Don Pendleton - Drawpoint

“This,” he said, “is a sanitized communicator. It has been manufactured with parts that are supposed to be untraceable. It carries no identifying markings, but all I had to do was play with it and look at its internals to understand what it is. It’s a Worldcom Transat Seever.”

“A knockoff, you mean?” Hawkins asked.

“No,” Tokaido said. “It is not a knockoff. It is a genuine WTS and uses the same satellite network and communications protocols. The only difference between this and a commercial WTS is the origins of the parts and the lack of serial numbers on them.”

“Does somebody want to tell me what a WTS is?” Lyons asked, sounding irritated.

“The WTS is the flagship product of Butler Telecommunications,” Barbara Price explained. “It’s the next generation of secure, scrambled satellite phone.”

“Like the units we carry?” James gestured with the secure phone he and all the Stony Man team members carried.

“Much more advanced,” Kurtzman said, “in terms of the bandwidth it can handle and the way the units interface with one another. Your phones connect with us at the Farm for security reasons, and we can transfer data, photos and so forth. The transmissions are coded and secure, yes, but most of that security stems from the fact that you’re communicating with the Farm and not other points of transfer. The Seevers produced by Butler Telecomm are bulky and awkward compared to your duty phones, but they give an agent in the field a means of communicating with any other similarly equipped agent, completely securely, anywhere in the world.”

“Not much need for such a thing among teams that are centrally controlled, such as ours directed by the Farm,” James stated, “but perfect for terrorist cells to communicate and coordinate.”

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “The technology has been the subject of heated debate for that reason. Washington has pressured Butler Telecomm to provide access to the encryption used, for national security reasons. Reginald Butler, president and chairman of the company, has stonewalled the government at every step. He’s become the poster boy for civil liberties in certain political circles.”

“Why do I feel like something is tying all this together?” McCarter said ruefully.

“Able Team was sent to check World Workers United Party because of financial transaction warnings flagged here at the Farm,” Price explained. “The party has received substantial funding from the Earth Action Front, an ecoterrorist group.”

“What Able got, when they looked,” Brognola said, “was three very trigger-happy ‘workers’ who were obviously expecting trouble. The director of WWUP in Illinois had one of these Seevers. We can’t crack its encryption, but we do know that it is operating on the same subnetwork as the unit found in India.”

“So uranium stolen by Bangladeshi Communist terrorists is somehow connected to environmental terrorists and also to an American Communist party,” McCarter said.

“Yes,” Brognola nodded. “Aaron and his team have been up all night sifting through the recovered drives from the WWUP office. Bear?”

“I’m uploading the files to all of your phones now,” Kurtzman said, leaning past Price to tap a few of the keys on her notebook. “Following the money trail, and cross-referencing known associates with current records of terrorist actions that can or could be labeled ‘green’ in nature, not to mention cross-referencing these with NSA, FBI, and CIA files on various World Workers United Party members of interest, we have produced a series of potential domestic targets, ranked in order of priority.”

“Able remains on-site in Chicago to begin local follow-up,” Brognola said.

“Meanwhile,” Kurtzman continued, “I have produced a similar list relevant to Purba Banglar activity worldwide, cross-indexing that with known coalitions of both international Communist and socialist terror groups, and ‘green’ agitator organizations. The trail starts in Nongstoin.”

“And that,” Brognola said, “is where I am sending you, Phoenix.”

“Priorities?” McCarter asked.

“First, the recovery of the enriched uranium,” Brognola said. “That is by far the most significant threat. Second, and this applies especially to you, Able, we need to know just how far and how deep the connection between the WWUP in the United States and these domestic and international terror organizations goes. American politics has long been ripe for infiltration by foreign elements. It looks like it’s happening, and in a big way. I want to know the details—how, who, and why, in that order.”

“On it,” Lyons said.

“Coordinate through Barb to have the Farm deliver anything additional you’ll need,” Brognola said. “I’ll arrange for a liaison with local law enforcement, both in Chicago and wherever the trail ultimately takes you.”

“You sound like you have someplace in mind.”

“I might,” Brognola said. “Reginald Butler has long been a political activist. He’s one of the richest men in America and he’s got a lot to lose. If he’s mixed up in any of this, or even if he’s simply letting his company sell the Seever units to foreign nationals with ties to terror, I want him taken down. That means sooner or later you’ll be paying him a visit at Butler Telecomm headquarters in Atlanta.”

“And me, a local boy, stuck overseas,” Hawkins drawled. “Let me know if you boys want a list of the local hotspots.”

“Could get sticky,” Blancanales said dubiously, leaning in so his face was visible. “Government operatives pressuring an American entrepreneur who’s already complaining about governmental harassment.”

“We don’t exist,” Brognola said. “We do, therefore, what we have to do.”

“Understood, Hal.” Lyons nodded.

“Every second that uranium is out there is a tick on the doomsday clock,” Brognola said gravely. “If it’s not recovered, we’re looking at nuclear Armageddon in the hands of terrorists. On the next threat level, we have to look seriously at the idea our domestic political infrastructure is being compromised by violent terrorists with an international agenda. In either direction, the outlook is bleak, and the threat to the United States potentially terminal.”

“Understood,” Lyons said again. McCarter and the members of Phoenix Force nodded grimly.

“All right,” Brognola said. “Phoenix, we’re in touch with the Indian government and will have some of the red tape untangled before your boots hit the ground there. More information will be made available to you through secure data transfers as and if it becomes available. Get out there, people. Get it done. Hundreds of thousands of lives could ultimately ride on this.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter repeated.

Nongstoin, West Khasi Hills, India

The old Range Rover was scarred and even boasted a small-caliber bullet hole in one rear side window, but the engine had turned over smoothly and the tank had been full when they boarded. For small favors like those, David McCarter thanked whatever higher power likely wasn’t listening—fate, hope, karma, whatever—and brought the vehicle to a halt in front of the Deputy commissioner’s office. The humidity hit him as soon as he exited the truck’s air-conditioned cab. Across from the parking area, a low, round fountain—which was not running—sat full of stagnant green water. The fountain was surrounded by purple-red flowers that appeared almost to be growing wild.

The district headquarters squatted above them, a square, multistory, grayish-green building. An Indian flag fluttered on a flagpole jutting from the roof. In the distance, under gray skies and misty clouds, the hills for which the region was named loomed round and dark. McCarter paused to light a Player’s cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he surveyed the area around the squat building. The rest of Phoenix Force climbed out of the Range Rover behind him.