System Corruption. Don Pendleton

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ