Critical Exposure

Brighton never heard Hiram’s body as it toppled forward and bounced down the stone steps—neither did he hear the explosive sound of the pistol pointed at Gansky’s head through the back window of the VW.

Homs District, Syria

ON AN ABANDONED road less than half a mile outside the village of Sadad, Gunnery Sergeant Dusty Morrell of Recon Platoon, 8th Marine Expeditionary Force, waited patiently for nothing to happen. Just a few days earlier a detachment of Syrian Arab Army regulars had maintained tactical control, however loose the term, on that road but conflict in nearby areas had forced them to abandon their hold. The Marines had penetrated the region via a low-level airborne jump into the neighboring region and were now in a defensive posture designed to protect the village.

There were less than three thousand Syrians residing in Sadad, but in the past couple of weeks NATO had sent civilian workers to the village to assist the victims of a previous attack by Islamic militants in the al-Nusra Front. While it held no strategic value for the United States, or even the SAA for that matter, NATO inspectors were concerned about a possible resurgence of NF attacks if it became known the SAA had been sent elsewhere. Although the SAA commander left behind a small contingent of soldiers in Sadad, they were by no means equipped to repel any kind of significant attack.

“Holy cripes!” Morrell complained, squashing a fly that bit his neck. “Could this place be any more miserable?”

Lance Corporal Jack Ingstrom chuckled. “Don’t know, Gunney. Never been in a place quite like it.”

Morrell looked at his Hummer driver. “Well, neither have I, Ingstrom, but when the recruiter told me I’d visit exotic places I sure as hell didn’t have anything like this in mind. Put me back in Iraq killing insurgents. At least there I won’t die of boredom.”

“Aye, aye, Gunney,” was all Ingstrom could think to reply.

Morrell muttered a flurry of curses under his breath and then informed his men and platoon leader in the back seat he was going to take a leak. He jumped from the Hummer, swung his Colt IAR6940 rifle across his shoulder and picked a nice, dark, secluded spot in which to conduct his business. He was midstream when he heard it, checking over his shoulder where he had a somewhat clear if not totally panoramic view of the road. There were headlights visible in the distance. But as Morrell stood there, pondering this sudden turn of events, he realized the sounds he heard weren’t engines.

First, the lights on the road were much too far off for the engines to be heard already. Second, these weren’t engine sounds he was hearing. They sounded more like...choppers!

“Yo, Gunney!”

Morrell jumped and nearly urinated on himself, catching the edge of a finger as he buttoned his fly. He turned to give Ingstrom a tongue-lashing when the area immediately behind the young lance corporal erupted in a white-orange flash. Their Hummer had been the target of the rockets from the chopper, which was now upon them.

In the aftermath of the explosion, Ingstrom got a funny look on his face and then his knees turned wobbly and he started to fall. Morrell rushed to the man and caught him before he hit the ground. Something warm and wet connected with his sleeve. He realized it was blood coming from Ingstrom’s back where dozens of shrapnel fragments from the destroyed Hummer had pierced his flesh.

Morrell turned the young man over, calling his name, but the light had already left Ingstrom’s eyes. Morrell lifted his head as he heard his platoon respond with audible effect, the dozen or so small arms firing on the chopper and its twin that had launched the attack.

Morrell dropped the limp body to the gravel-and-sand floor of the Syrian Desert and brought his assault rifle into play. He jacked the charging handle to the rear, thumbed the safety to full-auto and began to trigger short, sustained bursts at the choppers as they flitted about. One of the many volleys from the Marine platoon finally scored and sparks erupted from a chopper’s side panel. An explosion occurred, then something seemed to flash. Morrell blinked and the next thing he saw was the chopper spinning wildly out of control and rushing to meet the ground while canting at a hellish angle. Over the brilliant explosion that occurred on impact, Morrell thought he heard the glorious shouts of victory from a number of his Marines.

Semper fi, boys, he thought.

They continued to do battle with the second chopper, but it was quickly becoming difficult as the pilot cleverly stayed high and in motion, making it impossible for them to get a bead on their target. Additionally the enemy was armed with rockets and using them with deadly accuracy, destroying two more Hummers and a five-ton truck. Morrell wanted to call for air support, but he knew there were no units within proximity—any requested assistance would arrive far too late.

The battle continued for another five or ten minutes, Morrell couldn’t be completely sure, before the chopper blasted out of the area, having left plenty of destruction and death in its wake. Morrell ran toward the last known position of those vehicles that should have survived and picked up any survivors as he went, one with a leg wound and being assisted by two other Marines.

By this time the vehicles on the road were fast approaching and Morrell had only managed to collect a handful of survivors. He asked a squad sergeant named Hicks, “We got anything heavy left? Squad machine guns, crewed light artillery...anything?”

“I got one .60 we pulled from our Hummer,” Hicks replied. “The rocket got the front of it and flipped us on our side. Gunner got squashed, but I managed to salvage it.”

Morrell nodded. “Get it set up at that high point overlooking the road. I suspect those trucks are NF, and under no circumstances are you to allow them through. I’ll start collecting whatever explosive ordnance we have, including grenades and any launchers I can find. Whatever happens tonight, Sergeant, those trucks are not to get through. Is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Hicks turned and ordered the man with the M-60 to find high ground and to take another man with him.

Morrell called after the young man, a private, and said, “Listen good, Marine. Your orders are to fire for effect and prevent those trucks from getting through. Go for the equipment, first—especially since you got limited ammo. When you’re out, it’s time to start making bodies. Understood?”

“Yes, Gunney!”

“Semper fi, Private,” he muttered as the young man turned to follow orders.

Morrell knew he’d probably just sent two Marines to their deaths, but there wasn’t anything he could about it. Their mission was to protect the village and that’s what he planned to do, whatever it cost.

“Sir, I don’t get it,” Hicks said. “How the fuck did this happen? This mission was supposed to be classified.”

“I don’t know the answers,” Morrell said glumly. “I don’t know that we’ll ever know the answers. But I can promise you this much. If we get out of this alive, I sure as hell will get those answers—if I got to go straight to the Pentagon myself.”

“If you do that, Gunney, I can guarantee I’ll be right behind you,” Hicks replied.

CHAPTER TWO (#u22368837-47a4-5368-b2a9-758ba726b1b0)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

As Hal Brognola sat in the War Room and perused the reports still coming through from the Pentagon—funneled through their secure Computer Room in the nearby Annex—he felt deeply troubled. The incidents over the past twenty-four hours indicated that sensitive U.S. operations across the globe had been compromised on a level he’d seldom seen before. The Stony Man chief wondered how such a thing could have happened. Moreover, he didn’t have the first clue where to begin or how to tie them together. Even Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber team, a top-shelf unit if there ever was one, had indicated they were at a loss.

“There’s no relationship between these incidents,” he muttered.

Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, looked up from the duplicate set of reports she’d been studying on her laptop. She tugged a strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “Did you say something?”

Brognola shrugged, leaned back in his chair and practically ripped the unlit cigar from his mouth. “I was just saying I don’t see a link, Barb.”

Price sighed as she returned her attention to the screen of her laptop. “I wish I had something to offer you, but it would only be platitudes. And I’m afraid I’m forced to agree. Three different missions by different groups of U.S. intelligence assets in three different countries. Maybe...I mean maybe there’s a relationship we could assume between the incidents in Benghazi and Syria. But even the ties between the al-Nusra Front and the AQIM seem weak by comparison. There certainly isn’t any correlation between a Marine expeditionary unit and SEAL Team Four.”

“And even if there was,” Brognola replied, “I don’t think this neo-Nazi terror group the Delta Force operators in Munich had been following would be hooked up with Islamic terrorists.”

“Agreed.”

“Any word from Striker?”

“Striker” was Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner.

Price shook her head. “Nothing yet. But I’ve put the word out for him to contact us. I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough.”

The phone on the table signaled for attention and Price glanced knowingly at Brognola before she stabbed the button to answer. “Price, here.”

Kurtzman’s deep voice came over the line. “Morning, folks. I have Striker on the line.”

“Striker?” Brognola said.

“I’m here, Hal.”

“Good to hear your voice, Striker,” Price interjected.

“Likewise. Your message was encoded as urgent. What’s up?”

Price looked at Brognola with a wink and said, “Probably Hal’s blood pressure, for starters, but that’s nothing really new.”

That produced a chuckle from Bolan. “I’m guessing that may have more to do with that mud Bear calls coffee.”

That brought a laugh from everyone.