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CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
Military Target Range, western Alaska
The guard went stiff as the knife blade slid into his head.
Mouthing a silent scream, the U.S. Army guard dropped his weapon as Professor Torge Johnson shoved the blade in deeper, exactly behind the right ear where there was a small opening into the brain, a slim passage known to many as Death’s Doorway.
Gurgling, the guard began to claw at his side for the semiautomatic pistol in his shiny black holster. Frowning at the man’s resilience, Johnson savagely twisted the blade to sever the brain stem. The guard went limp, his body turned off like a light switch, his rapidly dying brain only a few moments behind.
Easing the corpse to the grass, Johnson yanked out the bloody blade just as a tremendous explosion sounded in the distance. As the professor wiped the murder weapon clean on the guard’s uniform, cheers sounded from the grandstand above.
Sliding the blade up his sleeve, Johnson checked the cheap watch on his wrist. Good. Everything was precisely on schedule. Taking a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, he carefully peeled off the back to expose a thin layer of adhesive. Reaching up, he just managed to press the pack to the bottom of the wooden seats of the grandstand overhead. As his hand came away, the pack stayed in place and there was an audible click of the electronic device arming itself.
Glancing briefly at the bright rectangle of light that marked the only door to the space under the grandstand, Johnson stepped over the cooling body of the guard and weaved his way through the maze of struts and support beams to reach the middle section. Attaching another cigarette pack there, he continued the process slowly, emptying every pocket of the deadly cargo until reaching the opposite side. Glancing back just once to check his lethal handiwork, the professor allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction, then set his expression into neutral and stepped through the open doorway and into the bright sunlight.
Taking a real cigarette from the pocket of his old suit, Johnson lit it with a butane lighter and drew the smoke in deep, savoring the building excitement. Soon now, very soon.
Walking out of the bushes that blocked the entrance of the doorway, the man pulled up his fly and tried to look embarrassed as if he had been inappropriately relieving himself in the greenery.
An elderly U.S. congressman sitting at the edge of the grandstand happened to catch the gesture and chuckled in sympathy.
“Don’t blame you.” He grinned. “Hell of a day, isn’t it, Professor?”
Johnson pressed a finger to his lips and hushed the plump politician. Although he looked exactly like the professor, his voice didn’t match in the least. The impostor’s heart was pounding as he fingered the second butane lighter in his pants pocket. The device was actually a pneumatic dart gun of considerable power, the flesh-colored darts coated with a neurotoxin that paralyzed instantly, and death came in foaming agony a few seconds later. Come on fool, go back to the show and enjoy the last few seconds of your life. The reaction of the darts closely resembled a heart attack, especially in older people, but the trick lighter carried only three darts: two for victims and the third for himself to prevent capture. The Americans disliked torture, but in his case their military intelligence and CIA would happily have made an exception. Being captured alive wasn’t an option in his mission.
Touching two fingers to his brow in a mock salute, the congressman winked at the professor and turned back to the display on the target range below. Johnson relaxed slightly and exhaled a long stream of smoke. Good.
The grandstand, filled with politicians and high-ranking military personnel, was situated directly behind a tall barrier of wire mesh as protection from any stray shrapnel. Fifty feet below was a wide field that stretched to the distant ice-capped Baird Mountains. The target range was pitted with huge craters of assorted sizes from the wide variety of missiles used this day. The green tundra was beginning to resemble the surface of the moon, a few of them still smoking. Standing untouched in the midst of the destruction and desolation was a small concrete bunker with a slim radio antenna raised high enough to sway slightly in the warm breeze.
“Look there!” somebody cried, standing to point.
Johnson gave no reaction as two Harpoon-class missiles rose over the horizon, their fiery exhausts as bright as newborn stars. The politicians and generals in the review stand cheered at the sight. Unable to tear himself away for a moment, Johnson stayed to watch as the missiles rose sharply, then rotated about their long axis to sharply angle downward toward the ruined field. Flashing forward at nearly Mach speed, the Harpoons raced for the bunker and then incredibly went on by, their wake churning up clouds of dust and scorched earth.
The crowd roared its approval as the deadly missiles continued onward to slam into the pitted side of a hill a mile away.
“Son of a bitch, the bloody thing works!” a colonel shouted while applauding. “It really works! The missiles couldn’t see the bunker!”
“So that’s what this is, a radar jammer?” a senator grumbled with a scowl. “Big deal. We’ve had those for decades.”
“Not like this!” a general stated proudly. “There’s never been anything like this thing!”
“Well, we certainly spent enough on the damn program!” a senator yelled over the crowd noises.
Turning away from the jubilation, Johnson started for the gravel walk that led to the parking lot when he noticed a Marine guard looking in the bushes.
“Lose something, Corporal?” the professor asked in a friendly manner.
The Marine looked hard in return, and Johnson felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. This man wasn’t like the rest, he realized. Everything looked fine, but he felt that something was wrong. That combat-sense thing soldiers were always talking about. Part instinct, part training.
“Just routine,” the corporal said, straightening the strap of the M-16 assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
But Johnson could see that the bolt had been worked on the weapon, making it ready for firing. No! There was no time for this! Seconds counted. He had to move fast or die with the rest!
“I know what you’re looking for,” Johnson whispered. “Come on, he’s over here.”
Leading the soldier to the open doorway below the grandstand, Johnson stopped at the entrance. “It’s darker than shit in there. Got a flashlight?”
The soldier shook his head, and Johnson pulled out his cigarette lighter.
“This’ll do,” he said, and pressed the hidden stud.
There was a soft hiss. The soldier grabbed his throat as the tiny dart went deep into his flesh. Suddenly, his eyes began to roll about in panic as he stiffened, unable to move a finger.
Taking the Marine guard by the collar, Johnson half dragged the dying man back into the shadows under the grandstand and flicked his left wrist. A blade dropped out his sleeve, and he pulled back the Marine’s throat to finish the job with a single clean stroke. The neurotoxin was fast, but not instantaneous like a blade. However, there was no time to enjoy the kill; the numbers were falling. He had to move fast.
Moving quickly away from the grandstand, Johnson proceeded along the gravel path until reaching a wooden kiosk. An armed guard raised a hand, but Johnson simply pointed at the photo ID on his lapel. The guard nodded and waved him by.
Past a wire fence woven with plastic strips to block the sight of the curious, Johnson moved onto the parking lot, forcing himself to not walk too fast. That would raise suspicion, and he might be detained for questioning, which would mean death in about ninety seconds from now. However, there were more armed guards lining the edge of the parking lot, U.S. Marines, Army and even some Navy intelligence. Incredibly expensive, Chameleon was a multiservice project. At opposite ends of the lot sat two Apache gunships, their blades at rest, but with a full crew inside, the wing pods bristling with weaponry, 35 mm minirocket pods and Sidewinder missiles in case of an aerial attack. The Alaskan test zone was a military hardsite, armed and armored to withstand any imaginable attack. Chameleon was all-important. The theoretical-danger team at the Pentagon had thought of everything, except him.
Reaching his car, Johnson pressed the fob on his key ring to unlock the door. The EM signal unlocked the door and also silently activated the packages hidden in the trunks of two other cars. Now the die was cast, and there was no turning back.
Starting the engine, Johnson pulled away slowly, keeping a careful eye on his watch. Exactly at the proper moment, he pulled the cigarette lighter halfway out of the dashboard and then plunged it back in hard. There was a click as it locked into position.
Trying to hide a smile, Johnson wheeled for the exit, waving goodbye at the Marine guards standing alongside the entrance to the isolated valley.
DOWN IN THE TARGET range, inside the concrete bunker, the real Professor Torge Johnson lowered a pair of binoculars and turned. “Cut the field,” he ordered briskly.
“Yes, sir,” the technician said, and pivoting in a chair, he flipped several switches on a complex control board. On a stout wooden table in the middle of the bunker, a small gray box stopped humming and went still.
Squinting out the slit in the thick concrete wall, Johnson patiently watched as two more stars rose into the sky over the horizon and started coming his way.
Trying to control his excitement, the professor inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. This was it, the last test. These were two of the new breed of Delta Four missiles, equipped with the very cutting edge of radar guidance, satellite-assisted navigational system, and proximity warheads, all supported by an onboard computer more powerful than anything else in the world. Three waves of Delta Four missiles. If the Chameleon could stop those titans, there would be no question that his project was a complete and total success.
“Power up,” Johnson instructed.
“Power is good for go, sir,” the technician replied crisply, checking some dials on the board. “We are online and ready.”
“Good. Engage the field,” the professor said calmly, raising the binoculars and adjusting the focus. Although a man of science, he did enjoy watching the missiles fly by stone blind, their wonderful radar eyes dead from the jamming field of his Chameleon.
“Ah, sir, I did, but nothing happened,” the technician said, flipping the switches again. The man pressed buttons and twirled knobs with frantic speed, but the dials stayed inert. “And I’m getting no response from the override!”
Spinning, the professor clutched the binoculars to his chest as if for protection. “But the missiles are on the way!” he gasped, felling his belly tighten with fear. “Wait, use the backup unit!”
Lurching from his chair, the technician flipped open the top of a second gray box and reached inside, then froze.
“What in hell are you waiting for?” Johnson yelled, almost beside himself. “Turn on the Chameleon!”
“I can’t,” the pale technician said softly, turning to look at the professor. “The second unit isn’t here. The box is empty.”
Empty? The world seemed to reel at the word. The elderly professor went pale and clawed for the emergency radio clipped to his belt. “USS Fairfax, this is Johnson!” he yelled into the transponder. “Abort the missiles! Repeat, abort the missiles!”
But there was only the crackle of static in reply. Johnson checked the frequencies and tried again twice more before the answer punched his soul. Jammed. The radio broadcast was being blocked from outside. But how…who…?
“It’s a trap!” Johnson threw the radio aside and charged for the armored door. “We have to get out of here!”
A sudden light filled the slits of the bunker with hellish intensity.
“Too late!” the technician screamed, throwing an arm before his face.
“MOTHER OF GOD,” a general whispered, recoiling slightly as the two Delta Four missiles slammed directly into the fortified bunker and violently detonated. Broken slabs of concrete and steel beams blew into the sky as the twin fireballs washed over the target range in searing fury.
As a mushroom cloud of dark smoke rose into the blue sky, it exposed a gaping hole in the ground. Muttering curses and prayers at the terrible sight, the crowd of dignitaries remained in their seats, unable to move from the horror unfolding below.
“We’ve got to help them!” a lieutenant cried out, standing. Pushing his way through the stupefied throng, the lieutenant tried to reach the stairs leading to the ground. Then somebody grabbed his arm.
“Don’t be a fool, man! They’re beyond help,” a general snapped. “The professor is already dead. Nobody could have survived that first salvo.”
Scowling darkly, the lieutenant yanked his arm free and stared at the decimated target range once more. The fortified bunker was reduced to a mere handful of cracked pieces and rubble, ringing a blackened crater.
“Sorry, sir,” the lieutenant muttered, clenching his fist in frustration. Then a motion in the sky caught his attention, and the Army officer turned to see the next set of Delta Four missiles lift over the horizon and angle over to start for the destroyed bunker.
Then they abruptly changed course and swung directly for the grandstand.
“Hello, give me the White House,” a congresswoman said into a cell phone. “There’s been a disaster at—”
“Incoming!” the lieutenant bellowed.
At the incredible sight, men and women both began to scream in terror, and the crowd became a mob fighting to reach the stairs. A handful of military personnel pulled out their dress side arms to empty the weapons at the approaching Delta Fours. If the subsonic lead had any effect on the ultrasonic missiles, it wasn’t noticed as the Deltas smashed directly into the grandstand. Hundreds of bodies blew apart from the triphammer blasts, the rolling waves of chemical fire obliterating the grandstand, and the homing beacons glued to the underside of the wooden seats.
A death wave of splinters and boards blew across the parking lot, killing everybody in their path. A heartbeat later, the hidden charges in the car trunks went off, adding their thermite charges to the assorted destruction. Melting cars flipped into the air, gas tanks exploding like firecrackers. The startled pilots of the two Apaches had no time to react before the shock wave and shrapnel arrived, throwing the gunships sideways. Their blades snapped off as the helicopters tumbled over and over along the ground until they erupted into flames. Shrieking insanely, the pilots burned alive in the wreckage until their cargo of rockets and missiles ignited.
WATCHING FROM the side of a road on a hilltop, the man disguised as Professor Johnson looked up from the destruction of the target range just as the last two Delta Four missiles climbed into view. As they reached azimuth, he looked to the east, down into a rugged arroyo filled with a small complex of buildings surrounded by lush greenery. Pulling out a fountain pen, Johnson aimed the disguised transmitter at the complex and pressed the side hard. The pen gave an answering beep as its signal was received and the next set of homing beacons was activated.
Climbing back into the car, Johnson saw the Delta Fours streak past, heading for the office buildings. Looking up, he saw the missiles angle about and streak past the test site to head for the office buildings. Done and done—the Chameleon now belonged to him.
Starting the engine, the man turned the car and headed south toward the Kobuk River. There was a speedboat waiting for him there, and after that…
Following a gentle curve in the road, the nameless spy glanced in the rearview mirror and saw writhing tongues of orange flame reach for the sky, then an outcropping blocked his view and they were gone. Now there was only open road stretching between him and freedom.
CHAPTER ONE
Virginia
With its rotors beating steadily, the U.S.Army Black Hawk helicopter moved through the crisp morning air. Reclining in the jump seat in the rear of the massive gunship, Hal Brognola looked out the port window and watched the lush Virginia countryside endlessly flow by, the dense forests melding into sprawling towns of tree-lined streets and green parks. A hundred years or so ago, all of this land was torn and bloody as brother fought brother in the Civil War.
“Did you know that more Americans died in the Civil War than in World War II?” the blacksuit pilot said over a shoulder.
Roused from his thoughts, Brognola turned from the window. “Yeah, I did. History buff?”
The pilot flashed a smile. “I am in the military, sir.”
The big Fed waited for the pilot to also mention his skin color, but apparently it was not relevant to the discussion. White and blacks both died in the war, each fighting on both sides. Hell of a thing.
Harold Brognola wasn’t a soldier in the traditional sense, but he had certainly seen more than his share of warfare. As a high-level official in the Justice Department, Brognola was one of the top cops in the nation, answerable only to the President. Chief of the ultracovert Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, Brognola was returning to Washington from a quick visit to the Farm, hidden in the depths of Shenandoah National Park. Recent defensive renovations included a newly installed antimissile system. Upgrades to weapons systems were ongoing, and every once in a while Brognola would drop by the Farm to check things out. Any excuse to escape the frenetic pace of Washington, D.C., was acceptable.
The pilot touched the side of his helmet. “Sir, I have an urgent call for you from Dover,” he reported crisply.
Brognola frowned. Dover. As in the white cliffs of Dover. That was this month’s code name for the White House.
“I’ll take it back here.”
“Yes, sir!”
The big Fed pulled a briefcase onto his lap when his cell phone chirped.
Deactivating the locking mechanism in the briefcase, Brognola lifted the lid and the compact computer inside automatically cycled on. Typing a few passwords onto the miniature keyboard, the big Fed watched as the plasma screen scrolled identification signatures and countersigns as the machine dutifully checked and then double-checked to confirm it was receiving an authenticity signal on a secure frequency.
Exercising patience, Brognola waited. The man was aware that the White House had its own private communication satellites, and that the President had access to several that nobody else even knew existed. But it never hurt to make sure.
The gibberish on the screen melted into a familiar face at a well-known desk.
