System Corruption - Don Pendleton

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of the barrier and waited until Huston pressed the button to raise it. “Carry on, Corporal.”

      Huston watched the car drive onto the base. He lowered the barrier as he stepped back inside the hut. His hand reached for the phone, then drew back. If he let the base commander know CID was on the way, Stone would know. Colonel Bosley was a good CO, but he was no gung-ho hard man. Bosley liked things to run quiet and smooth. And he was no actor. The moment Stone walked into his office Bosley would give himself away. Bosley might give Huston a dressing down later. That was preferable to upsetting a hard-ass like Stone, and definitely preferable to getting on the CID’s list as not being trustworthy.

      B OLAN FOLLOWED THE marked signs that showed the way to Camp Macklin’s HQ building. It had been some time since he had set foot on a military base. It had been a longer time since he had been in the service himself, but the feeling was still there—the sense of belonging to the extended family that permeated the base. It never left a man once he had worn the uniform.

      Bolan studied the buildings, the neat layout of the place. In the distance he picked up the sound of men being drilled, the instructors’ commands carrying across the base. Time moved on but the very essence of military life remained constant. When he parked alongside the other vehicles outside the HQ building and stepped out, Bolan stood and let the ambience wash over him. Then he turned and strode toward the building, affecting the ingrained stance of a military man, despite being dressed in a civilian suit, white shirt and dark tie, the day-to-day uniform of a CID agent.

      Walking into the outer office Bolan caught the attention of the army clerk behind one of the desks. The office was empty save for the young soldier.

      “Colonel Stone, CID, to see Colonel Bosley,” Bolan snapped. He held out his ID. “Is he in?”

      “Yes, sir, Colonel Stone.”

      “Show me the way, Curtis,” Bolan said, reading the name tag on the man’s uniform.

      Private Curtis sprang to his feet, saluting, then moved with surprising speed. He led Bolan along the passage to the door at the end. He knocked and entered on command.

      “Colonel will see you now, sir,” Curtis said when he ducked out again. He held the door for Bolan to enter, then closed it quietly as he stepped back outside.

      Colonel Bosley was around fifty and starting to show the effects of his easy command—a noticeable bulge at the waist beneath his crisp uniform shirt. His thinning hair was gray. He pushed to his feet as Bolan crossed to face him over the desk.

      “Take a seat.”

      When they were seated Bolan passed his ID across to the colonel. Bosley examined it and passed it back.

      “I suppose surprise visits are to be expected,” Bosley said, his tone easy. “What can I do for you, Stone?”

      “I need to talk to certain of your people here. Because of circumstances surrounding an ongoing investigation I can’t give you much detail. Let’s just say this is a major investigation with possible far-reaching implications.”

      “Not trying to be flippant, Colonel, but you make it sound serious.”

      “It is. Command is trying to keep it low-key until we gather more evidence. They don’t want word getting out that might alert suspects. That’s why I need your cooperation, Colonel.”

      “Of course. Anything I can do?”

      “Just let me conduct my investigation unhindered. I’ll try and keep it as quiet as possible and try not to upset anyone I don’t need to.”

      “If anyone refuses to help refer them to me, Colonel.”

      “Thank you, Colonel Bosley. I’ll make sure Command gets to hear of your cooperation.”

      Bolan rose and shook Bosley’s hand.

      “Just one other thing, Colonel,” Bolan said, opening his jacket. “I am armed.” Bolan wore his standard issue Beretta M9 in military shoulder rig. He would have preferred his 93-R, but this masquerade demanded he follow protocol and CID colonels would not walk around displaying a specialized Beretta.

      “As you said, Colonel, a serious investigation,” Bosley said.

      “Would you direct me to the test area,” Bolan said.

      Bosley found it hard to conceal his surprise at the request. Whatever he might have been wondering about the surprise visit from CID, he had been hoping the base test and assessment section would not be on any list. He kept questions to himself, pushing to his feet and crossing his office to the large wall map showing the layout of the base.

      “This is where we are.” He indicated the location as Bolan joined him. “The test area is here, three miles north. You need to take this route. Once you clear the main base it’s the only road. Just stay on it and you’ll reach the area.”

      “Any testing taking place at the moment?”

      Bosley shook his head. “Nothing scheduled for a couple of days, so the area will be quiet. Just the permanent staff on duty.” Bosley turned to his desk and checked a document. “There’s a civilian representative from OTG, one of our main contractors, on-site.”

      “Thank you, Colonel Bosley.”

      “They’re pretty tight on security out there,” Bosley said. “You have any problems just get someone to pick up the phone and call me. I’ll clear any queries. In the meantime tell Private Curtis to issue you with a clearance pass.”

      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

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