“Striker.” Brognola’s voice came over the line. “I’m glad I could reach you. Are you still in Paris?”
“Still here,” he said. “It’s been good, but long. Today’s the last day. What’s going on?”
“There’s a situation that I’d like to bring you in on. How soon can you be back in D.C.?”
Bolan could almost hear the sound of Hal chewing on one of his expensive cigars and realized that whatever was going on must be pretty serious. He almost never asked him to come in for a mission briefing. Remembering an invitation from a new friend about the chance to accompany him on a test flight of a new plane, he said, “If all goes well, I can be on the ground by eight tonight.”
“From Paris?” Brognola asked, his voice a bit incredulous. “The Concorde isn’t flying anymore, you know.”
“It’s a new plane of sorts. Where do you want me?”
“The White House,” he replied. “I’ll make sure you’ve got gate clearance as Colonel Stone. Stop off at the Farm and get a uniform from Stores, Striker.”
“It must be my day to be surprised,” Bolan said. “You’ve asked me to come in for a mission briefing and you want me at the White House in a military uniform.”
“The situation is…delicate. Just get back here ASAP and I’ll have more details for you when you arrive.”
“On my way,” he said, ending the call. He quickly thanked his hosts and explained that a personal emergency had come up and he had to leave right away, rather than stay for the celebration planned for that evening. Everyone shook hands, and Bolan made his way back down the Eiffel Tower before he placed another call to arrange his transportation back to the U.S.
THE TEST FLIGHT TO D.C. went off without a hitch, and the plane had performed flawlessly.
A quick call to Stony Man Farm had resulted in an Army colonel’s uniform and credentials being dropped off at a hotel Bolan occasionally used when he was in Washington.
The pilot of the experimental plane had decided to play tourist in D.C. for a few days, so the plane would remain in a private hangar that had been arranged before he’d left France.
The soldier showered, shaved and changed into his uniform, then arranged for a car service to take him to the White House. The process at the gate couldn’t have been more simple. His uniform commanded automatic respect and when he gave his name—Colonel Brandon Stone—and provided his credentials, he was immediately given access and an escort inside the building.
Once inside, he was met by a man in a nondescript, dark blue suit that all but screamed Secret Service. “Colonel Stone, if you’d follow me, please?” he said.
“Of course,” Bolan replied, not bothering to look around too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.
“Where are we going?” he asked the agent.
“To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.
The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”
“Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.
“Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”
“Bunker,” he replied.
The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.
“This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”
“Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.
“Mr. President,” he said, entering the room and offering a salute, which Daniels returned. “Hal, it’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks for coming,” Brognola replied. “Mr. President, you know who this is. Colonel Brandon Stone.”
“Colonel Stone,” President Daniels said. “I appreciate you coming. I understand you were overseas when Hal got in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “But that’s hardly important. When Hal calls, I answer.”
“Take a seat, Colonel,” Daniels said. “And Hal can bring you up to speed on the situation.”
Bolan sat and looked questioningly at Brognola. The very fact that they were meeting inside the White House—in the secure bunker, no less—meant that whatever was going on had already been sanctioned by the current President. Most likely, this was deemed the most secure location for President Daniels to have a meeting with someone like Brognola. Too many questions would have been asked if they’d tried to do it at the Pentagon.
Daniels didn’t speak and didn’t look at Bolan, his eyes focused on a problem that wasn’t in that room. As President, he had been known to be principled and unwavering. There were many who liked him, but once his mind was made up there was little that could be done to change his position. His complete support of the military was widely known, but his tunnel vision had caused problems, as well. Whatever this problem was, weighed on him. He looked tired. The salt-and-pepper hair that he’d sported as President was now almost completely gray, and the lines in his face were that of a worn battle commander.
“Okay, Hal, let’s have it,” Bolan said.
“On the surface, the situation is fairly simple. President Daniels’s daughter, Heather, has been kidnapped in the Bay of Bengal. They’re demanding a twenty-five-million-dollar ransom within ten days, or they say they’ll kill her,” he said. “The problem is that it isn’t that simple.”
“Clarify, please,” Bolan replied. “While I admit that’s a large sum of money, they obviously know who she is.”
“They do,” the big Fed said. “When President Daniels got the call, he contacted me. Fortunately, he recorded the call. We’ve got some audio people working on breaking it down completely right now. But what tipped me off that something was different was how they wanted the money.”
“My understanding is that most pirating operations work on
