Don Pendleton - Grave Mercy

“Good,” Bolan returned. “What’s my cover?”

“Colonel Brandon Stone,” Price returned. “We’ve already set it so that you can be armed on the carrier, but you do have to carry concealed.”

Bolan shrugged. “Even military brass can’t be armed on a Navy ship.”

“Not everyone believes in the inherent goodness of the U.S. Armed Forces,” Price replied. “Unfortunately that includes many commanders in the Navy, the Army…”

“I’ll deal with it,” Bolan said, tugging on a BDU overshirt, concealing the Beretta 93-R in its holster. As a soldier in the field, and years of interacting with servicemen abroad, the soldier had learned that the Pentagon policies about disarming troops when not in direct contact with the enemy had lead to countless being left vulnerable to ambushes. The death toll, thanks to those policies, was high, a level of loss that caused suffering among families at home and crippling deficiencies among active-duty personnel.

“The helicopter is coming to the camp, correct?”

“The less you have to travel with the blood before it can be brought to the lab, the better,” Price told him.

Bolan nodded. “ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

The soldier looked up from buttoning the jacketlike uniform blouse. “I’ll be ready. Any news on who is claiming responsibility for the attack?”

“No word per se,” Price said. “Though the zombie-like rage exhibited by the attackers have people talking about voodoo. Someone leaked videos through the internet and they have hit cable news stations.”

“That may be the point,” Bolan replied.

Price tilted her head. “How so?”

“Phoenix, Able and I have had plenty of encounters with real-life voodoo zombies over the years,” Bolan said, referring to Phoenix Force and Able Team, Stony Man’s two action units. “Some were just makeup and bulletproof vests while others were people whose minds were destroyed by traditional houngan treatments, either as cheap slave labor or purpose constructed.”

Price frowned. “No one is taking responsibility because the targets of this attack will know who was behind it.”

“It could be part of the local Jamaican drug war, trying to fill in the void I recently knocked in the status quo,” Bolan added. “Or it could be something political, because I can’t see the cocaine cowboys on this island making a mess of their target demographic.”

“Tourists looking for nose candy and herb,” Price said.

Bolan nodded. “If they scare off tourism, a lot of their local dealers lose customers. With no income, they can’t bribe the hotels to let them hang around and deal, and the addition of violence in the hotels makes them really out of luck.”

“That doesn’t mean that the local gangs aren’t helping in some manner,” Price said. “Someone would have to provide ingredients to the chemical cocktails that set off the berserkers.”

“Calvin and I will look into that if we get a chance,” Bolan told her. “I’d prefer to have him working with me here in the islands because he fits in better than I do.”

“That’s part of the reason why Calvin is riding a Tomcat to the carrier out of Langley AFB,” Price said.

“He’s not on hand yet?” Bolan asked.

“By the time your helicopter drops you off, he’ll be on deck,” Price replied. “They caught a tailwind off the coast of Georgia. Do you want any other help?”

Bolan shook his head. “If the President doesn’t think this situation warrants my attention, I’m not going to pull in any more official Stony Man personnel than Cal. And how did he get free?”

“He took some time to meet with an old SEAL buddy,” Price replied. “Building more unofficial relations, so to speak.”

“What does the buddy do now?” Bolan asked.

“Security firm,” Price said. “So now, Phoenix Force has more friends in the New York area…just in case.”

Bolan nodded with approval. “Shame to interrupt that.”

“Cal made the call to me that he was going down to meet you,” Price replied. “One helicopter transfer to Langley…”

“I’ll be sure to tell him I appreciate this,” Bolan said. “I hear the chopper coming.”

“Striker.” Price spoke up, her voice grown soft, losing its hard business edge for a moment.

Bolan looked into the web cam, knowing that it was the closest that he could get to looking into her eyes over their cybernetic link. “Barbara?”

“I’m sorry that your…time off…had to end this way,” she said.

“No need to feel sorry for me,” Bolan returned. “You may want to spare some concern for the men who caused the deaths of children.”

Price looked down. She’d heard the icy grating in his voice, like a whetstone over a combat knife.

Mack Bolan was on the hunt.

CALVIN JAMES pulled off the oxygen mask and flight helmet before he crawled out of the rear seat of the F-14 Tomcat. The Mach 2 fighter had torn through the skies like a guided missile, delivering the former SEAL to the aircraft carrier in time to meet up with the Executioner. The pilot of the plane had pointed out Bolan’s chopper, looking as if it were hovering still in the air compared to the breakneck pace of the long-range jet.

James was glad to be out of the cockpit. He was two inches too tall for the Tomcat at six foot two, and his legs and head had been squashed in on the supersonic flight. The aircraft had traveled for an hour at full speed, but an hour in the claustrophobic backseat was just too much for him. The only consolation was that James had ridden in planes too small for him before and had learned how to bend and twist so he wouldn’t end the flight with muscle cramps.

That’s what he’d told himself as he rubbed his neck, wincing as sleepy shoulder muscles protested at the excessive stretching.

A crewman withdrew James’s duffel from its small storage locker just behind the seat. There wasn’t much inside it other than for a case containing his personal Beretta 92-F, two of his favorite knives and a Glock 26 backup pistol, with holsters and accessories for everything. Price had informed James that clothing would be provided at the other end of the flight, so his combat gear would be all he needed.

The captain, Timothy Bannon, was waiting across the deck, observing as his crew tended to the newly arrived Tomcat. With a simple turn, Bannon would be only moments from the bridge in case of an emergency. This carrier was his responsibility, and he hovered over it as if he were guarding his own toddler. Bannon was six feet even, with broad shoulders, and his baseball-style cap couldn’t conceal the clean-shaved sides and back of his head. Blue eyes, looking out from blond, nearly invisible eyebrows, scanned the tall black man who approached him.

“Calvin Farrow,” James introduced himself, using one of his cover names. “Permission to come aboard.”

Bannon extended his hand. “Permission granted. The Justice Department needs my ship?”

“Just a small part, sir,” James returned. “We have a man coming in by helicopter, and I need to take a look at the blood samples he collected.”

“So you’ll use our sick bay, rather than take up room on a hospital ship,” Bannon surmised. “We’re not doing anything on board, but we do have a good phlebotomy laboratory. Sadly, it’s something that’s needed in the modern Navy.”

“Mandatory drug testing, among other things,” James said. “I know the kind of stuff that people get into on duty on a carrier. Amphetamines to stay on extra duty when coffee stops working…especially for pilots.”

James could tell that he’d struck a sore point with Bannon, but the former Navy SEAL had also struck a chord that resonated with the Captain. Both were Navy, and James’s understanding of the unfortunate zeal of their fellow personnel was a salve to that soreness. “Here comes the chopper.”