STONY MAN
An elite covert special ops team, Stony Man acts only under presidential directive. Backed by a sophisticated unit of cybernetics and weapons experts, Able Team and Phoenix Force fight terror across the globe. They operate with impunity, driven by grit and the instinct of true warriors dedicated to protecting the innocent.
TERROR TRAIL
When Peace Corps volunteers working in the jungles of Paraguay are kidnapped and brutalized by a mysterious new Islamic terrorist group—and political maneuvering fails—Stony Man gets the call. Its dual mission: an under-the-radar jungle rescue and a hunt along the Iranian shores and backstreets of Tehran for the terrorist masterminds. With the enemy’s hard-line agenda poised to fuel the powder keg of Middle East instability, Stony Man moves in against long odds that are only getting longer. Surrounded and outgunned, they’re willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to succeed.
“We’re talking a religious coup of incomprehensible proportions.”
“Do I smell a change in plans, then?” McCarter asked Price.
“Not for you,” she replied. “But we wanted you to have a better idea of what you’re up against. We’ll be taking care of the rest of this through Able Team.”
“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”
“We’re sending them to Tehran to handle the matter personally,” Price said.
“Wait. Let me make sure I just heard you correctly. You’re sending Able Team into Iran?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” McCarter said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Well, the decision’s already been made by the President, and Hal’s in complete agreement. I had my own reservations, but it didn’t seem like the issue was up for debate. Not now anyway.”
“Have you told Able Team yet?”
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.
Close Quarters
Don Pendleton
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Paraguay, South America
Sweat stung his eyes.
The collar of a khaki shirt chafed his sunburned neck.
The stifling, oppressive heat of the jungle threatened to overtake him.
His lungs burned and his legs ached with every stride.
Christopher Harland had been running through the dense jungle for the past half hour as if his life
depended on it—because it did. He didn’t know the identity of his pursuers, but there was no doubt about what would happen if they caught him. That was all the incentive he needed to run this race—giving up was tantamount to a prolonged and painful death. Or worse, even, as his pursuers might actually subject Harland to the same things to which they had subjected his trusted colleagues, his friends, even a woman he loved.
Who the hell knew about their fates? He couldn’t even be sure of his own at this point.
Harland’s lungs threatened to give out on him. He heard the crash of the small armed unit as they closed the distance. He couldn’t keep this pace forever. No amount of track and field at Rutgers could have prepared him for it. He could only thank his coaches now for the training, although the repeated wind sprints at the time hadn’t seemed all that useful to most of the members on his team.
Harland’s flagging endurance ceased to be a concern as he felt something snag his ankle. He stopped and turned to see what it was, but got no further in his inspection—the sensation of his body leaving the ground proved as distracting as it was disconcerting. The world around him seemed to swirl in a haze of reds and blacks, stars popping in front of his eyes from the abrupt change in orientation.
Harland coughed as he fought for air. It felt as if his heart might explode in his chest. Would that be such a bad way to go? Not as bad as the way he’d exit this world at the hands of the figures who emerged from the jungle shadows. Most of them were dark-skinned but not in a mestizo way. These faces implied a more exotic place of origin, most likely somewhere in the Middle East or northern Africa. Harland had learned quite a bit from his ethnic studies in college.
Harland’s head hammered as he dangled helplessly from the tree. As he spun he could see that at least a dozen men had been chasing him. Why? Was he really a target of that importance or was it merely that they didn’t want him