Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  Wehr didn’t necessarily believe in a divine creator, but he sure as hell didn’t believe that it was the place of any nation to rule the destiny of others. Wehr had spent his entire life growing up in the EU. He’d moved from one country to another and seen the terrible, destructive forces at work in the United States. There was no accountability here, no means of recompense when America interfered with the sovereignty of other nations while proclaiming in a single loud voice how much they cherished liberty above all else.

  Their activities throughout the world spoke of another agenda, an agenda that wasn’t uncommon to empires that had come to rule in the past. No, America was perhaps the greatest deterrent to a free world, and it was the U.S. military intelligence channels that kept their activities hidden from the rest of the world. And until somebody revealed that on a global scale, nothing would change. America would continue to build new fighter jets and new oceangoing behemoths they could distribute throughout the world. Before long, no country could be safe from the monsters in the American war machine. And Heinrich Wehr could no longer stand by and watch it happen.

  Wehr would be a council of one! And he would shed light into the dark heart of America and expose her shame for all the world to see.

  * * *

  “THERE’S NO DOUBT about it,” Bolan told Price and Brognola over the conference line as the plane touched down. “Penzak wasn’t the only surviving member of the Council. There’s one more, apparently, and he’s the one who masterminded this entire plot.”

  “And you say you don’t have an identity on him?” Price asked.

  “We may have been able to get the information on his travels into and out of Turkey that fits the same time window as the assassination attempt on Quon Ma,” Bolan replied. “Penzak wasn’t initially cooperative with us, but once I applied some pressure he seemed quite anxious to come around to my way of thinking.”

  “There are times when we’re quite glad you can be so persuasive, Striker,” Brognola said. “So what’re your thoughts about this guy?”

  “His real name is Heinrich Wehr. He’s never been a major player in the game. He began life mostly as a small-time hit man for a rather large criminal enterprise in Germany. Essentially this was a group that ran some major action in some of the smaller countries that make up the European Union. Baltic States and such. Small potatoes.”

  “So how did he end up with a group like the Council without any sort of ties to the intelligence community?” Price inquired.

  “Apparently he got wrapped up in political assassination. That put some legs under him and when he happened to come across some confidential documents after the accidental assassination of a CIA agent operating right in Germany, he went off the deep end. He used the information to get to others and that’s when the blackmail started. He formed the Council to act as a shadow agency so he could make his own plans.”

  “You think he’s orchestrated all the other recent events?”

  Bolan nodded. “It explains how some of the security controls put in place on our military intelligence community were so easily compromised. If it wasn’t somebody he could bribe, then it was someone he’d manipulate. If he couldn’t manipulate them, he’d threaten them.”

  “And it explains how he was able to put the team together in Colorado that managed to crack our signals intelligence.”

  “Right. Once he knew how to work the flaws in the system, he could replicate that throughout every intelligence agency that had any connection to American military intelligence. He also assassinated a courier used quite often by agencies throughout the regions in Turkey.”

  “So what makes you think Tyndall Air Force Base is his intended target?” Brognola inquired.

  “It only makes sense, Hal,” Bolan said. “You’ll recall that when all of this started, the trail led us there. I think it was the plan all the time. But when I almost had it figured out down in Guatemala, Wehr did what he does best and put up a bunch of smoke and mirrors to distract us. Plus, Penzak seemed pretty insistent that’s where we needed to look. I just didn’t want to put the whole base on high alert because of the potential fallout. Not to mention it’s going to make my job that much harder if things get hot and the press starts crawling over the base looking for answers. A few newsworthy shots of yours truly and the whole thing could blow up in our faces.”

  “Not to mention how it might alert Wehr that you’re on to him,” Price added.

  “We don’t want that. Especially in light of the recent deaths of our servicemen,” Brognola said. “We’re still trying to sort out that whole mess with the government in Guatemala while keeping it quiet. The families are asking a lot of questions and we don’t know how much longer we can hold them off.”

  Bolan shook his head at the two faces peering back at him on the small computer monitor, part of the communications package aboard the jet. “Our government could try the truth once in a while. They died in action attempting to defend their country. People can be pretty understanding if they think they’re getting the straight story.”

  “Well, politics won’t necessarily permit us to go there,” Price said, although there wasn’t a hint of malice in her voice.

  Bolan knew that it wasn’t either Brognola or Price’s idea to cope with the death of American military personnel in such a fashion. People just wanted to be informed when it came to their loved ones, and they could better accept the death of a loved on defending his or her country and being a hero than some glad-handing or cockamamie story that didn’t explain a thing.

  “I know,” Bolan said. “Let’s forget about that. The important thing now is to locate Wehr and neutralize whatever he has planned.”

  “Any ideas on how to do that?” Brognola asked.

  “Penzak said Wehr plans to do something spectacular,” Bolan said. “Those were his words, not mine, and apparently he basically quoted Wehr in saying it. The Council put the location and other stuff together but only Wehr had the actual plan.”

  “Well, there are any number of spectacular things a maniac like that might come up with to do on a military base,” Price said. “He might explode a bomb in a barracks building or he might charge an AP security gate with explosives strapped to his chest.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said. “It’s just not big enough.”

  “It would be big enough to the media,” Price reminded him.

  “Wehr doesn’t care about the media,” Bolan replied. “He’s a fanatic, and the only thing fanatics typically concern themselves with is creating as much wanton destruction as possible. They want to kill lots of people, destroy...something. Make a statement.”

  “A mass shooting spree?”

  Bolan shook his head. “Wouldn’t be anything as mundane or obvious as that. You have to remember that getting the credentials for base access would be child’s play for Wehr. But getting something like weapons or explosives onto the base, that’s something else entirely.”

  “You think he’ll use whatever’s available to him?” Price asked.

  “Exactly.”

  As the aircraft rolled to a stop, Grimaldi’s voice broke in. “Sorry to cut into your chat here, folks, but I was listening to the conversation and something just occurred to me.”

  “We’re all ears, Jack,” Price replied. “Lay it on us.”

  “Well, if memory serves correctly, there’s supposed to be a demonstration this morning of the new F-35B Lightning II airspace superiority fighters delivered to Tyndall. It might be that Wehr has something planned for that. There are supposed to be a lot of dignitaries for the initial demonstration, not to mention it’s a PR extravaganza. Air shows are highly popular in Florida and this one promises to be a doozy.”

  “That’s it!” Bolan said. “There’s no doubt in my mind that’s the mark. Wehr wouldn’t be able to pass it up. It plays right into his wheelhouse
. It was clear that he’d all but brainwashed Amocacci into taking the role he did with the Council, and there’s evidence to support his antiwar machine doctrine.”

  “Okay, Striker,” Brognola said. “We’ll leave this in your capable hands. Be careful and don’t take any chances. The President has authorized whatever action is necessary to neutralize this individual.”

  “Understood,” Bolan said. “Out.”

  Bolan killed the connection and levered his big frame out of the seat. He donned a web belt that had been hanging from a nearby seat and then grabbed an MP5K from the onboard armory.

  Bolan made it to the hatchway just as Grimaldi got it opened up and the stairs lowered.

  “Want me to tag along?”

  The Executioner shook his head. “Not this time, Jack. I’m going this one alone.”

  “I understand.”

  “Take a rest. You’ve earned it.”

  “So have you.”

  “Not yet,” Bolan replied grimly as he descended the steps.

  The government sedan he’d requested waited just off the tarmac. It was a new Dodge Charger with a couple of special modifications. One included bulletproof glass and the other was a reinforced body to withstand rolls. Bolan laid the MP5K on the seat next to him and cranked the engine. He dropped the selector into gear and tromped the accelerator, heading directly for the flight line where he recalled the fighters were parked. He couldn’t be sure if Wehr had something planned for after the fighters were in the air or if he’d arranged a ground show.

  Whatever it was, though, Mack Bolan intended to make sure it never came off.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD SPENT more than thirty minutes driving up and down the flight line looking for anything unusual. A small crowd of civilians had begun to gather behind the barricades, but most of the military dignitaries hadn’t yet arrived. Bolan checked his watch again. More than an hour remained until showtime and he wondered if he’d showed up too early. His plan had been to see if he could flush Wehr into the open, but now he was beginning to wonder if he’d been duped.

  Bolan was about to leave the area to go check out some of the other flight lines when he spotted a technician walking toward the aircraft. Then the technician did something completely out of character. He walked directly behind one of the aircraft and straight into a path line that under live conditions would have gotten him sucked right into the engine. Any real technician or mechanic would never have done that if for no other reason than out of sheer habit.

  Bolan stepped on the accelerator and rocketed toward the technician’s position. The man turned toward him at the sound of roaring engine, then started to race for a massive repair hangar about fifty yards away. The Executioner tried to coax more speed from the powerful engine, but he knew he wouldn’t make it to the hangar before Wehr made it inside.

  Bolan grabbed up the MP5 on the passenger seat, jacked the charging handle to the rear and stuck the subgun out the window, triggering a burst that diverted Wehr from his initial goal of getting inside the hangar. He tried to hit the man in the legs, cut out any chance of his escape, but Wehr juked to the left at the last moment and Bolan missed. The Executioner nearly lost control of his vehicle but managed to keep it aright as he adjusted direction for another shot.

  Wehr suddenly cut left again and ducked between a pair of fifty-five-gallon drums. Bolan tromped on the brakes, suddenly aware that those drums looked out of place in their present location. Smoke rolled up from the tires as rubber melted into the pavement. The Executioner managed to get the vehicle stopped. Through the haze of gray-blue smoke he saw Wehr reach into one of the drums and withdraw a long, cylindrical object.

  Bolan recognized it immediately: rocket launcher!

  He no longer wondered what Wehr had in store relative to his demonstration, but he also knew the guy would change his plans in a moment if it meant the possibility of escape. Brognola’s words echoed in Bolan’s ears as he vaulted the center console, opened the passenger-side door of the Dodge, and went EVA.

  He managed to clear the vehicle by about ten or twelve yards before he felt the whoosh of heat and flame that seemed to consume the air around him. Bolan smelled the singed hair on his arms, felt the crispy curl of the hair on his head and hands just before he realized the flames had ignited his fire-resistant blacksuit. Bolan dropped and began to roll on his back to put out the flames while he beat at a patch just inside his right thigh.

  Bolan finally rolled to his feet and whirled in time to see Wehr load a second RPG. Instead of firing at Bolan, though, he turned and began to run in the direction of the flight line and the F-35B fighters parked there. More of concern, however, were the unsuspecting bystanders and citizens just standing around. It was another sunny day in Florida, and a chance to see some exciting aeronautics of the most advanced fighter jet in the world was not to be missed. Little did they suspect that a maniac named Heinrich Wehr had planned to turn it into more like a Fourth of July celebration by creating some of his own fireworks.

  The Executioner wouldn’t allow it to happen.

  Bolan went after Wehr, wisps of smoke still emanating from his charred clothing as he hammered the pavement for all he was worth. Blood pumped through his strong legs and his lungs burned with the already humid morning air.

  Bolan rounded the corner of another hangar building that opened onto the flight line and watched as Wehr came to a halt and aimed the RPG at one of the F-35B Lightning II aircraft. Bolan snap-aimed the MP5 and yanked on the trigger, but nothing happened. The subgun had jammed, probably taking damage in the fall after the explosion. Bolan dropped the weapon and clawed at the military holster on his hip. He cleared the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

  The Executioner sighted and squeezed the trigger. The heavy slug punched through the center body of the RPG and it shattered in Wehr’s hand, becoming utterly worthless in a moment. Unfortunately, while the bullet went through the fragile plastic and thin metal of the launcher, it missed Wehr’s head entirely. The impact had apparently dazed him, though, because he hesitated for a moment or two. Then he seemed to regain his senses, turned to see Bolan now on approach and immediately took off again.

  Bolan saw the guy heading directly for the crowd of civilians, but at the last second he seemed to veer off.

  The Executioner let out a massive breath of relief, thankful he wouldn’t be forced into a hostage situation. The foot chase continued up the long tarmac; it looked as if Wehr was determined to reach another hangar building.

  Before Bolan could wave them off, a pair of security police vehicles rushed toward Wehr on an intercept course. One of them squealed to a halt just in front of him. The driver jumped out and reached for his pistol. He’d just cleared it from his holster when Wehr slammed into him full-force, punching him in the throat with his right hand as he grabbed the AP’s pistol with his left. The kid’s head was slammed against the metal roof and then Wehr raised the pistol and shot the officer in the face.

  Bolan clenched his teeth as he watched the carnage unfold. The man’s partner, a woman, was out of the passenger side of the vehicle and had her gun drawn with admirable speed. Unfortunately the only shot she managed to get off went right over Wehr’s head as he ducked into the vehicle and shot the officer in the belly low enough that the vest wouldn’t protect her.

  Wehr put the AP vehicle in gear and started off when the second squad came up and rammed him in the side, attempting to put him into a spin that would cause his vehicle to either stop or flip onto its side. Wehr managed to gain control of the car while simultaneously sticking the pistol out the window and triggering one successive shot after another at the other car.

  Bolan reached Wehr’s commandeered vehicle just as the tires were smoking and he attempted to get away. The Executioner raised his pistol and blew two holes in the passenger-side window before throwing his entire body through it, arm
s extended directly in front of him. The maneuver surprised Wehr and his head rocked against the B-post of the vehicle as Bolan’s fist connected with his jaw.

  The Executioner wasn’t finished—not by a long shot.

  As Wehr fumbled for his weapon, and as the images of the young man and woman who’d just been killed in cold blood rushed through his mind, Bolan pointed the .44 Magnum directly under Wehr’s chin and squeezed the trigger. The top of the man’s head exploded and the roof turned a splotchy gray-red color, splattering both top and side window with a gory spray of blood and brain matter. The vehicle was now slowing, the driver no longer alive to demand acceleration.

  Bolan dropped his pistol and twisted his body so that he could reach the brake pedal with his left hand. He slammed the palm of his hand against the pedal and then put the gearshift in Park. The heat blasted off the tarmac and sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. With one last effort, Bolan turned the ignition off and fought the urge to pass out. Only his stinging eyes and his sides, which hurt with the exertion and impact of the battle, kept him conscious.

  Two officers helped extricate Bolan from the vehicle as additional squads and an ambulance arrived. They immediately began to block off the scene, but nobody asked Bolan questions. In the utter pandemonium he was able to slip away.

  Bolan hadn’t gotten more than fifty or sixty yards from the scene when Grimaldi rolled up in another sedan. “Hey, there, buddy. Need a lift?”

  * * * * *

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