Critical Exposure. Don Pendleton

the working end of the take-up and belay lines.

      Grimaldi piloted the chopper with the expertise that had earned him a reputation with Bolan as perhaps one of the greatest tactical pilots ever to lay a hand on a stick. Flying talent seemed to be something that was part of Grimaldi’s blood, an enigmatic and invisible element that coursed through the man’s veins. Like Bolan’s talents as a warrior, Grimaldi had a natural gift that not only made him a consummate flier but a solid ally in Bolan’s War Everlasting.

      The soldier called a last farewell and then bailed out of the chopper without hesitation as soon as Grimaldi reached hover point. He descended the rope steadily but not too quickly. Even rappelling into the woods held intrinsic dangers, and Bolan had enough experience to know it wasn’t good to rush things. He could fall or slip or experience an equipment malfunction, and descending at a controlled speed under such circumstances could be the thing that saved him from a backbreaking fall.

      The cards were with Bolan and he easily passed through the treetops to find the cool forest earth rushing to greet him. At the last twenty yards, Bolan yanked his arm behind him and jerked twice to slow his descent. A moment later his boots touched the ground and he crouched to absorb the mild impact. He unclipped his belt, released the lines through the carabiner and then donned the portable communications earplug and attached the throat microphone.

      “Striker to Eagle, you copy?” Bolan whispered.

      “Go, Striker.”

      “I’m down and set. Beat feet back to base and get us some modern chops,” Bolan replied.

      “You got it, Striker. Good luck.”

      “You, too. Out.”

      Bolan clicked off and removed the ear bud and mike before stowing them carefully in the pouch at his side. He was now in communications blackout and would remain that way until he either called for extraction or they found his bloody, battered corpse.

      Bolan activated the electronic compass on his right wrist. He checked his bearings and realized Grimaldi had dropped him nearly on the spot of the coordinates Kurtzman had sent them. The soldier began to look around him, but he couldn’t see the tower—not yet, anyway. The dense foliage overhead did a good job of blocking most of the sunlight, and only by the fact it was midday did Bolan have any light at all. He did one last equipment check and set off.

      It took him about ten minutes of walking in ever-widening circles, using the compass as his guide, before Bolan found the tower. He made sure nobody was around before stepping into the small clearing and approaching the base. It was tall, but when he looked up he could just barely see the top of it through the trees. So that was it. They hadn’t spotted it because whoever had erected the structure had managed to camouflage it so it wasn’t visible from the air. Perhaps highly sensitive equipment could have detected it, like the kind found aboard an AWACS. But therein lay the problem—somebody had to actually be looking for the tower. Up until recently, nobody had even known there was anything wrong.

      Bolan turned to study the base of the tower. He gave it the once-over with a critical eye before locating a power panel. Just visible above the forest floor was a heavy, thick cable that ran from the power box and disappeared into the woods. From that point he could see what would have been just passable for a foot trail. He considered following it, but thought better. Daylight wouldn’t last forever and he didn’t have time to risk moving off the target or losing the trail.

      No. Better to let the enemy come to him.

      Bolan pried the panel open with his combat knife and quickly studied the rat’s nest of connections. He located the neutral and cut the thick cable of twisted-pair wires inside. If the tower was that critical to whomever had installed it here, and the Executioner bet it was, it wouldn’t be long before someone came to investigate.

      Bolan closed the panel and made for the woods as close to the box as possible. He knelt behind thick foliage he found nestled between a pair of giant pines and settled in to wait. Yeah, they would definitely come to him.

      * * *

      BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE to wait long—about fifteen or twenty minutes by his reckoning—before someone approached the tower making enough noise to raise the dead. At first the soldier couldn’t believe it, but when he saw the reason it didn’t seem so incredible. The man who came through the trees to Bolan’s left, just about where he’d seen the makeshift path, was fat and clearly out of shape. Even from a distance the Executioner observed that the man’s face was beet red from the exertion, and he was wheezing loudly.

      The man finally reached the tower and stopped to catch his breath. Droplets of sweat beaded his forehead, those that weren’t already plopping onto the ground from his face and neck. Armpit stains were visible. Why anyone would have sent a guy of this girth and poor physical condition to investigate a tower on a forest mountain was anybody’s guess.

      Bolan stepped out of the bushes and approached the man, the .44 Desert Eagle up with sights pinned on the man’s chest. The man could barely catch his breath and he seemed even less able to do so when he first noticed the big guy dressed in camouflage fatigues toting what looked like a cannon in his hand. The man did nothing to hide the surprise in his expression.

      “Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “What the hell is this?”

      “This is where you stop asking stupid questions and start answering some of mine,” Bolan said coolly. “That work for you?”

      “Um, yeah...just...easy, man. I’m not in a hurry to get killed.”

      “And yet you’re still talking.” That shut him up. “What’s your name?”

      “Ah...Ducken,” the guy replied. “Horace Ducken. Look, can I...? Can I put my hands down? My arms are getting tired.”

      Bolan almost cracked a smile. Ducken was a heart attack waiting to happen. He’d only had his arms up a moment. The Executioner thought about making him keep them up, a little incentive not to try anything, but then he nodded. Might as well let the guy off the hook. Maybe it would buy him a little good will.

      “So tell me, Ducken...” Bolan began. “What are you doing up here and what do you know about this tower?”

      “I just maintain the thing, man.”

      “Alone?”

      “Alone? No, hell...shit no.”

      “Then start telling me something of substance,” Bolan replied. “Or I may make you put your hands up again and keep them up forever.”

      “Look, I’m not doing anything wrong,” Ducken said. “I lost my job with Paradine-E and—”

      “Wait a second,” Bolan cut in. “The electronic security firm contracted to the DOD?”

      Ducken nodded.

      “All right, go on.”

      “I was just trying to make some cash, man. My mom had to put up for a second loan on her house after I lost my job, and I couldn’t afford to let her lose it.”

      “How did you come into this work?” Bolan asked, nodding in the direction of the tower.

      “They came to me, man. I mean, I’m no Snowden or nothing. I didn’t tell them anything about what I did for Paradine-E. I just got hired because I knew—”

      He cut his words short and a look of horror crossed his face, as if he’d just almost given it all away.

      Bolan considered what Ducken had said so far. It sounded plausible enough, and this setup was nothing he could’ve done on his own, especially not in his physical condition. He’d just about killed himself just climbing a slight incline to investigate the issue. Not to mention, the fat and socially awkward man in front of him didn’t strike Bolan as any sort of criminal mastermind.

      “The tower’s not working because I cut the power. You think you can repair that?”

      “Yeah, I guess. Depends on how bad you cut it.”