“And the guys on the front line get issued with low-standard equipment,” Bolan said.
Nelson nodded. “That’s the bottom line. It’s more, really. Ordstrom has connections with government, contractors. He’s done some deals for the CIA. Worked with some suspect regimes. Ryan tapped in to sources that hinted at Ordstrom’s covert dealing with illegal backdoor dealing.”
“So how did Francis take it when he heard about the substandard equipment? I’d guess he was pretty upset,” Brognola said.
“You knew his feelings for the military. He had a great relationship with the men he had commanded.”
“Just like his father, if I recall.”
“Francis wanted to blow the lid off the whole thing. He was ready to go rip Ordstrom’s throat out. He took a great deal of convincing to take it carefully. Even Ryan made him promise to back off until he gathered enough material evidence.”
“I see a big but coming.”
“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”
“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.
“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”
“And Francis?”
“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.
“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”
“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.
“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”
“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”
“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”
Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”
“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.
They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.
“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.
“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.
Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”
“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.
“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.
Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”
The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.
Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.
Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.
Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.
Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.
It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.
Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.
And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.
2
Bolan kept a safe distance behind the car tailing Dane Nelson. Instinct warned him the occupants of the vehicle were not about to offer their belated condolences to the colonel. That time was already in the past.
Whoever they were, the colonel’s shadows knew enough to simply keep him in their sights until they had cleared the city and were on the interstate. Nelson had a house that stood in lush forested Virginia hills, overlooking a placid lake, with the closest neighbor at least a quarter mile away. The approach to the house was along a quiet road well off the main highway. Bolan suspected that would most likely be the place for any move they might make. It was also entirely possible the men in the car were from one of the