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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.”

“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.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. And hurry up. We only have a few minutes.”

Grimaldi grabbed the uniform and headed aft while Bolan finished buttoning his own coat. Several rows of ribbons adorned the breast pocket of the uniform jacket, a Combat Infantry Badge and blue infantry braid among them. In this case, it wasn’t far from the truth. Bolan had earned all of them during his years as part of a sniper team in the Army.

When the two were dressed, they descended the steps of the C-37A aircraft, a U.S. Air Force version of the Gulfstream V business jet. The aircraft boasted advanced avionics, countersurveillance sensor packages and a hidden armory kept fully stocked with assorted pistols, SMGs, assault rifles and explosives of variable type and capability.

Bolan chose not to wear a sidearm for this visit. He could have secured his Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather beneath the Class A uniform, but he opted not to go that route. They were on a secure military installation, about to transfer to an even more secure location at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. A full-bird colonel showing up with a concealed sidearm or even a loaded pistol in military webbing around his waist would have attracted suspicion. It was Bolan’s skills in role camouflage that had kept him alive these many years, and he wasn’t about to blow it out of a sense of misguided paranoia.

An airman first class saluted the two officers as he opened the rear door for Bolan. Both men returned the salute, Grimaldi opting to take shotgun. The airman greeted them respectfully but didn’t say anything the remainder of the roughly twenty-minute trip along Norad Drive from the airfield on Fort Carson to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex entrance. After the security police waved them through following a close inspection of their vehicle and Bolan’s orders, stamped and certified by the Pentagon, the airman escorted them into the secure communications area.

Within minutes they were seated in the office of Bolan’s contact, Lieutenant Colonel Roland Osborne.

“How do you know this guy?” Grimaldi whispered.

Bolan seemed to consider the question for a moment. “I met him during my early days with the Stony Man program. I’ve helped him out a time or two since then.”

“So he knows Brandon Stone’s a cover.”

“Maybe and maybe not. Actually he knew me back when I used the John Phoenix cover. When I talked to him after he left the message, I managed to convince him that was a cover name I used back then and that Stone’s my real name.”

“What happens if you ever have to change it up again?” Grimaldi asked.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bolan said. “But even if I do, Oz won’t ask any questions. He’s got too much style for that and he understands that what I do for the country may not always fall within strict military guidelines.”

“Oz sounds like a good friend to have,” Grimaldi remarked.

“Like another good friend we know?” Bolan said with a smile.

Grimaldi started to conjure a reply but was interrupted by the opening of a door and the entrance of a black man who by Grimaldi’s estimates couldn’t have been any less than six-foot-six. Nearly as many medals donned the breast pocket of his Class A uniform coat as they did Bolan’s—probably a few more—with the most striking difference being that Roland Osborne bore the deep blue colors of the U.S. Air Force. Aside from that, he was clean-shaved with close-cropped curly black hair that was gray at the temples. He was handsome, distinguished and obviously quite pleased to see Bolan when he first laid eyes on him.

“As I live and breathe!” he bellowed, his voice deep and resonant. He stuck out a hand that Bolan rose and took immediately. “Colonel, it is damn fine to see you!”

“Same here, Oz,” Bolan replied easily. He nodded at Grimaldi who now stood, and said, “Meet my...adjutant, Jack Gordon.”

“Gordon?” Osborne said, offering Grimaldi a warm and dry handshake.

Grimaldi nodded and, noticing the almost mischievous twinkle in the colonel’s eye, found himself liking the guy right off. He had a vibe that few seemed to possess.

“Pleased, sir,” Grimaldi said, attempting to retain some official and military bearing. Osborne may not have been blind to Bolan’s real gig, but that didn’t mean Grimaldi saw any reason to go out of his way and advertise the fact. To anybody.

“No worries, Captain Gordon, just call me Oz and let’s skip all the stiff formality,” Osborne said.

He gestured for them to be seated and then said to Grimaldi, “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Whenever this man pays a call he’s usually alone.”

“I only joined his staff a few years ago,” Grimaldi replied simply.

Osborne nodded, obviously content with that, and then put his attention on Bolan. “So I got your message that you were flying in. I figured since you didn’t say more than that this wasn’t a social visit.”

“Afraid not,” Bolan said. “I’m here to follow up on that information you passed along to me, Oz.”

“The signals thing?” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. We still can’t make heads or tails of how the signals got redirected and decoded but we’re narrowing it down, closing in on the source of the hack into our systems.”

“I’m not completely up to speed on these signals you’re talking about,” Bolan interjected. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, you already know part of it, I would assume—at least given your background,” Osborne said. “In typical standard operations, non-classified and general orders or other things, we pipe communications through the normal channels. Emails, phone calls and whatnot. But each and every military operation deemed classified requires very specific protocols be used when transmitting orders.”

Bolan partially directed his voice at Grimaldi as he said, “You’re talking about all orders for classified missions, regardless of where they come from, have to go through NORAD.”

“Correct. We then verify the authenticity of the orders before they’re sent on to whatever might be the receiving unit.”

Grimaldi shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you lost me. What do you mean by ‘receiving unit’? You’re talking a military unit?”

Osborne gave him a sharp nod. “You betcher ass, Captain. Those transmissions are coded and, regardless of origin, we have to verify the authenticity of the orders before going out. We don’t want somebody, for example, to put out an Executive Order to launch nuclear missiles from a submarine halfway across the Pacific unless we know damn sure the orders were genuine.”

Grimaldi emitted a low whistle as he looked at Bolan. “Even I didn’t know that.”

Bolan nodded. “There can’t be any mistakes when you’re talking about coordinating military operations at any given point.”

“One miscommunication,” Osborne added, “and you could spark the next world war or cause a nuclear response from a country where none was intended. To say nothing of removing America’s advantage in a first-strike scenario.”

“Okay, Oz,” Bolan said. “That’s fair enough, but how would someone intercept these transmissions? And even if they did, how would they have the know-how to decode them?”

“I can’t answer that yet. But what I can tell you is that we found some hidden code that we can’t explain. When we decompiled and refactored it we realized it was an inside job—done so well that the source is indeterminate.”

“So how do you expect to find whoever intercepted the transmissions?” Bolan asked.

“The program was designed to route the transmissions through a very specific network of internal servers. Now the addresses were masked and we’ve hit the additional snag that the code is self-regressing.”

“Meaning?” Grimaldi asked with a furrowed brow.

It was Bolan who replied. “Meaning it was designed to self-destruct if discovered.”

“Bingo,” Osborne replied.

“How much more time to do you think you’re going to need to find this place?” Bolan asked.

“That’s the tough part to estimate,” Osborne said.

“Best guess?”

“Another day, maybe two. After that it won’t matter if we don’t have any answers because as you’ve pointed out, the code will have fractured to such a degree it’ll be useless as tits on a bull.”

“Fair enough,” Bolan said. “But what if I told you I know somebody who might be able to help you speed up the process?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Osborne said with splayed hands. “At this point I see we got nothing to lose trying everything.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bolan replied. “Because I have just the right guy for the job.”