Don Pendleton - Stealth Assassin

“Tell him to continue as planned,” Novak said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.” Burke laughed and disconnected.

Novak felt like throwing the burner phone against the wall, too. Sure, Burke could laugh. It wasn’t his ass on the line, testifying before a congressional oversight committee, led by some overzealous congressman who wanted to make a name for himself in front of the TV cameras so he could set himself up for reelection and an eventual run for the White House.

The first openly gay presidential candidate, my ass , Novak thought.

If only that little potential blackmail scheme would have worked. The drone had captured excellent photos and video of Oglethorpe and his boy toy aide on that private beach. But in this current topsy-turvy world of ultra political correctness, the old rules didn’t apply any longer. Nothing applied anymore. The inmates were running the asylum.

What happened to the good old days, Novak wondered, when you could get some honest dirt on some politician and use it to your advantage?

He shook his head and fingered the bottle of bourbon.

Okay, Novak thought, if that’s the way the bastard wanted to play it... Sterner measures were called for. After the disposal operations in the Middle East were completed, depending on the amount of good press the Aries got, he could figure out a way to take care of Oglethorpe.

He looked at the bottle, then to the shattered glass. He could get up and get another one, but decided against it.

Novak sighed, braced himself, lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted it, feeling the burst of astringent fluid saturate his tongue.

Onward and upward, he thought. Knights away.

USS Soley

Somewhere in the Arabian Sea

Bolan entered the small briefing room aboard the ship and saw that Grimaldi and the others were sitting around the table with plastic bottles of water. The captain and his executive officer—XO—stood near the door looking solemn. Kevin McCarthy, the Defense Department liaison officer, was on the other side of the room, by a flip chart with a map of Yemen attached. The frown on his face was evident as he looked at his watch in an exaggerated manner.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Bolan ignored him and grabbed a bottle of water from the iced bucket. He was totally familiar with armchair operatives like McCarthy and had little respect for them. They were career bureaucrats who sat on their asses in carefree safety and comfort while they sent others, who put their lives on the line, into hot zones. Bolan twisted the cap and took a long drink.

McCarthy loudly cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to conduct our debrief.”

Bolan lowered the bottle, looked at the man and addressed the others. “Johnson’s going to be all right.”

Grimaldi held up his open palm and high-fived the other members of the team.

“Glad to hear that, Striker,” he said.

“Well, I’d be glad to hear a bit about the mission,” McCarthy said.

“The presence of the sarin was verified,” Bolan told him. “As was the presence of Ali Sharif. Both were tactically neutralized.”

No one spoke for several seconds as the team members exchanged glances. Bolan reached into his pocket, removed a sealed plastic packet and tossed it onto the table.

“This should provide confirmation.”

McCarthy’s lips drew into a tight line. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear from the onset. The plan was for apprehension and transport back to Guantanamo and then to call in a drone strike to dispose of the gas.”

“That wasn’t possible.”

McCarthy pursed his lips. “And why, pray tell, was that?”

Grimaldi snorted. “Pray what? It’s been a long time since I heard that expression.”

McCarthy glared down at him. “Your orders were to observe, report and reapprehend.”

“Reapprehend,” Grimaldi repeated. “Is that a government word? I’m sure I’ve never seen it in the dictionary.”

Bolan remained silent, but the other team members chuckled.

“I’ve had enough of your smart-ass remarks,” McCarthy said. “I want you to know that I consider this mission an abject failure.”

“Yeah?” Grimaldi snorted. “Well, considering we took out a bunch of terrorists, destroyed a shit load of sarin gas and eliminated the asshole you guys mistakenly let out in the first place, I think we did pretty damn good apart from one of our team getting hit.”

“Do you realize the intelligence value of a target like Sharif?” McCarthy shot back. “The information he could have provided?”

Grimaldi stared at him. “Do you realize that there’s a young American lying in the other room with a couple of holes in him that he got from you sending him on a mission that technically never happened because your screw-up caused it in the first place?”

“And your grandstanding in taking out the gas yourselves put the entire mission in jeopardy. That’s what the drones are for. Did you ever hear of following orders?”

“Did you ever hear of a beat-down?” Grimaldi stood and lifted his right hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Because you’re about this close to getting one.”

Before McCarthy could respond, Bolan stepped forward. “This debrief is officially over.”

“What?” McCarthy whirled toward him. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”

“We don’t work for you,” Bolan said, pausing to take another drink from the water bottle. His voice was even, his face betraying no emotion. He turned to the captain and said, “Sir, we would appreciate it if you could make arrangements to get my partner and me to our scheduled rendezvous with the carrier. And these men need to get back to their regular assignments.”

The captain, a thin man with a weary look to him, smiled. “Already in motion. But I do have to tell you that there’s a crypto Skype call waiting for you in our communications center. We can set it up in here, if you want.”

“In here?” Grimaldi cocked his thumb in McCarthy’s direction. “With little Lord Fauntleroy in earshot? Like the man said, we don’t work for him.”

The liaison strode toward the door, yanked it open and stormed out.

“Think I should’ve told him not to let it hit him in the ass?” Grimaldi asked.

“I think you’ve said more than enough,” Bolan told him. “Captain, if you have a secure and private place for that call, we’d appreciate it.”

“You can use my office,” the XO said.

Bolan thanked the two officers, who then left. He turned to the team and held out his hand in front of the closest one.

“Nice working with you guys,” he said, shaking Washington’s hand first. “You all did well, even if what we did never officially happened.”

“We’ll go with you anytime, anyplace, Striker,” Vargas said, shaking his hand next.

A few minutes later Bolan and Grimaldi were making their way to the XO’s office.

“This has got to be Hal,” Grimaldi said.

“Most likely.”

“I wonder what he wants. Maybe he wants to put us in for a couple of medals or something.”

“Very funny.” Bolan stopped in front of the XO’s office door and knocked.

Upon entry they saw a large screen set against one wall. The XO handed the remote to Bolan, then stepped out of the room. The Executioner pressed the button and the screen came to life with an image of Hal Brognola sitting at the desk in the office he used whenever he was at Stony Man Farm. An unlit cigar dangled from his mouth as he looked up.

“How’d it go?”

“Mission complete, target tactically neutralized, WMD destroyed,” Bolan said.

The big Fed grunted his approval. “How’d that makeshift team we threw together perform?”