Don Pendleton - Critical Exposure

Semper fi, boys, he thought.

They continued to do battle with the second chopper, but it was quickly becoming difficult as the pilot cleverly stayed high and in motion, making it impossible for them to get a bead on their target. Additionally the enemy was armed with rockets and using them with deadly accuracy, destroying two more Hummers and a five-ton truck. Morrell wanted to call for air support, but he knew there were no units within proximity—any requested assistance would arrive far too late.

The battle continued for another five or ten minutes, Morrell couldn’t be completely sure, before the chopper blasted out of the area, having left plenty of destruction and death in its wake. Morrell ran toward the last known position of those vehicles that should have survived and picked up any survivors as he went, one with a leg wound and being assisted by two other Marines.

By this time the vehicles on the road were fast approaching and Morrell had only managed to collect a handful of survivors. He asked a squad sergeant named Hicks, “We got anything heavy left? Squad machine guns, crewed light artillery...anything?”

“I got one .60 we pulled from our Hummer,” Hicks replied. “The rocket got the front of it and flipped us on our side. Gunner got squashed, but I managed to salvage it.”

Morrell nodded. “Get it set up at that high point overlooking the road. I suspect those trucks are NF, and under no circumstances are you to allow them through. I’ll start collecting whatever explosive ordnance we have, including grenades and any launchers I can find. Whatever happens tonight, Sergeant, those trucks are not to get through. Is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Hicks turned and ordered the man with the M-60 to find high ground and to take another man with him.

Morrell called after the young man, a private, and said, “Listen good, Marine. Your orders are to fire for effect and prevent those trucks from getting through. Go for the equipment, first—especially since you got limited ammo. When you’re out, it’s time to start making bodies. Understood?”

“Yes, Gunney!”

“Semper fi, Private,” he muttered as the young man turned to follow orders.

Morrell knew he’d probably just sent two Marines to their deaths, but there wasn’t anything he could about it. Their mission was to protect the village and that’s what he planned to do, whatever it cost.

“Sir, I don’t get it,” Hicks said. “How the fuck did this happen? This mission was supposed to be classified.”

“I don’t know the answers,” Morrell said glumly. “I don’t know that we’ll ever know the answers. But I can promise you this much. If we get out of this alive, I sure as hell will get those answers—if I got to go straight to the Pentagon myself.”

“If you do that, Gunney, I can guarantee I’ll be right behind you,” Hicks replied.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

As Hal Brognola sat in the War Room and perused the reports still coming through from the Pentagon—funneled through their secure Computer Room in the nearby Annex—he felt deeply troubled. The incidents over the past twenty-four hours indicated that sensitive U.S. operations across the globe had been compromised on a level he’d seldom seen before. The Stony Man chief wondered how such a thing could have happened. Moreover, he didn’t have the first clue where to begin or how to tie them together. Even Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber team, a top-shelf unit if there ever was one, had indicated they were at a loss.

“There’s no relationship between these incidents,” he muttered.

Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, looked up from the duplicate set of reports she’d been studying on her laptop. She tugged a strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “Did you say something?”

Brognola shrugged, leaned back in his chair and practically ripped the unlit cigar from his mouth. “I was just saying I don’t see a link, Barb.”

Price sighed as she returned her attention to the screen of her laptop. “I wish I had something to offer you, but it would only be platitudes. And I’m afraid I’m forced to agree. Three different missions by different groups of U.S. intelligence assets in three different countries. Maybe...I mean maybe there’s a relationship we could assume between the incidents in Benghazi and Syria. But even the ties between the al-Nusra Front and the AQIM seem weak by comparison. There certainly isn’t any correlation between a Marine expeditionary unit and SEAL Team Four.”

“And even if there was,” Brognola replied, “I don’t think this neo-Nazi terror group the Delta Force operators in Munich had been following would be hooked up with Islamic terrorists.”

“Agreed.”

“Any word from Striker?”

“Striker” was Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner.

Price shook her head. “Nothing yet. But I’ve put the word out for him to contact us. I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough.”

The phone on the table signaled for attention and Price glanced knowingly at Brognola before she stabbed the button to answer. “Price, here.”

Kurtzman’s deep voice came over the line. “Morning, folks. I have Striker on the line.”

“Striker?” Brognola said.

“I’m here, Hal.”

“Good to hear your voice, Striker,” Price interjected.

“Likewise. Your message was encoded as urgent. What’s up?”

Price looked at Brognola with a wink and said, “Probably Hal’s blood pressure, for starters, but that’s nothing really new.”

That produced a chuckle from Bolan. “I’m guessing that may have more to do with that mud Bear calls coffee.”

That brought a laugh from everyone.

“We got a call from the Man this morning,” Brognola said. “Some very odd incidents have occurred with the nation’s intelligence operations. The reports are strangely isolated and the details surrounding those incidents even more puzzling. The intelligence is also spotty.”

“Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “You’ve had a compromise of sensitive operations around the world and the only common denominator is that there is no common denominator.”

“You know about this?”

“I keep my ear to the ground,” the Executioner said. “In fact, I just got wind of it myself. I thought maybe when I got Barb’s message there might be a connection.”

“Your intuition was right—as usual,” Price said.

Brognola shook his head and tried to collect his thoughts. “Striker, the only thing we can tell you at the moment is that all three missions seem to have been blown in much the same way, and that all three were highly classified military intelligence ops. Unfortunately what we know is a lot less than what we don’t.”

“Anything on the hostiles involved?” Bolan asked.

“Two of the three are offshoots of al Qaeda,” Price replied. “A reconnaissance platoon from a Marine expeditionary force got ambushed by choppers. The survivors managed to repel a vehicle convoy of weapons being funneled into the Syrian village of Sadad, an area that has seen a lot of terrorist activity as of late. The second attack was against SEAL Team Four in Benghazi.”

“What about the third?” Bolan asked.

“A neo-Nazi terror group called the League of Aryan Purity,” Brognola said. “Heard of them?”

“Vaguely,” Bolan replied. “They’ve recently gained support from like groups here in the United States, but Homeland Security seems to have kept most of those activities under control.”

“Three cheers for interagency cooperation,” Brognola said as he popped a couple of antacids from a fresh roll he kept in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

“Do you think these things are related, Striker?” Price asked.