System Corruption. Don Pendleton
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Bosley. I was just with him.”
Conner shook his head. “Your pass gives you clearance, Colonel.”
“Who’s in command here, Conner?” Bolan asked.
“I am…sir,” a voice said.
Bolan glanced around and got his first look at Master Sergeant Thomas K. Randisi. The man was as tall as Bolan. Broad, erect. Every inch the professional soldier. Even in the dry, dusty heat his uniform looked as if it had just been pressed. His gleaming boots defied dust to settle on them.
As Bolan confronted him, Randisi slid off his dark glasses. His gray eyes held a gleam of defiance. He was deeply tanned, his high-boned features weathered. Down his left cheek was a slight pattern of pale scars. The man was military from his boot tips to the top of his close-shaved head, and he was showing Bolan that he was not in the least intimidated by a colonel, even one from CID.
“Master Sergeant Randisi,” Bolan said. “Just the man I want to talk to.” He flashed his ID at Randisi. “Just so we get off on the right foot.”
“What can I do for you, Colonel?”
“A few questions first.” Bolan glanced at the sentry. “Dismissed, Conner.”
Bolan did not miss the questioning glance Conner shot in Randisi’s direction. There was no flicker of unease in the master sergeant’s eyes. He simply nodded curtly, and Conner returned to his post.
“Questions, sir?” Randisi asked. “Why would CID be interested in us?”
“I ask the questions, Randisi. That’s how it works.” Bolan kept his tone light but with enough authority to keep Randisi wondering. “Let’s go and check out your civilian presence here.”
“Mr. Janssen has full clearance,” Randisi said as they strode in the direction of the main building. “He’s a regular visitor. Monitors our assessment and testing of OTG products.”
“That’s wise considering the current situation, Master Sergeant,” Bolan said out of the blue, leaving Randisi staring at him, unsure what was being suggested.
The interior of the long hut was fitted out as a control center and office. A balding, lanky man in civilian dress was turning from a water cooler as Bolan and Randisi entered. The man looked past Bolan to Randisi.
“Stefan Janssen, isn’t it?” Bolan said briskly. “I seem to be meeting all the names on my list at the same time.”
“Colonel Stone is from Army CID,” Randisi said, jumping in quickly.
“Criminal investigation,” Bolan said. “We handle policing for the army.”
The paper cup in Janssen’s hand jerked, spilling water that splashed his shirt front.
“Nervous, Mr. Janssen?” Bolan asked.
Janssen’s flushed face gave away his feelings. He brushed at the spilled water. “No. Should I be?”
Bolan gave him a tight smile. “You tell me, Mr. Janssen. I just got here.”
Janssen’s pitiful glance at Bolan might have been an attempt to draw sympathy. Bolan wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He held Janssen’s uneasy stare for long seconds.
“As I explained, Colonel,” Randisi said from behind Bolan, “Mr. Janssen is here courtesy of the army. He’s a guest.”
Janssen seemed to draw strength from Randisi’s endorsement. He swallowed the contents of the paper cup.
“You should know, Colonel Stone, that my company, OTG, is held in great esteem by the Pentagon. We have supplied ordnance for a long time. My employer, Jacob Ordstrom, has highly placed contacts within…”
“Two things, Janssen,” Bolan said, dropping the niceties. “CID is not interested in who your employer is in bed with. I’m here to investigate serious irregularities regarding equipment supply and supposed testing of said equipment. Don’t try and impress me with name dropping, sir. I am not impressed. I am not intimidated. And it appears that when you mentioned Ordstrom I feel sure I’ve seen his name on a list, as well. It would appear, Mr. Janssen, I’m having a better day than I anticipated.”
Bolan sensed movement behind him. He stepped to one side, turning, and saw that Randisi had stepped to one side of the hut, close to a desk where an unholstered sidearm lay in clear sight. “Just what is it CID is interested in, Colonel?” he asked.
“I was hoping you could provide me with some answers there, Randisi. The information we have makes tenuous links between the death of a young army officer and a missing employee from OTG.”
“I don’t understand, Colonel,” Randisi said calmly. “You said an army officer?”
“Lieutenant Francis Nelson. My information is that he visited this camp a short time ago. He was killed on his return to Washington.
“Killed?”
“To be specific, he was murdered. I tracked down the police forensic report and it appears he was hit by a .50-caliber bullet. The type they use in the M-107 military sniper rifle. Like that one in the rack over there.”
Bolan crossed to inspect the rifle. He studied it closely, listening as Randisi walked across to stand behind him.
“Your specialty, Master Sergeant, by the sharpshooter insignia you’re wearing.”
“That’s correct, Colonel. A sharpshooter’s badge. You take a walk around camp, you’ll see a few more. I’m not the only one who has that distinction.”
Bolan turned around to face Randisi. He held the master sergeant’s unflinching stare.
“I have one myself, Randisi. And I keep my hand in. You never know when it might come in useful.”
“That you don’t, sir.”
Bolan smiled briefly, then stepped around Randisi and joined the nervous Janssen. The OTG man was standing at the open door, and Bolan had the feeling the man was close to making a run for it. Wet patches showed under Janssen’s armpits and his face gleamed.
“Gets really hot in this part of the country, Mr. Janssen. You feeling the heat right now?” the Executioner asked.
“I’m fine.”
“The OTG man I mentioned earlier was named Frank Carella. Do you know him, Mr. Janssen?”
“You realize how large OTG is, Colonel? There are people there I wouldn’t know if they walked in here right now.”
“I take that as a no?”
“You can…”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Randisi said quickly. “You will have to make allowances for Mr. Janssen. He hasn’t taken to our climate too well.”
Bolan held his stare on Janssen. He wanted the man to be uncomfortable. He sensed a weakness in his makeup. He felt Janssen might talk if he was pushed hard enough. It was time to let the man consider his position. Walking away would leave Janssen wondering what was going to happen next.
“Fine, Randisi. That will do for today. But make yourselves available tomorrow. We will need to talk again.”
6
The Sunbird Motor Court sat alongside the highway, next to a long diner and adjacent to a gas station, ten miles from the camp. An oasis in the scrubland. To the side of the gas station was a flattened patch of land that served as the parking lot for the big rigs and cars that traversed the highway. It was a dusty setup, not helped by the semipermanent, arid breeze that was as much part of the landscape as the brittle grass and spiky scrub.
Bolan’s cabin overlooked the highway and the terrain beyond. It would never win any prizes for the most pleasing aspect from a motel window, but that wasn’t Bolan’s reason for the occasional glance through the dusty glass.