Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  At least she and her husband could die with honor.

  * * *

  IN THE RELATIVE silence that followed the detonation, George was aware of the distant and rhythmic thumping of chopper blades and the chatter of gunfire. There were screams of men dying and shouts of men panicking and trying to avoid their own demise. The gunfire grew more sporadic, and the sound of one regular and controlled burst became prevalent. And then it stopped.

  He heard rapid footfalls enter the tent through the gaping hole in the side. He still did not dare look up, just huddled over his weeping wife and prayed that they would be taken quickly. It never occurred to him that it might be a rescue mission, and so he had no idea how or what he should feel when he heard a voice that held compassion but was still commanding say to him, “Stay where you are. Do not move until I return. This is a rescue mission. Do as I say and you’ll be safe.”

  George could find no voice for response. He couldn’t even look up until he heard footfalls retreat, and then he saw the back of a man dressed head to toe in black heading for the next tent.

  * * *

  BOLAN MOVED ACROSS the space between the two tents, aware of the fact that most of the enemy had now been eliminated. Nonetheless, a feeling in his gut told him to stay frosty and keep his eyes open. There had been two hostages in the tent he had just secured; there should be two where he was headed. He knew that he had taken out a number of the pirates who had been clustered around this tent. Had that been all of them?

  He slowed as he approached. Over the sound of the hovering helicopter, he couldn’t hear anything, but at the same time he couldn’t believe that these men would give up their bounty so easily.

  Something—a sense, maybe a sound or the flickering of shadow at the periphery of his sight—made him veer off from a direct approach so that he would come at the gaping maw in the tent from an angle.

  * * *

  “CLEVER, BUT NOT as much as he thinks.”

  The blood of both Frank and Marina Foster ran cold when they heard the voice. He was behind them, as he must have been all along. When the others had rushed to attack the incoming enemy, he had stayed behind. Someone had to tidy up, after all.

  The bearded man stepped over their prone bodies so that he was now in front of them.

  “I will die a martyr. That does not bother me. We all live or die at the command of God. But you will not live to see another day. This action will be in vain, and your people will not triumph. It is just a pity that I could not get anything of use from you in the time I had.”

  He raised his gun to fire at them. Frank was semiconscious and unable to focus, but Marina could see the man with an awful clarity.

  And then, just when she had steeled herself for the end, there was a flicker of shadow behind him, and his leer changed to an expression of slack-jawed bemusement before the light faded from his eyes. He crumpled, revealing a man in a blacksuit standing behind him, a knife slick with blood in his grip.

  “Rescue mission. You’ll be safe now. Your friends are also safe. We just need to get you out of here.”

  Shock, perhaps, or relief: whatever it was, Marina felt her vision swim as she blacked out.

  * * *

  BOLAN RECONNED THE camp quickly. All dead, with the exception of the hostages, a clean sweep. The air stank with cordite, explosives and death.

  Dragonslayer landed, and Grimaldi left his aircraft to help Bolan get the hostages ready for transport. George and Carla were strong enough to walk, and the two men helped them into the aircraft first. Blankets, coffee, medication: all were administered quickly before they took stretchers to the tent where Frank and Marina Foster had been held.

  Carefully they untied Frank and placed him on a stretcher before carrying him back to the chopper. He was groaning in pain with each movement, but a swift painkilling jab made him more comfortable while they returned for Marina. She was still unconscious, so it was easier to load her.

  “Tend to them, Jack. I need to go and sweep up any intel I can find,” Bolan instructed. “We need to sweep this as clean as possible.”

  Quickly Bolan checked out the tents and shacks. There was nothing but corpses and bedding until he returned to the tent where he had found the Fosters. There was a radio set and some smartphones. He took these and a laptop, as well as the digital audio recorder, before trashing the radio set.

  “Okay, Jack, take her up and let’s get moving. I’ll tend to our passengers,” he said as he climbed back aboard.

  While Grimaldi took the chopper into the air and set a course for Djibouti, monitoring for any aircraft that may cross their flight path, Bolan dressed wounds, administered medication and gave Marina coffee when she came around. Having assured his charges that they were now safe and would soon be returning home, he took himself away so that he could make a preliminary examination of the equipment he had found.

  The digital audio recorder was empty. The smartphones were as empty as the one he had taken from the first camp. But the laptop was another matter. What he saw on there made him glad that he had been sent on this mission. There would be another to come, and soon.

  After making sure that his passengers were comfortable and that his prisoner was still secured, he went to the cockpit. The first thing he did was call Brognola, report success and request a transport plane to pick up their cargo from Djibouti and an ambulance to ferry the passengers from chopper to plane.

  “I’ll arrange it with the base commander so that you’re kept in isolation until it arrives. What about the prisoner?”

  “We’re going to need him back on American soil, too. I’d be surprised if he knows much, but he might know more than he thinks he does. He’s a small fish, but the man he was answerable to was much, much bigger than that.”

  “It’s a pity you couldn’t have taken him alive, too.”

  “Hal, if I’d done that I’d be short two passengers.”

  “Point taken. You said there was something else?”

  “Oh, yeah...I’ll give you bullet points, but you’ll love this,” Bolan said before telling the big Fed what he had found on the captured laptop.

  “Guess you’ll be taking the first plane back, too,” Grimaldi commented when call had ended. He had been party to the conversation so he would know landing plans.

  “Jack, fate is a bastard, but not always an unkind one,” Bolan replied.

  * * *

  THE HELICOPTER LANDED in Djibouti a few hours later, at the outfield from where the mission had begun. As the chopper settled, two ambulances and a jeep raced across the field. Bolan stepped in front of the hatch so that no one could enter uninvited.

  The same officer in charge who had seen them set out on the mission was in the jeep, and he signaled his men to stay put as he alighted and walked toward the Executioner.

  “Good to see you back in one piece and with your objective attained,” he said wryly. “Transporter is three hours away and will have a two-hour turnaround time. We can take whoever you’ve got to our sick bay if you wish—”

  Bolan stopped him. “I appreciate that, and your discretion up to now. This has to be locked down, so it would be best if only the ambulance crew deals with the cargo and that the cargo stays in the vehicles or the chopper until the transporter is ready. You’ll have to isolate your men until debriefing can be arranged.”

  The officer in charge nodded. “If you think that’s best. You were placed here because it’s about as isolated as you can get, and I’ll get meals sent over from the canteen for you and your pilot as well as for— Well, I’ll just get provisions sent over,” he finished. “Security is as tight as it can get here. I take it this means you’ll be sending someone in for debrief?”

  Bolan grinned. “I’m not that important. But the man who sent me here will see to that. And your help won’t go unrecognized.” />
  * * *

  LANDON MCCABE ENTERED the Oval Office. It was the middle of the night, and the President looked like a man still dragging himself from sleep.

  “This had better be worth it,” the Man growled.

  “I think you’ll find it is, sir,” McCabe replied before relaying the report he had received from Brognola. The President looked relieved when he heard that the hostages were safe, more so when he heard that Foster had maintained silence. It was only when he heard the final part of the report—concerning what Bolan had found on the laptop—that his expression changed.

  “What are we going to do about this, Landon? It’s all a little too close to home.”

  “It is, sir,” McCabe agreed. “But I think it’s in the right hands now. I suggest that we inform the NSA but let our operative handle it.”

  “If he does it like he’s handled this one, then it won’t be us who are uneasy in our beds,” the Man stated.

  “No, sir. You can be sure of that,” McCabe agreed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Washington, D.C., was never Bolan’s favorite place. The United States and the constitution were one thing—sacrosanct and something to believe in—but the successive governments and their own agendas were another matter. The way in which they interpreted that constitution was a matter of opinion. Bolan had his own views, which didn’t always match those of the powers that be. Yet when he did visit the capital and took a walk down the Mall, he was reminded of the people who had shaped the land and made it something that he could believe in, something that would endure beyond the caprice of any political agenda.

  The people made a country. It was the people who were at risk if the information found on the laptop was correct. He saw no reason to doubt that.

  It had to be assumed that the information was correct and they should act on it accordingly, which was why he was now walking toward Hal Brognola, who stood waiting for him. As Bolan approached, the big Fed fell into step with him.

  “Good work,” he began without preamble. “The Man wants you to follow up on this personally.”

  “I was hoping that would be the case, though it’s a shame that the security services weren’t more on the ball with this.”

  Brognola shrugged. “You can’t really blame them. It’s the nature of al Qaeda and its offshoots that it happens this way.”

  “I know how al Qaeda works,” Bolan stated. “Most of the time we find a group, we locate the leadership and we eliminate them. Gangs—criminal or political—are just like pack animals. The leader dies, and unless there’s someone there to take his place—which we take care of by eliminating the central body as a whole—then the pack disperses and is rarely more than an irritation. An itch that can be scratched.”

  “But al Qaeda—”

  “I know, Hal. It’s not like that. That was my point. Al Qaeda by its nature is a series of separate cells that have little if any connection. You want to be part of it? All you have to do is say you are and buy into the ethos, and what do you know? Before too long others saying it, too, will notice you and get in touch. It’s more like the way a religion or cult springs up around a figurehead. Bin Laden didn’t actually have to be hands-on after 9/11. The fact that he existed was enough.”

  “Which is why the security agencies didn’t know about these cells you found on the laptop,” Brognola said. “They’re new—they’ve done nothing to come out from under the radar as yet. Their contact with al-Shabaab is fresh. Even al-Shabaab has only just been confirmed as connected to al Qaeda.”

  Bolan sighed. “This one connects to that one and now they’re a known threat. These guys have been stockpiling weapons. They’ve been getting explosives. And they’ve been doing it under the radar. They all do it under the radar so that it escapes notice. You have to wonder why Homeland doesn’t keep track of illegal arms dealers.”

  Brognola sighed. “You’re not wrong, and maybe I don’t exactly disagree with you, but whatever our opinions, the facts remain the same. The various security agencies hadn’t noticed that these boys existed.”

  Bolan’s face darkened. “We need to find these cells before they can carry out any of their missions. Otherwise there’s going to be a lot of red faces and guys having to explain to the Man just why D.C. got hit and they knew nothing about it.”

  * * *

  RODNEY FRASER CLOSED the door of his apartment and let out a deep sigh. Outside, the noise of police sirens, shouting people, loud music beats and the playing of children screaming to be heard above the racket was still going strong. It permeated the thin walls of the project apartment building where he had been living for the past eighteen months. Inside, it was sparsely furnished, with a small and barely used TV the only visible sign of any kind of modern technology. The smartphone, tablet and laptop that he owned and only used for business were kept hidden under the floor beneath his futon.

  Maybe it was the clean, sparse decor that gave the room an aura of peace and silence. Perhaps it was the prayer mat that he took from a cupboard before facing the east and praying. When he got to his feet, he felt calmer inside. He put the prayer mat away, poured himself a glass of water and sat on a dining chair to consider his evening’s work.

  Rodney had been his given name, but since his last term of imprisonment he had been Mummar al-Jaheeb. Inside the joint, there were several ways to go—gangs of one kind or another were rife, and those that united men by religion were those that gave you the best advantage. Maybe because the faith required—if it was genuine—gave you the strength of conviction and spirit that would take you that one step further. For Rodney—Mummar—this was the case. He had grown up learning about Malcolm X, and it had meant little to him. He hated the stupid little ties and hats and the suits. If you wore those around these parts, you’d end up beaten on pretty damned quick, that was for sure. But the Black Panthers were better; they had street style. That made more sense.

  In both cases it was a bad call. It was only when he was inside prison that he came to realize that the uniform didn’t matter. It was what you thought and believed and how you acted that mattered. Those guys had been that way because of the time and place they lived. Now was different; now required a whole other way of looking at it.

  This was why, even though he hated it and felt unclean, he came out of prison without telling anyone of his conversion and why he used his birth name even though it meant nothing to him. He got a job working in an auto shop—the one useful skill he had learned during his term—and went to work every day in jeans and a T-shirt or sweatpants. The traditional dress that symbolized the new Mummar—which he wanted to wear to show this—was something that he could not keep in his apartment. If he appreciated irony, he would have figured that now that he understood the power of uniform, the knowledge was of no use to him. But neither did he have any use for irony, not when there was serious work to be done.

  Every day he rose as Mummar, dressed and left home as Rodney, acted his old self all day and came home exhausted by that artifice before he could be Mummar again. The only thing that kept him going through it all was the knowledge that he had important work to do that would dignify the life he had to live in the eyes of his creator.

  He made a simple meal, blocking out the world around him as he prepared couscous with beans and pulses. More water to purify his system. Now he was Mummar.

  Being Rodney was hard; exhausting, even. He was glad he didn’t have to do it more than once a day. He had an imaginary girlfriend living upstate that kept suspicions at bay. Eunice—the name of his baby mama from the days before his conversion—was also good cover for those weekends spent at training camps.

  His meal finished, Mummar washed his dishes and made ready for his evening’s work. He looked out the windows of the small apartment at the streets outside. He could see gangs gathering, old people weaving among them trying to pretend they
weren’t there and dealers on the street corner peddling the latest crack and smack. Everyone out there was wrapped up in his or her own world, oblivious of what was going on just a few hundred yards from them, which was exactly the way it had to be. They were his people by birth, but they were also part of a corrupt and godless system that needed a wake-up call that the jihad was coming home.

  He pulled down the blinds in every room so that his apartment was in semidarkness. The locks on the door and windows were checked. Only when he was sure that he was secure, and that the noises coming through the walls proved that his neighbors did not even realize or care he was home, did he move the futon, take up the rug beneath and pry open the loose floorboard.

  There was a gap between his floorboards and the ceiling of the apartment below. Wiring and piping ran through it, and across the joists between there was a case wrapped in chamois leather. He pulled it out and unwrapped it. It had a combination lock, and he keyed it in. As he opened the lid of the case, he carefully moved the wire that connected the lock to the small charge that was placed within. Try to open the case without the combination and the charge would not only take off your hand, but it would also destroy the contents, rendering the memory and SIM of the tablet, laptop and phone useless.

  He took out the three items, all of which had been stolen and retooled before being put back into circulation, and powered up the laptop. He had an internet connection via a dongle, a pay-as-you-go unregistered device, so that he was about as untraceable as he could get. To the outside world and good old Ma Bell, Rodney Fraser was a man with no interest in phones or the internet. Mummar al-Jaheeb was another matter.

  He connected to the email account that had been registered from another state and checked his messages. The account was empty except for the three unread messages that had arrived overnight, all of which were immediately deleted on being read, as were the answers. Nothing stayed in the boxes for more than twenty-four hours maximum. The networks in which the mailboxes were set up were as secure as anyone could be certain.