Skysweeper

  Annotation

  Lasers! The word holds a promise for peace in the world. And the U.S. is twenty years ahead of its nearest rival in the latest use of the device.

  But the secret of this technology lies in the tangled psyche of a former POW, brainwashed years before and let loose on an unsuspecting America. And the Russians hold the key. Mack Bolan is frighteningly familiar with the mind-control techniques used on prisoners in Vietnam.

  The specter of that bloody war haunts The Executioners current mission as a trail of treachery leads him to discover an attempt on the Presidents life and a world-threatening plot masterminded by Bolans deadliest enemy.

  Strakhov returns.

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  Don Pendleton's

  Prologue

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  A Brief History of Mack Bolan's Military Career

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  Don Pendleton's

  Skysweeper

  When a hero reaches the Pearly Gates,

  To Saint Peter he will tell

  Another warrior reporting, Sir.

  I've served my time in Hell.

  To all those brave Allied soldiers who fell on the beaches of Normandy. They, too, were fighting for justice and freedom.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Chet Cunningham for his contributions to this work.

  Prologue

  From Mack Bolan's journal:

  One on one has been one of my earliest doctrines: chess, arm wrestling, footraces, almost any activity where it works.

  That philosophy continues. Maybe I'm an anachronism in a world of superweapons, of scientific battles, of fighting with heat-seeking missiles, of laser-aimed rifles, of tanks with computers that automatically select, track, acquire target and fire.

  Perhaps I'm a throwback to the caveman where the combatants fought with clubs. The bigger man with the bigger club usually won, unless the smaller man was stronger or smarter or simply better with a club. I like that.

  I've said before that any finger can pull a trigger. A boy of ten who can't read or write and without a family or enough to eat, can trigger a LAW rocket and shoot down a $20,000,000 aircraft. A twelve-year-old girl can fire a machine gun and slaughter innocent shoppers in a Mideastern marketplace. It doesn't take specific training to kill.

  The same holds true for anyone behind any weapon. A good tool such as a knife can kill. A good development such as atomic energy can be shifted from progressive scientific benefits for mankind and turned into weapons. What bothers me about this is that any of these devices can and do fall into the wrong hands.

  When a misguided soul gets behind an Armageddon-type atomic weapon, only bad things can happen.

  No, I don't hate science. It has given us tremendous creature comforts and I appreciate them as much as anyone.

  Still I worry.

  Yes, I will use a laser-sighted rifle if I have to, and I have used heat-seeking rockets to drive Animal Man back into his sewer.

  But too many times I have seen the evil hydra rise up and utilize these same scientific advances for vile purposes.

  These savages have no respect for the sanctity of human life. They do not give a second thought to marring civilization with their terror. They are inhuman, brutish cancers on mankind who defile, terrorize, maim and kill to further their diabolical and selfish ends.

  When I go into battle one on one with these ghouls, I know my own skills and limitations. I understand what I can and can't do.

  A hot firefight, whether in Nam or Lebanon or El Salvador, or in the middle of a headshed's empire in Los Angeles, must be one continuous course of action. There is no time to sit down and logically figure out how to attack a position, or an adversary with a submachine gun.

  You act!

  Or you die.

  When I consider the implications of Animal Man in control of a scientific complex that can literally vaporize four million people by the push of a single button, I pause and shiver. Not from fear, but anger.

  I long ago committed myself to this war everlasting with the idea that one day I would pay the supreme price. That's the way of war. I have survived this long through my own skill, with the help of dedicated friends and no small measure of good luck.

  But when I go it will be a warrior's death, and even when my body begins to cool, my eyes will still be glaring defiance at the scum who ended my war.

  This is a good war.

  In good wars good people always die.

  1

  Mack Bolan sensed a human presence to his left. He pivoted and dived for cover behind the concrete-block wall. He heard a silenced pistol cough twice in the darkness even as he moved, but his early-warning combat antenna had already picked up the danger signal.

  The rounds caromed off the masonry and sped harmlessly into the night. Bolan sat up and peered around the base of the blocks, studying the situation.

  His gaze took in the large wooden box squatting in the alley. And the Executioner was certain that the sniper — a professional because of the silenced weapon — lay concealed behind the huge crate.

  Bolan fisted the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R, and continued to wait. He knew the gunman had no place to go without showing himself. He had to move sooner or later. When he did he would die.

  Bolan had been in this alley in Ridgecrest, California, watching a house, and soon the Executioner realized someone was watching him. The cat-and-mouse game had turned deadly when Bolan decided to deliberately show himself. The other shooter had missed, and sealed his fate.

  "Give it up," Bolan shouted. "You've got nowhere to go. Buy your life by talking.''

  The response was two quick rounds from the man behind the heavy wooden crate. Both slugs hit the wall chest high and splattered into the sand. Bolan was crouched well below them. He put one measured shot into the outer edge of the box, sending splinters behind it, but heard no cry of pain.

  The gladiators were separated by only thirty feet of sand, and Bolan knew the enemy was getting ready to move out. The Executioner drew his .44 AutoMag just in case he needed it, and laid it on the ground. Then he flicked the 93-R to 3-shot mode and clutched the pistol in a two-handed shooting grip.

  Scuffling. Movement!

  A blur showed over the box and a form rushed. into the open and headed down the alley. Bolan stroked the trigger. The first three slugs blasted the man's legs. Bolan tracked up the muzzle and put three more into the fleeing gunman's side and back. The ambusher had fired one wild shot behind him as he ran, and now his arms were flung outward as his riddled body hurtled headlong into the desert dust and lay still.

  The Executioner advanced cautiously, watching the splayed hands, until he was sure the man was dead. Then he holstered the Beretta and dragged the corpse to the box that had hidden him. Bolan dumped the man inside and slid the lid in place. The container that had been his refuge, now became his coffin.

  Bolan signaled behind him and a shadow scurried up the alley and crouched beside the Executioner. The man was Dr. Harry Peterson, a physicist and one of the head scientists working on the ultra-top-secret "Skysweeper" laser project for the United States government.

  "That man shot at you? Is he dead?"

  Mack Bolan turned and glowered at the shadowed face. "We discussed the danger this afternoon, Dr. Peterson."

  "Yes, I forgot how my parents said it was. I have forgotten too much about Russia. If my parents weren't still living there, thes
e bastards would have no hold over me. They could never make me do this."

  Bolan's rage subsided when he considered the scientist's plight.

  The Executioner knew his companion was torn between love for his parents, love for his life's work and patriotism for his adopted country.

  Bolan's mind flashed to Pittsfield and his own parents a lifetime ago. The menace remained the same. Only the accent had changed. But whatever cloak the threat wore, the Executioner would see through the disguise. And for Bolan, his quest would always be personal.

  "I'll stop them. But if you decide to back down now you can kiss the Skysweeper project goodbye," he told Dr. Peterson. "And there's no telling what they'll do to your parents. Do you want us to continue?"

  "Yes. They have made me compromise myself too often already. What do you want me to do?"

  Briefly Bolan outlined the plan he had devised.

  "Yes. Yes, we must do this now."

  Bolan returned to his appraisal of the house. He guessed the modest unit to be about thirty years old. Nondescript, the kind someone working with the KGB would want to use. And Sammy Smith was the kind of treacherous citizen who could be recruited by the resident KGB agent to do his dirty work.

  But Bolan had an idea that Smith was more than just small fry. He seemed to have others working for him, and he had some professional protection. Bolan knew the killer he had just snuffed was a KGB field muscle and hit man. It helped even the score, just a little.

  Bolan and the physicist lay in the alley for ten minutes watching the back door. No one came or left and the lights were all on. Bolan moved quietly up to the door and rapped twice, then twice again followed by one last knock, as he had seen an earlier caller do. Childish, but Bolan decided to play it that way.

  The same man Bolan had seen before at the door opened it and looked out. He was in his forties, with dark hair and a broad face. During his two days in town, Bolan had checked out Smith. He was a lead technician at the China Lake Naval Weapons Center, a huge base where scientists and R&D people tested their inventions. Ridgecrest, the village that had grown up quickly to handle the civilian population, was just over the boundary fence from the military facility.

  The man stared blankly at his visitor. "Do I know you?" he asked.

  Bolan shook his head. "You may have spoken to me on the phone, but that's all. I control what you do here, however... through others. I would not be here to see you if I was not extremely unhappy with your progress. You told us you could monitor the project from inside. Then why do we not know more about Operation Skysweeper?"

  Smith reacted to the shock technique the way Bolan hoped he would. He became flustered, unsure of himself.

  "I have brought along one of your people with whom we are also not pleased." Bolan gestured to Dr. Peterson, and the physicist stepped into the light from the door so Smith could see him. "May we come in?" Bolan said.

  "Yes, please do. I know Dr. Peterson." They stepped inside and Smith closed the door. "Drink?"

  "My American comrade. I did not come here to drink! I came for answers! I want an explanation of exactly where you are in your work."

  "Of course, yes." He hesitated and looked pointedly at Dr. Peterson.

  "There is no need to worry about Dr. Peterson's loyalty," the Executioner said. "Actually he has been reporting on your performance these past few months."

  Smith was sweating, and the Executioner stiffened his frown.

  "Now, the basic laser research. Do you have copies of all of it up to this point?''

  "Not... all of it. But we do have more than half."

  "Yes, the half that everyone else knows about. Tell me what else you have, quickly!"

  "We have two men working in the complex where the labs and experimental shops are situated. We have another man in communications and one more in Skysweeper plans and programs. I know what they are doing. I know of all the tests coming up. The basic research is harder to obtain. Already we have lost one man caught smuggling plans out in his lunch box."

  "That was the ultimate in stupidity!" Bolan snapped. "The man should have been shot, not fired. We do not pay you to fail, Smith. Even you must understand that."

  "But we are watched, checked. Security is tighter than I have ever seen it here."

  "Of course. That is why you get paid well for taking the risks. Now, if you are unhappy in your work, we can move one of our alternates up to take your place."

  "No! No, it is only a small delay. We have a new source for the basic research material. We should have it in a week."

  "Microfilmed and ready to send?"

  "Yes, all ready."

  The Executioner seemed to weigh the matter. "All right, one more week. You must be absolutely certain to arrange a failure on the next series of tests. It would move them back months. I trust you have it set up as instructed? Now, show me your safe. I want to see exactly what you have ready for shipment and how much cash you have for emergencies."

  "Yes, of course." Smith hesitated. "My usual contact has never asked to see the safe. I was told never to show it, especially to someone who hasn't presented any ID."

  "Smith, you idiot! Do you think we have anything written down? That we would carry any type of identification? Perhaps that is why I have had to replace your contact. You will get a new contact tomorrow. Now, quickly, the safe."

  By the time they had moved to a back bedroom, Bolan knew exactly where Smith carried his weapon. Smith had touched it twice to loosen it in the holster. He twirled the dial of the safe, and when it unlocked he swung on Bolan and Dr. Peterson with a drawn .38 revolver.

  The Executioner slammed his fist down on the back of Smith's gun hand, cracking the small bones. The man dropped the weapon and clutched his shattered hand, his face contorted in agony.

  "You broke my hand!" he screeched. Bolan frisked the man and found a hideout derringer in a boot holster under his pant leg.

  "You're not my shadow agent," the guy gasped. "Who the hell are you?"

  "I'll ask the questions. Open the safe and place everything in it on the dresser." The man did not move, but continued to stare at Bolan. Before Smith knew what was happening, the Executioner hammered a karate chop into his kidney. Smith yowled in pain, his body arching backward, his good hand trying to rub the spot where he received the excruciating blow. Then he stumbled to the safe, pulled it open and began to stack papers and two bundles of cash on the dresser.

  "Now, lie facedown on the floor," the Executioner ordered.

  Smith scowled and did not move. "I'm calling your bluff, whoever you are."

  Bolan triggered the silenced Beretta. The slug slammed into the man's thigh and he hit the ground as if his legs were yanked out from under him. Dr. Peterson took a step backward, his face a curious mixture of anger and delight.

  "Goddamn it, you didn't have to shoot me!" Smith bellowed.

  Bolan decided to drop the "foreigner" act. "That was your bonus for spying against your country."

  "Hell, you can't prove a thing," Smith said, wrapping his shirt around his wounded thigh to stop the bleeding.

  "I don't have to. You admitted your guilt."

  Ignoring the pain, Smith roared and leaped toward Dr. Peterson, snaking his left hand around he scientist's throat.

  "Drop the weapon or I break his neck."

  Bolan could see the muscles tense in the man's forearm, and the physicist's face beginning to turn splotchy red.

  Bolan let the Beretta fall to the floor. There was no time for a standoff and he didn't want the scientist hurt. There would be a better time to take out the traitor soon.

  "Kick it over here to me," Smith said.

  To reach the gun Smith would have to give up his death hold. Bolan shook his head.

  "Not a chance."

  Smith increased the pressure on Dr. Peterson's neck and Bolan saw the veins begin to stand out on his temples.

  "Do it, or he dies."

  Bolan kicked the gun and it skittered to within four feet of
Smith.

  Bolan started forward.

  Smith was suspicious, expecting something.

  "Don't move. I'll get it." Smith prodded the scientist ahead, then tried to reach down, keeping his armlock on his captive. For one heartbeat Smith's gaze left Bolan's face, trying to locate the weapon.

  Smith tried to force Peterson downward. The physicist resisted. Finally Smith relaxed his hold and began a dive for the gun.

  Incredulous, Dr. Peterson watched as Bolan moved faster than the scientist thought was humanly possible. The Executioner slashed out with his right foot, his heavy boot toe connecting with Smith's chin, snapping his head back. A sickening crack resounded across the room. Smith's head lolled to one side as he fell to the floor. He was dead.

  The Executioner swept up the weapon and looked at Dr. Peterson.

  "You okay?"

  "Yes, a little bruised but alive. Thank you."

  Bolan worked quickly. He searched the small house and found female clothing next to Smith's in the bedroom. There were cosmetics and haircare items in the bathroom. The Executioner hoped the woman who shared the place didn't come in now. He put the contents of the safe in a paper sack from the kitchen. He found a 9mm Soviet-made Stechkin automatic machine pistol in the other bedroom. He muffled it with two pillows and fired it twice into the mattress, then wiped it clean of prints, put it in Smith's hand and curled his stiffening fingers around it.

  He gave Dr. Peterson the contents of the safe to carry as they went outside. The Executioner retrieved the dead sniper from the wooden box in the alley, carried him into the house and dumped him on the living-room floor. Bolan put the man's pistol beside the hand of the corpse.

  The Executioner straightened up, looked around the room, then nodded.

  It would look convincing enough. Bolan was sweating now. He took the two shot-up pillows and moved quietly to the back door. He had turned off all the lights in the house and now slipped out quietly. Dr. Peterson was close beside him.

  Everything appeared safe and peaceful. They ran along a block wall toward the alley, then stopped and checked it all again. Bolan sensed something wrong. Someone was out there waiting for them.