War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  The Russian glanced behind him and saw that Gross was not in pursuit. The guy was too occupied fighting the man they had first spotted in the hallway. He looked like a commando, dressed as he was, various implements hanging from an equipment harness of some type. He had dark hair, and he was big and muscular, but that’s really all Moscovich could perceive from that distance. Well, the stranger was Gross’s problem now, and Moscovich couldn’t worry about him. Gross would either survive the encounter or likely die, and Moscovich didn’t really care which at this point.

  He had a score to settle with another American.

  * * *

  WHEN BOLAN DESCENDED the narrow steps and cautiously entered the door of a long corridor, he encountered the two men he’d met moments before. The first one had somehow managed to gain a lead over the other and was headed down the narrow hall. The younger man had just climbed to his feet. When he saw the Executioner he lunged at him awkwardly.

  Bolan sidestepped and delivered a knee to the man’s gut that knocked the wind from him and sent him reeling against the hard wall on the opposite side of the corridor. The man sucked down several quick gulps of air, attempting to recover from Bolan’s surprise counter. The soldier pressed his attack with a haymaker that landed on the left side of the guy’s face. Rock-hard knuckles split the skin below the man’s eye and drew blood. The blow staggered his opponent, but again it wasn’t enough to knock him down.

  The man turned desperately in various directions, obviously looking for his weapon. Bolan spotted the pistol lying on the floor just a heartbeat before his opponent, and he stepped forward and kicked it away. Unfortunately, the motion distracted him, and Bolan caught a hard blow to the jaw that rattled his teeth. The Executioner shook it off and delivered a one-two gut shot. More air exploded from the man’s lungs, and his head came forward. He clapped his opponent’s ears with enough force to shatter both eardrums, then landed a booted toe in a front kick he was sure crushed at least one testicle and possibly both. The guy emitted something of a cross between a shriek and a howl. Bolan used the distraction to fire a low side kick that took out the man’s right knee, and finished the job with a knife-hand strike to the nerve at the neck and shoulder.

  The man’s eyes rolled up, and he slowly dipped forward until he collapsed face-first on the floor unconscious.

  Bolan picked up the revolver, disengaged the cylinder and ejected the unspent rounds before tossing it far away and continuing in pursuit of the second man. He didn’t know his identity, but a good guess would be Vladimir Moscovich. At least he could hope it was. To get Moscovich and Haglemann simultaneously would make his job easier.

  The Executioner could only hope Fate smiled on him.

  * * *

  HAGLEMANN DUCKED AS the rotor wash whipped his clothing about in a violent frenzy. He waited at the fringe of the helipad, watching for the pilot’s signal. He wished the bastard would hurry up—he didn’t have time for this! Finally, when he got the signal, he sprinted toward the chopper as the pilot climbed from his seat and crawled into the fuselage to open the door. As it slid aside and Haglemann went to step inside, he felt a severe burn on his right cheek and something caused his head to snap to the side.

  Haglemann saw a smear of black and red streak across his vision and the intensity of the pain in his head increased to such a point that it caused him to stagger. The union boss staggered backward utterly surprised, and suddenly his legs would no longer hold him. He collapsed, realizing as his body sank to the hard, cold concrete that he’d been shot. He could see Moscovich come into his view, but he couldn’t move a muscle. He watched as the Russian looked at his body only a moment and smiled. Moscovich stuck his pistol in the pilot’s face and gestured with it to indicate the pilot should return to the cockpit.

  Haglemann observed with a rising sense of helplessness as Moscovich climbed into the chopper and slid the door closed. A moment later, the aircraft was up and moving away at tremendous speed. Haglemann could hear several loud bangs, like thunderclaps, and then he saw a pair of boots come into his increasingly blurry sight. The blood was running freely now. Haglemann wanted to scream in agony as he felt sudden pressure on his face, but his voice seemed to be working less effectively than his arms or legs.

  And Haglemann wondered if this day that had begun as the one where he could get a fresh start would wind up being the day he died.

  * * *

  WHEN MACK BOLAN emerged on to the helipad, he watched helplessly as the chopper lifted off and powered away. He thought about firing on the aircraft, hoping to bring it down, but quickly dismissed the idea. He had to consider the pilot, who might, after all, be just an innocent bystander in this crazy situation. Bolan had always considered how his actions might affect innocent people and did everything he could not to let any harm come to anyone. He wasn’t about to change now.

  Bolan holstered his pistol and rushed to where Haglemann lay on the helipad. A significant amount of blood was coming from the guy’s head, but somehow he was still alive. His eyes were open, and he bore an expression of shock and stark terror. Bolan muttered an encouraging word to let the guy know he was going to live. It looked as though a bullet had gone through the guy’s right cheek and taken off a considerable amount of flesh.

  Bolan turned Haglemann’s head to the side gently and used his teeth to rip off the plastic, perforated top of a combat dressing that had been tucked into one of the pouches on his harness belt. He applied the bulky dressing to the wound, pinching a wad between the inside and outside of what remained of Haglemann’s cheek. He held the second one in place with his left hand, using the helipad concrete to keep the pressure, so he could free his right hand to get a bandage out. He applied the small compress and hastily wrapped the bandage to hold it in place.

  The job took less than thirty seconds.

  The Executioner now turned and drew the Desert Eagle, the muzzle of the big handgun traveling the entire perimeter of the helipad in search of threats. None came, and Bolan nodded with satisfaction. He’d accomplished his mission. Haglemann’s security force had been neutralized, and he’d captured the guy alive. Haglemann might not be able to do much talking, but then Bolan didn’t need him to. All he needed was the location of the RBN’s main operational force.

  Bolan keyed up his transmitter. “Striker to Eagle One.”

  “Eagle One, here.”

  “ETA?”

  “Two minutes.”

  Bolan checked his watch: 2313 hours. The pilot had left early once he’d realized the timetable had been altered.

  “Roger that. Mission accomplished, and I have my package. Alive but wounded. Also, a chopper got away with someone else. My guess is he’s an RBN connection, but I won’t know for sure until I can question current company.”

  “Understood and acknowledged. I’m coming in now.”

  True to his words, Grimaldi’s approaching chopper blades were heard by Bolan even as he signed off. He wasn’t sure where Haglemann’s pilot would be headed with the mysterious passenger aboard, but he bet Haglemann knew. It would be critically important to keep this man alive, and Bolan wondered a moment at the very irony of that fact. Haglemann was a traitor and an enemy of America, and yet he was now the individual who possessed the information that could save the lives of nearly one hundred Coast Guard personnel.

  As soon as the chopper touched down, Bolan pulled Haglemann to his feet and hoisted him into a fireman’s carry. Once he and his charge were aboard, Bolan donned a headset and gave Grimaldi a thumbs-up. Before long they were in the air and headed to the medical station on the far side of the island. Grimaldi had already called ahead, and Chakowa had confirmed they would have the doctor and his staff standing by. Haglemann would need considerable care, possibly even a skilled plastic surgeon to repair the damage left by his would-be assassin’s bullet. But the guy would survive.

  The flight
took less than ten minutes from takeoff to touchdown, and a ground ambulance waited for them on the tarmac. Once they had Hagelmann loaded into the ambulance, Bolan ordered everybody out. At first, the doctor protested. One stark look from the Executioner’s penetrating blue eyes was enough to let everyone know argument wasn’t an option. They piled out and left Bolan alone with Haglemann.

  “I won’t insult your intelligence,” Bolan told the man. “You know I don’t work for the Russians.”

  Haglemann nodded.

  “The guy who shot you and took off in the chopper. Was it Vladimir Moscovich?”

  For a long moment it seemed as if Haglemann wouldn’t answer. He just looked at Bolan, and the weighty silence that followed seemed broken only by the steady, rhythmic beep of the EKG monitor. Vital fluids dripped from twin IV lines, one plugged into each arm, and the steady drone of the ambulance engine provided the underlying hum that seemed to sustain the moment.

  Haglemann finally nodded again.

  “Where’s that chopper headed?” Bolan demanded.

  When Haglemann didn’t answer, the soldier said, “You need to talk to me, Haglemann. There are a lot of lives at stake. The game’s over. You’re going to prison for the rest of your life. The only thing that will keep you out of the nastiest, dirtiest, darkest hole you can imagine is your cooperation. So kill the stoic act and tell me what I want to know.”

  “Ka-ka-naga,” Haglemann managed to say with some effort. “C-Cape Chunu.”

  Haglemann had to stop and take a rasping breath, his airway obviously partially compromised by the additional padding Bolan had put there. He still had some questions to answer, though, and the soldier had to press him for as much information as possible while the guy could still talk.

  “Now just nod at this question,” Bolan said. “Try to save your strength. The group Moscovich runs. They’re part of the Russian Business Network?”

  Haglemann nodded.

  “Where are they operating, Haglemann? Do you know where Moscovich’s people are? Where he’s holding the Coast Guard crew?”

  Haglemann managed to speak the words, another bare whisper, before succumbing to unconsciousness with a will to no longer remain awake.

  “Semisopochnoi.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  During the flight from Adak Island to the waiting plane on a nearby island, a location Haglemann’s pilot specifically identified as Cape Chunu, it finally dawned on Vladimir Moscovich. The wraith-like and commanding presence of the dark-haired man he and Gross had encountered back at Haglemann’s estate: the black attire; the dogged fighting ability and military-style destruction he’d brought against Haglemann’s security forces.

  All of it came back to him in moment, a flood awash with memories of the stories he’d been told by Bea Nasenko and others in their organization time after time, the stories of the mysterious man who had nearly brought a revolutionary dynasty to its knees. He had encountered the man, and he hadn’t even realized it. Something in his gut told him to listen and pay attention, to sit up and take notice of what had been happening, and he had missed it entirely. He’d allowed himself to be blinded by his own genius, his plans and endless strategies, and all the other machinations he’d conjured. The very revenge he’d sought, the recompense against the Americans for what had happened just a few years back, had completely obliterated his true goals. He’d lost his first and greatest reason for doing what he’d sworn to do, and it had taken him completely unaware until this moment. A blinding, brutal moment when he realized the American who had destroyed their plans had been within his grasp!

  It was him—it had to be him!

  Moscovich would not accept any other theory. They had been confounded once more by the same man who had confounded them the first time, and Moscovich had no illusions about what would be the consequences of this. He would destroy them for certain. They had not gotten away with the tech salvaged off the Coast Guard cutter, and their plans to continue the operations in America would be countered by the intelligence gleaned from potential survivors.

  The man in black knew about Moscovich now, and there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Well, at least Benyamin and his men would get away. Within a few hours they would be safely aboard the Belsky and making best possible speed for the motherland. By this time three weeks from now, his friends would be safely nestled at headquarters in St. Petersburg.

  Moscovich shook that from his thoughts. He would have to move forward with his plans. He would get inside mainland America undetected, with his forged documents and a bit of luck, and he would set up a new splinter cell. Somewhere there he would create a new revolution to rise up and destroy the Americans.

  Moscovich turned his attention to the pilot. “This plane of Haglemann’s. It is a jet?”

  “Yeah,” the pilot said, nodding quickly.

  “Let me ask you another question. Do you consider yourself a hero?”

  “A hero?”

  “Yes, you know. A crusader, a brave man, a strong man.”

  “Look, man, I don’t consider myself nothing big. I’ve got a wife and kids, and I’d like to see them alive again.”

  “You think I’m going to kill you?” Moscovich asked, unable to keep the sound of amusement out of his voice. When the man nodded quickly, Moscovich added with glee, “Absolutely not! Such a thing will not happen! The jet, what is its range?”

  The pilot shrugged. “About twenty-six hundred nautical miles.”

  “And it is fully fueled?”

  “Of course,” the pilot replied with a bit of huff. “I take care of my birds, man. I expect them to get me from point A to point B alive, too, you know. I do the maintenance checks myself. Every week I’ve flown out here and kept that aircraft in perfect working condition. She’ll fly, man. Trust me, she’ll fly.”

  “And you can reach the mainland United States, then.”

  “Better believe it,” the pilot replied. “I can get you anywhere along the West Coast you want. Anywhere. And it’s a private plane with a US registration and standard, on-file flight plan.”

  “Then we won’t have to go through customs?”

  “No, everybody has to go through customs. But we aren’t carrying anything illegal. And as long as you got your passport and other documentation in order, you won’t have any trouble.”

  “And I can expect you will not give me any trouble.”

  “Look, dude, like I said. You want to go anywhere, I’ll take you there.”

  “Why so cooperative?”

  “I figure if I’m your pilot, you aren’t going to kill me. Not unless you can fly.” The man swallowed hard and looked at Moscovich out of the corner of his eye. “I mean...you can’t fly. Right?”

  “Let’s just keep what I can or cannot do out of the conversation. You would not want to know it, I think. But I will tell you this much. I am a man whose word is his bond. If you cooperate and do exactly as you are told—” he waved the pistol for emphasis “—and you do not try anything stupid and fly me where I tell you to? You will come out of this alive.”

  Moscovich pulled a wad of American bills from his pocket. “And a little bit richer. Eh?”

  “Sure, sure,” the pilot replied. “Whatever you say, man. You’re in charge. I won’t give you any trouble.”

  “I thought you might see it my way,” Moscovich replied.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS they were up again in the chopper and headed for Kanaga Island, Bolan placed a secure call to Stony Man. He ran down the events of the past few hours and then gave them the probable location of the crew from the USCGC Llewellyn.

  “Wait a minute,” Price said. “Did you just say they’re located on Semisopochnoi Island?”

  “That’s what Haglemann said,” Bolan replied.

  “Uh-oh, that’s not go
od news. Not good news at all, Striker.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hold on, I’ll let Bear fill you in.”

  “Striker, you aren’t going to like what I’m about to say, so brace yourself,” Kurtzman said. “About forty-five minutes ago, we received an all-points alert issued by NASA and the SIGINT group to the Joint Chiefs. Apparently, a report came down from the Alaska Volcano Observatory that read, and I quote, ‘intense seismic and volcanic activity has been observed and recorded by our team from the Sugarloaf Head, a stratovolcano feature type,’ end quote.”

  “You’re saying there’s an active volcano on that island?”

  “That’s our understanding. According to the AVO’s resident director and credited expert, Dr. Borgstrom, this thing went superhot super quick. He’s claiming that a full eruption may occur in as little as twelve hours. And the news first broke six hours ago, which means–”

  “We’re running out of time,” Bolan concluded.

  The Executioner chewed on that thought a moment. He still had Moscovich to deal with, not to mention it would take them some time to get there. He didn’t even know how much time, actually. Grimaldi would know, however, and when he looked expectantly at the pilot, the man held up two fingers and then twirled his index finger. Bolan got the message: approximately two hours by chopper to reach Semisopochnoi Island.

  “Something in my gut says Haglemann’s telling the truth,” Bolan finally said. “Since only Moscovich is here, it means whatever remains of the RBN team is on that island with them. If the AVO hadn’t been able to predict this eruption, none of the Russians surely would have.”

  “That was our feeling, as well,” Price said. “We’ve forwarded the information to the navy, and they already have a battleship on the way. It happened to be on joint maneuvers in the Bering Sea.”

  “Can they get there in time?” Bolan asked.