Don Pendleton: Desert Falcons

They were in the gym at Stony Man Farm. Bolan was sweating profusely due not only to the intensity of his workout, but also the vinyl suit he was wearing. He sent another combination into the bag, sending a spray of perspiration with each blow.

The timer finally rang. Bolan stopped punching and reached for his towel. He wiped the sweat off his face and neck, and when the timer sounded again, indicating his minute’s rest was over, he tossed the towel down and moved to the bag again.

Grimaldi sat on a nearby medicine ball, leaning over with his arms resting on his knees.

“Hey, you have to slow down,” he said. “You’re making me tired just watching you.”

Bolan stepped closer to the inside and began working left and right uppercuts. He caught a flash of movement by the door and whirled.

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, entered the gym and smiled.

“So there you two are.” She was dressed in a red sweater and blue jeans that accentuated her curves. Her hand swept her honey-blond hair away from her face as she smiled. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Bolan took a moment to appreciate her beauty and then went back to punching again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Grimaldi said. “Now you can hold the bag.”

“I would,” she said, “but I forgot my raincoat. You’re leaving more water on the floor than an autumn thunderstorm.”

Bolan delivered a double left hook, low and high.

“Besides,” Price said, “Hal’s been trying to get hold of you. You haven’t been answering your phones.”

Grimaldi slapped his sides, then held up his hands. “Not too many pockets in this outfit.”

Bolan stopped. “Why? What’s up?”

“I’d better let him tell you that. He’s in the War Room.”

Grimaldi jumped to his feet. “Well, I guess that settles it. Workout’s over. Let’s hit the showers.”

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER Bolan and Grimaldi were seated at a conference table across from Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The big Fed picked up a remote and pressed some buttons that turned on a large flat-screen monitor.

“Nice of you two to drop by,” Brognola said. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour. I should’ve known you’d either be in the gym or on the range.”

“That isn’t my fault,” Grimaldi said. “Superman here had to get his workout in as soon as we got back.”

Brognola got up and poured a cup of coffee from a coffeemaker behind his desk. He took a sip, frowned and shook his head.

“Looks like Aaron made the coffee. As good as ever?” Grimaldi asked.

“It’ll put hair on your chest and part it down the middle,” Brognola stated. “I had to brief him on a matter. He just left.”

Aaron, “the Bear” Kurtzman was renowned for his terrible coffee and his unparalleled computer expertise.

“What’s so urgent?” Bolan asked.

Brognola brought the mug to his lips again, started to take another sip, then apparently thought better of it. He set the mug on his desk and pressed another button on the remote. The big screen jumped forward to a frozen-frame depiction of two groups of people facing off on a two-lane asphalt road bisecting a bleak, desert-like landscape. The earth looked brownish-tan and was punctuated with dots of grass, mesquite and mountains in the background. Most of the figures were in tan uniforms, apparently law enforcement of some kind, and at least four of them held back snarling leashed German shepherd dogs. A few extended their arms with various weapons that ranged from handguns to stun guns. Several more of the uniformed men held shotguns.

They faced another group of armed men who stood on the opposite side of the road. They were dressed in desert camouflage BDUs, their black caps low on their foreheads, and carried what appeared to be AR-15 rifles. A gaggle of civilians, both men and women, were interspersed in between the respective uniformed groups. On the right edge of the frozen image a large, dark area partially blocked out the rest of the view.

“You probably saw this on the news last week,” Brognola said. “It was out in Nevada.”

“Well, we’ve been a little busy lately,” Bolan said. “Remember?”

Brognola nodded and pressed the remote again. The frozen scene jumped to life as the sound of loud voices and barking dogs emanated from the television’s speakers. The group of officers moved forward, behind the lurching dogs. One of them apparently sprayed some sort of aerosol irritant toward the agitated civilians. A few of them retreated, coughing and wheezing. The black-hatted camouflaged figures didn’t move and kept their rifles at port arms. The darkened section at the right side of the screen jolted forward, and it became apparent that it was actually the rear flank of a horse. The man atop the steed was brandishing an upside-down American flag on a six-foot pole. The horse trotted forward. Both the uniformed officers and the civilians backed up to opposite sides of the road as the animal began snorting. A reporter appeared on the left side of the screen holding a microphone. His anxious expression gave way to a nervous smile as he began to speak in a tremulous voice.

“This ongoing dispute between rancher Rand Autry and the federal authorities has been escalating to a critical confrontation for weeks now over a dispute about open range grazing and water rights and the government’s claim that Mr. Autry has repeatedly refused to pay taxes for these activities. In response to a cease-and-desist order along with the forced confiscation of a portion of Mr. Autry’s cattle, an armed group calling themselves the People’s New Minutemen Militia have announced their support for Mr. Autry and have assembled at the entrance to his property in what they have termed an affront to the pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Federal authorities—”

Brognola punched the remote and froze the video again. He turned to Bolan and Grimaldi.

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” Grimaldi said. “That’s a catchy phrase. I wonder where they got that one?”

“Don’t let the rhetoric fool you,” Brognola said as he held up his hand, forming a small space between his index finger and thumb. “They were this close to a full-scale confrontation. That’s Rand Autry riding the horse with the flag in distress.”

“Who were the uniforms?” Grimaldi asked. “State police?”

Brognola shook his head. “Bureau of Land Management park rangers.”

“Interesting,” Bolan said. “But hardly something we would get involved in, right?”

Brognola took another sip of coffee and grinned. “It gets better.” He pressed the remote and fast-forwarded the video, stopping on a picture of Autry holding the flag on the horse as the animal reared on its hind legs. The picture dissolved, and a new image appeared of the same man, clad in a Stetson hat and a bright, Western-style shirt, standing in front of a lectern with a panoramic painting of picturesque mountains and flowing rivers on a huge panel behind him. The words Land of the Free were stenciled in black letters over the mountains. He appeared to be addressing an audience in a medium-sized auditorium.

“We are all gathered here at Camp Freedom today to celebrate our freedom and our way of life,” Autry said, “and to address the most critical and dangerous threat to our existence since the Communists. I’m talking about our current administration in Washington and the secret deals they’re making to circumvent the American way of life. They’re defiling the very law of the land, denying the very things that made this country great.”

The audience applauded.

Autry bowed his head slightly in appreciation and acknowledgment. “As we speak, they’ve been playing both ends against the middle, coddling the Jews in Israel, while making deals with the Muslims, all to support the welfare state our great country has become supporting urban blacks who’ve made our city streets free-fire zones. Our cities have regressed a hundred years, back to the times when we worried about the marauding Indian tribes. And it’s not enough that the federal government is flaunting these things in front of our 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.”