War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  This environment didn’t bother Moscovich or his men. They had trained for it in some of the coldest regions of Russia. They were used to it, knew how to survive in its inhospitable embrace, and they were all the better prepared for it. Of course, their base of operations was another matter entirely.

  Within minutes of arriving at the port, they were aboard their motor launch and traveling at high speed across the Bering Sea. Thanks to Haglemann’s influence, they could come and go at will without having to jump through hoops. They didn’t need any clearances, naturally—it wouldn’t do to slam into another boat just to protect their autonomy—but it was better than attempting to travel by aircraft. Especially since word had it that the military had turned most of the area into a no-fly zone. But nobody questioned them, and no customs or police agents showed up to inspect their boat. Not that it would have mattered. Haglemann had the Adak police department under his thumb, too. They operated independently, but they didn’t really concern themselves with Haglemann’s specific business interests.

  Greed. The entire show was run by greed, and Moscovich had been trained to take advantage of that selfish desire, particularly among American citizens.

  The boat reached the island four hours later at a makeshift dock nestled along the southern fringes of the Rat Islands. Moscovich and Vizhgail left the dock and headed toward an outcropping, making their way behind the rocks and eventually reaching the entrance to a cavern concealed behind a wall of brush. Mounted to an oval frame of aluminum tubes was a heat-scattering material designed to diffuse the signature that marked it as a heat source.

  They had landed on Semisopochnoi Island, though their team had taken to calling it Semisop for short. The fact that it was uninhabited was one of the main reasons for choosing it, but also because it was highly challenging terrain for outsiders to negotiate. At only three-hundred-sixty square kilometers it had four peaks that were between seven hundred and almost thirteen hundred meters. Its last volcanic eruption, in Mount Cerberus, had occurred in 1987, more than one hundred years after the previous one. However, its magma chambers were still quite active and not as viscous, so they tended to flow much faster and build up gases at a higher rate, too. All in all, it wasn’t the safest place to be, but it was abandoned and drew very little attention outside the scientific community. Nobody would bother them there—nobody would even bother to look for them there, so Moscovich was convinced they could conduct their work undisturbed.

  So far, he’d been right. Semisop also had the added advantage of being a perfect prison, as could attest the group of military personnel who sat under round-the-clock guard while jailed behind giant fishing cages.

  After Moscovich and his team had successfully used the new jamming technology to down the plane—there had been no survivors—they’d tested its efficacy against the USCGC Llewellyn. The device had performed with spectacular results, although Moscovich didn’t really pretend to understand all the technical achievements behind it.

  All he knew was that they now had a fantastic weapon to use against the Americans.

  Of course, there had been some survivors aboard the cutter that they had been forced to take prisoner. Moscovich didn’t fancy himself a soldier, but he also wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. He did not murder unarmed personnel, be they American military or otherwise. He sought only to further the ambitions of his people by stripping America of her identity and her wealth. If he could do that, nature would do the rest, as history had repeatedly shown its abhorrence of a vacuum. Then again, the prisoners hadn’t proven to be much bother. Once the key troublemakers had been dispatched by Moscovich’s group of commandos, who’d been schooled in the finest tactics by former Spetsnaz and GRU trainers, the remaining navy personnel had fallen in line quickly.

  Moscovich and Vizhgail moved past the group and advanced deeper into the cavern until they reached the main operations area. The lights were powered by long-life battery cells, which were recharged using a series of small diesel generators. They had plenty of potable water hauled in regularly from Port Adak, along with food and other supplies that could last them a month, maybe two if they had to ration.

  They could have operated here perhaps indefinitely. But it was damn hot, the result of molten lava that rose through natural vents in the dense basalt and rock. The operations supervisor, Benyamin Tokov, one of the toughest and smartest men he had ever known, greeted them with a curt nod. “How did it go?”

  “Not well,” Moscovich replied. “I had to exchange the usual pleasantries with Haglemann.”

  “I wish we could just kill that sloth. He’s a thorn in our sides.”

  “We can’t let him deflect us from our mission. And I’m more concerned about the recent reports from his people on Unalaska.”

  Tokov’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

  “Apparently not twelve hours after our operation against the cutter, a man showed up at the main station. His flight was last minute, unannounced and not a regular scheduled courier or freight hauler. Naturally, Haglemann was suspicious and ordered his men at the airport on Unalaska to check it out.”

  “Ultimately, there was a conflict, and Haglemann’s men got their collective asses handed to them,” Vizhgail added.

  Tokov frowned and locked eyes with Moscovich. “That sounds almost like—”

  “Yes,” Moscovich cut in. “That was my thinking, as well.”

  “Could it be a coincidence?”

  “I don’t know,” Moscovich said. “But it moves up the timetable, regardless. Haglemann won’t be able to keep this newcomer out for long. Eventually someone will come to Adak and begin asking questions, and that will inevitably lead them to us. We have to move before that happens.”

  “But the sub is still a month or better out.”

  “We’re going to have to ask for it to come sooner, then.”

  Moscovich turned to Vizhgail. “Alexei, make contact with them and take care of it.”

  When Vizhgail left them, Tokov guided Moscovich out of earshot of the technicians and guards. “I would assume if this is who we think it is, you don’t plan to let him leave alive.”

  Moscovich put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my brother. I would move Mount Cerberus if it meant I could have the pleasure of dispatching this man. We will find him and eliminate him if that fool Haglemann cannot. I swear it on my last breath.”

  * * *

  AFTER BOLAN LEFT Corsack’s house, he returned to the plane where Jack Grimaldi waited for him. The pilot could see from the grim look on Bolan’s face that things hadn’t gone well.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “A lot,” Bolan replied. “If my suspicions are correct.”

  “Doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not. Do you remember the mission I took a few years ago in Boston? The one that led to that terrorist operation against the banking system?”

  Grimaldi frowned as he pondered the reference. He scratched his neck and finally replied, “Yeah, I think so. Wasn’t that when the Russian Business Network tried to use one of their computer hackers to develop a system that would run amok inside the framework right there on Wall Street?”

  “One and the same,” Bolan said. “And I have a feeling it’s the RBN behind this current situation.”

  “What? How’s that possible?” Grimaldi looked skeptical. “I mean come on, Sarge, I trust you all the way. But don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch? I don’t see how the RBN could have the resources to pull off something like this, never mind a motive.”

  “The motive’s unimportant. And the evidence the RBN’s behind this is overwhelming.” Bolan told Grimaldi the story of his encounter, leaving out none of the details. He concluded his narrative by saying, “The RBN may not have the resources alone to do something like this, but you can bet they would if they’re manipulating Davis Haglemann in so
me way. The guy’s practically established his own empire on Adak, and he’s done it right under the nose of the US government.”

  “And you think the RBN’s been keeping it quiet in exchange for...?”

  “A port free of customs inquiries,” Bolan said. “They can come and go as they like on Adak as long as Haglemann’s in charge. And meanwhile all the traffic looks legit, so nobody asks any questions. He’s paying the top brass big money to keep quiet.”

  “So he gets rich and the RBN gets what?”

  “That’s the answer we don’t have,” Bolan said. “Yet.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right. What’s the plan?”

  “Corsack was able to give me the lowdown on information relative to a private club Haglemann runs here. I’m going to poke the bear and see what happens.”

  Grimaldi chuckled. “Poke the bear—no pun intended, of course.”

  “Of course,” the Executioner replied.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As soon as darkness fell, Bolan geared up and left the terminal. The only transportation available was a motorcycle, a cold venture for this time of year, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The Executioner wore a thermal-insulated black suit, along with boots, goggles and a full mask to protect Bolan’s lungs from breathing icy winds. The Beretta rode in well-oiled shoulder rigging, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle occupied its usual place of honor on his right hip. Finally, a carbine version of the FN-FNC was slung across his back. Manufactured by Fabrique Nationale de Herstal, the FNC had proven a versatile and trustworthy companion on many of Bolan’s missions. This wouldn’t be any exception, especially since Bolan had no idea what he was up against and had almost no intelligence to go on.

  The Executioner made his trip to the clubhouse unchallenged and parked his motorcycle in an unpaved area between two run-down buildings. It surprised him that a guy as allegedly fastidious as Haglemann would permit such structures to exist anywhere near his club. The club itself was modern, laid out with plenty of space, and attractive. A small flight of flagstone steps led to the grand entrance, which consisted of heavy double doors of carved wood and a generous overhang.

  Bolan withdrew night-vision goggles and scanned the terrain. He could make out only a little behind the fuzzy, gray-green rendering. There wasn’t much light to speak of, even when the NVDs were set at the highest level. At least the infrared seemed to be working, and Bolan could see the remnant heat signatures from at least four separate figures. Bolan had suspected from what Corsack told him the place was a hard site, and this only confirmed it. If this had been the security or the job for which Lustrum had Bolan in mind, the Executioner could do worse going in.

  Yeah, it was time to shake things up a bit and see just how deep Haglemann and Lustrum had thrown their hands in with the RBN.

  * * *

  YORGI ZAKOFF HATED the Americans and cursed the day he’d been forced to work with them—especially this crew. When Moscovich had first ordered him to stand in for Lustrum, Zakoff had obeyed without question. After all, there were certain sacrifices that had to be made if they were to achieve their goal of visiting retribution on America. But now, having spent the past few months working with Lustrum’s guys, a bunch of uneducated dockworkers who were neither as tough nor as smart as they thought themselves, Zakoff had just about reached his limits.

  Seeing Rov die at the hands of the newcomer hadn’t done anything to improve his mood. He couldn’t believe that Lustrum would have even entertained the notion just because some dumb bitch had asked him for a favor. Not that it had been all Lustrum’s fault. Rov should have waited until another opportunity to take the American, a place and time of his own choosing. Attacking the guy after it had been declared finished had been foolish, and now Rov was dead. Not that Zakoff didn’t hold Lustrum responsible. When the time came, he’d find a way to pay back Lustrum and the newcomer.

  “Jeez, Otak, would ya play a goddamn card already,” Hans said. “My legs are falling asleep waiting on your slow ass!”

  Melburn, the other native worker who’d been born on Unalaska and raised on Adak, let out a guffaw. Consumption of too much beer had already started to slur his words. “He probably lost count, Hans.”

  Zakoff shook his head as he watched the three stevedores play cutthroat spades. They’d invited him to sit in, but he’d refused—just another reason to dislike these men. They were supposed to be security for the club, but instead they liked to drink beers and play cards all night. He’d pointed it out to his boss once, but the team leader had just thrown it back in his face, advising that nothing ever happened, anyway, and nobody was stupid enough to cross Davis Haglemann. After that, Zakoff didn’t broach the subject again, instead musing that even if they did encounter trouble, they probably wouldn’t be able to handle it if they were stone-cold sober.

  The thought went through Zakoff’s mind just a moment before Hans’s head exploded from the bullet that went through his skull. Gory aftermath splattered Hans’s teammates and their card table. Otak and Melburn reacted with rather incredible speed, considering they had been drinking, let alone they had never encountered anything like this before. On the other hand, Zakoff had been trained for years to respond to just a situation like this and he acted as training dictated. The Russian whipped out his .357 Magnum SIG Sauer P239 pistol and went for cover.

  Melburn and Otak had jumped from their seats and looked for their own shelter, but only Otak succeeded. Melburn caught a round in the side that punctured a lung before lodging in his heart, and a second ripped away the better part of his jaw. Melburn’s body was slammed sideways, and he landed on the flimsy table, which collapsed beneath his weight.

  Otak turned at the last moment, a move that would ultimately save his life as another round came through the window and clipped his left arm but a millisecond earlier would have entered his back at the level of his heart. Otak went down, shouting with pain and grabbing at the messy, bloody wound left in the wake of the bullet. He lay on his good shoulder near the overturned table, whimpering like an injured dog with frozen horror blasted into his expression.

  Zakoff could only shake his head at this. What a pathetic bunch Vizhgail had lumped him with—two were dead because of their ignorance, and the third was a coward. Zakoff was so angered by Otak’s response and annoyed at the whining that he aimed his pistol and fired point-blank into the man’s face. That wiped the stupid expression off Otak’s face and shut him up, which satisfied the Russian’s outrage with immense satisfaction.

  He crawled from the room, and as soon as he reached the safety of an inner corridor he scrambled to his feet and headed toward the nearest phone to call for reinforcements.

  * * *

  SCRATCH TWO, MACK BOLAN thought as he peered through the optic sight attached to his FN-FNC.

  Bolan watched carefully but didn’t see any further movement. The other two who had been visible through the window were either hugging the floor or had already managed to crawl out of harm’s way. In any case, they were no longer in range, so Bolan would have to go inside and pick them off. He entertained the thought of just leaving, but that wasn’t an option. He planned to send a clear message to Haglemann, and sniping a couple of guns wouldn’t really be enough to shake up the guy. No, this first contact had to be more...spectacular.

  The Executioner climbed to his feet and rushed the club, mounting the flagstone steps two at once until he reached the massive covered porch. He wouldn’t have much time. If the reports from the rifle didn’t bring Haglemann’s personal police force on the run, then the survivors inside would surely call for backup. Bolan needed to make his statement before that happened, since a skirmish with any sort of significant force would bring more attention than he wanted.

  Bolan shattered a glass window with the metal folding stock of his weapon, then lobbed a smoke grenade through it. The bomb popped a moment lat
er, and a loud hissing noise ensued as the smoker filled the foyer with a gray haze. As soon as the grenade kicked off, Bolan shot the lock off the door and pushed through. He swept the surrounding area with the muzzle of his carbine, ready to meet any resistance, but nobody showed to challenge him.

  The Executioner proceeded through the foyer and into the main seating area of the club. Davis Haglemann had chosen to ally himself with the Russian Business Network, or at least Lustrum had, and the lives of American military had been snuffed without regard. That and that alone was unacceptable to Mack Bolan, and he planned to send a clear message that said as much to Haglemann and the Russians.

  Bolan navigated his way to the kitchen, and as he walked through, a flash of movement drew his attention toward one corner. A lone, armed assailant broke cover and angled for a good shooting position. He might have succeeded had it not been for Bolan’s reflexes. Two rounds burned the air near Bolan’s head as the soldier took cover. He swung his weapon into target acquisition and triggered a few short bursts, but none hit the target, who darted from his place and headed toward concealment behind a long, stainless steel preparation counter.

  Bolan snatched the NVD goggles off his face and set them at his feet. He then dropped to his belly and crawled along the back side of the counter, moving slowly and carefully to prevent making noise that would allow his enemy to pinpoint his location. They guy’s eyes had obviously adjusted, and there was enough gloom that the NVDs no longer gave Bolan a tactical edge. Stealth would be the key to securing a victory here, a truth that proved out a moment later when Bolan detected the shadowy figure emerging from his spot and heading directly toward his position. A dim hood light presented a silhouette, and Bolan quietly reached to his hip and withdrew his Desert Eagle. From that prone position he extended his arm, aimed center mass and squeezed the trigger. The proximity of the shot actually drove home with enough force to flip the target on to his back.