Critical Exposure. Don Pendleton

opposite direction, heading toward a door on the far side. He didn’t know where it led but anything had to be better than playing the role of sitting duck. If he could get a little combat stretch, it would make a difference, at least in terms of buying the technical crew time to get clear while Bolan strategized a way to turn this holding action into an offense. The soldier didn’t know where the door would take him, or if he could even access whatever awaited him on the other side, but he had to try. He couldn’t afford to just wait there for his enemies to come to him.

      Remaining crouched, Bolan reached for the knob and found that it turned. He opened the door and pushed through, keeping as low as possible. The interior had a musty smell and at first Bolan thought he’d entered a closet, which would have trapped him with no place to go. The Executioner’s luck held out as he spotted yet another door to his right. He pushed through it and emerged in a narrow corridor that dipped even farther underground. Bolan looked to his right and saw the wide-open area from which his enemy had approached.

      Bolan almost grinned at his good fortune, totally obscured in the deep shadows of the walkway while his enemies, three in total, moved toward the control room, apparently convinced the grenade had done its grisly work. Bolan extended his arm and leveled the MP5K. He opened up, sweeping the muzzle in a rising burst of sustained autofire. The results were devastating for the unsuspecting guards, and while they managed to bring their weapons to bear, it proved wholly inadequate under the marksmanship of the Executioner.

      The first hardman fell under a double-tap to chest, the 9 mm rounds punching through lung tissue and tearing out good portions on their way out the other side. The second man tried to get cover, but Bolan dropped him midstride. The survivor managed to get off a short burst before the soldier caught him with a volley that cut across the man’s guts and shredded his insides.

      Bolan crouched and waited a long time—he couldn’t be sure how long but it had to have been a few minutes—before rising and continuing down the walkway that ended at yet another door. He opened it to find a corridor to his right, which he followed with his back to the wall. He’d slung the MP5 and now he held his trusted friend, a Beretta 93-R in front of him at the ready. Bolan got close to the end of the walkway and one more door. Beyond that he found the remnants of some half-eaten Chinese takeout and an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts and some security camera feeds.

      So that’s how they’d known he was coming, Bolan thought.

      The soldier shook his head as he left the room and proceeded up the wide-open area in the center of the bunker. He couldn’t understand what a room of this size could be used for. Was there another entrance? The place was certainly large enough to park a few cars inside. Bolan whipped out a flashlight and swept the ground around him, realizing that it was concrete. He swung the light to the wall opposite the walkway he’d first come down, but found nothing of interest. He finally swung his light upward with no expectations. What he saw surprised him.

      The Executioner studied the roof over the bunker carefully for a few minutes, and then nodded and switched off the flashlight. He frisked the three bodies for ID but found nothing that gave a clue to their identities, which he had expected. Then he marched off in search of the technicians he’d saved, assuming they’d hung around. Based on what he’d just seen, he’d figured they would. Where else could they go? And even if the others split, he knew Ducken wouldn’t get very far in this rugged terrain. Especially not if the large area in the center of the bunker was what he thought it was. No, they wouldn’t go anywhere. Bolan needed them to help him retrieve all the information from the computers—at least the ones that were still operable—so he could get it to Stony Man Farm.

      Yeah, it was turning out to be one hell of a day for Mack Bolan.

      * * *

      “A HELIPAD?” BARBARA PRICE repeated.

      “Yeah,” Bolan replied. “I noticed small puddles of what I think are hydraulic lubricants here and there, either left by the chopper or by the hydraulic doors overhead. The terrain is too rugged for any vehicles other than four-wheelers or mountain bikes. No roads in or out. When I questioned the workers, they confirmed it. Choppers bring in the new technical and guard crews every twenty-four hours and rotate out the previous shift.”

      “You didn’t want to wait for the next chopper to come in?”

      “They came in this morning,” Bolan said. “I don’t figure we have that kind of time. One of them gave me a description of the chopper. Jack thinks it’s an Air Force job, pretty modern.”

      “So whoever we’re dealing with has either modified it to look like a USAF chopper or it’s a real one.”

      “Based on the descriptions, which were quite accurate, we think it’s an actual bird from the fleet.”

      “Okay,” Price said. She reached for the printout on her desk that Kurtzman had given her minutes before Bolan’s call. “Aaron disseminated and organized the data you sent. There’s no doubt the codes being used are legitimate, not to mention the work is highly technical. So adding that to what we know about this chopper and—”

      “You don’t have to tell me,” Bolan said. “There are definitely military personnel involved in this somehow.”

      “Right.”

      “Did he get anything that would indicate a source?”

      Price clenched her jaw as she studied the Executioner’s grim visage on the large wall screen in the Computer Room in the Annex. “According to the intelligence we gathered, all of it points to Tyndall Air Force Base.”

      “Florida?” Bolan asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I don’t get the connection.”

      “You will when I remind you that the Continental NORAD Region directs all air sovereignty activities over the Continental U.S. It’s the official designation of the 1AF/NORTH, which is headquartered at Tyndall.”

      “Sounds like that’s the place I need to go next,” Bolan said. “I’ll maintain my Stone cover, but I’ll need some new credentials. I’m thinking Defense Intelligence Agency placement.”

      “Done. We’ll have them delivered to your present location, so please don’t leave without them. What about this chopper that’s expected to drop off the next shift?”

      “Osborne’s already indicated he can take care of that,” Bolan said. “He has F-16 Falcons from the Air National Guard at Peterson AFB on full alert. When they spot the chopper, they’ll send the fighters to conduct an intercept.”

      “And if they refuse to cooperate?”

      “Knowing Osborne, he’ll order them blown out of the sky,” Bolan said. “But I see no point in my waiting here to find out. Assuming they surrender peacefully, Osborne said he’d forward any intelligence they got to me ASAP.”

      “I’d prefer you remain there to handle it,” Price said gently.

      “I need to keep moving, Barb,” Bolan countered. “We’ve already had three military special ops missions compromised in the past forty-eight hours. Good men have been killed. Chances are there’ll be more, and I can work best if I get in front of it as soon as possible.”

      Price nodded. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

      “I’ll be in touch,” Bolan said. “Out.”

      The screen winked out a moment later.

      Panama City, Florida

      IN ADDITION TO the CONR First Air Force, two other major units operated out of Tyndall AFB: the 325th Fighter Wing, home of the F-22A Raptor and primary training site for the same, and the 53rd Weapons Evaluation Group. The latter was also responsible for training personnel that operated many of the Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle programs and positional stations aboard E-3 Sentry AWACS. Much of the intelligence about the physical specifications as well as operations was considered above even Top Secret—a name so secret it didn’t have a real name except that known to a few—so the base also provided technical