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  “I can pull those up right now,” Kurtzman said, and Bolan heard the man’s fingers tapping keys.

  “I’ve gone back three days—right before your mission started—to get an idea on what things looked like then,” the wheelchair-bound computer expert said. “We’ll use that as our control group of sorts. Two days ago...looks about the same. Yesterday...there’s a little more traffic going in and out of the Carabobo air base near Valencia. And today...whoa, son! Looks like a brothel having a two-for-one sale.” He stopped talking for a moment and Bolan could hear nothing but soft, steady breathing over the line.

  “Anything else of interest?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah,” Kurtzman said. He paused again, then finally said, “I’m flashing these photos on and off the screen so fast it almost looks like a movie. But there’s a long convoy of what looks like a combination of military vehicles and limousines originating in Caracas. Let me zoom in a little closer...” His voice trailed off again.

  A moment later, he was back on. “It looks to me like the military went to the presidential mansion, picked up the limousines, then began escorting them to the base. They’re about halfway there now, according to the last photo.”

  “That’s got to be our site,” Bolan said, pressing the phone tighter to his ear. “The Venezuelan president wants to be there when they launch the missile. Get in as tight as you can on the base itself, Bear. Can you spot any signs of a missile silo or launch pad?”

  “Give me a second, Striker,” Kurtzman said and again all that came over the line was his soft breathing. Then, “Oh, yeah, buddy. There’s a silo down there all right. Looks to me like it opens at the top, right before launching. Fact is, it looks a lot like something out of a James Bond movie. Just smaller.” The computer man stopped talking for a moment and Bolan could hear clicks. He had to assume Kurtzman was moving the photo around on his screen, taking a look at the silo from every angle he could. After a minute or so, the man in the wheelchair spoke again. “It’s a launch silo, all right. And it sticks out like a sore thumb. Set a little ways off from the runways.”

  “You’re sure there’s a missile hidden under there?” Bolan asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Kurtzman said. “But if the nuke and conveyance system were sent before the U.S. invaded Iraq, they’ve had plenty of time to build a launch site. And I can’t think of anything else they’d want to hide this far north, can you?”

  “No,” Bolan said. “I can’t. That’s got to be our place.”

  “I agree,” the wheelchair-bound man said. “But how do you plan to zip in and get a nuclear warhead and its missile out of there with an entire military airbase surrounding you? You can’t load it on the Learjet, and even if you could, they’d shoot you down before you could even get up in the air again to get shot down.”

  Bolan felt his teeth grind together. Kurtzman was right. There was no way he, O’Melton and Ahmad could invade the base and secure the nuke by themselves.

  Then a familiar voice suddenly broke in on the line.

  Hal Brognola.

  “Hello, Striker,” the Stony Man Farm director of sensitive operations said. “Hope you don’t mind my doing a little eavesdropping.”

  “Not at all, “Bolan said. “You have any ideas?’

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Brognola said. “Hang on. There’s someone else I’m going to add to this conference call. He wants to lend a hand if he can.”

  “It it’s who I think it is, he’s certainly welcome to come on board,” Bolan said. Then he smiled. Because he knew who he was about to speak to. And he also knew that what had been impossible short seconds ago had just become “doable.”

  Dangerous. But possible.

  * * *

  “HERE’S WHERE WE STAND,” the President of the United States said in Bolan’s ear. “I’m mobilizing so many fighter jets the Venezuelans will think they’re on the set of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. They’re for show, and won’t fire or even land unless they have to. But I’m also sending one C-130 filled with Delta Force personnel. Delta’s got several men trained in nuclear disarmament, and as soon as the C-130 hits the ground they’ll break down the missile and warhead and load everything onto their plane.”

  Bolan paused a second. “The Venezuelan leader is going to scream to high heaven about the U.S. invading his country,” he finally said. “He’ll call it an act of war.”

  “Let him scream all he wants,” the President said. “What he’s doing is an act of war.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “But with all due respect, if you’ve got all of that coming down to get the nuke, what do you need us for?”

  “Because while they’re always in a state of semireadiness,” the President said, “it still takes a little time to get all of these planes mobilized. You’re already on your way, and you’re much closer.” He sucked in a long, stress-filled lungful of air before going on. “I need you to breach the base and take over the control room within the launch silo. You’ve got to stop the Venezuelans from launching the warhead until we get there and can scare them out of it.”

  “That’s affirmative,” Bolan said. “But the base will be on high alert. That means we’re going to have to drop in from the sky again, and hope we can land and carry out the mission while being outnumbered at least a hundred to one.”

  “Do whatever you have to do,” he heard the President say. “Just make sure the missile doesn’t get off the ground. It’s my understanding from Kurtzman that the Venezuelan president is actually going to the base himself?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Bolan said.

  “Then as soon as you’ve secured the control room, take custody of him if you can, and give me a call. We’ll time it so the fighters zoom over the base about that time. We’ll treat him to a show of force and see if he can’t be reasoned with.”

  “You’ve got it,” Bolan said. “Talk to you as soon as the control room is secured.” He was about to end the call when Kurtzman reentered the conversation.

  “I’ve finally hacked into the Carabobo launch system,” he said. “The missile is aimed at Miami.”

  “That’s about the closest major city,” the President said. “It makes sense.”

  “Can you shut the system down, Bear?” Bolan asked.

  “Unfortunately no,” he said. “There’s a code word that has to be typed in at the site. So even if I had the word, it wouldn’t do us any good. Any attempt to shut it down incorrectly automatically launches the missile.”

  “Then we’d better get our chutes on,” Bolan said. “We’re only a few miles out.”

  “Good luck,” the President said.

  Father O’Melton shook his head and laughed softly again. “How many times do I have to tell people?” he asked no one in particular. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

  The priest crossed himself and closed his eyes tightly for a few minutes.

  Then all three warriors changed into blacksuits.

  * * *

  THEY HAD BEEN FIRED ON by ground troops as soon as the Venezuelan soldiers on the ground inside the base saw them floating down through the air. Miraculously, the only round to come even close to finding its mark had hit Ahmad’s backpack. But it had done him no damage.

  Bolan’s boots hit the ground and he took two quick steps to gain his balance. In his right hand he held an H&K MP-5, fully loaded with a 30-round 9 mm magazine. As the gunfire continued around him and the other two men, he accessed the Spyderco Navaja with his left hand and quickly sliced through the lines connecting him to the nylon canopy that had fallen next to him. As soon as it was free, the parachute began blowing across the grass toward the runways.

  At least a hundred men sprinted toward them, AK-47s firing wildly as they ran. In addition to that barrage, several more Venezuelan soldiers guarding the s
ilo and the office building adjacent to it raised their own rifles to kill the invaders.

  Bolan pulled the trigger back on the MP-5 and sent a 3-round burst at the men crossing the runway nearest the silo, then turned his attention away from them. They were still too far away to hope for anything more than a lucky shot at the three fast-moving targets, and the silo guards were the bigger threat. So as he sprinted brazenly for them, with O’Melton and Ahmad at his heels, he opened up with a duo of 3-round bursts that took out two of the men in OD green.

  From next to him, and just a step behind, Bolan heard the familiar sound of another MP-5 and watched a third guard drop. O’Melton. The man was familiar with the state-of-the-art German submachine gun, and had chosen it from the Learjet armory as his primary weapon, just as Bolan had.

  Then a much different sound—a larger caliber rifle—burst from Bolan’s other side. Yet another of the silo guards went down, clutching his chest in death. The sound of this weapon was also familiar. An AK-47, just like the Venezuelans were using. But this one was in the hands of Ahmad.

  Ahmad’s training had been a little different. He had learned his craft from Hezbollah, so the Russian-designed Kalashnikov rifle had been his weapon of choice. Bolan found it slightly ironic that the man was presently using skills the terrorists had taught him for use against the West. So far, Ahmad had proved to be as good as his word about switching sides in the war on terror. But would this be the time when he suddenly showed his true colors and sabotaged Bolan’s mission? Would he find a convenient time to shoot Bolan and O’Melton in the back, then let the nuclear missile launch go ahead?

  Bolan didn’t know. But while all these things flashed through his mind, he took time to notice that only one jeep and one limousine were parked outside the office building built into the silo. Did that mean the Venezuelan President was already inside? With only one jeepful of men to protect him?

  Why not? Bolan thought. He was on a highly fortified military base and was likely to feel even safer than he did in his own presidential palace.

  Bolan squeezed the trigger of his subgun and another Venezuelan went down for the count. All the guards outside the office area were dead now, and Bolan sprinted on to the glass door leading inside. When he reached it, he stepped aside, his back against the brick wall to the left. O’Melton and Ahmad fell in right behind him. Rather than opening the door and framing himself for a multitude of rounds from within, Bolan aimed the MP-5 at the top of the door and switched the selector to full auto. Systematically, he fired, working his way down the door and taking out every shred and splinter of glass until he reached the push bar that opened it. The door came off its hinges with four quick shots, and then Bolan emptied the rest of the 9 mm magazine into the lower half of the glass.

  As he’d expected, return shots came zipping through the gaping hole. But by the time he’d replaced the empty magazine with a full load, the gunfire had slowed. And Bolan moved out from the wall just enough to dive through the opening at an angle.

  He hit the ground on his shoulder, rolling up onto one knee and taking in the layout of the room in a brief glance. There were three desks inside the launch office, each with a computer. All were along the same wall, and the men behind them looked frightened. They were technical personnel, the military equivalent of “computer geeks.” Their real weapon was the nuke in the silo next to them. But that didn’t stop them from going for the pistols holstered on the gun belts wrapped around their waists.

  Bolan took the first man out with a single shot to the forehead. O’Melton’s MP-5 burped out three 9 mm rounds into the second. And Ahmad’s AK-47 fired two 7.62 X 39 mm slugs of steel-jacketed lead into the third.

  But another trio of men were on their feet. Instead of green BDUs, they wore navy blue dress uniforms with white braid on the chest and shoulders. Presidential bodyguards. They were trying to get a fix on Bolan with their AK-47s.

  The Executioner cut loose with a double-tap of 3-round bursts, each one taking down another of the Kalashnikov-sporting men. Then, as the gunfire died down, he turned his MP-5 toward the last man standing.

  A short, stocky figure wearing a tailor-made brown suit with subtle blue pinstripes running through the cloth. The man’s thin, carefully tended mustache quivered above his upper lip in terror. His hands were out in front of him, palms facing Bolan, in classic “don’t shoot” sign language.

  Bolan glanced through the window toward the runways, where Venezuelan soldiers were still sprinting toward them. There was only one way to keep them from overrunning the building and launching the missile that would decimate Miami, Florida.

  Bolan dropped his MP-5 on top of the nearest desk and drew the Desert Eagle .44 Magnum. Then, taking two quick strides to the man in the brown suit, he reached up and grabbed a handful of the president’s hair, turned him around and stuck the pistol barrel into the back of his head, then marched him toward the opening where the glass door had been.

  “Tell them to stop or I’ll turn your head into a canoe,” Bolan demanded.

  “Alto!” the Venezuelan screamed.

  The oncoming men stopped in their tracks.

  Just then, the sound of jet airplanes sounded in the distance. And a split second later at least three dozen aircraft whizzed over the Venezuelan base, wingtip to wingtip. All heads on the base looked upward, but the planes were gone again so fast that their American markings could barely be made out.

  In the distance, Bolan watched as the fighter pilots turned one-eighties in perfect formation, then flashed back over the base even lower than before.

  Still holding the .44 to the back of the president’s neck, Bolan pulled out his satellite phone and called Stony Man Farm. A moment later, another conference call had been set up with the American president.

  Bolan tapped the speakerphone button and held it up where both he and the Venezuelan president could hear.

  “President,” the American leader said. “You’ve been up to a little mischief, haven’t you?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” the man said, trying to salvage at least some small portion of dignity. “All I know is that your men and aircraft have invaded my country. It is an act of war.”

  “You really want a war with the United States?” the American president asked. “You’d lose, and you’d lose big, and you know it.” The President stopped talking. But when he got no reply, he went on. “We’ll make this short and sweet. In a few minutes, one of our C-130s is going to land at your base. I have men who’ll dismantle your nuclear warhead and the missile with which you planned to blow up Miami, and load all the pieces on board. Then we’ll take off. But if you do anything to try to stop us, my jets will be back and blow your little base to kingdom come. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand that I will take you to the World Court,” the man said. “You will pay billions of dollars in reparations for all of this.”

  “You do what you have to do on that,” the American president almost laughed. “What exactly do you think the court is going to say when we show proof that you had a nuke aimed, armed and ready to blow up Florida?”

  Again, he got no answer.

  “I’ll assume by your silence that we’re in agreement,” the American said.

  “You may assume such,” the Venezuelan replied.

  “Tell your men to go back to their barracks and wait,” Bolan told the Venezuelan president as he ended the call.

  The man with the mustache barked out the orders in Spanish.

  Bolan dragged him back inside and dropped him into a desk chair that had been vacated when he’d blown a computer expert out of it. “Sit still and keep quiet,” he ordered.

  A few seconds later, the loud sound of the C-130 transport plane could be heard, and a moment after that the big “bird” landed on the runway nearest the silo.

  Roughly two hund
red men, all clothed in computer-generated camouflage fatigues, came running out of the plane toward Bolan, O’Melton, Ahmad, the president, and the dead bodies that surrounded them.

  The disassembly by the Delta Force nuclear specialists took less than thirty minutes. Loading the pieces onto the plane was even faster.

  When the process had been completed, a Delta Force warrior with colonel’s bars on his fatigue blouse stuck his head back into the office area. “You and your men need a ride?” he asked.

  Bolan nodded. “It sounds better than sticking around here all alone after you’re gone,” he said.

  “Then come on,” the colonel said.

  Bolan, O’Melton and Ahmad left the Venezuelan president still shaking in fear at the desk, and followed the man out to the C-130. As if to remind the Venezuelan troops one last time to steer clear of the operation, the fighter pilots buzzed the base, less than ten feet above the tallest structures.

  Bolan and his men hauled themselves up on board and took seats against the walls of the big transport carrier. The Executioner found himself next to a sergeant, with Ahmad on his other side and O’Melton beside him.

  Father O’Melton leaned back against the wall of the plane and closed his eyes once more. Whether it was in weariness or in prayer, thanking God for their safety during the numerous life-or-death encounters they had faced during this mission, Bolan didn’t know.

  Ahmad turned to Bolan. “I would say we have been successful,” the Arab said. “But I am glad it is finally over.”

  The Executioner just nodded.

  The sergeant next to Bolan had heard Ahmad speak. “Couldn’t help hearing your accent,” he said, as he leaned forward and looked around Bolan. “You American?”

  “No,” Bolan said, glancing quickly from Ahmad back to the sergeant. “But he’s on our side. You can take my word for it.”

  * * * * *

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