Don Pendleton - Sabotage

“Did you find one of these?” Bolan held up the bright yellow, rubberized radio. “In the van, or on any of the bodies?”

“Yes, actually,” Copeland confirmed. “It was in the van, in the back with a bunch of junk.”

“Junk?”

“An old dog blanket, a few cardboard boxes full of mostly trash.” Copeland shrugged. “The sort of thing that collects in the back of a van. It was rolling around loose back there. We thought it was just part of the debris, along for the ride after the vehicle was stolen.”

“Not an unreasonable conclusion,” Bolan said, nodding. “But this—” he wagged the radio at Copeland “—changes everything.”

“Who was he?”

“My guess,” Bolan said, “is that this man was a spotter. He was watching the service and called in the gunners in the van for maximum effect.”

“Copeland,” a distorted voice said from Copeland’s belt. “Copeland, come in.” The officer unclipped the walkie-talkie from his duty belt.

“Copeland here,” he said.

“We’ve found something. That federal hotshot will want to see it.”

“That federal hotshot is right here.” Copeland grinned at the Executioner. “What have you got?”

“We found a video camera on one of the gravestones,” the voice came back. “It was still running.”

“Set to record what?” Copeland asked.

“It was pointing at the grave site.”

Copeland looked at Bolan.

“Publicity,” Bolan said. “Had this gone off as planned, they would have killed everybody down there, collected their video and left. Chances are the camera was left by this one.” He jerked his chin toward the dead Asian. “He must have decided getting clear was more important than working his way back around to retrieve the camera.”

“So if the shooting had worked—”

“If it had worked,” Bolan said grimly, “the video of those people dying would have been all over the Internet by the weekend. Count on it.”

“Bastards,” Copeland muttered.

“And then some,” Bolan agreed.

The soldier crouched over the dead Asian, once more taking out his secure satellite phone and taking a digital picture. He paused to transmit it to the Farm. No instructions were needed. Aaron Kurtzman and his team of cyber wizards would know that any corpse shot Bolan sent was a request for identification and intel. He did, however, take a moment to text message Kurtzman with the phone number he’d gotten from Mitch Schrader. It was unlikely the number would prove to be useful, but one never knew. So far Bolan’s enemies had been a curious mixture of sloppy and professional. Someone, somewhere, might have been careless and used a number that was traceable in some way.

Bolan and Copeland made the long walk back to the cemetery. The soldier’s own vehicle, a rental SUV, was parked on the opposite end of the access road leading out the front of the property. He would need to collect his gear and get back to the airport, where Grimaldi and the jet would be ready to go. While the Farm checked on the intelligence Bolan had gathered so far, the Executioner would travel to the nearest Trofimov facility from his target list. There was no telling what he’d find, but it was his experience that if he made enough forays into enemy territory, sooner or later he’d find something or someone would take a shot at him. That would be the only break he’d need.

Once the Executioner was certain how far deep the rot went, he was going to slash and burn it out of the nation’s heartland.

The Patriotism Riders remained on the scene, though the police were getting ready to pack up. The police changed their minds about that quickly when Copeland informed them that there was yet another body to account for. As they scrambled, a few of them shooting suspicious looks Bolan’s way, the soldier went to the group of Riders to see what held their attention so firmly.

“I don’t believe it,” Mitch Schrader was saying. This was met by a chorus of agreement from the others, who sounded angry. Bolan looked over the shoulder of the nearest Rider, who noticed him and moved out of the way. Sitting on one of the motorcycles, another of the Riders had a small portable television, apparently something he carried in his saddlebags. The little device showed a newscast with the TBT logo in the corner. Trofimov’s cable news network, Bolan thought.

“You’re not going to like this,” the man on the motorcycle said, looking up at Bolan. “You were military, right? You got the look.”

Bolan had nothing to say to that. He focused on the little television.

“We were getting ready to roll out,” Schrader explained, “when Norm thought to check the news, see if anybody’d gotten wind of all this.” He gestured around him. “I figured, no way, there aren’t any news cameras here, you know?”

“The locals are probably running interference,” Bolan said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a marked car parked at the entrance to this property, keeping the reporters out.”

“Figured as much,” Schrader said. “Anyway, Norm turns on the TV, and this is what we got.” He pointed to the television.

“…promising a full investigation at the highest levels of government and the military command in Afghanistan,” the young female news anchor was saying. “We at TBT are proud to bring you the following commentary from our president and CEO, Yuri Trofimov.”

The scene cut to the interior of a sumptuously appointed office. Behind a gleaming desk, Yuri Trofimov—text near the bottom of the screen identified him as such—looked out at the screen, his features grim. When he spoke, he had a slight accent, but this coupled with his expensive suit and his aristocratic manner gave him the aura of a foreign diplomat. He exuded confidence, competence and, above all, a barely suppressed righteous indignation. Bolan took one look at the man and knew he was dealing with a master manipulator. It oozed from every pore, from the man’s slicked, perfectly coiffed hair to the rings that glittered on his fingers as he clasped his hands on the desktop.

“We at TBT are deeply saddened to bring you this news,” Trofimov said. “But as always, we are committed to nothing so much as the truth, and to the unflinching reporting of that truth, no matter how graphic or unpleasant. I think I speak for many when I say, as proud as I am of my adopted country, that this is a dark day for the United States, and a day when I am ashamed to call myself an American.”

“Shut the hell up, you scumbag!” Norm interjected. Schrader shushed him, gesturing to the screen.

“It is my hope that we, as a nation, can eventually work through this,” Trofimov said soberly, “but I will not lie to you. It will be difficult. We will have to make some hard admissions about our standing in the world. We will have to come to terms with the barbarism that lurks, even now, within our armed forces. This will not sit well with many of us, but I know that we are up to the challenge. For TBT News, I am Yuri Trofimov, and I thank you for trusting us.”

Norm switched the set off in disgust. He looked ready to throw the little device.

“Can you beat that?” Schrader said. “I just…I just don’t know.”

“What happened?” Bolan asked.

“They’re reporting that a bunch of our guys attacked a village in Afghanistan,” Schrader said. “Totally unprovoked, they claimed. Burned the place to the ground, shot twenty, maybe thirty women and children. And Trofimov’s news says they have videotape of our guys doing it…and laughing about it.”

Bolan’s jaw clenched. Things were getting ugly.

They were going to get uglier.

“Word’s in from the Farm, Sarge,” Grimaldi said from the cockpit, his voice carrying over the jet’s intercom. “You’ve got another rental truck waiting for you at the field, and the care package you requested will be inside. The GPS unit in the truck should get you to the target location without any trouble.”