Don Pendleton - Critical Exposure

“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 MI knowledge training to members of the NSA, CIA and DIA.

Bolan knew he’d be viewed as an outsider unless he could imitate membership in at least one of those intelligence agencies, and given most of what had happened up to now it seemed posing as DIA would be the best choice.

Upon his arrival at Tyndall, his guess was confirmed. Straight from the airfield he was shuttled by military sedan to DIA offices adjacent to the 53rd WEG HQ. A tall man in an AF uniform with the rank of major and a nametag that read “Shoup, R.” came out of his office and greeted Bolan where he’d been waiting in a chair near the secretary’s desk.

“Colonel Stone?” the officer said in greeting as he stuck out his hand. As Bolan shook it he continued, “Major Randy Shoup, DIA Operations Officer. Please come in.”

Shoup led Bolan into his office, offered him a drink, which Bolan politely declined, and then settled behind his desk and sat back. Bolan watched the man’s eyes carefully, meeting his gaze with a striking stare that was neither friendly nor frosty. He didn’t know who he could trust at this stage, since whoever had been funneling inside information to America’s enemies hadn’t yet been identified. Not that it would have made a difference.

Bolan didn’t think he could trust anyone in this case. He’d have to play his cards close to the vest.

“Major, you’ve been briefed about my reasons for being here?”

Shoup shook his head. “Frankly, no. I just got a communication from B Ring less than an hour ago to expect your arrival. My orders are to cooperate with your investigation.”

“Good,” Bolan said with a nod.

Shoup didn’t miss a beat as he continued. “And I’ll be happy to do that just as soon as I know exactly what it is you’re investigating. For example, if you’re here to pick apart my unit, then I have to be up front and tell you that isn’t going to happen, orders or no goddamned orders. With all due respect, sir.”

Bolan forced his expression to remain impassive. He had a traitor to sniff out, but being rude or confrontational wouldn’t buy him any love in the shut-up-and-mind-your-own-business world of military intelligence. Not to mention that if Shoup or his men thought Bolan was here to find wrongdoing on their parts, they’d close ranks as if it was nobody’s business and that wouldn’t help Bolan in the progress department. No, best to play it cool and be as honest as he could without compromising his identity or mission. Still, there were some things on which he’d have to play hardball if he wanted to gain Shoup’s respect.

“Since you’ve set the tone for us so eloquently,” Bolan began, “then let me get you clear on a few things, Major.

“First, I’m a superior officer and here at the behest of the Pentagon, so you’ll follow my orders or I’ll personally rip that cluster off your lapel. Second, I’m not here to pick apart your unit. There’s a lot of evidence to support the fact we have a traitor in the MI community. I’m here to expose the traitor while trying to make as little noise as possible, so if the traitor isn’t among your crew you have nothing to worry about.

“Last, and I can’t stress the importance of this enough, there have been a lot of good military personnel who have died in the past forty-eight hours due to the actions of this individual. I’m going to need your cooperation to make sure no more service personnel come home in a flag-draped coffin. You get me, mister?”

Shoup’s face was stony and his cheek twitched as he replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Now as I understand it, you may already have information on this potential traitor. Tell me about what you’ve found.”

Shoup reached to a nearby locked filing cabinet. He inserted a key and then swiped his thumb over the cabinet and the biometric reader beeped once before Bolan heard a locking mechanism release. Shoup opened the middle of the three doors, thumbed through a number of files and finally came out with a thick manila folder labeled in red and white along its edges. The Executioner immediately recognized the top-secret labeling as Shoup handed the file to him.

“This is eyes-only, sir,” Shoup said. “You technically shouldn’t even see it.”

Bolan nodded as he took it. “I’ll take it as a sign of good faith. And don’t worry, Major, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“I hope so, sir,” Shoup replied. “Because what you’re going to see in that file isn’t pretty.”

Bolan glanced through each page, skimming most of the text. Eventually he came upon a snippet of information regarding a USAF chopper that had been transferred on loan to the 21st Medical Group at Peterson AFB. This had supposedly been at the request of the USAFSC-HQ adjutant. Oddly, the chopper had recently been reported out of service after an accident that occurred while trying to assist in a civilian air rescue operation in the forest just northeast of Durango, Colorado. Bolan continued through the rest of the information, watching as the intelligence analysts followed the trail of paperwork and odd requests.

Finally, Bolan looked up and met Shoup’s waiting gaze. “Then the trail just ended?”

Shoup nodded. “Yes, sir. I mean...in a way.”

“What way is that?”

“Well, a field intelligence officer with the NSA, who’d been working jointly with us, tried to pick up the trail after it went cold. That was where we decided not to catalog or record any of the information until he could get us something solid. He eventually traced those tracks to a site in the Guatemalan jungles.”

Bolan nodded. It made sense, considering that terrorist groups all over the world had been using points in Central America to stage operations. Silence could be bought rather cheaply in poor countries such as Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Plus, it provided terrorists with bases closer to American soil than they could ever hope to get anywhere else, and a natural pipeline for information and personnel by piggybacking onto the drug and arms trades.

Shoup continued. “Unfortunately we hit a snag. Our guy in the NSA disappeared on his last assignment into Guatemala. He hasn’t been heard from in over a week. We had another guy in place, a local, actually, we tried to put on the trail but he’s disappeared, too.”

“Seems like whoever you’re after doesn’t want to be found,” Bolan remarked.

“That was our assessment, as well. Fortunately we do have an informant who’s been able tell us with some accuracy where both of these individuals might be found, but we’re only about sixty percent confident in the accuracy of the information. I’m trying to decide if it’s enough to act on.”