TWO
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan watched as Barbara Price reached out and traced the scar on his chest with her finger, just one of the many scars that were the spoils of his War Everlasting. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, and her honey-blonde hair cascaded across his upper body. He stroked the small of her back with surprising gentleness, although there wasn’t anything weak about that hand. The power and strength that flowed from him seemed almost electric. The buzz of the house phone intercom intruded on the moment, and Bolan had to hold back a groan of frustration as Brognola’s voice came on the line. “Striker, are you there?”
“Yes, I am, Hal,” Bolan replied.
“I need to see you in the War Room, pronto. And I need Barb here, too, if she’s there with you or wherever.”
The immediate clearing of the throat by his longtime friend and ally brought a smile to Bolan’s face. “I’m sure I can find her. Give me time to get cleaned up and I’ll be down.”
Brognola muttered something that passed for a goodbye and then signed off.
Bolan sighed, and Price patted his chest before lifting her head. She left him with a gentle kiss, slid from the bed and padded toward the door to the hall. She would shower in her own quarters and leave Bolan to his own ablutions.
* * *
BY THE TIME the Executioner had arrived in the War Room, Price and Brognola awaited him with expectant glances.
The big Fed sat with an impassive expression and an unlit cigar jammed between his teeth. “Okay, now that 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
