won't regret this," Bolan said.
He left the office just as the clerk was picking up her phone to call the APs.
"There's no need," he said. "They already know I'm here."
He left and walked right back to the main gate, waving to the tech sergeant who'd frisked him coming in. He crossed the street, fiddling around in the car long enough to make sure they wouldn't lose him, then pulled away when he saw the jeep sliding up to the gate.
* * *
"Good God," General Wentworth said as he stood staring at the printout Rebecca Davis had handed him. "Have you looked at this?"
The clerk nodded solemnly.
Wentworth looked at the list again. "This whole outfit should be on death row," he said. "And all of them personally vouched for and recommended by Jamison."
"Perhaps he just believes in giving men a second chance," Davis offered.
"Not these men," Wentworth said angrily. "Not on my base. I'm going to shove this printout in that bastard's face. I'll be right back. Meanwhile, get the Pentagon on the line."
Wentworth clumsily folded the printout and stuck it in his back pocket. He strode purposefully out the door, slamming it behind him. Rebecca Davis stared at the door for a moment, then picked up the phone.
Her call did not go through to the Pentagon.
* * *
Captain Hank Jamison listened attentively to the woman on the phone, trying to speak to her in as calm a voice as he could muster.
"Becky," he said softly. "Take it easy. This is no big deal. It's just a misunderstanding. I'll clear it up as soon as the General gets here. Meanwhile, you sit tight... No, don't call Washington. It'll just embarrass the general. We'll all have a laugh about this later. Okay. I love you, too. Yeah... Bye."
His hands clenched the desk in rage, his knuckles white. "That son of a bitch," he said hoarsely. "That damned son of a bitch."
His insides were on fire. He looked at his watch. They were a day away from completing this operation, and there was no way that Wentworth or that damned civilian were going to slow him down. He'd just have to do what it took.
There was an angry knock on his office door, and then General Wentworth barged in.
"After all I've done for you, Hank," the man said, red-faced. "After all I've done for you."
"What's wrong?" Jamison asked calmly.
The general pulled a printout from his back pocket and held it in a shaking fist. "I stood up for you when nobody else would," he said. "When they wanted to drum you out of the service, I took your side, I put myself on the line for you and gave you a job, gave you respectability again. And this is how you repay me!"
Jamison frowned at him. "You let them bust me down to second looey, then kept me down, kept me out of the sky. No big favor, thank you."
Wentworth threw the printout on the desk. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I haven't done anything, Marty," he said. "Don't get worked up about it."
"I'll get as worked up as I want to... Captain," Wentworth said. "I want you and all your men confined to quarters while I put together a case and find some space in the stockade. You're through. It's over."
"Well, Marty, you're partially right," Jamison said. "It is over — but not for me."
He pulled open his top desk drawer and took out the Beretta that lay there. Smiling, he pointed it at the general's chest and fired three times. Wentworth fell to the floor without a word and wheezed his last breath before his muscles relaxed for the last time.
Jamison picked up the telephone and dialed the extension to the front gate. He didn't need a lot of time, just another couple of days until he collected Stateside and disappeared forever.
"Security," came the voice on the other end of the line.
"Yeah," Jamison said. "O'Brian?"
"Yes, sir."
"You got anybody on the civilian?"
"Yes, sir. Jeffries is in pursuit."
"You'd better kill him this time, or it's your ass."
"Yes, sir."
"Look, we've got another problem. Your friend had a talk with Wentworth, and I had to take care of him."
"The general... you mean, like, you took care of the general?"
"Yeah, but I've got an idea. Get over here with a couple of your men and help me. I think we can kill two birds with one stone."
He hung up, regretting somewhat what would happen next. The fortunes of war, he supposed. He stuck the Beretta into his pants, then slipped his dress jacket on to cover it. O'Brian and his men arrived after only a few minutes.
"Stay here," he told the men who stared in disbelief at the body on the floor. "Don't let anybody in. We're going to have to move him in a few minutes."
"Why not now?" O'Brian asked.
"You'll see. You got the phone number on the cop?"
"Sure."
"Good. We'll need it."
He left then, walking the long block to Wentworth's office. Becky Davis was sitting at her desk when he walked in.
"Hank?" she said. "Is everything okay?"
He smiled. "Everything's fine," he said. "I told you it was just a misunderstanding."
"The general..."
"He'll be here in a few minutes."
She jumped up from behind the desk and ran to him, fitting easily into his arms. "Oh, Hank, I was so worried," she said.
"I'm like a cat," he said, his hands rubbing her back. "I always land on my feet." He kissed her on the neck, smelling the shampoo in her hair. And as she put her arms around him, he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the automatic.
One hand went to her throat, pushing her a distance from him. He put the gun to her forehead and shrugged, smiling into her wide eyes. "Sorry, Becky." He pulled the trigger, splattering her brains all over the office wall.
10
Bolan drove along the coast highway, moving back in the direction of Hashi-san's home on Lake Ashi. The Mercedes was fast, a lot faster than the jeep that followed him, and he had to work to keep from pulling too far ahead. The road twisted like a snake, due to the nature of Honshu's oceanfront topography, and the white beaches were covered with people playing volleyball and swimming. It was desolation that he wanted, and there wasn't much to be found on an island the size of California with a population half that of the United States.
He'd call back and check with General Wentworth as soon as he had made some contact with the APs behind him. Bolan needed something concrete, something he could put his finger on that would straighten everything out and line it up in sequence. His frustration was dangerous, to him and to those close to him, and it was beginning to leave him frayed around the edges. His growing relationship with Junko, and her father's almost smothering approval of it, also left him with a dangerous uncertainty about himself and his place in the scheme of things. It wasn't a good way for him to be. He was the Executioner, the swift hand of justice. He neede
d to be sure of his feelings and his actions. If he was to survive this, he'd have to be sure of himself at all times.
Beginning now.
The Owakudani cutoff was just ahead. He made the sharp turn, the road grading upward almost immediately. He was heading for high, desolate ground — the almost prehistoric landscape of Mount Kamiyama.
The Mercedes hung low to the ground, taking the winding roads easily. Bolan stalked his prey by leading it, drawing it farther away from civilization and deeper into an isolated area. This he could understand. This he felt comfortable with.
He checked the rearview mirror. The APs were still behind him, hanging back. There were four of them in the jeep, four criminals trained by the United States government to kill, and right now he knew they wanted to kill Mack Bolan. The odds were hardly fair.
* * *
It took Ichiro twenty minutes to get through the Yokota front gate. The base had been sealed off — put under red alert — as if it was wartime. Armored vehicles sporting M-60s prowled the grounds, manned by gunners in full battle dress. Even after Ichiro and Natsume were allowed to pass through the gate, they were held at the guard shack until the acting base commander, Colonel Murdock, came to meet them.
Murdock limped as he moved forward to greet them. His bad leg was the result of time spent in a Korean prisoner-of-war camp.
"Kendo," he said warmly, shaking hands with both men. "It's good to see you again."
"I'm sorry, Colonel, that it is under these circumstances," Ichiro replied.
Murdock nodded. He was drawn and pale, unsure of what to do. The colonel had been the civilian liaison, the Air Force equivalent of Ichiro, and as such had done a good job for a number of years. But that hardly prepared him to be thrust into a major policymaking role during an extreme emergency situation.
"It looks like a case of assassination," the colonel said. "But for the life of me, I can't figure out why."
"Can I see the death scene?"
"Certainly. Come with me."
Code of Dishonor Page 10