Don Pendleton - Enemies Within

Bolan tried to make sense of it, got nowhere, and finally decided that his best hope lay within the final dossier, its icon labeled “Manifesto.”

Whatever he expected from that file, though, Bolan came up short. It read:

Declaration of War in the Name of Allah

Today, we former Rangers of the US Army stand united in a state of war against the Great Satan, America. We dedicate our skills and training to destruction of the country that has waged relentless war against Islam since 1953, with its coup restoring the corrupt Shah of Iran.

Additionally, decades of unjustified support for Israel has defied the will of Palestinians and other Muslims who comprise the vast majority of Middle Eastern residents, while bilking US taxpayers to bankroll Tel Aviv, its flagrant theft of native lands from the West Bank and elsewhere, falsely declared the result of “legitimate electoral process.” Without US financing, military support and favoritism in the United Nations, Israeli aggression would long since have ceased to exist, thereby eliminating impetus for freedom fighters waging their guerrilla wars against America, mislabeled “terrorism” by the media.

Accordingly, we hold these truths to be self-evident. The long American crusade against Islam must cease, forthwith. No further action on that front shall be permitted. We, the beneficiaries of elite training, shall use all skills and tools available to bring this resolution into being. As you read this, we have supplied one relatively minor demonstration of our power, to be replicated as required until our plain and common-sense demands are met. America must change its course, and quickly, to avert a holocaust at home beyond the scope of anything authorities at home have thus far faced or can effectively control.

We are the best. Ignore us at your peril from now on.

To victory!

* * *

And that was all. At first, Bolan thought a page had been omitted from the manifesto’s file, but it read smoothly, start to finish, even if it spoke in generalities and uttered only vague demands, impossible to quantify.

Reverse the course of US history connected to the Middle East since 1953, or even farther back, since Israel was created as a Jewish state in 1948? Impossible. Indeed, ridiculous. The juggernaut could not be slowed, much less completely stopped, with strong support for Israeli in the White House, Congress and in nearly every state from coast to coast. Six Rangers couldn’t do it in a hundred lifetimes, and they had to know that.

So...what?

Bolan removed the DVD from his laptop, shut down the computer and retrieved his cell phone from a pocket. He had Jack Grimaldi’s number on speed dial and got an answer on the second ring.

“Big guy. Long time.”

“You heard from Hal?”

“I did.”

“So, how about a little hop?”

Chapter Three

Barclay, Maryland

“Did I read that sign right?” Grimaldi asked. “One hundred twenty people? Can they even call a place that small a town?”

“It’s flexible,” Bolan replied. “I’ve been to smaller ones.”

“I guess this jarhead likes his privacy.”

“He won’t be getting much of it, considering the last couple of days.”

“You think he’d bail on us?”

“The CIA says they’ve got eyes on him, up high. Nothing since the MPs came by, except his normal mornings at a local coffee shop and shopping one time at the Farmer’s Market.”

“Good old country living.”

“If you like that kind of thing.”

“I could get used to it,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan had trouble picturing the flyboy settling down, particularly at the outset of another mission. They were rolling north on Maryland Route 313, from where Grimaldi’s chopper had touched down at a private airstrip outside Goldsboro. The Stony Man pilot was at the wheel of a Ford sedan from Dollar Rent-a-Car, holding the four-door Focus at a solid 80 miles per hour, not a cop in sight. They had the rural home of Walton Tanner Senior spotted on the Ford’s GPS unit, no neighbors nearby and no idea what they’d be walking into when they got there.

Figure it would be a bitter pill for Walton Sr. to ingest, learning his son had left the Rangers to become a terrorist in hiding. He’d have questions that the MPs couldn’t answer on their first pass, and he wouldn’t know anything about the Rangers who’d gone down fighting while his son and five fellow deserters had slipped away to parts unknown. Perhaps he knew more than he’d told the CID first time around, and might be more forthcoming when he saw the Homeland Security ID cards Bolan and Grimaldi had obtained from Stony Man’s documents mill.

Or maybe not. Maybe he didn’t know a thing about his son’s activities or his companions who’d declared war on America.

Still, it was worth a try. In fact, coupled with Tyrone Moseley’s brother in New Jersey and Menendez’s fiancée in Roanoke, it could be the only game in town.

“Looks like the place,” Grimaldi said. “White clapboard siding on your right, Jeep Wrangler in the carport.”

“Got it.” Bolan scanned the verdant countryside surrounding Tanner’s place, looking for watchers, spotting none so far, although it wouldn’t take much to conceal a man or two amid the smooth alders, dogwoods, red mulberry and blackjack oaks.

Pursuant to their cover, they pulled in and parked. Before they’d cleared the Ford, a slender man with grizzled hair was on the porch to greet them, hands empty, eyes wary as he checked them out.

“More CID?” he asked before they had a chance to speak.

“Homeland Security,” Bolan corrected him, approaching with credentials on display.

“Both of you?” Tanner asked suspiciously.

“Yes, sir,” Grimaldi said, palming his own ID from Stony Man.

“I guess things have ticked up a notch since I had visitors last time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bolan. “I’m afraid so.”

They’d decided to be candid with him, more or less, running the plan past Brognola while they were airborne and receiving his okay. They would recount the failed arrest attempt, in the hope of jarring something loose from Walton Sr.’s memory this time around. And failing that, if the former Marine had contact with his son he wasn’t copping to, maybe he’d keep the covert channel open, try to talk him backward from the point of no return.

Inside a modest living room, they sat on well-worn furniture, declining Tanner’s offer of coffee or “something stronger,” undefined. Their host went for a double dash of Early Times bourbon and settled on a 1980s vintage couch, saying, “All right. You’d better let me have it straight, then.”

“Six special agents from the CID caught up with him yesterday morning, early,” Bolan answered.

“And the other men he runs with now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where at?”

“North Carolina, on the coast.”

“But they aren’t here to see me now.”

“No, sir. They walked into a trap. They won’t be seeing anyone again.”

“So, it’s murder, then.”

“Murder at least,” Bolan agreed. “And likely treason.”

“Jesus, Lord.”

“It’s bad,” Bolan replied. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ve had naught to do with him since they were out here grilling me,” Tanner replied. “Don’t take my word for it. I gather someone has been covering my phone and watching what I do from time to time.”

“A safe bet,” Bolan said.

“In fact, you ought to know I haven’t seen or spoken to my boy in going on six years.”

“Homeland Security,” Bolan stated, “hopes that something may have slipped your mind.”

“I wish it had,” Tanner replied. “I’m getting on in years and drink a bit. No point denying what’s so obvious. But no, sir. Nothing slips my mind. Not birthdays of the living or the dead, not groceries. Nothing.”