Critical Exposure. Don Pendleton

“So I got your message that you were flying in. I figured since you didn’t say more than that this wasn’t a social visit.”

      “Afraid not,” Bolan said. “I’m here to follow up on that information you passed along to me, Oz.”

      “The signals thing?” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. We still can’t make heads or tails of how the signals got redirected and decoded but we’re narrowing it down, closing in on the source of the hack into our systems.”

      “I’m not completely up to speed on these signals you’re talking about,” Bolan interjected. “Care to elaborate?”

      “Well, you already know part of it, I would assume—at least given your background,” Osborne said. “In typical standard operations, non-classified and general orders or other things, we pipe communications through the normal channels. Emails, phone calls and whatnot. But each and every military operation deemed classified requires very specific protocols be used when transmitting orders.”

      Bolan partially directed his voice at Grimaldi as he said, “You’re talking about all orders for classified missions, regardless of where they come from, have to go through NORAD.”

      “Correct. We then verify the authenticity of the orders before they’re sent on to whatever might be the receiving unit.”

      Grimaldi shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you lost me. What do you mean by ‘receiving unit’? You’re talking a military unit?”

      Osborne gave him a sharp nod. “You betcher ass, Captain. Those transmissions are coded and, regardless of origin, we have to verify the authenticity of the orders before going out. We don’t want somebody, for example, to put out an Executive Order to launch nuclear missiles from a submarine halfway across the Pacific unless we know damn sure the orders were genuine.”

      Grimaldi emitted a low whistle as he looked at Bolan. “Even I didn’t know that.”

      Bolan nodded. “There can’t be any mistakes when you’re talking about coordinating military operations at any given point.”

      “One miscommunication,” Osborne added, “and you could spark the next world war or cause a nuclear response from a country where none was intended. To say nothing of removing America’s advantage in a first-strike scenario.”

      “Okay, Oz,” Bolan said. “That’s fair enough, but how would someone intercept these transmissions? And even if they did, how would they have the know-how to decode them?”

      “I can’t answer that yet. But what I can tell you is that we found some hidden code that we can’t explain. When we decompiled and refactored it we realized it was an inside job—done so well that the source is indeterminate.”

      “So how do you expect to find whoever intercepted the transmissions?” Bolan asked.

      “The program was designed to route the transmissions through a very specific network of internal servers. Now the addresses were masked and we’ve hit the additional snag that the code is self-regressing.”

      “Meaning?” Grimaldi asked with a furrowed brow.

      It was Bolan who replied. “Meaning it was designed to self-destruct if discovered.”

      “Bingo,” Osborne replied.

      “How much more time to do you think you’re going to need to find this place?” Bolan asked.

      “That’s the tough part to estimate,” Osborne said.

      “Best guess?”

      “Another day, maybe two. After that it won’t matter if we don’t have any answers because as you’ve pointed out, the code will have fractured to such a degree it’ll be useless as tits on a bull.”

      “Fair enough,” Bolan said. “But what if I told you I know somebody who might be able to help you speed up the process?”

      “I’m open to suggestions,” Osborne said with splayed hands. “At this point I see we got nothing to lose trying everything.”

      “Glad to hear it,” Bolan replied. “Because I have just the right guy for the job.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      “Talk to me, Bear,” Mack Bolan said.

      “We were able to pick apart the code,” Kurtzman replied. “Akira managed to find the obligatory self-destruct codes and shut them down, so we had enough transitory information left behind. After that it became a cakewalk.”

      “Akira” was Akira Tokaido, one of the best computer hackers in the world, and a valued member of Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber team.

      “So you know where the original intercept program was sourced?”

      “To within a grid about a quarter-mile square.” A pause ensued and then he continued. “The transmissions were sourced from a wireless, high-frequency satellite tower in the central Rockies. I’m uploading the exact coordinates via secure link to Jack’s navigation system. He can then set it from there and put you down on almost a dime.”

      “Unless it’s heavily wooded,” Bolan remarked.

      “I made sure they had rappelling gear aboard, boss,” Grimaldi chimed in. He’d been listening to the conversation through his own headset.

      “Looks like we’re set then,” Bolan told Kurtzman. “Thanks again for the assist, Bear. I’ll be in touch when we know something more.”

      Bolan signed off.

      The beating of chopper blades against the air threatened to vibrate Bolan’s innards down to the bone. Unfortunately the older Bell-Huey was the only thing they could get on such short notice, and the Executioner hadn’t wanted to wait for something more modern. Besides, if Kurtzman’s preliminary information panned out—something for which Bolan had little doubt otherwise—he wouldn’t be spending a very long time aboard.

      Bolan squeezed his frame out of the jump seat in back and began to prepare his equipment. He’d already changed out of his Class A uniform for woodland camouflage fatigues. He donned a web harness that held a portable medical kit, combat knife and four M-67 high explosive grenades. He whipped out his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, checked the action and ensured a round was chambered before replacing it in his hip holster. Finally he slung an MP5K.

      Under normal circumstances Bolan would have preferred something a bit more powerful in a primary assault weapon, but he figured if the terrain happened to be mountainous, he would need to carry light. His judgment had proved sound given the territory Kurtzman described. The model he carried boasted a side-folding stock, quick-detach sound suppressor and a 3-round burst mode. It chambered 9 mm rounds in a 30-round steel magazine.

      Light but durable, yeah.

      Bolan looked forward and saw Grimaldi twirl his finger. He donned the headset. “Go ahead, Jack.”

      “We’re almost on point. Based on what I’m seeing, there’s no place to put down, Sarge. Looks like you’ll be going in the hard way.”

      “Could be just as well,” Bolan replied. “I don’t know what I’m going up against, and I don’t want to risk putting this old crate in harm’s way.”

      “It would mean a long walk home,” Grimaldi said. “Understood.”

      “I’ll get the winch deployed,” Bolan said. “Once I’m through, I’ll find an extraction point and send a homing signal. Might want to take the time to get back and find something a little more...say, robust.”

      “Roger,” Grimaldi stated. “Stay frosty, Sarge.”

      Bolan grunted an affirmation before abandoning the headset and moving to the swing-out winch. He got the rescue arm into position and locked, and then expertly