War Everlasting (Superbolan)
Page 1
KILLER COUNTDOWN
A flight carrying military service personnel goes down in the Bering Sea, and the rescue team vanishes without a trace. Called in to investigate, Mack Bolan goes undercover in an Alaskan fishing city and hones in on a criminal empire fronted by a ruthless union boss. Bolan targets their prime operations one by one, and goes up against their army of criminals.
On a desolate ring of islands, Bolan discovers that an active volcano isn’t the only force about to blow. A Russian mercenary and his group of fanatics are working to destroy America’s network of military bases and kill unsuspecting soldiers. But the Executioner is going to turn up the heat on this frozen hell and obliterate this lethal plot with pure molten payback.
Bolan triggered a burst just as the grenade exploded
A volley of hot lead ripped holes in the gunman’s body, shredding vital organs. The Executioner turned to the sniper, who had taken off in a different direction following the explosion.
The sudden screech of tires demanded Bolan’s attention. Coming up the road at a roaring clip were three squad cars. The soldier scanned the area for the sniper, finally catching sight of the man as he slipped into the brush.
Not that it mattered; it was obvious that the cops were headed right toward Bolan, who took off for his sedan even though he knew the effort was wasted. The three squads ground to a halt, and a half-dozen armed officers emerged, the muzzles of their weapons pointed at Bolan.
The soldier considered his options, then did the only thing he could—he let his weapon fall to the ground and raised his hands.
Other titles available in this series:
Path to War
Blood Dynasty
Ultimate Stakes
State of Evil
Force Lines
Contagion Option
Hellfire Code
War Drums
Ripple Effect
Devil’s Playground
The Killing Rule
Patriot Play
Appointment in Baghdad
Havana Five
The Judas Project
Plains of Fire
Colony of Evil
Hard Passage
Interception
Cold War Reprise
Mission: Apocalypse
Altered State
Killing Game
Diplomacy Directive
Betrayed
Sabotage
Conflict Zone
Blood Play
Desert Fallout
Extraordinary Rendition
Devil’s Mark
Savage Rule
Infiltration
Resurgence
Kill Shot
Stealth Sweep
Grave Mercy
Treason Play
Assassin’s Code
Shadow Strike
Decision Point
Road of Bones
Radical Edge
Fireburst
Oblivion Pact
Enemy Arsenal
State of War
Ballistic
Escalation Tactic
Crisis Diplomacy
Apocalypse Ark
Lethal Stakes
Illicit Supply
Explosive Demand
Ground Zero
Jungle Firestorm
Terror Ballot
Death Metal
Justice Run
China White
Payback
Chain Reaction
Nightmare Army
Critical Exposure
Insurrection
Armed Response
Desert Falcons
Ninja Assault
Lethal Risk
Dead Reckoning
War Everlasting
To plunder, to slaughter, to steal, these things they misname empire; and where they make a wilderness, they call it peace.
—Cornelius Tacitus, 56 AD–117 AD
The empires of some men are built on the wholesale slaughter and exploitation of the innocent. By force and fire, I will prevail over them. I am judgment.
—Mack Bolan
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Bering Sea, 166° N, 58° W
As the Cessna UC-35A out of Anchorage, Alaska, banked in a turn bound for Unalaska Island, something went wrong. Warning alarms erupted in the cockpit. Cabin air pressure plummeted, and oxygen masks dropped. The sudden loss in pressure and gross shift in altitude signaled that the plane had just lost an engine, and yet there didn’t seem to be any less power. The lone flight attendant aboard remained in her seat with belt fastened, ass did all the passengers by the captain’s orders.
In the cockpit, First Officer Donna Wickersham glanced at the pilot and waited for orders while trying not to let the panic show in her eyes.
Sweat beaded Captain Leon Garza’s lip as he pulled on the stick with all his might. “I don’t understand!”
“What is it, sir?” Wickersham asked. “We’re still losing altitude.”
“I’m doing my best over here! No matter how far I pull back we continue to drop!”
Garza cursed. “Get on the stick with me!” he ordered.
As Wickersham moved to comply, Garza reached above his head and flipped the switches that would put the entire aircraft on manual control. He also activated the underwater beacon and the automated distress call. The emergency procedures completed, Garza put his attention back to correcting their course by mechanical means.
“There’s still no response, sir!” Wickersham said through gritted teeth.
“I shut off the autopilot!” he replied, even as he began to watch the numbers fall on the altimeter.
Alarms sounded once more, and a voice-over warned that the plane was rapidly continuing to lose altitude and had now descended below safe parameters. Wickersham called off numbers from the various gauges as her job required, but it sounded a bit futile even in her own ears. Garza undoubtedly knew just as Wickersham did that they were losing the battle, and it seemed as if she was counting down to the inevitable finale.
Finally, Garza cut her off. “Okay, we can’t gain altitude, and we can’t pull out of it. Our next best bet will be to cut our airspeed as much as possible.”
“How?”
“Kill the engines.”
“What? But, sir—”
“Don’t argue, just kill them! Hurry!
”
Wickersham flipped the switches that disengaged the ignition lock, which prevented any accidental shutdown procedure. Garza could have done it without her assistance, but Wickersham realized he’d wanted to keep her in the loop on exactly what he was doing. Even as he reached for the switch that would power down the engines, Wickersham had engaged the intercom and warned their passengers.
“Attention! Please ensure your seat belts are firmly fastened and brace for impact!”
Neither noise nor panic arose from the cabin, and Wickersham felt a degree of relief. These were military personnel and courageous to a fault. They wouldn’t cry or whine or demand—they would sit calmly and extend every confidence to their crew in spirit. Besides, it was more likely at this point they were all in prayer mode.
Garza kept checking the instrumentation, kept the stick pulled back so tight the knuckles on his right hand were now white, and was flipping every switch possible to attempt to regain some control of his aircraft.
Finally, he looked Wickersham in the eye. “I’ve tried everything I know to pull us out of this. It’s no use. Even with the engines dead, we still can’t get control of the flaps. Suggestions?”
Wickersham shook her head, thinking furiously but sure of the answer. “Nothing you haven’t already tried, sir.”
“Well,” Garza said, turning to look through the cockpit that was now a solid wall of blue-green water. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you, Donna.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” Wickersham said, extending her free left hand to grip his shoulder. “The privilege has been all mine.”
* * *
WITHIN TWO HOURS of the captain’s Mayday call to the tower at the mainland out of Marine Safety Unit Valdez, the US Coast Guard had dispatched a search-and-rescue vessel and low-alt observation aircraft per standard operating procedures for a rescue effort. Nobody at MSU Valdez wanted to speculate on the plane’s fate. Since there had been no contact after the Mayday call and nothing on the radar, it was a foregone conclusion flight 195B had gone down somewhere in the icy ocean north of the Aleutian Islands.
Petty Officer Second Class Sarah Helmut scanned the screens in front of her.The first vessel to respond to the Mayday call from the flight was the USCGC Llewellyn, a Hamilton-class cutter on training maneuvers in Bristol Bay. The ship set course for the last-known position of the aircraft, its HH-65C helicopter traversing the rescue area in advance of the vessel. The ship arrived within three hours of the call, and operations got immediately underway.
“This is USCGC Llewellyn, on scene of the target’s last-known coordinates. No wreckage has been observed yet. I am taking command of the incident,” was the captain’s report.
Helmut smiled. “MSU Valdez receives and acknowledges, Llewellyn. Begin standard search patterns and reporting protocols. Good hunting, sir.”
* * *
AS SOON AS he’d received the last communication from MSU Valdez, Commander Louis Ducati peered out the bridge of the cutter and raised binoculars to his eyes.
The sun gleamed off the whitecaps of the Bering Sea. It troubled Ducati that the crew of the military flight was unable to respond to one of the Llewellyn’s repeated hails. To not respond when capable of doing so violated protocol, and it could mean that something had knocked out their communications. They also weren’t transmitting an underwater beacon, which could mean that the plane was still airborne. Only a full, midair explosion could cause significant damage so that the UWB might not sound.
Which brought Ducati to wonder if the sudden disappearance of flight 195B was an act of terrorism. His worst fears seemed realized in the sentiments of his first officer, as the reports started coming in from the SAR team aboard the HH-65C helicopter.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Gareth Keller informed him, “Halo Two is reporting no findings at or immediately below the surface. They’re not picking up any signals from the UWB, either.”
“What about ultrasonic?”
“Not even a burp, sir.”
“Okay, engage in standard search patterns.” Ducati thought a moment and then added, “Let’s also get a couple of finders in the water, see if we can run across some sort of debris.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” As Keller turned to relay the orders, Ducati turned and stepped outside the bridge to view the search area once more with his binoculars.
It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. If the plane had crashed, why didn’t the UWB sound off? If they’d exploded in midair, wouldn’t there be wreckage spread across a mile or so of water? Wouldn’t they see some indication of the plane’s destruction, something to shed light on what had happened? No, this didn’t make one damn bit of sense, and Ducati wasn’t going to leave until he had some answers.
One way or another, he would find out what the hell happened.
“Lieutenant Commander Keller, recall the chopper,” Ducati called into the bridge through the open door. “She’s got to be starting to run low on fuel, and I want her ready for phase two ops once we find something.”
Keller tossed a salute of acknowledgment and went about the business of passing on Ducati’s orders.
CHAPTER TWO
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan watched as Barbara Price reached out and traced the scar on his chest with her finger, just one of the many scars that were the spoils of his War Everlasting. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, and her honey-blonde hair cascaded across his upper body. He stroked the small of her back with surprising gentleness, although there wasn’t anything weak about that hand. The power and strength that flowed from him seemed almost electric. The buzz of the house phone intercom intruded on the moment, and Bolan had to hold back a groan of frustration as Brognola’s voice came on the line. “Striker, are you there?”
“Yes, I am, Hal,” Bolan replied.
“I need to see you in the War Room, pronto. And I need Barb here, too, if she’s there with you or wherever.”
The immediate clearing of the throat by his longtime friend and ally brought a smile to Bolan’s face. “I’m sure I can find her. Give me time to get cleaned up and I’ll be down.”
Brognola muttered something that passed for a goodbye and then signed off.
Bolan sighed, and Price patted his chest before lifting her head. She left him with a gentle kiss, slid from the bed and padded toward the door to the hall. She would shower in her own quarters and leave Bolan to his own ablutions.
* * *
BY THE TIME the Executioner had arrived in the War Room, Price and Brognola awaited him with expectant glances.
The big Fed sat with an impassive expression and an unlit cigar jammed between his teeth. “Okay, now that you’re both here, let’s get right to business.”
The soldier took a seat. He and Brognola had known each other for what seemed to be several lifetimes. Their relationship had begun as one of lawman against fugitive, but as time and fate would have it, the very nature of that relationship would turn them into close allies.
“So, what’s up?” Bolan asked.
“In short, there have been some incidents in the Aleutian Islands over the past twenty-four hours that have the White House highly concerned.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“The kind that involve the disappearances of American service personnel,” Brognola replied.
“Talk to me.”
The big Fed laid it out for him in no uncertain terms, beginning with the distress call and subsequent disappearance of flight 195B followed by the immediate response of the USCGC Llewellyn. “They reported their response and arrival at the SAR site to Marine Safety Unit Valdez, but at their next scheduled check-in, Valdez received no response. All radar transmissions stopped just fifteen minutes before that. They sent two fighters and a land-based Chinook, and diverted an AWACS. Nothing. It’
s as if both vessels simply disappeared.”
“Air national guard planes and US Coast Guard cutters don’t just disappear without a trace,” Bolan said. “Something’s definitely wrong.”
“We thought so, as well,” Brognola said. “Unfortunately, the US Navy acted immediately and sent an Office of Naval Intelligence investigation team immediately. They also put the Elmendorf-Richardson AFB on full alert.”
“Not good,” Bolan said. “It’s going to make it much more difficult to operate inconspicuously in a place crawling with military investigators.”
“Understood, and I can’t tell you how sincerely sorry I am about that,” Brognola said. “But I didn’t have any choice in the matter.
“We thought you’d be able to work best under your military cover of Brandon Stone,” Brognola suggested. “That was until we figured that would draw even more attention.”
“Good thinking, but you were right to dismiss the idea,” Bolan said. “I can get a lot further if I go in as a local looking for work. That will draw much less attention. The military thinks like military, and they won’t be looking at the common folks for the answers. They’ll want to engage members of their own kind. If I mix with the local crowd, it’ll make my inquiries easier and make avoiding them easier, too.”
“Aaron dredged up one of your old cover names. Mike Blansky—that’s with a y, not an i. He did a complete rework on the ID and wiped all previous references. You have brand-new credentials, including an employment history and clean social security number, the works. I even had him add a little questionable material, a couple previous arrests for public brawling, but nothing serious. Just what you’d expect to see for a guy with the kind of cover we thought you’d need.”
“You went the extra mile,” Bolan remarked.
“Correct,” Brognola said.
“We knew it would be important that your cover seem as inconspicuous as possible,” Price said. “This way the military investigators up there probably won’t give you a second glance. They’ve frozen all transportation to and from the Aleutians and are permitting only major commercial air and rail traffic on the mainland. But just before you joined us, I managed to squeak you in under a hardship.”