Don Pendleton - Decision Point

Standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, Bolan waited with his instructor for the signal to begin. It had been a grueling five days of training, and he felt as though he’d mastered the basics, but there were maneuvers he still longed to perfect. They had received a special dispensation to use any means necessary to reach the top of the Eiffel Tower, rescue the mock hostages and disarm the terrorists. Nothing else compared to the challenge.

The monitor dropped the flag and Bolan raced up the stairs. The steep staircases surrounded by mesh fencing for protection worked as more of a launch pad than an obstacle. Bolan turned one corner and saw a shrapnel grenade. Using the momentum from running, Bolan launched to the top of the fence, anchoring with his hands but pulling his body up and over in one graceful movement. The small explosion behind him didn’t diminish his movement, pushing off with his feet and jumping through the air to an adjacent set of stairs.

Bolan pushed off of the top of the fence with one foot, jumping in a zigzag motion down the mesh walls that enclosed the stairs and moving back after his prey. There were three opponents waiting for him at the next turn. He leaned back as the larger one in the middle swung a bat, then reached out as it went past him, grabbing the end. He swung his weight with the bat and knocked the other two down as the extra pressure brought with his speed made a complete circle.

Angry, the opponent dropped the bat and tried to grapple Bolan. The Executioner picked up the discarded bat, jabbed the last guard in the solar plexus and then rushed past him. The final turn was filled with small gadgets on the steps that were to mimic explosives that would detonate on impact. Bolan ran back three steps to pick up speed, launched over the first two and bounced off the side of the fencing like a trampoline without touching the step. Back and forth across until he was clear of the devices. His last jump he rolled on the landing where the hostages were being held. He pulled his pistol with paint rounds and fired off two quick shots, killing the villains.

Everyone in the tower clapped. Bolan smiled, out of breath but elated that he was able to clear the obstacles. He stood on the platform and talked to his hostages, members of the team that had been training with him. They congratulated him, impressed at how quickly he had learned the skills, and talked about springing from one set of stairs to another and the risks of jumps from a given height or a moving object. He enjoyed training with other like-minded military men, and while France wasn’t known for its military prowess, the men he’d been training with were all part of a special antiterrorist unit and were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with.

Just as he’d caught his breath, Bolan’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and glanced down at the number, which he recognized at once as belonging to Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The most elite anti-terrorism agency in the world that answered only to the President of the United States, Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had been his brainchild. Now he worked with them on select missions, keeping a good arm’s length away from any kind of permanent arrangement. Still, when Brognola called, there was always a good reason.

He tapped the key that accepted the call. “Yeah.”

“Striker.” Brognola’s voice came over the line. “I’m glad I could reach you. Are you still in Paris?”

“Still here,” he said. “It’s been good, but long. Today’s the last day. What’s going on?”

“There’s a situation that I’d like to bring you in on. How soon can you be back in D.C.?”

Bolan could almost hear the sound of Hal chewing on one of his expensive cigars and realized that whatever was going on must be pretty serious. He almost never asked him to come in for a mission briefing. Remembering an invitation from a new friend about the chance to accompany him on a test flight of a new plane, he said, “If all goes well, I can be on the ground by eight tonight.”

“From Paris?” Brognola asked, his voice a bit incredulous. “The Concorde isn’t flying anymore, you know.”

“It’s a new plane of sorts. Where do you want me?”

“The White House,” he replied. “I’ll make sure you’ve got gate clearance as Colonel Stone. Stop off at the Farm and get a uniform from Stores, Striker.”

“It must be my day to be surprised,” Bolan said. “You’ve asked me to come in for a mission briefing and you want me at the White House in a military uniform.”

“The situation is…delicate. Just get back here ASAP and I’ll have more details for you when you arrive.”

“On my way,” he said, ending the call. He quickly thanked his hosts and explained that a personal emergency had come up and he had to leave right away, rather than stay for the celebration planned for that evening. Everyone shook hands, and Bolan made his way back down the Eiffel Tower before he placed another call to arrange his transportation back to the U.S.

THE TEST FLIGHT TO D.C. went off without a hitch, and the plane had performed flawlessly.

A quick call to Stony Man Farm had resulted in an Army colonel’s uniform and credentials being dropped off at a hotel Bolan occasionally used when he was in Washington.

The pilot of the experimental plane had decided to play tourist in D.C. for a few days, so the plane would remain in a private hangar that had been arranged before he’d left France.

The soldier showered, shaved and changed into his uniform, then arranged for a car service to take him to the White House. The process at the gate couldn’t have been more simple. His uniform commanded automatic respect and when he gave his name—Colonel Brandon Stone—and provided his credentials, he was immediately given access and an escort inside the building.

Once inside, he was met by a man in a nondescript, dark blue suit that all but screamed Secret Service. “Colonel Stone, if you’d follow me, please?” he said.

“Of course,” Bolan replied, not bothering to look around too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.

“Where are we going?” he asked the agent.

“To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.

The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”

“Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.

“Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”

“Bunker,” he replied.

The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.

“This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”

“Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.