Critical Exposure. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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