Thunder Down Under
Price nodded, opting to remain silent on the matter. A certain amount of political turnover and renewal was often the case when the presidency changed hands, but in this most recent case, this new administration had been much more difficult to work with.
“So, give me the rundown on this Martin guy and what’s going on Down Under,” Brognola said. “There’s been no reason to even look at Australia for any real terrorist activity that extends to more than a few people, and certainly no major organized activity. Even that man who ran his car into that crowd in Melbourne last year? The final report was that he was mentally ill and trying to protest the treatment of his fellow Muslims by the government. The biggest actual thing I can remember was when Turkey’s General Consul was assassinated back in 1980. Hell, they even outlawed the majority of their guns a couple decades back, didn’t they?”
Price nodded. “That’s all correct. This situation is a bit more unusual, due to the parties involved.” She pressed a button on her tablet and another picture of the man who had been ranting on the television appeared on the monitor.
“Angus Martin is a billionaire industrialist who runs Wallcorloo National, his energy company, which is headquartered in Melbourne. He’s third generation and, while he inherited the company from his father, he’s taken it to astounding new heights, building it to among the largest companies on the continent over the last fifteen years.”
“Probably on the backs of the public, if I know his type,” the big Fed grumbled around his stogie. “Okay, so what’s his problem?”
“Over the past year, there have been several vandalism and industrial sabotage incidents aimed at various Australian companies. They’ve been mostly limited to equipment damage, although there was an incident at a copper mine involving explosives that brought down a side of an open pit. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”
Price slid her finger across the tablet and an icon of a white wallaby in a hard hat against a sky-blue background came up. Under it was the words Wallcorloo National. “Wallcorloo is involved in rare earth mineral and natural gas mining throughout the continent.”
She moved on to the next slide: a map of Australia with a small red dot in roughly the center of the continent. “The most recent incident occurred ten days ago at their automated LNG mining and refining plant on the edge of the Amadeus field, a massive natural gas deposit.” She brought up two smaller pictures, one of an older man, the other of a man in his early twenties. “Along with the on-site sabotage, estimated to delay full production by several weeks and cost more than two million dollars, two men, Logan Weathers and Connor King, were killed as a result of a clash with the saboteurs. As of this briefing, the perpetrators haven’t yet been caught.”
“And Martin thinks the indigenous population—specifically the AFN—is behind this?” Brognola frowned. “If so, that’s news to me. There hasn’t been any sort of organized resistance like that since...well, ever, as far as I know.”
Price’s eyebrows raised but she lowered them just as quickly. It wasn’t that her superior was wrong; she was just a bit surprised that he knew about the general history of indigenous protest and resistance in Australia at all. But that’s what made him Hal Brognola—behind his sometimes unkempt appearance and gruff demeanor hid an analytical mind like a titanium trap.
“Correct, Hal,” she replied, bringing up another slide of what looked like a ruddy-red cliff rising out of the ground against a white background. “Aboriginal Freedom Now was established back in 2002, and has always espoused open dialogue and nonviolent means to bring about change between the government and the indigenous population. That’s why this raised a red flag at our Australian embassy, which sent the report that I think eventually put this scenario on this administration’s radar.”
“Well, that and this blowhard spouting off about this group. Has AFN released any kind of official statement about that incident?”
“Yes, clearly stating that they had no involvement, and condemning the deaths of those two officers in the strongest terms possible.” Price set her tablet on the table. “The fact is, as you’d mentioned, there isn’t any record of a group resorting to this kind of violence in the country, especially not murder, to accomplish their aims.”
“Right. Look, I feel for them—both the victims and the AFN receiving what sounds like a smear job from Martin—but this still sounds like a matter the locals would be better equipped to handle,” Brognola replied. “I respect the hell out of them, and I’m pretty sure they don’t want us sticking our nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Price said. “As Payne went to such lengths to intimate, Martin’s got a lot in common with a certain person in DC—he’s boorish and brash, but he’s got too much money and political clout to simply ignore. And Payne was right about one thing—those minerals in Australia would be easier to buy from Aussies than from somewhere hostile to the US. Our ambassador, however, stated in her report that due to the delicate situation with the indigenous population and their struggle for increased rights, the government would actually appreciate it if an outside investigator would come in and take a look at the situation. Naturally, neither she nor her counterparts could go on the record with this—the embarrassment would be intense. But she’s assured us that the Australian parliament would be very grateful if we could get to the bottom of this issue—unofficially, of course.”
“And you think this is the best use of both our and Striker’s time and resources?”
“At the moment, yes.” Price sat in a chair closer to him. “And although I know you hate dancing to anyone’s tune, with so much uncertainty around DC these days, it might be best to suck it up this time and notch a win on our belt. We can be team players, right?”
Brognola’s hand went to his chest as if he was trying to soothe an incipient case of heartburn. “I may have trained you too well, Barbara. You do know if we give someone like Payne an inch, he’ll come back and take a mile?”
“Right now, I don’t see that we have any choice. We have to make if we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing. At least until after the next election.”
“You’re right.” The big Fed heaved a sigh then straightened and got that familiar glint in his eye. “Okay, I’ll call Striker in on this on one condition—that there is no blowback for Akira and Bear regarding the coffee incident.”
“Hal...” Recognizing the box she was in, Price threw up her hands and nodded. “All right, no blowback. At least Mack is nearby in Philadelphia.” She rose and headed for the door to begin preparing for Bolan’s mission. “No wonder everyone around here just goes around doing whatever they want...”
“Now, Barbara, you know that’s not true,” the big Fed said as she got to the exit. “Admit it...as soon as you knew what was going on, you wanted to see him try to drink it, didn’t you?”
Barbara half turned to look at him, then glanced at the still full cup of Kurtzman’s coffee on the table. “I plead the Fifth,” she said as she walked out of the conference room.
Chapter Three
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, spotted potential trouble the moment he walked into Beck’s Cajun Café.
After his last mission, he’d decided to take a bit of R & R and had driven up to Philly to do some sightseeing around the old city. He’d joined the tour of Independence Hall, listening to a knowledgeable US park ranger engage with the crowd as he described the events leading up to the Continental Congress and the negotiating over the creating, writing and signing of the Declaration of Independence more than 240 years ago.
He hadn’t been there in several years and was surprised to find that the brick building with its clock tower, white trim and brown-shingled roof affected him more deeply than he had expected.
And why wouldn’t it? he mused on his way out of the hall. He was walking the same streets that Adams, Jefferson, Franklin and the rest of the delegates walked when they were about to bring forth this new nation. It was what he had spent most of his life fighting for, defending those ideals they’d written down so long ago as they were preparing to break away from rule by the British.
He looked at the clusters of people around him who had gone on the tour, as well, and were now drifting off to other pursuits on this crisp fall day. Young and old couples, a smattering of families, all talking and laughing and discussing what they had seen. It was good to know those ideals were still cherished by many people.
Bolan leisurely strolled down the five blocks to Reading Station, enjoying the bright sun in the cloudless sky. He couldn’t have asked for a better day to play American tourist. All that remained was to grab a bite and choose the next mission in his War Everlasting. Usually there was something on the back burner that needed attention, or sometimes he accepted a mission from Hal Brognola, if they shared a mutual goal.
Inside the market, he took a moment to breathe in the smells of the open-air stalls with their cured meats, fresh fish and aged cheeses. Those were just some of the wares on display; you could pretty much get anything you wanted from homemade fudge to locally brewed root beer.
Bolan’s plans were simple: a quick sandwich and then he’d hit the road. But as he walked up to the order counter at Beck’s Cajun Café, his trained senses noticed a young man, maybe in his midtwenties, with close-cropped, dirty-blond hair and wearing a beat-up Army jacket. He was sitting alone at a nearby table, staring at a plastic cup of water.
It was the intensity of his stare that attracted Bolan’s attention, but he was careful not to watch the young man too closely lest he spook him. As he waited for his lunch basket to be brought out, he observed the man in the reflection of the chrome napkin holder and saw him drop one hand to the right pocket of his jacket and pat something inside.
Bolan looked around—the area was crowded today, with throngs of people moving along the narrow aisles to do their shopping or have lunch. He glanced casually at the young man once more then took out his smartphone and sent a quick text.
His lunch arrived and he paid for it. He then took it and a glass of water over to the empty chair on the other side of the young man’s table. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Mind if I sit here?”
The man didn’t look up for a moment, then his head slowly swiveled to regard Bolan. For a moment the Executioner thought he might draw right then and there, and he was ready to move if the guy did. But he just gave a half-hearted shrug. “Free country.”
“That it is, that it is.” Bolan sat and picked up half of his alligator-sausage po-boy. “Have you tried this place yet? It’s fantastic.”
The young man looked around, as if trying to see if they were drawing any attention. “Not really in the mood to talk.”
“Hey, I understand. If I keep talking, I won’t be able to eat my lunch.” Bolan fell silent for a couple of minutes, chewing as he observed the guy sitting across from him. He had put both hands on the table again and now picked up the plastic cup and took a quick drink. His movements were quick, furtive—and his right hand never strayed far from his jacket pocket.
Bolan was familiar with the type, having encountered several variants during his long career. The majority often wound up in the military and then, if that didn’t address their need—which it often did—they usually entered private military contracting to continue doing what they thought they needed to do to pacify themselves.
He thought this man hadn’t gotten as far, for whatever reason. That didn’t make him any less capable of sowing violence here, and Bolan would have to make sure to handle him carefully.
At this range, there were at least a dozen ways he could incapacitate the man, from rendering him immobile on one end of the spectrum to leaving him a corpse on the other end. But he hoped none of that would be necessary.
Bolan finished the first half of his sandwich and then nudged the plastic basket holding the other half toward the man. “Whew, getting full. Sure you don’t want any?”
“Hey, man, what’re you trying to do?” The man’s voice got louder toward the end of the sentence and he bowed his head and tried to look inconspicuous. “What do you want with me? Why are you doing this?”
Time to lay the cards on the table. “Because I think you’re getting ready to make a terrible mistake and I don’t want you to,” Bolan replied.
The young man’s head came up at that and he stared at Bolan, his right hand edging toward that pocket. “What? You a cop?”
“Not at all.” Bolan raised his left hand slightly off the table in a calming gesture—but also ready to grab the guy’s hand if necessary. “Just a concerned citizen who doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt today.”
A chattering family brushed by—a father and mother with three children all under twelve years old—on their way to the Mennonite bakery at the west end of the market. Bolan watched him watch them, ready to spring if he tried anything. But the man’s hand was still outside his pocket. Everyone was still safe...for now.
“You say you’re not a cop. What are you, private security? Military?”
“I was in the military, a while ago,” Bolan replied. He pointed at the jacket. “You?”
The man looked away. “Couldn’t...couldn’t pass the physical.” He glared down at his jacket. “This is from a goddamn thrift store.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, I probably couldn’t pass it either now.” That was a bald-faced lie; even today, Bolan could run any recruit into the ground if he had to—and just about any fully trained soldier, too. But this wasn’t about bragging rights. This was about making some kind of connection, no matter how small.
“Story of my life,” the man said. “Didn’t finish high school, figured why would I need it, I’m going into the Army. Only they didn’t want me, either. Now I’m just fucked.”
“So, go back to school. Get your GED, go to tech school. You seem able, you seem smart—except regarding what you came here to do, that is.”
“Oh yeah? What do you know? You don’t know anything about me!” The man’s voice rose again and he clamped down on his emotions with an effort.
“Okay, I’m sorry. That was unnecessary,” Bolan said, both hands up now.
“I’ve been looking for a job for eighteen months!” the man seethed, lowering his head again. “No one wants to hire me, not even as a busboy. I’m broke, been living on the streets for the past two weeks. I don’t know anyone here and I have no family. I’m...just...”
“Alone,” Bolan finished. “I get it. You feel like no one in the world cares about you, no one knows you exist. That if you were to die tomorrow, and disappear from this earth, no one would notice, no one would care, right?”
“Yeah...yeah,” he agreed, lifting his head to spear Bolan with his gaze. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
“And if you have to feel that way every day, then by God you’re going to make these people all around notice you, one way or the other, right?”
“Damn straight! For once they’ll have to notice me! They won’t be able to look away, to speed up as they walk past me! They won’t have a choice anymore!”
The man was hunched over the table now, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his jacket. Bolan noticed a couple of bystanders looking as if they wanted to help, but he waved them off with a small shake of his head.
He sat there silently, waiting until the man’s quiet cries had died down. “What’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter—nothing matters!” he replied.
“Yes, it does,” Bolan said. “Right here, right now, you matter. You have the power to make the choice that determines what happens here in the next few minutes. Either you leave that gun in your pocket, eat the rest of the sandwich in front of you and start living the rest of your life, or you pull the gun out and start shooting these people around you who don’t know you and never will. They’ve never done anything to hurt you, but you will impact their lives in ways they will never understand, but spend the rest of their lives trying to—at least those who survive will. But in the end, you won’t be remembered in the way you want—you’ll just end up as another statistic in a year filled with them, then pushed off the television and the front page as someone else does something that makes everyone forget about you all over again—forever.”
The man’s eyes had grown wide as Bolan talked. But his hand had stayed on the table. The Executioner leaned forward a bit, pinning him with the full weight of his ice-blue stare.
“But I don’t think you want to do that. I think you were sitting here, psyching yourself up in an attempt to go through with it. But deep down, I don’t think you truly want to do this.” He pushed the basket a bit farther across the table. “Go on, eat.”
The man looked down at the sandwich, then up at him again, and said something under his breath.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” Bolan replied.
“My name’s Bob,” the young man replied. With a shuddering sigh, he reached for the sandwich and dug in with huge bites, wolfing it down like he was starving.
Only when both of his hands were occupied did Bolan signal to the pair of uniformed Philadelphia police officers who had arrived a minute ago and were standing as inconspicuously as they could at the end of the aisle.
“Bob,” he said, removing a card from his jacket pocket, “you’re going to have to go with these officers now.”
Bob looked up with a start at the police. “What? What do you mean?”
“Listen to me.” Bolan held his gaze again. “You have to surrender your weapon and go with them. When you get the chance—” he held out the card “—call this number on the back. Don’t call a lawyer, don’t call anyone else, just call this number, and the person who answers will take care of things for you. It’s going to be all right.”
“O-okay.” Bob nodded, a smear of po-boy sauce hanging on the corner of his mouth.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to stand up and put your hands on the table,” one of the officers instructed him.
Bob looked at Bolan, who nodded. “Go ahead. Things will work out, I promise.”
“Sir, we’ll need you to stick around for a few minutes to get a statement,” the second cop said to him.
“Unfortunately, Officers, I have an appointment that requires my attention,” Bolan said as he handed them a similar card. “But if you contact the people at this number, they will be sure to straighten this all out.”
“But we need your name at least,” the cop protested.
“No, you don’t,” the soldier said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “I’m just a concerned citizen who happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”
Chapter Four
Twenty-three hours later, Mack Bolan stepped off the Airbus A380 and into the terminal at Melbourne International Airport. He was dressed in navy chinos, a lightweight, tan sport coat and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. A small carry-on was slung over his shoulder. He claimed his bag at the carousel, cleared customs and headed to the exit area.
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