War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  “What’s my final destination?” Bolan asked.

  “You’ll ultimately be headed to the port city of Adak,” Price replied. “You’ll fly into Unalaska, and you can arrange your own transportation from there. You’re slated with experience as a dockworker, so that ought to put you in pretty good with the locals.”

  “If anyone will have heard about any strange goings-on in the area, those guys will. It’s a closed society there.”

  “There’s one other thing, Striker,” Brognola added. “We don’t know what’s happened to either the flight with a few military personnel onboard or the crew of the Llewellyn. We’re sending you the vitals of the commanding officers who were assigned to those assets, respectively. If this is a terrorist attack of some kind, then there’s no question we’re up against some type of new technology that has the ability to make whole planes and ships disappear.”

  “In other words, I won’t just have terrorists to worry about, but anyone else who might want to get their hands on said technology.”

  “Correct.”

  “As usual, I have my work cut out for me.”

  “Right,” Price replied. “Jack’s on his way and should be here within the hour. You’ll take the helicopter to Reagan and then a direct flight to Unalaska with a refuel in Seattle.”

  “As soon as I get my equipment together, we’ll be off.”

  “Godspeed, Striker,” Brognola said. “And good luck.”

  Unalaska

  MACK BOLAN LOOKED out the port side window of the Gulfstream C-35 jet as Jack Grimaldi banked the plane for its final approach into Alaska. The city of Unalaska covered all of Amaknak Island and was spread across more than one hundred miles of terrain.

  “Wheels down in a few a minutes, Sarge,” Grimaldi announced over the headset.

  Bolan gave him a thumbs-up, took the headset from his ears and hung the unit on the wall before fastening his seat belt. He then gave the computer terminal in front of him his full attention. He’d reviewed carefully the files of all four officers in the missing plane and Coast Guard cutter. All boasted impeccable service records, and Bolan had no reason to think they were involved in whatever had transpired in the Bering Sea.

  Bolan had considered having Grimaldi make one pass, but the area crawled with boats and planes and he didn’t feel like getting into a hassle. To have appeared in that area would have flown directly in the face of what he hoped to accomplish, and that was to draw as little attention as possible. There wouldn’t be an easy way to explain how they were that far off course when he was supposed to be heading into Unalaska in the hopes of signing on with one of the local shipping companies that operated out of the port city of Adak.

  First things, first, however—he had to make his way through the red tape and find a job as a stevedore. It wouldn’t be easy to stay under the radar, even posing as a civilian. The net population in Adak was about four hundred people, and that was a liberal estimate. It was probably less than that. At one time the city had thrived when there was a military station there, but since the closing of the naval air station in the late ’90s the population had dropped dramatically from more than fifteen thousand to just a few hundred. Many businesses had left the area or simply folded, no longer supported by the military community.

  Still, Adak had a lot to offer those who chose to live there, with the entirety of the city’s facilities belonging to The Aleut Corp, aka TAC. Bolan would have to visit their affiliate on Unalaska, the Onalash Corporation, if he hoped to get work on the island. Typically they only offered jobs to Alaskan natives, and it was something they stuck to since it was part of their claims settlement with the United States government. They were hard core about their treaties and with very good reason.

  Within a few minutes Grimaldi had received clearance to land and touched down without a problem. Bolan managed to bypass any flak with customs since the area was part of the United States, and thus they weren’t overly concerned, despite the heightened sense of security. The events in the Bering Sea had the military on high alert, but the civilian population seemed woefully ignorant of the situation. Somehow they’d managed to keep the incidents about the flight and Coast Guard ship under wraps. Bolan knew it wouldn’t last long.

  “You want me to tag along?” Grimaldi asked hopefully.

  Bolan shook his head as he slid into shoulder leather. “Not this time, Jack. I need you to stand by here in case we have to get wheels up fast. If I manage to get on the inside of this thing, I’ll need fast transport to Adak.”

  “Sure thing,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll be right here waiting, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bolan checked the action on the Beretta 93-R, secured it in the holster and then shrugged into a heavy navy peacoat. If he was going to be a stevedore, he would have to look the part. He didn’t know if he could get work, not being a native, but he was hoping that Stony Man could pull some strings on that score. Bolan descended the stairwell of the plane and climbed behind the wheel of the rented sedan Stony Man had arranged. He cranked the engine, gave it a minute to warm up, then powered out of the terminal and followed the vehicle routing arrows until he reached a gate. He showed a guard the paperwork for the rental. The security man seemed only half interested, apparently more worried about getting back to the ball game that was being piped into the small guard shack via a satellite relay dish.

  Within minutes, Mack Bolan had left the airport and was headed toward the Dutch Harbor Development Company in downtown Unalaska. As he drove along Airport Beach Road and headed southwest toward his destination, he considered his angle of approach. The DHDC didn’t necessarily offer employment, but they had the information and connections that would get Bolan on the inside. Something had convinced Stony Man the answers to what had happened in the mysterious disappearances of military resources had to be somewhere in the Aleutian Islands, and Bolan was equally convinced Stony Man’s intelligence was correct. It only followed: if the military transport and Coast Guard cutter had run afoul of terrorists, then whoever was behind the disappearances was somewhere in the Aleutians. And if there was some sort of new satellite technology or weapons that had actually destroyed the vessels, then whoever had pulled the trigger had been close enough to target them, and the only proximal landmass for a base of operations to operate such advanced equipment was the Aleutians.

  Regardless of how Bolan looked at it, the answers he sought were in the Aleutians. His premonition became hard reality when sunlight on metal flashed in his peripheral vision. The late model SUV convertible roared down the road perpendicular to the one Bolan traversed on a course that looked as if its driver intended to intercept him. He eased his foot on to the brake—enough to slow but not so much to alert the newcomers to the fact he’d spotted them—while simultaneously reaching into the side pocket of the oversize backpack in the passenger seat. Bolan snatched the binoculars and put them to his eyes, checking the road periodically as he did.

  Beside the driver, four men occupied the open-air Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. The passenger had one leg cocked to the side, foot resting on the step-up bar, and cradled a high-powered rifle with scope between his legs. Three men in back all toted what looked like full-sized assault rifles.

  Bolan dropped the binoculars on to the seat and eased his foot on to the gas pedal, speeding up so he could reach the area up ahead where the roads intersected. He beat the other vehicle by about a quarter-mile and did exactly what they wouldn’t have expected. Instead of going past, he slammed on the brakes, timed the turn so the rear followed smoothly in a slide, and pointed the nose so it faced the road. He stomped on the accelerator and powered on a direct collision course with the Rubicon.

  The occupants were taken by surprise, but they reacted with speed and resolve. Unfortunately for them, they were no match for the mettle of the Executioner. Years of combat had honed Bolan’s skills, and some thugs with g
uns, even assault rifles, weren’t going to be any match.

  He waited until he was nearly on top of them before maneuvering the sedan out of their path. The driver of the Jeep blinked first, however, and the soldier waited until he knew for certain which direction the driver would choose before heading in the opposite one. The Jeep rushed past him, and the driver kept his speed, powering down only a little as he swerved off the road and slowed so that he could turn. Bolan had a different plan, bringing his vehicle to a skidding halt and then going EVA.

  From the arsenal in his pack he withdrew a Diehl DM-51 grenade and an FN-FNC assault rifle that was chambered for 5.56 mm ammo. With an effective firing range of nearly 400 meters and a muzzle velocity just shy of a thousand meters per second, it was a lethal tool in Mack Bolan’s hands.

  Bolan lined up the sights on the careening Jeep as the driver tried to slow enough to make a turn without flipping the vehicle or tossing out its occupants. He figured the first, best option would be to disable the driver. The gamble paid off as he sighted on the windshield just as the nose of the Jeep swerved in his direction. Bolan stroked the trigger twice, delivering a 3-round burst in each instance. The first three rounds spider-webbed the windshield at the base, effectively blocking the view of the passenger, and the second burst made contact with the driver.

  A red smear splashed across the windshield, and the vehicle immediately began to falter and shimmy. The passenger was undoubtedly leaning over the console attempting to keep the vehicle under control, but he had no idea where he was going, thanks to Bolan’s handiwork on the windshield. It had the desired effect, and the three men in back decided it was better to take their chances on foot than stay inside the Jeep bound for whatever crazy and unpredictable path the passenger managed to navigate.

  Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into target acquisition before the trio had barely gotten boots on the ground. The first guy managed to stand, but that was all he had time for as the Executioner delivered a volley from his weapon that caused the man to stagger back, his body flailing under the impact of the high-velocity rounds. Another hardman managed to find cover, but not before Bolan winged him with a shot that tore a fleshy chunk from his arm.

  The third guy reached cover behind a rock, but that position didn’t give him any advantage over Bolan. The gunner didn’t think his enemy could defend himself against three armed men, and he’d remained ignorant of the fact that Bolan had reduced their numbers by better than half. The gunner broke from the protection of the large outcropping and tore for higher ground that would give him the best advantage against Bolan. The Executioner sighted in on his enemy, leading him just enough to account for wind and speed before he triggered a 3-round burst. All three rounds connected. The impact drove him to the ground where he twitched a few times before going still.

  Bolan swung the assault rifle toward the target he’d winged before, and noticed the Jeep was now stopped and the passenger had gone EVA. The guy was definitely toting some kind of high-powered rifle with a scope, probably a hunting piece. Be it 7 mm or .30-06, it didn’t make much difference—if he’d brought that kind of weapon to this game, then odds were good he knew how to use it with proficiency.

  The Executioner intended to make sure he never got that chance.

  Bolan broke from the cover of the sedan, concerned they might try to take out his transportation if they couldn’t get him directly. If the sniper decided to take out a tire or two, Bolan would be pinned down with no place to go. He had to get in close enough to make some noise and shake up his enemy, and he thought he knew exactly how to do that. The DM-51 grenades would come in handy for this play. He primed the first one as he charged toward the sniper on an intercept course.

  The Executioner tossed the grenade at the large rock the sniper had rushed toward, then threw his body prone in the dust just as the wounded gunner shot at him. The soldier rolled to avoid the angry rounds that burned the air just inches above his head or slapped into the dirt where he’d lain a moment before. He got to one knee, steadied the FNC and triggered a sustained burst in the direction of the enemy gunner just as the grenade exploded. A volley of hot lead ripped holes in the gunman’s body, shredding vital organs. Bolan turned his attention to the sniper who had done exactly as predicted and headed in a different direction following the explosion. Unfortunately for the sniper, there wasn’t decent cover to be had nearby. He apparently felt the Jeep was his next best option.

  The sudden screech of tires demanded Bolan’s full attention. Coming up the road at a roaring clip were three squad cars. Unalaska police. Bolan looked for the sniper, watching as the man managed to get to some brush—he would be invisible from that angle.

  Not that it mattered; it was obvious that the cops were headed right toward Bolan.

  The Executioner took off for his sedan even though he knew the effort was wasted. His chances of escape were grim, at best, a prediction that became fact as Bolan reached his car. The three squads ground to a halt with a squeal of tires, and a half-dozen armed officers emerged, the muzzles of their weapons pointed at him.

  The soldier considered his options, then did the only thing he could—he let his weapon fall to the ground and raised his hands.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The woman who pushed through the plate-glass door had neither height nor size on her side. Despite that, she somehow managed to carry an aura of authority.

  Bolan sat in the chair of her office—he’d found it interesting that the officers brought him straight into this office instead of depositing him in a lockup—his hands cuffed behind him. The steel bracelets were tight, and they bit into his wrists. He’d thought about asking one of the officers to loosen them, then thought better of it. If he didn’t make any trouble for them, he might get cooperation. He would definitely need it if he planned to talk his way out of this one. The arrival of this woman with brass on her collar and a glint in her eye told Bolan immediately that she might give him the chance he sought.

  She stopped just inside her office door, looked him in the eye, and grabbed his shoulder. She nudged him forward in the chair and reached behind him. A moment later, the cuffs eased off his wrists, and she loosened one while using the other, now no longer on his left wrist, to manacle him to the arm of the chair. Since the chair wasn’t bolted to the ground, it wouldn’t do her much good, but he decided not to point that out.

  She took the keys and reattached them to the keeper on her police belt, then unbuckled the gun belt and slung it over a nearby coatrack before taking a seat behind her desk. She sighed, glanced over a few papers that the officers had left there with Bolan, then looked at him. Bolan pegged her in her mid-forties. She was an attractive woman, with long dark hair that she wore in a ponytail, and dark brown eyes that looked misty under the bright lights of the office.

  “Your ID says your name is Mike Blansky,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Bolan replied easily.

  “Is that your real name or a cover?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” she said. “Let’s try this. My real name is Brenda Shaffernik. I’m the deputy chief of the Unalaska DPS. Now it’s your turn.”

  “The name’s Blansky,” Bolan replied. “Just like my ID says.”

  “Okay, we’ll go with that, then. So why not tell me exactly what you were doing on Airport Beach Road shooting at a bunch of people?”

  “Because they were shooting at me first.”

  “Really? That’s all you’ve got?” Shaffernik shook her head and sat back, folding her arms. “You know, when they called me out of a conference with the mayor and director to tell me about this, I told them to bring you straight here. I thought maybe this might have something to do with what happened out in the Bering Sea yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, come off it!” Shaffernik slapped her hand on the de
sk. “If you’re not military, then you’re a government agent of some kind here to investigate the disappearance of a military aircraft.”

  Bolan took a moment to consider her statement and then said, “All right, Shaffernik, I’ll give you the no-bull version. If you’re privy to what’s happened already, then there’s little chance the military will be able to keep this secret. I’m going to trust my instincts over how Wonderland would prefer this be handled. I’m here in a rather unofficial capacity.”

  “Special military black ops or something?”

  “I’m the ‘or something.’” Bolan pinned her with a cool gaze. “Frankly, I’m a freelancer here by special request of those who would prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “Politicos?”

  “Let’s just say they’re well above your pay grade.”

  Shaffernik nodded with a knowing smile, and that cast a wicked aspect to her dark eyes. “Okay, sounds like you’re leveling with me now. That’s all I want. So how much can I know?”

  “Well, maybe if you tell me what’s been happening around here, I can tell you something to help you maintain order.”

  “Don’t need much help there,” Shaffernik said. “Keeping order here has never been a problem for me. The director and chief let me run the show. They’re more...politicians. And as such, they handle the politicking and leave the policing to me, although Chief Meltrieger is an experienced and decorated policeman with more than twenty-five years of experience and a hell of a fine cop. I respect him, and I’m honored to be working under him.”

  “And I’m sure you can police this island with one arm tied behind your back under normal conditions,” Bolan stated. “Unfortunately, what happened to me today doesn’t qualify as normal. Now, what do you know about the men who attacked me?”

  “Nothing, so far.”

  “Locals?”

  “No, not a single one of them. And before you ask, we had no luck finding your mystery guy with the rifle. This isn’t necessarily a big island, but a guy like that could ditch that thing in the bay and blend in with the locals in no time at all.”