Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  “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

  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.”

&nbs
p; “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.”