The Chameleon Factor Read online

  “WE HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED ON A MAJOR LEVEL, AND BY A PROFESSIONAL.”

  The President raised a hand to massage his temple. “As of this moment, our unknown thief owns a billion dollars’ worth of American technology.”

  “Orders, sir?” Brognola asked grimly.

  “Search the wreckage and find out who stole the Chameleon—or if nobody did. Maybe this is all a gigantic coincidence. They do happen sometimes.”

  “If it is not a coincidence, sir?”

  The President leaned closer to the screen. “Then get the Chameleon back at any cost. Get it back, Hal. And if that proves impossible, then destroy the prototype.”

  “Sir?” Brognola said, putting a world of questions into the single word.

  “You heard me. I’ll eat that billion dollars, and another billion on top, if that’s what it takes to keep the U.S. safe. The Chameleon is dangerous enough in our hands. But at least we have checks and balances in our government. However, under the control of a terrorist group, or rogue nation, we’d never even know what was happening until Manhattan, L.A. or even D.C. was blown off the face of the map with millions dead.”

  Other titles in this series:

  STONY MAN VIII

  #9 STRIKEPOINT

  #10 SECRET ARSENAL

  #11 TARGET AMERICA

  #12 BLIND EAGLE

  #13 WARHEAD

  #14 DEADLY AGENT

  #15 BLOOD DEBT

  #16 DEEP ALERT

  #17 VORTEX

  #18 STINGER

  #19 NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE

  #20 TERMS OF SURVIVAL

  #21 SATAN’S THRUST

  #22 SUNFLASH

  #23 THE PERISHING GAME

  #24 BIRD OF PREY

  #25 SKYLANCE

  #26 FLASHBACK

  #27 ASIAN STORM

  #28 BLOOD STAR

  #29 EYE OF THE RUBY

  #30 VIRTUAL PERIL

  #31 NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR

  #32 LAW OF LAST RESORT

  #33 PUNITIVE MEASURES

  #34 REPRISAL

  #35 MESSAGE TO AMERICA

  #36 STRANGLEHOLD

  #37 TRIPLE STRIKE

  #38 ENEMY WITHIN

  #39 BREACH OF TRUST

  #40 BETRAYAL

  #41 SILENT INVADER

  #42 EDGE OF NIGHT

  #43 ZERO HOUR

  #44 THIRST FOR POWER

  #45 STAR VENTURE

  #46 HOSTILE INSTINCT

  #47 COMMAND FORCE

  #48 CONFLICT IMPERATIVE

  #49 DRAGON FIRE

  #50 JUDGMENT IN BLOOD

  #51 DOOMSDAY DIRECTIVE

  #52 TACTICAL RESPONSE

  #53 COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

  #54 VECTOR THREE

  #55 EXTREME MEASURES

  #56 STATE OF AGGRESSION

  #57 SKY KILLERS

  #58 CONDITION HOSTILE

  #59 PRELUDE TO WAR

  #60 DEFENSIVE ACTION

  #61 ROGUE STATE

  #62 DEEP RAMPAGE

  #63 FREEDOM WATCH

  #64 ROOTS OF TERROR

  #65 THE THIRD PROTOCOL

  #66 AXIS OF CONFLICT

  #67 ECHOES OF WAR

  #68 OUTBREAK

  #69 DAY OF DECISION

  #70 RAMROD INTERCEPT

  #71 TERMS OF CONTROL

  #72 ROLLING THUNDER

  #73 COLD OBJECTIVE

  DON PENDLETON’S

  STONY MAN®

  AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  THE CHAMELEON FACTOR

  To all of the brave men and women, who do not go

  gently into that good night.

  “It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag.”

  —Sergeant Dennis O’Brien, USMC

  “Freedom favors the strong and the wise. May God grant that we stay both.”

  —Carl Lyons, leader Able Team

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Military Target Range, western Alaska

  The guard went stiff as the knife blade slid into his head.

  Mouthing a silent scream, the U.S. Army guard dropped his weapon as Professor Torge Johnson shoved the blade in deeper, exactly behind the right ear where there was a small opening into the brain, a slim passage known to many as Death’s Doorway.

  Gurgling, the guard began to claw at his side for the semiautomatic pistol in his shiny black holster. Frowning at the man’s resilience, Johnson savagely twisted the blade to sever the brain stem. The guard went limp, his body turned off like a light switch, his rapidly dying brain only a few moments behind.

  Easing the corpse to the grass, Johnson yanked out the bloody blade just as a tremendous explosion sounded in the distance. As the professor wiped the murder weapon clean on the guard’s uniform, cheers sounded from the grandstand above.

  Sliding the blade up his sleeve, Johnson checked the cheap watch on his wrist. Good. Everything was precisely on schedule. Taking a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, he carefully peeled off the back to expose a thin layer of adhesive. Reaching up, he just managed to press the pack to the bottom of the wooden seats of the grandstand overhead. As his hand came away, the pack stayed in place and there was an audible click of the electronic device arming itself.

  Glancing briefly at the bright rectangle of light that marked the only door to the space under the grandstand, Johnson stepped over the cooling body of the guard and weaved his way through the maze of struts and support beams to reach the middle section. Attaching another cigarette pack there, he continued the process slowly, emptying every pocket of the deadly cargo until reaching the opposite side. Glancing back just once to check his lethal handiwork, the professor allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction, then set his expression into neutral and stepped through the open doorway and into the bright sunlight.

  Taking a real cigarette from the pocket of his old suit, Johnson lit it with a butane lighter and drew the smoke in deep, savoring the building excitement. Soon now, very soon.

  Walking out of the bushes that blocked the entrance of the doorway, the man pulled up his fly and tried to look embarrassed as if he had been inappropriately relieving himself in the greenery.

  An elderly U.S. congressman sitting at the edge of the grandstand happened to catch the gesture and chuckled in sympathy.

  “Don’t blame you.” He grinned. “Hell of a day, isn’t it, Professor?”

  Johnson pressed a finger to his lips and hushed the plump politician. Although he looked exactly like the professor, his voice didn’t match in the least. The impostor’s heart was pounding as he fingered the second butane lighter in his pants pocket. The device was actually
a pneumatic dart gun of considerable power, the flesh-colored darts coated with a neurotoxin that paralyzed instantly, and death came in foaming agony a few seconds later. Come on fool, go back to the show and enjoy the last few seconds of your life. The reaction of the darts closely resembled a heart attack, especially in older people, but the trick lighter carried only three darts: two for victims and the third for himself to prevent capture. The Americans disliked torture, but in his case their military intelligence and CIA would happily have made an exception. Being captured alive wasn’t an option in his mission.

  Touching two fingers to his brow in a mock salute, the congressman winked at the professor and turned back to the display on the target range below. Johnson relaxed slightly and exhaled a long stream of smoke. Good.

  The grandstand, filled with politicians and high-ranking military personnel, was situated directly behind a tall barrier of wire mesh as protection from any stray shrapnel. Fifty feet below was a wide field that stretched to the distant ice-capped Baird Mountains. The target range was pitted with huge craters of assorted sizes from the wide variety of missiles used this day. The green tundra was beginning to resemble the surface of the moon, a few of them still smoking. Standing untouched in the midst of the destruction and desolation was a small concrete bunker with a slim radio antenna raised high enough to sway slightly in the warm breeze.

  “Look there!” somebody cried, standing to point.

  Johnson gave no reaction as two Harpoon-class missiles rose over the horizon, their fiery exhausts as bright as newborn stars. The politicians and generals in the review stand cheered at the sight. Unable to tear himself away for a moment, Johnson stayed to watch as the missiles rose sharply, then rotated about their long axis to sharply angle downward toward the ruined field. Flashing forward at nearly Mach speed, the Harpoons raced for the bunker and then incredibly went on by, their wake churning up clouds of dust and scorched earth.

  The crowd roared its approval as the deadly missiles continued onward to slam into the pitted side of a hill a mile away.

  “Son of a bitch, the bloody thing works!” a colonel shouted while applauding. “It really works! The missiles couldn’t see the bunker!”

  “So that’s what this is, a radar jammer?” a senator grumbled with a scowl. “Big deal. We’ve had those for decades.”

  “Not like this!” a general stated proudly. “There’s never been anything like this thing!”

  “Well, we certainly spent enough on the damn program!” a senator yelled over the crowd noises.

  Turning away from the jubilation, Johnson started for the gravel walk that led to the parking lot when he noticed a Marine guard looking in the bushes.

  “Lose something, Corporal?” the professor asked in a friendly manner.

  The Marine looked hard in return, and Johnson felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. This man wasn’t like the rest, he realized. Everything looked fine, but he felt that something was wrong. That combat-sense thing soldiers were always talking about. Part instinct, part training.

  “Just routine,” the corporal said, straightening the strap of the M-16 assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

  But Johnson could see that the bolt had been worked on the weapon, making it ready for firing. No! There was no time for this! Seconds counted. He had to move fast or die with the rest!

  “I know what you’re looking for,” Johnson whispered. “Come on, he’s over here.”

  Leading the soldier to the open doorway below the grandstand, Johnson stopped at the entrance. “It’s darker than shit in there. Got a flashlight?”

  The soldier shook his head, and Johnson pulled out his cigarette lighter.

  “This’ll do,” he said, and pressed the hidden stud.

  There was a soft hiss. The soldier grabbed his throat as the tiny dart went deep into his flesh. Suddenly, his eyes began to roll about in panic as he stiffened, unable to move a finger.

  Taking the Marine guard by the collar, Johnson half dragged the dying man back into the shadows under the grandstand and flicked his left wrist. A blade dropped out his sleeve, and he pulled back the Marine’s throat to finish the job with a single clean stroke. The neurotoxin was fast, but not instantaneous like a blade. However, there was no time to enjoy the kill; the numbers were falling. He had to move fast.

  Moving quickly away from the grandstand, Johnson proceeded along the gravel path until reaching a wooden kiosk. An armed guard raised a hand, but Johnson simply pointed at the photo ID on his lapel. The guard nodded and waved him by.

  Past a wire fence woven with plastic strips to block the sight of the curious, Johnson moved onto the parking lot, forcing himself to not walk too fast. That would raise suspicion, and he might be detained for questioning, which would mean death in about ninety seconds from now. However, there were more armed guards lining the edge of the parking lot, U.S. Marines, Army and even some Navy intelligence. Incredibly expensive, Chameleon was a multiservice project. At opposite ends of the lot sat two Apache gunships, their blades at rest, but with a full crew inside, the wing pods bristling with weaponry, 35 mm minirocket pods and Sidewinder missiles in case of an aerial attack. The Alaskan test zone was a military hardsite, armed and armored to withstand any imaginable attack. Chameleon was all-important. The theoretical-danger team at the Pentagon had thought of everything, except him.

  Reaching his car, Johnson pressed the fob on his key ring to unlock the door. The EM signal unlocked the door and also silently activated the packages hidden in the trunks of two other cars. Now the die was cast, and there was no turning back.

  Starting the engine, Johnson pulled away slowly, keeping a careful eye on his watch. Exactly at the proper moment, he pulled the cigarette lighter halfway out of the dashboard and then plunged it back in hard. There was a click as it locked into position.

  Trying to hide a smile, Johnson wheeled for the exit, waving goodbye at the Marine guards standing alongside the entrance to the isolated valley.

  DOWN IN THE TARGET range, inside the concrete bunker, the real Professor Torge Johnson lowered a pair of binoculars and turned. “Cut the field,” he ordered briskly.

  “Yes, sir,” the technician said, and pivoting in a chair, he flipped several switches on a complex control board. On a stout wooden table in the middle of the bunker, a small gray box stopped humming and went still.

  Squinting out the slit in the thick concrete wall, Johnson patiently watched as two more stars rose into the sky over the horizon and started coming his way.

  Trying to control his excitement, the professor inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. This was it, the last test. These were two of the new breed of Delta Four missiles, equipped with the very cutting edge of radar guidance, satellite-assisted navigational system, and proximity warheads, all supported by an onboard computer more powerful than anything else in the world. Three waves of Delta Four missiles. If the Chameleon could stop those titans, there would be no question that his project was a complete and total success.

  “Power up,” Johnson instructed.

  “Power is good for go, sir,” the technician replied crisply, checking some dials on the board. “We are online and ready.”

  “Good. Engage the field,” the professor said calmly, raising the binoculars and adjusting the focus. Although a man of science, he did enjoy watching the missiles fly by stone blind, their wonderful radar eyes dead from the jamming field of his Chameleon.

  “Ah, sir, I did, but nothing happened,” the technician said, flipping the switches again. The man pressed buttons and twirled knobs with frantic speed, but the dials stayed inert. “And I’m getting no response from the override!”

  Spinning, the professor clutched the binoculars to his chest as if for protection. “But the missiles are on the way!” he gasped, felling his belly tighten with fear. “Wait, use the backup unit!”

  Lurching from his chair, the technician flipped open the top of a second gray box and reached inside, then froze.

/>   “What in hell are you waiting for?” Johnson yelled, almost beside himself. “Turn on the Chameleon!”

  “I can’t,” the pale technician said softly, turning to look at the professor. “The second unit isn’t here. The box is empty.”

  Empty? The world seemed to reel at the word. The elderly professor went pale and clawed for the emergency radio clipped to his belt. “USS Fairfax, this is Johnson!” he yelled into the transponder. “Abort the missiles! Repeat, abort the missiles!”

  But there was only the crackle of static in reply. Johnson checked the frequencies and tried again twice more before the answer punched his soul. Jammed. The radio broadcast was being blocked from outside. But how…who…?

  “It’s a trap!” Johnson threw the radio aside and charged for the armored door. “We have to get out of here!”

  A sudden light filled the slits of the bunker with hellish intensity.

  “Too late!” the technician screamed, throwing an arm before his face.

  “MOTHER OF GOD,” a general whispered, recoiling slightly as the two Delta Four missiles slammed directly into the fortified bunker and violently detonated. Broken slabs of concrete and steel beams blew into the sky as the twin fireballs washed over the target range in searing fury.

  As a mushroom cloud of dark smoke rose into the blue sky, it exposed a gaping hole in the ground. Muttering curses and prayers at the terrible sight, the crowd of dignitaries remained in their seats, unable to move from the horror unfolding below.

  “We’ve got to help them!” a lieutenant cried out, standing. Pushing his way through the stupefied throng, the lieutenant tried to reach the stairs leading to the ground. Then somebody grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t be a fool, man! They’re beyond help,” a general snapped. “The professor is already dead. Nobody could have survived that first salvo.”

  Scowling darkly, the lieutenant yanked his arm free and stared at the decimated target range once more. The fortified bunker was reduced to a mere handful of cracked pieces and rubble, ringing a blackened crater.

  “Sorry, sir,” the lieutenant muttered, clenching his fist in frustration. Then a motion in the sky caught his attention, and the Army officer turned to see the next set of Delta Four missiles lift over the horizon and angle over to start for the destroyed bunker.