War Everlasting (Superbolan) Read online

  Bolan smiled coldly. “Yeah, I am.”

  “I thought as much. The Nasenkos were my family. I have sworn to hunt you down and destroy you. Or at least to destroy those you care about as you destroyed my own people. I have heard of your exploits.” Moscovich laughed then, before adding, “You are a legend.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be a legend,” Bolan said. “I was sending a message, one that apparently went unheeded.”

  “Oh, no,” Moscovich said. “We received your message. We just decided to reply, in kind. And I would have to say that we’ve done so.”

  “Where is the crew of the Coast Guard ship?” Bolan asked.

  Moscovich didn’t flinch as he replied, “Dead. All of them.”

  “You’re lying,” Bolan replied. “We know about your operation on Semisopochnoi Island and that you left your people behind there. What were they planning to do? Were they going to meet a submarine? Perhaps the same one that brought you in?”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “That’s fine,” Bolan said. “Davis Haglemann had plenty to say. Oh, I can see that surprises you. He survived. You didn’t kill him. You got sloppy, Moscovich. And now I think it’s time to let you in on a secret.”

  “And what is that, American?”

  “That you have very good reason to fear me,” Bolan said. “I destroyed one part of your organization, and when I’m done with you here, I’m going to spend my every waking moment destroying the rest. I’m going to end the reign of the Russian Business Network, and the terror perpetrated by people like Godunov and Nasenko.”

  “How dare you,” Moscovich gritted, his face reddening and the veins in his neck bulging. “You are a scourge to all with whom you come into contact. You represent everything that is evil with your society. Your own people betrayed you. How else do you think we were able to do what we did? There are so many in your society who will do anything, say anything, for money. All we have done is simply acted on that. Our philosophy is the only sound philosophy that can bring equality to all.

  “You think I care about money or prostitution? You think I care about stealing identities? Phah! It’s all vanity, American. All of it! I’ve proved to you exactly what I’ve known all along. You haven’t destroyed us. You can never destroy those like us. There are too many of us! You’re outnumbered!”

  Moscovich was raving like a lunatic now, a madman who had suddenly become consumed by his own delusions. Bolan actually couldn’t help but feel just a moment of sadness for the Russian. The guy had allowed his arrogance to drive him, and it had succeeded in driving him all right. Straight over the edge of the sanity cliff.

  “Do you hear me? You can’t win!” Moscovich raged. “It’s not over!” As the Russian scrambled to raise his rifle, Bolan had the last word.

  “Yes, it is,” the Executioner replied as he squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The bow of the USS Kodiak knifed through the waters of the Bering Sea, displacing hundreds of tons as it made best possible speed for Semisopochnoi Island.

  Captain James Aronica peered through the binoculars at the approaching land mass and the massive cloud of smoke that had formed over the peak of Sugarloaf. Bolan stood next to him on the bridge of the ship and watched with the naked eye, never dissuaded in his mission to rescue the crew members of the Llewellyn. Yet he couldn’t stifle the hard, cold knot that had settled in his stomach. He could face countless enemies and win, yet he was helpless against the unmitigated power of nature.

  Captain Aronica lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “It’s going to be some kind of challenge seeing anything from the air. Even if our aircraft could safely penetrate that haze, I doubt it would be easy to find them.”

  “We’ll have our work cut out for us, Captain,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi had landed on the deck just an hour earlier, and Bolan had taken the opportunity to let the navy corpsmen patch him up before acquiring some additional weapons. He was ready to go in whatever it might take. A second ship was also on its way, and there were jets performing regular flybys of the area. All satellite feeds had been directed to her, and the joint command at Elmendorf-Richardson was on full alert.

  A Russian submarine had been spotted heading toward American waters but had not yet entered from international waters. It appeared they may have seen the kind of military might converging on the area, and the sub captain had opted to fall back on the old adage that discretion was the better part of valor. One truth remained in all of it, however, and that was a small Russian U-boat was no match for two naval destroyers with ASW capabilities and an entire fleet of Air Force fighter jets that could deposit a load of torpedoes with pinpoint accuracy even underwater.

  Aronica looked at Bolan. “So I understand you want to go it alone on this. Are you sure?”

  Bolan nodded. “It’s the best way. Don’t worry. As soon as I find the Llewellyn’s crew, I’ll call in for support. But I imagine the enemy contingent on that island needs to be dealt with first.”

  “And just exactly which of our enemies were crazy enough to be on that island when there’s a volcano about to erupt?”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just know that they aren’t friendly, and they’ll be well-armed. And they were good enough to make an entire Coast Guard cutter disappear for nearly forty-eight hours.”

  “Sounds like nasty customers,” Aronica replied. “But you do know I have a security clearance that’s probably as high as yours. I don’t suppose that would buy me a little professional courtesy.”

  “If your chain-of-command wants to tell you,” Bolan said, “that’s not my affair. But I have my mission to protect, and I won’t have any more dead or wounded service members on my conscience. Not today, Captain.”

  Bolan made it implicit in his tone this was really the end of the discussion. Aronica smartly chose not to pursue it. The Executioner felt bad giving the guy the brush-off, but he couldn’t really afford to get into the details. For one, it wouldn’t do his cover any good. Secondly, he couldn’t risk any more lapses in security. His ability to operate independently for Stony Man might have been seen by many as a weakness, but for Bolan it was an added perk. He answered to no one in any official capacity, which meant he could work in conjunction with other agencies but not be weighted by bureaucracy. It suited him well.

  Bolan quickly withdrew from the bridge and descended the steps to the deck. The police chopper had been taken by lift below decks and in its place the navy had substituted one of its two Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawks. It had been a mere stroke of good fortune the Kodiak was a DDG-51 class of destroyer because it was equipped with twin helicopter bays, whereas many of its predecessors and contemporaries only supported a helicopter landing deck without a storage capacity.

  By the time Bolan arrived at the craft, Grimaldi was suited up and ready for action, performing a preflight check with his military copilot. Bolan smiled with a warm feeling of admiration. Stony Man had been coming through on all levels with their support, getting the Executioner whatever resources he needed. Despite his arms-length alliance with the government, he couldn’t deny the symbiotic relationship that existed between them. There was little doubt he needed them as much as they needed him, and by working together a lot of lives would be saved this day.

  Bolan wasn’t about to rest on his laurels yet, however. He still had a lot of work to do, and he would be going up against an enemy force of unknown number. He also had no idea how well-equipped or well-armed his opponents. And what dangers did an all-out confrontation mean for the hostages? Would they kill them in the last moment? Bolan pushed the doubts and worries from his mind, choosing instead to focus on what lay ahead. He checked the action of the fresh M16A4 he’d brought from the destroyer armory that included an M203 grenade launcher.

  It wa
s time to bring the fight to the enemy and end their terror once and for all.

  Semisopochnoi Island

  COMMANDER LOUIS DUCATI knew they’d finally been liberated from their cages because a unified cheer had come up from every voice within their company. They had finally managed to obtain a chunk of rock big enough and strong enough to break the padlock from its massive chain. It hadn’t been easy. The first few attempts had left about four of the crew members with scraped knuckles and volcanic dust rock as the only trophies to show for it. But when that chain finally rattled and the crew members cheered, Ducati knew they had gained their freedom.

  Ducati couldn’t be sure why, but he was no longer able to see. He wondered if the blindness was permanent, if he’d suffered some head injury or his wounds had been worse than the corpsman who treated him had first thought. Not that it mattered. They were going to get the hell out of there one way or another. He had his crew to worry about now—he could address his own burdens and worries at some other time. First duty was to his brave crew.

  “Number One, get the teams organized. I want squads of no less than eight men. No more than two women per squad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, set aside a detail of officers to look through the caverns and see if they can find any weapons. We need to get out of here, but I also don’t wish to walk into some kind of potential ambush unarmed. Especially not if we could have capitalized on some sort of major blunder in their rush to get out of here.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “And intelligence. Collect any you find.” Ducati paused and put his hand to his head, his temples beginning to throb. “We don’t know if we’ll need it later.”

  “We got it under control, sir,” someone said. He couldn’t see them, and he didn’t recognize their voice. “We need to help you get out of here. Easy...”

  Ducati felt his body being lifted off the ground, but then everything went dark.

  * * *

  MACK BOLAN BRACED his back against the wall, foot primed and leg charged for their assault. The SH-60 sped a true course directly toward the shore. Everywhere he could smell the hot-ash scents of a volcano that wasn’t far from eruption, spewing its lava into the air. It was hot and unbelievably humid, and the air was thick with dust. The miasma of choking air was nothing short of stifling, and Bolan immediately began to sweat.

  He steadied himself against the door, the harness attached and ready for his drop on to the island. Grimaldi brought the chopper as low as possible, keeping them out of the dense air above them, which was growing thicker by the hour. It wouldn’t be long before the pilots were completely unable to see anything that was happening on the island. Immediately after they had taken off, Bolan had sent the signal for the amphibious assault boats to approach the target. Fifteen rafts in all, carrying special warfare personnel and combat medical corpsmen, pushed toward the shores of Semisopochnoi.

  The Executioner’s play was backed by the sharpest, toughest and most efficient military fighting force on Earth. The United States could in all of its righteous might unleash an unstoppable juggernaut of force if they were pushed too far. Bolan was proud of his countrymen this day. Damn proud, yeah, because they were fighting hard and living large. They were coming to save their fellow soldiers and ready to fight their enemies to the death, if that’s what it took. And they were doing it in the name of duty and patriotism. It was those actions for which Mack Bolan admired them most. He was proud to call each and every last one of them his allies.

  The chopper buzzed in to the shore, passed the beachhead, and came to a swift hover a dozen yards above the ground. Bolan took his line and pushed out, this time assisted by the helicopter crew. He dropped down the line and was about midway when he spotted the first of his targets. They were pushing in his direction, hiding behind whatever trees and boulders they could, shooting at him from those positions. It was hard to hear the reports but it seemed mostly they were using submachine guns.

  Bolan flipped his M16A4 into action and swept the fighting field with sustained autofire as he descended. A plethora of 5.56 mm NATO rounds chopped the terrain and took branches off trees in some cases. The soldier hit the ground and detached the belay line, then rushed for the cover of a fallen tree limb. The heat was nearly unbearable, and it felt to Bolan as if he’d stepped straight into hell itself to do battle with its guardians. He checked his flank to make sure they didn’t circle to overtake him, and then dropped a 40 mm high-explosive grenade into the M203. Bolan flipped the leaf sight into target acquisition, sighted on the nearest cluster of muzzle-flashes and squeezed the trigger. The M16A4 kicked Bolan’s shoulder with the force of a 12-gauge shotgun. The grenade arced gracefully and landed on target, blowing three of the Russians who’d been shooting into the air. One was shredded to bits with metal shrapnel, and the other two were likely killed by the concussion more than the blast.

  Bolan popped the 40 mm shell out, slammed a fresh one home and then broke cover and ran for better position. As he ran, one boot got tangled in a branch hidden by the sand-dirt ground and toppled him, but it proved to be a blessing in disguise. Machine-gun fire erupted from an emplacement farther up the incline, and the rounds buzzed over Bolan’s head. He had escaped death but only barely.

  The soldier rolled behind the cover of a thick stand of bushes, leveled his assault rifle and began to trigger short, controlled bursts at whatever enemy emplacements he could detect. The machine gun responded again, pelting the area around him with heavy fire but not quite coming close to him. Bolan knew it wouldn’t remain that way if he stayed where he was.

  Then the soldier detected a sudden chug-chug-chug sound and felt as if the ground around him had come alive. He looked up and realized Grimaldi had brought the chopper into position immediately above him, and the door gunner of the Sikorsky was returning fire with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the opposite side. The pilot was breaking every rule of modern air-to-ground combat, but he was doing so in order to protect the Executioner’s position. Bolan couldn’t very well blame the crazy ace pilot for that.

  Bolan took the opportunity to scramble to his feet and move. The enemy had the high ground, and he needed to figure out some way of overcoming the terrible odds that presented for him. He continued along that path while Grimaldi buzzed the enemy emplacements and drew their attention. The soldier found a natural saddle, shallow as it was, that provided enough cover for him to ascend the slight ridge. As he climbed, he could see footprints and realized that it had been used previously, and very recently, at that. Bolan continued sprinting uphill until coming parallel with the enemy positions. He knelt and looked for the machine gun, eventually spotting it about forty yards and slightly left of his position.

  Now he had the high ground.

  Bolan aimed the M203, took a breath and let half out before squeezing the trigger. The grenade launcher responded with another plunk sound, which was followed a heartbeat later with an explosion that engulfed the machine gun and its operator in a superheated gas ball. From that vantage point, Bolan could see that the pockets of resistance were faltering.

  He lay in the ditch-like crevasse and began to snipe at the remaining RBN terrorists. He kept up the suppressive fire, taking only those targets that were viable when he could and trading out magazines twice.

  Movement in his peripheral vision caused Bolan to draw his Desert Eagle and whirl, leveling the pistol at the approaching form. He eased off the trigger when he saw the man had short, clipped hair and wore a US Coast Guard uniform. He didn’t have any insignia, but there was no mistaking the utilities. The man was crouched and running straight toward Bolan, but he threw himself to the ground and raised his hands when he saw the big pistol aimed at him.

  “Whoa! Hold up, don’t shoot!”

  “Two seconds to identify yourself. Name and rank.”

  “Trask, Paul R. I’m an ensign aboard the
USCGC Llewellyn.”

  Bolan holstered the pistol. “Well, keep your head down, Trask.”

  The man nodded and crawled to Bolan’s position. He extended his hand, and Bolan quickly shook it before returning his attention to his enemies. Bolan triggered a few more rounds, then spoke to Trask while keeping his eyes on the enemy positions.

  “Are your crewmates alive?”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Last count was ninety-one, sir. Had a total of one-hundred-eight aboard, but that included the security force. Most of them didn’t make it.”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said. He triggered more rounds. “How did they get all of you here?”

  “They had some sort of old tramp freighter that they used,” he said. “We were brought into Dutch Harbor, and they transferred us to this point.”

  Bolan thought about that a moment. It made sense. It had probably been something Haglemann arranged, since there was a lot of shipping, and no real central authority would have been concerned with a lone freighter cruising around the area. At least not at that point. Only a few hours had passed since contact had been lost with the Llewellyn. A full alert hadn’t been initialized by then.

  “What about the freighter? What happened to it?”

  “They sank it, I think. Once we off-loaded, we heard some explosions. That’s all I really know.”

  “What about the rest of the people? Are they in a secure location?”

  “Yeah. We’d just broken into small squads when we heard the fireworks start. Our commander, he...”

  Bolan heard the hesitation. “What is it?”

  “He’s in a bad way, sir. He needs medevac, and he needs it now.”

  “Consider it done, Ensign,” Bolan said, clapping a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. The soldier keyed up his mic. “This is Point Guard One. Be advised, I’m calling the ball. Say again, I am calling the ball. Code-word Thunderclap. Repeat, Thunderclap!”