“I WANT THIS HANDLED BY STONY MAN.”
“If we do have someone passing information to the enemy, I can’t hand this over to our security departments. Sensitive information could be intercepted and used against us. Stony Man is a separate entity. No allegiance to any other departments here or abroad.”
The President leaned forward, fixing Brognola with an unflinching stare.
“The main reason I want you in on this, Hal, is information I received from a genuine source.” The President didn’t elaborate on his source, so Brognola raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
“I understand your curiosity about that, but I can’t say anything right now,” the President said. “Just take my word it’s on the level. The asset has warned that the threat of the strikes is real. There will be an attempted strike on Pakistan and the U.S. mainland. Hal, it’s going to be nuclear. And we have a name. Colonel Jabir Rahman. Is that a good enough reason to bring in Stony Man?”
“Good enough, Mr. President,” the big Fed said grimly.
Terminal Guidance
Stony Man®
America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency
Don Pendleton
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PROLOGUE
Peshawar, Pakistan
Jay Crawford stepped aside as the rickety bus pushed through the crowded market. The interior was crammed with passengers as usual. More were perched on the roof and others clung to the exterior of the wheezing, smoke-billowing vehicle. Crawford had been in the country for almost twelve months and he still couldn’t get used to the constant congestion.
He glanced around the market area. The place teemed with people. Hundreds of them. They moved and jostled around the stalls in a colorful swirl, all seeming to be talking at once. Add to that the music coming from different locations, the cooking smells from the market traders… He never tired of it.
He turned in at the entrance of the crowded, open-fronted store that sold English-language newspapers and magazines. Crawford visited once a week to buy Newsweek and Time magazines. The man who ran the store nodded at him and produced the periodicals. He was stooped, bony, his face creased with a beaming smile as Crawford paid for his magazines.
“Good day, Mr. Crawford,” he said. “Are you well?”
“Yes, and you, Mr. Pradesh?”
“Yes. Yes.”
It was the same each time Crawford called in. Conversation seldom went beyond the polite exchange.
When Crawford stepped back outside the store’s cool interior, the solid wall of heat struck him. He checked his watch. An hour yet before he needed to make his daily report to his CIA section head in Washington. It would take him just over thirty minutes to walk back to his apartment. No rush. Crawford took out a pack of Marlborough cigarettes and lit one, enjoying the nicotine rush. He merged with the crowd and went with the flow. He had learned to go with the crush rather than try to fight against it.
He reached the edge of the market, where the street ahead was quieter by comparison with the hectic trading area.
He heard the hiss of tires on the dusty street, sensing the vehicle before he saw it. A battered old British Humber Hawk. A relic of a long-gone era. The car swayed on soft springs as it drew level with him. Crawford glanced around. He saw the passenger side rear window roll down, and had an impression of a figure inside the car a second before the ugly muzzle of an SMG appeared.
Crawford stiffened with shock as he stared into the black barrel. There was no time for anything else. The SMG crackled with autofire no more than three feet away. The long burst of gunfire delivered a half magazine of bullets that cleaved their way into his chest. The impact stunned him, his body reacting to the massive onslaught. A number of slugs tore all the way through him, bursting out through his back in ragged spurts of blood and flesh.
Crawford stepped back, briefly remaining upright before his severe injuries overwhelmed him. He crashed to the street, jerking in spasms. The muzzle of the SMG was lowered and a second burst was directed at his face and skull, tearing open his cheeks and jawline. Crawford’s head bounced back against the street, its skull cracked and bloody.
As the street crowd scattered in panic the Humber moved off, tires squealing as it disappeared around the corner, leaving a cloud of gritty dust in its wake.
Onlookers, realizing the vehicle had gone, began to move back onto the street, attracted by the sight of Crawford sprawled in a pool of his own blood, the front of his once white shirt now a sodden mess. Beside him his magazines soaked up some of the blood spreading out from his body.
AN HOUR LATER an explosion rocked the offices of New Relief, a U.S. charity set up in the city. Later examination revealed that a package delivered to the offices shortly before the blast had contained a large amount of Semtex. The explosion wrecked the building, blowing out the front wall and upper and lower floors. The detonation extended out into the crowded street, killing ten pedestrians and wounding thirty more. The thirteen workers inside the building all died. Structures on either side were badly damaged, with people
