Orbital Velocity. Don Pendleton

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      “I CAN IMAGINE THAT YOUR TEAMS ARE SPREAD PRETTY THIN,” THE PRESIDENT SAID

      “Law enforcement agencies in eight nations are running themselves ragged dealing with riots orchestrated by this group, the Fist of Heaven,” Brognola explained. “If anything, our boys are right where they need to be.”

      “And you’ve confirmed that this is an international amalgamation of white-supremacist groups?”

      “There’s a violent Christian identity organization in the U.S. called the United Legion of Messianic America,” Brognola answered. “We have also encountered elements of ODESSA, the Jakkhammer Legacy, the Justice Coalition of Argentina and a Japanese pseudo-Christian cult called Masa Minori.”

      The President sighed. “All those crazies would have to come out of the woodwork on my watch.”

      Brognola managed a weak smile. “They say the caliber of a man is judged by the scope of his enemies.”

      “Is that a good thing or a bad thing with all these psychotic bigots?” the President asked.

      Brognola looked out the window of the office, his gaze settling on the map of the world. The President waited a moment before the big Fed heaved his shoulders with a sigh, returning his attention to the conversation. “Ask me after this is over, sir.”

      Brognola left the President alone in his office to contemplate the worldwide crisis.

      Orbital Velocity

      Stony Man

      America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agancy^®

      Don Pendleton

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

Orbital Velocity

      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

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      In the jungles of the Congo, in the border region between the Republic of the Congo—ROC—and the Democratic Republic of the Congo—DRC—life was especially cheap. In the ROC, slavery was still a very real and modern threat, while the Kiva conflict in the DRC continued to claim lives the way only an ethnically charged civil war could. Right now, though, an African American man tried to move as fast as he could without aggravating the injury of his companion, also American but several shades lighter than his friend and growing more wan by the moment. The Latino’s normally tan features were now clammy, his black hair stuck to his forehead.

      John Carmichael struggled to keep David Arcado moving, one hand hooked under his armpit with Arcado’s limb drawn across Carmichael’s shoulders. Arcado’s face was pale, his eyes sunken, his forehead soaked with sweat. Carmichael looked down at the bullet wound in Arcado’s side, his hand clamped around the injury. Blood painted the hand bright red, meaning that he was losing oxygenated blood. No wonder Arcado was wheezing.

      “Let me sit,” Arcado rasped. “You can get the hell out a lot faster alone than lugging me along.”

      “Fuck that shit,” Carmichael replied. “We don’t leave soldiers behind.”

      Carmichael glanced back at the game trail they’d tromped along. He could see where dark, drying blood had smeared on leaves, which meant that the guards of the illegitimate launch facility wouldn’t have too much trouble following them. “If we stop now, there’ll be all manner of arrows aimed at you.”

      Arcado swallowed hard, eyeing the bloody trail he’d left behind. “Which is why you need to dump me.”

      “No,” Carmichael growled. “We ride together, we die together.”

      “Not with the information in your head,” Arcado told him, trying to wrestle his arm away from the black man. “You’ve got to get moving.”

      “Stop fighting me,” Carmichael complained. Suddenly he felt something hard jammed into his ribs. Carmichael looked at the snub-nosed .357 Magnum locked in Arcado’s fist. “You shoot me, you’re defeating your own purpose.”

      Arcado gritted his teeth, then lowered the .357. “You see that streak rising from the ground?”

      Carmichael didn’t want to look, but through the gap in the forest canopy roof, he could see it: the cottony column of smoke that spiraled up into the clear blue skies above. His shoulders fell as he knew what was at the top of that pillar of expended liquid oxygen fuel. He didn’t know the payload atop, but it was an orbital launch missile, akin to an Atlas IV, reverse engineered from old American designs. Whatever was riding into the heavens on millions of pounds of concentrated thrust, it was nothing good, not when it was being rocketed out of Earth’s atmosphere from a forsaken, hidden corner of the world.

      “I see it,” Carmichael answered. He took a deep breath.

      “And what was that shit you kept telling me? Your country before everything else?” Arcado told him, gripping a fistful of Carmichael’s BDU shirt, twisting it to bring Carmichael’s ear closer to his mouth.

      “If you stay here, then we need to give you as much of a chance as you can get,” Carmichael whispered harshly. “Give me a spare bullet.”

      Arcado nodded as Carmichael withdrew his folding multitool. “Want mine, too?”

      “Yeah,” Carmichael answered. Taking the .357 Magnum round between the two folding pliers, the black agent pried the bullet from its casing. With a shell full of fast-burning, high-intensity powder, he had what he needed. “Move your hand.”

      Arcado grit his teeth. “This is going to suck.”

      Carmichael poured the powder into the wound, then pulled his stainless-steel lighter. It fired on the first flick, and when the flame touched the gunpowder, it flared. Arcado’s fingers dug into Carmichael’s biceps, his eyes clenched tightly shut as the bullet-torn flesh cauterized under the flashing heat. The pain was horrendous, if the muscle-squeezing grip Arcado inflicted on him was any indication. When the wound was seared closed as the powder burned out, Arcado finally loosened his clawlike clutches on Carmichael.

      “I was right,” the Latino gasped.

      “You usually are, damn it,” Carmichael replied. “Even when you say I need to leave you behind.”

      Arcado nodded. “You left me a round short.”

      “So you’re not looking to die nobly?” Carmichael asked.

      “Fuck that noise,” Arcado answered. He leaned back, gulping down a fresh breath. Carmichael sorted through his gear, pulling four extra magazines from his reserve for his partner. Arcado reached out weakly to add them to his stash. With shaky hands, the Latino drew his Beretta and worked the slide to make certain it had a round in the breech.

      Carmichael