"You cannot stand up the Man, Striker."
"The president's a man of good judgment," said Bolan.
"But Farnsworth has his ear, and he's making a strong case against us," insisted Hal. "I hate to remind you, old buddy, but you are a team player, remember? Your one-man-war days are over."
"I wonder, Hal. I'm starting to get an itch."
"Dammit, we are talking about the goddamn president, Striker."
"You're right, Hal. He is the boss. I don't like it, but I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
* * *
April met him near the helicopter takeoff pad.
The clouds over the mountains were moving in.
A warm breeze played with loose tendrils of her shoulder-length hair and its warm gold highlights. Movie-star hair.
The concerned look in April's eyes was that of a lover who cares about her man.
Bolan noticed one difference about the lady since he had last seen her in the briefing room awhile ago.
April wore a .44 Magnum with a six-inch barrel in a fast-draw holster on her shapely right hip. She was also carrying a spare gun-holster rig.
The lady handled weapons like a carpenter handled a saw.
But still beautiful, yeah.
No one ever said that tough and competent could not be synonymous with feminine, thought Bolan, and the woman who gave him her heart was damn well proof of that.
Bolan gestured to the spare rig and weapon that she carried over her shoulder.
"For Aaron," she explained. "It looks like he and I might be doing more than sitting on the sidelines this time."
The president could wait.
Bolan grabbed April Rose with one arm and pulled her to him.
She came willingly, pressing herself against the big man with a kiss that was all passion, all love and fire.
"God speed you back to me, Colonel Thunder," she whispered fiercely in his ear when they were close.
Another kiss.
Then it was time to move out.
Bolan boarded the chopper. But the urge to remain at Stony Man Farm pulled at him stronger than ever.
Someone had breached Stony Man Farm's security.
And there was Konzaki.
Bolan sensed that the lives of all his Stony Man allies were already on the line.
But Hal was right.
You do not turn down a request from the Man.
Bolan was airlifted from Stony Man Farm knowing that there would be no room for miscalculation or fumbling on this coming night that was about to cloak the nation's capital.
It was a jungle out there, Washington, D.C., or no.
And the Executioner was back in town.
6
The familiar low skyline of D.C. was bathed in dusk as Grimaldi piloted the bubble-front Hughes helicopter with Mack Bolan aboard.
No city in America is more drenched in history and legend than Washington.
Bolan knew this city, and he knew something of its history.
This land had been a blazed hellground. The British captured and sacked the city in 1814. It wasn't until the twentieth century that Washington was transformed from an unkempt village into the city of today: a hellground of another kind.
Wonderland on the Potomac, Hal called it.
With the reality of the ghetto only a stone's throw from the power brokers who steered the course of the nation, the city was a study in contrasts. The Washington Monument obelisk, the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial, shrines to the visionaries of equality, were set against some of the worst poverty Bolan had ever seen.
Bolan wore a two-piece suit of subdued blue and a sky-blue shirt and red tie for his meeting with the president.
On his left shoulder, under the suit jacket, the Beretta 93-R pistol nestled in a concealed shoulder speed rig.
Bolan's Beretta had been modified with a new sound suppressor and a flash-hider for night firing. The gun was designed for fast killing. Konzaki had devised a forehand grip that folded down to provide controlled two-handed firing. The 93-R saw action on nearly every Bolan mission.
Another debt to Konzaki.
He also toted a black leather briefcase that contained additional items he liked to have close at hand, including Big Thunder, the impressive stainless-steel .44 AutoMag.
The chopper began descending.
"Coming in," called Grimaldi above the steady throbbing of the rotor.
If Grimaldi felt exhausted, as he had to be, he wasn't showing it. Bolan at least had caught some shut-eye on the flight to Stony Man from down south.
The eighteen acres of White House grounds were a maze of lengthening shadows on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue. Grimaldi touched down smoothly on a grassy area in back of the executive mansion.
The White House.
More living history.
The British had razed it in 1814 and when the present three-story structure of simple, stately design was rebuilt, the scorched Virginia freestone of the home of every president since Adams had been painted over a stark white, and it had been the White House ever since.
Bolan dropped from the chopper's door before the chopper even settled. The Executioner left his briefcase with the pilot.
History is being made right now, thought Bolan as he hustled at a slow jog from beneath the whirling blades of the helicopter. The Phoenix program spanned more than one administration, but combat specialist John Phoenix had never been called to this house.
Grimaldi cut the chopper's engine and waited.
Bolan approached three husky guys clad almost identically in conservative suits. They met him near an entrance to the building. Bolan made two of these White House staffers as armed Secret Service agents.
"This way, Colonel, please," said the third man.
They escorted Bolan into a hallway of sedate oak paneling and thick red carpet.
Hal Brognola and another man, whom Bolan recognized as Farnsworth, the CFB chief, stood waiting a few paces to the side of the closed heavy oak door of the Oval Office, the president's inner sanctum.
The two Secret Service agents fell back. The other staffer strode to the door of the president's office, knocked politely, then opened the door and stuck his head inside.
Brognola's permanently five-o'clock-shadowed face wore a tight glower that only barely brightened when he saw Bolan.
Stony Man's gruff White House liaison greeted Bolan with a firm handshake.
"Colonel Phoenix, thanks for getting here so fast." Hal introduced the man standing beside him. "This is Lee Farnsworth, Central Foreign Bureau."
Farnsworth was a strapping, blond-haired man in his early forties who had the physical, conditioning of a man twenty years younger. Sharp eyes that had seen it all were set in a serious, granite face.
Bolan considered what he knew about the guy and the operation he headed.
The CFB was the Defense Department's special unit for intelligence-gathering and covert operations. It was set up to supplement the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency. The Pentagon intended the unit to operate around the world.
Bolan knew that the agency had been formed in 1980 during the planning of the raid to free the American hostages in Iran when the Pentagon was dissatisfied with the intelligence data it was getting from the CIA.
Much like the Phoenix operation, the CFB conducted clandestine operations without "presidential finding," the legal authorization required by Congress. Bolan also knew that the Senate and House Intelligence committees had not been advised of the unit's existence, as required by law.
The CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency, which is the Pentagon's regular intelligence unit, were unaware of the CFB's activities.
The bureau had deployed personnel around the world using false identification to collect intelligence.
Bolan respected Lee Farnsworth and what his agency had accomplished. He knew of at least one coup stage-managed by the CFB in which the U.S. had gained a new ally where one was badly needed.
&n
bsp; If Farnsworth's estimation of Phoenix was mutual, he did nothing to show it. He glanced away as if Bolan was not there.
The White House staffer stepped into the hallway from the Oval Office and approached the waiting three.
"The president will see you now, gentlemen."
The two Secret Service men intercepted them at the office door. One of the Feds held a metal-detector device that beeped when he fanned Bolan with it.
"We check all our weapons or the meeting's off," clipped Farnsworth.
"Strict security regulation to protect the Man," Brognola said to Bolan. "Lee and I have already turned ours over."
Bolan didn't like it, but he handed over the Beretta. Then he, Farnsworth and Brognola stepped into the president's tomb of an office where heavy drapes were drawn against the day's last light.
The door closed behind them, leaving them in private with the man who strode forward to greet them.
Bolan had never met any of the presidents he had served under as Colonel John Phoenix. A good soldier must remain apolitical, was Bolan's philosophy.
The president shook hands with each man in turn. Up close, the chief executive showed a strain not discernible in the media pictures Bolan had seen. The president looked tired and edgy.
"You have my word, gentlemen, that this meeting is strictly off the record, any record," the Man told them. "This meeting has never taken place. I'm in Louisville, and you are not here. Please be seated. Let us attend to this business as expediently as possible."
The four men seated themselves in a loose circle of wing chairs just off from the president's desk.
"Mr. President," began Lee Farnsworth, "Stony Man has screwed up a mission that the CFB spent over a year setting up. It's happened before, too."
"Let's have specifics," growled Brognola. "What mission of yours have we supposedly screwed up?"
"The Dragon," said Farnsworth.
The president glanced at Hal and Bolan.
"Is this true, gentlemen? I'm familiar with The Dragon file. Has Stony Man become involved?"
Hal looked itchy to light one of his cigars, but it was widely known that the president was a reformed smoker.
"We do have a three-man combat unit called Able Team that is working The Dragon angle," Hal admitted.
"The Atlantic thing," put in Farnsworth. "That was another angle of it."
"So it came together from different sides," gruffed Brognola. "If Able Team get their hands on The Dragon, it saves CFB the work."
"The Dragon is not the top man in his corner of the world," groused the CFB boss. "He has a partner. You didn't know that because it was our men who developed the intel. The Dragon runs the enforcement arm of the organization. The partner carries the list of names of backers and associates around in his or her head. This partner will sacrifice The Dragon if he has to. It's important to our mission that The Dragon's partner not have any idea that we have a mole inside his organization."
"Get back to Able Team," said Brognola.
"If Able Team had been allowed to hit The Dragon's fortress, the CFB would have risked the operation and the life of the contact we have inside."
"You're speaking of Able Team in the past tense," said Bolan, with a sinking feeling.
"Our man next to The Dragon blew the whistle," Farnsworth said smugly. "The Dragon has been alerted. He's already lit out from that fort of his."
"At least you alerted Able Team," said Hal, but the words came out a question.
"Stony Man has stepped on our toes often enough to need a lesson," growled Farnsworth. "Your men of Able Team are the lesson." He turned to the president. "Sir, we lost two men in Morocco last year because Stony Man operated in the area without CFB clearance. It happened the year before that to an agent in El Salvador."
Bolan felt his fury rising. He slowly got to his feet and felt the eyes of the others following him.
"Are you telling me that you've left our men in those mountains to be slaughtered?"
Bolan hardly recognized his own voice.
"This happens because the CFB and Stony Man are two completely different types of operations trying to do the same job in the same territory," rasped Farnsworth.
The president frowned.
"Dammit, Lee, sometimes you go too damn far."
"My operatives are trained in the art of espionage," Farnsworth insisted. "Their training is rooted in accomplishing a mission without making waves. That's the spy business. These Stony Man, uh, 'combat specialists,' tramp through our well-setup operations like goddamn bulls through a china shop. I submit, Mr. President, that the Stony Man project is crippling us from within. The Phoenix unit should be disbanded."
"Deal me out if you want to," said Bolan softly. "That suits this soldier just fine."
Brognola stood to face Bolan.
"Striker, don't — "
"Please, Colonel, you must understand," said the president in a reasonable tone to Bolan. "I share with my predecessors the view that Stony Man is vital to our national security. Don't you gentlemen feel there is some way for both your units to coexist?"
Bolan turned to the president.
"What does General Crawford say about this?"
Perhaps the driving force in the development of Stony Man, and one of the main reasons Bolan had decided to take on the proffered government-sanctioned job at the end of his Mafia wars, was now-retired Brigadier General James Crawford. He had been Mack Bolan's commanding officer in Vietnam and had been invaluable in making the Phoenix dream a reality.
"As you know, General Crawford oversaw the creation of Stony Man and the CFB," said the president. "Like myself, the general hopes a compromise can be worked out."
Bolan faced the president head-on.
"It will have to wait, sir. I'm needed in the field tonight. You've been briefed on what happened at Stony Man?"
"I have."
"Then you'll understand why I can't spend the night sitting here talking policy. Will that be all, sir?"
A good-natured glint came into the president's eye.
"Yes, Colonel. Thank you for coming. We'll be in touch."
Bolan was in the outer hallway again, slipping on his retrieved shoulder rig, when Hal Brognola caught up with him.
The burly Fed wore a mixed expression of awe and frustration.
"You are the damndest guy," was all Hal could muster.
Bolan stalked outside into the night. Brognola kept pace with him.
"What was that business on the phone about an itch?" asked Hal. "And telling the president to deal you out if he wants to? I think we had better have a serious talk, Striker."
"We will, Hal. But not tonight."
"There you go with 'not tonight' again, just like you told the Man. I want an explanation. I know about the communications blackout at Stony Man Farm. But what makes you so damn sure there's going to be an attack on the Farm tonight?"
"I'm not sure, Hal. I'm not going to Stony Man."
Brognola blinked.
"You're not? Where the blazes are you going?"
Bolan glanced at the city of lights beyond the perimeter of the floodlit White House grounds.
"I'm going out there," Bolan told him. "Konzaki is in a coma, hanging on to life by a thread. Three good men are on the other side of the world and need to be alerted and told that they're walking into a trap."
"You think The Dragon has the place wired?"
Bolan nodded, his face a grim mask.
"With enough firepower to kill Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales before they know what hit them. And it's about to happen at any minute now, but we can't get word to them because someone sabotaged Stony Man communications. I am going to find who did this to us, Hal. They are not going to get another chance."
"But where will you start? You don't have any leads."
Grimaldi, waiting in the chopper, saw Bolan coming and revved up the engine in preparation for take off.
Bolan raised his voice for Hal to hear.
"I've alre
ady started. I'm going to shake this damn town to its roots. I'll get the answers. And it's happening tonight."
Bolan jogged beneath the whirling blades and climbed into the Hughes.
Brognola watched as Grimaldi smoothly lifted them off. The blinking red lights of the chopper grew smaller and smaller as the Hughes receded into the night sky.
Then Brognola gave in to his urge and reached into a pocket for a cigar.
He paused before lighting it, still looking into the dark sky long after the chopper disappeared.
"You are the damndest guy," he said again to no one.
Brognola pocketed the unlit cigar and walked back into the White House.
7
"Where to?" asked Grimaldi.
The evening lights of Washington and the gridiron arrangement of streets cut by diagonal avenues raced by beneath the chopper's Plexiglas.
"We need an airfield," said Bolan above the steady rumble of the chopper. "I want you on standby alert for the rest of the night."
"Boiling?"
"Not tonight. Make it National. I'll need a car with no government tie-in."
"A rental," said the pilot, glancing at the big warrior beside him. "I've seen you like this before, soldier. You're on the kill. And it's a lone-wolf play, just like it used to be."
Bolan's eyes were chips of ice.
"Patch me through to Stony Man."
Local communications were relayed through a government scrambler frequency.
Kurtzman wasted no time on amenities when the connection was made.
"I have two names and an address for you," the computer expert reported.
"Hold on that," said Bolan. "How's Konzaki?"
"No change," reported Kurtzman. "April has a guard on the door. Two doctors and a nurse are with him right now. It's all we can do."
"Any contact with Able Team yet?"
"Negative. We still can't get through. My guess is they're the same. I've got my crew working without break."
"Tell them to work harder. The Central Foreign Bureau has a mole inside The Dragon's operation. The CFB boss put it together and The Dragon has been tipped off about what's going down."
"Farnsworth, the bastard."
Day of Mourning te-62 Page 4
