Desert Falcons

“I’d better let him tell you that. He’s in the War Room.”

Grimaldi jumped to his feet. “Well, I guess that settles it. Workout’s over. Let’s hit the showers.”

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER Bolan and Grimaldi were seated at a conference table across from Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The big Fed picked up a remote and pressed some buttons that turned on a large flat-screen monitor.

“Nice of you two to drop by,” Brognola said. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour. I should’ve known you’d either be in the gym or on the range.”

“That isn’t my fault,” Grimaldi said. “Superman here had to get his workout in as soon as we got back.”

Brognola got up and poured a cup of coffee from a coffeemaker behind his desk. He took a sip, frowned and shook his head.

“Looks like Aaron made the coffee. As good as ever?” Grimaldi asked.

“It’ll put hair on your chest and part it down the middle,” Brognola stated. “I had to brief him on a matter. He just left.”

Aaron, “the Bear” Kurtzman was renowned for his terrible coffee and his unparalleled computer expertise.

“What’s so urgent?” Bolan asked.

Brognola brought the mug to his lips again, started to take another sip, then apparently thought better of it. He set the mug on his desk and pressed another button on the remote. The big screen jumped forward to a frozen-frame depiction of two groups of people facing off on a two-lane asphalt road bisecting a bleak, desert-like landscape. The earth looked brownish-tan and was punctuated with dots of grass, mesquite and mountains in the background. Most of the figures were in tan uniforms, apparently law enforcement of some kind, and at least four of them held back snarling leashed German shepherd dogs. A few extended their arms with various weapons that ranged from handguns to stun guns. Several more of the uniformed men held shotguns.

They faced another group of armed men who stood on the opposite side of the road. They were dressed in desert camouflage BDUs, their black caps low on their foreheads, and carried what appeared to be AR-15 rifles. A gaggle of civilians, both men and women, were interspersed in between the respective uniformed groups. On the right edge of the frozen image a large, dark area partially blocked out the rest of the view.

“You probably saw this on the news last week,” Brognola said. “It was out in Nevada.”

“Well, we’ve been a little busy lately,” Bolan said. “Remember?”

Brognola nodded and pressed the remote again. The frozen scene jumped to life as the sound of loud voices and barking dogs emanated from the television’s speakers. The group of officers moved forward, behind the lurching dogs. One of them apparently sprayed some sort of aerosol irritant toward the agitated civilians. A few of them retreated, coughing and wheezing. The black-hatted camouflaged figures didn’t move and kept their rifles at port arms. The darkened section at the right side of the screen jolted forward, and it became apparent that it was actually the rear flank of a horse. The man atop the steed was brandishing an upside-down American flag on a six-foot pole. The horse trotted forward. Both the uniformed officers and the civilians backed up to opposite sides of the road as the animal began snorting. A reporter appeared on the left side of the screen holding a microphone. His anxious expression gave way to a nervous smile as he began to speak in a tremulous voice.

“This ongoing dispute between rancher Rand Autry and the federal authorities has been escalating to a critical confrontation for weeks now over a dispute about open range grazing and water rights and the government’s claim that Mr. Autry has repeatedly refused to pay taxes for these activities. In response to a cease-and-desist order along with the forced confiscation of a portion of Mr. Autry’s cattle, an armed group calling themselves the People’s New Minutemen Militia have announced their support for Mr. Autry and have assembled at the entrance to his property in what they have termed an affront to the pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Federal authorities—”

Brognola punched the remote and froze the video again. He turned to Bolan and Grimaldi.

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” Grimaldi said. “That’s a catchy phrase. I wonder where they got that one?”

“Don’t let the rhetoric fool you,” Brognola said as he held up his hand, forming a small space between his index finger and thumb. “They were this close to a full-scale confrontation. That’s Rand Autry riding the horse with the flag in distress.”

“Who were the uniforms?” Grimaldi asked. “State police?”

Brognola shook his head. “Bureau of Land Management park rangers.”

“Interesting,” Bolan said. “But hardly something we would get involved in, right?”

Brognola took another sip of coffee and grinned. “It gets better.” He pressed the remote and fast-forwarded the video, stopping on a picture of Autry holding the flag on the horse as the animal reared on its hind legs. The picture dissolved, and a new image appeared of the same man, clad in a Stetson hat and a bright, Western-style shirt, standing in front of a lectern with a panoramic painting of picturesque mountains and flowing rivers on a huge panel behind him. The words Land of the Free were stenciled in black letters over the mountains. He appeared to be addressing an audience in a medium-sized auditorium.

“We are all gathered here at Camp Freedom today to celebrate our freedom and our way of life,” Autry said, “and to address the most critical and dangerous threat to our existence since the Communists. I’m talking about our current administration in Washington and the secret deals they’re making to circumvent the American way of life. They’re defiling the very law of the land, denying the very things that made this country great.”

The audience applauded.

Autry bowed his head slightly in appreciation and acknowledgment. “As we speak, they’ve been playing both ends against the middle, coddling the Jews in Israel, while making deals with the Muslims, all to support the welfare state our great country has become supporting urban blacks who’ve made our city streets free-fire zones. Our cities have regressed a hundred years, back to the times when we worried about the marauding Indian tribes. And it’s not enough that the federal government is flaunting these things in front of our faces every day on the five o’clock news, but they continue to tax the common folk, the people who built this great country, to pay for it all. As far as the government’s concerned, ‘we the people’ doesn’t apply if you’re a white American, despite the fact that the blacks, Indians and Latinos are all supported by our tax dollars that the government continues to take and take and take.”

As Autry held up his fist, Brognola froze the image once again.

“Thanks,” Bolan said. “A little of that guy goes a long way.”

“He’s a real equal-opportunity bigot, all right,” Grimaldi added. “Is there any ethnic group he hasn’t managed to insult?”

Brognola chuckled.

“He mentioned Camp Freedom,” Bolan stated. “What’s that?”

“His rather sizable ranch just outside of Las Vegas,” Brognola said. “In recent years it’s been transformed into a veritable fortress, with Autry and his son as the commandants.”

“I think we saw his better image in the first recording,” Grimaldi said. “The horse’s ass. But at least he didn’t say anything derogatory about the Italians.”

“Give him time,” Brognola replied. “He’s managed to offend just about everybody.”

“As much as I dislike loud-mouthed bigots,” Bolan said, “what does this have to do with us?”

Brognola swiveled his chair back to the conference table and placed his crossed forearms on its top. “Autry’s got serious money problems. Although he’s purported to have sizable assets, he owes the government a lot, to the tune of fifteen million. He’s desperate. The word is that there’s been some suspicious goings-on in southern Nevada, including dealings with the Mexican cartels and a possible arms deal. The People’s New Minutemen Militia, which you got a glimpse of in that news piece, is rumored to be interested in purchasing some pretty serious weaponry at Autry’s behest. Russian organized crime is purportedly involved.”

“It sounds more like a job for ATF than us,” Bolan replied. “This guy may be a loudmouth and a public nuisance, but he’s hardly a blip on our radar, is he?”

Brognola shook his head slowly. “There’s a bit more than just that going on. Ever hear of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud?”

“Prince Amir?” Bolan asked. “As in one of the lesser-knowns in the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia?”

Brognola nodded. “One and the same. While he’s one of many royal heirs to the throne, it’s rumored he’s the king’s favorite grandson. He’s got the reputation of being something of a playboy.”

“Man, I bet women flock to him,” Grimaldi said.

“In droves, apparently,” Brognola said. “While there’s certainly no shortage of heir-apparents, Prince Amir is thought to be a real-deal contender. Like I said, he’s the king’s favorite grandson.

“There was an attempt on the prince’s life last night in Bahrain. It was foiled by his bodyguards.”

“Who tried to kill him?” Bolan asked.

“As far as we know,” Brognola said, “and the Saudis and Bahrainis are playing this close to their vests, the assassins were Shi’ite Saudis from the Eastern Province.”

“Sunnis and Shi’ites,” Grimaldi said. “They’ve been going at it just about forever.”

“There’s no moderation when it comes to their disputes,” Brognola stated.

“Moderation,” Grimaldi said. “No such word in their dictionary.”

“Have either of you ever hear of Colonel Herbert Francis Coltrain?”

“The publisher of Mercenary One magazine?” Grimaldi said. “Yeah, I met him a couple years ago at the Shot Show in Vegas. That guy’s been almost as many hot places as we have.”

“Well, he founded the Desert Warfare Training Academy some ten years ago. It’s a rather prestigious school. They trained a lot of the Private Military Organizations we were using over in Iraq and Afghanistan. His instructors were all ex-military, a lot of them special-ops vets.”

“The operative word being ‘were’?” Bolan asked.

Brognola nodded. “Colonel Coltrain sold the school about a year or so ago to some foreign company. They made a few changes, including personnel, but it’s still considered one of the preeminent nonmilitary training academies around.”

“All that’s interesting,” Bolan said. “But how does that factor into our current situation?”

Brognola sighed. “The prince is scheduled to attend the desert warfare tactics school out in Nevada this coming week. With all of the anti-Muslim stuff this guy Autry’s been spewing, and the rumors of his militia boys trying to gear up for something big, the President’s a little worried that things could go to hell in a handbasket in a hurry.”

“I can’t say as I can blame him,” Bolan said. “What does he want us to do?”

“Go out there and keep an eye on things. The prince will have some Secret Service guys watching over him, but with this Bureau of Land Management dispute with Autry heating up and all over the news, the potential is there for a real conflagration. You two are both signed up for the desert warfare course, by the way.”

“Back to school?” Grimaldi asked. “Wasn’t that an old Rodney Dangerfield movie?”

“One of my all-time favorites,” Brognola said. He took a quick sip of coffee, then emitted another dissatisfied-sounding grunt. “The Feds are also out and about in the area checking out the rumors of some possible student radicals, too. The NSA has intercepted a bunch of anti-American internet garbage being spewed by some radical cleric out of Yemen named Ibrahim al Shabahb. He may be trying to recruit some impressionable lone wolves here in the States to stir up some trouble.”

“You have any more information on that?” Bolan asked.

Brognola handed each of them a briefing folder. “There are some Homeland Security reports in there. They give it a medium to high confidence level.”

“Please, tell me we’re not going commercial,” Grimaldi said. “You know how I hate it when somebody else is flying the plane.”

“They’re fueling up the Learjet as we speak,” Brognola said. “How the hell else would you guys be able to take all your special equipment?”

“Yeah, it might be a little tricky getting it through TSA,” Grimaldi said with a grin and a wink.

Brognola smiled. “Any questions?”

Bolan shook his head as he got to his feet.

“Your plane will be ready to roll in two hours.”

CHAPTER THREE

Camp Freedom, Nevada

It was early evening but prematurely dark as the headlights of the Jeep bounced over the rough gravel back road. Fedor Androkovich checked the security strap on the low-slung, tactical holster securing his 9 mm SIG Sauer P223 semi-auto pistol as he braced himself in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He thought about the complexity of the plan. There was a lot that could go wrong, which bothered him. Still, he was used to carrying out complicated endeavors. He had been raised on them practically since birth.

His entire youth had been spent under the tutelage of the KGB, and later in its successors, the FSB and the SVR, in a special school that trained him and others to be sleeper agents in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk away from it all. When the Arabs had covertly approached him, the decision had been easy, almost preordained.

As much as he disliked going by his American alias, Frank Andrews, he had to admit the name had served him well. And soon, he would be rich. He could choose another name in a short time. Any one he wanted. Perhaps he would go with one with a little more European flair. He was tired of masquerading as an American.

“There they are,” Red Stevens said. His real name was actually Rudolph Strogoff, and he, too, was a product of the highly secret American Assimilation School in Gdansk, only a generation later. As a result, his American accent was as flawless as Androkovich’s. His auburn hair had earned him the appropriate nickname, “Red.” He was fifteen years younger than Fedor, and consequently less experienced at staying deep within their established cover here in the United States. But just the same, during the past year Strogoff had all but vanished, and the advantage was obvious. He had become Red, but he followed Androkovich’s directions without question.

“Do you see them?” Strogoff asked, pointing to two sets of headlights parked about a hundred yards away on the highway.

“I hope their lights didn’t attract too much attention,” his partner replied. “Stop here and I’ll get the gate.”

Androkovich jumped out of the Jeep and jogged toward the seven-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter of Camp Freedom and secured the access to the compound via this back road. He unlocked the gate and swung it open, pausing to peer around at the desert terrain. A hot wind blew across the plains, capturing wisps of sand and adding a hint of grit to the air. Nothing seemed to be moving, but the Russian brought the night-vision goggles up to his eyes and did another quick scan. Nothing stirred except for an occasional tumbleweed. The timing couldn’t be better. All he had to worry about now was the possibility of some random patrol or the possibility of an over-inquisitive reporter or motorist happening upon them.

Thus, it was best to proceed with all due speed. He turned and motioned for Strogoff to pull forward on to the highway. Androkovich hopped into the open Jeep as it was going by him. They bounced over the juncture between the macadamized road and the asphalt and sped toward the two parked vehicles farther down. As they drove past the two cars, Androkovich perused them. The first was a dark limousine, the second the ambulance that they had purchased from a surplus municipality sale in neighboring Arizona. It was perfect for their purposes.

A limo in the desert, Androkovich thought. Leave it to the Arabs to be stupid as well as ostentatious. He wondered if their Bedouin ancestors were turning over in their sandy graves.

“Pull behind them and wait,” he said.

Strogoff slowed down again and then swung the Jeep in a wide circle, dipping on to the shoulder and coming to a stop behind the ambulance.

“Wait here,” Androkovich said as he got out. “I’ll go talk to them.”

His companion nodded, his black baseball cap riding low on his forehead.

Androkovich crossed in front of the Jeep and walked on the right side of the ambulance. He glanced inside as he passed, seeing the waspish face of George Duncan behind the wheel. He nodded as he passed, and Duncan responded with a halfhearted salute. The Russian kept walking and heard the sound of the locks being popped as he got close to the rear door of the limo. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

“Good evening,” he said as he slid inside.

Two men, both Saudis, stared at him. Androkovich knew the younger of the two well: Masoud, the youngest son of Mustapha Rahman. Masoud was slender and looked quite dapper in his cream-colored suit. His hair was stylishly cut and the hair on his face was trimmed to a neat mustache and goatee.

“You have seen the vehicle,” Masoud said. “Is it what you wanted?”

“It is,” the Russian replied. “You purchased it in Arizona, as I instructed?”

“Yes.”

Androkovich nodded. He waited a few seconds, not wanting to seem too presumptuous so as to upset the Arab, then asked, “Did you initiate the transfer of my money?”

The Arab nodded. “Of course. It was done earlier today, as you instructed.”

The Russian smiled. “And as soon as I have verified the deposit, I will proceed with the next phase.” He let his smile fade for the moment. “And I assume you brought my expense money tonight?”

Masoud snapped his fingers, and his associate removed a leather bag from the floor area and set it on the seat between them. The associate began unzipping it, but Masoud placed his hand on top of the other man’s. His dark eyes stared at Androkovich.

“Do you have the…how do you say it?”

“The English term is scapegoats. And, yes, they have been recruited, as your father instructed.”

“Your English is excellent, for a Russian,” Masoud said. “They are Saudi Shi’ites?”

“Yes. Also as your father instructed.”

Masoud lifted his hand, and the other man finished unzipping the case. Androkovich could see the bundles of currency. “As you requested, in various denominations of U.S. currency.” His lips curled back over his teeth in a mirthless grin. “You may count it if you wish.”

The Russian shook his head as he closed the case. “There is no need. Our relationship has been built on trust, has it not?”

Masoud uttered a short, harsh-sounding laugh. “Trust. Do you know that two of my father’s uncles were killed fighting the Russians with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan many years ago?”

“And now their sons fight the Americans.”

Masoud was about to speak when the driver lowered the shield behind the front seat and said something in Arabic.

“What did he say?” Androkovich asked.

The other man’s eyes flashed. “A vehicle is approaching from the rear.”

Androkovich took a small, handheld radio from his pistol belt and brought it to his lips. “Do you see a car approaching?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “From our rear.” A few seconds went by, then, “It looks like it’s pulling up behind me. Red police light on the dashboard.”

“Police.” Masoud leaned forward and grasped the Russian’s forearm. “We must not be discovered. This transaction must not be traced to us.”

Androkovich glared into the Arab’s dark eyes until the man removed his hand. “It will not be.” He slid toward the door. “Stay here until I return.”

He jerked the door handle and moved out of the limo with a smooth, fluid grace. He stepped quickly across the dusty shoulder of the road and into the darkened area approximately three yards to the side. The car behind the Jeep appeared to be a black vehicle with no overt police insignias. The passenger door opened and a man in a light-colored uniform got out holding a flashlight. Its bright light shone over the Jeep and then the ambulance. The fingers of Androkovich’s right hand closed over the handle of his pistol, drawing it slowly out of the tactical holster. His other hand withdrew the cylindrical sound suppressor from the pouch on his belt. He matched up the threads and screwed it in place on the end of the barrel as he listened.

“Federal agents,” the man on the driver’s side said in a loud voice.

Feds…FBI? But they didn’t wear uniforms or make traffic stops. Most likely these two were BLM bird dogs assigned to patrol the perimeter of the disputed territory, which most likely meant they weren’t in radio contact with any of the police dispatch centers.

The guy stood on the passenger side of the Jeep, shining the beam of his flashlight over Strogoff.

“What’s the problem, Officer?” Strogoff asked, his voice sounding like a typical American motorist.

“What are you doing out here?” the policeman asked.

“Just meeting some friends. Did I do something wrong?”

“Let me see some identification.”

“Don’t think I have any with me,” Strogoff said, sounding gregarious. “Wallet’s back at the ranch. We usually don’t drive this vehicle on the road. Just came to see if these folks needed help, is all.”

“You’re from Camp Freedom, aren’t you?” the man on the passenger side asked. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

That was the wrong question, Androkovich thought as he ignored the three glowing tritium dots of the sights and switched instead to the laser light snapped on the laser sight. The circular bulk of the suppressor that rose over the end of the barrel rendered the standard night sights of the SIG Sauer useless. He centered the red dot on the back of the closer man’s neck. Of course, any question at this point was the wrong one. And the last, as well.

He squeezed the trigger and felt the reduced recoil of the round, and its accompanying ripping sound.

The man on the passenger side of the Jeep emitted a husking groan as his upper body jerked momentarily before he slumped forward.

“Jeff?” the officer on the other side said. “What’s wrong?”

Strogoff reached out the window and pushed the other officer, causing the man to take two wobbly steps backward as he began reaching for his weapon. Androkovich moved to the side, his SIG Sauer still held in the firing position. The small, circular red dot danced on the man’s face.

The Russian squeezed the trigger a millisecond later, the subdued crack of the round piercing the stillness of the desert night once again. The officer crumpled to the road.

Strogoff jumped out of the Jeep and straddled the man, while his companion ran to the unmarked squad car, finding it empty. A radio was mounted under the dashboard, but it was silent. Had they called in their location? Perhaps not. A mobile data computer sat on a metal shelf. He checked the screen and saw some sort of format for obtaining data, but the cursor blinked over an empty space. He wondered again if they had been in communication with their support base. Better to move quickly. The car and the bodies would have to be disposed of with cautious but immediate expedience. He glanced to his right and saw Strogoff going through the dead man’s pockets.

“See if they have handheld radios,” Androkovich called. His ears were buzzing slightly from the subdued reverberation of the rounds going off, but he knew this would subside shortly. He retraced his steps to the place from which he’d fired, shone his flashlight on the ground and looked for the expended shell casings. He found one, but the second one eluded him in the dust and darkness, despite the flashlight. The clock was ticking, and he felt like abandoning his search, thinking perhaps that the desert sand would sweep over the casing. But he also knew the devil, as they said, was in the details. Now was not the time to be careless. Shining the light again, sweeping it over the ground, he located and retrieved the second shell casing.