System Corruption

“So how did Francis take it when he heard about the substandard equipment? I’d guess he was pretty upset,” Brognola said.

“You knew his feelings for the military. He had a great relationship with the men he had commanded.”

“Just like his father, if I recall.”

“Francis wanted to blow the lid off the whole thing. He was ready to go rip Ordstrom’s throat out. He took a great deal of convincing to take it carefully. Even Ryan made him promise to back off until he gathered enough material evidence.”

“I see a big but coming.”

“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”

“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.

“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”

“And Francis?”

“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.

“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”

“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.

“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”

“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”

“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”

Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”

“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.

They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.

“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.

“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.

Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”

“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.

“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.

Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”

The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.

Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.

Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.

Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.

Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.

It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.

Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.

And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.

2

Bolan kept a safe distance behind the car tailing Dane Nelson. Instinct warned him the occupants of the vehicle were not about to offer their belated condolences to the colonel. That time was already in the past.

Whoever they were, the colonel’s shadows knew enough to simply keep him in their sights until they had cleared the city and were on the interstate. Nelson had a house that stood in lush forested Virginia hills, overlooking a placid lake, with the closest neighbor at least a quarter mile away. The approach to the house was along a quiet road well off the main highway. Bolan suspected that would most likely be the place for any move they might make. It was also entirely possible the men in the car were from one of the agencies, maybe even military, simply keeping an eye on Nelson. He considered that and tucked it away until the occupants of the tail car decided to show their true colors.

That came fast enough.

Nelson’s car accelerated without warning, the driver arcing it around a bend and taking a side road that pushed into open country, with little more than open fields and acres of green trees on either side. Dust billowed up from the tires, misting the air as the car picked up the pace. The SUV put on a burst of speed, starting to swing out to run alongside Nelson’s vehicle.

Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket, easing his Beretta 93-R from the shoulder rig. He worked the selector lever by touch, setting the pistol on single shot. Then he swapped hands. Right on the wheel, his left gripping the auto pistol. Bolan powered down the driver’s window, pushing his own foot down on the gas pedal, and felt the powerful engine respond smoothly. The car closed in on the SUV.

A figure leaned out of one of the SUV’s left side windows, a squat submachine gun in his hands. The muzzle was aimed toward Nelson’s car.

Too close, Bolan thought, and triggered his weapon, driving a shot through the SUV’s rear window. His intention was to distract those in the vehicle. As the glass shattered, the exposed shooter threw a swift glance in Bolan’s direction. Judging Bolan to be the bigger threat, he opened up with his weapon. Bolan felt the slugs whine off the rental car’s roof. He didn’t allow the shooter the chance to realign his weapon. Swinging his car to the right he gained a view of the shooter. Bolan flipped the selector to tri-burst mode and braced his elbow on the window frame and tracked in with the Beretta. He stroked the trigger and fired off half the magazine. With the rocking motion of the car and the erratic travel of the SUV, accurate fire was difficult. Bolan managed to place a couple of shots close enough to force the shooter to retreat back inside.

Nelson’s driver used Bolan’s intervention to step on the gas, taking the car away from the SUV. Ignoring any kind of safety precautions he throttled hard, the heavy car bouncing and swaying along the narrow track. The maneuver worked only for as long as it took for the SUV’s driver to regain his own line of travel. As the SUV drew parallel with the colonel’s car the shooter opened up, raking the vehicle at window level. The car veered, clipping the SUV’s front bumper before angling away in an erratic swerve. It left the road and bounced its way across the uneven ground, the SUV following and moving to close in again.

Bolan slammed down hard on the gas pedal. He closed the gap and cut across the front of the larger vehicle. Dust billowed as the SUV driver stood on his brakes, bringing the heavy vehicle to a skidding stop.

Bolan shoved open his door and stepped from the car, his Beretta already lining up as the SUV’s back door opened, disgorging the shooter and his submachine gun. As the guy made to step around the open door Bolan hit him with a tri-burst to the chest. The shooter fell partway back inside the SUV. The moment he fired Bolan changed position, crouching and circling the SUV, catching the second shooter to emerge. They exchanged shots, the SUV man firing from behind his open door. Bolan had a clear field and he punched holes in the shooter’s lower legs. The shooter sank to his knees, clinging to his auto pistol. Bolan triggered a final burst from the Beretta and the man went backward with a chest full of 9 mm slugs weighing him down.

Bolan ejected the magazine from the Beretta, snapping in a fresh one from his pocket. He turned swiftly back toward the SUV. He caught a glimpse of the driver fumbling with a weapon through the window, raised the Beretta and fired, shattering glass and hitting the man. He fell away from his driving position.

The moment he had delivered his shots Bolan climbed back into his own car and fell in behind Nelson’s vehicle. The military car was slowing, lurching, as the driver obviously struggled to keep it under control. Bolan saw the car come to a sudden stop. He braked and climbed out, crossing to check it out. He yanked open the rear door and saw Nelson curled up on the seat. There was evident blood spatter. Up front the driver, the back of his uniform holed and bloody, was clawing at his door handle.

“Take it easy, soldier,” Bolan said. “We’ll get help.”

“How’s the colonel? How is he?” the driver asked.

“Alive,” Nelson said, pushing himself up off the seat. He turned and saw Bolan’s face bending over him. “You get them?”

“It needs finishing,” Bolan said. “You able to deal with this first?”

Nelson, a hand clutching at his bloody shoulder, nodded.

Bolan helped him out of the car and led the colonel around to the driver’s door. They got it open and eased the wounded driver onto the ground. The man was still losing blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Do it,” Nelson said and saw Bolan turn and walk away.

As Bolan approached the SUV he saw the rear passenger door swing open, and a bloodied figure half tumbled from the vehicle. The shooter still had his hands clutched around the submachine gun. When he saw the Executioner he started to lift the weapon. Bolan hit him with a pair of 9 mm slugs in the chest. The force slammed the man against the side of the SUV, pinning him there until gravity took over and he toppled facedown in the dirt. Closing on the SUV, Bolan saw movement from the driver’s seat. The man raised his head and looked at Bolan through the shattered window. He grabbed for the pistol holstered under his jacket, blood-sticky fingers slipping on the grips. He shouldered the door open, twisting around to face his enemy. A 9 mm slug took away his final thoughts, along with a portion of his skull, and spattered the steering wheel with bloody debris.

Bolan checked the SUV’s interior. As expected, the vehicle was clean. He went through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing to identify the men or the SUV. Their fingerprints might give some clue to their identities, but that was out of Bolan’s hands.

He made his way back to Nelson’s car. The colonel had located the first-aid box and was doing what he could to staunch the blood flow from his driver’s wounds.

“How is he?” Bolan asked, crouching beside them.

“Couple in the back. Listen, Cooper. I called it in. Police and ambulance are on their way. You should get out of here. No point you getting involved.”

“Colonel, I am involved. How’s your shoulder?”

Nelson smiled. “I’m fine. Now haul ass, mister. I’ll handle the flak on this one. You’re better out there on your own. Last thing you need are the cops on your tail. Hal told me you were the right man for this.”

“You have Hal’s number. If you get anything from the cops that might help, pass it along.”

Bolan refused to leave until he had fashioned a temporary pressure pad that he bound to Nelson’s shoulder. He made the colonel sit with his back to the car.

“No moving around, Colonel.”

“I won’t. Now go. And stay loose, soldier.”

Bolan stood. “You sure you can hold on until they get here?”

Nelson was pale, obviously in pain. “I have to. I buried my son today, Cooper. I owe him justice for what happened.”

“We both do, sir, and he’ll get it.”

“Stay on this road about a mile. Take a right and it’ll take you back to the main highway.”

Bolan returned to his car and drove off. He saw Nelson’s car shrink as he gained distance.

However he looked at the situation he was definitely involved. Fate had decreed Mack Bolan’s participation and he would not shy away from his responsibilities.

3

Frank Carella recalled something a friend had said to him some weeks back. It was a passing remark during a social evening out with friends. One of those friends, Cal Ryan, was a feature writer for one of the Washington news groups. He’d mentioned to Carella that he was working on an article that was going to expose shady deals within the armaments industry. Ryan had joked about OTG being one of his targets. He hadn’t said anything more, moving on to another of the group, leaving Carella with the casual remark.

By the time the evening was over and Carella was on his way home with his girlfriend, Ryan’s words were lost in the slight alcoholic haze that had settled over Carella’s thinking process. He had forgotten completely by the following morning, and back at work the next morning it was business as usual.

Until now.

In his apartment he fed the flash drives into his home computer and sat reviewing the data. A couple of hours passed. Realization hit home. Carella slumped back in his seat. He took his eyes from the monitor, the on-screen information a blur. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee. He stood in the doorway looking across the room at the monitor, trying to decide what to do.

And it was then he remembered what Ryan had said about looking into the armaments business. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Ryan since that evening. It was not unheard of for the journalist to vanish into the woodwork when he was working an assignment. The man threw himself into his work, moving around as he dug for facts.

Carella picked up the phone and speed-dialed Ryan’s home number. The phone rang no more than a couple of times before it was picked up.

“Cal? Frank Carella.”

“Frank.”

Carella immediately picked up on Ryan’s monotone response. “Cal, you okay?”

“To be honest, no. I went to a funeral yesterday. Guess I’m still not over it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Family?”

“You remember my friend Francis Nelson?

“Sure. In the military. Was in Iraq a while ago. He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened, Cal? Was he overseas again?”

Ryan’s short laugh had a bitter edge to it.

“He was home. Isn’t that a bummer. The kid was helping me out on an assignment. Looking into irregularities at an army base in Texas. Camp Macklin. Sorry to tell you, Frank, but it was to do with your company.”

“OTG?” Carella shook his head at the coincidence.

“Francis was found dead here in Washington shortly after his visit to Texas. A bullet in his back severed his spine. He was alone in his car. Police said the bullet clipped his main artery and he just bled out because the bullet had paralyzed him.”

“Jesus, Cal, I’m sorry. He was a good kid. I remember him from the times we met. Lesley will be upset. She liked him.”

There was a brief silence before Ryan spoke again.

“Why did you call me, Frank?”

“Would you believe it has to do with OTG? Something that will fit what you’re looking into.”

“Serious stuff?”

“High as it can go. Files on altered production specs for combat vehicles OTG builds under contract. I copied it all onto flash drives and walked out of OTG with it.”

“I’ve been uncovering similar deals. Poor quality body armor for combat troops. Flak jackets. Below specification items. And I have a few names, too. Some government, some military.”

“You think Francis was killed because he got too close?”

“Yes.”

“His father must have taken it badly.”

“He did. But he promised me further help if I needed it.”

“This information I have, Cal. I came across it in a dump cache. Looked as if someone was supposed to have deleted it but they didn’t complete the operation. These files should add to your evidence. What do you want to do?”

“Grab them with both hands, Frank. Listen, if OTG gets a sniff you’ve got this stuff they’ll come after you. I know they killed Francis. That should tell you all you need to know. Jacob Ordstrom is a mean son of a bitch. I’ve learned enough about him to be wary. He has connections that go a long way up the ladder in Washington and the military. I need to get hold of that stuff and lose myself before OTG picks up on it.”

“Will your paper print it? I mean, if Ordstrom has such clout, will it reach as far as your bosses?”

“Good question, buddy. Let me do a little thinking. I’ll get back to you. Frank, I’m not trying to scare you but don’t trust anyone from the cops on up. If Ordstrom realizes what you have he’ll use any means to get it back. And that means he’ll pull in everyone on his payroll. Just let me work on this. In the meantime, lay low. Don’t let those files out of your hands. Stay by a phone.”

“You’ve got my home and cell numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t take too long coming up with your master plan.”

“I won’t.”

Carella completed the call. He stood with the phone in his hand, wondering whether to call his girlfriend. In the end he decided against it. Ryan’s news about the way Francis Nelson had died rang warning bells. If Francis had been murdered to silence him, OTG would employ the same strategy if they discovered what he had walked off with. The very thought terrified him. He admitted that outright. Frank Carella was no hero. Just a man who had unwittingly been presented with information he could not, in all conscience, ignore. The accidental discovery of the hidden files on the OTG computer system had most likely made him a marked man.

4

Jacob Ordstrom’s office covered enough floor space to house an average family. Ordstrom was ultrawealthy and liked to surround himself with the full set of trappings. A tall and classically handsome man in his mid-forties, his thick dark hair starting to streak with gray, Ordstrom considered himself to be above ordinary people, indispensible and existing on a higher plane. That he was disliked by most of the people around him was common knowledge to Ordstrom, but his wealth and position afforded him the ability to stand above the criticism. He walked in hallowed circles, being on first-name terms with leaders in the government and military. Ordstrom played on his popularity, used his imperial clout to gain favors and was never behind the door when it came to exploiting his influence.

OTG ranked high when it came to assessing companies who supplied the U.S. military. The products offered by OTG were sought after by the procurement arms of the military. And often there were inducements that went from hand to hand. Inducements went in both directions. Ordstrom had his own mouths to feed. He was, by nature, a highly competitive animal. He would, and did, deal with anyone, foreign or national, who came up with the finances. The word scruples did not exist in Ordstrom’s world. He went after business opportunities with single-minded dedication. He had no equals when it came to the chase. Ordstrom had an innate capacity for seeing problems and dealing with them before they were fully formed.

Dealing with them. Crushing them. Whatever was necessary.

When Arnold Hoekken walked into his office, crossing to confront his employer, Ordstrom smelled potential trouble. He recognized the look in Hoekken’s eyes. The South African security specialist was not known for his sense of humor, or his laid-back attitude. He was a consummate professional and he took his responsibilities seriously.

“Arnie,” Ordstrom said—he was the only person Hoekken allowed to use the abbreviated name—as the six-foot-six blond-haired figure neared him. “Arnie, you’re giving me that ‘I’m pissed about something’ look.”

Hoekken towered over the desk, and glanced briefly beyond Ordstrom, taking in the wide view of the facility from the large picture window dominating that wall of the office.

“I need your permission to act immediately on a security breach. If we don’t come down on this fast we are all going to be in serious trouble.”

“Well, it must be serious if you’re asking my permission. Haven’t we established that as security head you work on your own initiative?”

“This goes beyond my purview.”

The hard edge to Hoekken’s voice alerted Ordstrom to the gravity of the matter. He pushed forward from the comfort of his soft leather executive chair.

“Christ, Arnie, now you are worrying me.”

“Frank Carella was working at the hub. There was a minor spike in the power and the computer initiated a safe mode to grab his input. When Carella went back into his file it had imported the entire ASP22 document.”

Ordstrom didn’t react. He simply stared across the desk at his security head. Hoekken waited until his chief spoke.

“That’s impossible. The file was deleted after Clarence adjusted the format.”

“It should have been deleted, but it wasn’t. Now Carella has seen it. The security cameras showed him working at the computer. The access log shows what he was looking at and also that he made copies. He was clear of the building before his intrusion was spotted. We need to find him before he gets religion and uses that information to bury us.”