Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ nodded. “Colonel Coltrain sold the school about a year or so ago to some foreign company. They made a few changes, including personnel, but it’s still considered one of the preeminent nonmilitary training academies around.”

      “All that’s interesting,” Bolan said. “But how does that factor into our current situation?”

      Brognola sighed. “The prince is scheduled to attend the desert warfare tactics school out in Nevada this coming week. With all of the anti-Muslim stuff this guy Autry’s been spewing, and the rumors of his militia boys trying to gear up for something big, the President’s a little worried that things could go to hell in a handbasket in a hurry.”

      “I can’t say as I can blame him,” Bolan said. “What does he want us to do?”

      “Go out there and keep an eye on things. The prince will have some Secret Service guys watching over him, but with this Bureau of Land Management dispute with Autry heating up and all over the news, the potential is there for a real conflagration. You two are both signed up for the desert warfare course, by the way.”

      “Back to school?” Grimaldi asked. “Wasn’t that an old Rodney Dangerfield movie?”

      “One of my all-time favorites,” Brognola said. He took a quick sip of coffee, then emitted another dissatisfied-sounding grunt. “The Feds are also out and about in the area checking out the rumors of some possible student radicals, too. The NSA has intercepted a bunch of anti-American internet garbage being spewed by some radical cleric out of Yemen named Ibrahim al Shabahb. He may be trying to recruit some impressionable lone wolves here in the States to stir up some trouble.”

      “You have any more information on that?” Bolan asked.

      Brognola handed each of them a briefing folder. “There are some Homeland Security reports in there. They give it a medium to high confidence level.”

      “Please, tell me we’re not going commercial,” Grimaldi said. “You know how I hate it when somebody else is flying the plane.”

      “They’re fueling up the Learjet as we speak,” Brognola said. “How the hell else would you guys be able to take all your special equipment?”

      “Yeah, it might be a little tricky getting it through TSA,” Grimaldi said with a grin and a wink.

      Brognola smiled. “Any questions?”

      Bolan shook his head as he got to his feet.

      “Your plane will be ready to roll in two hours.”

CHAPTER THREE

       Camp Freedom, Nevada

      It was early evening but prematurely dark as the headlights of the Jeep bounced over the rough gravel back road. Fedor Androkovich checked the security strap on the low-slung, tactical holster securing his 9 mm SIG Sauer P223 semi-auto pistol as he braced himself in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He thought about the complexity of the plan. There was a lot that could go wrong, which bothered him. Still, he was used to carrying out complicated endeavors. He had been raised on them practically since birth.

      His entire youth had been spent under the tutelage of the KGB, and later in its successors, the FSB and the SVR, in a special school that trained him and others to be sleeper agents in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk away from it all. When the Arabs had covertly approached him, the decision had been easy, almost preordained.

      As much as he disliked going by his American alias, Frank Andrews, he had to admit the name had served him well. And soon, he would be rich. He could choose another name in a short time. Any one he wanted. Perhaps he would go with one with a little more European flair. He was tired of masquerading as an American.

      “There they are,” Red Stevens said. His real name was actually Rudolph Strogoff, and he, too, was a product of the highly secret American Assimilation School in Gdansk, only a generation later. As a result, his American accent was as flawless as Androkovich’s. His auburn hair had earned him the appropriate nickname, “Red.” He was fifteen years younger than Fedor, and consequently less experienced at staying deep within their established cover here in the United States. But just the same, during the past year Strogoff had all but vanished, and the advantage was obvious. He had become Red, but he followed Androkovich’s directions without question.

      “Do you see them?” Strogoff asked, pointing to two sets of headlights parked about a hundred yards away on the highway.

      “I hope their lights didn’t attract too much attention,” his partner replied. “Stop here and I’ll get the gate.”

      Androkovich jumped out of the Jeep and jogged toward the seven-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter of Camp Freedom and secured the access to the compound via this back road. He unlocked the gate and swung it open, pausing to peer around at the desert terrain. A hot wind blew across the plains, capturing wisps of sand and adding a hint of grit to the air. Nothing seemed to be moving, but the Russian brought the night-vision goggles up to his eyes and did another quick scan. Nothing stirred except for an occasional tumbleweed. The timing couldn’t be better. All he had to worry about now was the possibility of some random patrol or the possibility of an over-inquisitive reporter or motorist happening upon them.

      Thus, it was best to proceed with all due speed. He turned and motioned for Strogoff to pull forward on to the highway. Androkovich hopped into the open Jeep as it was going by him. They bounced over the juncture between the macadamized road and the asphalt and sped toward the two parked vehicles farther down. As they drove past the two cars, Androkovich perused them. The first was a dark limousine, the second the ambulance that they had purchased from a surplus municipality sale in neighboring Arizona. It was perfect for their purposes.

      A limo in the desert, Androkovich thought. Leave it to the Arabs to be stupid as well as ostentatious. He wondered if their Bedouin ancestors were turning over in their sandy graves.

      “Pull behind them and wait,” he said.

      Strogoff slowed down again and then swung the Jeep in a wide circle, dipping on to the shoulder and coming to a stop behind the ambulance.

      “Wait here,” Androkovich said as he got out. “I’ll go talk to them.”

      His companion nodded, his black baseball cap riding low on his forehead.

      Androkovich crossed in front of the Jeep and walked on the right side of the ambulance. He glanced inside as he passed, seeing the waspish face of George Duncan behind the wheel. He nodded as he passed, and Duncan responded with a halfhearted salute. The Russian kept walking and heard the sound of the locks being popped as he got close to the rear door of the limo. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

      “Good evening,” he said as he slid inside.

      Two men, both Saudis, stared at him. Androkovich knew the younger of the two well: Masoud, the youngest son of Mustapha Rahman. Masoud was slender and looked quite dapper in his cream-colored suit. His hair was stylishly cut and the hair on his face was trimmed to a neat mustache and goatee.

      “You have seen the vehicle,” Masoud said. “Is it СКАЧАТЬ