Thunder Down Under

by Don Pendleton

  Brognola leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Payne, the security of this facility is a top priority. I’m sure the President holds you in high regard, but to be blunt, advisers come and go. I know you can appreciate that the whereabouts of Stony Man must be safeguarded.

  “And so to the matter at hand... Maybe you can fill me in on exactly what we’re supposed to do?” he asked. “Babysitting a spoiled billionaire isn’t in our scope of operations and, last time I checked, Stony Man doesn’t have any surveyors on staff to scope out potential locations for another gaudy hotel.”

  The corner of Payne’s mouth twitched but he managed to restrain himself. He was about to reply when there was a knock at the door, making all three of them look up.

  Price’s mouth started to fall open when she saw Stony Man’s resident hacker, Akira Tokaido, standing behind a rolling cart containing cups, a creamer and sugar dish, and a large, insulated carafe. She quickly snapped it closed as he nodded to everyone. “Just brought some coffee for you all.”

  “Um, thank you.” Payne seemed a bit thrown off by his arrival, but recovered quickly as Tokaido wheeled the cart in.

  Price exchanged a puzzled glance with Brognola—neither of them had ordered coffee. What’s more, Tokaido was the last person they expected to see pouring it. What was he up to?

  “Coffee, Ms. Price?” the young computer hacker asked.

  “Um, yes, thank you...Akira.” She watched him carefully as he poured, but the young man gave nothing away as he placed her cup and saucer in front of her. It was only when she leaned forward to get a whiff of the brew that she realized what he—or more likely Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, his boss, and he—had done.

  Oh, no—

  Unable to say anything, she watched as Payne added sugar and cream to his cup and blew on it as he continued talking. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Brognola, Australia contains vast mineral and rare earth resources that are necessary for industrial manufacturing here in the United States. Purchasing them from a friendly nation precludes the issue of trying to purchase them from other, possibly not-so-friendly sources.”

  “Oh, come now, I’m sure your buddies in the Kremlin will spot you some of that rare earth you all seem to suddenly like so much,” Brognola replied as Tokaido set a cup of black coffee in front of him. The movement distracted Payne from seeing Price possibly wince. “Just get on your private line to the president—the Russian one, of course—and I bet he’d set you right up.”

  Payne fixed Brognola over the rim of his cup with what he no doubt thought was a steely glare of his watery brown eyes. It was like watching a goldfish try to stare down a grizzly bear. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Price would have laughed.

  “Mr. Brognola, I don’t know what you think you know, but I can assure you that neither I nor the President appreciate your insinuations.” With that, he raised the cup to his lips and sipped.

  The expression that appeared his face would have been priceless under any other circumstances. Kurtzman’s brew was legendary for its ability to resemble something that looked and somewhat smelled like coffee, but that was where the resemblance ended. No one knew what he used to make it, or how he brewed it, but it was safe to say it was some of the vilest liquid on the planet.

  For the first time Payne’s face twisted in what could demonstrably be seen as an actual human reaction. His lips pursed and his nose, eyes and forehead scrunched into an unmistakable grimace at the acrid, bitter taste.

  “Well, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks state secrets like a duck...” While speaking, Brognola picked up his cup, as well, and took a tentative sip. “But, overall, I wouldn’t know, Mr. Payne,” he said after swallowing, “since the President only saw fit to grace us with his presence for about five minutes since his inauguration. Instead, I just meet with one of his representatives and we keep doing what we’ve been doing for the past few administrations.”

  With a strangled gasp that he valiantly tried to disguise as clearing his throat, Payne put the cup back down on the saucer and pushed it away so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the polished table. Price regarded it for a moment, wondering if this was the batch that would finally eat through the wood.

  Payne started to speak, coughed, cleared his throat and then tried again. “As I recall, that is the job of the POTUS regarding your operation, correct? To be instrumental in advising this...facility as to its overall mission and general objectives.”

  Brognola raised a bushy eyebrow and even Price was surprised at the bureaucrat’s quotation of the document that delineated, in the broadest terms, the arms-length agreement between the White House and the Farm—an arrangement that had worked very well so far. Payne, as an adviser to the President, had access to very sensitive information at the highest levels of clearance. That didn’t bode well for Stony Man at all.

  Lowering his eyebrow, the big Fed placed his cigar in the other side of his mouth. “Indeed. And what—precisely—does the President wish us to do about this situation?”

  “Well...that’s the reason I decided to come here personally.” Payne looked around the room, which, while not richly appointed, was comfortable enough for those who used it on a day-to-day basis. “There has been some...disagreement over what it is that you people actually do here.”

  “I’m sure you already know about my jacket with Justice, so I won’t bore you with the details. The operatives of Stony Man are professional troubleshooters on a long-term contract with the United States government,” Brognola said in a flat tone.

  The answer must have satisfied Payne because he seemed to relax slightly. “That seems to be a fair assessment overall. And that is exactly what we need—a, er, troubleshooter to travel to Melbourne and look into this situation on our behalf. After all, the business of America is business, right?”

  “Actually, President Coolidge’s quote is ‘the business of the American people is business,’” Price said. “It’s often misquoted, but it’s a rather important distinction.”

  Her correction drew what passed for a glare from Payne. She barely felt it. If this was the best the White House could dredge up, she mused, the government just might be in worse shape than she thought.

  “Regardless, we want you to send one of your people down there to reassure Martin and take a look around, try to find out what’s really going on there. Supposedly your people are discreet, which is of importance in handling this matter. All the necessary details are in the report we’ve forwarded to you,” Payne said as he rose from his chair. “And I’ll be checking in with you on the progress of this mission on a regular basis.”

  “We look forward to coordinating our resources with, uh, you. I’ll walk you out.”

  “No need—I can find the way.” With a brusque nod at both of them, Payne began striding out of the room.

  “That’s all right, I’m heading back that way myself.” It was more than professional courtesy Price was extending—she didn’t want him roaming around the farmhouse for a second.

  She escorted the President’s adviser to the front entrance where he got into a vehicle and headed to the airstrip and the helicopter that would head to DC.

  Price exhaled wearily—even though it wasn’t even noon yet—and walked back to the conference room to join Brognola. He was still sitting in his chair and he raised his head to stare back at her with an expression she had rarely seen on him before.

  “Tell me something, Barbara. Have I missed something or have general IQs dropped sharply in the past year or two?”

  “I don’t know. Do you mean outside the Farm or that juvenile stunt that Akira and Bear just pulled?” She spread her hands and shrugged. “To be honest, I didn’t think we could sink any lower than these past couple of years, but lately it seems the world is continually trying to surprise me.”

  “You and me both.” Brognola glared at the screen,
then looked east, toward the general direction of Capitol Hill and the White House. “It’s not like we haven’t weathered our share of incompetents and interfering busybodies before, but this is beyond the pale.”

  Price nodded, opting to remain silent on the matter. A certain amount of political turnover and renewal was often the case when the presidency changed hands, but in this most recent case, this new administration had been much more difficult to work with.

  “So, give me the rundown on this Martin guy and what’s going on Down Under,” Brognola said. “There’s been no reason to even look at Australia for any real terrorist activity that extends to more than a few people, and certainly no major organized activity. Even that man who ran his car into that crowd in Melbourne last year? The final report was that he was mentally ill and trying to protest the treatment of his fellow Muslims by the government. The biggest actual thing I can remember was when Turkey’s General Consul was assassinated back in 1980. Hell, they even outlawed the majority of their guns a couple decades back, didn’t they?”

  Price nodded. “That’s all correct. This situation is a bit more unusual, due to the parties involved.” She pressed a button on her tablet and another picture of the man who had been ranting on the television appeared on the monitor.

  “Angus Martin is a billionaire industrialist who runs Wallcorloo National, his energy company, which is headquartered in Melbourne. He’s third generation and, while he inherited the company from his father, he’s taken it to astounding new heights, building it to among the largest companies on the continent over the last fifteen years.”

  “Probably on the backs of the public, if I know his type,” the big Fed grumbled around his stogie. “Okay, so what’s his problem?”

  “Over the past year, there have been several vandalism and industrial sabotage incidents aimed at various Australian companies. They’ve been mostly limited to equipment damage, although there was an incident at a copper mine involving explosives that brought down a side of an open pit. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

  Price slid her finger across the tablet and an icon of a white wallaby in a hard hat against a sky-blue background came up. Under it was the words Wallcorloo National. “Wallcorloo is involved in rare earth mineral and natural gas mining throughout the continent.”

  She moved on to the next slide: a map of Australia with a small red dot in roughly the center of the continent. “The most recent incident occurred ten days ago at their automated LNG mining and refining plant on the edge of the Amadeus field, a massive natural gas deposit.” She brought up two smaller pictures, one of an older man, the other of a man in his early twenties. “Along with the on-site sabotage, estimated to delay full production by several weeks and cost more than two million dollars, two men, Logan Weathers and Connor King, were killed as a result of a clash with the saboteurs. As of this briefing, the perpetrators haven’t yet been caught.”

  “And Martin thinks the indigenous population—specifically the AFN—is behind this?” Brognola frowned. “If so, that’s news to me. There hasn’t been any sort of organized resistance like that since...well, ever, as far as I know.”

  Price’s eyebrows raised but she lowered them just as quickly. It wasn’t that her superior was wrong; she was just a bit surprised that he knew about the general history of indigenous protest and resistance in Australia at all. But that’s what made him Hal Brognola—behind his sometimes unkempt appearance and gruff demeanor hid an analytical mind like a titanium trap.

  “Correct, Hal,” she replied, bringing up another slide of what looked like a ruddy-red cliff rising out of the ground against a white background. “Aboriginal Freedom Now was established back in 2002, and has always espoused open dialogue and nonviolent means to bring about change between the government and the indigenous population. That’s why this raised a red flag at our Australian embassy, which sent the report that I think eventually put this scenario on this administration’s radar.”

  “Well, that and this blowhard spouting off about this group. Has AFN released any kind of official statement about that incident?”

  “Yes, clearly stating that they had no involvement, and condemning the deaths of those two officers in the strongest terms possible.” Price set her tablet on the table. “The fact is, as you’d mentioned, there isn’t any record of a group resorting to this kind of violence in the country, especially not murder, to accomplish their aims.”

  “Right. Look, I feel for them—both the victims and the AFN receiving what sounds like a smear job from Martin—but this still sounds like a matter the locals would be better equipped to handle,” Brognola replied. “I respect the hell out of them, and I’m pretty sure they don’t want us sticking our nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” Price said. “As Payne went to such lengths to intimate, Martin’s got a lot in common with a certain person in DC—he’s boorish and brash, but he’s got too much money and political clout to simply ignore. And Payne was right about one thing—those minerals in Australia would be easier to buy from Aussies than from somewhere hostile to the US. Our ambassador, however, stated in her report that due to the delicate situation with the indigenous population and their struggle for increased rights, the government would actually appreciate it if an outside investigator would come in and take a look at the situation. Naturally, neither she nor her counterparts could go on the record with this—the embarrassment would be intense. But she’s assured us that the Australian parliament would be very grateful if we could get to the bottom of this issue—unofficially, of course.”

  “And you think this is the best use of both our and Striker’s time and resources?”

  “At the moment, yes.” Price sat in a chair closer to him. “And although I know you hate dancing to anyone’s tune, with so much uncertainty around DC these days, it might be best to suck it up this time and notch a win on our belt. We can be team players, right?”

  Brognola’s hand went to his chest as if he was trying to soothe an incipient case of heartburn. “I may have trained you too well, Barbara. You do know if we give someone like Payne an inch, he’ll come back and take a mile?”

  “Right now, I don’t see that we have any choice. We have to make if we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing. At least until after the next election.”

  “You’re right.” The big Fed heaved a sigh then straightened and got that familiar glint in his eye. “Okay, I’ll call Striker in on this on one condition—that there is no blowback for Akira and Bear regarding the coffee incident.”

  “Hal...” Recognizing the box she was in, Price threw up her hands and nodded. “All right, no blowback. At least Mack is nearby in Philadelphia.” She rose and headed for the door to begin preparing for Bolan’s mission. “No wonder everyone around here just goes around doing whatever they want...”

  “Now, Barbara, you know that’s not true,” the big Fed said as she got to the exit. “Admit it...as soon as you knew what was going on, you wanted to see him try to drink it, didn’t you?”

  Barbara half turned to look at him, then glanced at the still full cup of Kurtzman’s coffee on the table. “I plead the Fifth,” she said as she walked out of the conference room.

  Chapter Three

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, spotted potential trouble the moment he walked into Beck’s Cajun Café.

  After his last mission, he’d decided to take a bit of R & R and had driven up to Philly to do some sightseeing around the old city. He’d joined the tour of Independence Hall, listening to a knowledgeable US park ranger engage with the crowd as he described the events leading up to the Continental Congress and the negotiating over the creating, writing and signing of the Declaration of Independence more than 240 years ago.

  He hadn’t been there in several years and was surprised to find that the brick building with its clock tower, white trim and brown-shingled roof affec
ted him more deeply than he had expected.

  And why wouldn’t it? he mused on his way out of the hall. He was walking the same streets that Adams, Jefferson, Franklin and the rest of the delegates walked when they were about to bring forth this new nation. It was what he had spent most of his life fighting for, defending those ideals they’d written down so long ago as they were preparing to break away from rule by the British.

  He looked at the clusters of people around him who had gone on the tour, as well, and were now drifting off to other pursuits on this crisp fall day. Young and old couples, a smattering of families, all talking and laughing and discussing what they had seen. It was good to know those ideals were still cherished by many people.

  Bolan leisurely strolled down the five blocks to Reading Station, enjoying the bright sun in the cloudless sky. He couldn’t have asked for a better day to play American tourist. All that remained was to grab a bite and choose the next mission in his War Everlasting. Usually there was something on the back burner that needed attention, or sometimes he accepted a mission from Hal Brognola, if they shared a mutual goal.

  Inside the market, he took a moment to breathe in the smells of the open-air stalls with their cured meats, fresh fish and aged cheeses. Those were just some of the wares on display; you could pretty much get anything you wanted from homemade fudge to locally brewed root beer.

  Bolan’s plans were simple: a quick sandwich and then he’d hit the road. But as he walked up to the order counter at Beck’s Cajun Café, his trained senses noticed a young man, maybe in his midtwenties, with close-cropped, dirty-blond hair and wearing a beat-up Army jacket. He was sitting alone at a nearby table, staring at a plastic cup of water.