LITMIR.BIZ

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a virulent al Qaeda splinter group whose terse initials stood for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. Sometimes the leaders called it ISIL—the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant—or simply IS, the Islamic State. Their stated goal was to establish a worldwide Islamic caliphate, to which end, strangely, they waged war primarily against their fellow Muslims, razing villages and cities, scourging libraries, museums and random monuments of great historical significance to the Islamic culture. All of which, to Bolan, indicated raving psychopaths in charge.

      “Six Army Rangers going over?” he echoed, watching Brognola nod.

      “And not just any Rangers,” said the man from Justice. “There’s a major, a lieutenant colonel, with a captain, first lieutenant, plus a staff sergeant and sergeant.”

      “And we know this how?” Bolan inquired.

      “Their so-called manifesto,” Brognola replied, “which they are demanding we publish through official channels, send-ups on the Pentagon and White House websites, plus all major TV networks and the top ten US newspapers, with a combined readership exceeding 8.3 million.”

      “But you’ve held it back,” Bolan observed.

      “So far. We’re on a ticking clock.”

      “What happens when the clock strikes twelve?” Bolan inquired.

      “A ‘major terrorist event,’ whatever that means. Mega casualties, no hope of disguising it.”

      “You think they can deliver?”

      “There’s a chance they already have,” Brognola said. “A teaser, anyway. We’ve kept a lid on it so far.”

      “Particulars?”

      “Some kind of noxious gas attack in Baltimore, a shopping mall. Two dead, a couple dozen treated at the hospital for symptoms that resembled sarin poisoning. We’re calling it a leak, natural gas from one of the mall’s restaurants, and squaring it with their insurance carriers. The Rangers gave thumbs-up to burying the news for now, as long as we get cracking on the broadcast of their manifesto by high noon, the day after tomorrow.”

      “So much time?”

      “It seemed a little leisurely to me, as well,” the big Fed said.

      “I’m guessing that this outfit has a name?”

      “Funny about that,” Brognola replied. “They haven’t floated one, so far. That strikes me as a clumsy oversight.”

      “Unless it’s all a scam.”

      “Or that.”

      “I can’t help noting that this sounds like something for the MPs at Fort Benning. It’s their home turf, their people going rogue.”

      “They tried already. Kicked it upstairs to the CID, a task force supervised directly by the Provost Marshal General.”

      “I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Bolan observed.

      “You do. They traced their runners to North Carolina, to rented tourist quarters in a tiny town on Topsail Island. Ever heard of it?”

      “Can’t say I have,” Bolan replied.

      “I hadn’t, either. Anyway, they went in hard last night, a six-man strike team with a captain, a lieutenant and four noncoms. Sent up the balloon at 0330 hours, but they walked into a shit storm. All CID agents were listed KIA on-site, another story that we’ll have to fabricate before we contact next of kin. Call it a training exercise gone wrong, I guess.”

      “No casualties on the other side?” Bolan queried.

      “Nary a one. They walked out clean, left nothing but the rental property all shot to hell—and one more copy of their manifesto, mounted on a bathroom wall in case we missed the point.”

      “Which brings us here.”

      “In a nutshell,” Brognola stated. He fished one hand underneath his jacket and produced a DVD, passed it to Bolan, and the warrior tucked it neatly out of sight.

      “You’ll find full dossiers and service records on the six alleged defectors,” Brognola went on. “They haven’t got much in the way of family. One has a brother in New Jersey and one guy’s father is a retired Marine. That’s about the size of it. Another one was talking marriage to his girl when he went AWOL, but she swears she hasn’t heard from him since then. We’ve got her covered—taps and bugs, the works—but no contact so far.”

      “You’re calling them ‘alleged defectors,’” Bolan noted. “Should I ask if any of them have converted recently and started singing Allah’s praises?”

      “Just one Muslim in the bunch, as far as we can tell, and nothing recent. His grandparents were Iraqi refugees, granted asylum by the State Department under Reagan. He was born into the faith and joined the Army out of high school, pulled a tour in Afghanistan without a hiccup and came back wearing a Silver Star, together with a Purple Heart.”

      “So, honorable service, then.”

      “Nothing says otherwise, until this shit show he’s involved in with the rest of them.”

      “You’re doubting the religious motive?” Bolan asked.

      “Can’t disregard it, but it doesn’t sit well with me,” the big Fed replied. “You know these types are big on names, if they’re legit. First thing they do is sit around a table and decide what to call themselves.”

      “Right.”

      “Step two, they normally adopt Arabic names, but none of them has done that, either. Just the one, still going with his birth name.”

      “Right.”

      “On top of which, we have eyes inside ISIS, overseas and in the States, a couple sleeper cells that think they’re still secure. So far, nobody claims to know these guys, and they’d be trumpeting the news if half a dozen Army Rangers joined their cause en masse.”

      “You’d think so, anyway. But if they’re faking the ISIS connection, what’s their end game?”

      Brognola gave him a wry smile. “We won’t know that until you run them down.”

      “Speaking of which, mobility should be our top priority on this.”

      “Agreed.”

      “What’s Jack up to, these days?”

      “I’ve got him on standby.”

      Jack Grimaldi was an ex-Mafia flyboy who could handle anything with wings or rotors. He had first crossed Bolan’s path while working for the Mafia, then converted to the big guy’s cause when he’d decided that his Mob-related life was going nowhere fast. Since then, he had delivered Bolan to hot spots around the world, providing air support as needed on the firing line. And, when necessary, he heard the call to arms and fought beside the Executioner on the line.

      “Okay,” Bolan said. “Then I should be good, at least for now.”

      “It would be nice if we could talk to someone from the team,” Brognola said, “but I don’t know how practical that is.”

      “Rangers are trained the same as Green Berets and Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance—presumably the Company, as well—when it comes to resisting an interrogation. They all undergo hooding, sleep deprivation, time disorientation, prolonged nakedness, sexual humiliation, plus deprivation of warmth, water and food.”

      “Of course,” the big Fed said, “that’s all illegal under various conventions, as we know.”

      “And when has that stopped anyone on either side from using them?”

      “I see your point. Some say we haven’t been the ‘good guys’ for a long time now, at least since 9/11.”

      Bolan didn’t bother telling him to take it farther back, to Vietnam or even to the Philippines

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