Neutron Force

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The Black Hawk helicopter approached the Farm at a low altitude. Its unannounced arrival was unusual, so both the mission controller, Barbara Price, and security chief Buck Greene were concerned.

Pulling a radio from her belt, Price thumbed the transmit button. “Any ID yet?” she asked, watching the blacksuits move into defensive positions around the farm buildings. Several of them exited the farmhouse, slamming ammo clips into M-16 assault rifles. Another carried a Stinger antiaircraft missile launcher.

“Negative on the ID…Wait…correction, identification has been confirmed,” the voice said without emotion. “Incoming is a friendly. Repeat, incoming is a friendly.”

There was a crackle of static. “Should we stand down?” a blacksuit asked.

“Hold your positions,” Price said into the radio, squinting at the sky. She could see the helicopter now. Hal Brognola usually used a Black Hawk whenever he visited, but he always let the Farm know when he was arriving. “Stay sharp, this could be a diversion.”

“Or it could be a surprise inspection,” Greene muttered, thumbing back the hammer on the Colt. “Haven’t had one of those in months.”

“Or somebody could be forcing Hal to land,” she countered gruffly.

“Doubtful,” Greene stated. “Hal would eat his own gun before betraying us.”

“Agreed. It is highly doubtful, but not totally impossible,” Price replied. “Let’s go meet whoever it is.”

Price led the way, her hands clasped behind her back to hide her Glock pistol from casual sight. In their line of work, surprises were always bad news. If this was indeed Hal, then the blood had really hit the fan someplace and the mess was about to be dropped in Stony Man’s lap.

Rushing past the outbuildings, the pair reached the Farm’s helipad just as the Black Hawk descended in a rush of warm wind.

The moment the landing gear touched ground, the side hatch opened and Hal Brognola hopped out carrying a laptop. Staying bent, he rushed through the buffeting hurricane surrounding the gunship from the rotating turbo-blades.

“Something wrong with your radio?” Price asked.

“Couldn’t risk it,” Brognola replied, pausing outside the cyclone effect of the idling Black Hawk and checking overhead one more time before finally standing upright. “My call might have been tracked. Are the missiles hot?”

“Bet your ass,” Buck Greene stated, eyeing the gunship suspiciously.

“Good. Keep ’em that way,” Brognola said, although he didn’t know how effective they’d be against a satellite. It was unnerving to think somebody could be looking down upon them at the exact same moment he was looking up. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of the open. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Fair enough,” Price told him. As they started for the farmhouse, Greene pulled out his radio and began relaying instructions to the blacksuits. Moments later, teams of men rushed to unload the equipment trunks from the waiting helicopter. Whatever was going down, the chief had a bad feeling that the Farm might need everything it could lay its hands on. There was no denying the obvious fact that Brognola was nervous. And that was more than enough to make the chief wary.

Stepping onto the front porch, Price proceeded swiftly to the door and tapped in the daily entry code on a small keypad. There was an answering beep and a green light flashed as the automated weapon systems guarding the portal disengaged.

Impatiently, Price waited until the three of them were visually scanned, then the door unlocked and the slab of steel swung aside with the soft hiss of hydraulics. As she entered, Brognola and Greene were right behind.

Stepping inside, Price headed directly for the elevator that would take them to the lower level. If the matter was too delicate to discuss over the radio, then it was too important to discuss in public.

“All right, now that we’re out of visual range,” Price said, hitting the bottom-most button, “mind tell us what’s happening?”

As the elevator started to descend, the big Fed quickly informed the others about VC-25 and the scientist named Himar.

“A neutron cannon? Why didn’t you call us about this?” Price demanded.

“These people have a level of technology we can’t even guess about,” he replied curtly, lifting the laptop slightly by the handle. “So there’s no sense taking a chance on them being able to connect the White House to the Farm.”

At first, Price thought he was overreacting, but then she considered the fact that they had neutralized an Air Force One 747 in midflight. That alone meant the enemy was extraordinarily capable.

“I don’t think we have enough fuel cans to line the entire roof,” Greene stated, running fingers through his hair. “And we sure as hell can’t flood the place. Not with all of this electronic equipment. Only take one or two leaks and we’d go off-line.”

“Even then, the blacksuits would be sitting ducks,” Price agreed. “Not to mention all the visitors in the park. Chief, is there any depleted uranium armor on the Farm?”

“Sure. One of the SAM batteries is plated with it,” Greene replied. “And Cowboy has a small arsenal of the stuff in his workshop, bullets and such.”

Brognola didn’t say anything, but he was impressed. When the hammer came down, these people moved at light speed. He only hoped it would be enough.

“I was afraid of that,” Price said, leaning against the cool metal wall. John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the chief gunsmith for Stony Man. The tall, lanky man was a former member of the DGA, but more importantly, a master gunsmith. Kissinger was personally in charge of obtaining and maintaining all of the firearms at the Farm. He took pride in being able to supply the field teams with anything they might ever need for combat. From a crossbow to an O’Neil coil gun, the gunsmith was sure to have a couple in stock, primed and ready to go at a second’s notice.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

“All right, ready the blacksuits and set it on automatic,” Price directed, stepping into the corridor. “And have Cowboy get those DU shells into a lead-lined safe and keep them there until further notice.”

“Done,” Greene said, and turned on a heel to stride away.

“Wouldn’t make a difference.” Brognola grunted. “If you’re in the neutron beam, you’d be dead from gamma radiation long before any depleted uranium will start to visibly glow.”

“True. But I’m thinking about the replacements you send in after we die,” Price said, heading for the computer complex. “If the Farm gets contaminated with radioactivity, you’d have to abandon the whole place and start from scratch to build another Farm somewhere else. That would waste months, which could translate into lives.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Not on my watch anyway,” Price declared resolutely. At the moment she knew everything depended on NORAD finding the neutron satellite and blowing it to hell. But if NORAD failed, the next strike could remove New York or London from the map. Thousands dead? Millions. It was time to activate the teams. She only hoped it wasn’t already too late.

CHAPTER THREE

Moscow, Russia

Gracefully, the three MiG-29 jet fighters streaked across the clear sky. The weather was perfect for flying and visibility was unlimited. A thousand feet below, the city of Moscow was alive with traffic, the endless streams of cars, trucks and city buses flowing along the maze of streets like a smoky river.

The lead pilot of the MiGs scowled at the beautiful city, spread out like the dynorama at some science pavilion. Exhaust fumes, oil spills, gasoline fires…civilization had done away with horses and steaming piles of horse dropping, only to replace them with smog. Briefly he wondered if society really was advancing, or going backward. Suddenly a light flashed on the control board. Time for a react check.

“Sector fourteen, all clear,” Major Alexander Karnenski reported into his helmet microphone, leveling the trim of his jet fighter.

“Acknowledged, Alpha Flight,” a crisp voice from base command replied. “Maintain and report in ten.”

“Confirm,” Karnenski said, dipping the wings slightly to start the long curve around the bustling city. His two wingmen stayed in tight formation on his flanks. Another day, another air patrol. His team had to have circled Moscow ten thousand times in their careers. Still this was an easy assignment, if a trifle boring. Oh well, anything was better than flying combat missions in Afghanistan again.

Checking the radar, the Russian pilot saw several commercial planes in the distance, as well as a couple of news helicopters hovering above the noisy traffic reporting on the congestion near the construction. Thankfully, nobody had been foolish enough to go anywhere near the forbidden zone surrounding the Kremlin. Back in the bad old days of the Communists, the standing orders would have been to shoot on sight anything that dared entered the zone. The revolutionists had been terrified of another revolution. Then came democracy, and freedom, which was closely followed by waves of terrorists attacks, and the ancient orders had been grudgingly reissued. Kill on sight. It was a chilling reminder that hard days require harsh measures.

Their aft vectors thundering in controlled power, the three MiGs arched past the sports stadium, the river, an industrial park, a shopping mall and back toward the Kremlin. Another radar scan, another curve. With almost subconscious ease, the major’s hands expertly operated the delicate controls, even though he was contemplating his girlfriend. Tatya was back in his apartment, waiting in a warm bed.

With a soft exhalation, Karnenski slumped over in his seat and died. Immediately the MiG began to drift off course as the limp hand on the joystick let go.

“Hey, stop thinking about your fat Czech woman,” Captain Constantine Steloriv joked over the radio, from the right MiG. “She can’t be that good in bed!” He knew the woman was Polish, and expected Karnenski to explode in anger over the slur. Czechs were considered fools, but Russians had great respect for the Polish.