Dual Action. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ “I’m striking out here, in Ozark country. If I don’t hook up with someone who can manage conversation pretty soon, we won’t have anything.”

      “I see. What’s next?”

      “I’m heading west. The ARM has people in New Mexico. They may feel safe enough out there to stay at home and wait for orders. Anyway, it’s worth a look.”

      “You need a lift?”

      “If possible. Saves time spent shopping for new hardware on the other end.”

      “It shouldn’t be a problem,” Brognola said.

      The 9/11 attacks had not only made things more difficult for terrorists in the United States. Airport security was still erratic, prone to errors that made headlines, but in terms of baggage screening it was almost impossible to move firearms on a commercial carrier in check-through luggage without filling out a ream of paperwork for every gun and round of ammunition registered. Brognola might’ve pulled some strings from Washington, but that would only turn the spotlight on clandestine ops and lead to further problems in a time when even famous senators were hassled with their names on airline “no-fly” lists.

      It saved time all around to book a private charter flight or schedule Bolan for a military ride across country. There would be paperwork involved in that scenario, as well, but it was classified and might even be “lost” with help from Aaron Kurtzman’s team at Stony Man Farm.

      “Where are you going, in New Mexico?” Brognola asked.

      “The place outside of Taos, where they want to start the Great White Nation.”

      “Jesus, right.” It still amazed Brognola, sometimes, all the crap people believed. The fantasies they used to guide their destiny. “Okay. I’ll clear you out of Fort Zumwalt, west of St. Louis, landing at Fort Bliss. That’s at the wrong end of the state, I realize, but—”

      “Closer than I am right now,” Bolan said. “Thanks. It’s fine.”

      “Let’s use the Colonel Brandon Stone ID, since it’s on file,” Brognola said. “Switch back to Cooper or whatever when you’re on the civvy side.”

      “Sounds good. I found a flier at the last place, printed for the ARM. It rambles on about a Day of Judgment coming. Pretty standard for the Nazi fringe, except it mentions bolts from Heaven and a blazing lance.”

      “Could be our toy,” Brognola granted.

      “Or, it could be crap.”

      “That too. Let’s hope the author knew what he was writing, for a change.”

      “Still doesn’t help us track it down,” Bolan reminded him, “but if I find someone to squeeze, we may still have a shot.”

      “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

      “It couldn’t hurt,” the Executioner replied. “All right, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

      “It’ll be waiting for you,” Brognola assured him.

      There was red tape to be severed and finessed, but the big Fed’s assignment to the Stony Man project included top-level clearance and a short list of phone numbers virtually guaranteed to get results. He used them sparingly, but without hesitation when a pressing need arose.

      When he was finished making calls, Brognola sipped his coffee and considered what might happen if his judgment on the mission had been wrong from the beginning. What if Bolan could find nothing linking members of the ARM to the elusive supergun because there were no links? What if some other group of psychopathic misfits had the weapon and were plotting where to use it next, while Bolan chased the wrong suspects across the countryside?

      In that case, Brognola thought, he was up one very stinky creek without a paddle to his name. It might not cost his job, but he would find it awkward to continue, in good conscience, if his judgment was that flawed. If it had led to killing and the risk of Bolan’s life without due cause.

      He wouldn’t give up yet, of course. Bolan still had a few tricks up his sleeve, some sources to interrogate—if he could find them. Failing that, however, Brognola might need to think about another line of work.

      Or maybe he should just retire. Look for a beach somewhere, where he and Helen could relax and take things easy for a change. It would be nice. No crisis calls before sunrise, scrambling young men to kill or be killed at the farthest corners of the Earth.

      An end to secrets, as it were.

      Someday, Brognola thought. But not yet.

      5

      Taos, New Mexico

      As such things go, the flight was uneventful. No one poked through Bolan’s bags when he arrived at Fort Zumwalt, nor did they question the U.S. Army ID he carried, naming him as Colonel Brandon Stone. The fact that he was out of uniform raised no eyebrows—or none that Bolan was allowed to glimpse, at any rate. The transport plane took off on time and landed at Fort Bliss, west of Carlsbad, on the outskirts of the White Sands Missile Range, four minutes early.

      A rental car was waiting for him in the tiny town of Sunspot, and he traveled east from there on Highway 62 until he reached Artesia, then turned north and followed Highway 285 through Roswell, across the sunbaked desert to Vaughn and another junction. From there, the scorching flats turned into wooded mountain slopes, where bold Apache warriors had resisted all invaders for the best part of four hundred years. That struggle had been fierce, conducted without mercy shown by either side.

      The kind of war that Bolan understood.

      These days, there was a different breed of rebel in those mountains. Tax protesters and would-be secessionists, the throwbacks to a time before law reached the West, when range wars settled arguments and lynch mobs meted out revenge disguised as justice. The new breed went beyond protest to insurrection, waging ceaseless war against environmental laws, zoning, even refusing to apply for driver’s licenses on the peculiar theory that their government had no authority to rule. In such an atmosphere, groups like the Aryan Resistance Movement found prime soil in which to plant their deadly seeds.

      Bolan rolled into Taos at 1:30 p.m. and stopped to fill the rental’s tank before proceeding to a diner on the town’s main street, where he consumed a mediocre hamburger and French fries cooked to a tooth-grating crisp. Strong coffee and a slice of startling key lime pie redeemed the disappointing meal, and Bolan’s tip secured directions from his waitress to the rustic suburb he was seeking.

      Rebels often claimed they’re “going back to nature,” but the effort frequently included computer access, satellite TV and other modern frills undreamed of by pioneers who carved their homes from real-life wilderness. The place he sought, likewise, was a “survival” compound in name only. Deprivation wasn’t something that its tenants wished to sample in the long run. They played war games in the woods, then trundled back to fireside couches, boozing while they argued over hidden meanings in Mein Kampf.

      Bolan had no good reason to suppose the supergun was in Taos, but Camp Nordland was the last address he had for anything resembling an official ARM facility. Assuming that the weapon wasn’t there, at least he had a shot at bagging someone who had heard of it and might know where to find it.

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