Missile Intercept

“And what might that be?” Bolan asked.

The Cuban leaned back and smirked. “A condo in Miami for starters.” He laughed. “You’re gonna be interested in what I’ve got to say.”

Bolan said nothing.

The Cuban smirked again. “American, you’re not gonna believe what I’ve got. No way. But it’s big. Real big.”

Bolan watched the man sitting there smiling, a look of total confidence on his face.

This could be interesting, he thought.

NIISA Headquarters

Adobe Flats, New Mexico

JAMES HUDSON WATCHED from the back of the auditorium. Dr. Phillip McGreagor, as he liked to be called, stood on the stage holding the microphone like a rock star, gesturing toward the ceiling-to-floor screen behind him as it depicted the white, streamlined rocket on the launchpad, braced by the accompanying assemblage. McGreagor had used every means at his disposal, from liposuction to Botox, to maintain his lean-and-mean, youthful appearance, and now he strode around shaking the dark crown of his expertly woven hairpiece.

“This, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said, extending his hand toward the image, “is the future.”

Hudson thought it looked like an insignificant Roman candle waiting to blow, in contrast to the bleak mesquite-covered hills and distant mountains. He continued to watch as his boss spoke about the upcoming planned launch to his movie star friends, rich investors and a small, select group of reporters. Several professional photographers scurried around unobtrusively, snapping pictures, while others panned back and forth with cameras mounted on tripods. It was McGreagor’s show, and Hudson wondered which turned the rich son of a bitch on more, the spectacle or the actual thought of space travel.

“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor continued, “to be part of the future. To make what we see in the movies a reality.” He paused and milked the silence for all it was worth before adding, “You can get tickets for the first civilian, commercial trip into outer space, and have a time share in our fully inhabited station on the moon by the end of the decade.”

A murmur of excitement snaked through the audience. Hudson watched and listened as the images changed on the big screen behind McGreagor, first showing the previously depicted rocket blasting off and coasting comfortably in orbit. The computer-generated image alternated for a while with shots of Earth obviously borrowed from one of the actual space shuttle flights, then the sleek rocket was shown reentering the atmosphere and landing on a desert airstrip with the ease of a descending 747.

“We’re on track to have our first test flight in a few months,” McGreagor said, moving to the edge of the stage as the screen behind him filled with more images of the spaceship maneuvering through the skies and landing again and again. “Our reentry technology is this close—” he held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart “—to being completed. Thanks to the efforts of two of the greatest scientific minds of the past and current centuries.” He smiled and extended his arm toward the two older men, Terry Turner and Vassili Nabokovski, seated on the far side of the stage.

The audience applauded.

“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said on the tail end of the fading applause. “Your chance to be part of the greatest adventure of our era. Your chance to be part of the New International Independent Space Agency, NIISA.”

More applause filled the auditorium.

The old son of a bitch has them eating out of the palm of his hand, Hudson thought. He’s already got more money than the US Mint, and these rich bastards are going to be lining up to give him more. Hudson shook his head. Too bad it would soon be time to rain on this little parade. But any regrets he might have had were vastly overshadowed by the thoughts of how rich he himself was going to be. All he had to do was play his hand right, and make sure everything went according to the plan.

He pressed his left arm against his side, feeling the comforting reassurance of the Smith & Wesson M&P 40L. It was a bit bigger than he needed, but it was a mean-looking piece of steel and polymer. Hudson never knew when McGreagor would pull him aside, in one of his braggadocio moments, and urge Hudson to show one of the movie-star idiots what “a real weapon” looked like. Thus, the larger frame .40-caliber pistol was an appropriate choice.

Everything McGreagor did was based more on image and speculation than on results. And Hudson, as the chief of security, was expected to be part of the program, just like the two new rocket scientists his boss had recruited, Turner and Nabokovski. One American, one Russian, and both experts in the field of old ICBMs from another era, Turner from NASA and Nabokovski from the Soviet space program. If anyone could lick the puzzle of how to achieve a successful atmospheric reentry, it was those two. But Hudson knew the New International Independent Space Agency would never see the first civilian commercial space travel, much less build that station on the moon. Especially after Hudson made good on his delivery to the North Koreans: the proposed telemetry for NIISA’s reentry system and two slightly worn nuclear physicists.

American Embassy

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI sat in the darkened room as the full-screen Skype image of Hal Brognola came into view. Seeing Brognola’s scowling face as he set his ceramic mug on the desk before him let them know all was not well at Stony Man Farm.

“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “Is your scowl a reflection on the results of the raid?”

“I just got off the phone with the White House.”

“How’d that go?” Bolan asked.

Brognola sighed. “About as good as could be expected, considering the circumstances.”

Bolan compressed his lips. More than just a few things about the ill-fated raid bothered him, but something indefinable danced through the inner recesses of his memory... Something out of place, but so far, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

“What about it, Striker? Is there any way to put lipstick on this pig?” the big Fed asked.

Instead of the mother lode they’d hoped for, they had recovered a small, rather disappointing amount of unprocessed coca plants and other drugs from the warehouse, and lost three Mexican marines, all good men, in the process.

“The drug seizure wasn’t that impressive,” Bolan said. “Which probably means that the full shipment was still being picked up and hadn’t been deposited in the warehouse yet.”

“It was bad intel from the get-go,” Grimaldi said.

“What about the plane?” Brognola asked.

“It was destroyed,” Bolan said. “Apparently, the guy who engaged me in the firefight dropped the grenade he was about to throw. It detonated and then set off the fuel tanks. The plane was a complete loss. They’re going through the shell now. Preliminary reports showed five bodies inside. Six, if you include the grenadier.”

“We recovered a briefcase loaded with American currency and euros,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody was about to make a purchase.”

“Which brings up the matter of our special prisoner,” Brognola said. “The Cuban national. You got any idea what his angle is?”

“He’s playing it close to his vest,” Bolan said. “We’ll know more once we can interrogate him.”

“The Bureau’s sending a pair of special agents down there to do just that.” Hal sat back in his chair and held his coffee mug in both hands. “I know that look, Striker. Is something else bothering you?”

“Somebody tipped them,” he answered.

“You think they were tipped off in advance?”

“Not in advance,” Bolan said. “Otherwise they would have set up an ambush. This was more like a last-minute notification. If they’d known we were coming, that plane wouldn’t have landed, either.” The events of the raid were running through his mind like a movie at double speed. The approach, the interdiction, the firefight... Then it hit him. Someone inside the warehouse had yelled that the marines had arrived, not the police. How did the person know it was the marines?

“I need to have a talk with Sergeant Martinez,” Bolan said. “I think he’s got a traitor in his group. Someone on the raid team tipped them as we were making the final approach.”

Brognola raised his eyebrows. “That’s not going to go over well with the administration, either here or in Mexico City. Do you have any hard proof?”

“Just a feeling,” Bolan said.

“But when he gets a feeling,” Grimaldi broke in, “you can pretty much take it to the bank.”

“I don’t know,” Brognola said, shaking his head. “One of the reasons the marines were sent in was to prevent leaks to informants.”

“This had to have been a last-minute tip-off. We were in close proximity up until the execution. Somebody must have had a cell phone and made a quick call, maybe contacting someone to call the compound and warn them.”

Brognola heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll pursue it from this end, too. See if Bear can pull some cell phone transmission records. So are you sure you can trust that Martinez guy?”

Bolan considered that, then nodded. “As sure as I can be. He was right there alongside us when it all went down. And he was pretty upset about losing his men. You can’t fake that kind of emotion.”

Brognola nodded. “Keep me posted.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there something else?”