“Okay, I’ll take it from the top.” As he said these words, the image of Aaron Kurtzman appeared in a window on the computer’s display. Bolan did not know the details of the communications link, but he understood that he was likely patched through to Stony Man Farm over numerous mobile phone lines to accommodate enough bandwidth for voice, data and video. The quality of the image in the small window was good enough for him to see the dark moons under Kurtzman’s eyes.
“It starts in 1991, five days before the beginning of the end of Desert Storm. A Rangers outfit that called themselves Seven Scorpions made a deep insertion in Iraq under orders from an Army colonel named Edwin Juvenal. He’s moved up a couple notches since to brigadier general rank. He sent them on a reconnaissance mission, ostensibly.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“Something didn’t sit right, so I ferreted out the original high-level reports. Even looking at low-res scans of the old paperwork I could tell they were doctored—altered after the fact. The orders to make the reconnaissance were not officially issued until Desert Storm was over and done with.” A second window opened on the display next to the image of Kurtzman. It showed Bolan a slow slide show of black and white military report scans.
“Juvenal was covering his ass,” Bolan observed. “Which means the insertion was not authorized by Desert Storm command.”
“Yeah, and it means Juvenal got some of his pals with rank to sign off on falsified orders and reports,” Kurtzman added. “Whatever their intent, the Seven Scorpions were inserted on what was planned to be a weeklong mission on a complete blackout.”
“That’s a long stint in hostile territory without support,” Bolan said.
“Despite their comic-book name, the Seven Scorpions were the best. I’ve looked up records on all seven, and they were the cream of the crop. Skilled, intelligent, dedicated and extremely loyal. Juvenal handpicked each for his own personal special ops outfit.”
“Picked them for one mission or several?” Bolan asked.
“Still working on that. Anyway, the official records list a bunch of reconnaissance briefings that were supposed to have been provided by the Seven during the mission in question, but they’re falsified. They were actually the work of another special ops mission and changed to add credibility to Juvenal’s report. In actuality, only one communiqué came from the Seven. It was twelve hours after the U.S. offensive commenced and things were already going south for Iraq in a hurry. The radio message from the Seven was coded, but it was essentially a Mayday. They were vastly outnumbered and about to surrender. They were never heard from again.”
“They were written off,” Bolan said. “Juvenal sacrificed them to his own career.”
“Yeah. My take on the thing is that Juvenal was out of the loop in Desert Storm. He didn’t know and didn’t think the final move against the Iraqis was coming so soon. It would have been a career killer to dampen the victory over Saddam with the announcement that seven unauthorized soldiers were at the mercy of Iraq. So he decided to forget they ever existed. Never mind that these were men with families. He probably figured the chaos of the second war with Iraq buried what was left of his tracks.”
“Then our friend Khalid al-Jabir materializes,” Kurtzman continued. “Tied to a Hamas-linked terror cell, arrested and charged.” The second window now displayed mug shots of the late Khalid al-Jabir. “Since he was arrested as a preventative measure, there were only conspiracy charges against him, and he knew he could bargain. That’s when he offered up information on a group U.S. special ops commandos being held somewhere in Iraq—prisoners of war for fifteen years. Juvenal got spooked, thinking the truth might come out after all these years.”
“How’d you find out about al-Jabir’s announcement, Bear?”
Bolan saw the grin grow on Kurtzman’s weary face. “One of the new spiders Akira and I have been fiddling with over the past couple of months to watch terrorist activity worldwide. You wouldn’t believe the how much good intelligence falls through the cracks. We’re uncovering some good leads. We usually just pass them on anonymously to the agencies in charge. This thing with al-Jabir came through just like the others, but it caught my eye for some reason, even though I was sure it would turn out to be a bluff by al-Jabir. But I dug around and found the false reports and the man’s credibility improved. At the same time I started watching his acquaintances closely. A couple of errant mobile phone calls told me about the prison break.”
“And told Juvenal,” Bolan added.
“Yeah.” Kurtzman’s face drooped. “I should have been keeping an eye on him, too, Striker. It never even occurred to me that he would make a move like this. Guess I screwed it up.”
“Don’t kick yourself, Bear. In the end it worked out for the best.”
There was silence. Kurtzman stared from the display window as if the video feed had locked up. Finally he asked, “How so?”
“We’ve got a better lead on Juvenal,” Bolan explained with a shrug. “We’ve got IDs on his enforcers, not to mention the SUV and the helicopter. We’ll use it to build a case against him.”
“Yes,” Kurtzman said slowly. “I’ve traced them all, fingerprints and serial numbers. They’re not convincing enough to prompt a court-martial against a general, I can tell that much. I’m still digging up dirt. But you haven’t told me what al-Jabir had to say. How much did he really know?”
“Not much,” Bolan said. “He oversold himself to the lawyers, but under duress he came clean.”
“So? Are there or are there not POWs in Iraq?”
“There were, as recently as two months ago, Bear,” Bolan said grimly. “And that was about all al-Jabir knew, when push came to shove.”
“Not enough intelligence to purchase leniency,” Kurtzman stated.
“No, it wasn’t. But he gave me a name. Hamza al-Douri.”
Kurtzman nodded and typed in the name, instantly initializing a search on the man. “Kuwaiti national. Government worker. Professional manager.”
“And Iraqi spy.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to see him.”
“His residence is in Kuwait City.”
“I’m getting a flight out now. I’ll transfer planes in London and be in Kuwait in fifteen hours. I thought commercial was the way to go.”
“Yeah,” Kurtzman agreed. He could have arranged for Bolan to take passage on any military aircraft that might be heading for the Middle East, but Bolan knew it would be better for Kurtzman to keep a low profile. Calling in favors from the military was standard practice at the Farm, but Barbara Price might ask about it. Or Hal Brognola.
“What’s eating you, Bear?” Bolan asked suddenly.
Kurtzman dragged his eyes away from the invisible horizon and looked at Bolan through the video window. “If Hamza al-Douri gives you the intelligence you need, you’ll go after those POWs. You’ll go into Iraq, Striker.”
It wasn’t a question so Bolan did not answer.
“If you put together a list of the world’s unsafe places, you know what would come out as number one?” Kurtzman demanded.
This time it was a question, but Bolan still said nothing.
“I’m going to work on this on my end,” Kurtzman said sharply, glaring at him. “If there’s a way to tie this to Juvenal or even just prove that these men are really there, I’m going to find it. We can use that to force their hand—have them send in a rescue operation or something. I’ll resort to a PR campaign if I have to.”
“The politics around this are dangerous,” Bolan observed.
“What do you call one man going in alone, without so much as official sanction? You’re the best, Mack, but there are plenty of remnants from the old regime—they’re fanatical. They’re murderous. And there is nobody they hate more than Americans.”
“I know all that.”
“Don’t go into Iraq. Not until I’ve done everything I can at this end. Not until we’re both convinced there’s no other way to bring those men ou
t.”
Bolan thought about that. He was not a man who took orders. Not anymore. He was the ultimate lone wolf, and there had been a time when the authority of Stony Man Farm had stifled his crusade, his War Everlasting, and he rebelled against it.
On the other hand, Aaron Kurtzman was about as good a friend as Mack Bolan had on Earth, and he was asking for a favor, not issuing commands.
Bolan nodded. “Okay, Bear. That makes sense.”
Kurtzman looked relieved. “I’ll have more to tell you in few hours.”
BOLAN WATCHED the scenery as they headed south. Approaching Baltimore the development grew heavier, soon they had bypassed the city and were heading for Washington, D.C.
He was bone tired, but he would sleep on the plane. Right now his mind was spinning with a quiet rage against the military bureaucrats and power players who had done this deed. How could they rationalize abandoning loyal soldiers to a fate worse than death?
Bolan would deal with the bureaucrats later. First, if he could, he would save the prisoners. He would find them, wherever they were in the vastness of Iraq.
Intoxicated by exhaustion, his mind slipped from the sandy wastelands to the jungle. He thought back to the other men who had been left behind by the nation they fought for. Many of those men were unaccounted for to this day. Their fate became official with the slap of a rubber stamp on their military file: MIA.
How many of those men were not dead?
Bolan heard something crack, and it brought him back to full awareness. His hand, gripping the closed notebook, had been squeezing harder. And harder. The plastic shell was broken in the corner.
Minor damage.
But Bolan felt a sudden resolve. One way or another, dead or alive, the Seven Scorpions would be recovered.
Even if he had to do it alone, Bolan would bring them back.
6
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Kurtzman started awake and grabbed the wheels of his chair when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Sorry, Aaron,” Barbara Price said.
“It’s okay.”
“Why not get some real sleep. Like in a bed.”
Kurtzman nodded glumly. “Might as well.”
Barbara Price, the honey-blond Stony Man mission controller, wanted to grill Kurtzman on whatever was keeping him busy virtually around the clock for the past thirty-six hours. She had a vague idea that he was protecting her—trying to avoid dragging her into troublesome territory.
Finally she asked simply, “Find what you were looking for?”
Kurtzman looked at the floor and began rolling away. All he said was, “No.”
Kuwait
DAWLAT AL-KUWAYT, or the State of Kuwait, looked much like any other stretch of Middle Eastern desert. There were a few small patches of fertile ground and a major oasis, the al-Jahrah. But as with many Middle Eastern nations, its truly valuable resources were hidden underground.
Oil was discovered in Kuwait in the 1930s and, like many other Middle East nations, oil came to dominate the country’s economy. In fact, despite its small size geographically, it was one of the largest producers of oil in the world.
But Kuwait became unique in the 1980s when the nation began to make more from its global oil money investments than it did from the oil itself. Kuwait was the kid on the block with the most toys, and Iraq was the bully next door who simply didn’t have the self-control to hold his jealousy in check. Iraq stormed into Kuwait and confiscated all the toys it could find—and claimed the rich kid’s house was actually on its property all along.
The invasion of Kuwait was motivated by petty jealousy disguised, in Iraq, by a propaganda campaign that even the Iraqis had trouble swallowing. Bolan had always viewed it as a brutal, foolhardy undertaking by a vicious, desperate despot. All these years after Desert Storm Iraq was still recovering from tyrannical leadership.
Kuwait, meanwhile, had used its vast riches to rebuild its single metropolis—home to almost all its people—and was again a shining jewel of the Middle East.
Mack Bolan wasn’t rested, although the flight from Washington, D.C., and London had seemed endless, and he was pacing the cage long before the Saudi Air 747 settled ponderously on the runway in Kuwait City.
The updates from Aaron Kurtzman were not exactly comprehensive. There wasn’t much intelligence available on the guilty parties in the U.S. military or on the Iraqi spies in Kuwait, but Bolan didn’t allow this to discourage him. If the world’s greatest cybernetic intelligence gatherer could not find the data, then the data probably did not exist.
It was Kurtzman who was truly disappointed, plagued by a growing concern about sending Bolan alone into Iraq. Kurtzman wanted evidence. He wanted to nail the U.S. military bureaucrats who were complicit in the deed and the cover-up.
In fact, Bolan wondered about the intensity of his friend’s interest in the POWs. Kurtzman had experienced countless missions. Why take this one personally?
Bolan thought he knew the answer—part of the answer, anyway. It had to do with the changed mood at Stony Man Farm, which was like the altered perspective of someone recovering from the loss of a limb in a serious accident.
The full weight of the analogy settled like a black cloud on Mack Bolan as he strode through the airport terminal. He was thinking about the loss of a friend, a one-armed man. Then he was thinking about the loss of many friends.
And then he was thinking about the loss of loved ones.
His eyes scanned the airport like the alert watch of a hunting cheetah, assessing every human being for threat potential. His jungle warrior skills evaluated every movement, every affectation, looking for suspicious behavior.
But that was all below the surface. In his consciousness he was as alone as the sole survivor of nuclear holocaust.
April. Katz. He almost spoke the names aloud.
Sam Bolan, the father who went mad with shame and rage and resorted to murder.
He had long ago forgiven Sam Bolan.
He was standing in the afternoon sun of the Middle East. He didn’t notice the glare, or the burning on his skin, or the searing desert heat. His thoughts were leading him into the darkest, coldest dungeon of his memory.
Cindy.
She was a child. The innocent with the heart of gold. She sold herself into prostitution to rescue her family, to save her father. That was the shame that drove Sam Bolan over the brink. She was slain by the father she would save.
It occurred to Mack Bolan that even if he did not understand what in particular struck a chord with Kurtzman about the POWs, he understood that fervor. That motivation. That drive.
To him, every battle in his War Everlasting was a personal undertaking. With every breath he took he fought to avenge his family, the victims who could never, ever be avenged.
With one hand, Mack Bolan shaded his eyes from the brilliant light of the sun.
THE ASSISTANT DIRECTOR’S 100-watt smile lost some of its brilliance when he saw the man his secretary ushered into the office. The American was tall, with a build somehow both agile and powerful. He had dark hair and chiseled, hawklike features. He was Caucasian but his skin was dark, like desert workers who spend a lifetime out in the sun.
Unlike the desert laborers, this man had eyes that were glacial blue, as sharp as the glinting blade of a freshly stropped steel razor. They saw all, those eyes, while commanding the assistant director’s complete attention.
They commanded the attention of his secretary, too, apparently. The young man was usually annoyingly cool and in control, but now he practically stammered the introduction. “May I present Mr. Matthew Cooper. Mr. Cooper, this is Assistant Hamza al-Douri.” The secretary blushed scarlet. “Assistant Director Hamza al-Douri.”
“Mr. Cooper,” al-Douri said, shaking the American’s hand. A moment of contact told him it was a hand that had killed. Maybe frequently. Al-Douri waved at a chair.
Bolan sat, comfortably, not quite smiling, supremely confident.
“Tea, Mr. Cooper?” asked the secretary. It was a breach in etiquette. It robbed al-Douri of the opportunity to take the role of host.
“No, thank you.”
Another breach in etiquette. In Kuwait, and globally, Americans were known as stumblers when it came to following local traditions. Kuwaitis didn’t take offense—it wouldn’t do to be irritated with the saviors of your nation. But for many Kuwaitis, who often attended university in the UK, tea was a tradition worth pushing for.
This Cooper was not a stumbler. Al-Douri did not push the tea. He glared his secretary out of the room and took his place behind the desk.
“Your visit has caught me unprepared, I am afraid, Mr. Cooper.”
“I can imagine,” Bolan replied.
Al-Douri tolerated the silence for a few seconds, but the American refused to explain further.
“As an assistant director, I serve as an adjutant for members of the National Assembly, so your discussions should probably begin with the actual members of the Majlis al-Umma, whatever the nature of your business may be….” He looked expectantly at Bolan, who didn’t even blink.
“So! Please tell me how I can be of service.”
“One moment,” Bolan said. And he sat there.
Al-Douri became increasingly agitated over the next ten seconds. Something beeped, and Bolan extracted an unusually large mobile phone from his lightweight sports jacket, scanning the display.
“I’ve been waiting for this information,” Bolan explained, nodding at whatever was on the display as he pulled out a slim notebook of battered black leather. He quickly and efficiently copied the information from his phone display onto paper. “You’ll find it interesting, too.”
Al-Douri’s mystification grew. His dealings with assorted Americans and other Westerners hadn’t prepared him for this oddball character. This Cooper would have been amusing if he didn’t carry with him a sense of menace, as potent as the growl of a carnivorous big cat pitched almost too low to be heard. With a knock, al-Douri’s dapper secretary poked his head in.
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