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Checking the radiation counter strapped to his wrist, Lindquist grunted in annoyance and dropped his backpack to retrieve a protective NBC environment suit. Stepping inside, he zipped it closed and quickly started down the slippery slope toward the flatbed lying sideways amid the assorted debris. The steel cylinder was clearly still strapped to the truck and, aside from dripping water, seemed completely undamaged. Excellent.
Donning their own protective suits, Hannigan and Johansen followed Lindquist, leaving Kessler alone on the hillside, thumbing a fat 30 mm round into the grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel of the AK-47.
Going to the sodden corpse pinned to the truck tire, Lindquist used a pair of bolt cutters to free the keycard. Climbing onto the flatbed, he fumbled to find the slot on the end of the T-bomb, then slipped the keycard inside. There was a soft beep, then the service panel disengaged and swung open wide. Knowing that all of the controls had been reversed as a security measure, Lindquist calmly pressed the detonation button on a small keypad. There was a brief buzzing, and he stopped breathing. But the internal lights dimmed and faded away completely.
“It’s deactivated,” Lindquist announced, tucking the precious card into a belt pouch, which he zipped shut. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline overload, and the man was glad the bulky NBC suit hid the fact from the combat veterans.
Suddenly machine gun fire erupted and a BTR-70 jounced out of the forest, a dozen weapons chattering from every gunport of the armored personnel carrier.
Caught in the glare of the halogen headlights, Lindquist stepped protectively in front of the T-bomb as Hannigan and Johansen blindly fired back with their assault rifles. Both of the mercenaries knew full well that even if they managed to achieve a hit, the 7.62 mm rounds wouldn’t even dent the heavy armor plating the military juggernaut. However, safely off to the side, Kessler had a clear view. Swinging up his AK-47, he aimed and fired the grenade launcher.
The yellow-tipped round slammed into the front of the APC, punched clean through and violently detonated inside.
Tendrils of flame extending from every vent and port, the APC raced past the flatbed. Kessler put another million-dollar round into the rear compartment. The depleted-uranium slug penetrated the armor plating as if it were cardboard, then the thermite charge violently exploded inside the working engine, filling the interior with a maelstrom of shrapnel.
Gushing fuel and blood, the decimated BTR-70 continued up the other side of the riverbed and rolled into the trees, careening off a boulder before vanishing into the night.
Returning to their work, the mercs diligently released the restraining straps, while Lindquist fired a flare into the air. With the radios dead, it was their only way to communicate over long distance. However the message was received, and soon Barrowman arrived in an old Soviet-era truck. The Cold War vehicle had been built long before the invention of electronic ignition and fuel injectors, and thus was completely immune to the neutralizing effects of a nuclear EMP blast.
“Think they’ll ever figure out what really happened?” Hannigan chuckled, pulling out a crescent wrench from the tool belt around his NBC suit.
“Not until it’s too late,” Lindquist snarled hatefully, patting the keycard safe in the belt pouch. “Not until it’s all over, and there is a new world order.”
“Thought this was about protecting America?” Johansen asked sharply, beginning to work on a restraining bolt.
“Shut up, and work faster,” Lindquist countered, walking over to the waiting Soviet Union truck, his face an iron mask.
CHAPTER ONE
Whitehead River, Colorado
Standing waist-deep in the chilly runoff, Harold Brognola found the morning Rocky Mountain air more than invigorating; it was damn near rejuvenating. With each passing hour, he could feel the pressures of his job at the Justice Department slipping away, muscles slowly relaxing. The top cop in America found himself involuntarily whistling.
Carefully keeping the split-cane fly rod in constant motion, Brognola let the line out, then the artificial fly touched the surface of the river. A large trout rose into view as it tried to reach the elusive food, then flipped back into the shadowy depths, slashing its tail in frustration.
“Better luck next time,” Brognola chuckled, loosening the line to disengage a tangle. Fly-fishing was proving to be a lot like his regular line of work. There was a great deal of waiting and watching, then strike hard and kill when necessary.
Suddenly a dozen trout flashed past his waders heading upstream. Turning, the puzzled man watched them head for the pool below the waterfall. Okay, that was odd. Then the whistling stopped and his smile faded away as a dozen more trout flashed by in the same direction, closely followed by an entire school of sunfish and then several big-mouth bass.
Jerking his head downstream, Brognola saw nothing coming his way. Still he hurriedly sloshed through the river toward the nearby bank. Scrambling onto dry land, he shrugged off the suspenders and dropped the heavy waders, then sprinted for his car parked alongside the old gravel road.
Reaching the vehicle, Brognola yanked open the passenger door and reached under the seat to haul out a S&W .38 revolver and a brand-new Glock 18. The Smith & Wesson had been with the Justice man since his tour of duty in the old Mafia Wars, but middle age was taking its inevitable toll and the massive firepower of the deadly Glock machine pistol was a welcome addition. As Bolan liked to say, a man could never have too many friends or too much firepower. True words.
Working the slide on the 9 mm machine pistol, Brognola thumbed back the hammer on the police revolver and took a defensive position behind the car. It wasn’t much, but some protection was better than nothing.
The sound of the approaching vehicle could be heard long before it appeared around a bend in the Whitehead River. Charging along the riverbed, the tires of a big Hummer threw out a wide spray, creating a traveling rainbow behind the speeding military transport. The soldiers wore the uniforms of Green Berets, and the men in the back openly carried M-16 assault rifles.
Vaguely, Brognola remembered there was a military base somewhere in the nearby mountains, but could not recall the exact name. However, if these were fake soldiers, the killers had done an excellent job. As far as he could tell, these were the real thing. He tightened his grip on both weapons. But a fool often dropped his guard for a friendly, smiling face. As the director of the Special Operations Group, Brognola had made a host of enemies over the years, and he had simply accepted it as part of the job that someday, somewhere, they would find him alone and extract a terrible revenge.
Barreling out of the river, the driver parked the Hummer on the sloped bank. A lieutenant stepped out and started to give a salute, but stopped himself just in time and changed the gesture into removing his cap.
Brognola grunted. So far, so good. Soldiers did not salute civilians. But he was still far from being convinced. “Morning,” Brognola called, leveling both guns. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” The man’s heart was pounding in his chest, but his palms were dry.
“Recognition code, Alpha Dog Bravo,” the officer said crisply, then waited expectantly.
“Zulu Tango Romeo,” Brognola replied, giving the countersign for the week and lowering the guns. “Okay, what the hell is going on here?”
“Sir, somebody needs to speak to you immediately. Your cell is out of range, so our CO sent us out on recon,” the lieutenant explained, donning the soaked cap. “Since everybody knows about this fishing pool, we checked here first.”
“Fair enough,” Brognola said, tucking the Glock into his belt. The service revolver was slipped into a pocket of his jeans. “That somebody got a name?”
“Yes, sir. Eagle One.”
Instantly all reticence was gone and Brognola walked over to the Hummer, holding out a hand. As he got close, the corporal in the back proffered a hand mike attached to a large transmitter situated between the seats.
Accepting the mike, Brognola impatiently waited while the soldiers moved away from the vehicle to give him some privacy. They might not be sure who he was, but they sure as hell knew the identity of Eagle One.
When the Green Berets were far enough away, Brognola thumbed the transmit switch and repeated his name, slow and clear. There was a brief pause as the signal was encoded and relayed across the continent via a series of military satellites. Once NSA equipment on the other side analyzed his vocal patterns to ascertain it actually was him, a familiar voice crackled over the speaker.
“Sorry for the interruption, Hal,” said the President without a preamble. “But I needed to talk to you immediately, and there was no time to fly you back to D.C. We have a problem in Russia.”
“Is Striker in trouble?” Brognola asked.
Striker was one of the many code names for Mack Bolan.
“Not at the moment, Hal, no. This is something completely different,” the President stated. “Just a few hours ago, a NATO courier delivered a coded report to the joint chiefs. One of their spy satellites detected a tactical nuclear explosion near Mystery Mountain.”
“But that is not a nuclear facility,” Brognola said, sitting inside the Hummer. The seat was damp from the rush up the river, but he paid it no mind. “The mountain mostly works on experimental weapons, plasma lasers, coil guns, orbiting kinetics, microwaves, robotics and such.”
“Correct. And this was nothing new. Just an ordinary nuclear weapon.” The President paused. “Except that the flash signature was Chinese.”
The words were said quite simply, but Brognola exhaled as if punched in the stomach. China nuked Mystery Mountain? “Has that been confirmed?” he demanded brusquely.
“Triple checked from multiple sources.” The President sighed. “There can be no mistake. The nuclear weapons of every nation are completely different, and the flash signature of the fireball cannot be faked to resemble another. This was a Chinese nuke.”
“Son of a bitch,” Brognola whispered. “How could a goddamn Chinese ICBM get that far inside Russia without being shot down?”
A scholarly man, the new President really did not approve of the crude language, but said nothing. Brognola had to be accepted on his terms, and thus was one of the very few people in the world who could address him this way. “It wasn’t an ICBM,” he corrected. “Just a tactical nuke. Barely a half-kiloton yield. Probably a suitcase model, very similar to our own man-portable charge.”
“Well, that’s something, then.” Brognola sighed, looking across the river. “There could not have been that much damage. With any luck—”
“Hal, the base was obliterated. Utterly destroyed.”
“With a tactical nuke?” Brognola scoffed. “That’s not possible, sir, unless… Goddamn it, the Chinese nuked the dam and flooded the base.”
There was an affirmative grunt. “As usual, Hal, you are correct. The death toll is in the thousands and the base will never fully recover. There is simply too much contamination.”
“The Kremlin must be going insane.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” the President agreed. “Their president has already contacted me to remind me of our mutual defense pact.”
Which was the first step toward declaring open war, Brognola realized, shifting the Glock in his belt to a more comfortable position. A goddamn nuclear war. “Any response from China?”
“They say it is a Russian trick, and are massing troops along the border to repel a possible invasion.”
“Which means Russia is doing the same thing to stop them from invading. Right?”
“Actually no,” the President said, speaking slowly. “The Kremlin has authorized a full mobilization, land, sea and air, almost everything they have. However, all of it is heading toward Mystery Mountain. Not China.”
“But why—?” Brognola inhaled sharply. “China had nothing to do with this—the nuke was a goddamn diversion.” The man ran stiff fingers through his hair. “Something was stolen from Mystery Mountain,” he stated with conviction. “Something new, and big.”
“Sadly, that is the same conclusion that my chief of staff, the national security adviser and I each arrived at about an hour ago,” the President stated forcibly. “We have no idea what this new weapon could be, but the very fact that the thieves used a nuclear weapon to obtain the device clearly indicates it is more powerful. You don’t use a rocket launcher to steal a handgun.”
“Unless a rocket launcher is all you have,” Brognola countered, momentarily lost in thought. “Could this have been done by some terrorist organization? Maybe Hamas, or the Warriors of God?” There was a brief surge of static and any response was lost.
“Sir? I missed that,” Brognola said. “Please repeat.”
“I said that terrorists doing this is most unlikely, but we should not rule out the possibility,” the President acknowledged. “This might even be the work of some lone madman trying to bring back the glory days of communism.”
God forbid. “What has been done so far, sir?”
There came the rustling of papers. “Homeland Security is trying to confirm if China is innocent or is working through some mercenary group. The CIA is concentrating on the larger terrorist organizations. Military Intelligence is looking into the radical splinter groups, while the FBI is tackling domestic terrorists, and the NSA is monitoring all cell phone traffic in western Europe and Asia for any reference to Mystery Mountain.”
“Sounds good. What would you like for my people to do, sir?” Even over a scrambled transmission, Brognola could not bring himself to name the covert Stony Man teams. In spite of every conceivable security precaution, the Farm had been invaded once, and the man was grimly determined to never allow that to happen again.
“For the time being, merely to stay alert and watch for any unusual sales in the underworld,” the President said. “If some new, experimental weapon has indeed been stolen, then most likely it will soon be offered for sale like those damnable Shklov rocket torpedoes a few years ago. Pay any price within reason—no, scratch that. Pay any price to get the whatever it is off the streets. We can decide what to do with it later.”
“Rabbit stew,” Brognola muttered.
The President snorted at that, obviously familiar with the military axiom. The recipe for rabbit stew was always—first and foremost—catch the rabbit.
“Confirmed, and what about the thieves?”
The President thought about that for a moment. How many people had been working at the dam when it blew? How many families, wives and children, had been living in the off-base facilities downriver? How many soldiers and scientists had drowned when the tidal wave arrived?
“Sir?” Brognola repeated. “What if we manage to capture the thieves alive?”
“Don’t,” the President declared gruffly, and hung up.
Staring at the radio for a long moment, Brognola returned the mike to a clip, then climbed out of the Hummer. “Lieutenant!” he bellowed. “Please have one of your men drive my car to the hotel where I’m staying. I’ll have somebody pick it up later.”
The soldiers walked closer. “And you will be coming back with us to the base,” the officer said, not posing it as a question.
“And commandeering a jetfighter back to the east coast.” Brognola nodded. “Eagle One wants me there ASAP.”
“Going to the White House, sir?” a young soldier asked excitedly.
“Something like that,” Brognola muttered evasively, climbing into the damp front seat and glancing at his watch. If he flew directly to Andrews Air Force Base, he could reach the Farm in western Virginia by midnight. With any luck, the Russian army would have captured the thieves by then and the matter would be over. If not, then it would be time to activate the Stony Man teams.
Caucasus Mountains
AS THE OLD Soviet Army truck raced along the mountain highway, Lindquist glanced in the side mirror and watched the river valley vanish behind them in the night. Good riddance.
Personally, there really was nothing in the world the man hated more than Russians, and Lindquist was extremely pleased that Foxfire had left the Russian weapons facility pounded flat, with large sections of the surrounding forest ablaze. The mushroom cloud of the nuclear explosion was long gone, but the hellish red glow of the growing conflagration was rapidly spreading across the hills. A forest fire had not been in the original plans, but it made a nice addition to their escape.
Give the bastards something else to worry about than trying to find us, Lindquist thought, smirking. Not that it would do them any good.
Now wearing civilian clothing, the man and his team were speeding away from the annihilated valley along an old logging road not on any civilian map. It was in surprisingly good condition. The pavement was smooth, the dividing lines freshly painted, and there were tiny plastic pyramids set into the material to reflect the headlights of a vehicle so that a driver could stay in the correct lane during even the worst possible winter storm. Obviously this road was reserved for use by visiting politicians and generals. But it would serve them well tonight, and in ways never dreamed of by the idiots in the Kremlin.
Keeping a hand on the wheel, Kessler shifted gears and glanced sideways. “What’s that thing under the dashboard?” he asked with a frown. “Some sort of radar jammer?”
“Just an eight-track tape player,” Lindquist replied, checking the map. Soon they should be nearing the tunnel where everything would happen.
“Yeah?” asked the puzzled man. “And what the fuck is that?”
Not in the mood to explain antiques to a child, Lindquist dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
In the rear of the truck, Barrowman was practicing loading an assault rifle with just one hand, Johansen was wrapping an amazingly realistic-looking plastic baby in a soft pink blanket and Hannigan was hard at work on the last lock, sealing shut the huge cylinder recovered from the flatbed. A wooden box on the floor was filled with parts he had already removed, including a delicate Faraday Net, which protected the complex electronics of the weapon from the EMP blast of a nuclear bomb.
“How is it coming?” Lindquist asked impatiently.
“Almost there,” Hannigan muttered, wiping his forehead with a sleeve and leaving a streak of grease behind. “Damn, these locks are intricate.”
“It was not designed to ever be disassembled,” Lindquist reminded him harshly.
“This I know,” Hannigan rumbled, returning to the task.
Outside the truck, a car raced by, heading in the opposite direction, the headlights washing over them for only a moment before it was gone.
“Think that was the FSB?” Barrowman asked, bringing up the AK-47 assault rifle.
“Too soon,” Lindquist stated. “The federal police will be the very last people the Kremlin lets know what actually occurred this night.”
“Good.”
Just then, Johansen jerked in surprise as the animatronic doll swaddled in her arms began to softly cry. With a scowl, she gently rocked the thing, and the noise stopped.
“Do I look like a fucking mother?” the mercenary angrily muttered under her breath, shifting uncomfortably in her plain woolen dress.
“More than the rest of us, yes,” Barrowman said, clumsily working the arming bolt.
“Hmm, sounds like it’s hungry. Why don’t you whip out a tit and give it a drink?” Kessler called over a shoulder, both hands on the wheel.
“Why don’t you jump up your own ass?” Johansen snarled, gesturing, and a knife dropped into her palm from a sleeve of her dress.
“Can’t while I’m driving. Maybe later.”
“I can wait.”
