STONY MAN WAS POISED, PREPPED FOR WAR
Hal Brognola stood at the back of the room, well-chewed but unlit cigar clamped between locked teeth as he surveyed the Farm’s operations center. Against the wall at the front of the room television screens flickered with images. One screen offered an overview of the island from the Farm’s dedicated Keyhole satellite. On another screen was the feed from the nose camera mounted in Jack Grimaldi’s Comanche attack helicopter. Two additional screens were linked to similar camera systems in the Predator drones controlled by Carmen Delahunt and Akira Tokaido at their respective workstations. The UAVs were outfitted with Hellfire missiles for the engagement.
The screen featuring a topographical map of the island was controlled by Hunt Wethers and showed the individual operators of both Phoenix Force and Able Team in icon form, allowing the Farm to visually follow their progress as the assault unfolded.
Barbara Price stalked back and forth in front of the screens, working her sat-com headset to coordinate last-minute logistical needs. Above her head a digital clock counted down to H-hour.
Target Acquisition
Don Pendleton
STONY MAN®
America’S Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Washington, D.C.
Hal Brognola strode down the east hall of the senate. He’d just been called before another pointless meeting with the Senate Subcommittee on Covert Action Oversight. He kept bringing them actionable intelligence and debriefs of successful operations, but they kept questioning the constitutionality of his original Sensitive Operations Group charter. The experience left him feeling like the cardboard silhouette at a shooting range.
He sighed heavily, picked up his pace and for the hundredth time that day wished he’d never quit smoking.
“Hal,” a gravelly voice barked. “Can I have a word?”
The highly polished linoleum floor squeaked under the big Fed’s feet as he slowed his pace and turned to address the man who had spoken to him.
“Brigadier,” Brognola said.
Brigadier General Brooks Kubrick, Joint Special Operations Command, walked up and put his hands on his hips. “We have a problem,” he announced.
“Don’t we always,” Brognola countered.
Kubrick looked up and down the hallway and, satisfied, pulled Brognola over to a quiet corner underneath an oil painting of Andrew Jackson. Kubrick was a big man, ex-Ranger and former Tenth Group Special Forces who’d been with Detachment Delta in El Salvador. His reputation as a no-nonsense operator and premier unconventional strategist preceded him, and Brognola was more than willing to listen to what he had to say.
“I got guys,” Kubrick began, “rolling out of four or five tours in the Sandbox or the Rockpile then disappearing into a sensitive security operation for Homeland for months on end.”
“Okay.” Brognola didn’t offer the man any help.
“Something I have on good authority my boys are calling Operation Blacksuit.”
“Really?”
“Really my ass, Hal. I got hard-core recon boys and SEALs coming back talking about a gang of cold-eye killers, some of them foreign nationals, doing very wild shit. I got Special Forces sergeants with twenty years in, talking about specialists with crazy mad skills. I got twenty-year-old Airborne Rangers telling me about men twice their age kicking their asses in training runs or during hand-to-hand drills.”
Brognola drew his mouth into a flat, sharp line. In the ranking of security clearances the operations the general described were deemed above top secret and were given something called code-name clearances. Admitting that you had knowledge of a code name you were not specifically assigned to was a criminal offense significant enough to have your general security clearance revoked and an internal security investigation launched.
Hal Brognola’s connection to the Justice Department was well established in the Capitol, even if the rest of his purview was decidedly murky. Brigadier General Brooks Kubrick had just taken a very big risk by admitting his knowledge of the assignment of special operations personnel to the security of Stony Man Farm.
Brognola knew such a savvy individual would not commit such a faux pas lightly.
“Sounds impressive,” he said, voice even.
“Impressive? You’re right, what I’m hearing is impressive. I’m stretched to the breaking point for operators, I got more missions than operators, I got casualty rates rivaling my train-up rates, I’m short guys, guns and goods but long on tangos and I discover the Justice Department is sitting on a crew of shooters that make the FBI’s hostage-rescue team look like beat cops.”
“You’re starting to make me feel like a cheerleader who’s just wandered into the locker room, Kubrick. Is there a point to this?”
The general turned away and released a pent-up breath. “I got a problem, Hal. I need help. The Agency has dumped a real dog of an operation in my lap. In Pakistan.”
“What are we talking about specifically?” Brognola asked.
“You know the KLPD?”
“Khadi Lun Pe Dhoka,” Brognola answered automatically. “A sort of ‘boys in the basement’ bureau in their intelligence agency.”
“Exactly, bad mojo boys. Thick with the Taliban back in the day. The only Pakistani intelligence group to have any worthwhile presence in the lawless tribal regions to the northwest. For all the wrong reasons.”
“That jives with what I know,” Brognola conceded.
“The Agency put a task force into Islamabad. Paramilitary operators, almost exclusively made up by ex-Special Forces communication sergeants. Their job is to do electronic countersurveillance on the Pakistani security apparatus.”
“Help us find out who are the bad guys pretending to be good guys.”
“Exactly.” Brooks