War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  “So what do you want me to do then, Maddie?”

  “Fight back,” she said, grabbing his hand. “I want you to fight back. Blansky told me some of those Russian goons are holed up at Haglemann’s house. I want you to gather your men and the cops.”

  “The police work for Davis!”

  “They work for us,” Corsack said. “They no more want to deal with the Russians than we do.”

  “Who are these Russians you keep on about?”

  “I don’t know.” Corsack shook her head and chewed at her lower lip. “Blansky said they were some kind of a criminal terror group that called themselves the Russian Business Network.”

  Lustrum nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of them. If what I’ve heard is true, they’re nasty customers. But I don’t understand why Davis would get chummy with scum like that.”

  “Because Davis doesn’t care about anything but himself and how much money he can make. Damn it, Otto, we, above all others, should understand how greed can blind us to the truth, force us to do things we wouldn’t normally do. That’s what Blansky helped me to see. And I think you see it, too.”

  “All right,” Lustrum said, rising. “I’ll go the cops and explain what’s happening. But I can’t promise what they’ll do.”

  “Just convince them. I know you can.”

  “Well, you just go on believing, Maddie girl,” Lustrum said, patting the side of her tear-stained face. He offered her a warm grin and added, “That’s enough for me.”

  Unalaska

  ALEXEI VIZHGAIL PREPARED to bring death to the American who had killed so many of his men. Under normal circumstances, he might have preferred to shoot the man from a great distance, rather than risk a fight hand-to-hand, but in this case he would make an exception. There was a lot more to being a soldier than possessing a superior skill and intellect in tactics. He’d known this from the time he was old enough to start understanding the dealings of his organization.

  While most of Vizhgail’s friends had shown an interest in acquiring the skills to perform cyber-based attacks against their enemies or use technology to enrich themselves and their cause, Vizhgail had focused his attention on the more practical aspects. He viewed himself as a soldier and bound to a duty. The regular Russian army had rejected him, as had the navy, on the grounds of class. His family was within the upper ranks of the government, and the boot-lickers didn’t care to risk something happening to him that would anger his family.

  The Network had brought him what he most desired: to fight for a cause in which he believed and, yes, if necessary, die for that cause. But that wasn’t his plan this day. What he intended to do now in this very moment was to kill the devil who had destroyed his plans and his men, and decimated the organization he loved most. He didn’t care about saving his own life—Vizhgail had rid himself of the fear to die long ago.

  The only thing he feared most was that he wouldn’t be allowed to die with honor. Under no circumstances could he allow that to happen. So he waited quietly in an alcove for his lone enemy to arrive. The seconds seemed to tick by with agonizing slowness into minutes as large drops of sweat left lazy trails down the back of his neck and the small of his back. It was hot in all of the battle gear, so he’d shed most of it. He risked a glance at the luminous hands of his watch and guessed that his men had made the motor launch by now.

  Vizhgail began to wonder if they were already making their way across the open water when he heard it. The slight shuffle of a foot against the floor. It was the only sound he heard, but it was enough. He knew the American had entered the building, and Vizhgail’s body tensed. He steadied his breathing, thinking that the man would hear the thudding of his heart in his chest, even though he knew the thought was ridiculous.

  Then a shadowy figure moved past the alcove, a weapon held high and at the ready. There was an odd shape to his head, and Vizhgail realized he was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles. Excellent. That would block his peripheral vision and give Vizhgail the upper hand.

  He tensed his legs in preparation for attack.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bolan heard the movement a second before he felt the muscled forearm snake its way around his neck. The attacker pressed the forearm against Bolan’s windpipe and locked the hold with his other hand, settling the weight on the soles of his feet. It was executed perfectly, as perfectly as anybody would execute it who had been trained to do it a thousand times over. The problem was that it had obviously only been done in training with a willing opponent, and not implemented with success in a real-life scenario. Trainees who resisted such a hold were usually not fighting for their lives.

  The Executioner was.

  Bolan ripped off the NVDs and flung them away as he twisted his head to face the weak point of the rear-naked choke. He fired an elbow into his attacker’s midsection and followed it by ramming the stock of his M4A1 on to the outside of the left leg just below the knee. The hold loosened, and Bolan sucked in a breath, trying not to gulp so he wouldn’t pass out. The Executioner lost a little momentum in the delay, but it wasn’t enough to give his opponent the upper hand. Bolan broke the hold and delivered an uppercut that only glanced off the man’s face, missing the point of the jaw, but it was enough to put a little distance between them.

  Bolan turned to face his enemy, sizing him up. They were relatively equal in height and weight. He couldn’t tell how old the man was, but he surmised the guy had at least ten years on him. He was also fast and seemed fit; a prolonged fight wouldn’t be the best strategy in that case. Bolan would need to put him down as quickly and effectively as possible. Unlike with Rov, this fight wasn’t merely to prove brawn.

  Survival was at stake.

  Bolan delivered a front kick, going low for a knee, but the guy stepped into it and deflected with a heel block. He followed with a hammer-fist punch that connected on the soldier’s cheek. It carried enough power to stagger Bolan and caused him to step back to maintain distance. The guy might not have been the most skilled when it came to grappling, but he wasn’t exactly a novice in hand-to-hand, either. Bolan couldn’t afford to underestimate this one on any count. What he had already learned was that this guy didn’t follow-up when gaining the advantage, and he was stronger in the brawl than in ground or grappling techniques.

  Bolan could use that.

  The Executioner moved in close and fired a double-punch to the abdomen, a move that obviously took the guy off guard. So he wasn’t used to close-in fighting, preferring to keep his enemies at arm’s length. Bolan drove a palm strike into the side of his face as he inserted a leg between his opponent’s two, and then used his hip to bump the guy off balance. As the man staggered and tipped sideways, Bolan fired a straight punch that caught the man on the jaw and knocked him flat to the ground.

  The guy recovered with surprising swiftness. Bolan heard the rasp of a knife clearing its sheath as the guy recovered and came toward him. His eyes had begun to adjust, and he could see the outline of the knife’s very large blade, a standard size for a combat weapon. The man swung toward Bolan’s belly, and it whistled through the air as the soldier stepped just out of reach. The man swung again as the Executioner went for his own knife, and this time he caught the material of the black suit at midriff level. The sharp blade easily severed it, catching a bit of flesh in its passing.

  Bolan ignored the burning in his gut as he brought a Ka-Bar combat knife into play. The enemy pressed his attack by attempting another slash followed by a jab, both of which Bolan evaded. The Executioner sidestepped the attempt and immediately slashed down and across, connecting with the inside fleshy part of his attacker’s forearm. The maneuver caused the Russian to rethink his strategy, and he staggered backward, stumbling at the last moment over some unseen object. Bolan used the distraction to his advantage and charged the man, who turned to see his approach. He lost his balance again and o
nly because he fell on to his back did Bolan’s blade cease to find its mark.

  The man scrambled to his feet, winded, and immediately began to slash violently at Bolan in an attempt to keep the Executioner moving. He wasn’t having it. He could not allow the man, awkward as he might be, to dictate the direction of the fight, or it would be over as swiftly as it had begun with Bolan’s blood spilled into the dust. Bolan waited patiently for an opening, and eventually he got it. As the man made a particularly close slash toward Bolan’s side, the Executioner twisted to the side and moved in so the two were facing in the same direction while standing nearly parallel. Bolan drove the knife into the man’s right side just below the point of the bottom rib and shoved upward with all his force. As the guy stepped back, shock on his face and air escaping from his punctured lung with a gruesome wheeze, Bolan shoved him away.

  The man’s expression transformed from shock, pain and fear to one that bore only hatred and defiance. He managed to produce a guttural curse in Russian, about the only sound he could make, given his injuries, and staggered forward. Bolan drew his Beretta, quick-aimed his pistol and squeezed the trigger. A single 9 mm Parabellum round cracked through the bridge of the terrorist’s nose and continued into his brain pan, scrambling gray matter under the considerable force of its path. The man’s body stiffened a moment and then collapsed to the floor.

  Bolan took a minute to catch his breath, his chest heaving with the strain of combat. He’d been pushing himself through every minute, and his job was still far from done.

  He holstered his pistol and set about inspecting the knife wound. It wasn’t serious, barely more than a deep scratch. He retrieved a small bandage from his medical pouch, did a quick sterilization of the area with a pad containing a mixture of alcohol and Betadine, then dressed it with sterile strips to keep it together.

  The sound of footfalls demanded his attention.

  Bolan stooped to retrieve his M4A1 and knelt, muzzle held high and ready, but the sudden play of a dozen or better flashlights signaled these weren’t his enemies. Shaffernik had finally arrived with the cavalry. She approached, and as she got near he could tell she had Wexler and Philbin in tow.

  “It’s about time,” Bolan said. He lowered his weapon and rose.

  “Hold your fire!” she told her men. “He’s a friendly. Fan out and find the others.”

  Her men did immediately as instructed while Shaffernik appraised Bolan with a practiced eye. He noticed her gaze drop to his abdomen.

  “I’ll live.”

  Wexler and Philbin did a quick inspection before Wexler said, “What the hell happened here, Blansky?”

  “The RBN was using these abandoned buildings to hide the Llewellyn. You’ll find that it’s probably concealed within the docking facilities two structures to the south of us.”

  “You think there are still suspects present?” Shaffernik asked.

  “No, I took out most of their force. A couple of them might be around here. I’m sure that I wounded one of them.”

  “Great, so they’re hiding out like the animals they are,” Shaffernik replied. “I’d better alert my men.”

  “Most likely anyone who was still left alive is gone. I’m betting this one—” Bolan gestured toward the deceased terrorist “—stayed behind to cover their escape.”

  “What makes you think that?” Philbin asked with a sneer.

  “Because he ambushed me alone,” Bolan said, unaffected by Philbin’s attitude. “Obvious stall tactic.”

  Shaffernik nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. For all their other activities they’ve operated in small groups.”

  “Which is exactly why I think... Wait up.”

  Grimaldi’s voice called him again, and when Bolan replied, the pilot said, “We’ve got runners, Striker. Looks like four, maybe five personnel, headed out on a powerboat across Dutch Harbor. Looks like they’re making their way for open sea. You want me to pick you up?”

  “Negative,” Bolan said. “Keep eyes on them, Eagle. See where they go, but try to stay out of observation range.”

  “Easy-peasy, Striker. Eagle One, out.”

  Bolan could just now make out Shaffernik’s face in the darkness lit ever so slightly by the open doors at either end, the Alaskan sunlight now permitted to invade the shadows. “Have you got a trained pilot available?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah.” Her eyes twinkled. “Me.”

  Yeah, this lady was sure impressive.

  * * *

  IT TOOK THEM ten minutes to reach the dock where Grimaldi had left the seaplane, and another ten for Shaffernik to familiarize herself with the controls. Shortly, they were airborne and headed toward the transponder signal with coordinates Grimaldi had entered into his flight instrumentation.

  Shaffernik had left her men in charge of cleanup. Wexler and Philbin were ecstatic, since they’d be able to take credit for finding the Llewellyn. Bolan was happy, as well. That would go a long way to improving relations. Even Philbin had ultimately agreed to shake hands and made it clear there were no hard feelings.

  Now the task would be to track the Russians to wherever they planned to go next. Bolan was certain he knew where they were headed—the only place they could get help. Adak Island had been their safe haven to this point. There was little question Haglemann would help them out if they asked him. After all, he had a business relationship to maintain with the RBN. They were going to make him filthy rich, and he was going to rule over his financial empire with an iron fist.

  Men like Davis Haglemann had always infuriated the Executioner. Many had begun their careers with a desire to improve the lives of others while improving their own situation, but then something took over. Greed and avarice and want for more than they could ever possibly use seemed to consume them, devouring their internal and natural moral compass from the inside out. It had been the same with the Hydra monster of the Mafia, the organization against which Bolan had launched his War Everlasting.

  Men like Haglemann built their fortunes on murder, theft, extortion and the sweat of hardworking people just looking to make their way. Nobody wanted to admit they needed a hand, so they chose to look the other way for a few bucks. Even someone like Maddie Corsack, a woman who had paid the ultimate price losing her husband to military service, had succumbed to Haglemann’s manipulation on some level. The fact she’d used the money for good was irrelevant, for she had taken it, and she’d allowed Haglemann to manipulate her with it.

  Well, Bolan had a message to send to Davis Haglemann, and the time drew near to send it.

  “Your friend’s signal is coming through loud and clear,” Shaffernik said.

  From the passenger seat, Bolan nodded. He reached out and tuned the radio to a dedicated frequency. “Striker to Eagle One.”

  “Go, Striker.”

  “We’re getting your signal. Any thoughts about where the target’s headed?”

  “Don’t hold me to it, but right about now I’d guess they were going toward some docks on the southwest side of the island.”

  Bolan looked in Shaffernik’s direction. “Any ideas?”

  She shook her head. “In a boat as small as he described, they won’t get far. The neighboring islands are hundreds of miles in any direction.”

  “Meaning they’ll need wings,” Bolan said. “How are you fixed for fuel, Eagle One?”

  “I’m going to be redline soon. Better head to the airport.”

  “We’ll take over the observation and keep you posted. My guess is if they have an aircraft waiting somewhere, they’ll attempt to make it back to Adak Island.”

  “Roger that,” Grimaldi replied.

  When they’d signed off, Shaffernik spoke. “What makes you think they’ll go to Adak? You’re talking nearly five hundred miles. Seems pretty impractical.”

  “They have allies
there,” Bolan said. “I was hoping they’d go to wherever they were holed up, take us to the head of the operation. But now, seeing they hardly have a plan, I’m thinking no such luck.”

  “So why do you think they’ll go to Adak?”

  “Ever heard of a man named Davis Haglemann?”

  Shaffernik let out a snort. “Who hasn’t? Big-time union boss, in charge of all the operations on Adak Island. That place would be abandoned by now if it wasn’t for him.”

  “You’re more right than you know,” Bolan replied.

  “You mean...”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said with a curt nod. “Haglemann’s been in bed with the Russians. We don’t know for how long, but I do know his top guy, Otto Lustrum, was employing a couple of RBN heavies.”

  “I know Otto personally,” Shaffernik said. “He’s always been a pretty straightforward guy. Typical longshoreman, a working man’s working man, if you get me.”

  “I get you.” Bolan shook his head. “The trouble is he let Haglemann suck him into thinking everything that glitters is gold. Haglemann got the good people of Adak Island used to his handouts. They took blood money, and they didn’t even know it would prove to be their undoing.”

  “You saying the whole place is corrupt? That it can’t be redeemed?”

  “I don’t worry about redemption,” Bolan replied. “I’m not a therapist or psychoanalyst. I know only one course of action for men like Haglemann. The same one I just demonstrated back there on Unalaska.”

  “You live some kind of life, Mike Blansky,” Shaffernik replied.

  “Yeah,” Bolan muttered. “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  ANATOLY BRUSCHEV WATCHED his friend Arlan die with a measure of helplessness and anger. As well, the American had wounded Kirillov, but then, for some strange reason, he’d allowed Bruschev to drag Kirillov to safety. At first, it hadn’t made sense. Bruschev couldn’t identify mercy since he’d never experienced it in his own life. Being raised on the cold, mean streets of the ghetto section in St. Petersburg had introduced Bruschev to the axiom that people were no damn good! But as Bruschev considered it, he now wondered if the guy had done this as a matter of pure tactics.