THE BIG FEDâS THOUGHTS LOCKED ON THE INTERNATIONAL OUTRAGE
It was unthinkable that a rogue or supposed friendly nation was orbiting nuclear satellites, looking to butcher millions for an as yet unknown reason. Beyond the frightening facts, Hal Brognola knew ground zero in the Australian outback wouldnât rate a footnote in history if a nuclear spear was plunged into a major city from above Earthâs atmosphere.
He drew a deep breath, let it out and said to the assembled team in the War Room, âThe President green-lighted us to do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of what went down in Australia. The Man wants a rapid response, folks, no punches pulled, no mercy to the perpetrators. They go down hard and, if possible, their names and misdeeds are to be buried along with them. Thatâs the good news.
âUnfortunately, he also implied that because of the nature of the crisis, thereâs a good chance our teams may well be locking horns with any number of operators. CIA. NSA. DOD. DIA. You name it.
âAnd on this one, it would be best if we kept our backs to the wall.â
Australia
Forty-three minutes and counting, and Chuck Boltmer knew they were cutting it close to the razorâs edge. He wasnât even suited up and already he was sweating. If they stuck to trainingâboth mock-up and virtual-reality dry runsâthirty-five minutes and a few more agonizing ticks alone would be devoured just getting set up, more, depending, of course, on the human factor. The low earth orbit satellite was already in position, and Boltmer knew if they were two shakes behind schedule Zenith One wasnât about to hold up the show because the hired help was too slow on the draw from ground zero.
Man, oh, man, what kind of crazy life had he led, he wondered, that would lead him to the brink of suicide like this, and of his own free will?
He knew. A washed-out CIA special op once connected to the Cali Cartel, who loved money more than law and order and was hunted by his own people, broke and down on his luck didnât get to choose which banquet table offered the choicest meat.
Not much more than a street beggar, as far as he was concerned, but those days were fast coming to an end, one way or another.
And in the face of a holocaust that would leave no doubt.
Boltmer killed the Jeepâs engine and lights, then stared through the dust- and bug-spattered windscreen. The pub and surrounding area had been chosen as a test site, he knew, and right from the beginning, when his handlers laid out mission parameters and particulars. Remoteness guaranteed limited immediate collateral damage. That, and the handlers figured nobody much cared about a bunch of ex-cons, ex-mercs and other assorted riffraff living off the radar screen, to be used as guinea pigs in what struck him as little more than a ghoulâs experiment.
The problem haunting Boltmer was grim knowledge acquired during training. Sure, this stretch of out-back fanning away in oceanic dimensions was humped with rocky hills and cut with gorges, all but deserted of human beings, and they were situated well beyond the immediate four- to five-mile incineration radius. Or so said the nameless European principals who had hired him out of obscurity and grinding poverty in Berlin, eighteen months back, but what now seemed another lifetime. What worried him at the moment was all the spinifex grassland, the eucalypt forest to the north and east, subtropical rain forest that would rise up whenâifâthey managed to extract for the decon site. In other words, the dry countryside was a living hot zone, with enough incendiary flashpointsâ¦