Seismic Surge. Don Pendleton

      

      STONY MAN

      When the President hits the panic button, it’s Stony Man that answers the call. An elite, covert group, Stony Man strikes before terror can gain a foothold. The warriors of freedom understand the ultimate price and—in their mandate to protect the rights of the free nations—willingly meet the enemy.

      SEISMIC SURGE

      A plot orchestrated to destabilize the Western world has its roots in a mysterious business conglomerate with ties to Chinese conspirators. And the established battleground is a volcanic island off the coast of Spain. There, an army of multinational terrorists bound by hate and violence is about to trigger a tsunami that will wash hell across two continents. While Stony Man’s cyber-crew runs real-time command and control, Phoenix Force and Able Team launch a multipronged ground assault on the corporation behind the planned tidal wave and its ruthless backers.

      “So, not only will a tsunami wreck the U.S. East Coast...”

      Hal Brognola nodded.

      “But there’s also a renegade force in Norfolk, Virginia,” the President continued, “being funded and supplied by the People’s Republic of China and Saudi princes.”

      “All we know right now is that an Idaho white supremacist group has targeted European tourism,” Brognola replied.

      “I’ve got people keeping a lid on the La Palma volcano threat,” the President said. “But according to my staff, posts are popping up about that damn Jeopardy white paper.”

      “Jeopardy is an American company, so if anything does happen, it will lead back to us. No amount of money is going to cover it up.”

      “The livelihoods of millions of Americans will be destroyed by a superwave, and we’re going to take the blame for the damage.” The President narrowed his eyes. “Stony Man can fix this, right?”

      Seismic Surge

      Don Pendleton

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      Special thanks and acknowledgment to

      Doug Wojtowicz for his contribution to this work.

      Contents

       PROLOGUE

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

      PROLOGUE

      Bernie Jackson stowed the spare blank forms inside his folding metal clipboard, then adjusted the top inspection sheet until it sat squarely on the cold, bare metal. There had been a few too many incidents for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration’s liking at the Heyerdal Hull Company, and the Norfolk, Virginia, plant was shut down for the day, pending the results of his OSHA team’s observations.

      Seven men had died already, and twenty more were injured due to mishaps at the plant. Heyerdal’s owners, the Jeopardy Corporation, had requested that they be allowed to clean their own house, utilizing one of their security contractors. These promises had held off the federal government’s agents. The fact that Heyerdal was behind some large defense contracts, developing new hulls for a low-profile patrol craft that could be used by the Navy and the Marine Corps, had been enough until the most recent “accident” left two dead and seven wounded. Local constituents were demanding in Congress that the government take a closer look.

      The Jeopardy Corporation tried to muddy the waters with claims of outside interference, suggesting saboteurs or espionage agents were responsible for the mayhem and death. Jeopardy owned private military contractor companies that had provided security for the U.S. government overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as for allied Middle Eastern governments. As such, they claimed that they could deal with all of this on their own.

      That suggestion bubbled up in Jackson’s memory and he had to strangle down a snort of derision.

      “Like that’s going to come up kosher,” he muttered.

      “I told you, these damn corporate bigwigs act like their shit don’t stink,” Gerber said. Whereas Jackson was an older African-American man, thick around the middle with the weight of advancing years and too many desserts, Gerber was in his thirties. Jackson’s partner was, in his old Virginia way of saying things, all knees and elbows with a ginger head balanced atop a skinny neck. There was a noticeable disparity between the size of his skull and his slender frame, which was further enhanced in its awkwardness by ears that stuck out like jug handles.

      Jackson looked his young partner over, shaking his head. “The old military industrial complex—MIC—conspiracy again?”

      Gerber nodded avidly, his serious glare looking out of place above freckled cheeks. Jackson and a few of the older men noted that the kid, by their perspective, was what could have been the love child between two timeless comic-book teenagers. Any mention of Arch or Jugs, however, had gone over Gerber’s head, the references eliciting a blank response.

      Of course, knowing the history of those comics, Gerber had probably developed a selective memory loss after having been needled over the similarity from other guys in the Navy, especially his instructors.

      “Collusion and corruption in those areas do still exist,” Gerber replied. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff I saw back in the Navy.”

      “But if you told me, you’d just have to kill me,” Jackson concluded, rolling his eyes. The others, eight total, laughed at the end of this particular segment