Don Pendleton: Hellfire Code

“And with good reason,” Kurtzman interjected. “Barb, may I?”

Price inclined her head and Kurtzman keyed the projector to project a new photograph. “This man is Peter Hagen, fifty-nine years of age, born in Sarasota, Florida. He’s an MIT graduate who served as senior technology officer during Downing’s tenure at the NSA. He resigned the same year Downing did, but at the time he was working on a secret project to develop a comprehensive assault platform with Multi-Geo Transversal capabilities.

“MGT is a relatively new concept the U.S. military has only been inclined to pursue over the past six years or so. In essence, the concept is centered on small-scale assault mobility operations, like those conducted by elite military teams or antiterrorist units. Multi-Geo Transversal is actually the shorter version of Multiplied Geographical Transportation Universality.”

“Sounds like something out of a science-fiction novel,” Bolan said.

Kurtzman chuckled. “Simply put, MGT theory theorizes effective first-strike scenarios by small, specialized teams mobilized through some mechanism capable of traveling by sea, air or land.”

“A multiterrain vehicle, then,” Bolan said. “Is that all we’re talking about here?”

“MGT is a wee bit more than that. A core group of military scientists first toyed with this idea toward the end of the 1990s. The thought was that if they could create a transport with MGT abilities, it would allow them to cross-train smaller units more effectively. This, in turn, would reduce the cost of special operations, and by eliminating the coordination of multiple branches during insertion and extraction operations, secrecy stood severely reduced chances of compromise.”

“You see, we think Downing diverted enough funds from government surplus and project remainders to actually come up with a prototype,” Price said. “Peter Hagen was the brainchild of the operation at the time, but he’s now supposedly working in the civilian sector with a government contractor.”

“And guess where he’s currently residing?” Brognola asked.

“Atlanta,” Bolan said with a nod. “Okay, that’s enough evidence for me. What’s the plan?”

“We’re inserting you as a last minute add-on with the federal task force Justice sent to investigate the slayings down there,” Price said. “You’re cover will be Matt Cooper, a weapons specialist with the ATF. We have the full credentials ready.”

“You should have no trouble fitting in there,” Brognola added.

“Right,” Bolan agreed. “I’ll have to find some way of getting in touch with this Hagen. What do we know about him?”

Price handed him a personal digital assistant and smiled. “That contains all the information we have on Hagen and Downing.”

“It also has the ability to access our mainframe data systems through a cable network or wireless connection,” Kurtzman added. “You can even plug it into a phone line and get to us by dial-up.”

“Understand, the information on that device is encoded and will only unlock if you place your thumbs simultaneously on the back of it,” Price said. “If anyone other than you attempts to access the information or tampers with it in any way, the thing will instantly melt its circuits.”

“A little extra fail-safe we added at Hunt’s suggestion,” Kurtzman said with a grin.

Bolan could believe it. Some of the greatest minds on Earth comprised Kurtzman’s technical team. Huntington “Hunt” Wethers, the black former cybernetics professor from Berkeley with a near genius IQ; Carmen Delahunt, former FBI agent turned assistant extraordinaire; Akira Tokaido, a young computer hacker with an intellect as profound as his punk rock attire.

“I’ll find this Hagen,” Bolan assured them. “What has me more concerned, though, is Neely. I’ve known Roger quite a number of years now, and he’s always been dependable. Something must have really scared him that he would run.”

“We believe it’s possible Downing found out about Neely’s involvement from a mole inside the NSA,” Brognola replied. “It’s proving it that might be a bit more painful.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Neely,” Price said. “I promise if anything happens we’ll let you know right away.”

“I just don’t want things to go sideways before I can get to him, Barb,” the Executioner said. “I’m sure this is his way of calling for help.”

Price nodded, and Bolan could see from her expression that she empathized with his concerns. Since he had severed official ties with his government, Stony Man had never interfered with his right to pursue private missions. If anything they had supported him more times than he could recall. He’d tried to return the favor whenever possible. Sure, he could have walked away right now from this thing and chosen to go after Neely instead, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good.

Bolan believed Neely was on the run because of Downing. The only way he could clear Neely’s name was to get the heart of the issue as soon as possible. Barb and Hal were right. This mission had to start at the source, and the soldier knew if he could get to the source of Downing’s operation he could get to Downing. By removing the threat posed by Downing’s OSI group and whatever project this Hagen was working on, the threat to Neely would probably go away, as well.

“We’ve arranged for a commercial flight out of Dulles,” Brognola said. “Tonight. I wish we could have sent Jack with you, but he’s currently on assignment in Turkey with Phoenix Force.”

“Cowboy’s arranged to have all your special friends waiting for you in Atlanta,” Price said with a knowing wink.

That was good news. John “Cowboy” Kissinger was Stony Man’s chief armorer and a first-rate operative. Cowboy had a unique talent for assessing the needs of the Stony Man crew before they even knew what they needed. Rarely did a weapon jam or fail when serviced under Kissinger’s practiced eye and meticulous craftsmanship.

So Garrett Downing was calling out the terrorists. Unfortunately, he’d chosen to ignore the rules of the game and he’d called out the Executioner, as well. Even in war the purposeful taking of innocent lives was unacceptable. Bolan knew that creed well, and he’d lived by it. It had earned him the respect of his comrades and the moniker of Sergeant Mercy. The Executioner would have to teach Garrett Downing this lesson the hard way.

And he planned to hold the first session of class in Atlanta.

Bolan’s flight touched down short of midnight.

Toting only a carry-on with two days’ change of clothes, Bolan bypassed baggage claim and headed straight to the underground parking garage where his car waited. Scrutinizing the garage a moment, he retrieved a special key from his pocket and used it to access the trunk. He traded his carry-on for a satchel there and the keys to the door and ignition, then climbed behind the wheel and exited the garage.

A light mist coated the windshield. Bolan maneuvered into the departure lanes with signs pointing the way to Interstate 85. Even at that hour, Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International wore its proud distinction as the busiest passenger airport in the world. Bolan took advantage of the logjam to open the satchel and retrieve a leather shoulder holster. At a red light, he slipped into the rigging and retrieved his Beretta 93-R, which had been wrapped in a thick silicon-coated cloth. After loading the Beretta with a 20-round clip of 135-grain Hi-Master rounds, Bolan nestled the pistol in the holster beneath his left arm.

Another ten minutes passed before he reached the highway and headed northeast. According to the dossier provided by Stony Man, Peter Hagen lived in the affluent suburb of Brookhaven. The Executioner wasn’t sure what to expect. Hagen might not have a clue about Downing’s current whereabouts, or even if Downing had continued to pursue the idea of his multiterrain vehicle.