War Everlasting. Don Pendleton
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you’re both here, let’s get right to business.”
The soldier took a seat. He and Brognola had known each other for what seemed to be several lifetimes. Their relationship had begun as one of lawman against fugitive, but as time and fate would have it, the very nature of that relationship would turn them into close allies.
“So, what’s up?” Bolan asked.
“In short, there have been some incidents in the Aleutian Islands over the past twenty-four hours that have the White House highly concerned.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“The kind that involve the disappearances of American service personnel,” Brognola replied.
“Talk to me.”
The big Fed laid it out for him in no uncertain terms, beginning with the distress call and subsequent disappearance of flight 195B followed by the immediate response of the USCGC Llewellyn. “They reported their response and arrival at the SAR site to Marine Safety Unit Valdez, but at their next scheduled check-in, Valdez received no response. All radar transmissions stopped just fifteen minutes before that. They sent two fighters and a land-based Chinook, and diverted an AWACS. Nothing. It’s as if both vessels simply disappeared.”
“Air national guard planes and US Coast Guard cutters don’t just disappear without a trace,” Bolan said. “Something’s definitely wrong.”
“We thought so, as well,” Brognola said. “Unfortunately, the US Navy acted immediately and sent an Office of Naval Intelligence investigation team immediately. They also put the Elmendorf-Richardson AFB on full alert.”
“Not good,” Bolan said. “It’s going to make it much more difficult to operate inconspicuously in a place crawling with military investigators.”
“Understood, and I can’t tell you how sincerely sorry I am about that,” Brognola said. “But I didn’t have any choice in the matter.
“We thought you’d be able to work best under your military cover of Brandon Stone,” Brognola suggested. “That was until we figured that would draw even more attention.”
“Good thinking, but you were right to dismiss the idea,” Bolan said. “I can get a lot further if I go in as a local looking for work. That will draw much less attention. The military thinks like military, and they won’t be looking at the common folks for the answers. They’ll want to engage members of their own kind. If I mix with the local crowd, it’ll make my inquiries easier and make avoiding them easier, too.”
“Aaron dredged up one of your old cover names. Mike Blansky—that’s with a y, not an i. He did a complete rework on the ID and wiped all previous references. You have brand-new credentials, including an employment history and clean social security number, the works. I even had him add a little questionable material, a couple previous arrests for public brawling, but nothing serious. Just what you’d expect to see for a guy with the kind of cover we thought you’d need.”
“You went the extra mile,” Bolan remarked.
“Correct,” Brognola said.
“We knew it would be important that your cover seem as inconspicuous as possible,” Price said. “This way the military investigators up there probably won’t give you a second glance. They’ve frozen all transportation to and from the Aleutians and are permitting only major commercial air and rail traffic on the mainland. But just before you joined us, I managed to squeak you in under a hardship.”
“What’s my final destination?” Bolan asked.
“You’ll ultimately be headed to the port city of Adak,” Price replied. “You’ll fly into Unalaska, and you can arrange your own transportation from there. You’re slated with experience as a dockworker, so that ought to put you in pretty good with the locals.”
“If anyone will have heard about any strange goings-on in the area, those guys will. It’s a closed society there.”
“There’s one other thing, Striker,” Brognola added. “We don’t know what’s happened to either the flight with a few military personnel onboard or the crew of the Llewellyn. We’re sending you the vitals of the commanding officers who were assigned to those assets, respectively. If this is a terrorist attack of some kind, then there’s no question we’re up against some type of new technology that has the ability to make whole planes and ships disappear.”
“In other words, I won’t just have terrorists to worry about, but anyone else who might want to get their hands on said technology.”
“Correct.”
“As usual, I have my work cut out for me.”
“Right,” Price replied. “Jack’s on his way and should be here within the hour. You’ll take the helicopter to Reagan and then a direct flight to Unalaska with a refuel in Seattle.”
“As soon as I get my equipment together, we’ll be off.”
“Godspeed, Striker,” Brognola said. “And good luck.”
Unalaska
MACK BOLAN LOOKED out the port side window of the Gulfstream C-35 jet as Jack Grimaldi banked the plane for its final approach into Alaska. The city of Unalaska covered all of Amaknak Island and was spread across more than one hundred miles of terrain.
“Wheels down in a few a minutes, Sarge,” Grimaldi announced over the headset.
Bolan gave him a thumbs-up, took the headset from his ears and hung the unit on the wall before fastening his seat belt. He then gave the computer terminal in front of him his full attention. He’d reviewed carefully the files of all four officers in the missing plane and Coast Guard cutter. All boasted impeccable service records, and Bolan had no reason to think they were involved in whatever had transpired in the Bering Sea.
Bolan had considered having Grimaldi make one pass, but the area crawled with boats and planes and he didn’t feel like getting into a hassle. To have appeared in that area would have flown directly in the face of what he hoped to accomplish, and that was to draw as little attention as possible. There wouldn’t be an easy way to explain how they were that far off course when he was supposed to be heading into Unalaska in the hopes of signing on with one of the local shipping companies that operated out of the port city of Adak.
First things, first, however—he had to make his way through the red tape and find a job as a stevedore. It wouldn’t be easy to stay under the radar, even posing as a civilian. The net population in Adak was about four hundred people, and that was a liberal estimate. It was probably less than that. At one time the city had thrived when there was a military station there, but since the closing of the naval air station in the late ’90s the population had dropped dramatically from more than fifteen thousand to just a few hundred. Many businesses had left the area or simply folded, no longer supported by the military community.
Still, Adak had a lot to offer those who chose to live there, with the entirety of the city’s facilities belonging to The Aleut Corp, aka TAC. Bolan would have to visit their affiliate on Unalaska, the Onalash Corporation, if he hoped to get work on the island. Typically they only offered jobs to Alaskan natives, and it was something they stuck to since it was part of their claims settlement with the United States government. They were hard core about their treaties and with very good reason.
Within a few minutes Grimaldi had received clearance to land and touched down without a problem. Bolan managed to bypass any flak with customs since the area was part of the United States, and thus they weren’t overly concerned, despite the heightened sense of security. The events in the Bering Sea had the military on high alert, but the civilian population seemed woefully ignorant of the situation. Somehow they’d managed to keep the incidents about the flight and Coast Guard ship under wraps. Bolan knew it wouldn’t last long.
“You want me to tag along?” Grimaldi asked hopefully.
Bolan shook his head as he slid into shoulder