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Ordstrom slammed his fist down on the desk. “The last thing we need is negative publicity with the oversight conference coming up in the next couple of weeks.”
“Agreed,” Hoekken said. “We need to clean this up now.”
“Reading my mind again, Arnie?” Ordstrom grimaced as streams of thought crowded his mind. “That fucking computer. You know what we did wrong? We let the suppliers make that damned thing too smart. It should have completely erased all traces of ASP22. Instead it puts the file in a dark corner and sits on it. I’ll sue that company for every penny it’s got.”
“We can do that later,” Hoekken said, dismissing the notion and moving on. “Right now Carella has that file. He’s out there running free. We have to corner that little shit and stamp him into the ground.”
“You came in here asking for permission to go after Carella. Okay, you have it, Arnie. Find him. Do whatever it takes but make sure he doesn’t get the chance to get righteous on us.”
“Whatever it takes?”
Ordstrom nodded. “Wipe out his family if you have to. As long as it doesn’t point the finger back at us. Use whoever you need. Hire whoever you need. Any problem there?”
“No. I have my contacts.”
“Open checkbook on this, Arnie. Use the special fund. Christ, if this goes public it won’t just be us going down.”
Hoekken understood.
The suppression of ASP22 was crucial. Ordstrom knew the project encompassed both government and military individuals. Money, favors and promises of continuous cooperation with OTG had brought in more members of the illicit maneuvering. Any disturbance would quickly expand to bring down the entire house of cards. He did have protection from high levels, but any hint of scandal that might taint them would be frowned on.
Jacob Ordstrom, who had started his monolithic empire in a tin shed, meant to remain in his current position. There was too much to lose. He had used violence and double-dealing during his rise to power. It would lose him no sleep to have to use them again.
“Do you think Carella will turn the file in?” he asked his security man.
“No doubt there, sir. Carella is a decent man. That won’t allow him to ignore what he’s found. It’s why he made those copies.”
“Maybe he’s going to blackmail us. Ask for money.”
Hoekken shook his head. “Not Carella. Not his style.”
“Fuck his style, Arnie. Make his new one dead . Get it done.”
Before Hoekken had reached the door Ordstrom was reaching for his private phone. He had to make some calls. The sooner he alerted certain people, steps could be taken to keep the situation under wraps.
He heard the phone ringing, heard the soft sound as it was picked up. Ordstrom swiveled his chair around so he could stare out through the window.
“Morning, Clarence,” he said. “We need to meet. Right away. Fine, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I N HIS OWN OFFICE , down the hall from Ordstrom’s, Arnold Hoekken was making calls of his own. He had contacts who were on retainer. Now was the time they could start to earn that money. Hoekken’s calls were to disposable, unregistered cell phones presented to the contacts against the day their services would be required.
Like now .
He finished his calls and received one of his own. Ordstrom summoned him back to his office.
“C OME ON IN , A RNIE ,” Ordstrom said.
Hoekken stepped inside and closed the door. He acknowledged the pudgy-faced man sitting in front of Ordstrom’s desk.
“Clarence is the reason for the problem we have. He was supposed to delete ASP22. It was one of your assignments, Clarence, but you made a mess of it and now we are in trouble.”
“Why?” Clarence Mitchelberg asked.
“Why?” Ordstrom smiled at the other’s naiveté. “Because if the data falls into the wrong hands and we find ourselves being investigated they might uncover our other activities. Like the backdoor arms sales to unfriendly regimes. The financial deals we’ve handed out to foreign undesirables. Oh, let’s not forget the money laundering operations we run through OTG’s books for our foreign customers. All extremely lucrative and all of them fucking illegal. As well you know. Plus the manufacture of below-specification protective plating.”
“It won’t happen, Jacob,” Mitchelberg said. “This can be smoothed over to protect you.”
Ordstrom leaned forward, anger blazing in his eyes.
“ You protect me? ” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Mitchelberg. “It’s because of your ineptitude we are in this mess. You were responsible for deleting those files. You made a fuck job of it. Instead of following through you let the computer finish off so you could go home early. You, Clarence, are an asshole. A fucking joke. Right, Arnie?”
Hoekken nodded. “He’s right, Clarence.”
It became very quiet in the room.
Mitchelberg sank back in his armchair, looking as if he wanted it to swallow him.
“I believe we’ve said all we need to. Arnie, would you arrange for Clarence’s car to be brought to the front. I think he’s ready to leave for the day. He seems to have something on his mind. Clarence, go home. Keep out of my sight until I send for you.”
After Mitchelberg had left the office Ordstrom leaned back in his seat. “Early retirement?” he suggested.
Hoekken nodded. “Very early,” he agreed.
The following day Clarence Mitchelberg’s body was found at the side of the road, close to his home. As far as the police investigation could make out, Mitchelberg was the victim of a hit-and-run. There were no witnesses.
5
“Colonel Stone, Special Agent, Army CID,” Bolan said, showing the holder carrying the badge and his ID card. “Here on official business, Corporal Huston. This is an unannounced inspection.”
The sentry at the gate of the Camp Macklin Texas military base checked the ID and the man sitting at the wheel of the gleaming black Crown Victoria. The ID stated that Brandon Stone was indeed a colonel in the Army Criminal Investigation Division. Carl Huston knew enough about the investigators from CID not to screw around with the man…. On the other hand he also knew they expected professional conduct from anyone who came into contact with them. Huston threw a sharp, by-the-book salute. One look at the grim-faced colonel and Huston knew the guy was for real.
“So you are not expected, sir?” he asked.
Mack Bolan took the ID back, giving the sentry a cold stare.
“If I let everyone know I was coming I’d never catch them in the act, would I, Corporal?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s why it is designated as an unannounced inspection. You go about your duties, Huston. I’ll inform those who need to know that I’m here.” Bolan nodded in the direction of the barrier and waited until Huston pressed the button to raise it. “Carry on, Corporal.”
Huston watched the car drive onto the base. He lowered the barrier as he stepped back inside the hut. His hand reached for the phone, then drew back. If he let the base commander know CID was on the way, Stone would know. Colonel Bosley was a good CO, but he was no gung-ho hard man. Bosley liked things to run quiet and smooth. And he was no actor. The moment Stone walked into his office Bosley would give himself away. Bosley might give Huston a dressing down later. That was preferable to upsetting a hard-ass like Stone, and definitely preferable to getting on the CID’s list as not being trustworthy.
B OLAN FOLLOWED THE marked signs that showed the way to Camp Macklin’s HQ building. It had been some time since he had set foot on a military base. It had been a longer time since he had been in the service himself, but the feeling was still there—the sense of belonging to the extended family that permeated the base. It never left a man once he had worn the uniform.
Bolan studied the buildings, the neat layout of the place. In the distance he picked up the sound of men being drilled, the instructors’ commands carrying across the base. Time moved on but the very essence of military life remained constant. When he parked alongside the other vehicles outside the HQ building and stepped out, Bolan stood and let the ambience wash over him. Then he turned and strode toward the building, affecting the ingrained stance of a military man, despite being dressed in a civilian suit, white shirt and dark tie, the day-to-day uniform of a CID agent.
Walking into the outer office Bolan caught the attention of the army clerk behind one of the desks. The office was empty save for the young soldier.
“Colonel Stone, CID, to see Colonel Bosley,” Bolan snapped. He held out his ID. “Is he in?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Stone.”
“Show me the way, Curtis,” Bolan said, reading the name tag on the man’s uniform.
Private Curtis sprang to his feet, saluting, then moved with surprising speed. He led Bolan along the passage to the door at the end. He knocked and entered on command.
“Colonel will see you now, sir,” Curtis said when he ducked out again. He held the door for Bolan to enter, then closed it quietly as he stepped back outside.
Colonel Bosley was around fifty and starting to show the effects of his easy command—a noticeable bulge at the waist beneath his crisp uniform shirt. His thinning hair was gray. He pushed to his feet as Bolan crossed to face him over the desk.
“Take a seat.”
When they were seated Bolan passed his ID across to the colonel. Bosley examined it and passed it back.
“I suppose surprise visits are to be expected,” Bosley said, his tone easy. “What can I do for you, Stone?”
“I need to talk to certain of your people here. Because of circumstances surrounding an ongoing investigation I can’t give you much detail. Let’s just say this is a major investigation with possible far-reaching implications.”
“Not trying to be flippant, Colonel, but you make it sound serious.”
“It is. Command is trying to keep it low-key until we gather more evidence. They don’t want word getting out that might alert suspects. That’s why I need your cooperation, Colonel.”
“Of course. Anything I can do?”
“Just let me conduct my investigation unhindered. I’ll try and keep it as quiet as possible and try not to upset anyone I don’t need to.”
“If anyone refuses to help refer them to me, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Colonel Bosley. I’ll make sure Command gets to hear of your cooperation.”
Bolan rose and shook Bosley’s hand.
“Just one other thing, Colonel,” Bolan said, opening his jacket. “I am armed.” Bolan wore his standard issue Beretta M9 in military shoulder rig. He would have preferred his 93-R, but this masquerade demanded he follow protocol and CID colonels would not walk around displaying a specialized Beretta.
“As you said, Colonel, a serious investigation,” Bosley said.
“Would you direct me to the test area,” Bolan said.
Bosley found it hard to conceal his surprise at the request. Whatever he might have been wondering about the surprise visit from CID, he had been hoping the base test and assessment section would not be on any list. He kept questions to himself, pushing to his feet and crossing his office to the large wall map showing the layout of the base.
“This is where we are.” He indicated the location as Bolan joined him. “The test area is here, three miles north. You need to take this route. Once you clear the main base it’s the only road. Just stay on it and you’ll reach the area.”
“Any testing taking place at the moment?”
Bosley shook his head. “Nothing scheduled for a couple of days, so the area will be quiet. Just the permanent staff on duty.” Bosley turned to his desk and checked a document. “There’s a civilian representative from OTG, one of our main contractors, on-site.”
“Thank you, Colonel Bosley.”
“They’re pretty tight on security out there,” Bosley said. “You have any problems just get someone to pick up the phone and call me. I’ll clear any queries. In the meantime tell Private Curtis to issue you with a clearance pass.”
O N THE WAY OUT the Executioner stopped at the private’s desk and was handed a laminated tag that he clipped to his jacket. Back in his car he cranked up the air-conditioning and let cool air wash over him. He slipped on the aviator shades he’d left inside the car and drove away from the HQ building, following Bosley’s directions. He picked up the route and drove through the base until he found himself on the northbound road. The base fell behind him. In his rearview mirror all he could see was the pale cloud of dust rising in his wake.
Bolan stopped once, taking out the Beretta and checking the magazine. He slid it back in, worked the slide and fed the first 9 mm into place. He made sure the safety was off before he reholstered the weapon. It was a natural reaction to a potentially difficult situation. Mack Bolan had survived for this long by treating every unknown quantity as potentially life threatening. Any venture into new territory carried its own particular possibility of threat. If someone thrust a cocked gun in his face it was far too late to ask for time to prepare his own weapon. It wasn’t from a feeling of paranoia, more a simple survival reflex, and it had served the Executioner well. And, he decided wryly, he was too old to change his ways.
Around him the terrain had taken on a wilderness aspect—mostly flatland, with a few shallow depressions and humped ridges. Much farther to the north the hazy rise of low hills could be seen. There was scarce vegetation, dusty scrub, a scattering of skinny trees. He saw slight movement caused by a hot breeze, heard the scratchy hiss of gritty dust striking the sides of the car. He passed a few signs warning he would soon be entering a test area.
A long slope ahead showed Bolan the beginning of the area proper. There were a number of long huts. Workshops. An enclosed area that would likely hold munitions. He saw an open communications bunker, with a radar dish and aerials. Vehicles were in evidence. All military except for one civilian car.
The road ended at a checkpoint. Bolan watched as an armed sentry stepped out and planted himself in front of the car. Bolan braked and powered down his window, waiting. The sentry strode around and stared at Bolan, who had his ID out and in full view.
“Out of the car,” the sentry snapped.
“Read the ID, soldier, then address me by my rank.”
The sentry leaned forward and scanned the ID. When he realized he was in the presence of a colonel and a CID agent, he pulled back.
“Sorry, Colonel, sir. Just following procedure, sir.”
Bolan stepped out of the car, taking off his aviator shades. He checked out the sentry’s name tag.
“No problem with that, Conner.” Bolan tapped the security tag on his jacket. “If you need verification call Colonel Bosley. I was just with him.”
Conner shook his head. “Your pass gives you clearance, Colonel.”
“Who’s in command here, Conner?” Bolan asked.
“I am…sir,” a voice said.
Bolan glanced around and got his first look at Master Sergeant Thomas K. Randisi. The man was as tall as Bolan. Broad, erect. Every inch the professional soldier. Even in the dry, dusty heat his uniform looked as if it had just been pressed. His gleaming boots defied dust to settle on them.
As Bolan confronted him, Randisi slid off his dark glasses. His gray eyes held a gleam of defiance. He was deeply tanned, his high-boned features weathered. Down his left cheek was a slight pattern of pale scars. The man was military from his boot tips to the top of his close-shaved head, and he was showing Bolan that he was not in the least intimidated by a colonel, even one from CID.
“Master Sergeant Randisi,” Bolan said. “Just the man I want to talk to.” He flashed his ID at Randisi. “Just so we get off on the right foot.”
“What can I do for you, Colonel?”
“A few questions first.” Bolan glanced at the sentry. “Dismissed, Conner.”
Bolan did not miss the questioning glance Conner shot in Randisi’s direction. There was no flicker of unease in the master sergeant’s eyes. He simply nodded curtly, and Conner returned to his post.
“Questions, sir?” Randisi asked. “Why would CID be interested in us?”
“I ask the questions, Randisi. That’s how it works.” Bolan kept his tone light but with enough authority to keep Randisi wondering. “Let’s go and check out your civilian presence here.”
“Mr. Janssen has full clearance,” Randisi said as they strode in the direction of the main building. “He’s a regular visitor. Monitors our assessment and testing of OTG products.”
“That’s wise considering the current situation, Master Sergeant,” Bolan said out of the blue, leaving Randisi staring at him, unsure what was being suggested.
The interior of the long hut was fitted out as a control center and office. A balding, lanky man in civilian dress was turning from a water cooler as Bolan and Randisi entered. The man looked past Bolan to Randisi.
“Stefan Janssen, isn’t it?” Bolan said briskly. “I seem to be meeting all the names on my list at the same time.”
“Colonel Stone is from Army CID,” Randisi said, jumping in quickly.
“Criminal investigation,” Bolan said. “We handle policing for the army.”
The paper cup in Janssen’s hand jerked, spilling water that splashed his shirt front.
“Nervous, Mr. Janssen?” Bolan asked.
Janssen’s flushed face gave away his feelings. He brushed at the spilled water. “No. Should I be?”
Bolan gave him a tight smile. “You tell me, Mr. Janssen. I just got here.”
Janssen’s pitiful glance at Bolan might have been an attempt to draw sympathy. Bolan wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He held Janssen’s uneasy stare for long seconds.
“As I explained, Colonel,” Randisi said from behind Bolan, “Mr. Janssen is here courtesy of the army. He’s a guest.”
Janssen seemed to draw strength from Randisi’s endorsement. He swallowed the contents of the paper cup.
“You should know, Colonel Stone, that my company, OTG, is held in great esteem by the Pentagon. We have supplied ordnance for a long time. My employer, Jacob Ordstrom, has highly placed contacts within…”
“Two things, Janssen,” Bolan said, dropping the niceties. “CID is not interested in who your employer is in bed with. I’m here to investigate serious irregularities regarding equipment supply and supposed testing of said equipment. Don’t try and impress me with name dropping, sir. I am not impressed. I am not intimidated. And it appears that when you mentioned Ordstrom I feel sure I’ve seen his name on a list, as well. It would appear, Mr. Janssen, I’m having a better day than I anticipated.”
Bolan sensed movement behind him. He stepped to one side, turning, and saw that Randisi had stepped to one side of the hut, close to a desk where an unholstered sidearm lay in clear sight. “Just what is it CID is interested in, Colonel?” he asked.
“I was hoping you could provide me with some answers there, Randisi. The information we have makes tenuous links between the death of a young army officer and a missing employee from OTG.”
“I don’t understand, Colonel,” Randisi said calmly. “You said an army officer?”
“Lieutenant Francis Nelson. My information is that he visited this camp a short time ago. He was killed on his return to Washington.
“Killed?”
“To be specific, he was murdered. I tracked down the police forensic report and it appears he was hit by a .50-caliber bullet. The type they use in the M-107 military sniper rifle. Like that one in the rack over there.”
Bolan crossed to inspect the rifle. He studied it closely, listening as Randisi walked across to stand behind him.
“Your specialty, Master Sergeant, by the sharpshooter insignia you’re wearing.”
“That’s correct, Colonel. A sharpshooter’s badge. You take a walk around camp, you’ll see a few more. I’m not the only one who has that distinction.”
Bolan turned around to face Randisi. He held the master sergeant’s unflinching stare.
“I have one myself, Randisi. And I keep my hand in. You never know when it might come in useful.”
“That you don’t, sir.”
Bolan smiled briefly, then stepped around Randisi and joined the nervous Janssen. The OTG man was standing at the open door, and Bolan had the feeling the man was close to making a run for it. Wet patches showed under Janssen’s armpits and his face gleamed.
“Gets really hot in this part of the country, Mr. Janssen. You feeling the heat right now?” the Executioner asked.
“I’m fine.”
“The OTG man I mentioned earlier was named Frank Carella. Do you know him, Mr. Janssen?”
“You realize how large OTG is, Colonel? There are people there I wouldn’t know if they walked in here right now.”
“I take that as a no?”
“You can…”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Randisi said quickly. “You will have to make allowances for Mr. Janssen. He hasn’t taken to our climate too well.”
Bolan held his stare on Janssen. He wanted the man to be uncomfortable. He sensed a weakness in his makeup. He felt Janssen might talk if he was pushed hard enough. It was time to let the man consider his position. Walking away would leave Janssen wondering what was going to happen next.
“Fine, Randisi. That will do for today. But make yourselves available tomorrow. We will need to talk again.”
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