For now, it was enough to know that Bolan and his other trusted men were on the job. Together with the normal complement of Secret Service agents, it would have to be enough.
Please, God, he thought, just let it be enough.
* * *
Barbara Price found "Colonel Phoenix" walking in the open fields behind the ranch house, hands thrust deep into his pockets, studying the tree line. She was fifty yards away when he turned to face her with a distant smile.
"I'm sorry. Would you rather be alone?" she asked.
"Not really."
"Good."
The smile was warmer now, as she drew closer, but there was still a certain hesitance about him. Barbara wondered if it was the mission or herself that bothered him the most.
"A penny for your thoughts."
"You wouldn't get your money's worth," he said.
"You were all brilliant in Honduras."
"Were we? Forty percent casualties, and we missed the fox completely."
"Still…"
"What brings you to this kind of life?" he asked her, taking Barbara by surprise.
She shook her head. "You'll think it's corny."
"Try me."
"Sure, okay. In college half the people in my classes had their eyes fixed on a dollar sign. The other half spent all their time deploring our society. It took a while, but gradually I became convinced there must be something in between."
"Such as?"
"A sense of values. Oh, I don't mean God and apple pie necessarily. But good and evil, right and wrong. I guess I started feeling that I ought to stand for something."
"It can be a lonely life."
"I used to think so."
Bolan searched her eyes, and Barbara held his gaze, unblinking. "You were right the first time," he told her.
Barbara shook her head. "I've changed my mind." She hesitated, searching for precisely the right words, then screwed up her courage to begin. "I talked to Aaron while you were away. I tricked him into talking, I'm afraid. He didn't tell me everything, of course… a lot of it was need-to-know… but he filled me in on some of the details about… about April Rose."
"I see."
He hadn't sounded angry, so she forged ahead. "I know that I was prying, and I do apologize, but… well, I had to know what drove you out. I mean, this project, this facility, was yours. You walked away from all of this. I had to understand that. Please forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive," he told her, sounding like he meant it. "Anyway, what happened here was only part of it. Sooner or later I would have had to leave, regardless."
"Now I'm confused again."
"Join the club." His smile seemed genuine, if sad. "Did Aaron tell you anything about… before?"
She shook her head. "I didn't push him. As I said, the rest of it was strictly need-to-know."
The soldier frowned. "I'd say you have a need."
And in the next hour he enlightened her. About a family torn by debts and lies. A father driven to the point of desperation. The surviving son, a veteran of other killing grounds, who found a lethal enemy already waiting for him on the home front. He regaled her with the thumbnail version of an everlasting war, a life in hiding that was interrupted all too briefly by a season at Stony Man Farm. When he was finished, Barbara knew who she was talking to, knew all that he had suffered, and it broke her heart.
"I remember the news of your 'death,' in New York."
He grinned. "The reports were greatly exaggerated."
"So I see."
"You must have been in high school at the time."
"Not quite."
"A prodigy?"
She laughed. "You guessed it."
The man whom she knew as Phoenix turned to face her in the twilight. "I'm old enough to be your father," he informed her.
"Sorry. All of us were psychoanalyzed before we got our postings to the farm, and I have no confusion in that area."
"I see."
"From personal experience, I'd say you're very capable."
"And if tonight is all there is?"
"Then let's not waste it, hmm?"
The soldier took her hand and led her back in the direction of the farmhouse.
* * *
In his motel room, off the Jefferson Davies Highway in Arlington, Michael McNerney sat upright in bed, watching television. His face was on the screen, blown up to nearly twice life-size, a somber portrait that had been strategically cropped to eliminate most traces of his military uniform. The charges had been sanitized as well, avoiding any mention of the San Felipe raid, Central America or the army in general. They had him down as some kind of demented neo-Nazi, and McNerney gave them points for thinking on their feet. He was amused to see that he had made the FBI's Most Wanted list.
Next up, a story that intrigued him even more. The President was leaving Washington next morning for Camp David, where he would confer with Soviet ambassadors for several days. No firm agenda was available, but local newsmen speculated that the list of topics for discussion might include Afghanistan and arms reduction.
Turning off the TV set, McNerney paced the narrow room for several moments, lost in thought. He wasn't worried by the broadcast of his picture or the artificial charges lodged against him. It was disconcerting that they had already blown his alias as "Ernest King," but he was registered at the motel as Arnold Greenglass, and he doubted that the slob-ass on the desk would watch — or comprehend — the television news. He should be safe tonight, and in the morning he was moving, anyway.
The presidential story was of greater interest to McNerney, and the germ of an idea was stirring in his mind as he walked back to the bed, reclining with his eyes closed, thinking through the problems and advantages of what he had in mind.
He knew Camp David better than the average American who scans the highway maps of Maryland in vain for any sign of the chief executive's retreat. Some years ago he had accompanied a senior officer from Washington to the presidential hideaway, delivering a message from the Pentagon. From the abbreviated clips he'd seen on television here and there, the general layout of the buildings at Camp David hadn't changed, and after flying in that once, McNerney was convinced that he could find — and penetrate — the camp's perimeter.
There would be guards, and if the FBI had traced him to the capital as "Ernest King," security around the President would be redoubled. Still, it might be worth the risk, an opportunity to bag the greatest traitor in the nation, even as he huddled with acknowledged enemies of the United States. With any luck he might succeed in bagging all concerned, driving his point home with a vengeance.
It had all the makings of a historic moment, and McNerney smiled to himself as he began to work the angles out. By dawn, just before fitful sleep surprised him, carried him away, the brigadier was confident that he could penetrate Camp David, kill the famous men inside and make his getaway.
It was essential, after all, for the savior of America to live so he could fulfill his destiny. He had so much to do before they brought him down, so many enemies to vanquish yet. And there was no time like the present to begin.
30
The limousine had diplomatic plates and tiny Soviet flags mounted on each fender above the headlights. It was armored, stem to stern, with tinted windows guaranteed to stop .50 caliber rounds at a range of thirty yards. The tires were puncture-proof, and the limo's undercarriage was sealed against explosives, toxic gas or flames. Hidden gunports in the several doors provided passengers with the option of returning hostile fire when feasible.
Sequestered in the rear, with Katz and Gary Manning facing him from folding jump seats, Hal Brognola felt ridiculous. He didn't even recognize Grimaldi up front, with the chauffeur's cap pulled low across his brow. The suit and bulky overcoat, in European cut, felt awkward, out of style. Brognola glowered at the passing countryside, imagining himself as a performer in a grade-C gangster movie.
"This will never work," he growled. "Whose idea was this, anyway?"
/> "You know who," Katz replied. "Relax, already. You don't even have to speak the language, chief. Just put in an appearance, sit around here looking Russian until someone tries to blow your head off, then we take him."
"Swell. As chief of Soviet security, you give me loads of confidence."
"We aim to please, comrade."
"How much longer?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take," Grimaldi answered from the driver's seat. "We're getting there."
"My luck, the bastard will be on-site, waiting for us."
"Not a chance, sir," Manning told him. "Secret Service has been running sweeps around the clock since the announcement. No one's broken the perimeter."
"What makes you think McNerney will get through?"
"He wants to," Katz replied. "If we're on target with this yo-yo's thinking, he's committed to the death. He won't be put off by a few security precautions."
"Oh, so it's a few now, is it? Jesus, I hate feeling like a sitting duck."
"You've got the safest duck pond in the world," the gruff Israeli said. "Once in, McNerney won't be coming out again."
"The President?"
"Is safe and sound in Washington, as per the plan. A team of Secret Service men drove the limo and a tail car up this morning, early. From appearances, they had no tail."
"He might be here already."
"Possibly, but there's no visual on the compound from outside. He'd need an airlift, and we've got that covered, five by five."
"No chance a watcher could have made the decoy team this morning?"
"Negative. They went in black, without exterior exposure."
"Well, that's something. Now, if I can make the bastard think I'm Russian, we may have a chance."
"No sweat," Katz grinned. "You bureaucrats all look alike."
Hal didn't join the laughter of his bodyguards. Conditioned to accept the risks of hazardous assignments, wounded more than once in confrontation with the ever-changing enemy, he worried not so much about himself as over how McNerney might react if he was foiled… and then escaped. Katz had described the chief executive's retreat as totally escape-proof, but they were already counting on McNerney to break in. That done, if he wasn't eliminated on the grounds, there seemed to be no prima facie reason why the goddamned guy couldn't break out again.
The key was tagging him on-site before he had an opportunity to cut and run. The President wasn't at risk this time, but if McNerney knew that he had been deceived, if he should slip the net, they might not have a second chance to draw him off his target. He would almost certainly be extra cautious, choose his time and place with greater care… or would he lose it, detonating like a human time bomb in some shopping mall or supermarket, taking down as many innocents as possible in an expression of his rage?
The possibilities were endless unless they nailed him here.
"I hope we're squared away," Hal said to no one in particular.
"We're set," Katz assured him.
"Let's run it down again."
"Okay," Katz said, sighing. "At 8:15 p.m we'll lose power over twenty-three square miles, including Camp David and two nearby communities. A story will be phoned in to a deejay just outside the zone, to cover radios in cars, transistors, everything like that. According to the scoop, a trucker dozing at the wheel took out a power station on the interstate. Repairs are under way, etcetera. We give our man two hours. That's his window. If he's on the scene, he'll use it. If he's not… well, then we're playing with ourselves."
Hal frowned. "We're dealing with a goddamned brigadier. He'll know the camp has backup generators."
"Did have," Katz corrected him. "At 8:19 the backups will kick in for thirty seconds and then fail, spectacularly. Write it off to faulty maintenance, whatever. These things happen."
"Now we're stretching."
"So? We're dealing with a lunatic who wants to kill the President and anybody else available. He's rational?"
"He may be crazy, but he isn't stupid."
"It'll work."
"I hope so."
"Striker's betting on it."
"Hell, we all are."
And Brognola's frown became a scowl. It wasn't only Bolan riding on the line this time. With power down, the camp was vulnerable to McNerney, and to anyone he brought along with him. Despite the double complement of Secret Service agents, despite three special warriors on the grounds and three more ready at his side, Brognola knew that they could lose it here. Two hours was a lifetime, with a madman on the prowl, and anything could happen in the darkness of Camp David, stripped of its electric fences, sensors, TV cameras and alarms.
McNerney wouldn't find the President tonight, but he might find Brognola. He might find the house staff, varied agents of the Secret Service, men of Phoenix Force and Able Team. God willing, he would find the Executioner instead, and it would be all over.
* * *
McNerney had no firm idea of how to breach the camp's defenses, but he knew he had to try. His target was inside, together with the Soviet ambassador, a symbol of the evil that endangered all Americans, the very values of the nation that he loved with all his heart and soul. Regardless of the danger, he must find a way inside the enemy encampment and strike his blow against the godless traitors who were ruining America.
From his initial visit to the camp, McNerney knew about its lethal fences, eight feet high and topped with razor wire, electric current adequate to barbecue a brontosaurus coursing through the "innocent" chain links. He knew about the inner line of sensors, with their knee-high beams invisible to human eyes, which sounded an alarm inside the compound any time the beams were broken. Other sensors, closer to the presidential home away from home, were sensitive to pressure on the ground itself, and television cameras provided Secret Service guards with views of the surrounding property from every angle.
It should be impossible for him to make his way inside, conduct his business and escape intact… but he was bound to try. He hadn't come this far and dared this much to simply turn his back and walk away.
With darkness, he prepared himself to scout the camp's perimeter on foot. His hands and face were blackened with cosmetics, snowy hair concealed beneath a stocking cap. His turtleneck and jeans were black, as were the sneakers on his feet. The Winchester Security Defender, with its pistol grip and eighteen-inch barrel, hung across his back, available when needed with seven rounds of buckshot in the magazine and one already in the firing chamber. The Sako Finnbear, shoulder slung with muzzle downward, held five rounds of 7 mm Remington Magnum with 175-grain Core-Lokt slugs. Remington advertised its Core-Lokt rounds as the "ultimate mushrooms," with destructive power capable of stopping most big game. With a muzzle velocity of 3,250 feet per second, the Magnum rounds would strike their target with three thousand foot-pounds of explosive energy at a hundred yards. They should be adequate, McNerney thought, for what he had in mind.
Around his waist, across his chest, he carried bandoliers of extra ammunition for the shotgun and the rifle. Ideally he wouldn't be squaring off against the Secret Service team in residence, but conditions were far from ideal. He would be lucky to walk away from this one with his life, McNerney realized… and still, he had no choice.
He was making a final equipment check, prepared to lock his car and leave it, when he noticed something indefinably out of place. Searching the tree line of Camp David, he pondered the problem for a moment and was almost ready to blame an attack of nerves when he turned around and glanced back in the direction of the nearest crossroads village.
It was dark, the combination grocery store and all-night service station black as pitch, where lights had blazed a moment earlier. A good mile farther on, almost beyond the rim of sight, McNerney thought he could recall a power pole in someone's front yard, but he couldn't be sure, for now the highway was in utter darkness.
Slipping back inside his rental car, immediately grateful that he had removed the dome light's tiny bulb, he turned the ignition key to permit use of the radio wit
hout starting the engine. Pushing buttons on the radio, McNerney finally found a country station that sounded clear and reasonably close, then waited through the final bars of a song, hoping for some mention of what seemed to be a local blackout.
When the deejay came on, McNerney first mistook him for another country singer, twangy voice and "jive talk" rhythm grating on his nerves. The words were music to his ears, however, as the jock announced a sudden power outage covering the best part of a county. Some damned fool had wrapped his semi around a power pole or some such nonsense, and crews were rushing to the scene.
The blackout made no difference to McNerney, since the Secret Service had their own auxiliary power in the compound. Still, it could facilitate a getaway if things progressed that far. He left the car, hiked twenty yards into the woods and found the high electric fence with warning signs suspended from the razor wire. As if to emphasize the danger, little floodlights had been mounted with Danger signs, ensuring that nocturnal trespassers and nearsighted fools had fair warning before they fried themselves on the wire. The brigadier was pondering a method of avoiding any such disaster when the floodlights flickered, dimmed and finally went out.
He froze, alert to any sign or sound of danger. From the middle distance, in the direction of the compound proper, he could hear a momentary sound of sizzling, like bacon in a skillet, followed by the muffled crump of an explosion. Waiting in the darkness, he wondered if somehow, providentially, the backup generators had failed… and if snipers in the trees were ready to cut him down.
It still could be a trick, he knew, although it seemed to be elaborate and pointless. Even granting that they knew his mission, would the Secret Service strip a President and foreign delegates of all security to trap him here? It struck him as improbable, and yet…
He found a fallen tree branch, three feet long, and took it to the fence, propping one end on the ground at arm's length and allowing it to fall. It struck the chain link squarely with a thin metallic twang… but without the shower of sparks and the crackling sound McNerney was expecting.
Rogue Force Page 30