Don Pendleton - Deadly Salvage

* * *

BOLAN WALKED INTO the War Room freshly showered and changed. Hal Brognola glanced up from his big desk. “Have a nice run?”

“Pretty good until you and Jack ruined it. What’s up?”

“We may have something brewing in the Caribbean.”

“Like what?”

“Missing yacht, for one thing,” Brognola said. “A bunch of rich folks out of Miami. Big campaign contributors to a lot of politicians on the Hill. They took off for the islands and haven’t been heard from in two days.”

“Sounds like a job for the Coast Guard.”

“Normally, it would be,” Brognola said. “But there may be more to it. The FBI’s also nosing around down there on one of the islands. Something about a missing DOD employee.”

Bolan felt his interest spike slightly at that news. In the old days, a missing Department of Defense employee often meant a defection. Now, it could mean terrorism. “What type of employee?”

Brognola picked up a manila file and passed it across his desk. “The guy’s worked there as a crypto code breaker for just about forever. Never had any problems. His name’s Herman Monk.”

Bolan paged through the file. A color photo of Monk was paper-clipped to the inside of the folder. It showed a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick, horn rim glasses. Other than that, his face was unremarkable. Under the personal information section he was listed as fifty-eight years old and widowed with one child, a nineteen-year-old daughter named Grace. A picture of her was on a subsequent page.

“As I said,” Brognola continued, “Monk’s worked at the DOD for a long time, since the Cold War. He’s an expert crypto analyst. Speaks five languages. He’s supposed to be a wizard at breaking codes, but he hasn’t had a lot to do since the Soviet Union dissolved. He used to track the Soviets around the globe, and more recently the activities of Al Qaeda and friends.”

“The Feds got any theories?”

“He disappeared from work four days ago. Left for a lunch date and never returned. He called in sick for the rest of that day and the next. It was later discovered that he was in the possession of his government laptop.” Brognola got up, went to the coffeemaker on the file cabinet and poured himself a cup. “When Monk didn’t show up for work the following day, they tried calling him, but kept getting his answering machine saying he was still sick. Then they traced the laptop through the built-in GPS transmitter and went to his residence. The laptop was there, but its hard drive wasn’t. And neither was Monk.”

“What type of information was on it?” Bolan asked.

“Unknown,” Brognola said. “Most of Monk’s work these days was translating intercepted texts from Arabic. Like I said, he speaks five languages in addition to English. Arabic, Farsi, Russian, Korean and several Chinese dialects.”

“He should apply for a job at the United Nations.”

Brognola took a sip of his coffee and returned to his desk. “They traced him to a flight three days ago to Puerto Rico.”

“Maybe he wants to be there for the vice president’s visit.”

“That’s not for a few more days,” Brognola said. “Anyway, from there it’s believed he hopped another flight to one of the Caribbean islands.”

“Which one?”

“This one, we think. St. Francis.” Brognola handed Bolan a brightly colored brochure depicting beautiful hotels rising out of white sand, and photos of equally beautiful people drinking and playing volleyball in bikinis and Speedos. “At least that’s what the Feds think. The FBI is down there now trying to find him and his daughter.”

“His daughter?” Bolan flipped the file open again and looked at the girl’s picture.

“Yeah, she was down there a week ago. Apparently, she won some kind of free, all-inclusive vacation. Checked into her hotel and hasn’t been seen since.”

“So you’re thinking the girl might have been kidnapped?”

“Again, unknown, but if Monk has been traced to the same island, it could be a bit more than coincidence. There seem to be a lot of Americans going missing down that way. It’s the same general vicinity where the yacht disappeared.” He handed Bolan another file, which contained pictures of two couples, a young Hispanic man and a luxury yacht with A Slice of Heaven emblazoned on the front.

“So why not let the Feds handle it?” Bolan asked. “Why do we need to get involved?”

“You know how the President feels about checks and balances. He’s not totally comfortable letting the FBI be the only player in the game down there. They can tend to get kind of uptight and formal, especially when they’re investigating something in a foreign country. Sticklers about following the rules. So who better than us to be an impartial observer?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Oh, and I should mention,” Brognola said. “They’re making some kind of blockbuster movie down there, financed by none other than Willard Forsythe Everett III. He’s also hosting the Mr. Galaxy contest on the island this weekend.”

“Does this mean he’s not going to run for president again?”

Brognola chuckled. “He’s got enough money to, but apparently he’s got a new agenda. The island belongs to the French and Dutch, but Everett built an enormous hotel resort there called the Omni. That’s where you’d be staying. Word is, he’s planning on turning the entire island into an adult playground.”

“And do you think he has anything to do with the Monk situation?”

“Hard to say,” Brognola answered. “But I’d like you to keep an eye on things at the Omni, as well. We’ll be sending along someone to accompany you as part of your cover.”

“Who?”

“Jack.” Brognola grinned. “So, you interested?”

“I’m game,” Bolan replied.

* * *

GRIMES WATCHED WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III finish going through the digital images on the camera. Everett was sitting on a sumptuous sofa in the massive penthouse suite atop the Omni hotel. Everett wasn’t a big man by normal standards, but he always carried himself as if he were six feet four. In reality, he was more like five-eight or -nine, depending on the size of the lifts in his shoes.

But there was no denying that he was in incredible shape. He wore a short-sleeved polo shirt and the muscles in his arms rippled with each movement. He regularly worked out with full-contact karate fighters and boxers. His latest kick was the Mixed Martial Arts stuff, but Grimes figured that was because he could keep hitting people after he had them down. Of course, those sparring with Everett knew better than to try too hard to win. The boss didn’t like to lose. He had a bit of what was traditionally referred to as a “Napoleon complex.”

Everett turned off the camera and stood, tossing it next to the pile of papers on his large desk. He walked over to the open patio doors overlooking the beach, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Those broads were kind of good-looking,” he said. “Too bad you had to eliminate them.”

Grimes waited for Everett’s further comment on the tactical neutralization of the people on the yacht, but the billionaire didn’t seem that concerned. Collateral damage had been an accurate assessment on Grimes’s part, after all. Everett looked tired, though. Grimes knew the rich bastard had just returned from receiving his biannual regimen of steroid and hormone treatments that allowed him to maintain his youthful constitution as he crested middle age. Hair transplants, cosmetic tucks, hormone shots, cheek implants.... Maybe Everett was contemplating another run for the White House.

“What’s the status of the recovery?” he asked.

“I’ve had the men working twenty-four/seven,” Grimes said. “We’ve cut through the second hull, but we have to constantly monitor the radiation levels.”