Colorado Kill-Zone

by Don Pendleton

  “What is the combination, Leo?”

  “Listen, I’ve been on the horn with the New York headshed since just after I talked to you. Their nickel, not mine. They had me on the grill all this time, making me go over and over again every little thing I could tell them about you. What you eat, when you eat, how you part your hair. And, listen, the guy doing the asking is no clown. He—”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know the guy and nobody bothered with introductions. Talks with a sort of a southern drawl, uses military jargon, cusses a lot, has a springtrap mind.”

  “This was New York?”

  “Yeah, the commissioners. Augie came on first and told me to answer the man’s questions. Then a couple of guys had a go at me before this cornpone colonel took over. He—”

  “Is that a figure of speech or …?”

  “Yeah. I got no hint at all of who or what the guy is. But then, after the inquisition, Augie came back on the horn and we chatted for a few minutes. That old man is rubbing his hands in anticipation of your head, friend. He can already feel it. Listen, he let it drop that they’ve been sucking you toward Colorado for months now. I don’t know exactly what the combination is, but Augie is sure rolling high with it. Here’s the impression I got. It’s a three-layer structure of cops, military, and the mob. The mob is providing the suck, the military is the hard machine, the cops are the containment forces. I don’t know how this happened, Sarge, without me getting a whiff of it. I let you down. And I just feel miserable about the whole—”

  “It’s okay, Leo. Think hard, now, and tell me something. Your call came from New York. You talked to Augie, first. Then he handed you over to these other guys. Can you say for a fact that the other guys were in New York? Or could that have been a three-point conference call?”

  Silence ruled the wire for a moment, then Turrin quietly replied, “I assumed that they were there together. But, yeah, I guess it could have been a conference. It was a security line, though—you know, a scrambler. But—well, I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “It could, yeah. Did you ever brush up against the intelligence boys while you were Army, Leo?”

  “Once or twice, yeah.”

  “These people, uh …”

  “Yeah, same image. Went like a de-briefing. Those guys are military, Sarge.”

  Bolan sighed. “Okay, Leo. Thanks. It fits everything I’ve touched out here. Any word yet from Hal?”

  “He wants you to call him direct. Wouldn’t give me a hint. Closed as a clam. He got your package, but he wouldn’t even discuss it with me. Says it’s a case when the least I know the better off I am.”

  “That’s probably true,” Bolan said. “Watch yourself, Leo. I’m afraid we have a whole new ball game. A cozy marriage here could make you an unwanted stepchild, damn quick. Be sure you know who your friends are and move very quietly even around them.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that,” the undercover cop replied grimly. “When I first talked to Hal, earlier this morning, he swore he knew nothing about this combination. If they’ve even bypassed him to marry up—well, yeah, it is a new game.”

  “Watch your tracks, Leo.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do that. You get your ass out of those mountains.”

  “Can’t. All I can do now is sit it out.”

  “You can’t do that either, Sarge. Not for long. They didn’t suck you in there for a casual romp and a run. They’ll wait you out. You know that.”

  Bolan sighed. “Yeah. Well, I’m playing the ear right now, Leo. Maybe I’ll have a better handle after I’ve talked to Hal.”

  “Sarge?”

  “Yeah. I’m still here.”

  “Listen. You can’t even fight these guys. They’ve got too much going.”

  “What are you suggesting? A white flag? That’s sudden death and you know it. Once I’m in the box—”

  “I was thinking maybe a deal, through Hal. A quiet surrender, a super maximum security detention, and then …”

  “And then what?” Bolan inquired mildly.

  “You’re right, it wouldn’t work,” Turrin said dismally. “It’d be a field day for the media, though. You might think of it that way. The boys would get to you, sure, but you’d sure go out with a blaze of attention.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan said drily. “Give my apologies to the press corps, will you, Leo. I’m not going that way.”

  Turrin tried a chuckle which did not quite make it and he was obviously struggling toward lightness as he asked his old friend, “Hey, you aren’t really down to thinking about how you’ll go out, are you?”

  “I’ve been down to that since the beginning,” Bolan told him soberly. “Nothing’s changed, Leo. Except the odds.”

  “Yeah, well …”

  “Thanks for worrying, Leo. Save it for yourself, though. Ringing off. I want that talk with Hal.”

  “Hey, uh—anything you’d like me to tell Johnny?”

  The kid brother. What to tell him?

  Bolan asked, “Is he happy with his new home?”

  “Seems to be. He’s got a horse. Well, a colt, anyway. Yeah, he’s happy.”

  “Tell him nothing, Leo.”

  “Okay, sure. Uh, dammit. I hope—I hope …”

  “You’re a good friend, Leo. Take care.”

  Bolan hung up, stared at the telephone for a moment, then fed in another dime.

  It was time to say goodbye to another old friend.

  9: BETS OFF

  Brognola stood immobile at the window of his operations room, half of his mind on the clock and the other half on the stack of computer print-outs which was growing steadily.

  The entire office staff froze when the “straight line” beeped with an incoming call. The operations chief glanced at Brognola then scooped up the instrument and announced, “Justice Two.”

  He gave Brognola an eye flash and nodded his head.

  “Freeze it,” Brognola growled and hurried into his inner sanctum.

  He picked up the call in there.

  “Striker here,” identified the damnedest guy.

  “Are you okay?”

  “For the moment, yeah. I just talked to Sticker. He reads a three-layer deck. What are you reading?”

  “Treason, maybe,” Brognola growled. “Either that or the slickest con I’ve ever encountered. There’s nothing official going down here, Striker.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “This is a straight line, you know. I can’t say everything that’s in my mind, not in this town, not anymore. I can tell you this. The men you sent me do not exist. They died in Vietnam, a long time ago. I’ll tell you something else. Your vehicle doesn’t exist. It was destroyed at Fort Logan eight months ago.”

  “Well, well.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m running down some interesting streets right now. It will take another five to six hours to just analyze the data that’s pouring from the computer. Are you in a cool drop?”

  “Cool, yeah, but getting warmer by the minute. I doubt that I can count on another five or six hours. Things are stacking up out here, and very fast. All I want from you, Hal, is an identification. Friend or foe—what is it?”

  “Too early to say for sure,” the fed replied. “But if it’s friends, they sure carry a peculiar odor. That, uh, government reservation you sent me, Striker—it’s for real. It’s not Army, though—Department of Interior. Some months back there was a move instigated from somewhere inside the Pentagon to transfer the property to Army. The site has been in an inactive status for years. It was some sort of a scientific research station, something to do with glaciation, watersheds, and so forth. Anyway, Army wanted it and the transfer got started through the paper mill. Then it was bounced back on some routine inquiry and no one could locate the originating office.”

  “What is that office, Hal?”

  “Domestic Programs section—some outfit called Civil Contingency Reaction Force. That was an outfit that existed for about twelve hours—on paper on
ly. I remember it. We knocked it down at NSC. Some sort of wild, counterrevolutionary idea. Anyway, the transfer of the property never went through. It’s still carried on Interior’s inactive lists.”

  “Someone’s living there, Hal.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m treading lightly until I get more information. If we find that someone at the Pentagon has shotgunned through an illicit operation, there’ll be some heads rolling.”

  “Meanwhile,” Bolan said, sighing, “I have this problem, Hal.”

  “I suggest that you try to duck it. I have all channels open to Denver, so rely on what I am about to say as true. Someone out there has been very busy organizing an area-wide tactical strike plan. Even has my own people rung in on it—the FBI, federal marshals, parks department—even the treasury boys, I understand. They’re calling it a Regional Strike Force, and it is at full alert at this very moment with you-know-who as their target. I don’t know how you’re going to get out of there, Striker, but I can tell you how you’re not going to get out. You’re not going to get out by rail, plane, or bus, and you’re not going to get out via highway.”

  “Who’d you say strung this together?”

  “I didn’t say, because I don’t know. It apparently started at the grass roots, and not even my people on the scene can tell me exactly when or by what magic all those diverse agencies were coaxed into such a beautifully cooperative effort. I’m looking into that, also.”

  “I’m looking for a Captain somebody,” Bolan mused.

  “An army captain?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “That civil reaction force was the brainchild of an army captain,” Brognola recalled. “It would have made him a major if we’d gone along with it. Hold on a minute.” He pushed in the intercom and ordered the CCRF file. “I believe I can give you a name, for what it’s worth.”

  “It could be worth a lot,” Bolan assured him.

  The operations chief hurried into the office and opened a manila envelope for Brognola’s scrutiny. He reported to Bolan, “Harrelson, Franklin P. Line officer, combat infantry. A string of decorations almost as long as yours.”

  “I know the guy,” Bolan replied quietly.

  “It means something, then?”

  “I don’t know, Hal. Yeah, maybe it does. Is Harrelson a southerner?”

  “Says here he’s a native of Arkansas.”

  “Uh huh, okay, same guy. You need to talk to Sticker about that.”

  “I do?”

  “You sure do. And dig hard on that busted force. I believe I’ve found my enemy.”

  “Wait a minute, now. You’re saying …”

  “I’m saying it’s a cosmetic force. Harrelson couldn’t sell his army to the NSC so he took it to another market. Look into the computer accesses at the Pentagon, particularly with regard to personnel files and material. Look for a connection to Harrelson, especially with regard to surplused or missing equipment. I’m thinking of Southeast Asia now, Hal, and the final disposition of all that stuff we sent over there. You should pull a computer check, also, of all the personnel who served under Harrelson in the combat theaters—who they are and where they are now. Also—”

  “What the hell are you suggesting?” Brognola fumed.

  “You know what I’m suggesting,” the damned guy replied casually. “I’m looking for a killer force, Hal, and I suggest that’s what you’d better be doing, too. It’s not a pentagon problem, friend, it’s your problem. If these guys are what I think they are, and if they’ve joined up with the mob—well, yeah, friend, you’ve got one hell of a problem.”

  “I’m coming out there.”

  “That’s your decision,” Bolan told him. “But you may hit more paydirt right where you are. I’m pulling out the stops, Hal. I’m coming out of the hole.”

  “Well, wait, dammit. You’re taking an awful lot for granted. I think you should—”

  “I’m reading my gut, Hal. It’s never failed me yet. Uh, I guess I called mainly to say goodbye to a friend. But I’m not saying goodbye yet, friend. Hang in there.”

  “Hold on! I may have another nugget for you. It fell out of a program scan on your government reservation. A lady who lives in that general area filed a complaint three weeks ago. Said that her brother was roughed up by quote some soldiers unquote while he was on a hike. Lady says they threw him face down in a truck and interrogated him with guns at his head, then let him go. The pentagon PRO filed it and forgot it because, as they said, there was no military presence in the area of the complaint. Maybe, uh, you’d want to talk to that lady.”

  “I guess not,” Bolan decided. “I think I have all I need.”

  “I talked to the lady an hour ago, by phone,” Brognola informed his friend. “She denies it all, now. Said it was all a misunderstanding. Striker, the lady was terrified.”

  Bolan said, “Okay. I’ll try to look into it. Maybe there’s an angle there.”

  Brognola passed him the identity and location of the “terrified lady.”

  “I understand it’s a small winter resort,” he added. “A sort of shoestring operation run entirely by Mrs. Sanderson and her brother. Uh, I asked to speak to the brother, and she told me he wasn’t available. I pressed her, and she fell apart. I was going to give this to my Denver office for follow-up, but I’ll hold off a day or so if you’d like to give it a go.”

  “Do that,” Bolan said. The guy’s mind was obviously not centered on the conversation. The voice was noncommital, distant. “Don’t come out here, Hal,” he said, the voice suddenly brisk again. “And tell your people to stand clear.”

  “I understand,” Brognola said quietly.

  “Stay hard,” Bolan said, and disconnected.

  Brognola blinked his eyes and hung up his instrument.

  The operations chief closed the CCRF file and asked his chief, “Is it a go?”

  “It’s a go,” Brognola muttered. “Hit it with everything we’ve got. Don’t play cute games with anyone. If you hit a snag anywhere—I mean anywhere—refer the problem directly to my attention.”

  The guy grinned and hurried back to his station.

  Brognola dropped his weight to a corner of the desk, bit the plug out of a cigar, and said aloud to the room at large: “Damn, damn. Here we go again.”

  10: GOING

  The tension in that neighborhood was enough to twang the hairs in Bolan’s nose. The police presence was still out there, visible, persistent, on the prowl and making no bones about it. That invisible presence was out there, also, though—and this was the one of greatest concern to the man in the web. The sweep was reminiscent of another time, another place—and Bolan recognized it. “Saturation Baker” they’d called it, in the hell-grounds. They’d used it to sweep liberated villages of hidden enemy presence. The technique had proven quite effective in Vietnam. It was a simple suck plan, designed to flush the hidden enemy into the open, utilizing psychological sleight-of-hand to encourage the enemy to reveal his position. And, yeah, it was a simple game. You simply showed yourself, in great force, and you maintained that visibility while conducting a house-to-house sweep. Sooner or later the enemy would bolt, timing his withdrawal to avoid the visible forces. Meanwhile, you were playing all the withdrawal routes with your invisible force which suddenly became highly visible at the point of contact.

  Yeah, Bolan recognized the saturation sweep.

  And he recognized the military mind behind it.

  Frank Harrelson had developed Saturation Baker to a fine art. It had been his specialty during a war of specialists, and his combat teams had formed the cutting edge of the pacification program. Continued excellence in a combat theater does not go unnoticed—particularly not by the professional soldiers who people that theater. For a man at war, the chief form of recreation is talking—and a lot of soldiers had spent a lot of admiring conversation on the redoubtable Captain Harrelson of Pre-Pac Charlie. The guy had become a legend in a land of legends, as had Bolan himself. It had perhaps been inevitable t
hat the two were thrown together in a number of joint missions—Bolan’s team at the point and showing the way, Harrelson’s Houdinis swooping in for the big broom and turkeyshoot.

  Yeah. Mack Bolan knew the hardass captain with the cornpone drawl. And there was little doubt in his mind, now, that Pre-Pac Charlie had turned its cutting edge into the Get Bolan turkey-shoot. It was not an intellectual judgment but a gut assessment. Something had gone sour for Harrelson, back in ’Nam. For some undisclosed reason, the guy had been rotated to rear area duty in a noncombative role. Campfire gossip built many scenarios into that mystery but no facts. People had reported seeing Harrelson from time to time, however, in hellground situations where he should not have been seen—deepening the mystery and intensifying the talk that Captain Harrelson was “into something new and big.”

  Whatever that “something” was, it had not materialized in the hellgrounds by the time Bolan quit that place. He had never seen or heard of Harrelson again, until that surprising conversation with Hal Brognola from this latest front porch of hell.

  Tied to the disclosure by Leo Turrin regarding his interrogation by a southern-talking military type, it seemed too much and too tight for coincidence.

  And, yeah—Bolan knew now what he was up against.

  Pre-Pac Charlie. Psychological sleight-of-hand. The show of force, the feint, the big wallop. He’d tasted it, already, on a lonely road leading to the highlands. He’d smelled it, strongly, in a brooding neighborhood in Cherry Hills.

  And it was twanging his hairs in this apartment complex at the edge of hell.

  Point and counterpoint.

  There was but one way to play the game. Bolan returned to his apartment and again changed clothes, this time selecting a conservative business suit, white shirt, subdued tie. He retained the Beretta, in shoulder harness, but added a “show piece”—a .38 snub nose chief’s special clipped to the belt at hip level. Then he selected a snapbrim hat and went down to join the search for a fugitive.

  He timed his exit from the building to coincide with the cruising approach of a police vehicle, which immediately pulled to the curb and halted as he ran up the street to meet it.