“I’d like some explanation on that myself.”
Price strolled to the large conference table in the empty War Room. She was dressed in a conservative skirt and rather plain white blouse, but still managed to look stunning. She took a thin report from the table and brushed back a strand of honey-blond hair to read it.
“The doctors are calling it an incision caused by burning plastic material. The wound was clean-edged—clean enough that the escharotomy was a comparatively minor process.”
“Escharotomy?”
“The surgical removal of the skin killed by the burn. They wanted it off of him as quickly as possible to avoid infection. They also wanted to examine the material imbedded in the eschar. We didn’t permit that. We had the tissue samples sent to our medical staff. Rosario is resting. Unless there is infection in the wound, he’ll be on his feet in a matter of days.”
“Good to hear.” Brognola tapped his desktop with a very expensive pen. “Dr. Solon?”
“The video from Able Team confirmed it was his body in his office.”
“Huh.” Brognola didn’t like the sound of that.
The lab in Georgia had been researching weaponized thermite for the U.S. military. At least, that was what it had been contracted to do. But it looked as though the prototypes and research they were presenting to the U.S. military had actually been compiled offshore—probably in China.
Worse, the technology that the U.S. government was sharing with the lab was being funneled somewhere else.
It had been a brilliantly executed subterfuge and might have remained undetected if not for Stony Man Farm’s watchful cybernetic systems. One of the routines did nothing but sample telecommunications from around the world, looking for new kinds of security. Whenever it found one, the Farm would try to decrypt it—and one such call came to the personal phone of Dr. Anthony Solon.
The scramble was one of the most sophisticated the cybernetics experts at Stony Man Farm had ever seen. It took the team two days to crack it, and when the next scrambled call came to Dr. Solon, it was descrambled and recorded.
Just in time. Solon was getting out. A “special team” was coming to help remove equipment on loan from the U.S. government and to get Solon to safety. This special team would be on-site within hours.
Brognola and Stony Man Farm had their own team on the ground—Able Team. Schwarz, Lyons and Blancanales had observed the arrival of three hardmen in a rented SUV and plenty of heavy gear in their backpacks.
They weren’t Chinese.
And they weren’t there to extract Solon along with a piece of classified U.S. equipment. They were there to erase the evidence—starting with Solon. They had shot him in the back and left him dead in his office.
Then they had proceeded to place a number of incendiary devices throughout the building.
Somebody had set them off by remote control, not bothering to wait for the intruders to get to safety first. Schwarz and Lyons had found themselves fleeing from a chain of incendiary blasts that had driven them deep inside the building—and far from an escape route.
Just seconds after the incendiaries ignited, Blancanales had chased after his teammates and led them out. All three had suffered superficial burns to the skin. It was the best they could have hoped for. Seconds later and they would have been cooked.
The special team sent to clean out Solon Labs hadn’t been so special. Just a bunch of handymen sent to shoot a corrupt scientist in the back and drop off a bunch of remote-controlled incendiary devices. The thermite incendiaries had done their job. The lab was burned to the ground. The only evidence left was the unidentified corpse on the lawn and a few unexceptional personal items carried out in Lyons’s pockets.
“Akira’s working on the cell phone as we speak. He’s not optimistic,” Price noted.
“Then we’ve got nothing,” Brognola complained. “There’s some serious high technology being exported by this operation and we don’t even know who they were. Only that they’re hostile and very determined to cover their own tracks.”
“You’re right,” Price said. “That’s all we’ve got.”
CHAPTER THREE
Northeastern Vermont
Abraham Clay liked New England. This wild and wooded spot in northern Vermont was beautiful. Especially in the autumn. He really loved it when the colors changed. But there were other places you could go to watch the change of season. There were only a few safe spots where you could go digging up the Portland-Montreal pipeline.
This spot was ideal. Twenty miles from any sizable towns. Unincorporated land meant little likelihood of state or federal rangers nosing around. Chances of being spotted were slim to none.
He’d come to this spot months ago with his ATV and yanked the warning signs out of the ground. If he’d been arrested then it would have been simple vandalism.
Nobody had noticed or bothered to replace the signs. If somebody caught him digging here now, they couldn’t exactly claim he was doing anything dangerous, because there were no markers visible in either direction to tell him that there was a crude oil pipeline not three feet below where he was standing.
So his ass was well covered in case he got caught. And he wasn’t going to get caught anyway.
He waited awhile, chomping a protein bar, which helped reinforce the image he was going for: casual hiker. He was in his North Face boots—cost him a cool $170—with a water bottle on his belt and a bright yellow Garmin geocaching GPS unit hung around his neck. Hell, the Garmin GPS had been cheaper than the damned boots.
If anybody caught him, he’d claim he was looking for the “Lewis’s Ninth” cache. The geocaching website gave it a Terrain Rating of 2 stars out of 5 and a Difficulty Rating of 5 out of 5. In other words, a reasonably easy hike to the spot, but once you got there you’d have a hell of a time actually finding the cache itself. And the coordinates led right here. And there was evidence of something being buried in this spot. That’s why he was digging here, Officer.
Abe Clay had come up with the strategy before he’d even started this project. It sounded reasonable. He’d posted the fake entries to the geocaching websites himself. And after several digs, he had never once had to use the excuse, because he had never once been caught.
After waiting a suitable interval, and hearing and seeing no signs of anyone in the vicinity, he checked his watch and got to work. He unfolded his shovel, scraped off the thin layer of vegetation, and dug into the rich earth. Eighteen inches down, he hit metal.
Another reason this spot was ideal: uncharacteristically aggressive erosion in this vicinity in the past few years had brought the pipeline much closer to the surface than it was supposed to be. Thank you, Hurricane Irene. Clay found it pretty easy to get the erosion reports from the Vermont Department of Environmental Conservation. Overlay those with the publically available reports of the exact routes of the Portland-Montreal pipeline, look for population densities and scout the sites months in advance, including pulling up the warning signs that have been hastily staked after Irene washed away most of the original.
The same process had worked in Maine.
This was his final placement. He cleared the earth around the first pipe, the eighteen-inch pipe, and as he moved the dirt he found the bigger, twenty-four-inch pipe. He took a quick look around, found he was still in the clear and snatched the charges from his backpack. They were in small black plastic bags.
Inside was a device that was no bigger than his fist and looked like some sort of computer accessory. Black plastic, with a curved profile and a USB port inside. Clay flipped the switch on the device.
This was the only time he got nervous. He didn’t understand exactly how these