War Everlasting. Don Pendleton
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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 some 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.
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