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THE NUCLEAR STAKES GOT HIGHER
“So what you’re saying is that if al Qaeda manages to get personnel inside of this place…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.
“Yes, we’re all thinking the same thing. And it explains why Bari’s tactical planning called for the smuggling of so many terrorist operatives into the country.”
“It’s unthinkable,” Brognola said. “A place like that could be a terrorist’s playground if they know where to look.”
“And they do,” Price said. “That’s why they were monitoring all the sites, particularly the I-25 corridor. They weren’t interested in attacking those shipments. They wanted to know when would be the busiest times, when the eyes of most personnel would be focused elsewhere.”
“All right,” the big Fed stated. “Let’s get hopping on this. Let’s get both teams on the horn immediately and apprise them of the situation.”
“Right,” Kurtzman replied, reaching for a phone that connected directly to their secure satellite uplink.
“And when you’re done,” Brognola continued, “get me the President.”
Primary Directive
Don Pendleton
Stony Man® AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.
For all U.S. troops fighting abroad—
stay hard and live large!
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
In the haze of approaching dawn, the Mark IV river patrol boat knifed slowly through the calm waters of Lake Gatun.
Lieutenant Manuel Horst stood on the observation post above the cockpit and scanned the lakeside with his binoculars. The night shift had always been his favorite since enlisting in the Panama Special Boat Unit—much better than monitoring the hustle and bustle of day traffic through the canal. The regular pattern of buildings and twinkling lights of the coastal town of Gamboa came into view and Horst stopped on them a moment before lowering the binoculars.
“Slow to one-third, Specialist,” he called down to the cockpit.
The pilot acknowledged the order and immediately the boat engine rumbled down from twenty to fourteen knots.
A flash of sunlight on metal caught the lieutenant’s eye. He squinted in that direction, but didn’t see any movement or ships, then remembered the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. He scanned slowly across the shoreline off Gamboa and spotted a periscope.
Horst descended to the main deck once they were under way and rallied his men. He ordered his best gunner to man the .50-cals and the radioman to contact headquarters with a request for reinforcements. A submarine operating in the Panama Canal Zone without permission was a serious offense against U.S.-Panama treaty stipulations, not to mention a violation of at least a half dozen right-of-way regulations.
As the PBR drew nearer and the sun broke on the horizon Horst could see the sub had surfaced. It looked rather tiny, maybe twice the length of their own boat, and it didn’t have lines of any particular grade Horst recognized. That ruled out the submarine as U.S. surplus given to Panama or a military prototype. Horst’s eyes stopped when he spotted a wicked-looking weapon of an unfamiliar make on the forward prow. Before Horst could point it out to his crew, however, a hatch at the base of the mount opened and a man in dark fatigues emerged. The guy took up position behind the large weapon and swung it in their direction.
Horst shouted to his machine gunner, but the warning came too late. A cloud of smoke and flame belched from the muzzle of the massive weapon as the report cracked through the air. One of the .50-cals blew apart a moment later and sent large, razor-sharp shards of metal whistling in all directions. The gunner screamed as several lodged in his body. One piece of shrapnel cut through a neck artery and blood spurted from the gaping wound left in its wake.
Horst ducked in reflex action and shouted at the pilot to turn the boat starboard, then ordered another crew member to man the 20 mm chain gun. He then rushed forward to help the wounded gunner. As he reached his man, Horst heard the antimaterial weapon boom again followed by the sickly sound of shattered glass. He didn’t bother turning to make a damage assessment; he already knew they’d hit the cockpit. Horst managed to get a bulky dressing from the sideboard-mounted med kit pressed against the gunner’s wound before the sudden spin of the boat knocked him off balance.
Horst looked at his gunner. The young man’s eyes stared wildly back at him but the guy still seemed to have enough sense to keep the bandage pressed against his throat. The
