The Chameleon Factor. Don Pendleton

      CHAPTER ONE

      Virginia

      With its rotors beating steadily, the U.S.Army Black Hawk helicopter moved through the crisp morning air. Reclining in the jump seat in the rear of the massive gunship, Hal Brognola looked out the port window and watched the lush Virginia countryside endlessly flow by, the dense forests melding into sprawling towns of tree-lined streets and green parks. A hundred years or so ago, all of this land was torn and bloody as brother fought brother in the Civil War.

      “Did you know that more Americans died in the Civil War than in World War II?” the blacksuit pilot said over a shoulder.

      Roused from his thoughts, Brognola turned from the window. “Yeah, I did. History buff?”

      The pilot flashed a smile. “I am in the military, sir.”

      The big Fed waited for the pilot to also mention his skin color, but apparently it was not relevant to the discussion. White and blacks both died in the war, each fighting on both sides. Hell of a thing.

      Harold Brognola wasn’t a soldier in the traditional sense, but he had certainly seen more than his share of warfare. As a high-level official in the Justice Department, Brognola was one of the top cops in the nation, answerable only to the President. Chief of the ultracovert Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, Brognola was returning to Washington from a quick visit to the Farm, hidden in the depths of Shenandoah National Park. Recent defensive renovations included a newly installed antimissile system. Upgrades to weapons systems were ongoing, and every once in a while Brognola would drop by the Farm to check things out. Any excuse to escape the frenetic pace of Washington, D.C., was acceptable.

      The pilot touched the side of his helmet. “Sir, I have an urgent call for you from Dover,” he reported crisply.

      Brognola frowned. Dover. As in the white cliffs of Dover. That was this month’s code name for the White House.

      “I’ll take it back here.”

      “Yes, sir!”

      The big Fed pulled a briefcase onto his lap when his cell phone chirped.

      Deactivating the locking mechanism in the briefcase, Brognola lifted the lid and the compact computer inside automatically cycled on. Typing a few passwords onto the miniature keyboard, the big Fed watched as the plasma screen scrolled identification signatures and countersigns as the machine dutifully checked and then double-checked to confirm it was receiving an authenticity signal on a secure frequency.

      Exercising patience, Brognola waited. The man was aware that the White House had its own private communication satellites, and that the President had access to several that nobody else even knew existed. But it never hurt to make sure.

      The gibberish on the screen melted into a familiar face at a well-known desk.

      “Good morning, sir,” Brognola said.

      “Good to see you, Hal,” the President replied. “We have a situation.”

      “So I gathered, sir. Can it wait until I arrive? I’m already en route to D.C. ETA, twenty minutes.”

      “Sorry,” the President said, frowning. “This cannot wait, and you have to turn back.”

      Return to the Farm? “This relay is secure, sir,” Brognola reminded him respectfully.

      “For now, yes.”

      The President reclined in his chair and lifted a sheet of paper edged with red stripes. Even as he held it, the paper turned brownish where his fingers rested. Brognola scowled at that. A level-ten report, for the President only. This was big.

      “It’s called Chameleon,” the President said, putting the paper down, “a brand-new kind of jamming field that blocks or interferes with about ninety-five percent of all modulated electromagnetism.”

      Brognola raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Ninety-five percent? That would scramble cell phones, and even landline phones, and make radar absolutely dead. Doppler or focused radar, even proximity fuses on warheads might not work. It would be the ultimate stealth shield. Tanks, planes, hell, even aircraft carriers would become as close to invisible as modern science would allow. In the hands of terrorists, they could fly cargo planes of troops or bombs anywhere and America would never know until it was far too late.

      Lifting a cup of coffee into view, the President took a sip and waited while Brognola worked out the details.

      “How close are they to completion?” the big Fed demanded.

      “This morning was the final test.”

      “And what went wrong?”

      “Everything, my friend,” the Man said honestly. “The missiles being fired from a U.S. Navy corvette in the bay first took out the control bunker, killing the inventor, a Professor Torge Johnson, and destroying every working prototype of the device.”

      Brognola bit back a curse.

      The President leaned closer. “We received a piece of a phone call from Congresswoman Margaret Anders at the sight, then she went off the air. A recon flight from Fairbanks confirmed that the second wave of Delta Four missiles hit the grandstand, killing a couple of hundred people, mostly politicians and high-ranking soldiers.”

      “Could still just be an accident,” Brognola said slowly, then he noticed the hard expression in the other man’s face. “There’s more.”

      “Unfortunately, yes. The third wave of Delta Four missiles went straight past the firing range and curved around a mountain to strike and destroy the laboratory where the Chameleon had been invented.”

      Brognola opened his mouth to say “Impossible,” then closed it with a snap. “So we have a traitor who planted homing beacons for the missiles.”

      “That is also the opinion of the Joint Chiefs.”

      “What was the breakage?” Brognola asked, frowning.

      The President drummed his fingers on the desk. “Total. The plans are gone, the working prototypes are gone, everything is gone, and everybody involved with the project is dead.”

      “What about the off-site backup files?” Brognola demanded gruffly.

      “Unknown,” the President replied, hunching his shoulders. “Everybody who knew their location is now dead.”

      “Everybody?”

      “Yes.”

      “Shit.”

      “Agreed. We have been compromised on a major level, and by a professional. As of this moment, our unknown thief owns a billion dollars’ worth of American technology.”

      “And there’s no way to re-create the work?”

      “Over time, of course. Eight months, maybe a year. But by then…”

      Brognola felt a gnawing sensation in his stomach. A year from now the world could be in total chaos, or worse, total warfare. Unlimited smuggling, unstoppable hijackers, it was a nightmare!

      “What are the various agencies doing so far?”

      “Nothing. This is a White Project. Level Ten personnel only. As far as the FBI and the media are concerned, there was a gas explosion at a military warehouse