No one, he noted, approached the heavy wire fence that established the effective limits of the compound itself. A hundred yards of cleared ground lay between the fence and the compound's inner reaches. His rifleman's eye noted the fields of fire offered by the location of the newly erected buildings that formed a rough circle around a large building in the center of the compound.
He accepted that building as his ultimate goal. Within minutes he knew the location of the motor pool, mess facilities, barracks and supply. Though he could not be certain, Bolan assumed the armory was part of the supply building.
He returned his attention to the open area between the buildings and the fence and to the area immediately beyond the fence. With the finely ground binoculars' help, Bolan located an electronic sensor. Next he deduced the pattern in which the others would be placed.
There they were, tiny devices mounted on short steel posts, the sensing unit enclosed in a molded plastic shield to protect it from the elements.
Instinctively Bolan identified the protective field provided by the sensors as the work of the man he'd already pegged as security head. The sensors had been put in place in the same manner as the man moved. Professionally.
It took a bit longer, but Mack Bolan's patience paid off. He spotted one, then two, then a dozen small bare spots in the area between fence and compound. They were the tops of housings for security lights, disguised with a layer of dust.
For seconds more he scanned the area until the location of each light pit was implanted in his memory. Then he gave his attention to the compound itself.
One major change had occurred during the time he studied the area. Every vehicle was now under cover.
Must be getting jumpy down there.
The construction of the new buildings added to the respect Bolan accorded the security chief. Fire sites abounded. Should an intruder manage to get past the fence and survive the next hundred yards of hell, the compound itself offered an invading force no safe cover whatsoever from deadly cross fire.
Bolan turned his attention to a man raking the gravel in front of the motor pool. Bolan studied the worker. While most of the men in fatigues glanced warily toward the encircling mountains from time to time, this man kept his head down and continued to rake without ever looking up. While other men kept close to the walls of the concrete-block structures, this fellow worked in the open.
Bolan made an almost infinitesimal adjustment to the focusing knob. He saw that the man's fatigues were spotless but lacked the razor-sharp creases of those he had encountered already. His fatigue cap was regular issue, not the blocked hat worn by the others, and his boots lacked the high luster Bolan had come to expect.
It was his movements that really set him apart from the others. Like a robot. Auto-maton. His movements were mechanical, and they never varied. He reached forward the same distance each time with the rake, then drew it toward him at exactly the same speed.
Bolan moved his binoculars in search of another who matched the pattern set by the raker. He found three within a minute. One was painting a building that was already well painted. The second polished an immaculate CJ-5. The third robot-like man stacked cement blocks.
Bolan lowered the glasses and continued along the mountain's brow for another three hundred yards before stopping again to study the compound. From his new vantage point he saw something that had not been apparent before. The outer fence contained a gate. Worn paths in the valley's sod, visible from where he stood, indicated the gate was much used.
He had seen all he needed to now. He sank back into the shadows of the trees.
The nightscorcher awaited the night. Something grim was happening in Paradise, and Bolan would scourge it thoroughly.
That was the essence of his plan. The precise methods of the plan involved somewhat different criteria than the spiritual obligations that informed the big picture. They were more expedient, and more careful.
Mack Bolan did not want any innocents in the cross fire. Nor did he want to exceed his jurisdiction as the Executioner of the Already Condemned.
He had to infiltrate this place, and neutralise whatever he found there. The evidence of his own eyes insisted on it. But how he did it was circumscribed by many factors, from mercy to inaccurate data, that always refined Bolan's ultimate approach.
Just like in Japan on his last mission, just like in the Florida Everglades where Dr. Bruce, the biochemist, had been held, just like in Colombia and the first terrorist compound he encountered in his new war—Bolan was faced with the facts and with a decision.
Something was cooking in this hideout, and a bunch of guys had already tried to kill to guard it; so it was time.
Time to bust in.
AARON KURTZMAN gave his full attention to the screen in front of him. The Bear's expression turned grave as the computer console transmitted information.
April's inquiring look and raised brows spoke her unasked question.
"It's in reply to yesterday's query. NSA tentatively confirm the entry of Kurt Holbein into the States from Canada six months ago. He was traveling under the name of Hans Schmidt, or at least that was on the passport he used when he deplaned at Toronto."
Holbein. The name was familiar in the Stony Man War Room. The guy was an organizer, a director, a European activist greedy for personal power. Though not a field man himself, Holbein had a reputation for choosing those who were capable of carrying out his orders effectively and without question.
"Is there a connection?"
The thick fingers of The Bear danced to a tune of his own composition as they traveled back and forth across the console's keyboard.
"All I can do is ask the proper questions," he said.
It was the waiting that was hardest. While Mack was facing the unknown, April Rose found it all but impossible to remain almost two thousand miles away, trying to be outwardly sane. She had to.
Uncertainty nagged at her thoughts. The recon photo that had arrived after Mack was already in the field, showing the coyotes, and now the response from Washington verifying Kurt Holbein's presence in the country: too many things were coming in just a fraction too late to be useful to Mack Bolan. April was not superstitious, at least not in the normal sense of the word. Yet the timing bothered her. It was as though some warning was being sounded and there was no way she could interpret it or share it with the man who meant everything to her.
6
DUSK CAME EARLY to the mountain valley as the lofty peaks blocked the sun's rays. While on the plains and prairies it was still light, the valley was falling prey to the dark.
Bolan rose from where he rested in a soft carpet of fallen pine needles and tiny boughs. He brushed a few clinging bits from his black skintight suit, which was insulated for warmth.
Silently he moved as a black shadow on the dark mountainside. His evaluation of the compound and its defenses indicated the easiest approach was from the west, where a forested belt came to within fifty yards of the outer fence.
Therefore Bolan planned his initial thrust from the east.
Though this entailed crossing an extra few hundred yards of open mountain meadow, he considered it worth the effort. He knew with grim certainty that the compound's defenders expected him from the west and would put their best marksmen on the western perimeter.
The big warrior did not intend to completely disappoint the defenders on the west, however. When he reached a rock cluster that he had pinpointed earlier, he eased his powerful body into the prone position. He put the M-1 to his shoulder with practiced ease. It was a long time since he had used the weapon, and he had missed it. Memories of earlier wars came to him as the gun nestled in his shoulder. This was the gun and the Smith & Wesson Startron night sight he had used just before Konzaki had joined Stony Man Farm as armorer. Konzaki had known of Bolan's sniper record and was impressed by his continued brilliant handling of the M-1. But he had urged Mack to try other guns and other configurations in the unfolding terrorist wars, and Mack had done
so with great success. In the meantime Konzaki had worked on the M-1, played around with it for a bit, and now it was ready for some more action in Bolan's unceasing campaign.
Though near-dark covered the land, the passive infrared scope put the existing light to good use. Just over one hundred yards away, Bolan sighted on one of the sensors he had located earlier in the day.
His forefinger caressed the trigger, and 150 grains of .30-caliber accuracy spiralled from the muzzle of the M-1.
The sensing unit became a haze of particles as the slug put an immediate end to the device. Bolan swung the M-1 forty-five degrees. Again the Startron proved its worth. And again a sophisticated electronic sensor fell prey to the brute force of the 150-grain slug.
Bolan could all but sense the confusion within the base.
The incoming rounds were falling far short of the compound—they were not even reaching the fence.
He took out a third sensor.
An auto-carbine chattered its reply. Bolan heard the order that stilled the weapon. Apparently at least one of the troops was shaken to the point of forgetting his training. The thing about fear that was useful to Bolan was that it tends to infect.
Without haste, Bolan left his fire site and moved through the shadowy woods toward his left, toward the north. Three sensors were no longer capable of transmitting. One guard was frightened, the others edgy. Let them sweat. And, hopefully, let them concentrate on the western perimeter with its now-useless sensors.
Ever since the fading rays of the sun gave way to the dark of early evening, Bolan had been aware of the coyote sounds that carried across the moonless meadow. The crafty animals were chuckling and yipping to one another. As the dark deepened, their cries grew in number and volume.
Though people usually associated coyotes with the plains, Bolan knew that the wily animals lived in the mountains to the height of timberline and beyond.
He looked through the Startron at the area of the back gate to the north of the compound. About twenty-five yards from the gate and its well-used path was a depression in the contour of the land. He noted that the light covering of vegetation in this shallow pit was worn down. He could also see little splinters of white. He could not identify what they were.
The worn vegetation suggested that countless animal paws had pressed at the grass. It was too early to be sure about the bits of white. Though Bolan figured he knew the answer, he was willing to wait for an on-site inspection to verify his suspicions.
Suddenly he saw two dozen coyotes approach the depression. The animals must know something. One or two of the beasts lifted slim muzzles and responded to the cries of coyotes still well out in the meadow.
Bolan detected a new sound in the night. It was the muted rattle of chain and lock being opened. He let the Startron pick up the gate. Two men were there. One was quietly slipping the chain free of the gate while the other stood, bent forward slightly.
Why would men expose themselves as targets when they knew something was going down?
Were they insane?
Bolan peered at them through the night scope. In front of the second man was a wheelbarrow, the size used by construction workers. Several bits of cargo hung over the sides of it.
Once the gate was open, the man pushing the barrow moved steadily toward the depression. The other remained at the gate.
Bolan noted the moving man's robotlike attitude. Looking neither to the right or left, the man advanced steadily, his shoulders hunched slightly with the effort.
Eager coyotes ringed the depression ahead but made no move to advance.
The fellow gained speed slightly as gravity gave a helping hand. Once at the base of the shallow pit the automaton upended the wheelbarrow.
Its cargo tumbled free in a jumble of arms and legs. Human arms and legs.
Without glancing back, the man returned to the building.
Yeah, the perfect solution to the world's labor problems. Turn men into goddamn dog food.
Bolan had come to this remote region at zero notice and with precious little data because it was a job for John Phoenix—the signs were strong that the kind of actions already observed by Stony Man Farm at Bolan hit sites in North Africa and Florida were being imitated in the high reaches of the Rockies. And Bolan, a.k.a. Colonel John Phoenix, had begun the probe immediately, always aware of the time factor of Phoenix's world, where everything is a few short numbers away from exploding and only constant attrition by an ace dealer of death can avert major disaster. This was the Phoenix work zone. He was at home in it. The future of the compound before him was in very serious question.
He moved rapidly.
The coyotes retreated at his coming, tails down, lips curled. The scent of gunmetal overcame their expectation of food. Grudgingly they turned from the feast and waited in panting expectation.
Once in the depression, Bolan slipped a red-lensed light from its slit pocket. The pencil-thin beam of light could not be spotted by even the sharpest-eyed observer at a distance of more than 100 yards.
The scene outlined by the beam of light was exactly what Bolan had anticipated. Still it disgusted him. The bits of white that littered the ground were fragments of bone left by hungry coyotes. Bolan was in the midst of an open-air burial ground, a feeding station for coyotes. Sure, it was the easiest way of disposing of bodies. Take them out and leave them for the animals. It took no great amount of guesswork to deduce where the bodies came from. Experiments involve failures. Failures produced corpses.
With the toe of his boot Bolan stirred at the pressed earth at his feet. More slivers of bone appeared.
The red light caught a semicircle of coyotes eyeing him. Tongues lolled, lips grinned to expose well-developed teeth. Other than an occasional yip of disappointment, the animals made no effort to interfere with his inspection.
Now his light sought the evening feast. The first body Bolan studied was male, probably in his late fifties or even a few years older. Thin, fish-belly white except for hands and face, the man had long needed a shave. His growth of black stubble with its spottings of gray appeared even more unwholesome in death. A wino, Bolan told himself.
His partner was younger, firmly muscled, tanned from the waist up. His eyes, open in death, viewed the beam of light in puzzlement. Doug Fletcher? Bolan memorized the man's facial details in case he encountered Josh and his granddaughter. Knowledge was terrible at times. Lack of knowledge was ten times worse. And Hell was knowledge found too late.
Bolan left the feeding ground for the shelter of the trees. Behind him the coyotes attacked their evening feed with a will. Their cries of greed took on a note of frenzy as powerful jaws chewed into dead flesh.
The sounds of tearing meat and the crunching of small bones followed him into the darker shadows.
Just as he reached the belt of trees, a powerful light shone from a point midway between the fence and the buildings of the compound. That answered one question. The lights were high intensity, not infrared. So much the better. Remotely operated, the lights rose from the earth on small hydraulic pillars.
Mack doused the light with a single shot. Just one more thing for the scum to consider, as they crouched and slunk about, awaiting his attack.
He had struck from the west and now from the north. Since the east offered the worst possible point of attack, that was his next destination.
Setting out at an easy lope, Bolan skirted the open meadow until he was about five hundred yards beyond the fence. Only then did he turn toward the south, his path taking him along a line parallel to the eastern edge of the compound.
Dark forms passed at safe distance as increasing numbers of coyotes came to join their relatives in their grisly feast. Bolan welcomed them, for every animal that passed within the effective range of a sensor sent a signal into the compound. To the men on the control boards, each electronic contact meant doubt and that doubt would grow until it became something huge.
And worried minds made mistakes, and mistakes lowered effective
ness, cost lives.
Bolan headed toward the road that led to the compound from the east.
Once within range of the sensors still doing duty in that direction, he would drop into the two-foot drainage ditch running parallel to the road. The ditch, necessary to keep the road from washing out during the melting of winter snow and the falling of spring and summer rains, provided the preliminary cover he needed.
He would crouch in the ditch until he was within three hundred yards of the fence, then drop to his knees for the next couple of hundred yards. Then he would complete the journey on his belly, and the fence would be his.
Bolan stood stock still. A slight breeze, downslope now that night was upon the mountains, carried with it the sound of a laboring engine. The vehicle was too far from the open meadow to be seen, its lights still lost in the road's twisting and turning. It was quickly approaching.
Bolan resumed his ground-covering lope. The plan had to be changed.
7
THE BIG GUY was lying prone a dozen yards from the road when the van emerged from the line of trees bordering the high mountain valley. Careful not to diminish his night vision by looking into its lights, Bolan studied the oncoming van.
It was not possible to tell what the vehicle contained in the way of men or weapons or how many occupied the cab area.
Take it out or let it pass? The decision was his to make.
Putting aside the M-1, Bolan drew from its elongated holster the silenced Beretta 93-R auto-pistol.
When the van was twenty yards away, Bolan closed one eye and aimed toward it. The auto-pistol chugged once and a 9mm slug cored through the near rear tire of the van. A second silenced cough and a front tire burst from the gun's crushing power.
Both eyes open now, his night vision still perfect—the result of having kept one pupil in the dark while looking at the van's lights—the shadow in black moved with all the speed his powerful legs could provide.
Executioner 054 - Mountain Rampage Page 4
