Combat Machines. Don Pendleton

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      “I want you to have whatever you’ve got ready to present in five minutes. A US senator was just shot and wounded in Paris an hour ago, and the assailant seemed to be of Russian origin. We want to know what’s going on over there, and if it ties into anything larger, and if so, how.”

      “I’m on it.” Tokaido ran back to his station and began typing with lightning speed.

      * * *

      “AND THOSE ARE the correlations between the various events, as I see them,” Tokaido said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous.

      Normally he served as support staff, assisting Mack Bolan or Able Team or Phoenix Force with their missions in the field. There, he was rock-solid, the calm voice in the team members’ earpieces giving them up-to-the-minute security intel, or defeating a security system from the other side of the world.

      He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually been involved in presenting a briefing to the head of Stony Man Farm.

      Currently, Hal Brognola was staring at him like a bulldog eyeing a particularly juicy steak. Tokaido didn’t take it personally—he knew the big Fed regarded anyone who had what he wanted in exactly the same way. The Justice Department honcho was director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and was Stony Man’s conduit to the White House.

      Tokaido shifted his gaze to Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, the person who handled oversight of the Farm’s missions. She nodded at him and smiled, indicating he’d done a good job on his summary presentation.

      That was confirmed by Brognola. “Nice work, Akira. Good to see Bear’s program is bearing some fruit.

      “Okay, people, what does this seeming blitzkrieg of terror attacks mean? Are they really related, or are these just random acts that are occurring close enough together to draw our attention?”

      “Given the increasing severity of the incidents, and the fact that Interpol, MI-5, and the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz have all gone to high alert internally, I don’t see how we can’t view this as anything but some kind of coordinated, if erratic, assault on the European Union as a whole,” Kurtzman replied.

      “And the US, don’t forget.” Brognola snatched the soggy cigar from his mouth and jabbed the unlit end at Kurtzman. “I never liked that pompous ass Richard DiStephano, but no one deserves to be shot.”

      “Says here that the assailant sped by on a motorcycle as DiStephano was heading to a meeting with his counterpart in the French government,” Price said. “The attacker fired at least two dozen rounds from a small submachine gun as he sped by, hitting DiStephano and killing his aide.”

      “That’s a damn shame,” Kurtzman said. “What’s DiStephano’s prognosis?”

      “Stable, although it was touch and go for a while,” Price answered. “They say one of the gendarmes providing security wounded the shooter, making him crash his motorcycle, but he still got away.”

      Kurtzman grunted as he reviewed the data on the French attack. “DiStephano’s one of those hawks beating the drum for military intervention in Sudan, isn’t he?”

      Brognola nodded sourly. “Yeah, mostly to counter what he feels is the increased Russian presence in the country. He’s amassed a small group of right-wing chuckleheads—mostly first-termers—and they’ve been trying to fire up a larger coalition to put a bill forward to send troops over there. Of course, they’re ignoring the very real threat of ISIS in the region, as well.” He shook his head. “The damn fools spend as much time putting their collective feet in their mouths in the media as they do actual governance.”

      “Given the other attacks we’ve confirmed, this seems to link them all into a strong covert Russian operation,” Kurtzman said.

      “But to what end?” Price asked. “Several of these obvious links—that one or more of the supposed perpetrators behind these incidents may be of Russian origin—are still so weak that they might be a sophisticated ploy to fool us into thinking Moscow is behind all of this. What if we’re looking at an elaborate false-flag operation meant to make us chase it back all the way to the Kremlin? With US-Russian relations so strained at the moment, we need to make absolutely sure that we’re correct about our intelligence pointing to whoever’s behind all of this.”

      “Barbara’s absolutely right,” the fifth member of the conference said from the large monitor on the wall. “And the best way to do that is by putting some boots on the ground—mine.”

      Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was connected to the War Room via an encrypted satellite feed. He and Jack Grimaldi had been returning from a successful operation in northern Africa when this situation had arisen.

      “Fortunately, we’re not too far from Paris,” Bolan said, “and I can begin my investigation there, since that has direct American involvement. Looks like we’re about four hours away from Charles de Gaulle, so I’ll have Jack drop me off, and I’ll see if I can pick up the assassin’s trail.”

      The Executioner picked up a tablet computer and flicked through the data he’d been sent. “DiStephano had been on his way to a meeting when he was assaulted. Are there any other events in the next twenty-four hours I need to be aware of, especially ones with high-value targets? Even wounded, this assassin may try to strike again if the payoff is of high enough value.”

      “Plus, given the timing of these incidents, we should assume we are dealing with at least three to five individuals,” Price said. “It is possible that the wounded attacker won’t even be there tonight but one or two of the others may be.”

      “How about a visit from the Austrian president?” Brognola asked. “He’s in Paris, and what’s more, he put out a statement saying he’s not leaving until he’s concluded his business with the French government—and guess what that is?”

      “A conference to discuss a coordinated response to the recent aggressive actions of Russia?” Bolan replied.

      “Jesus, what do you have over there, the meeting itinerary?” Brognola asked. “That was almost word-for-word.”

      The black-haired man smiled. “What can I say, Hal. I’ve been listening to you gripe about the Foggy Bottom boys and their BS for too long.”

      “He just arrived this morning, and a welcoming dinner is planned at the Hôtel de Marigny, the traditional housing for visiting heads of state in France. It’s right next to the Élysée Palace, so security will be heavy regardless. The event is scheduled to begin at 1900 local time this evening,” Price told him.

      “Well, considering we still don’t have a solid lead on any of these operatives, even with their previous assault, right now they still possess the element of surprise,” Bolan said. “And if they’re still in the area, the chance to take down a sitting president is something they probably won’t pass up.”

      “We’ll make sure you’re added to the guest list and we’ll alert both Interpol and French intelligence, who will be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure,” Price said.

      “As long as we can take down these bastards, I don’t care who I have to work with to get the job done.”

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