Extreme Instinct

“THIS IS A TRAP!”

“Yeah, I know,” Lyons growled, slipping a hand inside his windbreaker to loosen the Colt Python in his shoulder holster. “I just spotted it a second ago.”

The other men needed no further encouragement to get their own weapons ready for combat, and the van was filled with the soft metallic clicks of working arming bolts and safeties disengaging. Every car in the parking lot was dusty and badly needed to be washed, as if they had been there for days without moving. This was exactly the sort of detail that a street cop looked for to spot an abandoned vehicle parked along a busy downtown street. Now a grieving family might leave a car here for a few hours, or even overnight, but certainly no longer than that, and not ten of them. That was way beyond the limits of probability. These cars were merely window decorations to make the place look more inviting and less empty. Which meant the entire cemetery was a trap. But was it for them or somebody else? Did the enemy know Able Team had arrived, or were they still waiting for a target? Only one way to find out, and that was to go ask them, face-to-face.

The soft recon had just gone hard.

Extreme Instinct
Don Pendleton’s

Stony Man ^®

America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency

www.mirabooks.co.uk

EXTREME INSTINCT

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Caucasus Mountains, Russia

A cold winter wind was blowing through the forest preserve, and the full moon illuminating the land with a clear silvery light made everything look as if it was cast in steel.

Rumbling steadily over the rough terrain, the BTR-70 “Battering Ram” armored personnel carrier plowed through a thick wall of shrubbery and came to a halt in a small clearing on the side of a hill. The dense stillness was only disturbed by the soft ticking of the massive diesel engines as they began to cool. Down in the valley below, the darkness twinkled with a million lights of the top-secret Russian army weapons facility code-named Mystery Mountain.

“Something is wrong here,” muttered the master sergeant inside the APC, resting scarred hands on top of the steering yoke. The curved banks of twinkling controls illuminated his stern features.

In the rear of the vehicle, the troops angled around in their jumpseats to look out the numerous gunports. Several worked the arming bolts on their new AK-108 assault rifles.

“What is it, Sarge?” a stocky woman asked, squinting into the night. “Think we got some more TV reporters nosing about?”

“Don’t know yet,” the master sergeant replied slowly, trying to put into words a gut instinct honed in a thousand fights.

“Looks peaceful enough to me, Sarge,” a private countered, craning his neck to glance outside.

The powerful halogen headlights of the BTR-70 banished the night, giving the recon platoon a clear view of the surrounding area. The forest was beautiful, old pine trees rising majestically into the starry sky and a thick blanket of laurel bushes covering the ground, the red winter berries glistening among the greenery like hidden jewels.

Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted and was answered by a lake loon. The master sergeant tensed slightly at that. Odd, we’re nowhere near water…

“Sir! Radar reads clean, sir,” a young recruit reported crisply, both hands working the compact monitoring station in the rear of the APC. The other soldiers merely grunted at the pronouncement and tried not to show their opinion of the young boot.

“Be sure to check the sonar,” one of the older veterans muttered sarcastically.

The green recruit immediately started activating the underwater controls on the amphibian APC before he paused, then darkly scowled. “Blow it out your ass,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Amused, the other soldiers openly grinned.

“Shut up, all of you,” the master sergeant growled uneasily, reaching down to loosen the service automatic holstered at his side. “There is something wrong here. I can feel it.”

The troops prepared to go EVA, pulling on insulated gloves and tightening the scratchy wool scarves around their throats. There was no snow on the ground, but the standing joke was that Russian winters killed more people than Stalin ever had. It was probably true, in spite of the best efforts of the blood-thirsty madman.

Just then the radio crackled. “Base to Wolf Nine, why are you not moving?” a voice demanded. “Confirm status, please.”

Taking the hand mike, the master sergeant thumbed it alive. “Wolf Nine to Base, we…that is, I….” The master sergeant paused awkwardly, unwilling to tell the duty officer that he had stopped a security patrol because of a bad feeling. He did sense that something was out of place, but everything looked fine on the hillside.

“Wolf Nine, report!” the speaker demanded.

“All clear, Base,” the master sergeant said, throwing the APC into gear and lurching into motion. “Nothing wrong here. We were just…using the bushes.”

There came a friendly chuckle. “Can’t blame you for that,” said the voice over the speaker. “I’d also be guzzling coffee out in that bitter cold.”

“Confirm, Base,” the master sergeant replied, checking the rearview monitor one last time for anything suspicious in the clearing. “Wolf Nine back on patrol. Over and out.”

AS THE SOUNDS of the APC rumbled off into the distance, the leafy ground cover stirred and five figures slowly rose like ghosts escaping from the grave.

Covered with frost and dirt, the Foxfire team was dressed in camouflage gillie suits, twigs and leaves deliberately attached to the material as additional disguise. Their faces were streaked with different colors of paint, and insulated hoods covered their heads to help keep them warm and also to hide their throat-mike radios.

Scanning the area with a pair of stolen Russian night-vision goggles, Andrew Lindquist checked for any guards, either human or mechanical. “The zone is clear,” he announced, tucking the goggles away into a belt pouch. “Everybody okay?”

“No. Jimmy’s dead,” George Hannigan stated bluntly, looking down at the tread marks of the APC on the ground. Off to the side there was a slowly spreading dark patch in the soil, a bent human finger sticking out.

“The goddamn thing must have parked right on top of him,” Sonia Johansen stormed, shifting her grip on an old AK-47 assault rifle. The cylindrical silencer attached to the end of the compact weapon gave it a futuristic appearance, and oddly, no moonlight reflected off the dull black metal. On this mission, every piece of equipment was either Russian made or legally purchased in the country. Even the military crossbows. Misdirection had always been the best friend of any mercenary.

“Same thing happened to me,” John Barrowman said through clenched teeth, cradling his left arm. The limb was bent at an impossible angle, the sleeve of the gillie suit torn and spotty with blood.

“Let me give you a shot for the pain,” Saul Kessler offered, swinging around a small Red Army medical kit.

“Can’t.” Barrowman grunted. “The drugs’ll make me fuzzy. Gotta stay sharp. This is too important.”

“Agreed,” stated Lindquist, reaching inside his gillie suit to pull out a map. “Which is why you’re going back to the escape vehicle to wait for us.”

Barrowman frowned. “But, sir…”

“That was an order, mister,” Lindquist said, tucking away the map once more.

Their employer had not raised his voice, but the mercenary reacted as if he had. Stiffening, Barrowman snapped a salute with his good arm and moved off into the forest, soon disappearing into the darkness and the shrubbery. The man had five miles to cover, and his left arm was useless.

“Think we’ll see him again?” Kessler asked, rubbing his jaw with the back of a gloved hand.

“Let’s go,” Lindquist said, turning to proceed down the sloping hill.

Moving fast and low, the rest of the mercenaries skirted past the access road and the creek, keeping to the trees. Reaching the halfway point, they went motionless under a spreading oak as a Mi-28 Havoc helicopter gunship moved overhead, a blinding searchlight sweeping the roadway and creek.

“Damn, these guys are predictable,” Hannigan subvocalized into a throat mike. The softly spoken words could not have been heard a foot away, but the rest of the Foxfire team heard them crystal-clear in their earbuds.

Clearly annoyed, Lindquist slashed a thumb across his throat for total silence. The burly mercenary nodded in understanding. The team was very close to Mystery Mountain, and God alone knew what kind of security the Russians had there.

The complex was rumored to be three times the size of NORAD high command at Cheyenne Mountain, which sounded very impressive but was also a great weakness. That much land could not be securely guarded without using so many troops that you gave away its location to enemy satellites.

As the Havoc gunship moved away, Hannigan pulled out a sonic probe and moved it around the sky and then along the roadway. When the passive sensor detected no other Russian troops or aircraft, he gave a thumbs-up to the others, and the team went on the move again. Only a few yards later Johansen detected a cluster of land mines on an EM scanner, and they skirted the area. Officially, land mines were banned in Russia, but here at Mystery Mountain, the military was free of most legal restrictions and did whatever it wanted.

Heading away from the clusters of bright lights that marked the military base, Lindquist and the mercenaries soon reached a cliff that overlooked a forlorn section of the valley. The landscape below was bare dirt and rock, the material churned and burned as if it had been strafed by a thousand heavy bombers. The only plant life was a few resilient weeds growing out of the bomb craters. Lindquist thought it resembled the dark side of the moon and was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Down in the dried river, a full company of armed Russian soldiers walked alongside a BMW flatbed hauling a large cylinder of burnished steel. The object rested in a wooden cradle and was securely strapped into position with several heavy canvas belts.

Judging the cylinder against the height of the soldiers, Lindquist would guess it was just about the right size to fit snugly inside a SS-X-27 Topol missile. He had not expected anything so huge and immediately began to adjust his plans accordingly. This was going to be tricky….

Four armored scout cars flanked the procession, the drivers bulky with body armor, the young gunners standing behind the heavy machine guns alert and suspiciously watching the hillsides through infrared goggles.

Their breath fogging, several of the older technicians dressed in white lab coats fiddled with the controls set into the flat end of the cylinder. Their words were lost in the distance. One of them removed his glasses to make a suggestion. The others eagerly agreed, and more internal corrections were made. Suddenly a bank of lights changed colors and the technicians closed an access hatch, locking it into place with crescent wrenches.

At the sight, Lindquist felt his smile fade away. Son of a bitch! The soldiers were right on time, but the goddamn technicians were ahead of schedule. The T-bomb was live!

“Sir…” Kessler started to ask.

“This changes nothing!” Lindquist snapped, pulling a radio detonator from his belt. “We must have that bomb. End of discussion.”

But even as he spoke the words, a gunner in one of the scout cars jerked his head in their direction and shouted something to the driver.

“They know we’re here,” Hannigan cursed, working the bolt on his silenced assault rifle.

“Too bad for them,” Lindquist snarled, flipping back the cover and pressing a button as if thrusting a dagger into the heart of a hated enemy.

In the next microsecond the two weeks of work by the camouflaged mercenaries paid off as a series of explosions ripped along the riverbed. The fiery blasts threw the scout cars and pieces of the soldiers high into the cold night air. The flatbed rocked from the concussions, but did not flip.

The Foxfire team was amazed at the sight. The armored truck was completely undamaged. This crazy plan might just work after all!

Heads reeling from the ringing concussions of the detonations, the battered technicians barely had a chance to recover before a second explosion came from somewhere in the far distance. They flinched at the noise, then relaxed somewhat. However the new detonation kept building in volume and power, until the very ground itself shook.

Even as the truck driver turned off the engine of the flatbed, a strange and terrible light began to brighten the darkness until a fiery column rose above the craggy hills to form the classic mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. Instantly every light in the entire valley winked out and the earbuds of the team went dead. But that was part of the plan. The EMP blast of a tactical nuke permanently fried every piece of electronics within the blast radius. Until shielded equipment was brought out of storage, nobody at the military facility could call for help. This gave the mercenaries a window of several minutes. Hopefully, it would be enough.

Resting her AK-47 assault rifle on a shoulder, Johansen started to speak when unexpectedly something dropped out of the sky. A few seconds later there came the whine of a helicopter spinning out of control and the Havoc gunship crashed into the trees on the opposite side of the valley.

Down at the flatbed, the technicians were frantically shouting into radios for help. Except for one man with silver hair and thick glasses. Fumbling in his pockets, the scientist unearthed a keycard from his clothing. It was attached to his belt with a slim chain.

“That’s him!” Lindquist stated.

Aiming their crossbows, Kessler and Johansen fired, the long quarrels slamming into the scientist. Gushing blood, he tumbled off the flatbed, and the mercenaries fired again, pinning him securely to a truck tire.

“Do it again,” Lindquist snapped just as a hot wind blew along the valley, rustling every tree and sending flocks of startled birds streaming into the starry heavens.

“Too late!” Hannigan shouted.

Quickly, Lindquist and the mercenaries grabbed the nearest tree and held on tight. Somewhere a pistol shot rang out, closely followed by another, then several more that became a fusillade of rounds, the crackling rising in volume until it was a near deafening roar. The wind abruptly turned bitterly cold as a wave of blackness swelled from the distant mountains.

“Here it comes!” Kessler shouted, closing his eyes.

Rapidly growing in power, the tidal wave of escaping water from the nuked hydroelectric dam thundered along the dried riverbed. The deluge was filled with the countless bodies of Russian soldiers, civilians, motorcycles, cars and jetfighters.

Unstoppable, the Mystery Mountain lake poured over the flatbed, sweeping up the score of fresh corpses and the screaming technicians. For a chaotic minute, the valley was awash with turbulent waters, the foaming rush almost reaching the mercenary team. Then the rampaging cascade subsided, leaving the muddy ground covered with mounds of wreckage. All of the bodies were gone, washed completely away, except for the one scientist pinned to the tire of the armored flatbed. During the deluge, the vehicle had shifted position by a hundred yards, only to become trapped by the outcroppings of bedrock jutting up from the old riverbed.

Checking the radiation counter strapped to his wrist, Lindquist grunted in annoyance and dropped his backpack to retrieve a protective NBC environment suit. Stepping inside, he zipped it closed and quickly started down the slippery slope toward the flatbed lying sideways amid the assorted debris. The steel cylinder was clearly still strapped to the truck and, aside from dripping water, seemed completely undamaged. Excellent.

Donning their own protective suits, Hannigan and Johansen followed Lindquist, leaving Kessler alone on the hillside, thumbing a fat 30 mm round into the grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel of the AK-47.

Going to the sodden corpse pinned to the truck tire, Lindquist used a pair of bolt cutters to free the keycard. Climbing onto the flatbed, he fumbled to find the slot on the end of the T-bomb, then slipped the keycard inside. There was a soft beep, then the service panel disengaged and swung open wide. Knowing that all of the controls had been reversed as a security measure, Lindquist calmly pressed the detonation button on a small keypad. There was a brief buzzing, and he stopped breathing. But the internal lights dimmed and faded away completely.

“It’s deactivated,” Lindquist announced, tucking the precious card into a belt pouch, which he zipped shut. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline overload, and the man was glad the bulky NBC suit hid the fact from the combat veterans.

Suddenly machine gun fire erupted and a BTR-70 jounced out of the forest, a dozen weapons chattering from every gunport of the armored personnel carrier.

Caught in the glare of the halogen headlights, Lindquist stepped protectively in front of the T-bomb as Hannigan and Johansen blindly fired back with their assault rifles. Both of the mercenaries knew full well that even if they managed to achieve a hit, the 7.62 mm rounds wouldn’t even dent the heavy armor plating the military juggernaut. However, safely off to the side, Kessler had a clear view. Swinging up his AK-47, he aimed and fired the grenade launcher.

The yellow-tipped round slammed into the front of the APC, punched clean through and violently detonated inside.

Tendrils of flame extending from every vent and port, the APC raced past the flatbed. Kessler put another million-dollar round into the rear compartment. The depleted-uranium slug penetrated the armor plating as if it were cardboard, then the thermite charge violently exploded inside the working engine, filling the interior with a maelstrom of shrapnel.

Gushing fuel and blood, the decimated BTR-70 continued up the other side of the riverbed and rolled into the trees, careening off a boulder before vanishing into the night.

Returning to their work, the mercs diligently released the restraining straps, while Lindquist fired a flare into the air. With the radios dead, it was their only way to communicate over long distance. However the message was received, and soon Barrowman arrived in an old Soviet-era truck. The Cold War vehicle had been built long before the invention of electronic ignition and fuel injectors, and thus was completely immune to the neutralizing effects of a nuclear EMP blast.

“Think they’ll ever figure out what really happened?” Hannigan chuckled, pulling out a crescent wrench from the tool belt around his NBC suit.

“Not until it’s too late,” Lindquist snarled hatefully, patting the keycard safe in the belt pouch. “Not until it’s all over, and there is a new world order.”

“Thought this was about protecting America?” Johansen asked sharply, beginning to work on a restraining bolt.

“Shut up, and work faster,” Lindquist countered, walking over to the waiting Soviet Union truck, his face an iron mask.

CHAPTER ONE

Whitehead River, Colorado

Standing waist-deep in the chilly runoff, Harold Brognola found the morning Rocky Mountain air more than invigorating; it was damn near rejuvenating. With each passing hour, he could feel the pressures of his job at the Justice Department slipping away, muscles slowly relaxing. The top cop in America found himself involuntarily whistling.

Carefully keeping the split-cane fly rod in constant motion, Brognola let the line out, then the artificial fly touched the surface of the river. A large trout rose into view as it tried to reach the elusive food, then flipped back into the shadowy depths, slashing its tail in frustration.

“Better luck next time,” Brognola chuckled, loosening the line to disengage a tangle. Fly-fishing was proving to be a lot like his regular line of work. There was a great deal of waiting and watching, then strike hard and kill when necessary.

Suddenly a dozen trout flashed past his waders heading upstream. Turning, the puzzled man watched them head for the pool below the waterfall. Okay, that was odd. Then the whistling stopped and his smile faded away as a dozen more trout flashed by in the same direction, closely followed by an entire school of sunfish and then several big-mouth bass.

Jerking his head downstream, Brognola saw nothing coming his way. Still he hurriedly sloshed through the river toward the nearby bank. Scrambling onto dry land, he shrugged off the suspenders and dropped the heavy waders, then sprinted for his car parked alongside the old gravel road.

Reaching the vehicle, Brognola yanked open the passenger door and reached under the seat to haul out a S&W .38 revolver and a brand-new Glock 18. The Smith & Wesson had been with the Justice man since his tour of duty in the old Mafia Wars, but middle age was taking its inevitable toll and the massive firepower of the deadly Glock machine pistol was a welcome addition. As Bolan liked to say, a man could never have too many friends or too much firepower. True words.

Working the slide on the 9 mm machine pistol, Brognola thumbed back the hammer on the police revolver and took a defensive position behind the car. It wasn’t much, but some protection was better than nothing.

The sound of the approaching vehicle could be heard long before it appeared around a bend in the Whitehead River. Charging along the riverbed, the tires of a big Hummer threw out a wide spray, creating a traveling rainbow behind the speeding military transport. The soldiers wore the uniforms of Green Berets, and the men in the back openly carried M-16 assault rifles.

Vaguely, Brognola remembered there was a military base somewhere in the nearby mountains, but could not recall the exact name. However, if these were fake soldiers, the killers had done an excellent job. As far as he could tell, these were the real thing. He tightened his grip on both weapons. But a fool often dropped his guard for a friendly, smiling face. As the director of the Special Operations Group, Brognola had made a host of enemies over the years, and he had simply accepted it as part of the job that someday, somewhere, they would find him alone and extract a terrible revenge.

Barreling out of the river, the driver parked the Hummer on the sloped bank. A lieutenant stepped out and started to give a salute, but stopped himself just in time and changed the gesture into removing his cap.

Brognola grunted. So far, so good. Soldiers did not salute civilians. But he was still far from being convinced. “Morning,” Brognola called, leveling both guns. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” The man’s heart was pounding in his chest, but his palms were dry.

“Recognition code, Alpha Dog Bravo,” the officer said crisply, then waited expectantly.

“Zulu Tango Romeo,” Brognola replied, giving the countersign for the week and lowering the guns. “Okay, what the hell is going on here?”

“Sir, somebody needs to speak to you immediately. Your cell is out of range, so our CO sent us out on recon,” the lieutenant explained, donning the soaked cap. “Since everybody knows about this fishing pool, we checked here first.”

“Fair enough,” Brognola said, tucking the Glock into his belt. The service revolver was slipped into a pocket of his jeans. “That somebody got a name?”

“Yes, sir. Eagle One.”

Instantly all reticence was gone and Brognola walked over to the Hummer, holding out a hand. As he got close, the corporal in the back proffered a hand mike attached to a large transmitter situated between the seats.

Accepting the mike, Brognola impatiently waited while the soldiers moved away from the vehicle to give him some privacy. They might not be sure who he was, but they sure as hell knew the identity of Eagle One.

When the Green Berets were far enough away, Brognola thumbed the transmit switch and repeated his name, slow and clear. There was a brief pause as the signal was encoded and relayed across the continent via a series of military satellites. Once NSA equipment on the other side analyzed his vocal patterns to ascertain it actually was him, a familiar voice crackled over the speaker.

“Sorry for the interruption, Hal,” said the President without a preamble. “But I needed to talk to you immediately, and there was no time to fly you back to D.C. We have a problem in Russia.”

“Is Striker in trouble?” Brognola asked.

Striker was one of the many code names for Mack Bolan.

“Not at the moment, Hal, no. This is something completely different,” the President stated. “Just a few hours ago, a NATO courier delivered a coded report to the joint chiefs. One of their spy satellites detected a tactical nuclear explosion near Mystery Mountain.”

“But that is not a nuclear facility,” Brognola said, sitting inside the Hummer. The seat was damp from the rush up the river, but he paid it no mind. “The mountain mostly works on experimental weapons, plasma lasers, coil guns, orbiting kinetics, microwaves, robotics and such.”

“Correct. And this was nothing new. Just an ordinary nuclear weapon.” The President paused. “Except that the flash signature was Chinese.”

The words were said quite simply, but Brognola exhaled as if punched in the stomach. China nuked Mystery Mountain? “Has that been confirmed?” he demanded brusquely.

“Triple checked from multiple sources.” The President sighed. “There can be no mistake. The nuclear weapons of every nation are completely different, and the flash signature of the fireball cannot be faked to resemble another. This was a Chinese nuke.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brognola whispered. “How could a goddamn Chinese ICBM get that far inside Russia without being shot down?”

A scholarly man, the new President really did not approve of the crude language, but said nothing. Brognola had to be accepted on his terms, and thus was one of the very few people in the world who could address him this way. “It wasn’t an ICBM,” he corrected. “Just a tactical nuke. Barely a half-kiloton yield. Probably a suitcase model, very similar to our own man-portable charge.”

“Well, that’s something, then.” Brognola sighed, looking across the river. “There could not have been that much damage. With any luck—”

“Hal, the base was obliterated. Utterly destroyed.”

“With a tactical nuke?” Brognola scoffed. “That’s not possible, sir, unless… Goddamn it, the Chinese nuked the dam and flooded the base.”

There was an affirmative grunt. “As usual, Hal, you are correct. The death toll is in the thousands and the base will never fully recover. There is simply too much contamination.”

“The Kremlin must be going insane.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” the President agreed. “Their president has already contacted me to remind me of our mutual defense pact.”

Which was the first step toward declaring open war, Brognola realized, shifting the Glock in his belt to a more comfortable position. A goddamn nuclear war. “Any response from China?”

“They say it is a Russian trick, and are massing troops along the border to repel a possible invasion.”

“Which means Russia is doing the same thing to stop them from invading. Right?”

“Actually no,” the President said, speaking slowly. “The Kremlin has authorized a full mobilization, land, sea and air, almost everything they have. However, all of it is heading toward Mystery Mountain. Not China.”

“But why—?” Brognola inhaled sharply. “China had nothing to do with this—the nuke was a goddamn diversion.” The man ran stiff fingers through his hair. “Something was stolen from Mystery Mountain,” he stated with conviction. “Something new, and big.”

“Sadly, that is the same conclusion that my chief of staff, the national security adviser and I each arrived at about an hour ago,” the President stated forcibly. “We have no idea what this new weapon could be, but the very fact that the thieves used a nuclear weapon to obtain the device clearly indicates it is more powerful. You don’t use a rocket launcher to steal a handgun.”

“Unless a rocket launcher is all you have,” Brognola countered, momentarily lost in thought. “Could this have been done by some terrorist organization? Maybe Hamas, or the Warriors of God?” There was a brief surge of static and any response was lost.

“Sir? I missed that,” Brognola said. “Please repeat.”

“I said that terrorists doing this is most unlikely, but we should not rule out the possibility,” the President acknowledged. “This might even be the work of some lone madman trying to bring back the glory days of communism.”

God forbid. “What has been done so far, sir?”

There came the rustling of papers. “Homeland Security is trying to confirm if China is innocent or is working through some mercenary group. The CIA is concentrating on the larger terrorist organizations. Military Intelligence is looking into the radical splinter groups, while the FBI is tackling domestic terrorists, and the NSA is monitoring all cell phone traffic in western Europe and Asia for any reference to Mystery Mountain.”

“Sounds good. What would you like for my people to do, sir?” Even over a scrambled transmission, Brognola could not bring himself to name the covert Stony Man teams. In spite of every conceivable security precaution, the Farm had been invaded once, and the man was grimly determined to never allow that to happen again.