Force Lines

“Who are we, you ask? You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you. Why are we here, you ask? Well, Mr. Hall, you should have kept your mouth shut, but a few of your jarhead buddies found that out the hard way, but I’m sure you’ve already figured out as much when you discovered your Web sites zapped then began your nightly armed recon around this stretch of Flathead Lake. Yes, you guessed correctly. You have been under constant surveillance. Okay, moving on. Instead of you accepting a chance to expiate your own guilt and treason, you turn down a reasonable offer to work for your country on a classified counter-bio warfare project, but you decided to stick to your lingering rebel nature. It wasn’t enough you came home from the first Gulf War and incited the whole of the U.S. Senate and Congress about what you thought you and a lot of other vets had fallen ill from over there.”

“You’re going to kill me because I told the truth?”

“The truth was, more or less, already out there, Mr. Hall. Pyridostygmine was supposed to have been a vaccine to prevent the effects of any nerve gas Saddam might have thrown at the troops. Then some snippy Congressman whose panties you got all twisted up did some investigating—or more to the point—had somebody else do the work for him, and he comes out claiming before God and the whole world to hear that somehow the vaccines were contaminated by the AIDS virus. Just to clue you in, the so-called Gulf War Syndrome bore, more to the truth, similarities to the West Nile virus, but the AIDs claim was what got the hue and cry sounded.”

Bile squirted up Hall’s throat. The fog was thickening in his eyes, or had he been hit by another wave of smoke? He struggled for breath that felt like flames in his throat as he said, “We were used as guinea pigs.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If you were test subjects, then let’s say it was for a just cause, being as Gulf One may have been the first time our troops were threatened by the mass deployment of chemical or biological weapons. In other words, our side needed to know something in order to engineer a preventive measure. Unfortunately, the experimental vaccine didn’t pan out as hoped. But, your mouth, that was strike one.”

“Men who fought for this country died…”

“Strike two was refusing the offer. Strike three was putting out on the Internet to all your former comrades-in-arms and any other conspiracy fruitbasket who would listen to what little you thought you knew but which, by your crusade, might have well placed national security at grave risk nonetheless.”

“So I die. You can’t kill us all.”

“And that would be you blustering it out until the bitter end?” The black hood chuckled. “Now then. What’s killing you, you ask? To my knowledge—which, I may add, in this particular field is extensive—there are fifty-one known toxic warfare agents.” He shrugged, smoked, then quickly added, “Actually there are sixty-five, but that’s when I count those agents not even those in the sanctified realm of U.S. intelligence know about between our side, the Russians, several Mideast terror orgs and North Korea. But that’s another story. Anyway, you have been stricken with, you guessed it, an experimental agent that is formed from the recombinant DNA of seven toxins. Botulin, anthrax and dioxin which, as you so boldly put out there, is an ingredient used in pesticide and which you believe was what caused GWS. But these are three of the seven you would be most familiar with, I’ll leave the others to your imagination.”

Hall watched as the black-clad executioner rose, staring at his watch.

“You have about twenty-five minutes now, Mr. Hall. Have a nice journey.”

Hall watched the man as he stepped past before he was swallowed up into the white light.

He wanted to be angry over this treason, murdered, no less, by agents of the very government he had fought and killed for, outraged, terrified he was minutes away from dying…

But felt a calm peace settle over him. Still, this was no way for a warrior, he thought, to die, as he felt the first wave of white-hot pain knifing from head to toe. Still, there were those out there who knew something about the compound, who believed, and whom, he was sure, could count on to spread the truth. Or would they? Were there any even left to talk?

CHAPTER ONE

“What in the name of…”

Benjamin Dekel collapsed into the wall, aware that God had nothing to do with why he was about to die, had nothing to do with why he was burning up with maybe a 104 degree temperature, and climbing. Or why the pain in his chest was turning to a clenching fire that was seconds away from squeezing off the last bit of air to his lungs. Or why every last drop of bodily waste and liquefied organs was set to burst from both ends as his stomach and bowels caught fire. He was verging, he knew, on the edges of what they called “the liquid state.”

Complete internal organ meltdown, followed by paralysis.

His voice struck his ears from a great distance as he heard himself croaking, “Help…someone…”

There was no answer, and he knew there was little time left now, perhaps down to a mere few minutes, since when the pain and nausea had finally driven him out of a deep sleep and he had heaved himself off the cot. And even if he reached the vault in what was called the Gold Room he was far from certain the Trivalent antitoxin derivative could be administered in time through the 20 ml IV vial, much less combat the effects of the hybrid strain he himself had taken part in creating.

With a sudden viciousness, he cursed the very day he’d quit Fort Detrick and accepted this post in what would now not only prove the middle of nowhere, but would be his final resting place. More money, they’d pledged, and delivered that much, and with talk among his colleagues about the possibility of a Nobel Prize…

His vision, he discovered, as predicted during the early stages of testing on African monkeys, was the first of the senses to start collapsing. Within moments, after the initial onslaught of the fractured maze with gray light webbed around narrowing peripheral vision, total blindness would descend. That would prove the least of his concerns, he knew, though it somehow might prove a blessing in disguise.

He stumbled, limbs turning quickly to boneless rubbery appendages, into the main corridor, gasping for breath, like the drowning man he knew he was. The stark white of the concrete walls seemed to drive hot needles through raw eyeballs, and served only to inflame the fire in his brain. Alternately hugging and sliding down the wall, it occurred to him one of several scenarios had taken place. The agent had either been accidentally released from the Hot Zone—the Black Room—or this was an act of sabotage. The contagion, he knew, could be spread by food, water and air. And he could have been infected as far back as six to eight weeks for all he knew. For that was just one of the insidious natures of the pathogenic mycoplasma they’d spliced and engineered into the whole hellish concoction. It laid dormant, evading the human immune system as the man-made bomb hid—no, vanished—deep inside cell nuclei, the lab-bred microbe near impossible to detect and diagnose as it ticked away, biding its time until it decided when it would strike. Then there was the other batch, able to act within minutes…

Which one?

It didn’t matter, as he cursed himself for even entertaining such a foolish thought, as if that alone could bolster vain hope.

Beyond the terror of knowing he was dying on his feet, Dekel felt the strange vast emptiness stretching out before and behind him. In fact, nothing seemed to move, no sound anywhere, but that could just be his senses on the verge of meltdown as his brain became nothing short of microwaved jelly. Still, near forty personnel between the science staff, security and management and yet someone by now should have appeared. Or…

Were they, too, dying? Or already dead?

The vomit shot into his mouth then past lips, spilling off his chin, just as the strange notion struck him that the entire base felt as empty and lonely as an entire lifetime dedicated to the advancement of defensive biological-and-chemical warfare. The very idea there was anything remotely defensive about so-called preemptive advancements in the bio-chem theater of war was something of an obscene joke by itself, but he long since knew the United States had to play the diplomatic charade in accord with the agreement they’d signed with the Russians and their other allies many years back.

Was he now, thus, an ultimate dupe of what was an ultimate lie?

Where is everybody? he heard his mind scream. Was there anybody out there?

Was that a shadow at the deep south end?

“Hello? Help…me…”

He struggled to stay on his feet, saw the shadow grow, a figure slowly materializing around the corner. He wasn’t sure what he saw at first, blinking away the sweat burning into his eyes, then…

The scream was on the tip of his tongue as he recognized the HAZMAT suit, the silver hose in its hand for what it was. The human, safe in his white cocoon, strode straight for him, moving with purpose, he believed was the common military jargon. And the moment was somehow made even more horrifying by the fact he couldn’t see the face hidden by the black shield, as if by eye contact he could communicate the plea for mercy he heard building to a raging crescendo in the furnace of his brain. The distance was ten feet and closing when Dekel felt his eyes bulge in shock and horror, aware of what was coming.

And the shriek ripped from his mouth an instant before the silver hose burst forth its cleansing fire.

“YOU CALL THEM WHAT?”

“The Black Wizards. And that would be ‘called them.’”

Mark Drobbler shot a sideways glance at what he privately called his tour guide. Despite his cryptic tone, the encrypted e-mails that had detailed their rendezvous and the night’s subsequent jaunt in the Black Hawk helicopters—the first stop less than an hour ago to deal with a local rabble-rouser—the man in black hood and matching one-piece combat suit he knew openly as Infinity wasn’t as much an enigma as the operative wanted him to believe. Drobbler was one of the few recruits of his organization who was a former U.S. government employee—what they called Storm Trackers—for the Department of Defense, but he had a feeling Infinity knew as much, if not more.

For nearly a decade, before putting in for early retirement following the collapse of his second marriage, he had a sizable hand in collecting and sorting out critical intelligence regarding homegrown terrorists operating under the guise of militias, and international terror cells that had established roots in the Continental United States.

Another lifetime, that was, without question. These days…

Well, these days it was a whole different game, a different outlook, an ideology that was in lockstep with the good fight against the signs of the times he and the others believed were leading to the Apocalypse.

Looking away from Infinity’s penetrating stare, Drobbler felt a moment’s gratitude he was both armed with a shoulder-holstered Glock .40, and was accompanied by two of his own people, but who were right then on-board one of the other four Black Hawks that had descended on the compound. As he had requested an aerial view of the clean-up task, he stood in the open doorway, the gunship hovering about a hundred feet up and to the south of the cyclone fencing.

It wasn’t much, as far as classified compounds went. The compound sat on about five to six acres, with the squat one-story concrete block grabbing up an area about the size of a football field, the heart of the base tucked back in the dense pine forest of rolling hills. Over those hills, Lake Pend Oreille was the site of longstanding rumors, he knew, about a top secret Navy project named Cutthroat. In the recent past, he had seen from a distance the silver boxes that were set in a triangulation pattern around the second largest lake west of the Mississippi. They were called Horizontal Control Stations and Electronic Sites. The public had been told they were permanent lookout stations for the local forest rangers, but the whispers around these parts was that they were, supposedly, testing the kind of cutting edge satellite and electronic communications equipment that had spawned rumors all over the Panhandle. They ranged from UFO landing sites to technology that could harness and control lightning, which, in recent years, was believed to have been the cause of sudden and inexplicable wildfires that had devastated much of northern Idaho.

Which left him wondering, being as they were in such close proximity to another classified government facility, how they intended to hide the mess they were in the process of creating.

Infinity had referred to the night’s outing as an invisible program of confirmation and cooperation, and Drobbler went back to watching what he couldn’t see but had been told was happening inside the walls of the germ factory. There were no vehicles, now that the black GMCs had rolled through the main gate with their cargo of nylon bags, evidence seized, he suspected, that wouldn’t leave behind any trace of what the Dormitory—as Infinity called the bio-chem compound—was all about. The small helipad was already chocked to capacity by the Black Hawks, and the men in spacesuits who had disgorged from those gunships had been inside for twenty-some minutes by his reckoning.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Drobbler threw the man a sideways look. If Infinity did, then he might want to pull the HK MP-5 SD 3 subgun off his shoulder. Now that he knew what was happening down there, he wasn’t sure he was all that keen on going the full distance. His attitudes, opinions, in short, his whole point of view about the dreadful and rapidly deteriorating state of affairs in the Western World were anarchist, to put it kindly, but he was a few short hours away from…

“Even with full cleansing of the Dormitory and the kind of plausible deniability we are able to erect around ourselves, we cannot safely determine at what point and how this will all warrant a closer investigation.”

“Which is why the green light…”

“Further, it does not help our cause on two specific fronts. One, that your vaunted leader deemed it necessary to make himself a national television star. Attention is the last and most dreaded area we need to concern ourselves with at this late juncture. Two, that your organization was infiltrated.”

Drobbler grimaced. “I thought you said you took care of that?”

“Be all that as it may, we still do not have absolute control over the United States Department of Justice, even from the deep shadows, even with all of our resources.”

“The attention thing, right?”

“Very astute.”

Drobbler fought to keep the scowl off his face, as he spotted a sarcastic twinkle in those blue eyes. He turned away from Infinity’s laughing stare, just as he heard the wail ripping from the east edge of the main building. An icy shiver walked down his spine an instant before he saw the dancing shadows come flailing into the aura of spilled light. Infinity had the tactical radio in hand before the horror fully registered in Drobbler’s mind.

“Infinity to Dragon leader!”

Drobbler heard the order barked for the door in question to be sealed, but it was too late. The human comet streaked onto open ground, ran on for a few feet, thrashing inside the fireball, as if it could somehow escape from that hellish cocoon. Then it seemed to wilt inside the shroud of fire, toppling in a slow-motion buckling of the legs. Drobbler had seen more than enough. But, even as he turned away and fell back into the fuselage, the screams of a man being burned alive—an employee of the United States government—echoed in his ears. He felt sick to his stomach. Suddenly, had it all been up to him…

But it wasn’t. And, even if he could refuse to move forward, what he’d just witnessed, he was sure, was meant to serve as a warning.

He was onboard for the full ride, and began to wonder if it all was only just bound for Hell.

CHAPTER TWO

The man in black was a silent ghost, virtually invisible to the naked eye at that predawn hour, as he crept to the edge of the dense western exterior of pine forest. With the HK MP-5 SD 3 submachine gun and its integral sound suppressor, he knew it was a safe bet that he wouldn’t be mistaken for some hunter who had lost his way, or some weekend warrior most notable for blustering through the local saloons of Montana’s Glacier Country with tall tales of big game kills from a half mile or more out.

He was, though, in the strictest and most lethal sense, a hunter, and of the most dangerous game. Here, east of Flathead River and at the western edge of the Continental Divide, and now as anywhere then previous in his War Everlasting, Mack Bolan had no interest in bagging grizzly, elk or bighorn sheep to stuff and hang on his trophy mantel.

As for the warrior part…

The big, tall shadow hit a crouch at what he determined was the most secure scouting roost, as he spied his perch through the green world of his night-vision goggles. Concealed in a horseshoe of thick brush, the man also known as the Executioner took a few moments to get his bearings, review, assess, upon giving his six and flanks another thorough scan.

No warrior, he knew, no matter how good, how often he’d been tested in the fires of combat could ever rely on the bloody glory of yesterday’s victories to carry him through the next engagement. That would be foolishness. But it was something often overlooked by the arrogant, the proud, the bully, those who believed all they had to do was to show up for the fight and fearsome reputation would take over, all but send a foe scurrying to hide under his bed.

There was, Bolan knew, always a David out there to every man’s Goliath.

That in mind, the lone wolf operative for the ultra-covert Stony Man Farm couldn’t say, one way or the other, if the two FBI agents who had gone undercover to infiltrate the Sons of Revelation had been careless and sloppy, falling back on their own hallowed and sanctioned law-enforcement status, which, of course, no sociopath, no armed reprobate ever respected anyway. Whatever the case, they were found, beaten to a pulp in an abandoned log cabin up near the town of West Glacier, before, that was, they’d each been shot once in the head. Since the FBI fell under the jurisdiction of the United States Department of Justice, and considering the nature of their shadow work and the group believed to have executed them, Hal Brognola had offered Bolan the assignment.

Looking back, Bolan should have declined—murder investigations were somebody else’s job description—but Brognola was a high-ranking official at the Justice Department who also headed up the Sensitive Operations Group at the Farm. Beyond that, and notwithstanding he was the soldier’s longtime friend, Brognola was liaison to the President of the United States, the Man being one of the few in the loop about Stony Man’s existence, and who also gave the Caesar’s thumbs-up or -down to each mission. That the murder of a federal law-enforcement agent fell under the statute of capital punishment was serious enough to give Bolan second consideration, but there were other factors involved that had seen the soldier give the man from Justice the final nod. Aside from the fact that both agents were leaving behind grieving widows and children, stoking the natural fires of Bolan’s sense of justice, both men had managed to pull together enough loose threads of a general conspiracy, one that allegedly involved the import of foreign enemies of America, and who were believed associated with the radical militia group now in question.

Then the hunches, swirling around some big event the agents had tagged the Day of Judgment, though what the exact nature of the conspiracy had gone to the grave with them. With money, however, with the arsenal the enemy was alleged to possess—and there was no telling what other kind of firepower they had at their disposal—anything was possible, the soldier knew, even the sale or acquisition of a tactical nuke, a so-called dirty bomb, or chemical or biological agents. Throw the fuel of twisted ideology into the fire of one man’s belief in his superiority to his fellow man, and that all but blazed his will to use violence and intimidation. From grim and countless personal experience, Bolan knew just such individuals would spare no extreme, would even view collateral damage—the murder and misery of the innocent—as the cost of their revolution, and to further their agenda.

The Sons of Revelation had more than a few former lawmen, ex-military and two ex-spooks that Bolan knew of among the bunch of armed malcontents. That alone raised a red flag in the warrior’s mind.

Shedding the high-tech headgear, Bolan adjusted his trained night-stalking vision to the sheen of light that enveloped the compound. He took one last look at the PDA, found the coordinates—programmed into the palm-held cutting-edge computer by the cyberteam at the Farm, gleaned from Brognola’s facts as the FBI knew them on the general vicinity—were on the money.

It was just under a mile hike from where he’d ditched the Ford Explorer rental in a wooded gorge. The big war bag with the heavier firepower, satellite link, spare clips and grenades was stowed in the back of the SUV, and may God have mercy on the man fool enough to venture forth with curious or felonious hands. The vehicle was rigged with a state-of-the-art zapper, voltage enough to dump a man on his back, out cold. Should some enraged vandal witnessing a comrade’s initial failure then smash out the windows, the war bag was armed with sensors, primed to cut loose with enough sulfuric acid to melt its contents into a molten puddle, and in the meantime cook off some rounds and frag bombs to send the more brazen and stupid running for cover. Should a local cop or state trooper pose a problem, then Bolan was armed with his bogus Justice Department credentials that declared him Special Agent Matt Cooper.

All set, then, but for what exactly?

The soldier had a plan, but the more he thought about it he began amending the original blitz to include, above all else, the capture—or at the very least—the grilling of an SOR reprobate on the spot.

The stone-and-timber lodge and surrounding six acres was the sole property of the leader of the Sons of Revelation. He was a former Boise sheriff who had retired before suspicions of alleged corruption were brought to light. Two stories high, with veiled light striking against thick curtains on his side—the south end—the Stony Man warrior counted two sentries posted on the east and west edges, both armed with assault rifles. If timing was everything in life then it looked as if a full SOR gathering was underway beneath the roof. Strung out to the east and north of the lodge was a motor pool of SUVs, backwoods 4X4s, with a few classics to finish off the vintage car show. The late and lamented undercover men cited the rabble at forty to fifty strong, maybe more, depending on plebes undergoing initiation pains, the likes of which had also reached Brognola’s desk. Then there were drifters, handfuls of other miscreants believed loosely affiliated with the right-wing vultures, local cops suspected of being buried deep in the group’s coffers.

Dirty cops posed something a problem. In the beginning—a hundred lifetimes and a thousand battles ago—Bolan had vowed to never gun down an officer of the law. But with the changing times his personal philosophy could be altered enough to include a tainted shield, especially when it came down to them or him. In truth, the more he thought about it, a dirty badge was worse than the criminal they had publicly sworn to protect law-abiding citizens and their property from.

But he would take the savages, on either side of that thin blue line, as they came, as they called the play.

Evil was still evil, no matter the law, flag, money or mask of human respect it hid behind.

The soldier gave the narrow plateau another search, this time through small field glasses he switched to infrared. As he panned the wooded perimeter around the compound, he felt the combined weight of his walking arsenal hung from webbing, slotted in a combat vest. Given what little he knew, the soldier wondered if the mixed assortment of grenades, twenty pounds of C-4 with radio-remote primers, the spare clips for his subgun, the shoulder-holstered Beretta 93-R and the .44 Desert Eagle Magnum hung on his hip in quickdraw leather would prove sufficient.