War Everlasting

Rov came under the rope from the same point Bolan had, but instead of squaring off he lunged at the Executioner with surprising speed, arm already cocked to land a punch. The soldier sidestepped in time to take the blow to his right shoulder, thankful he had since the blow landed hard enough to cause pain. Had it connected, it most likely would have broken Bolan’s jaw. Bolan waited until the last moment when Rov’s impetus carried him past, then stuck out his foot and dropped to his side with a slap against the thin mat. He executed the leg sweep perfectly, and Rov went down like a ton of bricks. The soldier immediately regained his feet and waited for the next attack to come. He didn’t have long to wait.

Rov got to his feet and charged low, encircling his beefy arms around Bolan’s waist in a body-block tackle. The soldier had no way to move out of the line of attack and had to go down with his opponent, but at the last moment he twisted so that Rov would land on his back. He used the brief opportunity in the superior position to drive a palm strike into the man’s sternum just below the notch of the breastbone. The air left Rov’s lungs as the strike winded him. He gasped and wheezed, trying to suck in air, finally jostling Bolan out of position with a buck of his hips. The Executioner tried to maintain superior position, but his thighs couldn’t find purchase and he came free.

Rov moved with surprising grace and speed, gaining the top role and driving his forearm against Bolan’s throat. The Executioner tried to break the choke, even knowing that brute strength would never accomplish it—especially not with Rov using all his weight behind it. The only way to counter such a move was to gain leverage, and he knew exactly how to achieve it. The Executioner wrapped his right hand against the hand of the forearm holding him down and drove his thumb into a pressure point, a move meant to distract more than debilitate. Hot, stale breath gushed from Rov, who was already sweating profusely at straining to hold his adversary down. The distraction did its job, enough so that Bolan could get his left arm snaked into the crook of the elbow.

Twisting his body and using the motion of his hips to put strength behind the joint lock, the maneuver broke the choke hold and took Rov off balance. Bolan continued the twist until he’d executed a full-on arm bar with enough pressure to bring Rov’s elbow to the point of snapping. The soldier used that leverage to pry off his adversary and continued the motion until he’d regained his feet. Rov tried to break free by yanking his arm, but Bolan now had him in a jujitsu hold that proved very difficult to counter, unless one was well-experienced in such tactics.

Every time Rov tried to move, Bolan applied more pressure to remind the bigger man of his precarious situation. Despite the pressure on his arm, Rov continued to resist his opponent until the Executioner thought he might have to break the man’s arm. Finally, Bolan extended the technique so that he could maintain the hold while actually driving Rov’s force toward the ground. In that moment, gravity did the rest until Bolan had Rov’s right arm pinned to the floor and a knee in the back of the man’s neck. He tried to rise, but his position proved so unwieldy that Bolan had little trouble holding the man pinned to the ground.

The soldier finally looked in Lustrum’s direction. “He’s not going anywhere. I can hold him this way all day. Are we done?”

Lustrum thought about it for a minute, while Rov continued to shout and curse, the sounds almost unintelligible. He knew if Lustrum declared Bolan the victor that it would not only mean they had to accept him, but Rov would lose face and reputation in front of his peers. That didn’t matter to Bolan. Even if it had gone another way, or he beat Rov without disgracing him, he’d have to watch his back all the same. This was a closed society, just as Corsack had said, and no matter how this ended, Bolan would still be considered an outsider.

“Tell me we’re done!” Bolan commanded.

“You’re done,” Lustrum said.

Bolan released his hold, and Rov produced a small grunt of relief.

As the pair climbed warily to their feet, and Bolan started to turn, the reflection of light on metal flashed in Bolan’s peripheral vision. Rov was charging once more, but this time he held what looked like a fighting knife in fist. Bolan’s reflexes saved him from being gutted like a fish, the blade whistling past as it narrowly missed his midsection. Bolan managed to grab hold of Rov’s wrist as it went past. He locked the elbow and yanked back while simultaneously driving the meaty portion of his forearm against Rov’s elbow. The bone snapped with an audible pop, and the knife jumped from fingers numbed by nerve damage.

With a guttural roar of pain, Rov managed to draw a Beretta Tomcat pocket pistol with his other hand.

Before his opponent could make a move to fire the weapon, Bolan swung him in an arc, then ducked through and executed a throw that landed the guy on his back. He twisted down on the damaged arm, locking the shoulder to the floor, before stomping one boot onto Rov’s throat. Pink, frothy blood spewed from the man’s mouth as the cartilage and bone cracked beneath Bolan’s heel.

The Executioner stepped back, breathing heavily with the exertion and sudden charge of adrenaline, watching with a flare of anger tinged by sympathy while the light left Rov’s eyes. Quickly and inevitably, Rov’s breathing slowed to a stop.

Bolan turned to look at Lustrum who sat with his two remaining bodyguards. They had seemed to watch the entire thing with utter impassivity.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Bolan said.

“Couldn’t end any other way, Blansky,” Lustrum replied.

Bolan’s eyes shifted toward Corsack, and she gave him a sad half smile. He could tell behind that small gesture she felt tortured by what he’d been forced to do. Part of Bolan understood it, and they shared a moment in that glance, but it still stung his sense of fair play. Rov had been silently challenged and committed to a fight, one that couldn’t have ended any other way unless he risked disgrace.

“So you got what you wanted,” Lustrum said. “What are you crying about? Rov wasn’t going to let you live, and he wasn’t going to give up. If he’d allowed you to shame him, he would have found a time to reclaim his honor or he would have been forced to leave.”

Lustrum rose slowly from his chair and turned to leave. “Relax, Blansky. Nobody has to know it was you. The waters of Nazan Bay run cold and deep. Heh. Yeah, many untold stories at the bottom of that puppy. Many stories.”

Bolan thought he could hear almost a cackle as he watched the old man saunter away accompanied by his two bodyguards. He stared at Rov’s motionless body one last time before turning on his heel and heading toward Corsack.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know he’d do anything like that. He’s always just...well, I mean in the past he—”

“Forget it,” Bolan said. “I did what I had to do. Rov didn’t leave me any choice. And this is too important to worry about right now.”

Corsack just nodded.

“Now what happens?” Bolan asked, watching Lustrum make his way toward the exit.

“He’ll be in touch,” Corsack said, laying eyes on Lustrum, as well.

“When?”

“Soon. Or as soon as he can check you out.” She lowered her voice and continued, “So I sure as hell hope whatever you got set up wasn’t done in a slipshod manner, or we’re going to have bigger problems than we’ve got right now. Otto likes me, but he won’t hesitate to come to my house in the middle of the night and cut both our throats.”

“Maybe I should go back to the plane and wait,” Bolan said.

“No, it’s much better if you stay at my place,” she replied. “You go back there, it’s going to look suspicious.”

As they made their way out of the hangar, Bolan remarked, “You were right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t like it.”

CHAPTER SIX

Maddie Corsack’s place was Spartan but comfortable. The house wasn’t very large—it looked like one of the smallest of the similar houses on the block—but it didn’t lack a woman’s touch.

“It doesn’t seem as if you’ve lived high off Haglemann’s proverbial hog like your neighbors,” Bolan observed with interest.

Corsack shook her head. “I take the payments. Haglemann calls them dividends, supposedly from investments of our union dues. But I don’t spend any of it on myself. I donate it to a fund for widows of servicemen killed in action.”

“Nice.”

“I’m sorry for what you had to go through,” she said hesitantly, canting her head in the general direction of the docks. “Back there, I mean. I know you didn’t want to have to do what you did. You’re not a cold-blooded killer.”

“How do you know that?”

“I see it in your eyes. I think you actually care about other people. I think it’s why you do what you do. And you clearly didn’t want to kill Rov. He left you no choice.”

“I’ll move past it,” Bolan said. “But thanks for your concern. I’m more interested to know how much you know about Rov. And about Lustrum.”

She nodded. “I call them the Red Scourge. I know, it’s not very PC of me, but then I’ve never been known for my tact.”

“So both Rov and Lustrum are Russian?”

“No, not Otto. But Rov is definitely Russian.” That piqued Bolan’s interest. The very low population on Adak, along with the high use of Alaskan native laborers, would have eliminated the place as a melting pot. Yet here was a business magnate, a union boss, operating with complete autonomy and using Europeans and Scandinavians as little more than thugs.

“How long have you known him?”

“A long time. Lustrum took over as chief of operations down on the docks for Haglemann’s various corporate ventures about eight years ago. Haglemann’s like a spoiled rich kid, and Lustrum, while he may try to be tough, is little more than another one of Haglemann’s errand boys. The way he goes panting after the guy sometimes is sick. Of course, he uses the thugs to enforce things and ensure they’re done his way, since nothing he does is in the interest of the workers. Other than the kickbacks and money he puts in everyone’s pocket. He somehow has managed to keep it all legal and aboveboard. And as long as people are getting paid, they’re willing to look the other way.”

“These union thugs he’s using—is that the job Lustrum’s going to recruit me for?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Corsack said with a shrug. “But it’s probably a good bet. He’ll either stick you on a dock crew or he’ll have you working security at the private club.”

“He has a club?” Bolan asked.

She nodded. “It’s really Haglemann’s club. Haglemann’s got everything here. He’s practically turned this into his own private island.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Well, I assume someone has developed some sort of background identity for you.”

Bolan nodded.

“If it’s not too clean, you should be okay. Lustrum will definitely check it out, and when he’s satisfied he’ll be in touch.”

“No offense, and I appreciate the insight, but I can’t just wait around here for something to happen.”

“You may not have a choice,” she replied.

“There’s always a choice.”

“If you jump the gun on this, Mike, it could blow up in your face.”

“Listen to me,” Bolan said. “There are two US military assets missing, not to mention more than a hundred service members. Now, I think Haglemann had something to do with it, and even if he didn’t I’m betting he knows who did. If those men and women are still alive, I owe it to them to get results as soon as possible.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“What I do best,” Bolan replied. “But I have some questions first, and you’re the only one who can answer them.”

* * *

VLADIMIR MOSCOVICH PLANNED to kill Davis Haglemann. Not right away—he needed the guy at the moment to keep the workers in line until he could accomplish his mission. But the time was coming soon, and when it did, Moscovich would act on it. For now, he had to entertain the liberal bastard’s whims and avoid doing anything that would arouse suspicions. If anything, the Russian understood that Haglemann commanded a much larger following. He knew the area better, and he had greater resources from which to draw.

Moscovich and his fifty men would be no match for the hundred or so guns at Haglemann’s disposal.

“Granted, they don’t have our experience,” Moscovich told his second-in-command, Alexei Vizhgail.

“But what they lack there they make up for in sheer numbers. That is not a battle I think we can win.”

“Agreed. It has always been my contention that we must avoid a fight if we’re to complete our mission.”

Indeed, it was critical that they finish what they’d started. The technology had now been used twice with very favorable results, and those back at headquarters in St. Petersburg were pleased with his reports and progress. But it still meant little this far north.

“Maybe it won’t have to come to that, my friend,” Moscovich said.

Once they were in the sedan and headed for the plane awaiting them at the harbor, he said, “Yet these small tests feel like a hollow victory, despite our success. I want to take this much further, to make the Americans pay for what they did to us. Well, at least what one American had done. One man! It is still almost unthinkable to me!”

Indeed, it had been difficult to believe even when he’d first learned of it. Famed network leader Yuri Godunov, head of the organization’s operations in New York City, had masterminded a brilliant plan to overtake America’s banking systems. Thanks to a cowardly hacker who’d managed to get himself captured, the plan was exposed and all the players were either captured or destroyed. Somehow, a lone government agent had managed to penetrate the Godunov family security and wreak havoc from the inside out. The trail eventually had led this enigmatic killer back to St. Petersburg where he’d murdered both Godunov and an NSA asset they had managed to turn, Gregori Nasenko. The pair had been shot dead in their downtown office, Nasenko in the head and Godunov in the back as he’d attempted to flee.

“Executed in cold blood” was how Moscovich’s masters had described it.

Those words had haunted him for the next few years. He’d been childhood friends with Stepan, Godunov’s nephew, who had also allegedly met his demise at the hands of the mysterious American agent. These events had affected him deeply, and when the opportunity to get revenge came, Moscovich jumped at it.

They arrived at Adak Port, the hive of activity for Nazan Bay. Of course, it was dark and there wasn’t much happening at that time of night. By the time they reached their destination in the nearby Rat Islands it would be daylight again, a common occurrence in this part of the world. Many thought that it was cold and dark most of the time, but, in fact, the opposite was true. At least from the aspect of sunlight. The more northern the territory, the more hours of daylight. Of course, even more sunlight could not stop the bitter cold and storms, but that was hardly news.

This environment didn’t bother Moscovich or his men. They had trained for it in some of the coldest regions of Russia. They were used to it, knew how to survive in its inhospitable embrace, and they were all the better prepared for it. Of course, their base of operations was another matter entirely.

Within minutes of arriving at the port, they were aboard their motor launch and traveling at high speed across the Bering Sea. Thanks to Haglemann’s influence, they could come and go at will without having to jump through hoops. They didn’t need any clearances, naturally—it wouldn’t do to slam into another boat just to protect their autonomy—but it was better than attempting to travel by aircraft. Especially since word had it that the military had turned most of the area into a no-fly zone. But nobody questioned them, and no customs or police agents showed up to inspect their boat. Not that it would have mattered. Haglemann had the Adak police department under his thumb, too. They operated independently, but they didn’t really concern themselves with Haglemann’s specific business interests.

Greed. The entire show was run by greed, and Moscovich had been trained to take advantage of that selfish desire, particularly among American citizens.

The boat reached the island four hours later at a makeshift dock nestled along the southern fringes of the Rat Islands. Moscovich and Vizhgail left the dock and headed toward an outcropping, making their way behind the rocks and eventually reaching the entrance to a cavern concealed behind a wall of brush. Mounted to an oval frame of aluminum tubes was a heat-scattering material designed to diffuse the signature that marked it as a heat source.

They had landed on Semisopochnoi Island, though their team had taken to calling it Semisop for short. The fact that it was uninhabited was one of the main reasons for choosing it, but also because it was highly challenging terrain for outsiders to negotiate. At only three-hundred-sixty square kilometers it had four peaks that were between seven hundred and almost thirteen hundred meters. Its last volcanic eruption, in Mount Cerberus, had occurred in 1987, more than one hundred years after the previous one. However, its magma chambers were still quite active and not as viscous, so they tended to flow much faster and build up gases at a higher rate, too. All in all, it wasn’t the safest place to be, but it was abandoned and drew very little attention outside the scientific community. Nobody would bother them there—nobody would even bother to look for them there, so Moscovich was convinced they could conduct their work undisturbed.

So far, he’d been right. Semisop also had the added advantage of being a perfect prison, as could attest the group of military personnel who sat under round-the-clock guard while jailed behind giant fishing cages.

After Moscovich and his team had successfully used the new jamming technology to down the plane—there had been no survivors—they’d tested its efficacy against the USCGC Llewellyn. The device had performed with spectacular results, although Moscovich didn’t really pretend to understand all the technical achievements behind it.

All he knew was that they now had a fantastic weapon to use against the Americans.

Of course, there had been some survivors aboard the cutter that they had been forced to take prisoner. Moscovich didn’t fancy himself a soldier, but he also wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. He did not murder unarmed personnel, be they American military or otherwise. He sought only to further the ambitions of his people by stripping America of her identity and her wealth. If he could do that, nature would do the rest, as history had repeatedly shown its abhorrence of a vacuum. Then again, the prisoners hadn’t proven to be much bother. Once the key troublemakers had been dispatched by Moscovich’s group of commandos, who’d been schooled in the finest tactics by former Spetsnaz and GRU trainers, the remaining navy personnel had fallen in line quickly.

Moscovich and Vizhgail moved past the group and advanced deeper into the cavern until they reached the main operations area. The lights were powered by long-life battery cells, which were recharged using a series of small diesel generators. They had plenty of potable water hauled in regularly from Port Adak, along with food and other supplies that could last them a month, maybe two if they had to ration.

They could have operated here perhaps indefinitely. But it was damn hot, the result of molten lava that rose through natural vents in the dense basalt and rock. The operations supervisor, Benyamin Tokov, one of the toughest and smartest men he had ever known, greeted them with a curt nod. “How did it go?”

“Not well,” Moscovich replied. “I had to exchange the usual pleasantries with Haglemann.”

“I wish we could just kill that sloth. He’s a thorn in our sides.”

“We can’t let him deflect us from our mission. And I’m more concerned about the recent reports from his people on Unalaska.”

Tokov’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Apparently not twelve hours after our operation against the cutter, a man showed up at the main station. His flight was last minute, unannounced and not a regular scheduled courier or freight hauler. Naturally, Haglemann was suspicious and ordered his men at the airport on Unalaska to check it out.”

“Ultimately, there was a conflict, and Haglemann’s men got their collective asses handed to them,” Vizhgail added.

Tokov frowned and locked eyes with Moscovich. “That sounds almost like—”

“Yes,” Moscovich cut in. “That was my thinking, as well.”

“Could it be a coincidence?”

“I don’t know,” Moscovich said. “But it moves up the timetable, regardless. Haglemann won’t be able to keep this newcomer out for long. Eventually someone will come to Adak and begin asking questions, and that will inevitably lead them to us. We have to move before that happens.”

“But the sub is still a month or better out.”

“We’re going to have to ask for it to come sooner, then.”

Moscovich turned to Vizhgail. “Alexei, make contact with them and take care of it.”

When Vizhgail left them, Tokov guided Moscovich out of earshot of the technicians and guards. “I would assume if this is who we think it is, you don’t plan to let him leave alive.”

Moscovich put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my brother. I would move Mount Cerberus if it meant I could have the pleasure of dispatching this man. We will find him and eliminate him if that fool Haglemann cannot. I swear it on my last breath.”

* * *

AFTER BOLAN LEFT Corsack’s house, he returned to the plane where Jack Grimaldi waited for him. The pilot could see from the grim look on Bolan’s face that things hadn’t gone well.

“What’s wrong?”

“A lot,” Bolan replied. “If my suspicions are correct.”

“Doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. Do you remember the mission I took a few years ago in Boston? The one that led to that terrorist operation against the banking system?”

Grimaldi frowned as he pondered the reference. He scratched his neck and finally replied, “Yeah, I think so. Wasn’t that when the Russian Business Network tried to use one of their computer hackers to develop a system that would run amok inside the framework right there on Wall Street?”

“One and the same,” Bolan said. “And I have a feeling it’s the RBN behind this current situation.”

“What? How’s that possible?” Grimaldi looked skeptical. “I mean come on, Sarge, I trust you all the way. But don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch? I don’t see how the RBN could have the resources to pull off something like this, never mind a motive.”

“The motive’s unimportant. And the evidence the RBN’s behind this is overwhelming.” Bolan told Grimaldi the story of his encounter, leaving out none of the details. He concluded his narrative by saying, “The RBN may not have the resources alone to do something like this, but you can bet they would if they’re manipulating Davis Haglemann in some way. The guy’s practically established his own empire on Adak, and he’s done it right under the nose of the US government.”

“And you think the RBN’s been keeping it quiet in exchange for...?”

“A port free of customs inquiries,” Bolan said. “They can come and go as they like on Adak as long as Haglemann’s in charge. And meanwhile all the traffic looks legit, so nobody asks any questions. He’s paying the top brass big money to keep quiet.”

“So he gets rich and the RBN gets what?”

“That’s the answer we don’t have,” Bolan said. “Yet.”

“Okay, let’s assume you’re right. What’s the plan?”

“Corsack was able to give me the lowdown on information relative to a private club Haglemann runs here. I’m going to poke the bear and see what happens.”

Grimaldi chuckled. “Poke the bear—no pun intended, of course.”