Don Pendleton - Unified Action

“Good work in Uruguay,” Price said. “I’ve got something new for you.”

From behind the television Blancanales snorted in laughter. “I wish she’d knock it off already with all the chitchat and get to business.”

“No shit,” Schwarz muttered.

Lyons scowled in their direction out of habit. “Go ahead, Barb,” he said.

“Hal just got a request through the Justice Department,” Price started, referencing Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group which oversaw Stony Man Farm and its teams. “An investigative liaison for the FBI assigned to the Dominican Republic went missing twelve hours ago.”

“I’m not tracking,” Lyons said with a frown. “This doesn’t sound like an Able operation.” Looking down, he saw the blood splatter on his boot. “At all,” he added.

“We have three major problems,” Price began.

“Here it comes,” Schwarz said.

“One, the agent’s mission was twofold. Ostensibly he was helping with money-laundering operations used by international drug cartels. For that assignment he was given a Dominican counterpart. Partway into that investigation he came across evidence of corruption within the nation’s security services.”

“Gasp.” Blancanales shook his head.

“He was instructed to keep a low profile and to build a file to be turned over to the State Department. He went to meet a confidential informant and failed to make his last two check-ins.”

“Surely the Feds have protocols for that?” Lyons pointed out.

“They do,” Price answered. “The problem is that six hours ago police forces opened fire on an eighteen-year-old boy in a Santo Domingo ghetto. The police claimed the boy was resisting arrest, but witnesses claim he was unarmed. It turned out the boy was the son of the president’s chief political opponent.”

“Uh-oh,” Schwarz said. “The plot thickens.”

“Street gangs loyal to the opposition party immediately began rioting. The government responded with force and the unrest has now spread to all major parts of the city. The consulate is locked down. Nonessential personnel have been choppered out to Navy ships offshore. The city is locked down under martial law and the State Department has declared the Dominican a nonpermissive area.”

“Meaning no unescorted diplomats or government personnel,” Lyons finished.

“The government has refused to give sanction to any retrievals or investigations by us until the civil unrest has been contained,” Price said.

“And all the evidence wiped clean,” Blancanales added.

“Your pilot has been given her new flight instructions. You’ll touch down at the auxiliary executive airport just outside of town. To clear customs you’ll have to come out of this plane without the gear you used in Uruguay. Someone from the consulate will be waiting for you. Carmen has just sent the coordinates to a joint CIA/DEA safehouse to Schwarz’s BlackBerry. Go there, equip and go over what files we got on the missing agent’s case.”

“Sounds good,” Lyons said and nodded.

“Remember,” Price added. “We have no Dominican liaison for you. We do not have permission to operate. The city is locked with riots and under martial law. As far as we are concerned, the FBI’s contacts in Santo Domingo are compromised. This is going to be hairy.”

Schwarz looked at his teammates. “What’s new?” he asked.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

INSIDE THE communications center of the underground Annex, Barbara Price clicked off the screen to the communications relay station and slowly turned in her chair. She saw Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman, leader of the Stony Man cyberteam, waiting for her. The burly man was sitting comfortably in a motorized wheelchair outfitted with an array of computer uplinks and interfaces.

There were two steaming mugs of coffee in his huge paws. He leaned forward and handed one to Price, who took it gratefully. She sipped at the coffee and looked up in surprise.

“This is great!” she sputtered. “You made this?”

Kurtzman grinned from behind his mug, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I really don’t know what happened.”

“Is Phoenix in the conference room?”

“McCarter and James are,” Kurtzman replied. Price rose and began walking. “The rest of them are at the equipment cages getting gear ready for the airlift.”

“Good,” Price said, exiting the communications center.

Kurtzman followed the woman as she strode quickly down the hallway, pulling an iPhone free. Carmen Delahunt, the red-haired ex–FBI agent, came up and offered Price a form.

“Requisitions needs your signature for the AT-4s,” the woman explained.

Price shifted her phone to the crook of her shoulder and scrawled her name across the form. On the phone the connection clicked into place.

“Go for Brognola,” Hal Brognola said in his usual gruff voice.

“What are you doing?” Price asked.

She began walking again and the motor of Kurtzman’s chair whined as he followed her down the hall.

“Trying to ram our budget past the cabinet,” he replied. “You realize we use more ammunition than the entire United States Marine Corps in a year?”

“Even now?”

“Even now,” the big Fed said drolly. “What can I do for you? Able en route?”

“Able’s scrambling for the Dominican,” she confirmed.

She spun on her heel and shoved open the door to the Annex conference room, barging in to see Phoenix Force leader David McCarter and team medic Calvin James waiting for her.

“Phoenix?” Brognola demanded.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Price replied.

She pointed a finger at Kurtzman, then at the wall and the tech administrator worked a sequence on his chair-mounted keyboard. Instantly the plasma wall monitor sparked into life and went to its default setting of a global atlas.

“What do you need?”

On the screen the geographical image was overlaid with two thin red lines, one for latitude and one for longitude. Wherever the two lines intersected, a box formed, capturing the terrain and political information of any spot on the planet. Kurtzman worked a mouseball on his keyboard.

“Before I scramble Phoenix,” Price continued, “I need to know if I’m going to get overflight permission from Uzbekistan or if we have to get a plane capable of maintaining enough altitude to avoid detection during the insertion.”

“Just a second,” Brognola said. “Let me call a general at Stratcom to sense the general impression before I try to get it authorized.”

“I’ll hold,” Price said.

Calvin James, former Navy SEAL, turned toward the Phoenix Force leader, David McCarter. “We’re going to Kyrgyzstan.”

McCarter, a former British Special Air Service commando, shook his head. “Nah, Tajikistan. They’ve been having problems north of Kabul lately.”

“Kyrgyzstan,” James replied stubbornly.

“Twenty spot on it?”

“Done.” James shook the fox-faced Briton’s hand.

On the screen the lat and long lines settled over central Asia. The political lines showing the border of Kyrgyzstan with China on the right and Tajikistan on the south and Kazakhstan to the north and west showed up. Then the mountain range in the southeast of Kyrgyzstan was pulled up in vivid relief reading.

“Pay up, limey.” James smirked.

McCarter scowled good-naturedly. “I’ll get you in a bit.”

“You’re worse than Hawkins about paying up.”

“All right,” Price interrupted. “While I’m waiting for Hal to check this angle, we’ll move forward. This operation is a supplementation to an operational focus initiated by Joint Special Operations Command. We’re going to be performing direct-action missions based on information fed us by the Intelligence Support Activity,” Price explained, referencing the Pentagon unit tasked specifically with providing tactical information to special operations forces independent of civilian intelligence agencies. “What do you know about Kyrgyzstan?”