War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  True to his word, the Stony Man chief arrived a short time later and took a seat at the small briefing table where Price and Kurtzman were putting the last touches on their information to present to Brognola.

  “That one name from Striker opened a whole new world to us,” Price began.

  “What about his suspicions regarding the Russian Business Network? Is there any evidence they’re at the heart of this?”

  “Plenty,” Price said. “Striker was dead-on in his assumptions, although I can’t really say I’m all that happy he was right.”

  Brognola nodded. “Yeah, it’s usually never good news, but at least we have some idea of what he’s up against. So, what did you learn?”

  Price nodded at Kurtzman who tapped a key, and the image of a young, handsome man was projected on one of the large monitors on the wall opposite.

  “This is Vladimir Moscovich,” Price said. “The picture is about eight years old, taken around the time Moscovich was a student at St. Petersburg State University.”

  “Impressive education for a criminal,” Brognola said.

  “You only know the half of it,” Kurtzman interjected.

  “Moscovich holds a doctorate,” Price continued. “And given that the university is a federal state-owned institution and the oldest college in Russia, there’s little doubt about the ties between the RBN and officials within government. The other interesting thing is that the source of funding for his education was never identified.”

  “No financial trail?” Brognola asked, looking in Kurtzman’s direction.

  The cyber wizard shook his head. “If there’s anything the RBN has proved adept at, it’s hiding money. That’s how they built their organization to begin with.”

  Brognola sighed. “Okay, so let’s assume the money just came from the RBN. They financed Moscovich through school, and he, in turn, works for them in whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. So, what else do we know?”

  “Well, Striker says that Haglemann most definitely talked like Moscovich is heading up whatever the RBN has planned. He’s convinced Moscovich is operating on another island, and his people have somehow managed to conceal their activities. He’s also convinced the RBN is getting some support from Russian military.”

  “Not good,” Brognola replied. “How did we come about that tidbit?”

  “Reports on Russian military asset movements,” Kurtzman said. “Somehow, a Russian submarine was on maneuvers in the present area of concern a few months back, but nobody thought anything of it, so the information got buried.”

  Brognola could feel his chronic condition coming on, so he whipped out a roll of antacids he kept in his shirt pocket, popped three and chewed furiously. Around the mouthful he said, “And why the hell did nobody think it was important?”

  Kurtzman shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe because the sub was operating in international waters and didn’t cross into US boundaries.”

  “The Aleutian Island chain represents the northernmost geographical point of US territories,” Price pointed out. “We have no reason to patrol them with any sort of significant military force. The Coast Guard has always been able to handle the region with relative ease.”

  “And of course,” Brognola finished, “the Russian government would utterly deny any complicity in activities that involved sabotage of US military vessels or planes.”

  “Naturally,” Price said. “Acknowledging any such activities would be deemed as acts of war.”

  “It would appear we don’t need the Russians to make any such official declaration,” Brognola said. “The RBN seems to be doing just fine in this covert war they’ve decided to launch. What about the technology they’ve developed? Is it really possible they have the means to do what Striker proposed they have?”

  “I think there’s little doubt at this point,” Kurtzman replied grimly. “But there’s still some part of the picture we don’t yet have, although I think the new information regarding Davis Haglemann is going to shed a whole lot of light on that situation.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the case of flight 195B and the Llewellyn,” Price said, “what the RBN accomplished in shutting down communications and computerized control could not have been done without some sort of device having been planted aboard those vessels.”

  “Both that plane and the cutter had been at Adak within the past few months,” Kurtzman added. “And all of the operations at Nazan Bay are overseen by the union workers Haglemann represents. He’s the head of the union and the sole intermediary with the corporations that employ those crews.”

  “So someone had to be present on the plane and ship in order for the Russians to succeed in what they were doing?” Brognola asked.

  “Precisely,” Price said. “Striker thinks that’s proof enough Haglemann’s behind the RBN gaining access, and he’s also complicit in these acts of terror. I agree with him.”

  “As do I,” Brognola said with a sigh. “Which also means I’m going to have to inform the Oval Office. The President isn’t going to like to hear that a prominent American businessman is in cahoots with Russian terrorists, and that an American service member might be involved. And he won’t be pleased to know that we have considerable evidence the RBN now has Russian military support.”

  “He may not like it, but he can hardly be surprised,” Price said. “The Russian president and his advisers have been trying to push our buttons for years. This seems exactly like a way to do it without having his name directly involved.”

  “Agreed,” Brognola said. “So, have we found anything that could help Striker locate where the Russians are hiding?”

  “Since we don’t have any physical evidence, like wreckage or a location for the Llewellyn, it’s been very difficult to collect that kind of information,” Kurtzman said. “Neither satellite nor infrared imaging has been of help since there’s so much volcanic activity in the area. Moreover, much of the Aleutian Island chain is uninhabited.”

  “I’m afraid Striker’s pretty much on his own with this one,” Price said. “If we come across anything, we’ll of course feed it to him immediately. Right now, he’s got his hands full playing a role, and he’ll just have to come by his information the old-fashioned way.”

  Brognola nodded. “He’s been there before. Do we have anything at all we can send that will help him?”

  “Well, the information we’ve collected on Vladimir Moscovich should help point him in the right direction,” Price said. “And we’re forwarding everything we know about Haglemann, including his contacts, business interests, assets, the works.”

  Brognola nodded. “When I report this to the Man, I’ll request an executive order to freeze all of his accounts and business dealings. That will at least ensure no further outside contamination.”

  Price smiled. “And maybe put him into the spirit of being much more cooperative?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “The information on Moscovich should definitely help, too,” Kurtzman added. “Rumblings from CIA and other sources have actually indicated Moscovich has some personal involvement in this.”

  “In what way?” Brognola inquired.

  “The RBN was none too happy after Striker broke up their little plan to wreck the financial industry a few years ago. Moscovich’s movements and activities for the past year are strong indicators this endeavor has been his primary focus.”

  “Then four months ago, Moscovich dropped off the radar,” Price added. “An NSA agent lost him in St. Petersburg, and they haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “Funny,” Brognola said. “There are very few people who could get out of Russia in such a covert fashion.”

  “That was our assessment, as well. Bear and I are convinced Moscovich could only have pulled off something like that with the support of the government. Or at least h
igh rankers inside the Kremlin. Insiders tell us that after what happened to Yuri Godunov and his associates, the very top echelon inside the RBN became very interested in finding out who toppled their plans.”

  “Do they know it was Striker?” Brognola asked, concern in his voice.

  “Probably not,” Kurtzman replied. “You know that we take great pains to keep his identity under wraps. But there are others tied to this indirectly who could expose him and his position.”

  “For example?”

  Price sighed before replying, “FBI Special Agent Marquez, for one.”

  Brognola nodded as the name brought back a few memories. At the time she’d first Bolan, Marquez had been an NYPD detective first grade with the Organized Crime Unit. As a result of her assisting Bolan, or maybe more like as a consequence, she’d been recruited to a position of special agent within the RICO task force of a New York field office. Later, she’d transferred out West—Brognola couldn’t recall where exactly—where she continued serving to this day with complete distinction. During all that time, she’d never revealed much of what she knew about Bolan. “Do we have reason to believe she’s a potential target?”

  “There’s been no evidence of that so far,” Price said. “She’s currently assigned to the FBI headquarters in Denver. As near as we can tell, the RBN doesn’t know of her involvement, or potentially even of her whereabouts.”

  “Which makes her an unlikely target, then,” Brognola said. “But I’m glad to see you’re covering all the bases.”

  Price nodded. “Striker had us dig into Moscovich’s background because he thinks it will help him draw him out, make him show his hand before he’s ready. The more he knows about Moscovich, the better he can protect his role with Haglemann.”

  “But I thought he already had Haglemann’s number?”

  “He does. The only problem is, Haglemann has influences far and wide. He may have already discussed the RBN’s goals here with Moscovich. Or the Russians might still be keeping Haglemann totally in the dark on their true purpose.”

  “We don’t even know what it is,” Brognola interjected with a tired swipe at his eyes. “And there’s no reason to think Haglemann’s people aren’t in the same boat when it comes to Haglemann.”

  “That was Striker’s thought, too.”

  “Okay, I think I have enough to give the Man. I know it goes without saying, but proceed with forwarding to Striker everything you have on Haglemann and Moscovich. I completely trust his judgment on how to handle it from there.”

  “What about Marquez?”

  “Put our local people on alert to keep an eye on her. But tell them to use caution and not get too close. Marquez isn’t stupid. She’ll spot a surveillance operation quicker than you can snap your fingers.”

  “Understood. We’ll keep a respectful distance.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Adak Island

  Mack Bolan was within view of the docks when Grimaldi sprang the surprise. The pilot’s aim was incredibly accurate as he fired more than two dozen rounds from the M60A4 heavy machine gun. The bullet holes in the shiny new Hummer would paint a very convincing picture for Haglemann and help with the Executioner’s credibility. Fortunately for Bolan, all those rounds hit either the backseat or rear fenders, and he grinned at the thought of Grimaldi working behind the machine gun with unbridled enthusiasm.

  Bolan waited until he’d reached his planned stopping point before going EVA. He brought the FN-FNC to his shoulder and snapped off several short volleys of blanks before making a break in the direction of the plane. The vehicle that had been following him increased speed and came to a halt immediately behind his. Four men toting a variety of assault weapons emerged from it as Bolan rounded the corner of a large building that was the first of several clustered along the wharf.

  Bolan withdrew the magazine of blanks and replaced it with a hot one loaded with the real deal. The soldier continued along the waterfront until he found a break in the buildings, then turned into an alley that doubled as a service road. He spotted what he’d hoped to find, a ladder that granted roof access—he’d remembered seeing it when he first arrived with Corsack. Bolan slung the FNC, jumped to grab the first rung of the ladder and then effortlessly scaled the twenty-foot height.

  Bolan made the rooftop. He could hear Grimaldi exchanging fire with the four enemy gunners, but he had to be careful in his ascent due to the roof’s steep angle. Eventually he reached the peak, and as he’d hoped, it granted him a perfect view of the scene on the road but kept him distant enough the enemy wouldn’t be able to make him out with the naked eye. He sighted the assault rifle on their position, then adjusted the angle slightly for drop and windage. With the skill that came from years of experience, Bolan stroked the trigger. The bullet left his weapon at a muzzle velocity just short of 3,200 feet per second and reached its target in a heartbeat. The gunner’s head exploded under the impact and showered the man near him with blood and gray matter.

  Bolan acquired the second target, took a deep breath, then let half out before squeezing off his shot. The round struck the man in the forehead, cracking bone and driving him back a step before his corpse hit the pavement.

  The Executioner lifted his head from the stock of the FNC and watched with grim satisfaction as Grimaldi dispatched the other two gunners. One fell under a volley of 7.62 mm rounds that nearly gutted the guy and tore his intestines to bloody shreds. The second caught two rounds in the chest and a third had his shoulder nearly severed from his torso. The man staggered a moment or two, apparently struggling vainly to take in air since the rounds had perforated his lungs.

  Bolan sighted in and triggered a mercy round.

  He moved backward on his knees and elbows to descend the roof, a sort of half scurry and half slide, until he got a foothold on the top rungs of the ladder. He quickly made his way to ground level, whipped out his cell phone and contacted Grimaldi.

  “Nice work,” he said. “Put on the finishing touches, and I’ll meet you at the plane.”

  Grimaldi acknowledged Bolan’s orders, and less than a minute later as the Executioner trotted along the waterfront in the direction of the plane parked at the makeshift airfield, he heard the explosions from Grimaldi launching a pair of 40 mm HE grenades at the Hummer and the enemy’s sedan. Secondary explosions resounded, and Bolan noted how eerie the docks were. Nobody was working, no activity, and Bolan wondered at first but then remembered that it was a Sunday, and everybody was off.

  It was just as well, since he would have preferred this particular action to go unobserved. It also kept the bystanders out of the way. He checked his watch and realized the numbers were running down. He’d have to locate the people Haglemann and his RBN allies had on Unalaska, neutralize their operations and get back to Adak in the next twelve hours. It wouldn’t do to leave the mess behind and disappear, although the cleanup activity would keep Haglemann’s people busy long enough. With luck, by the time they realized Bolan hadn’t been in the Hummer when it was destroyed, he would be back on Adak Island and ready to carry out the final phase against Moscovich.

  What troubled him most was that he didn’t know the location of the Russians’ base in the Aleutians. He couldn’t believe for a moment they were operating here on Adak. The island was too small for them to have a secret base, and too open to discovery. He also didn’t believe they had established a secret area on Unalaska for many of the same reasons. That left a whole chain of islands that were too vast and inhospitable to search randomly. It could take months or even years, even if he had access to military resources.

  And that was the other bad part of the situation. American service personnel were missing, possibly killed or even taken prisoner, and their time would be running out. Not to mention the military was on high alert and investigators would soon be crawling through the entire island chain once they got a handle on
what was going on. Bolan meant to see they never had to face it—the military needed to keep its focus on doing what it did best, and the Executioner planned to make sure they could do that.

  Yeah. Mack Bolan was about to conduct a total war against the Russian Business Network. And in the next twenty-four hours, only one victor would emerge.

  Unalaska

  DEPUTY CHIEF BRENDA SHAFFERNIK had a problem on her hands. It had started as a small problem but quickly turned into a big one. The two officers she’d sent to keep an eye on Mike Blansky hadn’t reported back, and all attempts to reach the pair had failed. So two officers were missing, Blansky was in the wind and Meltrieger was asking some uncomfortable questions. Not that she could blame him. The chief was on edge, the council was on edge—hell, everybody was on edge from the top brass to the officers on the street.

  Shaffernik wondered if she’d fallen for a sucker play, letting Blansky convince her that he worked for the government. She dismissed the thought nearly as soon as it came into her mind. There was no doubt about Blansky’s legitimacy. His cover was just too perfect to be anything but made up, and his timing of arrival could not be chalked up to mere coincidence. Shaffernik had managed to find the flight that had carried off the mysterious Blansky. The flight plan stated Anchorage as the destination, but no corresponding flight had ever arrived. Shaffernik didn’t have near the clearance or clout to query any of the other dozens of airports scattered along the Aleutians. Not even the chief could have solicited that kind of cooperation, and particularly not in the current climate of mistrust.

  At least the military had permitted air and ship travel to resume, but the entire area between Alaska and the Aleutians was replete with Coast Guard water and air patrols, and two combat wings on regular flyovers out of Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. Meanwhile, with the recent events in Unalaska, Meltrieger was asking her to enforce law and order while the place was crawling with antsy tourists, demanding government inspectors, agents from probably a half-dozen of the big-initial outfits, and workers who just wanted to do their jobs and be left alone to drink or sleep away their off-hours.