Книга - Critical Exposure

Critical Exposure
Don Pendleton


CLASSIFIED ANNIHILATIONAcross the globe, undercover U.S. military missions are compromised when double agents begin identifying and killing covert personnel. The situation threatens to devastate national security, so the White House calls in Mack Bolan. As the warrior flushes out traitors in Central America, the opponents manage to stay one step ahead, eventually leading Bolan to the center of Istanbul's underworld.Posing as a spy, Bolan infiltrates the realm of black market arms dealers and intelligence brokers, determined to tear down the smoke screen and expose the true enemy of the state. Faced with an expansive operation designed to inflict harm and retribution on the U.S., the Executioner's strategy is simple and hard: strike at the heart, and don't let up until it stops beating.







CLASSIFIED ANNIHILATION

Across the globe, undercover U.S. military missions are compromised when double agents begin identifying and killing covert personnel. The situation threatens to devastate national security, so the White House calls in Mack Bolan. As the warrior flushes out traitors in Central America, the opponents manage to stay one step ahead, eventually leading Bolan to the center of Istanbul’s underworld.

Posing as a spy, Bolan infiltrates the realm of black market arms dealers and intelligence brokers, determined to tear down the smoke screen and expose the true enemy of the state. Faced with an expansive operation designed to inflict harm and retribution on the U.S., the Executioner’s strategy is simple and hard: strike at the heart, and don’t let up until it stops beating.


The wall shattered in a shock wave of splintered glass

“Get down!” Bolan ordered as he went into action, swinging the MP5 in the direction of the gunfire and triggering a short burst. His eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but through the broken glass he could make out several shadowy forms approaching, firing as they advanced.

Equipment exploded, terminals emitting showers of sparks as the technicians jumped out of their seats and dived to the floor. Bolan got behind a console just as the next volley of rounds passed overhead, then he peered over the top long enough to deliver a sustained burst.

The Executioner had emptied his magazine and was reloading during a lull in the firing when something metal sailed through the window, bounced off a workstation and skidded to a stop near his foot.

It was difficult to see in the dim light, but Bolan recognized the shape well enough to know what it was.

Putting all fear aside, the Executioner reached for the grenade.


Critical Exposure






Don Pendleton







If God listened to the prayers of men, all men would quickly have perished: for they are forever praying for evil against one another.

—Epicurus

It never ceases to amaze me what kinds of terrible things can be conjured by humans to inflict on their fellow man. But I’m here to even the odds. In spades.

—Mack Bolan


Contents

Cover (#u079d42b1-583e-565f-a90a-464b14382940)

Back Cover Text (#uebc93033-c744-5909-aa4f-19852c872c5d)

Introduction (#u33bfe64d-8f87-5c16-b138-7cf49b7daebc)

Title Page (#u90f6077b-7a6f-5b01-aac6-8cd4d8a44bb5)

Quote (#uac509699-5252-5fe6-bfe1-7d41fa0d7816)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u22368837-47a4-5368-b2a9-758ba726b1b0)

Benghazi, Libya

Lieutenant Commander John Falk, leader of SEAL Team Four, emerged from the murky waters off the pier at Dock 17. He lifted his goggles, disconnected his lips from the mouthpiece and withdrew waterproof binoculars from his pack. Through the enhanced NVDs he could make out at least a dozen sentries aboard the massive cargo freighter that had arrived in port early that morning.

While the freighter claimed to hail from a port of call in Capetown, Falk knew better. Military signals intelligence—MIL-SIGINT—reports claimed the raw materials such as the metals and other goods the freighter officially hauled were actually weapons to supply Islamic dissidents that had formed a local rebel group in Benghazi designed specifically to foil U.S. interests. The fighting had grown fiercer in Libya the past few weeks and the government leaders in Tripoli were screaming for U.S. assistance.

Personally, Falk didn’t like the people in power. He didn’t see much difference between them and the former regime headed by Moammar Khaddafi. But he knew the Islamic radicals running through the country unchecked weren’t any better. They were an offshoot of Ansar al-Sharia, with sympathizers sent in to shore up Islamic terror-group operations. Those operators were active members of the AQIM and U.S. intelligence circles knew the Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb bankrolled Ansar al-Sharia efforts in Libya to the tune of millions of dollars. They were basically out of control. Many civilians and innocents had died at their hands, and this new cache of weapons and explosives aboard the freighter was only going to make a bad situation worse.

Enter SEAL Team Four to neutralize the cache by Executive order.

The mission parameters were simple. Get aboard the freighter, locate and blow the weapons cache, get out and await extraction. Simple and straightforward tactics for which they had trained time and again. Whether the mission itself would be simple remained to be seen—Falk didn’t wear any blinders on that point. No mission, however standard it might seem, was ever without potential complications.

After one more sweep of the entire deck, Falk stored his binoculars and then reached to the laser light on his belt and keyed the button built into its base three times. A moment passed before five more figures surfaced. The alpha squad of the team would make the actual breach through the maintenance hatch in the hull while the second team provided a distraction for the sentries on deck.

“You guys ready?” Falk asked his men.

Each gave him the proverbial thumbs-up. He nodded, donned his scuba gear and they all submerged in unison. The swim through the coastal waters in the dark was nothing less than hazardous. Tides were rough and their safety margin was minimal at best. The waters in the port were horrendously dirty and rife with potential hazards. They could swim through the wrong spot and rip their bodies open on sharp scrap metal or acquire some sort of bacterial infection—or even worse.

Falk didn’t let it faze him. There were more hazards to be concerned with; hazards such as human enemies toting subguns and harboring a distinct and unyielding hatred for any Westerner—especially Americans. Like those water-bound hazards that burned in the back of Falk’s consciousness, they were without remorse and wouldn’t hesitate to kill the SEAL team members if they were detected.

They swam toward the vessel, keeping to a depth of about twenty yards beneath the surface, Falk in the lead. They reached the target without injuries and Falk signaled his men to ascend. As soon as he broke the surface, he heard the shouts of men and reports from at least two dozen SMGs.

What the hell...? he thought, removing his mouthpiece.

The operation had been blown! There was no other reasonable explanation for them to be engaging the team intended to provide the distraction. Somehow they had given themselves away and it had resulted in an all-out battle on the top decks of the freighter. Falk whirled toward the heads of his men now just bobbing above the surface and was about to order them to submerge when the entire area suddenly came alive with light.

“We’re compromised!” he shouted. “Evacuate! Evacuate now!” He gestured to his men to abort the mission.

Some of the men dipped immediately beneath the surface. He fitted his mouthpiece and whipped his body into a dive, moving toward the bottom as fast as his legs could propel him. He knew the best place for safety would be the keel of the ship.

Falk turned, headed for that point and more toward the stern so the docks would provide additional safety. His intent proved short-lived, however, as underwater lamps illuminated his position and temporarily blinded him. His instinct was to go deep, but even as he turned to do so he felt something lance his leg and a burning sensation ride a point from just above his right knee all the way to his hip.

Falk looked down toward his leg—or was it actually up since he was in a descent maneuver?—and in the light saw the source of the pain. A speargun projectile had gone completely through his thigh with such force that it had severed most of the nerves in his thigh muscles and nullified further use of that leg.

Before he could decide on a new course of action, someone grabbed his left arm. He sensed the body of another man in dive gear next to him.

Falk turned as he withdrew his diving knife. He was ready to plunge it into his assailant when he realized it was Cantrell, one of his own men and the team medic. They looked into each other’s eyes, visible through the goggles, and Falk saw the crinkle of a smile just a moment before he watched his teammate’s expression melt into horrific realization. Then the light left Cantrell’s eyes and the water became cloudy with blood. Falk looked wildly in every direction trying to find the attacker, but there was too much confusion.

Then the world around him exploded into a series of lights and ear-splitting concussions, and he realized they were being bombed by a form of antipersonnel depth charges, perhaps even grenades. Falk broke free from Cantrell’s grip and kicked off the body. There was nothing he could do for his friend and he had to evade capture. He gained maybe thirty yards’ distance before another burning ripped through his body, this time from a point in his lower back to a point in his left upper chest.

The water around him clouded once more and Falk realized he’d just taken a bullet in the back. He spun and twisted, trying to avoid further injury as every muscle in his body seemed to scream with protest. He realized in the delirium that the screams were his own. The regulator seemed to disengage from his mouth and he sucked water into his nostrils. His lungs burned, and he knew the pain in his mouth had been from the force of his jaw clenching against the regulator stem. The burning in his lungs increased and his panic turned to terror. Stars popped in his eyes and blackness rimmed the edges of his sight.

Within a moment, Falk’s sense of direction had left him and he realized there would be no escaping it. The limbs in his body no longer seemed capable of function and the initially controlled movements of swimming turned fiercely and irrevocably into thrashing as he lost control of other bodily functions. Falk never came to the realization the loss of sensation signaled something more ominous and terrifying than anything he’d ever experienced before.

Quietly and unwittingly, Lieutenant Commander John Falk slipped from life into death.

Munich, Federal Republic of Germany

ELI BRIGHTON CHEWED absently at the plastic tip of an unlit electronic cigarette.

He’d given up smoking more than eighteen months earlier; a fanfare event that had not spread beyond the boundaries of his own small and relatively impersonal world. As head of a Delta Force unit assigned to counteract terrorist activities in the European Common Union, Brighton had other things on his mind more important than self-improvement. Quitting smoking had improved his physical health, sure, but he could hardly consider it anything other than what is was: a victory over personal habits.

Oddly, Brighton hadn’t been a smoker when he’d first started with Delta Force. The opportunities had come rarely, if at all, during initial training and he’d wanted to maintain peak physical conditioning. The demands of the job called for the omission of such self-indulgence. He’d taken up the habit while playing a role undercover, the byproduct of social acceptance inside the neo-Nazi group calling itself the League of Aryan Purity. When he’d first undertaken his cover to penetrate the group, he’d been amused by the oxymoron. This group boasted anything pure in body, mind or soul—they hated anyone who wasn’t like them and, as in most such organizations, wouldn’t hesitate to kill the racially impure.

“What’s eating you, Eli?”

Brighton looked at his partner and longtime friend, Sol Gansky. The big man’s shadowy outline—features marked by a bulbous nose and prominent forehead—bore out his Irish roots. His fiery red hair was subdued by a knit stocking cap, and he sat bolt upright in his usual sense of alertness. Their car sat at the curb of a run-down neighborhood in central Munich, beneath a broken streetlight.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re quiet,” Gansky replied.

“So what,” Brighton groused. “We aren’t hosting a talk show here.”

“You’re just usually a little more talkative.”

“I like my silence sometimes, Sol.”

The man shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.”

Brighton returned his attention to the club they’d been staking out for the past three hours. The expected arrivals, two of the top guys inside the terrorist group headquartered in Munich, were more than forty-five minutes late for the meeting. Their contact inside the club, intelligence specialist Greg Hiram, had been doing everything he could to maintain an air of indifference.

Brighton had just about given up on the whole scenario and was minutes from calling it quits when a lone vehicle turned off a side street and made its way in their direction.

“This could be it,” Brighton said as he and Gansky immediately hunkered down in the vehicle.

Brighton watched with concern as the late-model Citroën approached, icy fingers of nervousness prickling the back of his neck. At the speed the vehicle was traveling, and given the cramped space on the street, it was likely anyone driving by might spot them in the vehicle, even if both sides were crammed with parked cars. The moment passed when they saw the vehicle whip abruptly into a space just past the club entrance in a feat of parallel parking only achievable by an experienced European driver. Two men emerged from the back and Brighton immediately recognized their expected company. “Those are our guys,” he muttered. “Get ready.”

They waited until the pair swaggered down the sidewalk and entered the club.

Gansky pulled the stocking cap tighter on his head, climbed casually from their two-door VW and began to stroll up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Brighton waited until Gansky was parallel to the Citroën before starting the engine. He could barely see the driver who seemed to scrutinize Gansky as he walked past, but Gansky played it perfectly and ambled along the sidewalk, pretending not to notice the driver. Gansky could hold his own if it went sour since he had a .38-caliber snub-nosed pistol concealed in his jacket.

Brighton waited; his gut rumbling with anticipation. This was what it had all come down to, the months of preparation and undercover work. If they could take down the two leaders of the LAP here and now, they could glean enough intelligence to dismantle the group and its operations and strike a crippling blow to the head of the organization that had spread its poisonous doctrine insidiously to like groups inside the U.S.

Brighton counted down two minutes, put the gearshift in reverse and eased back, depressing the clutch just in time to tap the bumper against the car behind him so he could stop without engaging the brakes. He cranked the wheel hard left and waited with the clutch to the floor and his right foot hovering over the gas pedal.

As soon as Gansky made his appearance and eased into view from the rear of the Citroën to come up low on the driver’s side in a crouch, pistol at the ready, Brighton swung out and turned on his headlights. The light blinded the driver temporarily and Gansky made his move. The big man whipped open the door and stuck the barrel of his pistol to the driver’s temple.

Brighton pulled parallel to the vehicle and screeched to a halt as Gansky yanked the driver from the car. The two climbed into the backseat of the VW and Brighton tore out of there, driving two blocks before turning into an alley.

“Wait here,” he ordered Gansky, who kept the barrel of the gun to the driver’s head.

Brighton killed the engine and bailed from the VW. He jogged up the street, turning up the volume on his headset as he ran. He couldn’t make out the conversation between Hiram and the two LAP heavies over the dance music, and he cursed. He didn’t know what was in store for him, only that they had to get the neo-Nazi leadership out of the club without creating any sort of ruckus.

Brighton got within twenty feet of the club entrance before the heavy wooden door swung out and three men emerged. Brighton immediately recognized Hiram and the two LAP leaders, one of whom had his arm around Hiram. Odds were good he also had a weapon on the intelligence agent.

Brighton skidded to a stop and reached for his pistol but in the next moment he found his arm didn’t work right, most likely because of the silenced bullet that had entered the upper part of his back and severed his spinal cord.

Brighton opened his mouth to scream but nothing really came out and in that moment he registered the reason for all of these events culminated in the fact that he’d been shot by a sniper. White-hot light exploded in his sight and his breath exploded from his lungs as he pitched forward and his chest hit the sidewalk. The last thing Brighton saw was a flash where Hiram stood with the two neo-Nazi terrorists and the gory explosion of intestines and blood from Hiram’s stomach.

Brighton never heard Hiram’s body as it toppled forward and bounced down the stone steps—neither did he hear the explosive sound of the pistol pointed at Gansky’s head through the back window of the VW.

Homs District, Syria

ON AN ABANDONED road less than half a mile outside the village of Sadad, Gunnery Sergeant Dusty Morrell of Recon Platoon, 8th Marine Expeditionary Force, waited patiently for nothing to happen. Just a few days earlier a detachment of Syrian Arab Army regulars had maintained tactical control, however loose the term, on that road but conflict in nearby areas had forced them to abandon their hold. The Marines had penetrated the region via a low-level airborne jump into the neighboring region and were now in a defensive posture designed to protect the village.

There were less than three thousand Syrians residing in Sadad, but in the past couple of weeks NATO had sent civilian workers to the village to assist the victims of a previous attack by Islamic militants in the al-Nusra Front. While it held no strategic value for the United States, or even the SAA for that matter, NATO inspectors were concerned about a possible resurgence of NF attacks if it became known the SAA had been sent elsewhere. Although the SAA commander left behind a small contingent of soldiers in Sadad, they were by no means equipped to repel any kind of significant attack.

“Holy cripes!” Morrell complained, squashing a fly that bit his neck. “Could this place be any more miserable?”

Lance Corporal Jack Ingstrom chuckled. “Don’t know, Gunney. Never been in a place quite like it.”

Morrell looked at his Hummer driver. “Well, neither have I, Ingstrom, but when the recruiter told me I’d visit exotic places I sure as hell didn’t have anything like this in mind. Put me back in Iraq killing insurgents. At least there I won’t die of boredom.”

“Aye, aye, Gunney,” was all Ingstrom could think to reply.

Morrell muttered a flurry of curses under his breath and then informed his men and platoon leader in the back seat he was going to take a leak. He jumped from the Hummer, swung his Colt IAR6940 rifle across his shoulder and picked a nice, dark, secluded spot in which to conduct his business. He was midstream when he heard it, checking over his shoulder where he had a somewhat clear if not totally panoramic view of the road. There were headlights visible in the distance. But as Morrell stood there, pondering this sudden turn of events, he realized the sounds he heard weren’t engines.

First, the lights on the road were much too far off for the engines to be heard already. Second, these weren’t engine sounds he was hearing. They sounded more like...choppers!

“Yo, Gunney!”

Morrell jumped and nearly urinated on himself, catching the edge of a finger as he buttoned his fly. He turned to give Ingstrom a tongue-lashing when the area immediately behind the young lance corporal erupted in a white-orange flash. Their Hummer had been the target of the rockets from the chopper, which was now upon them.

In the aftermath of the explosion, Ingstrom got a funny look on his face and then his knees turned wobbly and he started to fall. Morrell rushed to the man and caught him before he hit the ground. Something warm and wet connected with his sleeve. He realized it was blood coming from Ingstrom’s back where dozens of shrapnel fragments from the destroyed Hummer had pierced his flesh.

Morrell turned the young man over, calling his name, but the light had already left Ingstrom’s eyes. Morrell lifted his head as he heard his platoon respond with audible effect, the dozen or so small arms firing on the chopper and its twin that had launched the attack.

Morrell dropped the limp body to the gravel-and-sand floor of the Syrian Desert and brought his assault rifle into play. He jacked the charging handle to the rear, thumbed the safety to full-auto and began to trigger short, sustained bursts at the choppers as they flitted about. One of the many volleys from the Marine platoon finally scored and sparks erupted from a chopper’s side panel. An explosion occurred, then something seemed to flash. Morrell blinked and the next thing he saw was the chopper spinning wildly out of control and rushing to meet the ground while canting at a hellish angle. Over the brilliant explosion that occurred on impact, Morrell thought he heard the glorious shouts of victory from a number of his Marines.

Semper fi, boys, he thought.

They continued to do battle with the second chopper, but it was quickly becoming difficult as the pilot cleverly stayed high and in motion, making it impossible for them to get a bead on their target. Additionally the enemy was armed with rockets and using them with deadly accuracy, destroying two more Hummers and a five-ton truck. Morrell wanted to call for air support, but he knew there were no units within proximity—any requested assistance would arrive far too late.

The battle continued for another five or ten minutes, Morrell couldn’t be completely sure, before the chopper blasted out of the area, having left plenty of destruction and death in its wake. Morrell ran toward the last known position of those vehicles that should have survived and picked up any survivors as he went, one with a leg wound and being assisted by two other Marines.

By this time the vehicles on the road were fast approaching and Morrell had only managed to collect a handful of survivors. He asked a squad sergeant named Hicks, “We got anything heavy left? Squad machine guns, crewed light artillery...anything?”

“I got one .60 we pulled from our Hummer,” Hicks replied. “The rocket got the front of it and flipped us on our side. Gunner got squashed, but I managed to salvage it.”

Morrell nodded. “Get it set up at that high point overlooking the road. I suspect those trucks are NF, and under no circumstances are you to allow them through. I’ll start collecting whatever explosive ordnance we have, including grenades and any launchers I can find. Whatever happens tonight, Sergeant, those trucks are not to get through. Is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Hicks turned and ordered the man with the M-60 to find high ground and to take another man with him.

Morrell called after the young man, a private, and said, “Listen good, Marine. Your orders are to fire for effect and prevent those trucks from getting through. Go for the equipment, first—especially since you got limited ammo. When you’re out, it’s time to start making bodies. Understood?”

“Yes, Gunney!”

“Semper fi, Private,” he muttered as the young man turned to follow orders.

Morrell knew he’d probably just sent two Marines to their deaths, but there wasn’t anything he could about it. Their mission was to protect the village and that’s what he planned to do, whatever it cost.

“Sir, I don’t get it,” Hicks said. “How the fuck did this happen? This mission was supposed to be classified.”

“I don’t know the answers,” Morrell said glumly. “I don’t know that we’ll ever know the answers. But I can promise you this much. If we get out of this alive, I sure as hell will get those answers—if I got to go straight to the Pentagon myself.”

“If you do that, Gunney, I can guarantee I’ll be right behind you,” Hicks replied.


CHAPTER TWO (#u22368837-47a4-5368-b2a9-758ba726b1b0)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

As Hal Brognola sat in the War Room and perused the reports still coming through from the Pentagon—funneled through their secure Computer Room in the nearby Annex—he felt deeply troubled. The incidents over the past twenty-four hours indicated that sensitive U.S. operations across the globe had been compromised on a level he’d seldom seen before. The Stony Man chief wondered how such a thing could have happened. Moreover, he didn’t have the first clue where to begin or how to tie them together. Even Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber team, a top-shelf unit if there ever was one, had indicated they were at a loss.

“There’s no relationship between these incidents,” he muttered.

Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, looked up from the duplicate set of reports she’d been studying on her laptop. She tugged a strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “Did you say something?”

Brognola shrugged, leaned back in his chair and practically ripped the unlit cigar from his mouth. “I was just saying I don’t see a link, Barb.”

Price sighed as she returned her attention to the screen of her laptop. “I wish I had something to offer you, but it would only be platitudes. And I’m afraid I’m forced to agree. Three different missions by different groups of U.S. intelligence assets in three different countries. Maybe...I mean maybe there’s a relationship we could assume between the incidents in Benghazi and Syria. But even the ties between the al-Nusra Front and the AQIM seem weak by comparison. There certainly isn’t any correlation between a Marine expeditionary unit and SEAL Team Four.”

“And even if there was,” Brognola replied, “I don’t think this neo-Nazi terror group the Delta Force operators in Munich had been following would be hooked up with Islamic terrorists.”

“Agreed.”

“Any word from Striker?”

“Striker” was Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner.

Price shook her head. “Nothing yet. But I’ve put the word out for him to contact us. I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough.”

The phone on the table signaled for attention and Price glanced knowingly at Brognola before she stabbed the button to answer. “Price, here.”

Kurtzman’s deep voice came over the line. “Morning, folks. I have Striker on the line.”

“Striker?” Brognola said.

“I’m here, Hal.”

“Good to hear your voice, Striker,” Price interjected.

“Likewise. Your message was encoded as urgent. What’s up?”

Price looked at Brognola with a wink and said, “Probably Hal’s blood pressure, for starters, but that’s nothing really new.”

That produced a chuckle from Bolan. “I’m guessing that may have more to do with that mud Bear calls coffee.”

That brought a laugh from everyone.

“We got a call from the Man this morning,” Brognola said. “Some very odd incidents have occurred with the nation’s intelligence operations. The reports are strangely isolated and the details surrounding those incidents even more puzzling. The intelligence is also spotty.”

“Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “You’ve had a compromise of sensitive operations around the world and the only common denominator is that there is no common denominator.”

“You know about this?”

“I keep my ear to the ground,” the Executioner said. “In fact, I just got wind of it myself. I thought maybe when I got Barb’s message there might be a connection.”

“Your intuition was right—as usual,” Price said.

Brognola shook his head and tried to collect his thoughts. “Striker, the only thing we can tell you at the moment is that all three missions seem to have been blown in much the same way, and that all three were highly classified military intelligence ops. Unfortunately what we know is a lot less than what we don’t.”

“Anything on the hostiles involved?” Bolan asked.

“Two of the three are offshoots of al Qaeda,” Price replied. “A reconnaissance platoon from a Marine expeditionary force got ambushed by choppers. The survivors managed to repel a vehicle convoy of weapons being funneled into the Syrian village of Sadad, an area that has seen a lot of terrorist activity as of late. The second attack was against SEAL Team Four in Benghazi.”

“What about the third?” Bolan asked.

“A neo-Nazi terror group called the League of Aryan Purity,” Brognola said. “Heard of them?”

“Vaguely,” Bolan replied. “They’ve recently gained support from like groups here in the United States, but Homeland Security seems to have kept most of those activities under control.”

“Three cheers for interagency cooperation,” Brognola said as he popped a couple of antacids from a fresh roll he kept in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

“Do you think these things are related, Striker?” Price asked.

“I don’t know,” Bolan said. “Doesn’t seem like we have enough information to tie them together logically yet. But it would seem from what I’m hearing that you think there might be a connection.”

“The timing of the incidents would seem to point to it,” Price replied.

“Okay, I’m willing to accept that in the absence of more intelligence,” Bolan said. “And if there is a connection then the military angle seems the best approach.”

“I’m curious to know how you came to be aware of this,” Brognola prodded.

Bolan didn’t reply immediately. While the Executioner had broken any official ties with the U.S. government long ago, they knew he still trusted Stony Man implicitly. His hesitation wouldn’t have been out of mistrust, therefore, as much as his desire not to steer them down the wrong path. Mack Bolan had survived his War Everlasting this long by acting with diligence and forethought. His battle strategy—thoroughly and accurately assess the threat and determine enemy resources before hitting them where it hurt most—had remained the same for many years because it was effective. To act too soon could only spell doom for a man in his line of work.

“I helped out an old acquaintance a while back. Oz figured he owed me and contacted me by using an encoded number I gave him the last time we got together. The number goes through a series of cutouts, but leads back to the voice mail of the phone in my Stony Man quarters,” Bolan said. “He oversees military intelligence signals operations between Washington and NORAD, particularly in the area of deterministic patterns analysis.”

“Glad to hear Oz is on our side,” Price remarked.

“Me, too,” Bolan said.

“Should we pull out the stops, Hal?” Price queried. “Put Phoenix Force on it?”

Brognola scratched his chin and sighed. “Striker? I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“I think between what he told me and now your call, there’s enough unrest I should get involved. It might be nothing or something big. At least let me check it out further. If an international terror group has compromised our military intelligence operations on a global scale, any major response on Stony Man’s part could alert them. Better I make soft inquiries first.”

“You have a lead?”

“Nothing more than I’ve already told you. I think it’s time for me to pay a visit to my contact directly. See what I can shake out of the tree.”

“Okay by us,” Price said.

“How do you want to play this?” Brognola asked.

“I’ll work under my usual military cover,” Bolan said. “I’ll need you guys to get all the background information handled, credentials and such. And I could use Jack if he’s available.”

“Both Able Team and Phoenix Force are currently unassigned,” Price replied. “He’s yours.”

“Tell him I’ll meet him at the private hangar, say...three hours from now.”

“Destination?”

“I’m going straight to the source of all the rumblings,” the Executioner said. “NORAD.”

Fort Carson, Colorado

STONY MAN DIDN’T have to ask Jack Grimaldi twice.

Any time the ace flier got the opportunity to work with Mack Bolan he jumped on it with the eager abandon of an adolescent. Working a mission with the Executioner was always an adventure, and Grimaldi liked the action. The downtime between operations for the Stony Man field teams could grind on the nerves, and while Grimaldi welcomed the break, he always knew a job with Bolan would challenge his skills and provide a change of pace.

What few people knew about the Executioner was that his success drew in large part from his ability to remain highly adaptive and upwardly mobile. Bolan’s alliance with his government remained largely one-sided in the sense of the terms. He took only the jobs he wanted and he set the mission parameters. Often his work required him to improvise on a level that wasn’t always afforded the warriors of Able Team and Phoenix Force. When working those teams, Grimaldi had to “fly under the radar” to coin a phrase, but with Bolan he experienced a new sort of liberty.

Hence it came as no surprise to Grimaldi when he’d completed the taxi procedures at Fort Carson and came out of the cockpit to find Bolan holding up a brand-new set of U.S. Army Class A’s and grinning.

“I assume those are for me?” the pilot asked with a sheepish grin of his own.

“Can’t strut about as a colonel without an adjutant.”

Grimaldi’s eyes twinkled in the cabin lights when he noticed the insignia. “Wow—captain’s bars. I’m humbled.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. And hurry up. We only have a few minutes.”

Grimaldi grabbed the uniform and headed aft while Bolan finished buttoning his own coat. Several rows of ribbons adorned the breast pocket of the uniform jacket, a Combat Infantry Badge and blue infantry braid among them. In this case, it wasn’t far from the truth. Bolan had earned all of them during his years as part of a sniper team in the Army.

When the two were dressed, they descended the steps of the C-37A aircraft, a U.S. Air Force version of the Gulfstream V business jet. The aircraft boasted advanced avionics, countersurveillance sensor packages and a hidden armory kept fully stocked with assorted pistols, SMGs, assault rifles and explosives of variable type and capability.

Bolan chose not to wear a sidearm for this visit. He could have secured his Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather beneath the Class A uniform, but he opted not to go that route. They were on a secure military installation, about to transfer to an even more secure location at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. A full-bird colonel showing up with a concealed sidearm or even a loaded pistol in military webbing around his waist would have attracted suspicion. It was Bolan’s skills in role camouflage that had kept him alive these many years, and he wasn’t about to blow it out of a sense of misguided paranoia.

An airman first class saluted the two officers as he opened the rear door for Bolan. Both men returned the salute, Grimaldi opting to take shotgun. The airman greeted them respectfully but didn’t say anything the remainder of the roughly twenty-minute trip along Norad Drive from the airfield on Fort Carson to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex entrance. After the security police waved them through following a close inspection of their vehicle and Bolan’s orders, stamped and certified by the Pentagon, the airman escorted them into the secure communications area.

Within minutes they were seated in the office of Bolan’s contact, Lieutenant Colonel Roland Osborne.

“How do you know this guy?” Grimaldi whispered.

Bolan seemed to consider the question for a moment. “I met him during my early days with the Stony Man program. I’ve helped him out a time or two since then.”

“So he knows Brandon Stone’s a cover.”

“Maybe and maybe not. Actually he knew me back when I used the John Phoenix cover. When I talked to him after he left the message, I managed to convince him that was a cover name I used back then and that Stone’s my real name.”

“What happens if you ever have to change it up again?” Grimaldi asked.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bolan said. “But even if I do, Oz won’t ask any questions. He’s got too much style for that and he understands that what I do for the country may not always fall within strict military guidelines.”

“Oz sounds like a good friend to have,” Grimaldi remarked.

“Like another good friend we know?” Bolan said with a smile.

Grimaldi started to conjure a reply but was interrupted by the opening of a door and the entrance of a black man who by Grimaldi’s estimates couldn’t have been any less than six-foot-six. Nearly as many medals donned the breast pocket of his Class A uniform coat as they did Bolan’s—probably a few more—with the most striking difference being that Roland Osborne bore the deep blue colors of the U.S. Air Force. Aside from that, he was clean-shaved with close-cropped curly black hair that was gray at the temples. He was handsome, distinguished and obviously quite pleased to see Bolan when he first laid eyes on him.

“As I live and breathe!” he bellowed, his voice deep and resonant. He stuck out a hand that Bolan rose and took immediately. “Colonel, it is damn fine to see you!”

“Same here, Oz,” Bolan replied easily. He nodded at Grimaldi who now stood, and said, “Meet my...adjutant, Jack Gordon.”

“Gordon?” Osborne said, offering Grimaldi a warm and dry handshake.

Grimaldi nodded and, noticing the almost mischievous twinkle in the colonel’s eye, found himself liking the guy right off. He had a vibe that few seemed to possess.

“Pleased, sir,” Grimaldi said, attempting to retain some official and military bearing. Osborne may not have been blind to Bolan’s real gig, but that didn’t mean Grimaldi saw any reason to go out of his way and advertise the fact. To anybody.

“No worries, Captain Gordon, just call me Oz and let’s skip all the stiff formality,” Osborne said.

He gestured for them to be seated and then said to Grimaldi, “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Whenever this man pays a call he’s usually alone.”

“I only joined his staff a few years ago,” Grimaldi replied simply.

Osborne nodded, obviously content with that, and then put his attention on Bolan. “So I got your message that you were flying in. I figured since you didn’t say more than that this wasn’t a social visit.”

“Afraid not,” Bolan said. “I’m here to follow up on that information you passed along to me, Oz.”

“The signals thing?” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. We still can’t make heads or tails of how the signals got redirected and decoded but we’re narrowing it down, closing in on the source of the hack into our systems.”

“I’m not completely up to speed on these signals you’re talking about,” Bolan interjected. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, you already know part of it, I would assume—at least given your background,” Osborne said. “In typical standard operations, non-classified and general orders or other things, we pipe communications through the normal channels. Emails, phone calls and whatnot. But each and every military operation deemed classified requires very specific protocols be used when transmitting orders.”

Bolan partially directed his voice at Grimaldi as he said, “You’re talking about all orders for classified missions, regardless of where they come from, have to go through NORAD.”

“Correct. We then verify the authenticity of the orders before they’re sent on to whatever might be the receiving unit.”

Grimaldi shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you lost me. What do you mean by ‘receiving unit’? You’re talking a military unit?”

Osborne gave him a sharp nod. “You betcher ass, Captain. Those transmissions are coded and, regardless of origin, we have to verify the authenticity of the orders before going out. We don’t want somebody, for example, to put out an Executive Order to launch nuclear missiles from a submarine halfway across the Pacific unless we know damn sure the orders were genuine.”

Grimaldi emitted a low whistle as he looked at Bolan. “Even I didn’t know that.”

Bolan nodded. “There can’t be any mistakes when you’re talking about coordinating military operations at any given point.”

“One miscommunication,” Osborne added, “and you could spark the next world war or cause a nuclear response from a country where none was intended. To say nothing of removing America’s advantage in a first-strike scenario.”

“Okay, Oz,” Bolan said. “That’s fair enough, but how would someone intercept these transmissions? And even if they did, how would they have the know-how to decode them?”

“I can’t answer that yet. But what I can tell you is that we found some hidden code that we can’t explain. When we decompiled and refactored it we realized it was an inside job—done so well that the source is indeterminate.”

“So how do you expect to find whoever intercepted the transmissions?” Bolan asked.

“The program was designed to route the transmissions through a very specific network of internal servers. Now the addresses were masked and we’ve hit the additional snag that the code is self-regressing.”

“Meaning?” Grimaldi asked with a furrowed brow.

It was Bolan who replied. “Meaning it was designed to self-destruct if discovered.”

“Bingo,” Osborne replied.

“How much more time to do you think you’re going to need to find this place?” Bolan asked.

“That’s the tough part to estimate,” Osborne said.

“Best guess?”

“Another day, maybe two. After that it won’t matter if we don’t have any answers because as you’ve pointed out, the code will have fractured to such a degree it’ll be useless as tits on a bull.”

“Fair enough,” Bolan said. “But what if I told you I know somebody who might be able to help you speed up the process?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Osborne said with splayed hands. “At this point I see we got nothing to lose trying everything.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bolan replied. “Because I have just the right guy for the job.”


CHAPTER THREE (#u22368837-47a4-5368-b2a9-758ba726b1b0)

“Talk to me, Bear,” Mack Bolan said.

“We were able to pick apart the code,” Kurtzman replied. “Akira managed to find the obligatory self-destruct codes and shut them down, so we had enough transitory information left behind. After that it became a cakewalk.”

“Akira” was Akira Tokaido, one of the best computer hackers in the world, and a valued member of Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber team.

“So you know where the original intercept program was sourced?”

“To within a grid about a quarter-mile square.” A pause ensued and then he continued. “The transmissions were sourced from a wireless, high-frequency satellite tower in the central Rockies. I’m uploading the exact coordinates via secure link to Jack’s navigation system. He can then set it from there and put you down on almost a dime.”

“Unless it’s heavily wooded,” Bolan remarked.

“I made sure they had rappelling gear aboard, boss,” Grimaldi chimed in. He’d been listening to the conversation through his own headset.

“Looks like we’re set then,” Bolan told Kurtzman. “Thanks again for the assist, Bear. I’ll be in touch when we know something more.”

Bolan signed off.

The beating of chopper blades against the air threatened to vibrate Bolan’s innards down to the bone. Unfortunately the older Bell-Huey was the only thing they could get on such short notice, and the Executioner hadn’t wanted to wait for something more modern. Besides, if Kurtzman’s preliminary information panned out—something for which Bolan had little doubt otherwise—he wouldn’t be spending a very long time aboard.

Bolan squeezed his frame out of the jump seat in back and began to prepare his equipment. He’d already changed out of his Class A uniform for woodland camouflage fatigues. He donned a web harness that held a portable medical kit, combat knife and four M-67 high explosive grenades. He whipped out his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, checked the action and ensured a round was chambered before replacing it in his hip holster. Finally he slung an MP5K.

Under normal circumstances Bolan would have preferred something a bit more powerful in a primary assault weapon, but he figured if the terrain happened to be mountainous, he would need to carry light. His judgment had proved sound given the territory Kurtzman described. The model he carried boasted a side-folding stock, quick-detach sound suppressor and a 3-round burst mode. It chambered 9 mm rounds in a 30-round steel magazine.

Light but durable, yeah.

Bolan looked forward and saw Grimaldi twirl his finger. He donned the headset. “Go ahead, Jack.”

“We’re almost on point. Based on what I’m seeing, there’s no place to put down, Sarge. Looks like you’ll be going in the hard way.”

“Could be just as well,” Bolan replied. “I don’t know what I’m going up against, and I don’t want to risk putting this old crate in harm’s way.”

“It would mean a long walk home,” Grimaldi said. “Understood.”

“I’ll get the winch deployed,” Bolan said. “Once I’m through, I’ll find an extraction point and send a homing signal. Might want to take the time to get back and find something a little more...say, robust.”

“Roger,” Grimaldi stated. “Stay frosty, Sarge.”

Bolan grunted an affirmation before abandoning the headset and moving to the swing-out winch. He got the rescue arm into position and locked, and then expertly deployed the take-up and belay lines through the rigging just beneath the winch head. Once that was done he quickly put his legs through the climbing harness, put the sling in place and hooked up the carabiner through the working end of the take-up and belay lines.

Grimaldi piloted the chopper with the expertise that had earned him a reputation with Bolan as perhaps one of the greatest tactical pilots ever to lay a hand on a stick. Flying talent seemed to be something that was part of Grimaldi’s blood, an enigmatic and invisible element that coursed through the man’s veins. Like Bolan’s talents as a warrior, Grimaldi had a natural gift that not only made him a consummate flier but a solid ally in Bolan’s War Everlasting.

The soldier called a last farewell and then bailed out of the chopper without hesitation as soon as Grimaldi reached hover point. He descended the rope steadily but not too quickly. Even rappelling into the woods held intrinsic dangers, and Bolan had enough experience to know it wasn’t good to rush things. He could fall or slip or experience an equipment malfunction, and descending at a controlled speed under such circumstances could be the thing that saved him from a backbreaking fall.

The cards were with Bolan and he easily passed through the treetops to find the cool forest earth rushing to greet him. At the last twenty yards, Bolan yanked his arm behind him and jerked twice to slow his descent. A moment later his boots touched the ground and he crouched to absorb the mild impact. He unclipped his belt, released the lines through the carabiner and then donned the portable communications earplug and attached the throat microphone.

“Striker to Eagle, you copy?” Bolan whispered.

“Go, Striker.”

“I’m down and set. Beat feet back to base and get us some modern chops,” Bolan replied.

“You got it, Striker. Good luck.”

“You, too. Out.”

Bolan clicked off and removed the ear bud and mike before stowing them carefully in the pouch at his side. He was now in communications blackout and would remain that way until he either called for extraction or they found his bloody, battered corpse.

Bolan activated the electronic compass on his right wrist. He checked his bearings and realized Grimaldi had dropped him nearly on the spot of the coordinates Kurtzman had sent them. The soldier began to look around him, but he couldn’t see the tower—not yet, anyway. The dense foliage overhead did a good job of blocking most of the sunlight, and only by the fact it was midday did Bolan have any light at all. He did one last equipment check and set off.

It took him about ten minutes of walking in ever-widening circles, using the compass as his guide, before Bolan found the tower. He made sure nobody was around before stepping into the small clearing and approaching the base. It was tall, but when he looked up he could just barely see the top of it through the trees. So that was it. They hadn’t spotted it because whoever had erected the structure had managed to camouflage it so it wasn’t visible from the air. Perhaps highly sensitive equipment could have detected it, like the kind found aboard an AWACS. But therein lay the problem—somebody had to actually be looking for the tower. Up until recently, nobody had even known there was anything wrong.

Bolan turned to study the base of the tower. He gave it the once-over with a critical eye before locating a power panel. Just visible above the forest floor was a heavy, thick cable that ran from the power box and disappeared into the woods. From that point he could see what would have been just passable for a foot trail. He considered following it, but thought better. Daylight wouldn’t last forever and he didn’t have time to risk moving off the target or losing the trail.

No. Better to let the enemy come to him.

Bolan pried the panel open with his combat knife and quickly studied the rat’s nest of connections. He located the neutral and cut the thick cable of twisted-pair wires inside. If the tower was that critical to whomever had installed it here, and the Executioner bet it was, it wouldn’t be long before someone came to investigate.

Bolan closed the panel and made for the woods as close to the box as possible. He knelt behind thick foliage he found nestled between a pair of giant pines and settled in to wait. Yeah, they would definitely come to him.

* * *

BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE to wait long—about fifteen or twenty minutes by his reckoning—before someone approached the tower making enough noise to raise the dead. At first the soldier couldn’t believe it, but when he saw the reason it didn’t seem so incredible. The man who came through the trees to Bolan’s left, just about where he’d seen the makeshift path, was fat and clearly out of shape. Even from a distance the Executioner observed that the man’s face was beet red from the exertion, and he was wheezing loudly.

The man finally reached the tower and stopped to catch his breath. Droplets of sweat beaded his forehead, those that weren’t already plopping onto the ground from his face and neck. Armpit stains were visible. Why anyone would have sent a guy of this girth and poor physical condition to investigate a tower on a forest mountain was anybody’s guess.

Bolan stepped out of the bushes and approached the man, the .44 Desert Eagle up with sights pinned on the man’s chest. The man could barely catch his breath and he seemed even less able to do so when he first noticed the big guy dressed in camouflage fatigues toting what looked like a cannon in his hand. The man did nothing to hide the surprise in his expression.

“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “What the hell is this?”

“This is where you stop asking stupid questions and start answering some of mine,” Bolan said coolly. “That work for you?”

“Um, yeah...just...easy, man. I’m not in a hurry to get killed.”

“And yet you’re still talking.” That shut him up. “What’s your name?”

“Ah...Ducken,” the guy replied. “Horace Ducken. Look, can I...? Can I put my hands down? My arms are getting tired.”

Bolan almost cracked a smile. Ducken was a heart attack waiting to happen. He’d only had his arms up a moment. The Executioner thought about making him keep them up, a little incentive not to try anything, but then he nodded. Might as well let the guy off the hook. Maybe it would buy him a little good will.

“So tell me, Ducken...” Bolan began. “What are you doing up here and what do you know about this tower?”

“I just maintain the thing, man.”

“Alone?”

“Alone? No, hell...shit no.”

“Then start telling me something of substance,” Bolan replied. “Or I may make you put your hands up again and keep them up forever.”

“Look, I’m not doing anything wrong,” Ducken said. “I lost my job with Paradine-E and—”

“Wait a second,” Bolan cut in. “The electronic security firm contracted to the DOD?”

Ducken nodded.

“All right, go on.”

“I was just trying to make some cash, man. My mom had to put up for a second loan on her house after I lost my job, and I couldn’t afford to let her lose it.”

“How did you come into this work?” Bolan asked, nodding in the direction of the tower.

“They came to me, man. I mean, I’m no Snowden or nothing. I didn’t tell them anything about what I did for Paradine-E. I just got hired because I knew—”

He cut his words short and a look of horror crossed his face, as if he’d just almost given it all away.

Bolan considered what Ducken had said so far. It sounded plausible enough, and this setup was nothing he could’ve done on his own, especially not in his physical condition. He’d just about killed himself just climbing a slight incline to investigate the issue. Not to mention, the fat and socially awkward man in front of him didn’t strike Bolan as any sort of criminal mastermind.

“The tower’s not working because I cut the power. You think you can repair that?”

“Yeah, I guess. Depends on how bad you cut it.”

“Not enough that any simple splice job couldn’t fix.”

“And then what?” Ducken asked, scratching his neck as he considered the grim visage of the Executioner.

“If you repair it, they’ll be expecting you to return,” Bolan said, his plan already formulated. “They won’t be expecting us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “You help me, and I’ll make sure you’re out of the way when it all goes south.”

“Oh, shit,” Ducken said. “You’re about to put me out of work again—aren’t you?”

“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “Fix that thing.”

Ducken turned his attention toward the power box, and as Bolan suspected the young man had it up and humming in just a few minutes. Fortunately there had been a toolkit secreted in a nearby compartment that Bolan had thought was a transformer box, as it was labeled such, but in fact contained an array of tools and replacement parts. At least Bolan had some inkling he was dealing with an ingenious enemy.

But who?

The question troubled him and he pondered it as Ducken led him into the woods and down the slight hill. They proceeded for what Bolan estimated was at least a quarter mile, Ducken wheezing and panting the entire trip, until they arrived at the main facility. It wasn’t impressive at first glance, mostly because it was obscured with heavy camouflage—a bunker of sorts with a low-hanging entrance and sloped dirt walls covered by brush and the tops of pine trees. Additionally there was radar-scattering camouflage netting woven into that.

Bolan grabbed Ducken by the shoulder and pulled him up short, putting his lips close to the tech’s ear while he jabbed the muzzle of his MP5K PDW into a spot near Ducken’s left kidney. “Hold it. Where are the guards?”

The tech shook his head emphatically. “No guards, man...no guards.”

Ducken held up a card and Bolan realized at a glance it was a coded access card. “Fine. What sort of security inside?”

“Just a few guys with pistols, a sort of roving guard.”

“Are they on any sort of predictable schedule?” Bolan asked.

“No,” Ducken said. “They just appear every so often, look things over and then they leave. They go to some area that’s off-limits.”

“How many like you inside?”

“You mean workers?”

“Yeah.”

Ducken shrugged. “I think there’re about a dozen of us, all told. But usually we rotate in twenty-four-hour shifts of four. Each shift has a technician, a couple of data guys and a microwave tech. That’s me. That’s what I do.”

“Fine. You’d better be telling me the truth, Ducken, because lies won’t end in anything good for you. Now let’s move out,” Bolan said as he nudged the tech with the MP5 for emphasis.

The pair continued down the path until they reached the entrance to the bunker. Ducken looked back at Bolan, who met his gaze and nodded, and then swiped his card. The amber light turned green and Ducken opened the door. Bolan gestured for the guy to go ahead and he followed behind.

They passed through a very narrow corridor, so narrow that Ducken’s girth barely managed to walk along without his arms brushing the walls. The floor of the corridor was composed of metal grating and traversed a decline path until leveling out where it opened onto a large room. The light there was minimal, most of it coming from computer workstations with large screens. Somewhere Bolan could hear the steady thrum of power generators.

True to Ducken’s words, three other people were in that room, and they didn’t even notice Bolan at first because Ducken obscured him. The soldier’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and he spotted the empty seat that had to belong to Ducken. He shoved the guy toward it and then brandished his weapon high in two hands so all those present could see it clearly.

“That’s enough,” Bolan said. “Take your hands off the keyboards and put them up where I can see them.”

One skinny kid with an unlit cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth squinted. “Who the hell are you?”

Bolan turned toward the young man. “I’m the guy holding the hardware, so I would guess that puts me in charge. Is that good enough for you?”

The youth’s haughty mask melted and he sat back in his chair, all signs of potential defiance fading. Meekly he replied, “Yeah, it sure is.”

“Now, your pal here tells me there are a few guards in this place. Where might they be?”

“They come through there,” a young woman, the only female in the group, said, pointing to a door in the corner. “About every hour or so.”

“When was the last time they came through?” Bolan asked even as his ice-blue eyes flicked toward the large, tinted plate glass that spanned one of the walls.

“Maybe...maybe forty minutes?” she replied.

“Fine. You guys—”

The Executioner never finished the statement because the glass “wall” disappeared in a massive shock wave of splintered glass shards followed by a blast of autofire. One of the young men at a terminal, the only one who hadn’t spoken, was the first to buy it as a half dozen rounds slammed into his lithe frame. One blew part of his head off and the impact knocked him off his rolling chair. He crumpled to the ground a bloody mess of mangled flesh.

“Get down!” Bolan ordered as he went into motion and beelined for cover.

On the move, Bolan swung the MP5K in the direction of the fire and triggered a short burst of his own. His eyes were still adjusting, and through the one pane of shattered glass fragments he could make out several shadowy forms approaching. All were toting weapons, the evidence of that fact in the winking muzzles followed by the angry cloud of rounds pelting the opposite walls.

Equipment was shattered, terminals emitting showers of sparks as the remaining three technicians jumped out of their respective seats and made best possible speed for the floor. Bolan got behind a console just as the next volley of rounds passed overhead and then peered over the top long enough to deliver a sustained burst.

Bolan had finished spraying his magazine and was exchanging it for another during a lull in the firing when something metal sailed through the window, bounced off the wall-length tabletop that had served to house two of the workstations and skidded to a stop near his foot. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but Bolan could make out its shape well enough to know what it was.

Putting all fear aside, the Executioner reached for the grenade.


CHAPTER FOUR (#u22368837-47a4-5368-b2a9-758ba726b1b0)

Under other circumstances the soldier might have chosen a different strategy when faced with imminent dismemberment by an HE grenade at such proximity. These circumstances were different. Bolan no longer had himself to think of, but these young souls—these ignorant people who barely passed as adults—who had allowed themselves to be involved with terrorists. They were guilty of nothing more than being really brilliant at what they did and having no decent and safe outlet for their collective genius.

Such were the ideal victims of America’s enemies, Bolan’s enemies, lured by the temptress of prestige and money. When it came right down to it, that wasn’t something for which any of them deserved to lose their lives.

Bolan didn’t do anything as cavalier as throw his body on the grenade. He was no good to this salvageable crew under such circumstances. So he did the only thing he could—he scooped up the grenade and got rid of it. The bomb just barely cleared the frame of one of the shattered windows before it blew, but Bolan had managed to gain shelter under one of the heavy shelves serving as a makeshift desk. His ears rang from the explosion and he choked on the heavy coat of drywall dust that rolled through the darkened room, but otherwise he and the people he’d just saved were unharmed.

“Get out!” he told them, gesturing furiously toward the open door through which he’d first made his entry. “Keep on your hands and knees!”

They did as ordered while Bolan scrambled in the opposite direction, heading toward a door on the far side. He didn’t know where it led but anything had to be better than playing the role of sitting duck. If he could get a little combat stretch, it would make a difference, at least in terms of buying the technical crew time to get clear while Bolan strategized a way to turn this holding action into an offense. The soldier didn’t know where the door would take him, or if he could even access whatever awaited him on the other side, but he had to try. He couldn’t afford to just wait there for his enemies to come to him.

Remaining crouched, Bolan reached for the knob and found that it turned. He opened the door and pushed through, keeping as low as possible. The interior had a musty smell and at first Bolan thought he’d entered a closet, which would have trapped him with no place to go. The Executioner’s luck held out as he spotted yet another door to his right. He pushed through it and emerged in a narrow corridor that dipped even farther underground. Bolan looked to his right and saw the wide-open area from which his enemy had approached.

Bolan almost grinned at his good fortune, totally obscured in the deep shadows of the walkway while his enemies, three in total, moved toward the control room, apparently convinced the grenade had done its grisly work. Bolan extended his arm and leveled the MP5K. He opened up, sweeping the muzzle in a rising burst of sustained autofire. The results were devastating for the unsuspecting guards, and while they managed to bring their weapons to bear, it proved wholly inadequate under the marksmanship of the Executioner.

The first hardman fell under a double-tap to chest, the 9 mm rounds punching through lung tissue and tearing out good portions on their way out the other side. The second man tried to get cover, but Bolan dropped him midstride. The survivor managed to get off a short burst before the soldier caught him with a volley that cut across the man’s guts and shredded his insides.

Bolan crouched and waited a long time—he couldn’t be sure how long but it had to have been a few minutes—before rising and continuing down the walkway that ended at yet another door. He opened it to find a corridor to his right, which he followed with his back to the wall. He’d slung the MP5 and now he held his trusted friend, a Beretta 93-R in front of him at the ready. Bolan got close to the end of the walkway and one more door. Beyond that he found the remnants of some half-eaten Chinese takeout and an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts and some security camera feeds.

So that’s how they’d known he was coming, Bolan thought.

The soldier shook his head as he left the room and proceeded up the wide-open area in the center of the bunker. He couldn’t understand what a room of this size could be used for. Was there another entrance? The place was certainly large enough to park a few cars inside. Bolan whipped out a flashlight and swept the ground around him, realizing that it was concrete. He swung the light to the wall opposite the walkway he’d first come down, but found nothing of interest. He finally swung his light upward with no expectations. What he saw surprised him.

The Executioner studied the roof over the bunker carefully for a few minutes, and then nodded and switched off the flashlight. He frisked the three bodies for ID but found nothing that gave a clue to their identities, which he had expected. Then he marched off in search of the technicians he’d saved, assuming they’d hung around. Based on what he’d just seen, he’d figured they would. Where else could they go? And even if the others split, he knew Ducken wouldn’t get very far in this rugged terrain. Especially not if the large area in the center of the bunker was what he thought it was. No, they wouldn’t go anywhere. Bolan needed them to help him retrieve all the information from the computers—at least the ones that were still operable—so he could get it to Stony Man Farm.

Yeah, it was turning out to be one hell of a day for Mack Bolan.

* * *

“A HELIPAD?” BARBARA PRICE repeated.

“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “I noticed small puddles of what I think are hydraulic lubricants here and there, either left by the chopper or by the hydraulic doors overhead. The terrain is too rugged for any vehicles other than four-wheelers or mountain bikes. No roads in or out. When I questioned the workers, they confirmed it. Choppers bring in the new technical and guard crews every twenty-four hours and rotate out the previous shift.”

“You didn’t want to wait for the next chopper to come in?”

“They came in this morning,” Bolan said. “I don’t figure we have that kind of time. One of them gave me a description of the chopper. Jack thinks it’s an Air Force job, pretty modern.”

“So whoever we’re dealing with has either modified it to look like a USAF chopper or it’s a real one.”

“Based on the descriptions, which were quite accurate, we think it’s an actual bird from the fleet.”

“Okay,” Price said. She reached for the printout on her desk that Kurtzman had given her minutes before Bolan’s call. “Aaron disseminated and organized the data you sent. There’s no doubt the codes being used are legitimate, not to mention the work is highly technical. So adding that to what we know about this chopper and—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bolan said. “There are definitely military personnel involved in this somehow.”

“Right.”

“Did he get anything that would indicate a source?”

Price clenched her jaw as she studied the Executioner’s grim visage on the large wall screen in the Computer Room in the Annex. “According to the intelligence we gathered, all of it points to Tyndall Air Force Base.”

“Florida?” Bolan asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I don’t get the connection.”

“You will when I remind you that the Continental NORAD Region directs all air sovereignty activities over the Continental U.S. It’s the official designation of the 1AF/NORTH, which is headquartered at Tyndall.”

“Sounds like that’s the place I need to go next,” Bolan said. “I’ll maintain my Stone cover, but I’ll need some new credentials. I’m thinking Defense Intelligence Agency placement.”

“Done. We’ll have them delivered to your present location, so please don’t leave without them. What about this chopper that’s expected to drop off the next shift?”

“Osborne’s already indicated he can take care of that,” Bolan said. “He has F-16 Falcons from the Air National Guard at Peterson AFB on full alert. When they spot the chopper, they’ll send the fighters to conduct an intercept.”

“And if they refuse to cooperate?”

“Knowing Osborne, he’ll order them blown out of the sky,” Bolan said. “But I see no point in my waiting here to find out. Assuming they surrender peacefully, Osborne said he’d forward any intelligence they got to me ASAP.”

“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.”

“At least it tells you something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re on the right track. So what was your next move?”

“We’ve put a plan in motion, more of an information gathering than anything else,” Shoup said. “We’re hoping to be able to call it a rescue operation, but who knows if we’ll get our way on that count. The devil usually deals the cards the way he wants.”

“And often they’re not in our favor,” Bolan added.

“Right,” Shoup said with a curt nod.

“Okay, I’m game to go along with this plan. But I’m going to take over the operation.”

Shoup’s lip twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

Bolan put up a hand. “And before you go all territorial on me, you’ll still be in charge of your men. All of them. And you’ll call the shots in this reconnaissance. I’ll handle how we act on any intelligence we find. And if it comes down to a rescue operation and we get enough evidence either of these men are alive, I’ll accompany you on the op but you’ll get full credit. My name need not even come into it.”

“And what if it goes south?”

“Then the whole thing falls on my shoulders,” Bolan said. “I’ll take full blame and responsibility.”

Shoup appeared to consider it for a long moment and finally nodded. “Colonel, sounds like you got yourself a deal.”


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_0c61f459-7c7e-5552-80a0-e7531d09520a)

Istanbul, Turkey

Gastone Amocacci wasn’t pleased to hear the latest report regarding their operations in Colorado.

The Council wouldn’t be happy, either, although Amocacci worried much less about that than he did about how this would affect the overall timetable. So far they had only managed to counter three of the most recent special operations. So few was infuriating. He pushed down the anger that manifested itself as bile in his throat. In reality, those victories had proved no small feat. Not only had their intelligence been right about the operations, but they’d managed to conduct them at points across the globe. This proved the initial reach of the Council, but more, it proved that reach could expand. Yes, growth potential would be realized if they were able to continue to operate in secret.

This most recent incident in Colorado, however, threatened that possibility, and Amocacci knew his allies would expect him to deal with it. Swiftly and decisively; anything less would constitute a failure of a magnitude Amocacci didn’t even wish to entertain on a hypothetical basis. That idiot Shoup had screwed things up royally, and now Amocacci was forced to clean up the mess. Fortunately he’d managed to provide the diversion they’d needed, so with any luck they would be able to mitigate the damage. The guy from the DIA who called himself Colonel Stone, an obvious alias, would have a very nice surprise waiting for him in Guatemala.

Yes, a nice surprise indeed.

Amocacci tossed the fake paperwork into his briefcase, shut off the lights and left his office in downtown Istanbul. His driver took him across town to the airport, where he boarded his private helicopter and made for his home in the foothills. Amocacci liked to make it look as if he were a successful, fat-cat businessman. His cover as a successful exporter of Turkish goods had served him much better than any other he’d attempted in the past because it allowed him to grease the palms of certain government officials. Unfortunately he didn’t own any of it. All of his belongings, including his very personage, were community property of the Council.

The Council of Luminárii, also known as the Council of Lights, was composed of former and current high-rankers from some of the most active intelligence services in the world. It included representatives from the British SIS, Russian GRU, Mossad, Chinese MSS and the Turkish NIO. The Council also boasted informants and connections from nearly every intelligence service in the Middle East and a half-dozen in Europe.

Thus far, Amocacci had only been able to recruit support from the DIA within North America. There had been no Canadian takers at all, and the one CIA case officer Amocacci had approached had had the poor grace to kill himself rather than risk the exposure that such an organization had been operating in Turkey on his watch. Amocacci had merely shaken his head when he’d learned the news.

Amocacci jumped from the chopper and walked hunched over as he headed toward the house constructed with the funds from the coffers of the Council founders. Amocacci had contributed only a small portion, his funds limited after he’d left his position as an Italian police officer attached to Interpol. He’d been a dedicated officer until the death of his family; the net result of an intelligence operation gone very wrong. The criminals Amocacci had been trying to apprehend had discovered they had an informant inside their organization.

The informant had talked, blown the entire operation wide open, unbeknown to the task force assigned to the takedown. When the time came, there had been no criminals to be found. Many had been luckier than Amocacci, having lost their lives alongside those of their immediate family, but Amocacci had been on assignment when the criminals had killed his wife, two sons and his sister-in-law, who’d had the poor misfortune to be visiting at the time. Amocacci had immediately resigned his post and hunted down every last one of the bastards.

Unfortunately it hadn’t been enough for him and that’s when he created the Council of Luminárii. The Council had grown beyond anything he’d been able to comprehend, though, and although he’d started it he found himself mired in politics. The Council worked effectively, still, but Amocacci was in too deep, as were all the rest of them. Nobody left the Council unless feetfirst, and nobody would dare betray them by becoming slack. There were other punishments worse than death.

But Amocacci didn’t hate the Council. Far from it. In fact, he’d dedicated his life to eliminating special operations and intelligence where it would mean the compromise or death of bystanders, or create political upheaval where none need exist. The other Council members were as tired of their respective superiors creating havoc in the world as Amocacci, and they had finally reached a point where they could do something about it. These first few victories, as small as they might seem, were just demonstrations, a test bench to prove that the Council could work effectively on a macrocosmic scale, a global scale, and that those efforts could make a difference in the international intelligence community.

Amocacci entered the estate, dropped his briefcase on the antique table near the massive double front doors through which the housekeeper had admitted him. She tugged the overcoat from his shoulders as she advised him that the lady of the house had gone out for the evening. Ah, yes, Lady Allegra Fellini was every bit a woman as she was a consummate companion to Amocacci. They’d met while she was on vacation in Crete and Amocacci was on Council business. For more than a year Fellini had shared his table and his bed, and she’d never expected anything of him. It was a perfect match, and he’d been more than agreeable to her taking up somewhat of a permanent residence at the estate.

Amocacci acknowledged the housekeeper’s notice, advised her he would be ready for dinner in about an hour, and then entered his study. He secured the doors behind him and took the access tunnel—hidden behind a full-length mirror that doubled as a door—to the headquarters of the Council. The remainder of the Council of Luminárii was already present and awaiting him. From the looks on their respective faces, they had been waiting for some time. All the rest of them had made their entrance through a hidden elevator set off a private access road that wound its way from the Eastern Thrace regional capital of Kirklareli.

It was in Kirklareli that the Council had established its urban headquarters, and only when the members needed to meet did they travel to their stronghold in the Yildiz Mountains. Their setting up residence in the region hadn’t been by accident. This part of Turkey had proved a most invaluable location from which to base their operations as it allowed them proximity to both European and Middle Eastern theaters. That had paid off more than once, and they’d been allowed to operate with significant impunity and right under the noses of Turkish officials, who seemed to remain woefully ignorant. Of course, their massive infrastructure had allowed them to establish a number of front companies and a paper trail that, if inspected closely, would have led anyone straight to nothing.

And all by design, Amocacci thought with a smile as he entered the massive conference room.

The first to greet him was Mikhail Ryzkhov of the Russian GRU, a pudgy and red-faced man in his mid-sixties who ate too much and drank too much vodka. Not that it mattered, since he still had an uncanny mind and was a genius on the small-unit tactics of at least half a dozen countries, including the United States. But he was a staunch Communist in a time where communism had long lost favor over more modern socialism with a progressive turn, and while the Russians kept him on, they did so at a considerable arm’s length.

“Well, Gastone,” Ryzkhov said. “It’s about time you joined us!”

“Were you worried, comrade?”

“Not so much,” Ryzkhov replied quietly as he turned his attention to his drink, now feeling a bit foolish for his outburst.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I was unavoidably detained,” Amocacci said as he took his seat at the table.

It was massive and as round as a doughnut, again by design. The idea was that all of them were on equal ground and nobody necessarily took the head of Council. Despite that, it had become a rather unspoken edict that while Amocacci was no lesser or better than the rest of them, the Council had been his idea and so in that light he did act as a chair, of sorts. It was more of a figurehead title than much else, and Amocacci had never really taken to it, figuring more that it just gave all the rest of them someone to blame when things went wrong.

“I hope you weren’t detained by bad news,” replied a voice with a cultured but clipped British accent.

Amocacci let his gaze rest on the SIS case officer for Bulgaria, Hurley Willham. A former member of the British SAS and later a military intelligence analyst, Willham was known for his unique affiliations with agents from intelligence services. He had connections on most every continent. In fact, it was Willham who had approached a number of American agents with a proposition to join the Council, but all of them had turned him down. Still, Willham had managed to recruit the chief Israeli representative on the Council, Lev Penzak of the Mossad.

“I wish I could answer in the negative, Hurley, but unfortunately I can’t,” Amocacci said. “All three of our test operations went off without any problems. But...it would seem our potential contact in America fucked up.”

Penzak, a fifty-eight-year-old man with a big nose, square jaw, wild gray hair and deep brown eyes, shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to refer to him as ‘our’ contact, Gastone.”

“We share everything, don’t we?” Amocacci replied easily with a wave. “Anyway, I’ve managed to mitigate the circumstances in our favor. Our operation in Colorado has been discovered, but it’s of no consequence.”

“No consequence?” Willham inquired, one eyebrow arching studiously. “And what leads you to draw such a conclusion? The Colorado base provided us with the only way to intercept information on U.S. special operations. Without it—”

“We are no worse off,” cut in Quon Ma, a countersurveillance expert with the MSS. Amocacci and the rest of the group knew the least about Ma— something Amocacci assumed to be much by design—who had served in a number of high-ranking positions. Ma seemed almost apolitical in his views, but he was behind the Council a hundred percent and utterly trustworthy.

“You think not?” Willham asked.

Ma saw the bait his British counterpart dangled for what it was, but he took it anyway. “I do. There was no guarantee the secrecy of that operation would hold. I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did, and for this, Gastone is to be commended. However, I also think this American Air Force officer...Shoup, is it? He’s become a liability we could do without. It’s too early in the program to risk exposure.”

“I’m forced to agree with Ma,” Penzak stated. “Shoup has to go.”

“I think it can be arranged,” Amocacci replied, managing to keep the disdain from his tone.

It wouldn’t do to be disrespectful to rebut the members of the Council. They had proved to be his greatest allies and to alienate them over such a trifle issue would have been a stroke of lunacy on Amocacci’s part, no matter how strongly he might disagree with them. Shoup had nearly blown it, but now he had to tell them of this other matter.

“I’m bothered by the fact that there’s another player who has inserted himself into the game now. His name is Colonel Brandon Stone and he’s an officer with American military intelligence.”

“Bah!” Ryzkhov cut in with a wave. “Complete fabrication...cover name, most likely.”

“What makes you think so?” Amocacci said. “Even Shoup couldn’t verify any falsehoods in his story.”

“Would this Stone be the same man who singlehandedly brought down our, er...I meant to say the Colorado operation?” Willham inquired.

Amocacci nodded.

“That’s very interesting,” Willham said.

“How so?” Penzak asked.

“Well, it would seem that something of that nature would have gone to the FBI, or even the Department of Homeland Security. For anyone to turn over such a potential threat to one officer in the DIA, even a colonel, sounds a bit out of step for U.S. intelligence efforts. After all, they know there’s a problem within the military intelligence circles.”

“Or at least they suspect it,” Ryzkhov said in an uncharacteristically agreeable tone. “So it wouldn’t make sense for them to send in someone from a potential pool of suspects. They’d go to the outside.”

“And so they probably have,” Ma said, inspecting his fingernails. “Clearly, this Stone isn’t whoever he wants to appear to be. I’d vote he be eliminated along with Shoup.”

“Listen,” Amocacci said. “Killing an American military officer is already going to draw significant attention. Killing two would bring down every American agency on us. It’s too risky. I can’t urge you enough to reconsider.”

“There may be another way,” Penzak said. He looked at Amocacci. “Didn’t you say you’d planned to send them on a wild-goose chase to Guatemala?”

“That is correct.”

“Well, then, why not turn the Islamic Brotherhood on to that fact? We know they’re operating in Guatemala, and to score such a victory against the Americans would do their cause well. Nobody would question it if an American special operation in a foreign country met with a few dead military officers.”

Willham nodded enthusiastically. “Not to mention those bloody wimps at the Pentagon would never let something like that go public. It would be too humiliating for them.”

“It might be able to get done,” Amocacci said. “The trouble is I have no contacts with the Islamic extremists in that part of the world.”

“I think I can help with that,” Penzak said. “With one phone call.”

Even as nods of approval commenced around the table, Amocacci couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt.

Tyndall AFB, Florida

“I DON’T LIKE him,” Mack Bolan announced.

“Who?” Grimaldi asked.

“Major Shoup. He just rubs me wrong.”

Grimaldi looked stoic. “You think he’s lying?”

“I think he might be,” the Executioner replied. “Whatever else, I’m going to have to watch my back every second. Or I could wind up with a knife in it right when I’m not looking.”

“So maybe going to Guatemala with him and his team isn’t such a wise thing.”

They sat in the VIP quarters at the base with an array of weapons disassembled on the small, simple table in front of them along with a cleaning kit for various calibers. Bolan ruminated as he worked mechanically on his deadly hardware. “I’m really only going for the lift.”

“I could give you that, Sarge.”

“You will.” Bolan winked at his friend. “In a way.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re going to take the jet down on your own. Once there, I need for you to arrange for a civilian chopper.”

“A civvie job won’t be of much good in a hot LZ, Sarge,” Grimaldi replied. “Although I’m guessing you already know that.”

“I do.” Bolan ran a bore cleaner through the barrel of his Beretta 93-R before saying, “I need something small and quick. There’s a lot of jungle terrain, and you won’t have much in the way of maneuvering room.”

“So there is a method to your madness.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“You think there’ll be trouble.”

“I’m betting on it,” Bolan said. “It all seemed just a little too timely that Shoup and his people had a finger on this from the outset. Don’t you think?”

“It does seem like heavy coincidence.”

“Not to mention there weren’t one but two agents, one working local, that Shoup said disappeared shortly after the first man. And why Guatemala? What’s the connection? There’s nothing down there that would pose any sort of an internal threat to USAF operations here in the U.S. And we don’t have anything going on down there at present in the way of major military intelligence. Just minor CIA work keeping an eye on the drug runners.”

“Weren’t there rumors of al Qaeda using Guatemala as a base of operations?” Grimaldi asked.

Bolan dismissed the rumor with a wave of his hand. “Small-time. Mostly wannabes with the occasional real bad guy in the Islamic Brotherhood thrown in to gain credibility. The one thing terrorists have encountered in Guatemala is a whole lot of resistance from state terrorist groups. Basically drug gangs like Mara Salvatrucha and so forth. Local crime is the big problem there, and it’s no secret that the local gangs don’t like to share.”

“Ah, honor among thieves,” Grimaldi quipped.

Bolan deadpanned. “Really.”

“Sounds like maybe you’re walking into an ambush on purpose.”

“Exactly. I’m betting whoever is behind the compromise in the security of American MI operations is also getting nervous. They’ll want to do some damage control, and they’ll want to make sure they get all the players in one fell swoop.”

“Sounds like a real group of sweethearts.”

“Interesting you say that,” Bolan replied. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking. We’re dealing with a group here, and one that seems to have significant knowledge about special operations. At least insofar as ops by the U.S. military. So far, we’ve had a Navy SEAL operation compromised, intelligence signals and data to NORAD intercepted, and the near destruction of an entire platoon of special recon Marines.”

“Plus the Delta Force gig in Germany.”

Bolan nodded. “All military operations, all highly classified, with no rhyme or reason for specific locations. None of the groups these special units were operating against was related in any way. That means the motive has to be centered on intelligence or, more specifically, American defense intelligence operations.”

“You definitely have your work cut out for you on this one, Sarge.”

“Guess that’s just how I roll, Jack,” Bolan replied.


CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_55a77a29-9e8a-508e-8437-507adfae9672)

Istanbul, Turkey

“Please, Alara,” Colonel Alan Bindler said. “Please let’s not go into this again.”

Alara Serif stood defiantly with hands on hips in their office located within the U.S. Consulate. “I will go into it again and again...and again until someone starts listening to me. Alan, you have to take this seriously.”

Bindler pinned Serif with a cool gaze. “I take everything seriously my staff members bring to me, and I give equal weight to the opinions of all. Is that clear?”

Serif did her best to look properly mollified. “Yes, sir.”

Bindler sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head as he continued. “You want to know why I hired you, Alara? It’s because you’re diligent, because you care about the security of our nation and you give a shit about your job. Sadly, I can’t say that about most of my people. And technically, you know we’re not even supposed to have military personnel within our consulate, other than the Marine guard.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Bindler stood and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He went around the desk and sat on the edge of it to look into Serif’s eyes.

The haughty, impetuous expression she returned almost made him want to laugh. In so many ways, Serif was like one of those little girls who’s defiant and opinionated, and yet not out of spite but from driven curiosity. Serif was one of those little girls who’d been forced to grow up all too soon, if the contents of her CIA file were any indication.

The daughter of an American diplomat who married a Turkish man, Serif’s entire life had been spent in embassies throughout the world. Her father, Maliki Serif, had refused to let his precious Alara go through life absent of her Turkish identity, and he’d been quite insistent on teaching her the culture, customs and language—taking her on frequent trips to the country—even when she was absent so often while her American mother made her tours of duty as an attaché at various U.S. embassies around the world.

Her background had made Serif an highly advantageous instrument to defense intelligence efforts in Turkey. Where in most ways it would have taken much training to fit a representative from the DIA into that role in this country, Alara Serif had been tailor-made for it. She could speak the language, knew the customs, and had enough of her father’s genetic traits that she fit right in without a second glance. Other than her beauty, which caused a stirring even in Bindler now and again when he watched her coming or going.

Bindler forced his mind to more practical matters. “Listen, Alara. I know you’re convinced this...this Council of Lights exists.” Serif started to open her mouth but Bindler raised his hand. “Let me finish! I know you think it exists and maybe it does. But what do you have as a shred of proof beyond a series of loosely coupled theories that you can back with hard evidence but you can’t actually tie together.”

“Can’t tie together until now,” Serif said with a triumphant smile. She withdrew a photograph from the thick manila envelope streamed with classified red-and-white-striped tape and handed it to Bindler. “Take a look at that.”

Bindler sighed as he stared at the picture. “Okay, it’s a little grainy. What am I looking at?”

“The man in that photograph is Gastone Amocacci, a former Italian police inspector attached to the Interpol Intelligence Division.”

“Great. What about him?”

“I’ve long believed that the Council doesn’t have any leadership,” Serif said, charging straight to the point as she always did. “At least not in any conventional sense. I think they operate on equal terms with one another. An effort like theirs could not survive if there was one individual in charge. One person with all the power and/or information would pose a security risk to them. That’s why they’ve been able to operate for so long without being detected.”

“So what does this...this Amocacci?” Bindler interjected. When Serif nodded he said, “What does he have to do with it?”

“I think he’s a member.”

“Uh-huh. And you have proof of this, of course.”

“That photograph was taken just yesterday,” she said. “I know, because I took it.”

“You were in the field again?”

“Yes.”

“Alara, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times...you are not to perform fieldwork without first my express permission and second my knowledge.”

“I was off work,” she said. “I pursued this on my own time.”

“You’re not authorized to do that.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Bindler cut in. “Now I’ve told you before and this is the last time. One more transgression, even a minor one, and I’ll pull you from duty and ship you back to an assignment in the States. Is that understood?”

Serif didn’t say anything at first but when Bindler repeated the question, she finally nodded and muttered an affirmative.

“Now as to this Amocacci character, I assume—” Bindler nodded at the folder “—you have a full report in that folder.”

“Yes.”

“Good, leave it with me. If I think what you’ve put together has merit, I’ll consider pursuing the matter.”

Serif looked extremely hopeful so Bindler realized he’d need to put a damper on her enthusiasm. “But only if I think it has merit and I give the go-ahead to assign an agent to it. That won’t be you.”

“What? Why not?” she cried.

“Because you’re too close to this thing. It’s like some kind of obsession. It’s causing you to disregard procedures and endanger our position here.” Bindler handed her the picture and she placed it in the folder before he snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

Serif gave the entire package to him, albeit reluctantly, and then rose from her chair. “You’re not going to pursue it. You’re going to mothball it, Alan, just like you have all my other reports. Apparently nobody here or at the Pentagon considers this a priority.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“And I believe you, Alan. But you still answer to others, and it’s them I don’t trust. You’ll read the report, you’ll forward it to them, and everyone will conveniently forget about it. And in two or three months when I ask you about it, you’ll tell me you haven’t heard anything and all will be forgotten.”

“You know how it works here, Alara. We take the good with the bad.”

“Yes,” Serif replied. “I know how it works. It just leaves me wondering why nobody here is interested in something that could well affect the security of our nation.”

“That’s just not true, and you know it.”

As Serif turned to leave his office she asked quietly, “Do I?”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“HEY, AARON?” BARBARA Price said as she walked into the Computer Room.

“Yes?” Kurtzman replied.

“What do you think the chances are that a DIA intelligence analyst would be filing reports about a secret group of former intelligence officers at the same time as this leak in military intelligence occurred?”

Kurtzman grinned as he shrugged his wrestler-like shoulders. Despite the bullet that had put him in a wheelchair, he still found time to work out a couple of hours every day. Such activities had left him in top physical condition. He may not have been able to walk but he’d never let it stop him. His physique, coupled with his booming voice and warm disposition, had earned him his “Bear” nickname.

“I’d have to say the chances are about a million to one. What have you got?”

“Pull up DIA file number 607P9.”

Kurtzman returned his attention to the keyboard, punched in some codes and numbers and a moment later the entire contents of the file were displayed across three massive screens on the far wall. Kurtzman squinted at the center monitor in an attempt to make out the photograph of the key agent behind the reports.

“Alara Serif, Defense Intelligence Agency,” he read mechanically. He muttered his way through the next few statistics, her physical characteristics, date of birth and such. Then he continued aloud, “Current assignment’s in Turkey?”

“Istanbul,” Price confirmed, shuffling through the papers she held. “She was assigned there eighteen months ago under the title of assistant to the military Marine officer in charge, Colonel Alan Bindler.”

“What would the commanding officer of a U.S. Consulate Marine guard need with a DIA analyst as an assistant?”

“I’m sure the Turkish government would like to know the same thing if they had her real credentials,” Price said. “Since 9/11, we’ve been slowly switching out standard military clerks with our intelligence analysts from various agencies. NSA works up a thorough cover for each, and the U.S. gets approval on each assignment from the host government before sending them in. Of course, those governments think they’re seeing the real dossiers.”

“But what they’re really seeing are the cooked papers.”

“Correct,” Price said. “They forge just about everything from names to birth dates to closest living relatives.”

“Naturally. So what’s so special about this one?”

“Alara Serif is half Turkish,” Price said. “Her father is a Turkish citizen. Married an attaché to the U.S. ambassador of Turkey at the time.”

“So she knows the territory.”

“More than that, Aaron. She knows the politics of the country and who’s who behind every button. A lot of wheeling and dealing goes on behind the curtains in Turkey. Something few people outside the most inner circles know about that country. Of course, it’s no secret to our intelligence communities, but the better part of Washington seems to want to turn a blind eye when it comes to seriously looking at the intelligence coming out of Ankara.”

“Except us,” Kurtzman said with a knowing wink.

Price didn’t hold back a chance to smile at her friend’s mock attempts to be surreptitious. “Right. We actually look at everything as a matter of policy instead of dismissing it out of hand.”

“So you think something she’s reporting has merit?”

“I do,” Price replied. “In fact, I think it may even be related to this case.”

Kurtzman gave the information some attention. He’d learned a long time ago that if Price keyed on something that seemed far-reaching, there was usually a good reason. From what he’d just read, however, he couldn’t see any link to the compromise of U.S. military intelligence operations and Serif’s reports.

“Okay, I give up,” Kurtzman said. “What’s the connection?”

“First off, there’s this claim about a secret organization called the Council of Luminárii, particularly Serif’s theory that this group doesn’t operate with a leader, per se. She thinks this group operates well because they work in a symbiotic fashion.”

Kurtzman nodded. “The ideal rules them all. It’s been done before and quite effectively. Too crazy for Serif to make up.”

“Exactly. And then there’s the main player Serif has had in her sights practically from the beginning, a man she believes to be a member of the group, if not an actual puppet they use to do their bidding. His name’s Gastone Amocacci. Fifty-six years old, citizen of Italy. Former police officer with Interpol’s intelligence division.”

“What’s his story?”

“I checked his background and discovered he quit after an operation went wrong and most of the members in his unit were killed. He moved to Istanbul a short time later and started a business in exports of Turkish goods. The government there loves the guy. Guess he’s made many of their diplomats a lot of money.”

“Probably in kickbacks,” Kurtzman interjected with a snort.

“Probably. He’s also quite the jet-setter. He’s been seen traipsing about Europe and Southeast Asia with Lady Allegra Fellini, who’s practically Italian royalty in her own right.”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“I don’t doubt it. She’s the sole heir to a clothing line empire that makes Armani look like a garment district peddler.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, ‘ouch’ is right,” Price said. “Fellini and Amocacci are an item and have been for at least a year.”

“Okay, but even if Amocacci’s in bed with this secret council, I still don’t see what that has to do with a compromise of U.S. military intelligence,” Kurtzman said.

“That’s where Alara Serif comes in. Based on her surveillance and the psychological profile she worked up on Amocacci, coupled with his movements, she thinks the Council of Luminárii may be composed of people just like him.”

“You mean former intelligence operatives.”

“Right. And possibly even intelligence officers still currently active with multinational agencies. Can you imagine what such a group could do? And especially when you consider they’re operating in Turkey. The government there would never suspect Amocacci of being involved with international espionage and even if they did, they’d never make the accusation.”

“Because of his connections and the favor he’s found with certain high-ranking politicians.”

Price nodded. “To make no mention that he’s managed to sell a lot of Turkish-made materials. That’s good for their economy. And it’s probably why he’s allowed to move around the country freely, as well as come and go as he pleases.”

“It would be a perfect cover for this Council of... What did you call it?”

“Luminárii,” Price replied. “Serif translates it to mean ‘the Council of Lights’ and often references it as just ‘the Council.’”





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