"What about the Sandinista linkup?"
"Nothing solid. Lots of surplus gear they could have picked up anywhere, some of it ours. A couple of them carried Uzis, but the standard arms were AK-47s. Zip again. Did you know you can buy Kalashnikovs right here in gun shops, if you settle for the semi-auto version? We import the goddamned things from China now — some kind of half-assed trade agreement."
They had reached the parking lot, and Bolan had no trouble picking out Brognola's four-door Chevrolet. It was the kind of unmarked car that city cops had finally given up because it was so obvious, complete with extra whip antennae for the two-way radio and special plates reserved for ranking government employees. All it needed was some touch-up paint, a red light mounted on the driver's side, and Hal would be prepared for hot pursuit of speeders.
"Take a ride with me?" Brognola asked.
For just a heartbeat, Bolan thought about declining, forcing Hal to state his business on the pavement, with the ranks of headstones visible across his shoulder. Anything could happen once he let himself be talked into the car. It might become his coffin if an ambuscade had been prepared. His options would be limited, his combat stretch reduced to maybe ten square feet, with that in motion. He would be a sitting duck.
Except that Hal wasn't a stranger. He was among the soldier's oldest friends, and Bolan trusted him implicitly. He knew that after everything they had been through together, after he had saved the big Fed's wife and children, Hal would cheerfully have died before he pulled a double cross. There was no guarantee, of course, that he hadn't been shadowed from his office. Anything was possible in Wonderland these days, he knew… but what the hell.
If Bolan couldn't trust Brognola, if he couldn't place his trust in someone, then his private war was all for nothing. And he wasn't prepared to face that possibility this afternoon, not with the heroic dead so close at hand.
"You working under cover?" Bolan asked, eyeing the Chevy.
Brognola scowled. "It's standard issue, I'm afraid. Austerity and secrecy don't always mix. It costs too much these days to travel incognito." The scowl became a sneaking grin. "Besides, she's got some extras that you won't find on the dealer's invoice."
And Bolan didn't need to ask about those hidden options as he slid into the shotgun seat. Brognola took the Chevy east on State Road 27 and caught the southbound ramp for Interstate 395. They drove in silence, Bolan keeping one eye on the sideview mirror, watching for a tail, relieved that there was none. Wherever Hal was taking him, he knew the man from Justice had his reasons. Neither of them said a word when Hal swerved sharply, cutting over several other lanes to catch the ramp for Alexandria.
The Little River Highway carried them to Cameron Station Military Reservation, but Brognola drove on past the gate and sentries, never glancing left or right as Little River crossed a tributary of the wide Potomac and was born again as Duke Street on the other side. Another mile or two, and Hal obeyed the signs directing him to the George Washington Masonic National Memorial. The parking lot was far from overflowing at that hour, but Brognola steered his Chevy to the outskirts of the lot and parked beside a solitary Continental, big and black, with deeply tinted windows.
"What's this?" the soldier asked, already certain that he knew the answer.
"Someone wants to see us."
"Hal…"
"I know, we've been through this before. But dammit, Striker, this is urgent. Top priority."
"It's always urgent."
"Give the man a chance, okay? The white flag's out. You walk away regardless. Can it cost that much to listen?"
"Hal, the horse is dead. Stop beating it."
"I wish I could, believe me." Silence hung between them for a moment, fragile as a pane of glass and tough as tensile steel. It took a lot for Hal to pierce that barrier, and Bolan heard the effort in his voice. "I know I've got no space to ask for favors after all that's happened, all you've done, but I believe this is important. If you'll listen to the man, I know you'll think so, too."
"And either way, I walk."
"You've got my word."
"No promises."
"Agreed."
Two husky men in carbon-copy business suits and mirrored shades had interposed themselves between the Lincoln and the Chevrolet. As Bolan and Brognola stood at ease, another gunner surfaced on the driver's side, his eyes invisible behind the standard-issue aviator glasses, hands concealed inside the car. He was the backup, Bolan knew, and even if they took the two in front somehow, he would be looking down their throats with something like an Uzi or a SPAS-12 riot gun, secure behind the armored Lincoln as he dropped them in their tracks. It was a decent system for a limited engagement such as this, but Bolan didn't plan on testing the odds.
Brognola passed his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver to the nearest suit and was discreetly patted down for any concealed weapons. Bolan watched his old friend's face for traces of offense but found only boredom and impatience there. The other bookend tensed as Bolan reached inside his jacket, hauling out the sleek Beretta, passing it reluctantly across as Hal had done. The soldier spread his arms, endured the probing hands and smiled when he thought of the reaction these college boys might have had if he hadn't been packing light.
When they were satisfied, the suits each nodded to their backup, and the third man spent another moment staring Bolan down, his eyes impossible to read behind the mirrored shades. "Okay," he said at last, and disappeared behind the wheel, prepared to cope with any unexpected incident inside the car itself.
One of the suits held Bolan's door, but he let Hal go first, following Brognola's backside like a circus elephant and settling into the empty jump seat, facing the Continental's stern. He recognized the Man on sight before Brognola spoke.
"Good morning, Mr. President."
6
"Good morning, Hal," the chief executive replied. He turned to Bolan with a smile. "The Secret Service hates it when I pull these little stunts."
"That's understandable."
"Of course. But there are some requirements of my office that cannot be carried out on national TV with agents lined up like the Rockettes in the background. If the press knew I was here, for instance, there'd be hell to pay."
"They won't be hearing it from me," the Executioner assured him.
"I'm aware of that. And please believe that I appreciate your coming here on such short notice."
Bolan glanced at Hal and caught him squirming in his seat.
"My pleasure, sir."
"I've been informed of your reluctance to resume our previous association. I respect your feelings in the matter, and I haven't asked you here to try to change your mind. But I'll be honest with you, sir. I need your help. America needs help."
The Executioner said nothing, waiting for the President to state his case. The reference to America didn't strike Bolan as corny or melodramatic; neither did it automatically commit him to the cause. He had already come this far, and he would listen to the man. No more, no less. If he decided to enlist for the duration, he would base his choice on facts and instinct, on the call of duty, rather than on trumpet blasts or the ruffling of flags.
"You filled him in?" the President asked Hal.
"Bare bones," the man from Justice answered quietly.
"All right. You know that we have evidence of personal involvement with the Sandinista forces by at least two members of the U.S. Special Forces stationed in Honduras. We're inclined to think there may be more."
He hesitated, putting on a frown that might have startled even hardened members of the White House press corps.
"No! I'm hedging, dammit, and we don't have time for games. We know there is a great deal more involved than individuals moonlighting with the enemy. If that was all of it, I'd have their asses slapped in Leavenworth before the sun went down, and we could all breathe easy. But it seems the turncoat bastards have support, including certain members of the general staff. You follow me?"
"I think so, sir."
&nb
sp; And Bolan followed him, damn straight. The implication was that assorted covert contacts with the Sandinista forces hadn't come about by accident, but instead had been engineered by ranking military officers. But to what end? The army might have changed since Bolan had done his stint in Vietnam, but he wasn't aware of any socialists or bleeding liberals on the general staff, and the regime of Daniel Ortega in Managua was the next best thing to Castro when it came to boiling military blood.
"I've been aware for some time now of discontent among some members of the general staff, as well as ranking officers at the CIA," the President continued. "They believe we've been too soft on Nicaragua for too long. We're coddling the Communists, they say, and jeopardizing every friendly nation in the Western hemisphere."
The sentiment didn't surprise Mack Bolan. You could hear the same thing any day by turning on the radio or television, tuning in the latest news from Washington where hard-line congressmen were seeking more appropriations, butting heads with die-hard liberals propounding isolationism. Bolan would have been surprised if members of the military hadn't groused among themselves about the "fall" of Nicaragua and the rising tide of socialism elsewhere in Latin America.
"Our most recent intelligence seems to indicate a plan of sorts already in the works," the President continued. "Evidence collected by Hal's people in the field has helped to put the matter in perspective. How's your history?"
"I passed," the Executioner replied.
"You may recall the Reichstag fire?"
Mack Bolan nodded.
"Based upon our present information, I believe that certain members of the army general staff and the CIA are trying to create a situation that will force America to intervene with troops in Nicaragua. Not a Reichstag fire, perhaps, but something similar. An armed incursion into Costa Rica, for example. And it might have done the trick if certain unnamed individuals hadn't been there to pull the plug in time."
"You've spoken of intelligence and evidence," the soldier interjected. "If you have their names…"
"I have the names, all right… or most of them, at any rate. And you'll be hearing them if you decide to take on this assignment. As for evidence, let's say that I'm convinced, but it would never stand in court as is."
The Executioner could see assorted puzzle pieces drifting into place, and he was not excited by the prospect of the picture that was forming in his mind.
"You may not be aware," the President went on, "that Franklin Roosevelt was briefly threatened with a military coup in 1935. It's not the kind of thing historians are proud of. Certain members of the general staff convinced themselves that a continuation of the New Deal meant the ruination of America. Philosophies aside, I think we'll all agree it's best their putsch was quietly aborted in the planning stages. Later, John and Robert Kennedy had fears of covert military action in the missile crisis. Looking back at Dallas, who can say for certain they were wrong?"
"Seven Days in May," Brognola quipped, immediately looking sorry for the comment.
"Yes, except that that was fiction. We are forced to deal with facts."
"Is there some indication of a plot against the White House?" Bolan asked, his stomach knotting at the implications.
"Not as yet," the President replied, but Bolan marked a certain hesitancy in his voice. "But if the plan to light a fuse in Nicaragua should succeed — or if the plotters should be scattered somehow, rather than eradicated… well, who knows?"
Mack Bolan knew, damn right. He knew enough from grim experience to realize that ruthless and ambitious men would stop at nothing to achieve their goals. He knew the Oval Office wasn't sacrosanct to men — in uniform and out — who felt betrayed by federal policies. The sort of men who saw their tiny world turned upside down by forces they could never understand and reached for guns instinctively, believing they could change the course of history through violence. They might be correct to some degree, but Bolan didn't wish to contemplate the changes they might bring about within a democratic state. He had no wish to see the White House or the Bill of Rights set up as targets in a shooting gallery.
He was familiar with the sort of men the President described. In Colorado, years before, he had aborted the abduction of another chief executive, exposing a respected military officer with years of service on the firing line as the technician of the plot. It had remained for yet another confrontation at the White Sands proving grounds for Bolan finally to settle that account in full.
He was familiar with men like Thurston Ward, a millionaire and self-appointed "savior" of America whose master plan involved unleashing a mutant plague bacillus in the Caribbean. Men like General Jeremiah Blackwell, whose insane desire to be the King of Africa could only be expunged with blood. Men like Colonel "Can-Do Charlie" Rosky, veteran of Vietnam turned mercenary gunner in the interests of a holy cause. Men like Tate Monroe, a dying oil tycoon who used his final days to plot the overthrow of Mexico's elected government.
The world was filled with loony-tune messiahs. Their logic might be convoluted to the point of nonexistence, and their causes might appear pathetic on the surface, but such men were extremely dangerous. Their fierce commitment to ideals, which other mortals couldn't fathom, set such men apart; their willingness to kill whole populations in pursuit of nebulous nirvanas made them deadly.
Calculating odds and angles in his mind, already certain he would take the mission, Bolan said, "There's too much stretch. I don't see any way to roll them up without some members getting word of trouble and escaping. If I start in Washington, you're almost sure to lose the shooters. If we kick off in Honduras, you could lose the brains before we work back up the ladder."
"We've anticipated the logistics problem," Hal replied before the President could speak. "You'd work the Latin end exclusively, with Able Team and Phoenix Force as backup."
"I have other plans for those in Washington," the chief executive told Bolan vaguely. "When the time comes, they will all be taken care of, I assure you."
Bolan couldn't say precisely what that meant, but he decided that it didn't really matter in the long run. While their punishment might not be terminal, he had a feeling that the brains behind the plot in Washington would rather die than face whatever Hal Brognola and the President had in mind. But the consequences they would have to face would depend on the relative success of Bolan's mission to the south.
If Bolan failed to bag the military arm of the conspiracy, if even one or two hard-core conspirators escaped, the plot might roll ahead on automatic pilot… or it might be radically diverted toward a secondary target. Like the President himself, for instance, or any number of "defeatist" congressmen whose votes had stalled appropriations for the Contras, or members of the general staff who had abided by their oaths to serve the Constitution with their lives, or spokesmen for the media whose editorials had questioned the expediency of supporting counterrevolutionary actions in the western hemisphere.
There seemed to be no end of likely targets if the game went sour, and the warrior knew that it would be an all-or-nothing situation once he took on the mission. If even one of his opponents was permitted to escape, permitted to survive, he would have failed.
"I'll do my best," he told the President, and he could almost feel Brognola wilting with relief beside him.
"Excellent. The two of you can make your own arrangements. As for transportation, covers and the like, you have my full cooperation and assurance that the chiefs of staff will show you every courtesy."
"It doesn't reach that high, then?"
"No, thank God." The President held up a hand, his thumb and index finger separated by perhaps a millimeter. "But we came that close."
Brognola's voice cut through the momentary silence. "I've pulled in Able Team and Phoenix Force," he told the Executioner. "They're coming in to Stony Man, and you can meet them there. We'll cover all the players when you get together, lay out the logistics on this thing."
Brognola must have caught the look on Bolan's face; he got no further i
n his spiel before his voice dried up and blew away.
"At Stony Man?"
"Why not? It's totally secure, and Kurtzman's got his toys on-line to handle the intelligence we need. There's no place else where we can carry off a meet like this without some danger of exposure."
And of course Hal knew "why not," as Bolan knew that he would have to play along. The memories were painful, sure, but they weren't the open, bleeding wounds that they had been. The Executioner had come a long way from the grief that was a flip side to the coin of death. His heart had mended, and with any luck at all, it would be stronger at the broken places.
So it was Stony Man, and hell, why not? It would be good to see the Bear again, the men of Able Team and Phoenix Force. Too good, perhaps. The Executioner would have to keep his mind on track, remember that the mission was a one-time-only hit-and-git. He wasn't signing on for any long-term tour of duty this late in the game.
"Okay," he said, and let it go at that.
"It's settled, then," the President announced, his eyes returning to Mack Bolan's face. "I want to thank you personally for your help."
"Let's wait and see if thanks are necessary."
"I have every confidence. Of course, if something should go wrong, some leak, perhaps…"
"The White House has no knowledge of my presence in the area."
"Unfortunately, no."
The soldier smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
The President looked momentarily confused, but it wasn't his favorite expression, and he quickly shifted back into the famous frown.
"I honestly regret your present circumstances, Mr. Bolan. Possibly if we had been in office when all this began…"
He let the statement trail away, already recognizing its absurdity. "All this" — the soldier's everlasting war — had been no more a White House problem at the outset than it was today. From time to time, the Oval Office occupants had tried to interpose themselves between Mack Bolan and his destiny. They hadn't been successful in the past, although his private duty sometimes coincided with the needs of public Washington, and the incumbent wouldn't be successful now. The Executioner was like a sentient force of nature, violating every law of physics as he constantly pursued the path of most resistance, homing on his targets as the need arose, as duty called. He had already tried the sanctioned route, allowing Hal Brognola and the White House to select his targets for him, and despite a string of hard-won victories against the savages, it hadn't worked. Betrayal from above had sabotaged the Phoenix program, costing precious lives and driving Bolan back into the wilderness, an outlaw hunted by both sides.
Rogue Force Page 6