War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  He hoped it was sooner rather than later, though, when they felt the rumblings beneath their feet and a gust of heated air washed over them less than two minutes later. It felt as if they’d walked through a sauna, and it was damn hot. Not hot enough to burn anyone but definitely enough to make them all feel as if they’d been burnt. The worse part was there was no escape from it. They couldn’t go anywhere.

  Ducati had finally managed to get Rastogi to demand additional water for them or just shoot them. He wasn’t willing to stand by and watch his crew die of thirst, although he knew that might just happen. Rastogi had tried to wake him when he witnessed the Russian leader leave the caverns with Gross, but he’d been too exhausted to wake up. Rastogi had told him after the fact, and Ducati could feel the anger swell in his chest.

  That bastard! How anyone could betray their country was beyond his capacity to understand. What was it that drove men to such things? Ducati could understand a philosophical difference or even a religious objection, but from what he gathered, Gross’s treachery had been solely about money. Greed. Was the proverbial allure of gold still so prevalent in society that a man might sell his morals and integrity down the river for it? That’s what it amounted to, and Ducati wouldn’t see it any other way.

  Ducati looked around him at the suffering caused by that one heinous act. They couldn’t just hang out here and wait for rescue. A prisoner’s number one mission was to escape, and Ducati hadn’t done anything to affect that. He’d wanted them to wait until this point for fear their captors might cut them down with the wicked-looking assault weapons they toted, but now he was convinced that could no longer be a consideration. Especially not when one of his people came to speak with him at Rastogi’s behest.

  “Sir,” Rastogi began. When Ducati looked wearily in his direction, Rastogi pointed to one of his people. “This is Petty Officer Grant. He wants to talk to you about that rumble and heat blast we just felt.”

  Ducati nodded at his crew member. “What’s up, Grant?”

  The young man had a brush cut of red hair and large, green eyes. Ducati remembered him a bit and noted he was a good man. Trustworthy and did his job without complaint. He also recalled Grant’s superior officers had given him good ratings in his last evaluation.

  “Sir, we have to get out of here.”

  Ducati swallowed hard, his tongue feeling parched. “I understand, son. We’ll be out of here soon. Somebody’s coming for us.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think you understand. You see, that seismic activity and the sudden increase in temperature? Those are aftereffects of phreatic eruptions.”

  “Say what? Slow down, man, start from the beginning.”

  “My father was seismic geologist,” Grant said. “He lived and breathed it, sir. Believe me, he drilled that stuff into me. Phreatic eruptions are caused by active volcanoes where the magma level is rising. It heats the ground water and forms steam, eventually pushing that out through whatever vents might be available right in and around the caldera that’s been formed. But after a while it starts to push to outlying pockets, and it eventually travels through the channels until it has some place to escape. The fact we got one like this just now, as far away from any active points, would indicate that eruption is imminent!”

  Ducati couldn’t believe his ears. He’d thought to keep his people alive, but now he could see that waiting here and sparing them execution had been a very bad approach, indeed. If Grant was correct in what he was saying, and he’d just presented what Ducati thought to be an extremely convincing argument, the next wave of heat that came through here might be so intense it scalded them all to death. That was, of course, if a magma flow didn’t just blast through and turn them all instantly to ash!

  “What Grant says explains a number of things, sir,” Rastogi said. “We just saw the rest of that Russian crew go past us, and they were beating feet out of here fast. They chucked some additional gallons of water inside the cages and then locked up and got the hell out of here. I think they know something’s up, too.”

  Ducati nodded. It was all starting to make sense. Whether their enemies had known about a volcano or not, there was no denying the intent of their actions. They were leaving enough water to sustain the group for a day or two more. After that, they probably figured anything that happened would be fate, and it wasn’t on their hands. Ducati didn’t see it that way, but then he didn’t have much to say about it. At least now that they were no longer under guard they could go to work on defeating the heavy chains and padlocks of the cages.

  “Number One, get the section chiefs on board and let’s start coming up with an escape plan,” Ducati told Rastogi. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  Adak Island

  BOLAN ADVANCED UP the first flight of stairs. Halfway up he stopped to drop one of the M86 PDMs on the stairs. The pursuit deterrent munition featured a hand-grenade style release firing mechanism. It deployed three trip wires that would latch on to whatever objects it was aimed at. They were particularly useful in jungle terrain, the hell grounds in which Bolan had learned much of deadly craft, but were equally effective in a dark environment such as this. The PDM contained a liquid propellant that, when activated, launched the mine into the air approximately eight feet before exploding. Normally, Bolan would not have deployed such a hazard that could harm bystanders or subsequent law enforcement, but these babies contained a mechanism that destroyed them if undisturbed for four hours. John “Cowboy” Kissinger—resident weapon-smith and armorer for the Stony Man teams—had modified them so they self-destructed after thirty minutes.

  The Executioner turned to continue up the steps when his earpiece buzzed. There would be only one reason Grimaldi would break radio silence in an operation. Something had changed drastically in the original plan.

  “Go, Eagle One.”

  “Striker, we’ve got trouble. As I was prepping for takeoff in the chopper, I saw another one lift up out of here on a bearing for your direction. It’s heading toward Haglemann’s.”

  “I was afraid of that. Chakowa promised me he’d keep everyone away.”

  “Maybe so, but nobody apparently nobody talked to the tower boys. They heard it was for Haglemann, and they immediately cleared it. I think it got missed.”

  “No way you can catch him?”

  “I’m firing up now but not likely,” Grimaldi said. “I couldn’t beat him there, even if he took the scenic route.”

  “Understood. Just get here fast as you can,” Bolan said. “I’m going to need you.”

  “Acknowledged. Eagle One, out!”

  Bolan grit his teeth in frustration. His one opportunity to catch Haglemann had started to slip through his fingers. He continued his charge up the stairs with a new resolve.

  * * *

  GROSS MANAGED TO get as far as the third floor when the bodyguard with Haglemann noticed he was following them. Gross froze in his tracks. He’d been caught in the open, and there wasn’t much he could do about that. The bodyguard pulled his pistol, clearly presuming that the man was a credible threat. Gross jumped into the small space a doorway afforded as a bullet exploded from the bodyguard’s pistol. The round zinged past Gross’s ear close enough for him to hear the whiz of its passing. He snap-aimed and fired back but his shot was wide, serving only to cause the bodyguard to duck and look for cover.

  Gross waited until the guy fired again, missing him and chipping out a large chunk of the door frame, then popped out of the alcove and fired three successive rounds. That was four bullets already gone from his revolver. Of course, he had spare rounds but no speed loader, so reloading would take time. Gross tried the door as he was shooting, and the handle turned smoothly. He pushed through into the darkened room. It was an empty bedroom, similar to the one he’d changed in.

  Gross waited as the bodyguard fired his weapon in response, then leaned out from cover and
fired two more rounds. He got behind the concealment of the doorway, knelt and emptied the cartridges from his revolver. His hand shook as he fought to load the weapon, cursing under his breath as he absentmindedly touched the barrel and burned his fingers. What the hell was this all about, anyway? Why was Haglemann’s bodyguard shooting at him? Did he really think they had something to fear from him?

  Gross finished loading his revolver, snapped the cylinder closed and turned it until it click-locked into place. He thumbed back the hammer and risked another glance into the hallway. It seemed deserted, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe they just wanted to make it look as if they had left. Gross considered his next move. If he tried to follow them, he might walk into an ambush. On the other hand, whoever had caused those explosions and the gunfire he’d heard while following Haglemann and his bodyguard was a force to be reckoned with. He couldn’t go back. Something told him that Haglemann’s way out was the only way out.

  Gross stepped into the hallway after another moment and proceeded carefully down the hall.

  He’d nearly reached the point where the bodyguard had disappeared when a new form seemed to appear from nowhere. Gross started to raise his pistol and then noticed it was Vlad. The Russian stopped short and started to raise his own weapon, but Gross lifted his hands and shouted his friendly intent. There seemed to be just a moment of hesitation in the Russian, and Gross thought maybe he’d made a fatal mistake, but then at the last moment Vlad lowered his pistol.

  “You’re lucky, no? You nearly got your head blown off,” Moscovich said.

  Gross grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Sure,” Gross said with a shrug. “Why not?”

  “Then you are a damn fool! You shouldn’t trust anyone, because they will eventually betray you. It’s the nature of this business.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks like your pal Haglemann’s trying to cut and run on us,” Gross said. “His bodyguard nearly killed me.”

  “You see? You cannot trust him.”

  “I take it he must have a way out of here.”

  Moscovich nodded. “He has a helicopter on the way. I plan to be on it.”

  “So do I,” Gross said. “Then once we get somewhere semi-civilized and that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States, we can part company.”

  “I don’t know if that would be wise,” Moscovich said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the continental United States is precisely where I plan to go.”

  Gross shook his head. “Well, no, thanks.”

  “We do not have time to argue here. We will miss our opportunity if we don’t go now.”

  “And if we don’t work together.”

  “Fine,” Moscovich said. “But remember that I do not trust you, and we are not friends.”

  “We can stay together only as long as it’s mutually beneficial,” Gross said. “A temporary truce.”

  He stuck out his hand, but Moscovich ignored it and turned toward the door through which Haglemann and the bodyguard had disappeared.

  He had just opened it when movement at the far end of the hallway caught his eye.

  * * *

  MACK BOLAN EMERGED on to the third-floor landing from the stairs and spotted two men opening a door he guessed led to the rooftop access and helipad. Neither of the men looked like Haglemann. In fact, he’d never seen either of them before. They were dressed in casual civilian clothes, not the suits of the house security. Bolan wondered if they were the visitors who had arrived in the Hummer.

  Not that it mattered much, since on seeing him they both pointed weapons in his direction and opened fire.

  Bolan went prone and thumbed the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode. He triggered the first volley. The Beretta spit a trio of 9 mm zingers downrange designed more to keep his opponents off their game than to necessarily connect. The rounds burned the air just above their heads.They whipped open a door leading off the hallway and dashed through it as Bolan checked his aim and fired again, this time aiming center mass toward the door. All three rounds connected, but he couldn’t tell if he’d hit either of the men.

  He jumped to his feet and sprinted down the hall in pursuit of them. Whoever they were, they had fired at him indiscriminately and then fled. That made them enemies and persons of interest. The soldier couldn’t help but wonder if they had been left there to stall him while Haglemann made his escape. But if they’d been willing to lay down their lives for Haglemann out of some bizarre sense of duty, they would have held their ground instead of running away. Were they accompanying Haglemann in his escape or had they killed the guy and were now planning to use his chopper to get out of there?

  Grimaldi said someone had called for the chopper from the Adak airfield, so that meant whomever had phoned either had been Haglemann or used Haglemann’s authority. In any case, Bolan’s mission was still intact. He needed to find Haglemann and take him alive. All other options were off the table now. There would only be one chance, and he couldn’t blow it. The lives of many service personnel hung in the balance.

  Hang on, the Executioner thought. Hang on just a little longer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Davis Haglemann and his bodyguard emerged on the broad, open roof that had a steep slope on either side like a chateau style A-frame. It had been designed in response to the heavy precipitation of winter so snow would not pile up and collapse the roof. Despite the hefty roof load capacity and steel-beam support construction, the laws of nature were such that nothing could be left to chance. In that regard, Haglemann’s house had stood as much as a fortress as an estate.

  It saddened him that he had to abandon the place, as he and his bodyguard took the flagstone steps down to the parapet and through the sheltered walkway just beneath the roof that led to the helipad. The corridor was narrow and barely high enough to accompany a tall man, the ceiling being a mere six-foot-two. That design had also been purposeful; in the event roof collapse occurred, it would not cut off access to the helipad and prevent entry or escape.

  Unfortunately for Haglemann’s bodyguard, it also made protecting his master a nightmare. Haglemann didn’t really care one way or another. His men were tools, just like all the other people he’d used. Whether it was common laborers or smarmy business partners, Davis Haglemann saw them merely as objects to manipulate to his will.

  Yes, Haglemann would miss all of this, and yet he knew he could start over. He wasn’t happy about losing the empire he’d built here on Adak and all of the money he’d made, but there would be more opportunities to carve out a new life for himself somewhere else. Maybe the next recipients of his largesse would show him a little more gratitude instead of abandoning him the moment times got a little tough.

  So he’d done business with the Russians. So what? He’d never committed any of the horrible acts they had, never murdered anybody. In fact, he’d paid Chakowa and his one-man police force to protect the people here on Adak. He’d sheltered people from outside interference, given them everything they wanted. They’d tasted of all the modern conveniences because of his efforts, never wanted for a thing, really. In return, all he’d asked for was their loyalty and hard work. They’d turned against him for it. Good riddance to the bastards!

  Haglemann and his bodyguard were nearly at the other end. The union boss could hear the blades of the approaching chopper. He’d timed it perfectly. There was no way they could reach him before he got off the ground—soon he would be home free and headed for his plane. He was thinking about where he might wish to go next. Someplace warm would be a nice change.

  Bullets burned the air, ricocheting off the walls and generating sparks as they entered the drywall and struck steel supports. Haglemann ducked and pressed toward the door. It seemed so far away, and yet it was just a few feet.
As he reached it, Haglemann heard his bodyguard cry out, and he stopped a moment, turning to see what had happened. The guy was now on the ground, screaming as blood poured from the side of his neck. Haglemann looked at the guy only a moment, then he knelt, reached out and grabbed the pistol he dropped. He hadn’t really used a gun much in his time, but he knew how all the same, courtesy of lessons on the firing range he’d had built.

  Haglemann snapped off two shots that didn’t come close to hitting either Moscovich or Gross, but he got the satisfaction of watching them throw themselves to the floor in fear. He looked down at the sensation of something near his foot and spotted his bodyguard clawing at the toe of his left shoe. Haglemann let out a mutter of surprise, then pointed his pistol at the man and squeezed the trigger, the bullet entering the back of his bodyguard’s skull.

  A mercy kill was the way Haglemann looked at it.

  He shot another two rounds to keep his two opponents at bay, then the trigger locked. He looked at the pistol and noted the slide was back. The pistol had run dry. He didn’t want to risk getting shot looking for additional ammunition, so he instead threw the useless weapon aside, turned and ran as fast as he could down the corridor to the door leading on to the helipad. The sound of blades slapping the air drew very close. He was home free!

  * * *

  MOSCOVICH UTTERED CURSES beneath his breath as he watched Haglemann toss his gun aside and continue down the hallway. He’d just witnessed the man shoot his own bodyguard, which told the Russian everything he needed to know about the union boss. The guy couldn’t be trusted. Moscovich thought a moment on the irony of it all, since he’d just told Gross the same damn thing. If he’d made any mistakes at all, it had been allying himself and his people with Americans. They were their own worst enemies.

  Moscovich scrambled to his feet and raced along the corridor, bent on ensuring Haglemann wasn’t allowed to leave without him. He’d make certain the man didn’t leave at all. His instincts had once before led him to the conclusion that Davis Haglemann was too unstable and untrustworthy to live. The American wasn’t much longer for this Earth if Moscovich had anything to say about it.