War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  Moscovich scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “Because we only just recently heard about Yorgi, and when we attempted to contact Alexei we couldn’t raise him.”

  “When was his next scheduled check-in?”

  Tokov looked at his watch. “Right now. In fact, he’s missed it.”

  “This isn’t good.”

  “I agree,” Tokov said. “And no disrespect, Vlad, but this thing is starting to get out of hand. We are going to have to accelerate our plans and get out of here.”

  “Were you able to contact the sub?”

  “Yes. The captain has informed me, it will take them at least sixteen hours to arrive.”

  “Good,” Moscovich said. “I think we can hold out that long.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no question the Americans are ramping up security along the major islands. There have been entirely too many delays in executing our plans, and if we wait any longer we risk complete failure in our mission. We cannot delay any longer, Vladimir! We must move now.”

  Moscovich didn’t really want to admit it, but he knew Tokov spoke the truth. They’d spent too much time testing the system, and now they risked discovery. Such a thing would not only undermine the efforts of the Kremlin, but it put enmity between his people and the government. They couldn’t afford to make enemies of the FSB, let alone the Russian military. If they called for extraction and the submarine arrived, and the US military detected them, not only would their plans be laid waste but it would endanger their sole source of naval support. His master wouldn’t be happy, and neither would those sitting on the power base in Moscow and St. Petersburg.

  Moscovich looked Tokov in the eyes and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s what I love about you, comrade. You’re not afraid to tell me the truth no matter how unpleasant it might be. Very well, let’s prime the devices and get ready to pack up. By this time day after tomorrow, we will be well on our way to the United States. And then we shall have our revenge.

  “In the meantime, I want you to keep trying to raise Alexei. We have to tell him it’s time for the team to leave Unalaska and get back here.”

  “What about the rumors of the American there?”

  “From what you’ve told me, it sounds as if he’s no longer on the main island. He’s probably managed to get to Adak. That’s most likely who hit Haglemann. This individual must now become a secondary consideration. We can no longer risk waiting on them to locate him.”

  “And what if it is...him?”

  “Then I will deal with him personally,” Moscovich said. “For now, you have stated your case and well. So let’s proceed under the assumption the original plan remains in place.”

  Moscovich wheeled and marched out of the makeshift operations center, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Alexei Vizhgail was as reliable a soldier as Moscovich had ever served with. If he’d missed his check-in, that didn’t bode well for his mission or his men. Moscovich had opted to send Vizhgail to Unalaska with more than half their force to see if they could neutralize the threat from whatever American agencies had placed the individual or individuals responsible for eliminating the first team of locals from Haglemann’s private force.

  Granted, the local authorities on the island didn’t have a clue what was happening, since the American military intelligence agencies had essentially instigated an information blackout. If they had been smart, they might have had more success locating Moscovich and his men had they solicited local cooperation. The fact they would choose to shut down all but the most essential operations and route all traffic in and around the Aleutian Islands through a central checkpoint was precisely the reaction Moscovich had said it would be.

  This entire plan had been his brainchild, something only the highest officials within the Network and government had known. The Americans had much bureaucracy, but they weren’t entirely impotent, as their success in bringing down Yuri Godunov and his attempt to create a financial empire within the American banking system had proven. But that didn’t change the fact they still followed protocols whenever an incident was declared an act of terror. Those protocols were what Moscovich had determined on his own, with very careful study, could be used against them.

  But as he’d been told by Bea Nasenko, the heir-apparent to the Nasenko holdings within the Network: “The mission must take priority to any personal aspirations of vengeance, Vladimir. We cannot afford mixing business with our passions. Take heart in this that there will be plenty of time to exact retribution.”

  What had not stood out to Nasenko or her associates was that Moscovich couldn’t think of any better vengeance than this. By demonstrating their ability to disrupt military communications, they had struck a blow at the very heart of American might. No longer would they be victims to the whims of a corrupt, power-hungry government that thought itself inviolate. Moscovich cared nothing for Nasenko’s philosophy or the Russian president’s personal ambitions. Everyone had ambitions in the elite of Russian society. Even Moscovich had ambitions. Ambitions weren’t enough. There had to be more, and Moscovich intended to prove through this mission that superior tactical thinking could achieve a multitude of goals.

  Moscovich entered an adjoining cavern to the one where they’d kept Ducati. Seated there sipping a sweating bottle of ice-cold Baltika No. 3 was Petty Officer First Class Gross. Moscovich thought him little more than a cretin, his belly and bank account full as a reward for his treachery. Any man who would sell out his own country was dog shit in Moscovich’s best estimation, but a necessary evil in this line of business. Gross had been the one to secretly obtain and plant the device aboard the USCG cutter that allowed them to cut communications—a great find, indeed, given his access to a large working part of the vessel.

  “I trust you’re comfortable.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Gross said, sitting up a little in a halfhearted attempt to show some deference.

  What a weasel, Moscovich thought, but he said, “I’ve returned your commander to his cell.”

  “He’s not my commander,” Gross replied. “I never really liked that guy. Kind of a pain in the ass. You know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well...” Gross seemed to think better of it and just waved the subject away. “It doesn’t matter much now. I heard your boys gave him a good smackdown. Frankly, he’s had that kind of beating coming. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t already done it.”

  “If you thought him so deserving, why didn’t you do it?” Moscovich asked, tempting his unwanted guest.

  “Are you kidding? And wind up in the brig? No, thanks, man. I don’t need that kind of trouble. Speaking of which, what’s the deal here? Are you going to arrange some way for me to get out of here? I sure as hell don’t want to be anywhere nearby when you guys do your thing.”

  “It’s being taken care of,” Moscovich said. “We keep our word. When we make a deal, we consider that sacrosanct, and I strongly advise you do the same.”

  “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me what you do. I just need you to get me as far as Anchorage. I can take it from there.”

  Moscovich fought the urge to pull his pistol and shoot that smug, obnoxious look right off the American’s face. He knew traitors were a necessary evil, but he didn’t like working with them. If they would turn on their own country, how could they be trusted? It was one of the greatest enigmas for a man with his sensibilities. Sure, Moscovich was a hardened soldier and freedom fighter, but he was also educated. He was comfortable with tactics and planning, and he’d found that approach suited him since he nearly always got better results, and his work had a desired outcome. In many regards, it was why the Nasenko family had sent him to see this plan through.

  If he could make it come
together—if he could get his men to pull it off and work together to achieve their goals—the RBN would be restored to its former glory, and Moscovich would rise to a level equal to or even surpassing those in St. Petersburg. He might even be put in charge of all operations in the West. So for now, he would put up with Gross.

  “You need not worry,” Moscovich said. “You’ll be on your way soon.”

  Yes, he thought. Very soon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Unalaska

  Even as Grimaldi lifted the chopper up and away from the scene, enemy combatants seemed to come out of the woodwork like termites. A trio of terrorists armed to the teeth began to shoot at the chopper, apparently oblivious to the fact that one of their opponents already had boots on the ground. The Executioner was like the black wraith of Death, a frightening specter adorned with multiple tools of war.

  Bolan knelt, using the corner of the building as cover, raised the M4A1 and fast-sighted down the rails. He flipped the fire selector to full-auto burn and squeezed off a series of two short volleys. The first caught the lead terrorist full in the chest and drove him to the ground as the 5.56 mm rounds pummeled his vital heart and lung tissue. The man’s body twitched only a moment before his nervous system succumbed to death. The second volley went high. The soldier immediately adjusted his aim, holding low, and triggered a third burst that cut the legs out from under his target. High-velocity slugs shattered bone and tore flesh. The initial skirmish had reduced the team to one, and that man was now occupied with dragging his screaming, bleeding comrade off the battlefield as quickly as possible.

  Bolan let him tend to his teammate, unwilling to shoot a guy in the back who at least had the decency to help a friend rather than run away or ignore his plight in favor of trying to kill an enemy that had just bested him in pretty narrow odds. The Executioner kept one eye on the retreaters even as he broke cover and ran for the next adjacent building.

  Given a choice, the Executioner wouldn’t have done a search of this nature, but he knew the enemy had obviously decided to make their stand here. Bolan also had to consider the timing factor. He didn’t know how long it would take Shaffernik to get her people together and get to this site, but he didn’t think it would take long. She was a competent police officer, and for the most part her people seemed equal to the task set before them. Bolan didn’t want cops to fall if it could be helped. At least the fact there were no bystanders to worry about was one small grace he could appreciate.

  Bolan pushed on.

  * * *

  “THIS IS INSANE!” Wexler announced. “We should call the military.”

  “There’s no time for the military to mobilize,” Shaffernik said. “And anyway, I’ve already advised our support staff to notify them that there are possible terrorists at that location.”

  “And you’re trusting the word of this Blansky on it?” Philbin said, rubbing his shoulder self-consciously.

  “I am.”

  They were in the armory at police headquarters. The two men were watching as Shaffernik geared up for their operation at the abandoned buildings. Already, police units were mobilizing. Shaffernik had contacted Meltrieger and requested permission to deploy and call up the reserves. Meltrieger had balked, until Shaffernik explained the sudden arrival of the military investigators and the probable relationship between the terrorists and the disappearance of the Coast Guard cutter. At hearing that, he immediately granted her carte blanche to put the ball in play and promised whatever support and resources she would need.

  Meltrieger was a stickler for procedure, but he wasn’t a politician. He hated red tape, and that was exactly the reason Shaffernik had come to work for him as his deputy chief.

  “I ought to have that asshole brought up on charges,” Philbin mumbled.

  “You grabbed him,” Shaffernik countered as she secured her flak vest. “If it had been me, I probably would have done the same thing. And you guys may be federal officers, but we’re responsible for policing and the safety of all citizens here in Unalaska. If you want to try superseding that, you better get a court order. Now, you’re welcome to come along with my team, but I have my orders, and I’m going to follow them. So decide now what you’re going to do.”

  Wexler and Philbin looked at each other, but each knew that Shaffernik had a point. She was in charge by authority and necessity granted under the law, and it wasn’t their place to attempt to override that. For now, the best they could do was to cooperate and hope to hell this tough cop knew what she was doing.

  “Fine,” Wexler finally said after a nod from Philbin. He attempted to look as contrite as possible. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “Good,” she replied. “See my tactical guy over there, and he’ll get you fitted for some body armor. Unless you have equipment of your own.”

  “We do,” Philbin said. “It’s out in the car. I’ll go get it.”

  When Philbin had departed, Wexler decided to take the opportunity to ask some questions. “So how did you really run into this Blansky guy?”

  “He showed up and told me about his investigation into the disappearance of flight 195B and the Llewellyn.”

  “So when he came to you he had firsthand knowledge of those events.”

  “He seemed to.”

  “And you didn’t check him out?”

  “Of course I checked him out. And everything I heard and saw led me to conclude he was on the up-and-up.”

  “Do you believe his story about the Russian Business Network being behind all of this?”

  Shaffernik stopped the checks on her equipment and sighed. What the hell did Wexler want, and why was he probing her so hard? She knew one thing for certain. If she showed doubt or expressed any sort of hesitation, guys like Wexler and Philbin would use that to make her start second-guessing everything. That would, in turn, make her seem indecisive, and they could use that against her. Not to mention it would undermine whatever Blansky was attempting to accomplish here, and Shaffernik happened to believe the guy was who he said he was.

  “I don’t know anything about the Russian Business Network,” she said. “Not really. All I know is that so far Blansky has been right. And I also know he cares about people, and he’s looking out for the best interests of our country. So that’s good enough for me. Frankly, I think it ought to be good enough for anybody who has the same goals as he does for an outcome that doesn’t involve any more missing or dead service members.”

  “But he’s suggesting that a member of the US Coast Guard is a traitor!”

  “I never heard him suggest that,” she said. “All I heard him say was that somebody had to be working on the inside in order for the Russians to hijack something as large and secure as a Coast Guard cutter, not to mention neutralize a crew of approximately ninety service personnel plus a full security team aboard.”

  “Yes, okay, fine. Maybe you got a point there.” Wexler scratched the back of his neck contemplatively. “But what about this story that there’s a businessman, a sympathizer with the RBN?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Shaffernik said. “What I do know is I wouldn’t put it past them. The guy in charge on Adak Island is a man named Davis Haglemann. He’s a union boss, with big-time business interests and very well favored among the corporate interests. Here in Alaska, things aren’t as cut and dried as they are other places.

  “People here don’t make as much money, and a good many of the native people are living at or below poverty level. Haglemann’s made their lives better, as I hear it, and that’s going to buy the dude some loyalty. But I also know that people here tend to be fiercely patriotic. They don’t want their home exploited any more than we do, and it’s just possible Haglemann’s been pulling the wool over their eyes, because it will gain him something.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough if your faith in this
Blansky guy is well-founded.”

  “I guess we will,” Shaffernik replied. “Suit up as soon as your partner gets back. We’re leaving in five minutes, with or without you.”

  * * *

  THE FIRST BUILDING Mack Bolan entered smelled of dust and disuse, with an interior as black as night. That was fine with him, since he wanted to move without being seen and clear each location as fast as possible. The soldier advanced through the almost labyrinthine halls of the massive structure that seemed to be a combination of warehouse space and offices. The night-vision device aided him greatly as he swept along the darkened corridors with the M4A1 held at the ready.

  Bolan was about halfway through the second building when he encountered the enemy. They had set up a site in an open floor area that looked as if it had at one time been some type of cafeteria. From his vantage point on a second-floor landing that overlooked the zone, the Executioner counted four armed men crouched behind various objects of cover. He could see the gray-green halo generated by each individual and realized just in time that those men were wearing NVDs, as well.

  Another heartbeat passed, and between the two moments he saw movement. They had spotted him despite his attempts to be stealthy, and only by going prone did he avoid the plethora of hot lead burning the air just above his head. Bolan crawled backward out of the fire zone as fast as possible, then rolled to one side and unclipped a Diehl DM51 grenade from his web belt. Bolan yanked the pin and tossed the grenade over the railing. At a three count he got to his feet and sprinted down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  He’d reached the steps just as the grenade went, descending them two at a time. The debris still rained on the room as Bolan pushed into the area and searched for his targets. He got the first one before the man, who had obviously been disoriented by the unexpected blast of the grenade, could get his bearings. Bolan’s 3-round burst hit the man full in the skull, shattering his night-vision goggles and causing his head to explode in an eerie spray.

  Bolan swung his sights on to a second target and triggered two short bursts that slammed into the terrorist’s chest, driving him into a long, stainless steel serving counter. The man toppled to the floor in a noisy clank of metal on metal.