Don Pendleton: The Chameleon Factor

“I can’t,” the pale technician said softly, turning to look at the professor. “The second unit isn’t here. The box is empty.”

Empty? The world seemed to reel at the word. The elderly professor went pale and clawed for the emergency radio clipped to his belt. “USS Fairfax, this is Johnson!” he yelled into the transponder. “Abort the missiles! Repeat, abort the missiles!”

But there was only the crackle of static in reply. Johnson checked the frequencies and tried again twice more before the answer punched his soul. Jammed. The radio broadcast was being blocked from outside. But how…who…?

“It’s a trap!” Johnson threw the radio aside and charged for the armored door. “We have to get out of here!”

A sudden light filled the slits of the bunker with hellish intensity.

“Too late!” the technician screamed, throwing an arm before his face.

“MOTHER OF GOD,” a general whispered, recoiling slightly as the two Delta Four missiles slammed directly into the fortified bunker and violently detonated. Broken slabs of concrete and steel beams blew into the sky as the twin fireballs washed over the target range in searing fury.

As a mushroom cloud of dark smoke rose into the blue sky, it exposed a gaping hole in the ground. Muttering curses and prayers at the terrible sight, the crowd of dignitaries remained in their seats, unable to move from the horror unfolding below.

“We’ve got to help them!” a lieutenant cried out, standing. Pushing his way through the stupefied throng, the lieutenant tried to reach the stairs leading to the ground. Then somebody grabbed his arm.

“Don’t be a fool, man! They’re beyond help,” a general snapped. “The professor is already dead. Nobody could have survived that first salvo.”

Scowling darkly, the lieutenant yanked his arm free and stared at the decimated target range once more. The fortified bunker was reduced to a mere handful of cracked pieces and rubble, ringing a blackened crater.

“Sorry, sir,” the lieutenant muttered, clenching his fist in frustration. Then a motion in the sky caught his attention, and the Army officer turned to see the next set of Delta Four missiles lift over the horizon and angle over to start for the destroyed bunker.

Then they abruptly changed course and swung directly for the grandstand.

“Hello, give me the White House,” a congresswoman said into a cell phone. “There’s been a disaster at—”

“Incoming!” the lieutenant bellowed.

At the incredible sight, men and women both began to scream in terror, and the crowd became a mob fighting to reach the stairs. A handful of military personnel pulled out their dress side arms to empty the weapons at the approaching Delta Fours. If the subsonic lead had any effect on the ultrasonic missiles, it wasn’t noticed as the Deltas smashed directly into the grandstand. Hundreds of bodies blew apart from the triphammer blasts, the rolling waves of chemical fire obliterating the grandstand, and the homing beacons glued to the underside of the wooden seats.

A death wave of splinters and boards blew across the parking lot, killing everybody in their path. A heartbeat later, the hidden charges in the car trunks went off, adding their thermite charges to the assorted destruction. Melting cars flipped into the air, gas tanks exploding like firecrackers. The startled pilots of the two Apaches had no time to react before the shock wave and shrapnel arrived, throwing the gunships sideways. Their blades snapped off as the helicopters tumbled over and over along the ground until they erupted into flames. Shrieking insanely, the pilots burned alive in the wreckage until their cargo of rockets and missiles ignited.

WATCHING FROM the side of a road on a hilltop, the man disguised as Professor Johnson looked up from the destruction of the target range just as the last two Delta Four missiles climbed into view. As they reached azimuth, he looked to the east, down into a rugged arroyo filled with a small complex of buildings surrounded by lush greenery. Pulling out a fountain pen, Johnson aimed the disguised transmitter at the complex and pressed the side hard. The pen gave an answering beep as its signal was received and the next set of homing beacons was activated.

Climbing back into the car, Johnson saw the Delta Fours streak past, heading for the office buildings. Looking up, he saw the missiles angle about and streak past the test site to head for the office buildings. Done and done—the Chameleon now belonged to him.

Starting the engine, the man turned the car and headed south toward the Kobuk River. There was a speedboat waiting for him there, and after that…

Following a gentle curve in the road, the nameless spy glanced in the rearview mirror and saw writhing tongues of orange flame reach for the sky, then an outcropping blocked his view and they were gone. Now there was only open road stretching between him and freedom.

Virginia

With its rotors beating steadily, the U.S.Army Black Hawk helicopter moved through the crisp morning air. Reclining in the jump seat in the rear of the massive gunship, Hal Brognola looked out the port window and watched the lush Virginia countryside endlessly flow by, the dense forests melding into sprawling towns of tree-lined streets and green parks. A hundred years or so ago, all of this land was torn and bloody as brother fought brother in the Civil War.

“Did you know that more Americans died in the Civil War than in World War II?” the blacksuit pilot said over a shoulder.

Roused from his thoughts, Brognola turned from the window. “Yeah, I did. History buff?”

The pilot flashed a smile. “I am in the military, sir.”

The big Fed waited for the pilot to also mention his skin color, but apparently it was not relevant to the discussion. White and blacks both died in the war, each fighting on both sides. Hell of a thing.

Harold Brognola wasn’t a soldier in the traditional sense, but he had certainly seen more than his share of warfare. As a high-level official in the Justice Department, Brognola was one of the top cops in the nation, answerable only to the President. Chief of the ultracovert Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, Brognola was returning to Washington from a quick visit to the Farm, hidden in the depths of Shenandoah National Park. Recent defensive renovations included a newly installed antimissile system. Upgrades to weapons systems were ongoing, and every once in a while Brognola would drop by the Farm to check things out. Any excuse to escape the frenetic pace of Washington, D.C., was acceptable.

The pilot touched the side of his helmet. “Sir, I have an urgent call for you from Dover,” he reported crisply.

Brognola frowned. Dover. As in the white cliffs of Dover. That was this month’s code name for the White House.

“I’ll take it back here.”

“Yes, sir!”

The big Fed pulled a briefcase onto his lap when his cell phone chirped.

Deactivating the locking mechanism in the briefcase, Brognola lifted the lid and the compact computer inside automatically cycled on. Typing a few passwords onto the miniature keyboard, the big Fed watched as the plasma screen scrolled identification signatures and countersigns as the machine dutifully checked and then double-checked to confirm it was receiving an authenticity signal on a secure frequency.

Exercising patience, Brognola waited. The man was aware that the White House had its own private communication satellites, and that the President had access to several that nobody else even knew existed. But it never hurt to make sure.

The gibberish on the screen melted into a familiar face at a well-known desk.

“Good morning, sir,” Brognola said.