LITMIR.BIZ

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when the blood will really hit the fan,” Brognola said softly, starting to drink from his mug, only to find it empty once more.

      Suddenly, an alarm began beeping. A new icon was spinning on the monitor. He double-clicked, and it expanded into a view of the President of the United States sitting at his desk in the Oval Office.

      “Good evening, Hal,” the President said, pulling his hand back from a keyboard. Then he frowned. “Although, to be honest, I don’t think that it’s going to be very good for either of us now.”

      “What has happened, sir?” Brognola asked.

      “First, allow me to apologize,” the President said, running both hands through his black hair. “I didn’t believe in your theory of terrorists using lightning, but now…”

      “What was hit?”

      Tapping some keys, the President sighed. “See for yourself, my friend.”

      The view of the Oval Office reduced to a small rectangle in the corner, the rest of the screen shifting to an outside view of military base in the desert. Dark, jagged mountains filled the horizon.

      “Five-Star, this is Fireball Forward!” a colonel shouted into a handmike while trying to hold his cap on top of his head against a stiff wind.

      In the background were rows of Buffaloes and Hummers, a score of 4x6 trucks, a dozen Abrams tanks and two Black Hawk gunships. The Hummers were equipped with light machine guns, while the much bulkier Buffaloes were actually armed with .50-caliber machine guns. A burst from those would flip over a Hummer, but not even shake the road dust off an armored Buffalo.

      “This is Five-Star,” a voice stated. “Go ahead Fireball, we read you loud and clear!”

      Brognola grunted at that. Five-Star was the code this month for the Pentagon.

      “Five-Star, we’ve found the enemy camp,” the colonel shouted, the wind kicking up dust clouds. Soldiers were running for cover as the buffeted trucks rocked slightly. “But we had to take cover—there is a major sandstorm coming this way!”

      Just then, lightning flashed across the sky, painfully bright even on the laptop monitor, and the picture scrambled for a few seconds from the accompanying electromagnetic burst.

      Leaning forward, Brognola held his breath. Please guys, start running, he silently urged.

      “Say again, Fireball?” the Pentagon demanded.

      “Sandstorm!” the colonel bellowed as, in the background, the horizon rose like a wave at sea.

      Billowing and churning, the stormfront swept toward the army battalion. In only a matter of seconds it engulfed the makeshift base and visibility was reduced to only a few feet.

      A deafening howl dominated the picture as dozens of soldiers were slammed to the ground, and every loose item was sent hurtling about into the turbulent brown air. Then lightning flashed, and a truck exploded, the concussion slamming other trucks aside and sending a dozen men flying away into the building storm.

      “Say again, Fireball, where is your location?” the Pentagon operator demanded, the volume bar sliding all the way to maximum. “Do you need assistance?”

      The colonel said something about northern mountains when the lightning appeared again, going straight into the open hatch of an Abrams tank. The armored machine seemed to bulge outward for a moment before erupting, the hellish corona of shrapnel, corpses and broken machinery spraying outward to decimate a group of soldiers and flip over both of the Black Hawks.

      “Get in those caves,” Brognola whispered, both hands clenched into fists.

      Again and again, the lightning lanced out, destroying one tank after another, then the bolts began walking along the ground, leaving behind rivers of steaming lava. Screaming soldiers burst into flames, their weapons discharging, grenades mercifully ending their ghastly torment.

      Feeling physically ill, Brognola wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch, filing away every detail of the savage attack. It lasted less than five minutes, then the lightning abruptly stopped, and there was only the howling wind. The dry sand quickly covering the tattered remains of what had once been a full battalion of men and women.

      “Fireball, respond!” the Pentagon demanded. “Is there anybody still alive? Hello, is anybody there?” But the only response was the howling wind and the crackle of countless small fires.

      The view froze and shrank, as the President returned.

      “When did this happen?” Brognola asked, flexing his hands.

      “Twenty minutes ago,” the President stated grimly, sitting back in his chair. “Search and Rescue teams are already on the way, but there’s little hope of finding anybody alive.”

      “After that? I would hardly think so,” Brognola replied, fighting a rising wave of helplessness. An entire battalion destroyed in five minutes. Five minutes!

      “Have you made any progress on finding these people? Or at least what they want?” the President asked. “These attacks are coming more and more often, and at bigger targets. Soon they’ll start on cities, and then…” His voice trailed off, his face a mask of repressed fury. “We have got to do something!”

      “Our best man is in the field, sir,” Brognola said. “But Striker hasn’t reported anything so far.”

      “Nothing at all?”

      “There’s not much to go on yet, sir. It’s all happening so damn fast! These snake charmers…I mean…”

      The President held up a palm. “I understand the reference, Hal. It helps to give the enemy a name, that makes them less intimidating.”

      Brognola scowled. “Anyway, sir, these snake charmers have obviously planned out every detail far in advance, including all of our possible responses.”

      “Are there any preventive actions we can take?”

      “Not at the moment. This isn’t some fanatic with a truckload of dynamite,” Brognola continued. “These are cool, calculating professionals. Right now, we’re still just trying to catch up!”

      “Accepted,” the President said. “Granting the assumption that we fail to ascertain their ultimate goals, what happens then?”

      Unexpectedly, thunder rumbled overhead.

      “They win,” Brognola stated in brutal honesty, as a soft rain began to patter against the window panes.

      Miami, Florida

      THE SUN WAS WARM ON THEIR faces as Bolan and Kirkland strolled along the boardwalk, the air full of the smell of saltwater mixing with delicious aromas wafting from nearby Cuban and French restaurants.

      A steady stream of cars zoomed along the shorefront highway while crystal-blue waves crested on a smooth white shore. Colorful beach umbrellas dotted the sand like psychedelic mushrooms, the small circles of shadow mostly empty, aside from the very young or the very old. The dichotomy of beachlife encapsulated.

      There were numerous families playing in the shallows, while small children built sand castles. Standing alert on a centrally located wooden tower, a burly lifeguard dabbed zinc oxide on his nose to prevent unsightly peeling.

      Teams of armed police officers in T-shirts, shorts and sneakers, pedaled their speed bikes along the boardwalk, voices crackling from the compact radios clipped to their gun belts. Safely out of the way, a group of muscular young men lifted weights in the glare of the noon sun, while countless dozens of young women in bikinis lounged on oversized towels and spread suntan lotion on their bare skin in a lazy, almost sensuous manner.

      All along the length of the beach and boardwalk, smiling vendors pushed along wheeled carts and sold hot dogs, ice cream, cold beer, sandwiches, sunglasses, cell phones and shark repellant.

      Trying to blend into the crowd, Bolan and Kirkland were wearing civilian clothing, loose white

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