Desert Falcons. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
faces every day on the five o’clock news, but they continue to tax the common folk, the people who built this great country, to pay for it all. As far as the government’s concerned, ‘we the people’ doesn’t apply if you’re a white American, despite the fact that the blacks, Indians and Latinos are all supported by our tax dollars that the government continues to take and take and take.”
As Autry held up his fist, Brognola froze the image once again.
“Thanks,” Bolan said. “A little of that guy goes a long way.”
“He’s a real equal-opportunity bigot, all right,” Grimaldi added. “Is there any ethnic group he hasn’t managed to insult?”
Brognola chuckled.
“He mentioned Camp Freedom,” Bolan stated. “What’s that?”
“His rather sizable ranch just outside of Las Vegas,” Brognola said. “In recent years it’s been transformed into a veritable fortress, with Autry and his son as the commandants.”
“I think we saw his better image in the first recording,” Grimaldi said. “The horse’s ass. But at least he didn’t say anything derogatory about the Italians.”
“Give him time,” Brognola replied. “He’s managed to offend just about everybody.”
“As much as I dislike loud-mouthed bigots,” Bolan said, “what does this have to do with us?”
Brognola swiveled his chair back to the conference table and placed his crossed forearms on its top. “Autry’s got serious money problems. Although he’s purported to have sizable assets, he owes the government a lot, to the tune of fifteen million. He’s desperate. The word is that there’s been some suspicious goings-on in southern Nevada, including dealings with the Mexican cartels and a possible arms deal. The People’s New Minutemen Militia, which you got a glimpse of in that news piece, is rumored to be interested in purchasing some pretty serious weaponry at Autry’s behest. Russian organized crime is purportedly involved.”
“It sounds more like a job for ATF than us,” Bolan replied. “This guy may be a loudmouth and a public nuisance, but he’s hardly a blip on our radar, is he?”
Brognola shook his head slowly. “There’s a bit more than just that going on. Ever hear of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud?”
“Prince Amir?” Bolan asked. “As in one of the lesser-knowns in the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia?”
Brognola nodded. “One and the same. While he’s one of many royal heirs to the throne, it’s rumored he’s the king’s favorite grandson. He’s got the reputation of being something of a playboy.”
“Man, I bet women flock to him,” Grimaldi said.
“In droves, apparently,” Brognola said. “While there’s certainly no shortage of heir-apparents, Prince Amir is thought to be a real-deal contender. Like I said, he’s the king’s favorite grandson.
“There was an attempt on the prince’s life last night in Bahrain. It was foiled by his bodyguards.”
“Who tried to kill him?” Bolan asked.
“As far as we know,” Brognola said, “and the Saudis and Bahrainis are playing this close to their vests, the assassins were Shi’ite Saudis from the Eastern Province.”
“Sunnis and Shi’ites,” Grimaldi said. “They’ve been going at it just about forever.”
“There’s no moderation when it comes to their disputes,” Brognola stated.
“Moderation,” Grimaldi said. “No such word in their dictionary.”
“Have either of you ever hear of Colonel Herbert Francis Coltrain?”
“The publisher of Mercenary One magazine?” Grimaldi said. “Yeah, I met him a couple years ago at the Shot Show in Vegas. That guy’s been almost as many hot places as we have.”
“Well, he founded the Desert Warfare Training Academy some ten years ago. It’s a rather prestigious school. They trained a lot of the Private Military Organizations we were using over in Iraq and Afghanistan. His instructors were all ex-military, a lot of them special-ops vets.”
“The operative word being ‘were’?” Bolan asked.
Brognola nodded. “Colonel Coltrain sold the school about a year or so ago to some foreign company. They made a few changes, including personnel, but it’s still considered one of the preeminent nonmilitary training academies around.”
“All that’s interesting,” Bolan said. “But how does that factor into our current situation?”
Brognola sighed. “The prince is scheduled to attend the desert warfare tactics school out in Nevada this coming week. With all of the anti-Muslim stuff this guy Autry’s been spewing, and the rumors of his militia boys trying to gear up for something big, the President’s a little worried that things could go to hell in a handbasket in a hurry.”
“I can’t say as I can blame him,” Bolan said. “What does he want us to do?”
“Go out there and keep an eye on things. The prince will have some Secret Service guys watching over him, but with this Bureau of Land Management dispute with Autry heating up and all over the news, the potential is there for a real conflagration. You two are both signed up for the desert warfare course, by the way.”
“Back to school?” Grimaldi asked. “Wasn’t that an old Rodney Dangerfield movie?”
“One of my all-time favorites,” Brognola said. He took a quick sip of coffee, then emitted another dissatisfied-sounding grunt. “The Feds are also out and about in the area checking out the rumors of some possible student radicals, too. The NSA has intercepted a bunch of anti-American internet garbage being spewed by some radical cleric out of Yemen named Ibrahim al Shabahb. He may be trying to recruit some impressionable lone wolves here in the States to stir up some trouble.”
“You have any more information on that?” Bolan asked.
Brognola handed each of them a briefing folder. “There are some Homeland Security reports in there. They give it a medium to high confidence level.”
“Please, tell me we’re not going commercial,” Grimaldi said. “You know how I hate it when somebody else is flying the plane.”
“They’re fueling up the Learjet as we speak,” Brognola said. “How the hell else would you guys be able to take all your special equipment?”
“Yeah, it might be a little tricky getting it through TSA,” Grimaldi said with a grin and a wink.
Brognola smiled. “Any questions?”
Bolan shook his head as he got to his feet.
“Your plane will be ready to roll in two hours.”
Camp Freedom, Nevada
It was early evening but prematurely dark as the headlights of the Jeep bounced over the rough gravel back road. Fedor Androkovich checked the security strap on the low-slung, tactical holster securing his 9 mm SIG Sauer P223 semi-auto pistol as he braced himself in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He thought about the complexity of the plan. There was a lot that could go wrong, which bothered him. Still, he was used to carrying out complicated endeavors. He had been raised on them practically since birth.
His entire youth had been spent under the tutelage of the KGB, and later in its successors, the FSB and the SVR, in a special school that trained him and others to be sleeper agents in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk