Книга - Armed Resistance

Armed Resistance
Don Pendleton


When the Oval Office needs covert rapid response to avert disaster, Stony Man gets the call. Handpicked, the best of the best in cyber-intelligence and commando warfare, this elite squad fights by a code of duty and dedication to holding the line between the free world and violent extremists.Sudan's political situation is a nightmare. Guerilla forces specializing in human trafficking and black market arms rule in the violence-torn region. With members undercover inside a military arms depot in Mississippi, weapons are being diverted to the rebels profiteering on human misery. Able Team moves in stateside, while Phoenix Force goes deep into the bloodiest regions of Sudan and Uganda. It's a grim race to find a kidnapped CIA agent, a cache of human cargo and an arsenal of stolen weapons bound for illegal sale. Stony Man is hunting predators who kill for profit and pleasure–battling long odds to bring some justice to a ruthless land.







STONY MAN

When the Oval Office needs covert rapid response to avert disaster, Stony Man gets the call. Handpicked, the best of the best in cyber-intelligence and commando warfare, this elite squad fights by a code of duty and dedication to holding the line between the free world and violent extremists.

ARMED RESISTANCE

Sudan’s political situation is a nightmare. Guerilla forces specializing in human trafficking and black market arms rule in the violence-torn region. With members undercover inside a military arms depot in Mississippi, weapons are being diverted to the rebels profiteering on human misery. Able Team moves in stateside, while Phoenix Force goes deep into the bloodiest regions of Sudan and Uganda. It’s a grim race to find a kidnapped CIA agent, a cache of human cargo and an arsenal of stolen weapons bound for illegal sale. Stony Man is hunting predators who kill for profit and pleasure—battling long odds to bring some justice to a ruthless land.


“There’s trouble!”

Manning’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

James turned to glance through the back window and spotted the dim points of headlights. A jeep appeared to be closing on them fast. It could only mean police. In other countries they might have stopped, but this time they had to consider the Sudanese police on the opposite side of the fence. A good number of those in uniform were little more than thugs, and out here the Phoenix Force warriors couldn’t consider them soldiers on the same side. They would avoid a conflict if at all possible but not at the risk of failing in their mission. Lester Bukatem and his LRA guerillas were a threat that had to be dealt with, and neither Manning nor James would let police officials detain them, friendly or otherwise. Chances were good this meeting would result in their arrest and possible confinement without cause.

“If we stop, we’re dead,” James said.

“Then I won’t stop.”


Armed Resistance

Stony Man

Don Pendleton
























www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u415cfafa-56b6-5cdc-b877-58e41505876b)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua6c10f34-4f23-5169-8d68-525faeb2cc9b)

CHAPTER THREE (#ud02c957c-fa28-5456-b89c-fc908ef8b6ff)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u42fad65c-2e42-5046-aa29-1878231b92f8)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u2eb1c8fa-4cb0-5769-9a14-1488ab594c9f)

CHAPTER SIX (#u79cf0e47-1dcf-591d-bee4-20d60164300b)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ue6e72a21-a4dd-5b00-9257-ecc1ff409862)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

South Sudan

Two hundred miles north of the border with Uganda a biting wind swept across the desert, wending its way through the rock formations and echoing like howling spirits.

No matter how much time Samir Taha spent in this environment he never really became accustomed to it. Even after six years spent fighting in the barren and rugged terrain of his homeland, the legends still gnawed at his spirit. For Taha and his men, the wind carried the souls of those who had gone before and fought for liberty and freedom for those in South Sudan.

“You hear them again?” a voice whispered.

“I hear them often,” Taha replied, although he didn’t look at the man who spoke. He need not look his brother in the eye. Kumar knew better than anyone else the things that troubled him.

“You know I do not believe in the spirits,” Kumar said.

“I have never asked you to believe in them, merely respect those of us who do.”

“But to what ends?”

“I do not wish to discuss this here and now,” Samir said, waving his brother to silence. “Now be still.”

Satisfied there would be no further outbursts from his young and rather impetuous sibling, Samir Taha returned his attention to the camp ahead. Their intelligence had always been good in the past where it concerned those godless bastards who chose to traffic in innocent women and children. It had been difficult to gain support from government officials. Taha wished he could have recruited more men from their own ranks for this mission but General Kiir had refused to provide them. They were a ragtag bunch, to be sure, undisciplined and poorly equipped. Only half of the assault rifles they carried, Kalashnikov variants, were even capable of full auto fire.

A good number of them were semiautomatics—7.62 mm SKS-style rifles smuggled from connections in China or American-made AR-15s chambered to fire .223 cartridges. The remaining soldiers carried pistols and knives, and the ammunition situation was plain abysmal.

Taha had even begged the general to part with a couple of AK-47s but the old man wouldn’t hear of it.

“We have no reason to believe your intelligence is good,” General Kiir had told him. “If you do this then you do it voluntarily. I cannot risk it as a sanctioned mission.”

The general’s lack of support infuriated Taha but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Although many of the men among them, particularly those who reported directly to Taha, their platoon commander, agreed with Taha, the majority of them didn’t want to cross Kiir. Even among the brave fighters of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, who were fighting for independence from North Sudan, there were those who still bartered for position by politicking. Taha had no use for such men and he knew who they were. He had flatly refused some of those who had volunteered to accompany him on his mission, knowing where their loyalties truly lay.

Up ahead, Taha saw the cook fires of his enemy and smelled the roasted meat on which they gorged themselves. Probably most of their food had been stolen from the village they had razed early the previous morning. Most of the men in the village had been slaughtered, their bodies covered with flies and some of their hands—detached by explosives or the heavy rounds of .50-caliber machine guns—mutilated as food for wild dogs and hungry cats. It hadn’t taken any imagination for Taha to conclude it was the work of the Lord’s Resistance Army.

The very name was vile and brought a sour taste to Taha’s mouth every time he thought of it. These men, barbarians whom Taha would not even acknowledge as fellow countrymen, had known their way in this region long enough. If the authorities in the cities and the members of the Sudanese Armed Forces, representing North Sudan, would not lift a finger to protect innocent Sudanese, then Taha would do whatever he could to fight for those incapable of defending themselves. It was what good men did—it was what Christian men did.

“Prepare to sound the signal,” Taha ordered his brother.

Kumar said nothing in response; they had practiced this many times and he knew what to do.

In one respect, God had been shining his blessings upon them since the wind would mask their approach. The Lord’s Resistance Army would not expect them in the least; their leaders knew of the SPLA’s desire to avoid conflict whenever possible. When the fighting grew too bad, that’s when the government got involved and sent in armed forces that were well-equipped and well-trained. But those military units were not discerning and their orders were to kill any official combatants irrespective of creed. Somehow, and Taha had never been able to understand it, many more of the men in the Sudan People’s Liberation Army had fallen victim to the genocidal policies of the Sudanese Armed Forces than those of the Lord’s Resistance Army. It was more than numbers, more than coincidence.

No matter, because Taha no longer feared what another man could do to him—he only feared looking into the eyes of his God and being condemned to eternal hell because of cowardice. He was accountable for the blood of his brothers and he did not want that accounting to be one of shame. So he would bear whatever burdens were laid upon his shoulders in this time and place.

The signal came: a sudden squelch of the radio in his ear. Taha left the cover of the rocks and moved toward the camp perimeter. Many of the sentries were weary and unprepared for the sudden ferocity of Taha’s assault. As the men entered the camp, stepping inside the defensive line of men spread across the perimeter, the peaceful solitude of the encampment erupted into chaos. One of the Lord’s Resistance Army guards looked Taha in the eye a moment before the warrior leveled his SKS assault rifle and squeezed off three shots. The 7.62 mm rounds cut an ugly pattern in the man’s belly and dumped him onto his back.

Taha turned toward his next target only to discover a very young man who could not have been more than fifteen, but the subgun clutched in his fists knew neither age nor restraint. Taha grimaced even as he fired a short burst that blew the young man’s head apart. Blood and brain matter erupted from the stump of his neck, some of it landing in a nearby cook fire, and the boy’s body followed a moment later.

Taha scooped up the submachine gun, quickly inspected it in the light of the flames now immolating his enemy’s small body and realized why its profile had looked so familiar. It was an M-16 A-3 assault rifle, carbine model with stampings from the U.S. military. The markings surprised Taha so much he nearly lost his life with the distraction. Two LRA members rushed him, the muzzles of their weapons leveled in his direction and winking with the first shots. Taha threw himself into the sand and triggered both of his weapons simultaneously. The rounds managed to stop one of the LRA terrorists in his tracks, but the second evaded by jumping to the right.

Unfortunately neither of the men was at a distance that made using his assault weapon practical and they both committed to a grappling match simultaneously. His opponent was younger and much faster, but Taha had strength and experience on his side. Even as the knife blade sang from the man’s sheath and swung in for the soft tissue of his belly—the blade glinting wickedly in the light of the fire—Taha managed to get inside the attack. Using a move shown to him once by an American mercenary, Taha twisted the arm and hand in a downward motion while stepping between his opponent’s legs. He then twisted in the opposite direction and brought the hand upward while sweeping the outer leg. The force of the sudden reverse in motion effectively dumped his enemy onto the ground, and Taha followed with him. He let his weight do the rest of the work and buried the knife blade into the man’s chest to the hilt.

Taha scrambled to his hands and knees, beads of sweat immediately forming across his head and exposed arms, perched over the twitching body of the man. Taha vomited onto him as the fear and adrenaline nearly overtook his system and caused him to pass out. Head swooning and eyes watering, Taha took several deep breaths and in spite of himself got to his feet. He stood unsteadily for a moment before realizing if he didn’t recover now he stood the chance of being overcome by additional enemies. Taha searched frantically on the ground until he located his weapons, retrieved them and moved off in search of more men to kill.

Taha made it through the camp in no time and realized that the battle had barely begun before it ended. Taha located Kumar and ordered him to give the signal the group should rally. When they were assembled and a head count was taken, Kumar advised his brother that all were accounted for and only one man was wounded.

“Only one?” Taha repeated.

“They were of no significance, this enemy force,” Kumar replied.

Another loyal fighter named Sadiq added, “These were hardly men, my friend. I have fought the dogs of Lakwena before, and these men were untested. They are almost children that were left behind to hold this camp.”

None of this made sense to Taha. He looked at Kumar. “A decoy?”

“I have never known them to do anything like this before, my brother.”

“Nor have I,” Taha said with a vigorous shake of his head. He held up the M-16 A-3 for the men to see. “I also took this off one of the Lakwena fighters. It is American-made and a forgery I seriously doubt.”

“Why would Americans equip our sworn blood enemies with weapons to fight us? They will hardly even provide General Kiir with equipment we’ve requested. Have they switched their allegiance?”

“I do not have an answer, Kumar,” Taha said. “But it is not of great importance right now. Begin searches on the remainder of the camp and see if we can find any clues as to the direction they may have gone. Also search the body of every man here. If you find any alive, see if you can revive them enough to question them. I want to know if any of the others have American weapons on them. General Kiir will want to know this and any intelligence that we can take will help us. Let us not return to our leader empty-handed.”

With a nod from Taha to signify he had finished giving orders, the men scattered across the camp and began to search the bodies for any information. Taha doubted they would find any—it wasn’t like the Lord’s Resistance Army to leave behind anything of value.

His unit had learned of the camp from a young girl, a villager who managed to escape notice and waited in the weeds for three days straight, afraid to show herself even after she saw Taha’s force arrived at the village. Of course the little girl had been able to tell them absolutely nothing of the size of the force or the weapons they were carrying; such things were not naturally part of a young girl’s life and should never have been. Taha had been unable to imagine what that poor, motherless child had witnessed. The Lakwena dogs committed atrocities against the females while the men and boys of the village watched helplessly, tied down to stakes or herded into pens where they had their feet cut off and the wounds cauterized by hot brands so they didn’t bleed to death.

Instead they died by infection and dehydration, an unimaginable death so horrific it made Taha want to be sick again.

As Taha inspected the weapon in his hand once more he wondered if there was a grain of truth to Kumar’s accusation. Were the Americans supplying their enemies with guns? It made no sense to him. He knew a few Americans—mercenaries from a paramilitary company who had come to advise General Kiir and bring supplies and equipment. There was no benefit to Americans, military or civilian units, for the fighting to continue among the various factions in Sudan. In fact, quite the opposite since Sudan hosted resources and other valuable commodities of great interest to American companies and their foreign investors. They had always demonstrated a willingness to do what was necessary to resolve the civil strife that threatened stability in the region.

No, it did not make any sense for them to help the Lord’s Resistance Army.

There had to be another explanation. He would ask General Kiir to make contact with his friends in the United States. The general had contacts through the CIA operative working out of the capital. These men would know what to do—they would be able to provide answers to this mystery.

And perhaps they would help.


CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The help would come in the form of the five men who sat awaiting the arrival of Harold Brognola and Barbara Price.

Many briefings had occurred in the confines of the War Room, as well as a good many debriefings following more successful missions than any of those men cared to count. Their presence signaled the results of what just one man can do when he’s trying to make a difference. The covert unit at this table, Phoenix Force, had been born from the courage and bravery of the inimitable Mack Bolan. Bolan’s war started against the American Mafia but eventually broadened to a fight against worldwide terrorism.

Forged from the spirit and unswerving abilities of Mack “the Executioner” Bolan, the men of Phoenix Force had earned a reputation as one of the finest fighting units in the world. Not even the President of the United States and a good number of his predecessors knew their identities; that was a privilege reserved only for the select few whom this band of brothers trusted with their lives.

Leading the team of warriors was David McCarter, a fox-faced Briton who’d begun his career serving with the SAS. To his left sat Rafael Encizo, whose life had started as a prisoner in the death prisons of Fidel Castro. The lone Canadian was Gary Manning. A former explosives expert with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Manning had a penchant for hunting rifles and possessed uncanny knowledge of terrorist groups around the world.

The other two men of Phoenix Force were successors but no less effective in their own rights. Calvin James had been handpicked by the late leader of Phoenix Force, Yakov Katzenelenbogen. A former Navy SEAL and member of a Chicago P.D. SWAT team, James was a human force with which to be reckoned. Finally, the youngest and newest member of the group was Thomas Jefferson Hawkins. Hailing from the Lone Star State and known for his quick wit, Hawkins had served honorably with Delta Force until leaping at the opportunity to join his elite friends.

Together these men had battled and overcome the forces of evil around the globe under the guidance of the most covert special operations agency in the world: Stony Man.

The Phoenix Force warriors greeted the arrival of Brognola and Price with little fanfare. While nobody pointed out the fact the pair was fifteen minutes late for the briefing—something rather unusual for these particular individuals—there was no mistaking the air of anticipation in the room. It hung like an electrically charged cloud above the Phoenix Force warriors, and Hal Brognola, director of the Special Operations Group, immediately noticed it.

“I’m sorry we’re behind schedule but it was unavoidable,” Brognola said. “I know you’re itching for action so we’re going to keep this as short and sweet as possible.”

“As soon as you’re briefed,” Price said, “there’s a chopper waiting to take you to Andrews. Jack is there now doing the preflight so we’ll skip the ceremony.”

It seemed as if everyone simultaneously issued a sigh of relief. Not that they would have done anything other than sit patiently while Price laid it out for them in ever-arduous detail. The mission controller was cool and calm under the worst situations, often treating them in a very maternal fashion, although only because of her natural personality; she had no real desire to flutter around them like a mother hen.

“We’re sending all of the main details to your portable devices,” Price continued as she sat at the table and flipped a strand of the honey-blond hair behind her ear. “You can study those on the flight out.”

“Where are we headed, love?” McCarter asked.

“We’re sending you for several days of fun-filled adventure in Sudan,” Brognola said. “There’s a time factor involved here and I want to give you as much time as possible, hence the brevity of this particular meeting.”

“Here’s the short story,” Price said. “Four days ago, a CIA agent in Khartoum received communication from a man named Rahmad Kiir, the general and leader of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. Contact with Kiir isn’t apparently that uncommon for the CIA, since they’re able to provide a considerable amount of information regarding activities inside the Sudanese government. Those activities are of course the real story about what’s happening and not merely the bull hooky they like to feed our embassy. To break it down succinctly, some of Kiir’s men were on a mission to rescue villagers who had been taken by members of the Lord’s Resistance Army.”

“Also known as the Lakwena,” Brognola interjected helpfully.

“I thought the LRA was practically obsolete these days,” T. J. Hawkins remarked.

“Hardly,” Manning said. “Even since al-Bashir was elected president, Sudan still hasn’t fully complied with the minimal standards for effective elimination of human trafficking. The situation has been complicated by a civil war between North and South Sudan, which the LRA has exploited.”

“That’s for sure,” Encizo added.

Price nodded. “Sudan is a source country for men, women and children trafficked internally for the purposes of forced labor and sexual exploitation. It’s also a transit and destination country for Ethiopian women who are sent abroad as domestic servants. The Lord’s Resistance Army is one of the chief entrepreneurs in this business and they harbor a good number of children from both Sudan and Uganda for forced labor, sex slavery and myriad other atrocities. Often they have integrated themselves with militia groups in Darfur and abduct young women and girls for every kind of perversion you can imagine.”

Calvin James made a show of cracking his knuckles and said, “Sounds just like the kind of group we specialize in eradicating.”

“While I’d love to tell you to go forth and conquer all, I’m afraid that there’s a significant U.S. interest in this,” Brognola said. “While some of General Kiir’s men were hitting this village, they killed a number of LRA terrorists who, as it turns out, were carrying military-grade weapons. Those weapons were stamped with markings naming them as property of the United States Army.”

“How do we know they’re real?” Manning asked.

“Oh, they’re real,” Price said. “The serial numbers have already been verified and we have positive photographic identification from our CIA contact. There’s just one problem and that’s where the President decided it was time to involve Phoenix Force. In fact, even Able Team is going to have a hand in this one.”

“I can already see I’m not going to like this,” McCarter said.

“You’re too ugly to live forever anyway,” Hawkins ribbed him.

As the men responded with laughter, Price dimmed the lights and directed their attention to the screen at one end of the War Room. The image of a young, good-looking man in a suit materialized and the room fell quiet.

“Here’s complication one,” Price said. “This is a case file photo from the dossier of one Jodi Leighton, a CIA case officer who up until two days ago was serving as General Kiir’s contact and feeding information back to his higher-ups in Washington. Now Leighton has disappeared along with the evidence recently given to him by Kiir’s men.”

“Before you ask and because I know you will, we have no idea what happened to Leighton,” Brognola said. “He’s just disappeared into thin air and his friend and contact who acts as liaison between him and Kiir has been unable to find out anything.”

“I hate to bring it up, but have we considered the possibility this chap’s gone rogue?” McCarter asked.

“It’s not an unfair question but our general feeling is that it’s not Leighton’s style,” Price said. “First of all, the guy didn’t have any reason to suddenly pack it in and split. If anything, his efforts here would have won him a commendation and possibly even a ticket out of that place. Naturally when a CIA officer comes into information of this nature it automatically puts him in a dangerous situation. The world of espionage is filled with double agents, deception and betrayal.”

“Okay, fine,” Encizo said. “But it’s also not unlike a CIA spook to simply walk away if they think their identity has been compromised. Six months later they turn up in the Bahamas wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a bad dye job.”

“That’s true, but we’re still not convinced that’s the case here,” Brognola said. “Tell them about Able Team, Barb.”

“And so complication two,” Price said. “A few hours ago we called Able Team off of vacation and sent them to Camp Shelby.”

“In Mississippi,” Hawkins said.

“That’s the place,” Brognola replied.

“As I mentioned before, we were able to trace the serial numbers of those weapons to determine their authenticity,” Price said. “But we were also able to determine the place of origin right on down to the actual armory from which they were stolen. The numbers fell on Camp Shelby and recently the chief Army officer who oversees the S1 facility there, a career supply man by the name of Colonel Jordan Scott, has no explanation.”

“Okay, I’m with you guys now,” Manning said. “This is no damn coincidence.”

“We thought you’d see it our way,” Price replied sweetly. “The fact is the appearance of these weapons in Sudan coupled with the disappearance of two high-ranking officials has the Man’s skin crawling. The President wants to see action and he wants to see it in the next twenty-four hours. Tops. We have a very short time to accomplish our mission objectives.”

“Which are?” McCarter asked.

“Your job is to meet up with Leighton’s contact in the Sudanese government,” Brognola said. “From there, he will take you to General Kiir’s team, who discovered the weapons. We’ve had a personal request from Kiir and that is to help them retrieve the some fifty women and children who were taken from this camp.”

“Begging your pardon here,” James said. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re sending us to rescue these Sudanese villagers. I mean, I have absolutely no problem doing this but it seems a departure from the normal mission objectives. We typically are asked to run away from the problems internal to countries, avoid any sort of press, as it were. Now you’re asking us to do just the opposite? Help me out here.”

“Well, first, we’ve obtained a lot of good information from General Kiir over the years and we’ve tried to support him every chance we get,” Price said. “Second, we believe that if you follow the trail of the Lord’s Resistance Army and find the people they’ve kidnapped, chances are good you will find Leighton, as well. Nothing else makes sense in lieu of the fact that these weapons were found on deceased members of the LRA.”

“Not to mention the fact that the Lord’s Resistance Army was categorized as a terrorist organization many years ago by U.S. authorities,” Brognola added. “If you can take a few of the bastards down while you’re at it, I’m sure nobody on this end of the world is going to lose much sleep.”

James nodded and with a firm tone replied, “That works for me.”

“I assume you’ll be coordinating our information with Ironman and friends?” Encizo asked, referring to Able Team’s hot-tempered leader, Carl Lyons.

“Absolutely,” Price said. “It will be the status quo and we’ll make sure any information they come upon will get into your hands ASAP.”

“And what about this Leighton bloke?” McCarter asked. “What happens if we find him dead or, dare I think about it, we don’t find him at all? I would think that will pretty much end the trail and kill any further chance of accomplishing mission objectives.”

“If you find him dead, then there’s a pretty good chance that whoever killed him will have left a trail,” Brognola said. “But even if they didn’t, the main objective is to retrieve the Sudanese hostages and get those weapons back. Failing that, see to it that they’re destroyed. If the United States Army can’t use them, we’re certainly not going to let a band of terrorists have their way with them.”

“The other thing to remember is that you won’t be able to trust a soul on this one,” Price said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, love,” McCarter replied.

“We have to assume that nobody can be trusted with this outside of our own teams,” Brognola said. “Even if you find Leighton alive, until we get some answers from Colonel Scott and can verify the transshipment pipeline that allowed those weapons off the base, let alone out of the country, we have to assume there’s treachery on both sides.”

“One thing that stumps me is why we weren’t alerted earlier that these weapons had gone missing from the armory at Camp Shelby,” Hawkins said. “I mean, we’re talking about a massive installation, utterly secure with the largest Army reserve unit in the free world stationed there.”

“That’s part of what Able Team is going to be looking into,” Price said. “They’ll be carrying credentials identifying them as agents with the Army’s Criminal Intelligence Division.”

“That’s a new one,” Encizo observed.

Brognola said, “Since these are military weapons that have gone missing, this would normally fall into their purview. We knew if we sent them posing as members of Homeland Security or the FBI, there was a chance they’d get stonewalled out of the gate.”

“At least from this angle the sending of Army CID agents has the dubious distinction of looking like we’re trying to keep it inside the family, so to speak,” Hawkins observed.

“A very astute observation, T.J.,” Price said.

“My mom says I’m smart,” Hawkins replied with a cheesy grin.

“Any other questions?” Price said.

“Just one,” Manning said. “We know that the situation in Sudan is tumultuous at best. You told us that we basically can’t trust anybody over there. What other opposition could we expect to encounter beside that of the Lord’s Resistance Army?”

“I wish I had better news but the question is fair all the same,” Price said with a deep sigh. “The fact is you’re right, there has been an almost constant ethnic and rebel militia going up against some other ethnic and rebel militia since the 1960s. Hundreds of thousands of refugees have been forced out of the country and into the neighboring territories of Ethiopia, Kenya and the DRC. The Sudanese government army hasn’t had the resources to combat the widespread terror and violence in the country. These groups aren’t just fighting for food and water. In some cases they’re filled with religious fervor, as well.

“In fact, the larger part of General Kiir’s SPLA fighters are self-proclaimed Christians. They view themselves as men of God and feel it is their solemn duty to protect all citizens of the country. But there are many atrocities committed even among their own groups, something you would not consider all that uncommon in a country filled with this type of strife. Basically, outside of a handful of General Kiir’s men you are persona non grata and you will have to rely heavily on the skill of your Sudanese contact.”

“I’m surprised they’d even let us into the country,” James said.

“They wouldn’t and we never intended to bring you in that way,” Brognola replied. “Your contact will meet you at the Ugandan capital city of Kampala. You’ll fly in posing as oil barons, not an uncommon sight there by any means. He’ll then smuggle you over the border into the areas held secure by the SPLA, specifically General Kiir’s men.”

“Your contact is a man named Kumar,” Price said. “General Kiir has assured us that Kumar will conduct your safe passage both into and out of the country.”

“Remember, don’t take chances,” Brognola said. “If the situation gets out of control then do whatever you must to get out of the country alive. That’s your top priority if at any point things fall apart. Don’t get yourself killed over a few military weapons, men. It’s not worth it unless you gain ground and find that it’s worth it. Understood?”

The men nodded and mumbled an agreement.

“Then Godspeed, Phoenix Force,” Brognola said.


CHAPTER THREE

Camp Shelby, Mississippi

“I should be fishing,” Carl Lyons announced.

A military policeman cleared them through the gate with a smart salute.

“Cheer up, Ironman,” Hermann Schwarz replied from the backseat of the sedan with the government plates. “We could’ve been stuck with an assignment someplace where it’s cold.”

“Or worse,” Rosario Blancanales added from behind the wheel. “How would you like to have the mission location Phoenix got?”

Lyons scowled. “We’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I’m hungry,” Schwarz said. “Wonder what the chow’s like here?”

“You’ve had Army chow plenty of times,” Blancanales reminded him. “You never really liked it.”

Schwarz looked puzzled. “I didn’t?”

Blancanales looked him in the eyes through the rearview mirror and shook his head.

Indeed, both men were quite familiar with Army food. While Schwarz had significantly less experience in the field than his friend, he brought skills that were unusual for a combat veteran. Following a stint in Vietnam as a radio intelligence officer, Schwarz had begun his second tour with Bolan during the Mafia wars after spending only five months at a technical school in East Los Angeles. With his electronic intuition, one that had earned him the name Gadgets, Schwarz was a shoo-in for selection to become part of Stony Man’s elite urban counterterrorist unit.

Blancanales had a more distinguished career in the sense of notoriety. A decorated Green Beret, “the Politician” had earned a reputation as an effective member of the pacification programs implemented by the Army during the Vietnam War. He also served as Able Team’s medic. Most of the time, Blancanales acted as the team’s primary spokesperson due in no small part to his talent at being charming and gregarious.

The team leader was glad to leave these two men to their specific talents. Lyons had first met Bolan when the two men were on opposite sides of the law. Bolan had not spared Lyons’s life once, but three times, actually, and it came as quite a surprise when Bolan and Brognola approached him about joining Able Team as their leader—not that he wasn’t qualified. The only member of Stony Man’s field units who had never served in the Armed Forces, Lyons had been a member of the LAPD SWAT team and a decorated police sergeant. His successful completion of the Ironman competition, coupled with his intense inner strength and physical stature, had earned him the nickname and he wore it well.

“We got a major shit storm in front of us and all you two can think about is food?” Lyons grumbled. “Hopeless, utterly hopeless.”

“Well, who peed on your cereal this morning?” Schwarz asked.

“You know he gets like that when he gets hungry, too,” Blancanales said. “He’s the boss so he’s not really allowed to show his discomfort.”

Ignoring the chance offered by his two friends to trade coarse jokes, Lyons said, “What do we know about this General Saroyan?”

“Highly decorated officer,” Blancanales cited mechanically. “Came up the hard way, from what I understand. Did tours in both Iraq wars and spent some time with a military intelligence unit following the 9/11 attacks. He’s been post commander here at Camp Shelby since 2007. Definitely not the politicking type, which means we can probably assume he’ll shoot straight with us.”

“He’d better,” Schwarz interjected. “The guy doesn’t have any choice, especially in light of the fact they decided to slap Army CID credentials on us.”

“If he’s got nothing to hide then I don’t think we’ll have to worry about it,” Lyons said. “I’m actually more concerned about the disappearance of Colonel Scott. Barb was right when she told us this guy going AWOL and the disappearance of the spook in Khartoum was entirely too proximal to be an accident.”

“Well, let’s just remember we’re not supposed to know anything about Scott unless Saroyan mentions him,” Blancanales reminded them. “The Farm got that information from someone inside the administrative ranks. We have to keep our investigation focused on the missing weapons. If Scott’s disappearance comes up then maybe we can take an interest, be able to logically tie the two incidents together.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan to me,” Lyons said. “The sooner we can get this done the sooner we can get to work and find the bad guys.”

“While we’re on the subject of bad guys, what do you two think about Scott’s disappearance?” Schwarz asked.

“What do you mean?” Blancanales said.

“Well, I just mean that while his splitting is obviously not coincidental, we don’t have any evidence so far that suggests he was taken involuntarily. If we assume he was kidnapped or worse, that would imply whoever’s behind smuggling these weapons off this base and out to members of the Lord’s Resistance Army would have to be in country. Even if we are able to swing this so that our looking into Scott’s disappearance just seems like part of the case, it’s a good chance we might walk into a trap.”

“You’re thinking members of the Lord’s Resistance Army might figure someone will come looking for him,” Lyons said.

“Exactly.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve walked in with blinders on for the sake of government red tape,” Blancanales said. “I think we just have to wait and see what happens.”

“Are we there yet?” Lyons asked in an attempt to lighten the conversation a bit.

“I thought I told you to go before we left,” Blancanales shot back.

Lyons took the opportunity to give him a light tap in the arm, if there was any such thing from the blond warrior, as Blancanales turned into the parking lot of the base headquarters building. After locating a guest parking spot and asking a short, pert brunette in uniform where they could find the base commander’s office, Blancanales and Schwarz made their way dutifully toward the entrance to which she pointed. Lyons straggled just a bit, taking the opportunity to watch her walk away—appreciative of the shapely legs that protruded from the dark green skirt and dipped into black shoes that clopped along the sidewalk in rhythm to her walk.

Shaking himself and realizing his friends had made considerable distance, Lyons jogged after them with just the hint of a smile.

The men found the office of Major General Anthony Saroyan and were shown in by a young sergeant as soon as they arrived. The place was spacious and nicely decorated, many of the pieces on the furniture from the turn of the nineteenth century. There was a fair amount of war memorabilia sitting along the high shelves and a fairly large bookcase occupied another wall. The desk was the only military-issue item in the whole place, and the chairs shown to the Able Team warriors were unusually comfortable.

They were barely seated when a tall, distinguished-looking man in his early fifties entered the room. He had thin hair of a color somewhere between white and gray. The eyes were equally gray but there was no mistaking the intelligence and hard discipline behind them. He was attired in standard Class B uniform, and a bucket-load of medals adorned the left breast of his shirt. The twin stars of his rank rode on dark green epaulettes and glistened in the morning light that streamed through the window.

They rose to attention and saluted in unison. He returned the salute casually, shook hands with each of them in turn and then took a seat behind his desk.

“Gentlemen, this is Command Sergeant Major Shubin,” Saroyan said, gesturing to a man who entered right at that point and took a position near the general’s desk.

Shubin was considerably shorter than his CO but no less intense. He wore the identical Class B uniform and nearly as many medals, the only difference being that on his epaulettes were three stripes and three rockers, a star cradled in a leaf centered between the chevrons.

Saroyan continued. “Sergeant Major Shubin is the senior noncommissioned officer on the base, and I’ve asked him to be a part of this inquiry since the armory here at Camp Shelby falls under his purview along with all of the other S1 depots.”

“That’s all well and good, sir,” Lyons replied, adding the honorific quickly as an afterthought. Damn, he’d almost blown it and he’d barely opened his mouth. “But I assumed that we would be joined by your senior supply officer, as well. We are, after all, talking about a dozen missing assault rifles.”

“I’ll be candid with you, primarily because you are representatives of the Army’s chief law-enforcement division,” Saroyan said. “Under most circumstances I would’ve had Colonel Scott join us. Unfortunately, he had to leave the base quite suddenly. A family emergency—I’m sure you understand.”

“I see,” Lyons said. He glanced at Shubin and then returned his attention to Saroyan. “Well, I have every confidence the sergeant major here can assist in our investigation.”

“Sir,” Blancanales interjected, intent on getting the situation into their control as soon as possible. “Being as these weapons have gone missing and Colonel Scott is not present—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Chief…?” Saroyan’s voice trailed off.

“You’ll pardon me, sir,” Blancanales said. He made a show of reaching for his credentials.

Seeing they had not demonstrated proper protocol, Lyons and Schwarz followed suit. They should have presented their identification and orders to investigate to the base commander immediately on arrival, but they knew the oversight would be forgivable under the circumstances. If nothing else, Blancanales was convinced Saroyan didn’t know anything about the missing weapons; his choice to not tell them Scott was actually AWOL was little more than courteous. No matter whom they represented, in Saroyan’s and Shubin’s view the trio were outsiders and would be treated as such where it concerned reputable Army officers until they had proved their trustworthiness.

Once Saroyan made a cursory inspection of their credentials, he sat back and smiled, although Blancanales didn’t see much warmth in it.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with formalities,” Saroyan said, “I’d like to follow up on your earlier comment. I’ve known Colonel Scott for a good many years, gentlemen. As a matter of fact he served as my S1 officer during Operation Iraqi Freedom. He’s a man of good reputation, not to mention a United States Army officer and a gentleman. I’m sure his family emergency has nothing to do with the missing weapons.”

“Sir, you’ll understand if we tell you that it’s our responsibility to investigate anything we think may be related to these missing weapons,” Lyons said.

“I know your responsibilities, Mr. Irons.”

“I think what Chief Irons is actually trying to say,” Blancanales cut in, “is that we must consider Colonel Scott’s sudden departure as a little untimely. We do need to review all possibilities, of course. However, under the present circumstances will be more than happy to work with Sergeant Major Shubin until we can speak with Colonel Scott.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Rose,” Shubin said.

“You must understand, sir, that we will have to speak with Colonel Scott before we leave Camp Shelby and return to Washington,” Schwarz hastily added.

“Of course, absolutely,” Saroyan said. “As I’ve already told you, gentlemen, you will have the full cooperation of me and my staff and the resources of Camp Shelby at your disposal. We’re ready to cooperate with your investigation.”

“Thank you,” Lyons replied.

Saroyan turned his attention to Shubin. “Sergeant Major, escort these men to their quarters. I’m sure they would like to get cleaned up before heading to the armory and speaking with Lieutenant Jaeger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who’s Lieutenant Jaeger, sir?” Lyons said.

“Jaeger’s Colonel Scott’s XO. He’ll be able to answer any questions you have to your satisfaction.” Saroyan favored Schwarz with a glance and added, “That is, of course, until Colonel Scott can get back here.”

“Exactly how long is Colonel Scott expected to be gone, sir?” Blancanales asked.

Lyons had difficulty repressing a smile. While his tactics were much different in human interactions, there were times the wisdom of his friend shone through. He knew that Blancanales hadn’t asked the question because he actually wanted to know when Scott would return; Blancanales wanted to see how Saroyan would dance around the inquiry.

Saroyan replied straight-faced. “I’m not really certain since it was an emergency. I approved a pass of up to seventy-two hours for him if needed, and so I would expect him back here in that time unless he notifies my office prior to that, of course. Will there be anything else?”

“Not at all,” Blancanales replied. “Thank you again, sir.”

The three men rose, the meeting obviously adjourned, and Shubin escorted them out to the parking lot. They decided to follow him rather than ride in his vehicle so they could discuss the short, if not very strange, meeting with Shubin and Saroyan. Rather than go to their quarters, however, Lyons had insisted Shubin take them straight to the armory depot where the missing weapons had been stored.

“I don’t like him,” Lyons said when they were alone.

“Who…Saroyan?” Schwarz asked.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think he’s a bad egg,” Blancanales said. “And he doesn’t strike me as the type who would get into arms smuggling, especially not with all the checks and balances that are required.”

“This was obviously an inside job, Pol,” Lyons insisted.

“I don’t disagree.” Blancanales shook his head. “But at the end of the day I don’t think Saroyan had anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, but he lied for Scott with that cockamamie story about him having emergency leave,” Schwarz said.

“Covering the ass of a trusted officer doesn’t automatically qualify the guy for collusion with Sudanese terrorists,” Blancanales reminded his friend. “Not to mention the fact that we have no hard evidence to suggest even Colonel Scott’s culpable. We’re talking about high treason here, committed by more than one Army officer, and I’m not entirely convinced that’s the case.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time somebody inside the U.S. military flipped sides,” Lyons said.

“Of course not. But let’s consider motives, Ironman, or at least the lack thereof in this case.”

Schwarz said, “He’s got a point there. There really isn’t any evidence to suggest Scott or Saroyan is working with the Lord’s Resistance Army.”

“I can think of one very good motive,” Lyons countered. “Money.”

“According to the initial reports we got from the Farm, only twelve weapons were missing,” Schwarz said. “The U.S. military property ownership stampings were still on them along with the serial numbers, making them easily tracked, which means that most of the guns could have fetched a price of maybe five hundred dollars each.”

“So six grand for the lot, and that’s before you pay off customs inspectors, smugglers and anybody else who’s due a cut,” Blancanales said. He looked at Lyons and replied, “Doesn’t seem worth spending the next thirty years at Leavenworth for chump change.”

“Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought of that,” Lyons admitted.

“You know what strikes me as odd?” Blancanales asked.

“The fact you haven’t been on a real date in the last decade?” Schwarz offered.

“Oh…we have a funny guy on our hands,” Blancanales said. He continued in a more serious tone. “What really strikes me as odd is why only a dozen guns. Sure, they’re military-grade small arms. M-16 A-3 carbines in the hands of trained terrorists or guerrillas can do some significant damage. But you’re not going to win a war with them and it seems like an awful lot of effort to go to just for a few guns.”

“Especially if you’re shipping them to a country where guns are a dime a dozen,” Schwarz said.

Lyons had to admit he hadn’t considered it and there was no disputing Blancanales’s point—no surprises since most of his friend’s observations were equally astute. Conflict had been going on for so long in Sudan with the skirmishes and microcosmic civil wars between the various groups, each fighting for its own power and political position, that the arms market had all but consumed the meager resources of the country. Illegal weapons came from every part of the world: Europe, China, parts of Southeast Asia and the Middle East.

And now the United States.

There was certainly no shortage of guns in Sudan. Way more money could be made sending things like food, potable water and nutritional supplements. Medications were also a big game in Sudan. An entire pharmaceutical underground had been established in the country, selling everything from antibiotics to painkillers to experimental drugs. American military personnel getting involved in smuggling weapons out of the United States, even civilians, appeared to create a risk much greater than would prove profitable. It just didn’t make any sense.

“Well, whatever’s going on,” Lyons finally said after a time of silence, “we need to get to the bottom of it so we can get the intelligence to Phoenix Force. David and friends are going to need that information in order to accomplish their mission objectives.”

“No argument from me,” Schwarz said.

“Agreed,” Blancanales added. “I would hate to think our dragging ass caused them a lot of additional heartache. If we—”

Blancanales never got to finish his statement as Schwarz shouted and pointed in the direction of a van hurtling toward the intersection they were approaching from their left. At the speed they were moving it seemed evident they would impact Shubin’s car at precisely the moment he reached the middle of the intersection. The cross street had the stop, and from Shubin’s speed it appeared the Army noncom hadn’t spotted the looming peril.

“That’s trouble!” Schwarz cried.

“He doesn’t see them, Pol,” Lyons said. “We need to get in front of him!”

Blancanales was obviously already in tune with the thoughts of his friend because he’d tromped the accelerator and whipped the nose of their sedan into the oncoming lane to pass Shubin. As they gained ground, the precious seconds ticking, Blancanales ordered his friends to brace for impact.

And then they smashed headlong into the fender of the van.


CHAPTER FOUR

The crunch of impact and screech of metal tearing fiberglass blasted the ears of the Able Team warriors.

All senses came alive for the trio as their sedan glanced off the van—the torsion created by the forces of the spinning vehicle caused their hearts to bottom out in their stomachs, or at least it felt that way. Blancanales gritted his teeth as he worked the steering wheel to keep some control. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best plan they’d ever come up with but at least it hadn’t ended in disaster for Shubin. Now all Blancanales had to do was to get the sedan stopped or at least to ditch it in a place that wouldn’t put any bystanders at risk. He waited until the sedan spun 180 degrees and then slammed the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. The increased speed and sudden change of direction brought them neatly out of the spin that would have occurred had a trained stunt driver not been at the wheel.

Blancanales checked the rearview mirror, found his saving grace in a fire hydrant and jammed on the brakes just before hitting it. The rear bumper collided with the hydrant, shearing off the top portion as the breakaway safety cells locked into place to prevent water from bursting out of the pipe. The valves were not intended to completely block water flow; they merely reduced the amount of water that leaked out and diffused the pressure generated from the hydrant’s direct connection to a water main. The result was a bubbling fountain that came aboveground with enough pressure to pool around the vehicle and christen it to a stop.

Lyons took several deep breaths and then barked, “Report status!”

“Nothing broken,” Schwarz said from the backseat. “I’m good.”

“Pol?” Lyons didn’t get an answer and looked in the direction of his friend. Blancanales stared through the windshield and although he seemed unharmed, his skin had blanched somewhat. “Blancanales, snap out of it! Are you okay?”

“I’ll need new shorts but I’m good.” He waved out the window and added, “I think we’re just getting started.”

All three watched as the rear doors of the van, now on its side with the front wheels still turning, burst open and armed men staggered out. The scene was almost surreal as if the van was some great creation machine vomiting human offspring. They numbered six in all and appeared to be Caucasians save for one with dark skin and black curly hair. They wore camouflage fatigue pants, black T-shirts and combat boots. Their weapons were mostly SMGs with one or two full-profile assault rifles in the mix. At first they didn’t appear hostile toward Able Team or Shubin but that changed quickly enough.

Lyons noticed they were gaining their senses and a few began to sweep the area with the muzzles of their weapons for threats. Shubin had somehow managed to steer his sedan onto a sidewalk and smash into the exterior wall of a PX building. The senior noncom was trying to get his door open, kicking at it while uttering what were probably curses although Lyons couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Hostiles. Let’s hit it,” Lyons said.

The trio went EVA and drew their pistols.

Lyons carried his trusty Colt revolver—this time a .44 Magnum Anaconda with 240-grain jacketed hollowpoints. Blancanales produced his SIG-Sauer P-226 chambered for .357 Magnum. The standard of combat handguns carried by federal law enforcement, Texas Rangers and Navy SEALs, the SIG had proved itself a formidable ally and Blancanales favored it for close-quarters combat. Schwarz had selected a Model 92—a military variant of the Beretta 92-SB—that Stony Man’s crackerjack armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had modified to withstand a hotter 9 mm load and an 18-round magazine.

While the pistols might not have been much good against the autoweapons carried by their enemy, they were effective tools in the hands of these veterans, who weren’t shy about demonstrating that fact as they left the sedan and set down a steady stream of fire.

Lyons’s handcannon boomed its first report as the Able Team leader took one of the gunners with a clean shot to the head. The heavy slug busted the man’s skull open and showered his stunned companions with blood and gray matter. Lyons sighted on the second target but Blancanales beat him to the punch with a double tap from his SIG. Both .357 Magnum rounds cut through the man’s breastbone and lodged deep in his lungs. Pink, frothy sputum erupted from his mouth and his weapon flew from numb fingers.

The remaining four realized they had suddenly become targets, their ranks reduced by a third in just seconds. Each man scrambled for cover but realized he was in a poor position for it. They realized the best they could do was split up, each man for himself, and try to keep the heads of the Able Team warriors down while they broke for some kind of shelter from the assault.

“Pol, trunk!” Schwarz shouted as he snapped off three rounds of his own.

Blancanales ceased firing long enough from his position behind the door to reach in and stab at the switch for the trunk release. Schwarz urged his friends to get behind the rear doors, all knowing the thin skin of the fiberglass and metal in the modern sedan wouldn’t do much to stop the heavy-caliber rounds. At least the rear doors, both which Schwarz had opened for them, would add additional shielding. Lyons and Blancanales made their dash for the failsafe retreat position even as the enemy began to reach cover and return fire. A maelstrom of rounds peppered the front doors and windshield, a couple tearing through the front doors and exiting the other side in the empty space vacated by the Able Team warriors milliseconds before.

Schwarz reached the trunk, unzipped a long bag and came away with his prize. The M-16 A-3/M-203 sported the classic combination of effective small-arms features. Built with a carbine-style profile, it chambered 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds. The tubular style grenade launcher running beneath the foregrips fired a variant of the 40 mm grenades of the grenadier’s choosing. Schwarz settled for a high-explosive round this time around, retrieving a satchel of HEs as he ratcheted the breech forward with one hand.

Schwarz popped a shell into the breech, jacked the tube home with a click and flipped the leaf sight into action. He knelt, locked the stock against his shoulder, quick-sighted and squeezed the launcher trigger. The weapon kicked against his shoulder with the force of a 12-gauge shotgun, which paled in comparison to the impact of the blast that came a second later. The shell struck the van center mass and exploded on impact. A fireball erupted from the vehicle, followed by a roiling black cloud of smoke. A secondary explosion signaled the ignition of the gas tank. The blast didn’t engulf their enemies but a good number of them were knocked off their feet by the concussion.

Schwarz didn’t relent, rocking the tube forward to eject the inert shell and popping a fresh one into the breech.

Blancanales called for Schwarz to surrender his Beretta, which he did reluctantly, but also understanding when his friend gestured in Shubin’s direction. He tossed the pistol underhanded and Blancanales caught it one-handed. Schwarz then aimed the grenade launcher and triggered the second 40 mm HE shell. This one he adjusted to land a little farther aft of the van but with no less a devastating effect. Two more of the hostiles died on their feet as the blast separated appendages from torsos and the superheated gases incinerated flesh.

Blancanales used the distraction of the explosion to break cover and beeline for Shubin’s sedan. He reached the car unscathed and wrenched on the door with all his might. It came open enough to allow Shubin to squeak out. Blancanales handed the Beretta to the Army noncom and then urged them to get cover behind the sedan. They took no fire during the time, as the enemy had its hands full between the explosions, autofire from Schwarz’s M-16 A-3 and the sheer, violent will of Lyons and his Anaconda.

Blancanales and Shubin did manage to pick off a gunner who had adequate protection from Lyons’s and Schwarz’s position but could not defend his flank. They triggered shots simultaneously, two rounds from Shubin’s 9 mm punching into the guy’s ribs while Blancanales’s .357 clipped his skull enough to tear away the top of his brain. The corpse teetered and then collapsed, twitching a moment before going still.

That left one man who must have realized his opponents had him outgunned because he emerged from cover, threw down his weapons and raised his arms high.

None of the Able Team warriors moved at first, suspecting a potential trick. They could wait it out as long as necessary now that they had the advantages of position and numbers. After some time passed without the appearance of additional hostiles, Lyons broke cover and moved in to secure the prisoner with a pair of plastic riot cuffs sent with him courtesy of Schwarz. Within a few minutes they had the enemy combatant secured. Lyons counted at least five confirmed kills and he suspected at least one or two more never made it out of the van.

The warriors gathered around Shubin’s government sedan, a safe distance from the flames and thick, acrid smoke that marked what remained of the enemy vehicle. Their prisoner said nothing—he looked American enough but acted as if either mute or non-English-speaking. Either way, the men of Able Team were careful not to say anything classified around the guy in case he was playing possum, a reflex of their training and experience.

The wail of military police sirens drew nearer by the moment.

Schwarz jerked a thumb at their prisoner and said, “We can turn sunshine here over to the MPs when they arrive.”

“Don’t you think we ought to interrogate him?” Shubin asked not without surprise.

“We don’t have the facilities or a secure location to keep him on ice until we can get to that,” Lyons said. “We need to report back to Washington first.”

Shubin expressed confusion.

“This changes things, Sergeant Major,” Blancanales explained. “We’re on a time-critical mission here. That mission just got bumped up.”

Shubin eyed each of the men in turn with skepticism. “There’s no way in hell I’m buying you guys are actually with CID. Not even for a second. So who are you…really?”

“What makes you think we’re not CID?” Blancanales asked.

“You’re kidding, right? I was in the MP Corps for about the first half of my career, then I moved to light infantry. I’ve met many CID and not one of them would have ever responded the way you guys did. You saw that attack coming, you deterred it—saving my ass in the process by the way, for which I’m real grateful—then took those guys down like you’d done it a thousand times before. I’m guessing you probably have.” Shubin jutted his chin toward the M-16 A-3/M-203 slung across Schwarz’s shoulder. “And don’t tell me that over-and-under is standard CID issue. The sixteen I could see, but no way they issue M-203s to just anybody.”

Lyons smiled. “We’re the good guys—that’s about all we can tell you.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be grateful enough to us that we might keep this between ourselves for now?”

Shubin shrugged. “I can keep a secret but I still have to make a full report to General Saroyan. He’ll have questions. Lots of them.”

“Yeah,” Lyons half said, half grunted. “Can’t wait.”



“WHAT IN THE holy crapping hell did you guys think you were doing?” Major General Anthony Saroyan’s expression bore unchecked apoplexy. “This is a fucking nightmare! I’ll have Congressional inquiries running through here for the next goddamn year!”

“Sir,” Blancanales began with buttery humility, “if you could just listen—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Chief Rose!” Saroyan countered. “I’m the MMFIC on this post, not to mention I outrank all of you! So you’d do well to shut up until you have permission to speak.”

Blancanales closed his yap, erring on the side of discretion being the better part of valor. Not that it mattered, because before Saroyan could continue his tirade the phone jingled on his desk for attention. The officer bristled, stopping in midstride the pacing he’d been doing while chewing out the collective asses of the three CID officers. He looked at first as if he might throw the phone across the room, but then appeared to think better of it and swiped up the receiver in one meaty hand.

“Yes?” he barked. A pause and then he looked almost dazed as wrinkles formed in his forehead. “Who is on the line?”

A longer pause ensued during which he looked warily at the three men still standing at attention in front of him. He waved at them to indicate they could stand at ease and they complied.

At least the guy wasn’t a complete tool, Lyons thought.

“Of course, put him through,” Saroyan said.

For the next five minutes Saroyan practically stood at attention himself, saying very little except for an occasional “yes, sir” or “of course, sir” and even one “I understand perfectly, sir.” After nearly five minutes Saroyan gently placed the receiver into the cradle, looked over the three warriors and scratched his chin. His previous hardness had melted from his body language and he finally waved Able Team into seats.

“Sit down, boys,” Saroyan said. “It would seem that I’ve been a bit hasty.”

“Perfectly understandable, sir,” Blancanales said, and Schwarz nodded as if in complete agreement.

Lyons didn’t react beyond a smirk.

Saroyan sat and rubbed at his temples, obviously feeling a headache coming on. He said, “Okay, I guess we can cut through the bullshit. You guys obviously aren’t CID and from what I just heard it would seem I no longer have any authority over your actions.” He looked out the window of his office absently and added, “But I do want to remind you that you’re still guests of the United States Army while on this post. I’d prefer you avoid any further firefights or other hostile actions while here.”

“It’s not like we had a lot of choice,” Lyons muttered.

“Ironman,” Blancanales cut in easily.

Saroyan looked at the men. “You can understand why this is going to make things very difficult for me. Fortunately, it’s Sunday and that means a good number of the civilian DOA and DOD workers are off post. Most permanent party is gone, as well, since this isn’t an active training weekend.”

“It does help that you maintain the largest Army reservist post in the country,” Schwarz agreed.

“It means we can keep this quiet and hopefully the press won’t get wind,” Saroyan replied. “Washington has assured me they’ll do everything possible to spin this right when it goes public. They’re going to call it an accident.”

“That might wash for a while but it won’t keep long,” Lyons said.

“And it’ll definitely squeeze our mission objectives against the wall,” Schwarz pointed out.

Saroyan cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could help you with that if I knew more about your actual mission here.”

“You could start by leveling with us about Colonel Scott,” Lyons said.

Saroyan’s expression made it apparent he had hoped to avoid that discussion, but at this point they all knew he didn’t have a choice. Someone, maybe even the President himself, had just handed the base commander his ass, and maintaining the coy routine wouldn’t be a great career move. Lyons could understand the man’s position—he didn’t give a shit, but he understood.

“Colonel Scott isn’t on a family emergency. He’s missing and all attempts to reach him have proved unsuccessful.” Saroyan reached into the drawer of his desk, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and fired one up. Smoking inside a government building was forbidden but being Saroyan was the MMFIC, who was going to argue?

“How long?” Lyons asked.

“Going on forty-eight hours,” Shubin answered.

“You’ve reported him AWOL, I assume?” Blancanales inquired.

Saroyan shook his head as he dragged on the cigarette.

“You’re trying to keep it quiet.”

“Yes, but I can’t hold out much longer,” Saroyan replied through a cloud of smoke. “It’s my discretion to consider him merely absent from appointed place of duty for up to three days. After that, I have to notify the base provost marshal and Washington that he’s AWOL due to his rank and security clearances.”

“You should have reported his absence immediately,” Lyons said. He raised a hand to ward off any defensive posture.

“But that’s spilled milk,” Blancanales added quickly to minimize the risk Saroyan would go on the defensive. “So you’ve leveled with us and we at least owe you that much in return, General. In short, guerrillas in Sudan friendly to U.S. interests stumbled onto a small cache of weapons in the possession of terrorists with the Lord’s Resistance Army. The serial numbers of those arms were traced to inventory held in the main armory here on this base.”

Saroyan stopped with the cigarette midway to his lips and his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” Shubin muttered.

“Indeed,” Blancanales said with a nod.

“So you think Colonel Scott’s disappearance is related,” Saroyan said.

“Seems little doubt of that now,” Lyons said. “We have some others headed to Sudan now to check out this story personally, since it’s a good bet those aren’t the only U.S. armaments that might be in the country. Not even every weapon they found had been accounted for.”

“So you’re suggesting Colonel Scott’s in on it.”

“We’re not suggesting anything of the sort…yet. But there’s no doubt his disappearance is more than coincidence. He might be a hostage, maybe even taken by those who were behind what went down this morning.”

“Okay, so obviously we’ve confirmed these weapons are from here at Camp Shelby,” Shubin said. “That still doesn’t explain how they managed to get them out of the country and into Sudan, never mind getting them off this base.”

“It’s possible the LRA has a network inside the country,” Lyons said.

“And that they’ve been here for a while, giving them the time and opportunity to build resources,” Schwarz added.

“You’re suggesting a conspiracy?” Saroyan asked.

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” Lyons fired back. “If memory serves, it wasn’t that long ago Nadil Hasan opened up with a pistol at the largest military installation in the free world, an act ultimately tied to terrorist conspirators. And he was an American citizen. How implausible is it that foreigners could penetrate this country and set up an arms-smuggling pipeline?”

The room fell silent for a time.

“Would it help if I gave you the address of Colonel Scott’s off-post housing?” Saroyan eventually said.

“It’s a start,” Blancanales said. “You never know what we might find.”

“And that’s exactly what worries me,” Saroyan replied.


CHAPTER FIVE

Kampala, Uganda

It was late afternoon when traffic control cleared Jack Grimaldi to land at the airport and directed him to a private hangar—at least that’s what Ugandan air traffic officials called it. A half dozen uniformed security officers with SMGs slung at their sides waited. They wore brown khaki uniforms with utility caps but the weapons made them look more like military troops than police.

As Grimaldi taxied the Stony Man Gulfstream C21 to a halt, McCarter stepped to the main door and disengaged the locks. The engines had barely wound down when the Phoenix Force leader pushed the door out, letting it fall into debarking position. He then stepped aside and gestured for Hawkins to go first since it was Hawkins who could most convincingly act like a Texas oil baron.

As soon as Hawkins’s feet hit the tarmac, a man wearing black epaulettes with a circle and diamond on them—the rank insignia for an inspector—stepped forward smartly and extended his hand.

“Good day, sir.” The man had very dark skin and an impenetrable expression. “I am Captain Bukenya of the Ugandan Police Force. Please note until I have cleared you that you are not free to leave this area, and that your persons and aircraft are subject to inspection now or at any time that you are in Uganda or its airspace. Before I begin my inspection, have you anything to declare?”

“I have something to declare, all right!” Hawkins said in good-old-boy fashion while pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his neck. “It is blessed hot in this country here and I mean hot, boy! We don’t get anywhere near this kind of humidity in Texas. You hear what I’m saying?”

Bukenya appeared unaffected and instead directed his men to begin their inspection. They fanned out, two covering Hawkins and his entourage with their weapons held loosely at the ready while three more headed for the plane. The inspector nodded to the remaining officer, who ordered them to line up and patted down each man in turn.

Phoenix Force took the entire parade in stride, confident the more cooperative they acted the quicker they could move past this. The men who went aboard the plane cleared Grimaldi from the cockpit first but the pilot gestured toward McCarter to indicate he had a close eye on them. They had no reason to worry since the armory aboard their plane was well concealed in the fuselage and boasted electronic scanning countermeasures developed by Stony Man’s resident cybernetics wizard, Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman. Short of tearing the plane apart, the inspection team wouldn’t even know it existed.

The inspection took less than five minutes—something McCarter noted with interest. He wondered if there hadn’t been a little influence wielded by the Oval Office but dismissed the idea as quickly. It wouldn’t be in their best interest for the U.S. to alert Ugandan officials that Phoenix Force was anything other than who they declared: oil tycoons with a Texas-based petroleum company. The cover seemed adequate considering the large number of such interests in Uganda. The country was a gold mine for trade with U.S. refineries, in particular, and trading continued free of a good many restrictions. Of course the companies that dealt with Uganda paid a premium for that access, so the inspector’s relaxed search of their plane had likely been at the behest of his own government.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Bukenya said. “Do you need me to arrange some transportation into the city or have you made other arrangements?”

A chocolate-brown omnibus arrived before Hawkins could reply, a young man at the wheel with shiny dark skin. He rolled down the window and in perfect English said, “You Joes call for a driver?”

Hawkins rendered a casual wave and then grinned at Bukenya. “We called ahead so our travel arrangements are made.”

“And how long will you be in Uganda, gentlemen?”

“Two days at most,” Hawkins said, mostly because he hoped it was the literal truth.

Bukenya slapped the palm of his hand with Hawkins’s passport, his eyes narrowing a bit; he looked as if he wanted to say something else but finally he returned the passports to each man in turn and bid them farewell in his native language. Bukenya whirled on his heel, barked at his officers and in a minute they were gone.

As soon as McCarter exchanged pass phrases with the omnibus driver, he struck up a conversation while the Phoenix warriors loaded up their gear and climbed aboard. Within a minute they were away from the airport and headed north out of what passed for the bustle of Kampala.

“Where we headed, mate?”

In spite of the more stilted intervals, Kumar’s command of English was good enough that he could be understood. “We can go as far as the border. From there, we will have to go by foot.”

“What about our wheels?” Encizo asked from his position in the seat immediately behind Kumar.

The Sudanese freedom fighter glanced in the rearview mirror. “I have a friend who will pick it up and return it to the station here in Kampala.”

“We’re going to walk from the border?” Hawkins inquired. He let out a whistle and added, “That’s a pretty good hike.”

“My thoughts exactly,” McCarter said. “I don’t know how much you know about our mission here but we’re sort of short on time, bloke.”

“I understand,” Kumar replied. “There is another vehicle that will pick us up near Nimule National Park in my country, which shares its southern tip with Uganda. This is an area with large tourism, and lots of vans like this one, so we should not stand out. We will slip across the border under cover of darkness.”

“How far to the border?” Hawkins asked.

“I believe…um, maybe eighty kilometers.”

“You speak English well,” Encizo said. “You had training?”

“Most of the men in our camp are taught English by the U.S. advisers. We are told these men are from language schools and are permitted in the country to help us with reading and writing.” He chuckled and added, “But we know they are actually from your CIA.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things that has us concerned,” McCarter said. “You know anything about our man who disappeared or who might have him?”

“It is not strange, this,” Kumar replied. “Americans are always disappearing here. Some just leave and others are killed by wild animals. Some are kidnapped for ransom, perhaps, but not most. Most are tourists and without much money. And they tend to stick to the larger cities. The rest are usually well guarded by police and their own security forces. Your man was known in Khartoum with many friends. I do not think anyone would risk taking him. They fear American retaliation too much these days.”

“That’s good,” Manning muttered. “They should be afraid of that.”

“What can you tell us about this Lord’s Resistance Army?” McCarter asked.

“They are a knife in our side, this much I swear,” Kumar said between clenched teeth. “We have lost many friends and family to these devils. I live now only to serve General Kiir and fight alongside my brothers to defend South Sudan.”

McCarter decided not to mention he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the rhetoric. He asked, “Is this the first time you’ve come across weapons made in the U.S.?”

Kumar nodded. “As far as I know. I’ve only been allowed into the field in the last year. I work for my brother, Samir, who is leader for our segment. It is actually he who found your guns.”

“When can we meet him?” Hawkins inquired.

“We will see him tonight, later…once we have made it over the border. He waits for us on the other side.”

McCarter reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew the photograph of Jodi Leighton. The CIA still hadn’t heard from their case officer in Khartoum, according to Stony Man’s last update. McCarter wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the Farm’s theory that if they followed Leighton’s trail it would naturally lead them to the weapons. Things weren’t always so cut-and-dried in the clandestine services, and McCarter had no reason to believe this would be any different. Still, Kiir’s men had way more eyes on the ground than the CIA or Stony Man could hope for; those personal connections were their very best hope to locating the missing agent.

“You ever see this man before?” McCarter said, passing the photograph to Kumar.

The Sudanese fighter took the picture, keeping one hand on the wheel while his eyes bounced between the photograph and the narrow road. He took his time before handing it back to McCarter. “He looks like Joe.”

“Joe?” Manning echoed.

“He is with your CIA.” Something caused Kumar to chuckle. “We called him Joe because that’s what he asked us to call him. He always treated us well, gave us information whenever we asked for it. My brother was not happy when we learned he’d been taken.”

That got McCarter’s attention. “Taken, you…you telling me that you know what happened to this chap?”

“Of course, that is why General Kiir requested you come. Joe was always fair with us. He never showed disrespect to our cause like so many of the CIA before him. He was a different man, a good man. It’s the Lakwena that took him. Most assuredly I tell you this.”

“How did they do it?” Encizo inquired.

“Joe would meet one of our people in the city twice a month. He would pass off whatever intelligence he had managed to buy or steal or trade about police movements, and in return we would give him whatever we could learn about the Lakwena.”

“Any idea what he’d do with that information?”

“He was working with another agent, a member of one of the British foreign intelligence services, although I am not sure which one. The men were friends, I think. Joe never told us anything about him and we didn’t ask. It was when he was supposed to meet this man to trade intelligence that Joe disappeared.”

“So you’re absolutely certain it was the Lord’s Resistance Army responsible for taking him?”

“As certain as I can be, yes.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence as McCarter considered this revelation. In all likelihood, if Leighton had been connected with a British foreign intelligence agent it was someone from MI6. Before long, Kumar turned off the highway onto a secondary road that gradually degraded from hardball to dirt and crushed rock, to baked mud with great ruts and divots. Eventually he stopped the vehicle.

“We must walk from here,” Kumar said.

McCarter ordered the team to go EVA, unload the vehicle and wipe it down for prints before questioning Kumar on their next move. It wasn’t that he mistrusted the guy as much as he wanted to know what they could expect to face out there. “Hoofing it across this kind of terrain at night isn’t exactly what we had planned, mate. We’re not equipped for a hike.”

“This is not a problem,” Kumar replied. “There is clothing in one of the bags for all of you, and I think you’ll find that it all fits. General Kiir was notified ahead of time of your arrival, so we planned all of this. You’ll find boots and fatigues, and drop bags for the clothes you are wearing. They may stay with this vehicle and all of your belongings will be delivered to Khartoum, where we were informed you would make your exit.”

“What about the rental?” James asked.

“We have friends here,” Kumar said. “Do not worry, gentlemen. They will pick it up and return it to the rental company.”

“How far do we have to go?” McCarter asked.

“Samir is less than three kilometers, on the other side of the border. We are now a half kilometer this side of my country, so we should be able to pass under cover of darkness without raising attention.”

“What if we encounter border patrols?”

Kumar laughed. “We have much greater worries than the border patrol. While there is a ceasefire between my people and the government of my country, we know that they still hire the Lakwena at times to do their dirty work. The patrols of these fighters, many of them barely men, are vigilant and familiar with the borderlands. They will be vigilant and they will not attack with warning, neither will they take prisoners. The ones who raped my sister and killed by mother and father are led by a man named Bukatem, Lester Bukatem. He has many who answer to him and he is feared in these parts.”

“Lester?” McCarter interjected. “That doesn’t sound much like an African name.”

“Many of the people here who end up in the refugee camps take on English or American names in the hope their real identities aren’t discovered,” Gary Manning pointed out. “These people live under constant surveillance or are perpetually targeted by the Lord’s Resistance Army. I’d venture a guess that this Bukatem was conscripted as a child and brainwashed to fight for the LRA during the 1990s, when the conflicts were still in full swing.”

Kumar nodded. “That is right. In fact, we were raised in the same village as this man. My older brother once called him friend. Now he is our enemy and if we ever make contact with him, I can guarantee he will experience a slow and dishonorable death.”

“Let me be clear with you, bloke,” McCarter said. “There’s no room in our mission here for your personal vendettas. We appreciate the help, but if you plan on using us to seek vengeance on this Lester wanker you’d best just put the idea out of your mind. We’re here to do two things—find out what happened to the man you call Joe and shut down the weapons pipeline to the LRA from the States. That’s it.”

Kumar didn’t look offended but when he replied his voice took on an edge. “I intend only to help you, American. There is no reason to tell me what my duties are. But you should know that my people must first swear fealty to our own because they are defenseless and God demands we protect the innocent.”

This was something with which McCarter could empathize and he nodded in acknowledgment. They understood each other.

As soon as the group had changed into their fatigues and stored their gear, they set out single file. Encizo took point. They didn’t know what they would encounter and it wouldn’t do for Kumar, the only one who really knew where to go and was intimate with all sides of this fight, to buy the farm for that very reason. Hence, McCarter put Kumar between him and Encizo, and the remaining Phoenix Force warriors followed, each careful to put at least ten yards between each man.

A steady rain had begun to fall, only making more precarious their already treacherous journey through the mountainous jungle terrain that made up the border between South Sudan and Uganda. For each man to know where the one in front of him was, since the cloud cover had suppressed what little moonlight might have illuminated the trail, the Phoenix warriors wore small LEDs that clipped to the backs of the military webbing that held their side arms and canteens. A long-life watch battery powered the dim light that glowed in a suffused red, just enough for a follower to see but virtually undetectable from observers at the front or side of the team. Each man carried a spare in his pocket, as well, in the event that his primary gave out.

McCarter hoped they wouldn’t be there that long.

As they traveled, his keen senses staying attuned to their surroundings, the Briton began to wonder what they were walking into. He didn’t mistrust Kumar—hell, the chap seemed cooperative and decent enough—but he couldn’t figure how Bukatem, or anyone in the LRA, would have known Leighton worked for the CIA. Not unless somebody told Bukatem. McCarter hated to think Leighton might have been betrayed by this mysterious British agent, who was most likely attached to either SAS or MI6. McCarter didn’t want to believe a countryman would betray a fellow agent but he also knew the rules were much different in the world of espionage.

In either case, the mission had suddenly become more complex. McCarter didn’t like complicated; the Phoenix Force leader liked simple. In fact the bloodier simple it was, the better. Unfortunately it didn’t appear things were going to get simpler.

After more than three hours of traveling, the entire crew drenched and worn down, McCarter was about to call for them to stop and rest when the staccato of autofire resounded from somewhere ahead of their position. McCarter couldn’t be sure of the distance, since sounds were difficult to judge in the dense foliage of the jungle, not to mention the dark. The reports of weapons were especially deceptive because they bounced off obstacles like trees and boulders, and were suppressed by the canopy of intertwined branches overhead. These factors usually made them closer than they sounded.

McCarter signaled the others to form on Kumar’s position and then moved forward to converse with Encizo.

“How far ahead, you think?” he asked the Cuban.

“Maybe fifty yards,” Encizo replied. “Hard to tell.”

“That’s about what I figured.”

“Sounds like quite a firefight, too.”

“Stand fast,” McCarter ordered. Encizo nodded and the Briton returned to Kumar. “We anywhere near our rendezvous point?”

“Very near,” Kumar replied with an anxious nod.

“Okay, it sounds like your brother may have hit some trouble.”

“I would agree.”

“We’re going to help him but we’ll do it my way. Understood?”

Kumar mumbled something McCarter deemed as affirmation.

McCarter turned his attention to Hawkins and James. “You two swing around on the west side and see if you can flank the fire zone, but don’t engage until you get my signal.”

“And what’s that?” James asked.

McCarter grinned wickedly. “You’ll bloody well know it when you hear it. Go.”

The pair moved off and McCarter tugged Manning’s shoulder to indicate he should stick close to Kumar. “Give us ten seconds, then follow on our position. Make sure you keep your fields of fire away from Hawk and Cal.”

Manning nodded.

McCarter turned and moved back to Encizo’s side. He reached to his belt and held up one of the M-69 fragmentation grenades that had been procured for his team by Kumar’s contacts in Uganda. “We’ll go in using the Old Fifty-One. You ready?”

Encizo nodded his understanding of McCarter’s plan. The technique dated back to the Korean War, a reference to when Korean forces attacked U.N. command positions that were manned by numerically superior forces. Because the Koreans wanted to ensure success, they attacked the positions using gongs and cymbals so as to disorient the enemy. McCarter planned the same thing, only using something more conventional and spectacular.

They set off and traveled about the distance Encizo estimated before they saw the first evidence of the firefight in the form of muzzle-flashes. From what McCarter could observe, it looked like a small skirmish. It was still too dark to determine what lay ahead, friend or foe, but McCarter wasn’t planning to lob the grenade into the center of the fray with reckless abandon. His solution would prove more elegant.

McCarter waved his fist to indicate Manning and Kumar should hold position where they were at—about fifteen yards to the rear—before he yanked the pin and tossed the grenade toward the east, far outside the perimeter of the fire zone. Three seconds ticked off before the hand bomb exploded.

And with that, Phoenix Force moved in to engage the enemy—whoever it might be.


CHAPTER SIX

David McCarter had been right: as soon as Hawkins and James heard the grenade explode, they weren’t in any doubt the show had opened.

“Sounds like an Old Fifty-One,” Hawkins whispered as he put the MP-5 he carried into battery.

James did the same with his M-16 A-3 carbine and replied, “Tally ho.”

The pair stepped from the jungle brush behind which they were concealed and met the first enemy gunners head-on. James wondered a moment how they could tell the bad guys from Kumar’s people but then he remembered that the LRA generally wore uniforms since they considered themselves an organized military force, while the SPLA dressed in whatever rags they could acquire. The green dungaree-style fatigues worn by the four men they encountered, coupled with the nasty silhouettes of Kalashnikov variants, served as positive identification.

The LRA fighters were surprised and while they responded with incredible speed, it couldn’t match the battle-tested skills of the Phoenix Force veterans. James leveled his M-16 A-3 and triggered a short burst that lifted the nearest target off his feet and dumped him into the wet grass with a sloppy thump. The 5.56 mm rounds from James’s weapon ripped holes in the man’s chest. The second gunner tried to swing the muzzle of his weapon to bear, but James had angled away from his original position and triggered a burst on the run. These also found their mark, stitching a bloody pattern across the man’s midsection. His eyes widened with shock and he triggered an ineffective burst of his own reflexively before staggering forward and dropping his now useless weapon. James finished with a second volley that blew off the top of the terrorist’s head.

T. J. Hawkins dispatched his first opponent with the sweep of a muzzle in corkscrew fashion. The 9 mm rounds weren’t as high-velocity as those from James’s weapon but they were no less effective. The slugs drilled through the man’s body and dumped him face-first in the wet muck of the jungle floor. The remaining LRA terrorist managed to get a short burst off before Hawkins cut him down with a fusillade that left a near-perfect vertical pattern from crotch to throat. The man produced a gargled scream as blood erupted from his mouth, the 9 mm buzzers rupturing his lungs.

The men of Phoenix Force swung their weapons in every direction but no further threats appeared, and they finally relaxed a moment to catch their breaths from the encounter.

One lucky round had hit Hawkins in the forearm, taking a small chunk of flesh with it. Hawkins didn’t immediately notice. It wasn’t until James pointed it out that the area began to burn like a dog bite. Calvin James, who doubled as the team medic, immediately whipped a medi-pouch from the small supply bag he carried, ripped the top away with his teeth and slapped it on the wound.

“Ouch! Shit, Cal, take it easy there,” Hawkins snapped.

“Don’t be a sissy,” James said as he wrapped the pouch with the attached elastic bandage and tied it off with a hasty knot.

“I thought you medical people were supposed to have some compassion.”

“Compassion won’t keep you from bleeding out.”

“Dandy of you to point that out,” Hawkins replied drolly.



THE REVERBERATIONS from the explosion had barely subsided when McCarter and Encizo burst through the underbrush and engaged the enemy.

The first LRA fighter, identifiable by the fatigues and gold epaulettes, was still preoccupied with the spectacular light show in the distance. That hesitation cost him his life as he detected Encizo’s approach much too late to respond effectively. The Cuban leveled his MP-5 sub-gun and triggered a short controlled burst that ripped through the man’s guts and spun him into a tree. He smacked the trunk head-on and fell stiffly onto his back.

McCarter took the next two with a weapon he’d not utilized in some years, an Ingram M-10 machine pistol. While no longer as popular as it had once been, the Ingram suited McCarter in a close-quarters situation due to its accuracy at shorter ranges and its stopping power. The weapon stuttered, McCarter holding it tight and low as it spit death at a rate of nearly 1200 rounds per minute. Of course, McCarter didn’t need nearly that many since the .45 ACP slugs, one of the two native calibers for the M-10, proved more than effective.

The first LRA terrorist caught a 4-round burst dead-center, the slugs blowing golf-ball-size holes out his back. The second took two rounds to the pelvis, which left smashed bone and cartilage in their wake. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, the scream cut short by two more rounds that entered below his jaw at an angle and blew off the top of his skull, generating a grisly spray of blood and gray matter.

McCarter and Encizo pressed forward even before the last body hit the ground. A couple of rounds buzzed over their heads but it sounded as if most of the fighting had abated. The warriors pushed through more brush and entered a clearing where they spotted eight men, three of them on the ground motionless and a fourth cradled in the arms of another. Blood dribbled from the man’s mouth, visible only because another man had a flashlight on him.

The remaining men gathered around the pair turned toward McCarter and Encizo, raising their weapons in preparation to engage. McCarter heard a shout a heartbeat before something brushed past his arm. He looked to see Kumar throw himself in front of the Phoenix Force warriors and raise his hands.

“Wait! It is me. I have brought the Americans!”

The men waited a moment longer and then lowered their weapons. Kumar nodded at McCarter and then rushed to the man who knelt with the wounded one cradled in his arms. A brief conversation took place between them and each clamped the shoulder of the other. The man between them, blood continuing to ooze from the corners of his mouth, coughed and smiled at Kumar. Slowly, then, the light started to leave his eyes and less than thirty seconds later his body slumped in the arms of his comrade with a finality McCarter had seen too many times.

Gary Manning sidled alongside McCarter at about the same time as James and Hawkins appeared from the brush on the opposite side.

“What’s going on?” Manning inquired.

“I’m not sure but I think this was our rendezvous party,” McCarter said.

“Looks like they were ambushed before we could get here,” Encizo added.

“Well then, we’re bloody well lucky because if we’d met any earlier we would have been hit right along with these blokes.”

The men who had been ambushed were, in fact, Kumar’s people. He introduced the man who had been cradling the wounded SPLA fighter as his brother, Samir Taha. They shook hands in turn and then Taha ordered his men to secure the perimeter, searching the bodies for intelligence while they guarded the party from further attack.

“We thank you for coming when you did,” Taha said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” McCarter replied. He gestured toward James. “This here is Calvin. He’s a medic. Any of you hurt?”

“None that are still alive,” Taha replied as his eyes flicked to the dead body at his feet.

McCarter frowned. “How do you think the LRA knew you were here?”

“I do not know.”

“How about a guess?” Encizo pressed.

Taha looked at him with a haunted expression. “I do not guess, sir.”

“Okay, never mind that,” McCarter said with irritation. “We just bloody well need to worry about getting out of here. What about our man? Your brother seems to think that maybe this Bukatem bloke might have taken him. Do you believe that?”

“Our people in Khartoum have confirmed it. But we do not know the location of Bukatem’s base of operations or even if your man is still alive. We only know they are operating deep inside of our country. We do not know where. And General Kiir will not provide additional men to help in our search.”

McCarter smiled. “Well, let’s just see if we can’t help you with that.”



IT WAS DARK and musty and smelled of death.

Jodi Leighton had been in places like this, mostly during his early training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, as a U.S. Marine recruit, again during his urban terrain training facility prior to his assignment to Khartoum and then later at Langley during his tenure as a CIA operative trainee. But that had only been training; this was real life and he doubted he’d be going home alive at the end of the day.

Leighton had known the risks. Hell, he’d known the risk he was taking just agreeing to this assignment. It’s not as if he’d ever intended this to happen; neither had he expected to fall in love with British agent Kendra Hansom. A long-legged brunette and simply beautiful, she’d stolen his heart the first time he’d met her in that skanky little bar near Khartoum’s city buildings. Leighton wasn’t sure what had become of his British Secret Intelligence Service companion but he tried to keep his thoughts confined to their little trysts and secret meetings.

Of course, it hadn’t been easy to keep the affair a secret. He’d told his case superior, who chose to look the other way and declared plausible deniability if word got out. Leighton wondered if Kendra had spoken to any of her own SIS superiors about it. She’d always seemed like the straitlaced kind who followed orders, for the service of Her Majesty, and all that other patriotic rot for which some Britons were known. But there was also something entirely seductive about Kendra, something forbidden—in legal jargon he might have called his affair with her fruit of the poisonous tree. Such relationships were strictly forbidden, something Leighton’s supervisor had reminded him about when advising he’d completely deny knowledge if the affair came to light with his superiors.

Not that any of this mattered.

Leighton had accepted he was going to die and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. The mess he’d made getting involved with Kendra didn’t even come close to the one he’d made allowing Lester Bukatem to capture him. They had already tortured him, in a manner of speaking, although Bukatem hadn’t personally participated in the torture, nor had they asked him any questions. Not yet, anyway. Leighton suspected before long that they would and that’s when the real suffering would begin. It was times like these Leighton wondered why they didn’t issue an agent some kind of suicide remedy, like the old cyanide capsules, and he knew his ordeal had started to take its toll because he chuckled out loud at the cliché of this thinking.

It was nice to hope that someone might actually come after him, but Leighton knew there wouldn’t be any rescue this time. Bukatem had a base of operations in the middle of nowhere, which in this country was basically the equivalent of being in the middle of nowhere that was in the middle of nowhere…and so forth. Sudan had turned out to be a very poor country with little to offer.

Still, Leighton had always done his job the best he knew how. He’d made connections in Khartoum with agents from other secret foreign services—British and Israeli and Russian were just a few—along with establishing ties to the local chieftains. While the government of North Sudan maintained that it was in control, the SPLA still acted as a major influence in the region and protected its citizens as best it could from the guerrilla unit led by Bukatem.

Leighton had first learned the SPLA called the Lord’s Resistance Army by the name Lakwena his first couple of days in country. It was one little-known piece of valuable information his predecessor had left him. That was just before he got piss-drunk and tossed out of the sixth-story window of a club in downtown Frankfurt while in transit to the States, where he was to be debriefed before retiring. Somebody had decided to “retire” him early and some insiders even speculated he’d met his demise by doing something in Khartoum that displeased the unknown third party.

Leighton’s heart and breathing quickened a moment when he thought he heard the approach of his captors, but after a minute he relaxed some when they didn’t show. Cripes, man, don’t get worked into a tizzy, he thought. They’ll get to you soon enough.

Leighton heard the whisking aside of a tent flap, sensed the entry of at least one person and possibly more. He tried to get a feel for how many were actually inside the tent—they had removed the blindfold at one point and punished him with bright lights pointing at him from every angle—but he couldn’t count the footfalls. His ears had started ringing from the long-term silence he’d experienced, washed out only by the steady drone of what could only be a distant generator.

Leighton felt the knot of the blindfold that had been digging into his head loosened and then someone ripped it away and lights replaced the darkness once again. Leighton squinted, attempted to discern the blurry silhouettes of two human figures in front of him, but the change from deep darkness to harsh light made it impossible, a matter that became worse as the strain caused his eyes to tear.

Then came the blow to his jaw, a blow hard enough to split his lip on incisors and rock his head in an awkward direction. A second blow followed, this time from the other side, and somewhere over the thud of leather against bare skin. His. Nausea rolled straight to his gut, and Leighton thought he felt a tooth loosen up. Probably his jaw had cracked under the impact of that last blow.

“Enough!” barked a voice with an Afrikaans accent. “I believe our guest is awake now.”

Leighton couldn’t see more than the darkened shape of the speaker but he didn’t really need to, to know he was dealing with Lester Bukatem. The LRA guerrilla leader had been well-educated, according to intelligence reports, and his cultured accent bore that out. Leighton could think of no other member of this LRA unit, and he was certain it was the LRA that had captured him, with a leader that well-spoken. Not to mention that the man had bothered to speak English at all; that meant he knew Leighton was an American. Only Bukatem would have that kind of information. The CIA guy had to wonder where Bukatem would have come into such information. Had his British counterpart betrayed him? Leighton didn’t want to think so but he also realized he had to consider the possibility. Maybe he’d fucked up after all.

“Mr. Leighton, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Bukatem said. “You and your predecessor have proved somewhat meddlesome in the affairs of my people, if not worthy adversaries. For this reason I shall permit you to die quickly.”

Weak and in pain, Leighton still managed to find his voice. “That’s big of you.”

“A man in your position cannot afford to mock me, American,” Bukatem said. “Although it does mean you still have a bit of fight left in you. That’s good. It will make my next task more…shall we say, entertaining?”

Leighton smiled and ignored the pain that came with it. “Say what you want, asshole. But I don’t know anything and I’m not telling you anything.”

“Oh, if I’m certain of anything it’s that you’ll talk, Mr. Leighton. I’m a patient man. But I can assure you that the sooner you answer my questions, the faster I’ll kill you. Should you force me to prolong my inquiry, this will be a difficult engagement for you. I promise.”

“Promises, promises.”

Leighton couldn’t see much but he did make out what appeared to be a nod from Bukatem’s silhouette. A moment later someone raised his legs and he could feel the heat from the spotlights as they were placed much closer to him. Then his legs were forced into some kind of container filled with water; Leighton heard the slosh as his feet hit the surface and his shoes and socks were immediately saturated.

“You going to give me a bath?” Leighton snickered. “I’ve never been treated so well by the bad guys.”

“Your flippancy annoys me, Mr. Leighton,” Bukatem replied. “It’s little more than false bravado and something I can assure you’ll come to regret in a moment.”

“Oh yeah? Well—”

Leighton never finished the sentence as excruciating pain lanced from his groin, traveled up his chest and set the very tips of his hairs on fire. So it felt that way. Leighton couldn’t be sure but he thought he let out a scream and still it seemed like that would’ve been impossible because he vomited unproductively. Mostly the bile burned his throat in the aftermath of the shock and he experienced more cramps and dry heaves than anything else. The cycle was repeated a second time, then a third, and on the fourth Leighton thought he would pass out.

The CIA man realized they were applying some type of electric shock to his body—hence his feet in the water—but it was probably connected to an independent power source since he didn’t notice any flicker in the lights that practically seared his face. Their proximity, coupled with the electric shock, made it feel as if Bukatem’s men had set his body on fire.

“What?” Bukatem’s voice seemed to reverberate inside his head, as if listening to the man speak under water. “Nothing to say now? I’m disappointed, Mr. Leighton. I thought you would definitely conjure a response to this newest form of interrogation!”

Another series of two jolts, these more painful than the first, followed Bukatem’s taunting.

“What do you have to say to that?” Bukatem continued. “Do you understand now that I can generate this pain as long as I choose? You see, Mr. Leighton, I invented this technique. The food and water we gave you contains a special concoction of my own design. This prepares your body for what follows, and intensifies the pain. Oh, do not worry…there won’t be any permanent damage. But you can rest assured that within an hour you will beg me to kill you.”

Another jolt came and Leighton wasn’t prepared for it this time. He bit his tongue and immediately tasted the salty, coppery blood from it. To some degree he regretted being so cocky but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Not that it would’ve mattered. Bukatem would have employed this torture no matter what Leighton told him or what questions he answered. He could have sold his mother, his whole damn country down the river, and Bukatem wouldn’t have faltered for a moment. This had been planned, coldly, calculatingly, decisively from the beginning.

“Now, American…let’s begin to discuss your recent activities in Khartoum,” Bukatem said.


CHAPTER SEVEN

An estimated fifty-two thousand people lived in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. The city bordered the northern edge of Camp Shelby and like any military town it provided adequate housing needs to officers and other select personnel who chose to live off post. U.S. military billets were great for single enlisted men, permanent party and the like, but they weren’t decent fare for a family man like Colonel Jordan Scott. The Scotts had acquired a split-level townhome in a peaceful neighborhood on the west side of Hattiesburg off I-59.

Sunset had passed by the time Able Team cruised through the neighborhood in their military sedan, a loaner from the HQ Company motor pool. Flashing a badge at a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit—the figure that filled it out could get a guy to thinking—bought Rosario Blancanales the information he needed regarding the Scotts. Lyons now watched the front door and windows of the house through binoculars as Blancanales picked his teeth with a pocketknife and stared down the street. Schwarz sat in back, snoring loud enough that it started to grind on the nerves of his two comrades.

Lyons lowered the binocs. “What do you think about that woman’s story regarding the van?”

“Sounds like pay dirt, you ask me,” Blancanales replied with a shrug.

Lyons shook his head. “A van matching the description of the one that hit us is parked out front of Scott’s house the day before yesterday, but she doesn’t remember seeing anybody inside? Something feels wrong about it.”

“What?”

“It’s too convenient,” Lyons replied as he lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Good fortune rarely drops right into our lap. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe whoever’s behind this weapons smuggling doesn’t know anybody’s on to them.”

“After the assault they launched against us this morning?” Lyons reminded his friend.

“Okay, you got me there.”

“What are you two grumbling about now?” Schwarz muttered from the back. “Can’t you see I’m trying to get my beauty rest?”

Blancanales tipped his head so he could make out Schwarz’s shadow in the rearview mirror. “A hundred years of uninterrupted slumber couldn’t help you, amigo.”

“Hold up,” Lyons cut in. “Vehicle coming. Looks like a van.”

The warriors were parked far enough away that the sweep of the vehicle’s lights didn’t illuminate their faces. They waited silent and unmoving, wondering if the van would continue past the Scott residence, but no such luck—the van turned sharply into the driveway and the headlights winked out.

“Now, this is interesting,” Blancanales said evenly. “Looks like some more of our friends.”

“What’s the play, Ironman?” Schwarz asked.

Lyons thought through it with a measure of debate.

“Should we take them?” Schwarz asked, wide-awake now.

“I don’t want to jump the gun,” Lyons replied. “If they risked coming back to Scott’s residence for a reason and we hit them early, we might not find out why. We should wait it out and see what they do.”

“What if Scott’s inside the residence?” Blancanales inquired. “Or his wife and kids?”

“We’ve been watching the place for the last two hours,” Lyons pointed out. “There hasn’t been any movement. I don’t think anybody’s there. The fact they’ve played their hand gives us all the more reason to wait.”

“Agreed.”

Blancanales followed that with a sigh, but Lyons didn’t try to question it. He understood they were anxious to get answers and he was, too. The irony was that his partners were usually the reserved ones and typically had to hold their leader back. But something in Lyons’s gut told him that if they engaged the enemy too soon, not only would they attract a lot of unwanted attention but it stood to reason a firefight would end in a bunch of dead terrorists; that wouldn’t put them any closer to finding out what had happened to Jordan Scott. It might also precipitate Scott’s death if he was operating as an unwilling accomplice or being coerced to cooperate.

For all Able Team knew, Scott and his family were now hostages. If whoever was behind this weapons-smuggling ring figured government agents were on to them, they might simply kill Scott and his family, cut their losses and flee. In that scenario, it would be damn near impossible to track them. Part of Phoenix Force’s success in Sudan depended on Able Team getting to the bottom of whatever the hell was happening at this end of the pipeline, and Carl Lyons had no intention of letting them down.

The shadowy figures silhouetted in the streetlamp, six in all, exited the van and moved up the drive in leapfrog formation. They traversed their course with the practiced efficiency of professionals. Lyons noted this and filed it away. The enemy had been trained well, something the Able Team warriors had agreed upon following their first encounter at Camp Shelby. The questions they’d directed to the one in custody had revealed nothing. Their prisoner had been resolute, silent, unwilling to share information of any kind. Lyons had proposed applying more direct methods of information extraction, but being he was under the protective custody of military police they didn’t think it wise to deviate from standard operating procedures.

Able Team had enough problems without adding “torture” to the equation.

Even a search by Stony Man hadn’t pulled anything up on their prisoner, and that had Lyons on edge. Obviously they were dealing with some sort of black-ops unit, which didn’t concern him nearly as much as the fact they had managed to implement such an operation inside the United States undetected. Since 9/11, the FBI, in concert with other units attached to Homeland Security, had done a crack job in detecting these types of threats and neutralizing them before they became a problem. They had apparently missed the boat this time. That was okay; a situation like this was exactly why the special operations group at Stony Man Farm existed. Lyons and the rest prided themselves on doing the job nobody else could do, faith that had been placed in them by Brognola and the rest, and Lyons had never questioned their reasons for existing. Of course, they had a consummate role model in the hardened and relentless personage of Mack Bolan.

Lyons scratched his chin and watched with interest as the enemy unit moved out of view. “Okay, we’ve waited long enough.” He turned to Blancanales. “You stay here and be ready if they try to bolt. Gadgets and I will take out the wheelman first. Let’s see what taking away their mobility will do.”

“Roger that,” Blancanales said.

“Here.” Schwarz passed an AA-12 shotgun to Lyons from the backseat as the Able Team leader double-checked his Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum revolver before holstering it in shoulder rigging.

Lyons took the weapon and quickly inspected it in the dim light, the weapon forestock gleaming with a light coat of fresh oil. Originally designed as the Atchisson Assault Shotgun, the manufacturing patent of this newer model had been turned over to Military Police Systems, Inc. It included an 8-shell box magazine—also capable of sporting a high-capacity drum magazine for vehicle mounting—with a cyclic rate of 300 rounds per minute. The model had been modified by Stony Man’s elite armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, with a 12.6-inch barrel, nearly a half inch shy of the military-grade version. The shells were a preferred mix of No. 12 lead and double-0. The weapon also sported antipersonnel capabilities by chambering a special Frag-12 round stabilized by a 19 mm fin that distributed fragmentation using a small charge of RDX explosive.





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