Terrorist Dispatch

Bolan could have dropped them both without breaking a sweat. Two punches, lightning fast, and they would learn the stark reality of pain—albeit just a taste—but what would be the point? He couldn’t save the wasted dregs of a lost generation, even if he’d been inclined to try.

And he had other work to do.

His visit to the killing ground was not coincidence. He hadn’t been in town on other business—hadn’t decided on a detour to sate his morbid curiosity. In fact, he’d crossed the continent to be there, flying through the night from San Francisco, but it wasn’t any kind of gesture to the dead.

He was expected there, at noon, and had arrived ahead of time, as was his habit. That gave Bolan time to scan the crowd and traffic flowing on Lincoln Memorial Circle, checking for traps, looking for enemies. It was the way he lived, although in this case it was wasted effort. Only one man living knew he would be in the nation’s capital this day, and that man was a trusted friend.

As for his enemies of old, the few who still survived, none even knew he was alive. Bolan had “died” some years ago, quite publicly—on live TV, in fact—and every trace of him had been expunged from law-enforcement files across the country, a concerted purge that left no file intact. If one of his remaining foes from yesteryear should pass him on the street this day, or sit beside him in a dingy bar somewhere, they wouldn’t recognize his face or wonder, even for a heartbeat, if he still might be alive.

For all intents and purposes, he had ceased to exist.

Which didn’t mean he was a ghost, by any means. He could reach out and touch his foes anytime he wanted to. Then they became the ghosts.

“It’s something, eh?” a new voice, at his other elbow, said.

“Something,” Bolan granted, with a sidelong glance at his friend Hal Brognola, who was a high-ranking honcho in the Justice Department.

“Let’s take a walk,” the big Fed said.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bolan replied.

They walked, clearing the crowd of pilgrims, moving east toward the Reflecting Pool that stretched for more than one-third of a mile through the heart of the National Mall, between the Lincoln Memorial and the towering Washington Monument. Brognola waited until they had some breathing room before he spoke again.

“You’ve followed all of this, I guess.”

“I caught some of the live footage in Frisco,” Bolan said, “and got the rest while I was in the air. They talked about Ukrainians on CNN.”

“And they were right, for once.”

“Some kind of manifesto left behind?”

“That leaked out of the Capital Police,” Brognola groused. “When I find out who let it slip, there will be consequences.”

Bolan let that go by, waiting for Brognola to fill him in. Another moment passed before his second-oldest living friend asked, “How much do you know about the war that they’ve got going in Ukraine?”

“Started in April 2014,” Bolan answered, “spinning off their February revolution against what’s-his-name, Yanukovych?”

“That’s him.”

“Russia weighed in to crush protests against the old regime, and that caused wider rifts within the government. By March, pro-Russian mobs were clashing with antigovernment marchers all over the country, organizing paramilitary outfits on both sides. Russian regulars crossed the border in August, then they tried a cease-fire in September. Didn’t get far with it. In November, separatists won a big election in the eastern sector, a place that sounds like ‘Dumbass.’”

“Donbass,” Brognola corrected, smiling.

“Right. Which brought pro-Russian forces out in strength, supposedly directed by more regulars the Russian president was slipping in illegally.”

“Forget ‘supposedly,’” Brognola said. “He’s in it up to his eyebrows.”

“So, today you’ve got militias, warlords, regulars, all at each other’s throats, with normal folks caught in the middle. Russian troops are massed along the border, and Ukraine’s responding in kind. Is that about the size of it?”

The big Fed nodded, then asked another question. “What about Crimea?”

“A peninsula south of Ukraine and east of Russia,” Bolan said, feeling a bit as if he was back in his ninth grade geography class. “Disputed territory going back through history, for its strategic value. Seaports and natural gas fields. A majority of the population are ethnic Russians, but Ukrainians controlled the government until they got distracted by their February revolution. In March, something like 96 percent of voters backed a referendum to split with Ukraine and become part of Russia. The UN and the European Union ruled the referendum fraudulent. Russian regulars ‘temporarily’ occupied Crimea in April and haven’t gone home yet. Pro-Ukrainian resistance groups are putting up a fight.”

“Correct,” Brognola said. “Which brings us back to yesterday. The pricks who pulled it off claimed affiliation with the Right Sector, a Ukrainian nationalist party founded in November 2013. Depending on who you ask, their political orientation ranges from ultra-conservative to neo-fascist. They call their paramilitary arm the Volunteered Ukrainian Corps. It acts in conjunction with terrorist groups such as White Hammer, accused of perpetrating war crimes.”

“What’s their angle in the States?” Bolan inquired.

“Long story short, they’ve been clamoring for military aid, getting nowhere with Congress or the White House—one rare thing that the White House and Republicans agree on. Their half-assed manifesto boils down to a blackmail note. More incidents like yesterday unless we arm their side and put them on a par with Russia’s regulars.”

“Which isn’t happening,” Bolan surmised.

“Not even close.”

“They need discouraging.”

“And then some,” Brognola confirmed. “Our only lead, so far, is to an outfit in Manhattan’s East Village led by a transplanted gangster named Stepan Melnyk.”

“Never heard of him,” Bolan said.

“I’m not surprised. He swings a big stick in Little Ukraine there, but he hasn’t made much headway so far, butting heads with the russkaya mafiya operating out of Brighton Beach. Melnyk says he’s apolitical, of course, but ATF’s connected him to gunrunning between New Jersey and Kiev.”

“Why don’t they bust him?”

“It’s all tenuous, as usual. The Coast Guard grabbed a shipment six or seven months ago, some hardware stolen from Fort Dix, but nothing in the paperwork could hang Melnyk. If his small fry take a fall, they keep their mouths shut. Or they die. Simple and tidy.”

“And you think he armed the crew from yesterday?”

“Call it a hunch. We know he’s in communication with his old homeboys. From there, it’s just a short step to the Right Sector.”

“I’ll need more details,” Bolan said.

“I’ve got you covered.” Brognola removed a memory stick from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Bolan. “Everything we have is on there—Melnyk and the Russian opposition, Stepan’s buddies in the old country. If you have any questions...”

“I know where to find you,” Bolan said.

“Still doing business at the same old stand,” Brognola said.

“I’ll leave tonight, after I pick up some equipment.”

“Going to load up at the Farm?” the big Fed inquired. In addition to his Justice Department duties, Brognola was the director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, Virginia.

“Nope. But I’ll stock up in Virginia. It keeps things simple.”

“Glory, hallelujah. So, you’re driving up?”

“Three hours, give or take. I’ll be in town by dinnertime.”

“Bon appétit,” Brognola said.