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 leather. “Not this time, Jack. I need you to stand by here in case we have to get wheels up fast. If I manage to get on the inside of this thing, I’ll need fast transport to Adak.”
“Sure thing,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll be right here waiting, then.”
“Thanks.”
Bolan checked the action on the Beretta 93-R, secured it in the holster and then shrugged into a heavy navy peacoat. If he was going to be a stevedore, he would have to look the part. He didn’t know if he could get work, not being a native, but he was hoping that Stony Man could pull some strings on that score. Bolan descended the stairwell of the plane and climbed behind the wheel of the rented sedan Stony Man had arranged. He cranked the engine, gave it a minute to warm up, then powered out of the terminal and followed the vehicle routing arrows until he reached a gate. He showed a guard the paperwork for the rental. The security man seemed only half interested, apparently more worried about getting back to the ball game that was being piped into the small guard shack via a satellite relay dish.
Within minutes, Mack Bolan had left the airport and was headed toward the Dutch Harbor Development Company in downtown Unalaska. As he drove along Airport Beach Road and headed southwest toward his destination, he considered his angle of approach. The DHDC didn’t necessarily offer employment, but they had the information and connections that would get Bolan on the inside. Something had convinced Stony Man the answers to what had happened in the mysterious disappearances of military resources had to be somewhere in the Aleutian Islands, and Bolan was equally convinced Stony Man’s intelligence was correct. It only followed: if the military transport and Coast Guard cutter had run afoul of terrorists, then whoever was behind the disappearances was somewhere in the Aleutians. And if there was some sort of new satellite technology or weapons that had actually destroyed the vessels, then whoever had pulled the trigger had been close enough to target them, and the only proximal landmass for a base of operations to operate such advanced equipment was the Aleutians.
Regardless of how Bolan looked at it, the answers he sought were in the Aleutians. His premonition became hard reality when sunlight on metal flashed in his peripheral vision. The late model SUV convertible roared down the road perpendicular to the one Bolan traversed on a course that looked as if its driver intended to intercept him. He eased his foot on to the brake—enough to slow but not so much to alert the newcomers to the fact he’d spotted them—while simultaneously reaching into the side pocket of the oversize backpack in the passenger seat. Bolan snatched the binoculars and put them to his eyes, checking the road periodically as he did.
Beside the driver, four men occupied the open-air Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. The passenger had one leg cocked to the side, foot resting on the step-up bar, and cradled a high-powered rifle with scope between his legs. Three men in back all toted what looked like full-sized assault rifles.
Bolan dropped the binoculars on to the seat and eased his foot on to the gas pedal, speeding up so he could reach the area up ahead where the roads intersected. He beat the other vehicle by about a quarter-mile and did exactly what they wouldn’t have expected. Instead of going past, he slammed on the brakes, timed the turn so the rear followed smoothly in a slide, and pointed the nose so it faced the road. He stomped on the accelerator and powered on a direct collision course with the Rubicon.
The occupants were taken by surprise, but they reacted with speed and resolve. Unfortunately for them, they were no match for the mettle of the Executioner. Years of combat had honed Bolan’s skills, and some thugs with guns, even assault rifles, weren’t going to be any match.
He waited until he was nearly on top of them before maneuvering the sedan out of their path. The driver of the Jeep blinked first, however, and the soldier waited until he knew for certain which direction the driver would choose before heading in the opposite one. The Jeep rushed past him, and the driver kept his speed, powering down only a little as he swerved off the road and slowed so that he could turn. Bolan had a different plan, bringing his vehicle to a skidding halt and then going EVA.
From the arsenal in his pack he withdrew a Diehl DM-51 grenade and an FN-FNC assault rifle that was chambered for 5.56 mm ammo. With an effective firing range of nearly 400 meters and a muzzle velocity just shy of a thousand meters per second, it was a lethal tool in Mack Bolan’s hands.
Bolan lined up the sights on the careening Jeep as the driver tried to slow enough to make a turn without flipping the vehicle or tossing out its occupants. He figured the first, best option would be to disable the driver. The gamble paid off as he sighted on the windshield just as the nose of the Jeep swerved in his direction. Bolan stroked the trigger twice, delivering a 3-round burst in each instance. The first three rounds spider-webbed the windshield at the base, effectively blocking the view of the passenger, and the second burst made contact with the driver.
A red smear splashed across the windshield, and the vehicle immediately began to falter and shimmy. The passenger was undoubtedly leaning over the console attempting to keep the vehicle under control, but he had no idea where he was going, thanks to Bolan’s handiwork on the windshield. It had the desired effect, and the three men in back decided it was better to take their chances on foot than stay inside the Jeep bound for whatever crazy and unpredictable path the passenger managed to navigate.
Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into target acquisition before the trio had barely gotten boots on the ground. The first guy managed to stand, but that was all he had time for as the Executioner delivered a volley from his weapon that caused the man to stagger back, his body flailing under the impact of the high-velocity rounds. Another hardman managed to find cover, but not before Bolan winged him with a shot that tore a fleshy chunk from his arm.
The third guy reached cover behind a rock, but that position didn’t give him any advantage over Bolan. The gunner didn’t think his enemy could defend himself against three armed men, and he’d remained ignorant of the fact that Bolan had reduced their numbers by better than half. The gunner broke from the protection of the large outcropping and tore for higher ground that would give him the best advantage against Bolan. The Executioner sighted in on his enemy, leading him just enough to account for wind and speed before he triggered a 3-round burst. All three rounds connected. The impact drove him to the ground where he twitched a few times before going still.
Bolan swung the assault rifle toward the target he’d winged before, and noticed the Jeep was now stopped and the passenger had gone EVA. The guy was definitely toting some kind of high-powered rifle with a
