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SUNKEN TERROR
The disappearance of a defense department Cold War cryptologist and his daughter on a Caribbean island alarms government officials in Washington, and Mack Bolan is sent in to find them. But when Bolan comes across a Russian agent and her partner on the same mission, he soon discovers something is rotten in paradise—and it’s not just the corrupt police force.
A rich American businessman is behind the secret excavation of a sunken Soviet submarine off the island’s coast. He’s found nuclear weapons on board and intends to use them to dupe the U.S. into attacking Iran—and to strike at America’s heart in the process. With international peace and millions of lives at stake, Bolan and his new Russian comrades must race to rescue the hostages and put an end to the billionaire’s deadly scheme. Every man is an island, and the Executioner plans to blow this one off the map.
Bolan asked the FBI agent if he had a weapon
“I do,” Tyler said, patting his chest.
“Better get ready. I think you’re going to have to use it.”
A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The man in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened and leveled AK-47s over the cab.
“Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “I’m going for those two tourists.”
“Roger that,” Grimaldi replied.
Bolan pulled out his Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the French couple.
Bolan was about three steps from the tourists when the first rifle rounds zipped by him. He crouched and dove into the man, reaching out for the woman and pulling her down.
He counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau.The big bald guy, shouting orders in Russian, held his AK-47 over the truck’s fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds. Bolan glanced back at the tourists. If they stayed there, hopefully they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another three-round burst toward the truck.
Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.
The sea does not belong to despots. On its surface immoral rights can still be claimed, men can fight each other, devour each other, and carry out all earth’s atrocities. But thirty feet below the surface their power ceases, their influence fades, their authority disappears.
—Jules Verne,
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
Land, sea or air, if an atrocity is about to be committed, I am duty-bound to stop it. There is no corner of this earth where criminals and despots will find impunity for their actions.
—Mack Bolan
THE
LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam. But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians. Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia. He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail. So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB. But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority. Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
Quote
The Mack Bolan Legend
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Copyright
Prologue
Edwin Grimes watched the television monitor as the submersible’s mechanical arm dipped around the ruptured hull of the sunken submarine, nimbly grabbing and tearing off some of the twenty centimeters of rubber covering. The massive, looping cables from the floating, semisubmersible platform held the sub in place. It amazed him that things looked so clear on the monitor at the depth of almost 3,000 meters, although wisps of silt from the seabed stirred up as the submersible altered its position. As soon as the area was monitored again for radiation, the divers could start the salvage process. Grimes turned to the technician at the console.
“What’s the radiation level down there?”
The tech picked up the microphone and called the submersible.
“So far almost negligible,” the dive leader replied. “We’ll know more once we cut into the second hull.”
Grimes looked at his watch. If they continued this operation through the night, they should be able to get into the compartments soon. He glanced out through the window. There was perhaps an hour of daylight left, but the sky was tinctured with a reddish glow. Grimes smiled.
Red sky by morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Or so the old saying went. He hoped the calm weather they’d been blessed with the past few weeks would indeed hold.
“Get the second dive team ready to go down in the bell,” Grimes said. “Tell them to plan to stay submerged. That way they won’t waste time decompressing each time.”
The technician looked at him. “Is that wise, sir? We haven’t got much daylight left.”
Grimes turned to stare at the man. “Need I remind you I don’t like to repeat myself?” He punctuated the question by removing the long, black leather sap he kept in his pocket, and placing the tip against the technician’s jawline. The cords in the man’s neck tightened.
Grimes smiled.
It was true, it would be dark soon, but at 3,000 meters below, what difference did that make? It was dark down there regardless, and the divers had to rely on artificial lighting. Grimes held the sap a moment longer, then let it drop. He said nothing more, but made a note to reprimand the salvage chief for placing such an idiot on the console. But that could wait, too. Everett would be expecting a full report when he came back to the island, but that wasn’t for two more days. Grimes, however, was anxious to get off this floating platform rig and back on shore. “And tell them to get my boat ready. I’m going in.”
The technician nodded and picked up the phone.
Good, Grimes thought. He knows he displeased me. Next time he’ll be on his toes, or else his jaw will be wired shut.
Grimes left the control room and strolled around to the side of the platform, placing both hands on the metal safety railing and inhaling the fresh, salty air. The sun was an orange sphere, poised to descend into the ocean. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight that never failed to please him. But something else caught his attention and broke the spell. A vessel was approaching, so close now that Grimes could see it was a luxury yacht. He turned and strode back into the control room.
“Check the monitors, you moron,” he said. “I saw a ship out there.”
The technician rolled his chair over to another section and nodded. “Yes, sir. Looks like a civilian yacht. A cabin cruiser, about fifty to sixty feet in length.”
“Where the hell is that damn island police boat?”
The technician studied the radar screen and shook his head. “Can’t place them, sir. Maybe they went to dinner.”
Grimes swore under his breath. Those islanders were useless. What the hell was Everett paying them for? Still, at this point, the yacht situation might be better handled in-house. “Have a security team meet me by the launch immediately.”
He turned and stormed out again, this time walking briskly down to the gangway that led to the lower section adjacent to one of the platform’s massive buoyancy tanks. By the time Grimes reached the stairs to the launching platform, a squad of five men, all wearing sidearms and carrying AK-47 rifles, had hastily assembled, standing at attention. Grimes gave them a quick, cursory inspection. All had on their crisp, blue uniforms—BDU blouses and cargo pants—and they wore baseball hats emblazoned with Everett Security.
“We’ve got visitors,” Grimes said, pointing to the yacht, which was perhaps five hundred yards away and still advancing. “The island police are nowhere to be found. We’ve got to do it ourselves.”
Vincent Tanner, the security team leader, nodded and ordered his men to board a twenty-five-foot skiff. Grimes accompanied him to the cabin and watched as they fired up the engine and embarked on an intercept course. When they were about a hundred yards away, Grimes gave the order for the men below to keep their weapons out of sight for the time being. Then he picked up the microphone and called out over the loudspeaker, “You’ve entered a restricted area. Come to a stop immediately.”
The yacht, which had A Slice of Heaven in black script along its prow, signaled with a blast from its horn, and slowed. Grimes scanned the wheelhouse, which was enclosed on three sides by glass windows under a sloping canopy. A middle-aged white guy with a glass in his hand, wearing a colorful shirt and a white captain’s hat, stood next to a young Latino man at the yacht’s controls. A woman in a bikini stood nearby, her body taut and very tan. The yacht was dead in the water now and Tanner cut the skiff’s motor, letting them drift within shouting distance of the other vessel. The boat looked as if it could comfortably sleep at least four or five.
The white guy in the wheelhouse pushed back the window on one side and stuck his head out. “What the hell’s all the yelling about?” His voice sounded thick.
“This is a restricted area,” Grimes said. “You’ll have to leave immediately.”
“Restricted?” The man was slurring his words now, his movements slightly exaggerated. “Says who? You don’t look like an official naval vessel to me. Besides, we’re not even inside the three-mile limits yet. Are we?” He turned to the man at the wheel, who shrugged and smiled.
“Will you calm down, Harv?” the woman next to him said. She put her arm around the older man’s shoulders and squeezed as she turned her head and flashed a smile at Grimes. “Good old Harv is a really nice guy,” she called out. She was probably a little bit tipsy, too, but certainly less so than the man. “We didn’t mean any harm, mister. We’re headed for the main island to par-ty.”
Grimes figured her for her mid-to-late thirties. She had a nice body. Obviously, she had plenty of money to spend on cosmetic lifts, tucks and implants.
“Yeah,” a guy on the lower deck yelled. He held up a camera with along zoom lens and clicked some pictures of the skiff and then of Grimes. “Say cheese. We’ve been filming you. I wanted to get some up-close shots of your rig over there.” The camera’s shutter clicked several more times as the man swiveled the lens from the skiff to the floating platform about a hundred yards away. “Got any good-looking girls on that thing could give me some nudie poses?”
“Oh, Norm, you’re such a perv,” a second woman, standing next to him, said. She gave his shoulder a playful slap.
These two looked drunk, as well.
“Hey,” the cameraman said, still looking through the viewfinder. “You guys doing some kind of salvage operation over there?” He lowered his camera, pointing toward the platform. “Look at that. A submersible. Bigger than the one we used to use, Harv.”
“Oh yeah?” Harv raised a set of binoculars to his eyes and studied the scene. “Well, I’ll be damned. It sure is. We used to do underwater salvage. What’s down there?”
Grimes’s head whipped around. The second submersible was alongside the launch, and the divers were assembling as the crane arm hovered above them.
An unfortunate turn of events, thought Grimes. The last thing we need is a bunch of drunks shooting their mouths off about our operation at some island bar and showing photos. Especially if they know about salvage ops. He exhaled slowly, then said to Tanner in a low tone, “This has to be quick and neat.”
Tanner nodded. He snapped off the safety on his AK-47, which he held down by his leg. “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Take out the three above, but wait till I get aboard,” Grimes said. “I’ll take the other two.”
Grimes stepped out onto the deck of the skiff and pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Nice looking boat. How many does she hold?”
“Enough,” Harv said, lowering the binoculars. His brow furrowed as Grimes reached for the ladder on the side of the yacht. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Permission to come aboard,” Grimes replied with a smile. He began to hoist himself up the ladder.
“I didn’t say you could do that,” Harv said, his drunken voice rising with the first vestiges of alarm. He turned to the young Latino. “Angel, get us out of here.”
The man nodded and reached down toward a shiny silver lever.
A shot rang out. Angel’s head jerked back, momentarily surrounded by a red halo, as a spiderweb of cracks sprang outward from the neat, round hole in the glass windshield. Harv’s jaw dropped as a second shot pierced the glass, and he grabbed his chest as he dropped. The tan woman started to scream. A third shot burst into the wheelhouse. Her voice ceased as she fell.
Grimes was at the top of the ladder now and going over the side. He drew his Heckler and Koch 9 millimeter and aimed at Norm, who was frozen in place on the stern. Grimes double-tapped the trigger, sending two rounds into his chest. Norm lurched forward, clutching the growing red stain expanding over the front of his crisp white shirt. The woman next to him was paralyzed for a moment, too, but as he collapsed she turned and ran toward the cabin doors.
“You’ve got no place to go,” Grimes said. The next round from his H&K caught her in the side and she flopped onto the deck, squirming and crying as her long legs kicked.
Not bad for a one-handed shot, thought Grimes as he assumed a two-handed grip and aimed carefully before sending his next round directly into her left temple. The screaming stopped abruptly and a trickle of blood flowed from her open mouth.
Grimes leaped down onto the deck, immediately moved to the cabin doors and kicked them open. A quick search revealed no other passengers. He surveyed the interior. Nice flat-screen television, a wet bar, and three separate sleeping quarters on either side. Tanner appeared in the doorway, holding out his hand.
“Here’s your brass. And their camera.”
Grimes holstered his H&K, placed the spent shell casings in his pocket and began to review the digital photos. Most of them showed the now-departed crew in a variety of poses. Obviously, they were exhibitionists, but that didn’t matter now. They’d been a security risk, pure and simple. The boss would probably not be happy, but he would no doubt approve.
The camera also contained several clear shots of Grimes, Tanner, the divers and the submersible. Grimes started to press the delete button, but hesitated. Perhaps these would be worth showing to Everett when he got here in case he was miffed at the shooting. He was going to want a full briefing, and this way it would contain visual aids. Grimes smiled at his wit as he slung the camera strap over his neck. “Leave some men here to secure this boat. Find their passports. After you take me back, return here and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Dump everything of value overboard. Then set this thing adrift far away from here. Make it look like the work of pirates, or drug smugglers or something.”
“Understood, sir,” Tanner said.
Grimes climbed the steps and strode past the two bodies, which were still leaking bright crimson onto the pristine whiteness of the lower deck. He hesitated, but couldn’t resist taking a few photos of his handiwork. He turned and snapped a few of good old Harv, his pretty lady, and the dead Latino kid, as well.
A bit of an untidy mess, but necessary for the mission, Grimes thought as he stepped over them. Collateral damage.
Chapter 1
Mack Bolan, also known as the Executioner, passed the three-mile marker and noted that he had finally broken a sweat. He carried a five-pound dumbbell in each hand. The trees and bushes on either side of the macadamized track that led through the heavily wooden area surrounding Stony Man Farm had just started to sprout their seasonal leaves. Bright sunshine filtered through the swirls of green buds, dappling the trail ahead with splashes of brilliance. Running this five-mile course was a great way to unwind after returning from a mission. Up ahead, two deer walked across the path, stopped, saw Bolan and scampered into the forest.
Suddenly, a distant but distinct buzzing began to intrude on the peaceful scene. The birds became silent as the buzzing grew louder. Bolan had already identified it: a motorcycle—a trail bike most likely—and it was heading his way. Although the soldier normally felt totally comfortable and safe within the confines of Stony Man Farm, his survival instinct never allowed him to completely drop his guard. The trail curved to the left and he quickened his pace, sprinting around the turn, at once out of view from the approaching motorcyclist. He slowed and waded into the heavy foliage. Stopping next to an oak tree, he dropped the dumbbells and pulled his SIG Sauer P938 Nightmare from the pocket of his sweatpants. Then he waited.
When Bolan heard the motorcycle slowing to make the turn, he brought the SIG up and braced his arm against the heavy trunk. The motorcycle rider accelerated and zoomed past Bolan’s position, only to slow down and screech to a halt about eight seconds later.
The rider removed his helmet, but Bolan had already identified him.
It was Jack Grimaldi. Bolan lowered the pistol, grabbing the weights with his left hand and stepping out of the trees.
Grimaldi swiveled in the seat. “Are you slipping or something?” he asked. “You made more noise than a troop of Boy Scouts.”
“I’ll give back my merit badge.”
Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the pistol. “Where’s your Beretta? It’s not like you to be without your baby.”
“Sometimes less is more when it comes to concealment,” Bolan said. He pocketed the SIG, took a dumbbell in each hand and began running again.
Grimaldi twisted the accelerator and pulled up beside Bolan. “Hal sent me to get you.”
“Well, you got me.”
The pilot smiled. “Come on, he wants to see you right away.”
Bolan kept running.
“Did you hear me?” Grimaldi asked. “He said ‘right away.’”
“I heard. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
“Hop on and I’ll give you a ride.”
“Nope,” Bolan said. “I’ve been promising myself this run ever since I got back. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes? You slowed down that much?”
“I can make it quicker if I skip my shower,” Bolan said drily.
Grimaldi grinned. “We wouldn’t want that. See you later.” He stopped, replaced the helmet on his head, and asked, “Want to race?”
Bolan didn’t answer, and seconds later Grimaldi zoomed past him with a spray of gravel.
* * *
BOLAN WALKED INTO the War Room freshly showered and changed. Hal Brognola glanced up from his big desk. “Have a nice run?”
“Pretty good until you and Jack ruined it. What’s up?”
“We may have something brewing in the Caribbean.”
“Like what?”
“Missing yacht, for one thing,” Brognola said. “A bunch of rich folks out of Miami. Big campaign contributors to a lot of politicians on the Hill. They took off for the islands and haven’t been heard from in two days.”
“Sounds like a job for the Coast Guard.”
“Normally, it would be,” Brognola said. “But there may be more to it. The FBI’s also nosing around down there on one of the islands. Something about a missing DOD employee.”
Bolan felt his interest spike slightly at that news. In the old days, a missing Department of Defense employee often meant a defection. Now, it could mean terrorism. “What type of employee?”
Brognola picked up a manila file and passed it across his desk. “The guy’s worked there as a crypto code breaker for just about forever. Never had any problems. His name’s Herman Monk.”
Bolan paged through the file. A color photo of Monk was paper-clipped to the inside of the folder. It showed a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick, horn rim glasses. Other than that, his face was unremarkable. Under the personal information section he was listed as fifty-eight years old and widowed with one child, a nineteen-year-old daughter named Grace. A picture of her was on a subsequent page.
“As I said,” Brognola continued, “Monk’s worked at the DOD for a long time, since the Cold War. He’s an expert crypto analyst. Speaks five languages. He’s supposed to be a wizard at breaking codes, but he hasn’t had a lot to do since the Soviet Union dissolved. He used to track the Soviets around the globe, and more recently the activities of Al Qaeda and friends.”
“The Feds got any theories?”
“He disappeared from work four days ago. Left for a lunch date and never returned. He called in sick for the rest of that day and the next. It was later discovered that he was in the possession of his government laptop.” Brognola got up, went to the coffeemaker on the file cabinet and poured himself a cup. “When Monk didn’t show up for work the following day, they tried calling him, but kept getting his answering machine saying he was still sick. Then they traced the laptop through the built-in GPS transmitter and went to his residence. The laptop was there, but its hard drive wasn’t. And neither was Monk.”
“What type of information was on it?” Bolan asked.
“Unknown,” Brognola said. “Most of Monk’s work these days was translating intercepted texts from Arabic. Like I said, he speaks five languages in addition to English. Arabic, Farsi, Russian, Korean and several Chinese dialects.”
“He should apply for a job at the United Nations.”
Brognola took a sip of his coffee and returned to his desk. “They traced him to a flight three days ago to Puerto Rico.”
“Maybe he wants to be there for the vice president’s visit.”
“That’s not for a few more days,” Brognola said. “Anyway, from there it’s believed he hopped another flight to one of the Caribbean islands.”
“Which one?”
“This one, we think. St. Francis.” Brognola handed Bolan a brightly colored brochure depicting beautiful hotels rising out of white sand, and photos of equally beautiful people drinking and playing volleyball in bikinis and Speedos. “At least that’s what the Feds think. The FBI is down there now trying to find him and his daughter.”