Книга - War Tides

War Tides
Don Pendleton


When the President needs immediate, covert intervention for a crisis too sensitive or desperate for normal channels, Stony Man strikes under the radar and beyond official government protocols.Baptized in the fires of justice, freedom and protection, Stony Man stands for the highest of ideals: dedication to duty and a fierce resolve to defeat those who would brutalize nations.It's called FACOS–Fast Attack Covert Operations Submarine–and is now in the hands of an elusive and violent group known as the Revenge of Allah. This supersub, capable of blistering speed and stealth, carries a first-strike nuclear payload, spelling a new world of terror for America. With orders to recover the stolen prototype or destroy it, Stony Man's mission goes beyond standard "terminate with extreme prejudice." With the warship poised to strike America's eastern seaboard, failure is not an option and neither is compromise. Stony Man must stop the show before the terrorists go live.









THE NUMBERS WERE RUNNING DOWN


McCarter didn’t feel they were any closer to eliminating the threat than the moment they stepped foot in this godforsaken desert. Sure, they had some idea of the terrorists’ plans but they didn’t really know where they would hit or how they would do it. And if Phoenix Force failed in their mission, it only increased the chances of the nuclear material getting to its final destination.

The fact remained that Able Team didn’t have any more ability to wage war against the nuclear threat than Phoenix Force. At the end of the day, they had to succeed. Failure wasn’t an option and neither was compromise. This time around, the stakes were high enough that there could only be one outcome for Phoenix Force: absolute victory! Because if David McCarter knew something with certainty, it was this.

Anything less would mean tragic defeat for America and her people.




War Tides

Don Pendleton


STONY MAN


AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY










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



WAR TIDES


Dedicated to the brave warriors of the U.S. Navy SEAL team who rescued American maritime captain Richard Phillips from Somali pirates in April 2009.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT




CHAPTER ONE


Washington, D.C.

At just after 0400 hours on a cold Thursday morning, four FBI agents hustled Dr. Philip Stout from his offices at the U.S. Navy shipyard into a waiting government SUV.

The reason for Dr. Stout’s visit to an emergency session of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was highly classified. None of the agents strayed beyond the polite conversation required by their jobs. Still, it didn’t take an advanced science degree like one of several possessed by Stout to guess that his visit likely had to do with the contents of the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Inside the reinforced-aluminum box were secrets so classified not a single one of the agents escorting Stout to the Pentagon had a security clearance high enough to know even the nature of its contents.

Not that they needed to. Their job was simple: transport the doctor from the shipyard to the Pentagon and keep him alive in transit.

As far as Philip Stout was concerned, the four men assigned to protect him were better off not knowing the things he knew. Stout had spent the past eight years of his career developing a prototype for the U.S. Navy, and he was about to deliver all of its secrets to the Joint Chiefs. In some ways, it made Stout feel like the member of a transplant team who had to get a badly needed heart across town with only a small window of opportunity. In some respects, it wasn’t that far from the truth. If the secrets he carried with him fell into enemy hands, it could well mean a whole new day of terror for America.

And while the FBI agents accompanying him may or may not have realized that, they did realize the importance of protecting him. Especially when their SUV stopped at an intersection a mere seven blocks from their destination and two black nondescript vans suddenly appeared in the deserted intersection.

It took only a moment for the agents and Stout to realize the intent of the passengers who poured from the backs of the two vans. They wore urban-camouflage fatigues, black hoods with red headbands, and toted SMGs. The agent riding shotgun rolled down his window as he ordered the driver to take evasive action. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a Glock pistol, leaned out the window and snapped off a few rounds. The resistance proved to be short-lived when the driver, while in the course of executing a J-turn, smashed into a massive garbage truck that had appeared out of nowhere. The truck was one of the front-loading types designed to pick up commercial Dumpsters, and one of its large steel bars punched through the SUV’s rear door with the screech of wrenched, torn metal and cracked glass.

A low rumbling emanated from the truck a moment later, the droning sound of hydraulics reverberating through the SUV’s cab. The thrumming sound hurt Philip Stout’s eardrums as the SUV began to tip forward and its rear wheels rose off the ground. Pandemonium erupted when the two agents seated on either side of him turned and began to fire their pistols at the truck. Unfortunately their efforts were in vain because the SUV continued to tip forward and soon they had to give up firing in favor of holding on to the rear seat.

Stout and the driver fared better than the rest of the occupants as they were still seat-belted in place. The two agents in back with Stout were soon clinging to their seats for dear life, their feet actually dangling in midair while they tried to hold on. Then the vehicle flipped off the steel bar of the garbage truck, the front end now providing a pivot point that dumped the SUV onto its roof.

The agent riding shotgun in the front seat screamed as his arm became pinned under the weight of the vehicle. The agents with Stout had ended up on their backs, and were trying to right themselves when the doors swung open to reveal a swarm of hooded gunmen. One of the agents reacted with incredible speed. He brought his pistol into view, snap-aimed at the closest gunman and squeezed the trigger. The report of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space, but it proved effective as the round struck the agent’s target in the chest and knocked him off his feet.

A heartbeat passed and Stout’s world suddenly came alive with the raucous, brutal cacophony of autofire. Stout shuddered amid the maelstrom of burned gunpowder, bright flashes and ear-shattering reports from a half dozen SMGs. But none of the rounds found his flesh. The firestorm of violence ended as suddenly as it had begun and left only ringing and dulled senses in its wake. Amid the searing odor of cordite, Stout detected just a whiff of blood. Lots of blood.

Before Stout could decide what to do next, rough hands cut free the seat belt and then dragged him from the SUV. Stout considered resisting but then realized it wouldn’t do him any good. Well-trained and armed FBI agents had been unable to repel these aggressors, so to even attempt such an escapade, being unarmed and unprepared, wouldn’t have been the act of either a wise or educated man.

And Philip Stout considered himself both above all else.

Stout looked into the eyes of the man he assumed to be the leader. They were dark eyes, eyes that burned with hatred and the fires of fanaticism. Stout had seen them before, eyes that belonged to men who were driven by something much deeper than mere political or religious conviction. That was a mistake so many Americans made. To think that terrorists were really interested in furthering the cause of any one group or religion bore inherent dangers. No, men like this were not driven by such trivial considerations. They considered the eradication or subjugation of those who did not subscribe to their same personal codes of belief as the paramount goal of their activities.

Before Stout could even inquire as to the man’s intent, another one of the terrorists grabbed his arm and held it out in front of him. The shiny steel manacles dangled in the streetlights for only a moment. And then, oddly, they were no longer visible and the burning sensation that followed seemed to take a very long time to reach Stout’s brain. That’s when it registered that the reason he no longer saw the cuffs dangling was that they were no longer attached to his wrist.

And that was because he no longer had a wrist.

Stout looked down and saw his hand, still twitching slightly, lying on the street directly in front of his shoes. He let out a scream even as he looked up and into the eyes of the terrorist one more time. His eyes had changed shape, crinkling at the corners, and Stout realized the man was smiling beneath that mask. Next to him, he held up a very long, sharp object—some kind of sword—coated with just a patina of sticky redness about midpoint along its length. Stout opened his mouth to scream again.

It would be his last scream.




CHAPTER TWO


The noonday sun had long cleared away the gray winter clouds by the time the three men of Able Team arrived on the scene.

Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s leader, stood with arms folded and studied the wrecked Ford Expedition with cold blue eyes. Lyons wore tan slacks and button-down shirt with tie beneath his brown leather jacket. On his belt he wore the badge of an FBI agent, visible to any of the real FBI personnel who might scrutinize him, but the .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver remained concealed in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Lyons gave the scene one more look and then ran his hand through his thin blond hair.

A shorter man with light brown hair, brown eyes and a mustache walked up and stopped beside him. Lyons glanced for a moment at the profile of Hermann Schwarz. Known among his colleagues as “Gadgets” for his wizardry in electronics, particularly countersurveillance technology, Schwarz had been friends with Lyons for more years than either of them could remember.

“Well?” Lyons inquired.

Schwarz shrugged. “I did an inspection of both the SUV and the surrounding area. Whatever did the damage to that vehicle wasn’t any kind of an explosive device. There’s all sorts of paint transfer along the back, like a neon orange color.”

Lyons furrowed his brow. “Like maybe on a city truck?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Before Lyons could ask any more questions, a third man joined their huddle. He had gray-white hair, black eyes and a husky build, but it was a mistake to assume there was any flab in that physique. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales exchanged glances with his comrades, and Lyons could tell just by the look on his face he didn’t have any better news. Given Blancanales’s unique talents for diplomacy, Lyons had let his friend handle the inquiries with the other agents investigating the scene, as well as the forensics team. A half dozen agencies were represented, and neither Lyons nor Schwarz had the patience to deal with all the red tape. That left Blancanales as the optimal choice.

“What is it?” Lyons asked Blancanales.

“I’m afraid it isn’t much is what it is,” Blancanales said.

Schwarz chuckled. “Sounds a bit like a Buddhist riddle.”

“Only not as easy to solve. I talked to everybody who’s anybody on this case. Nobody has the first clue what’s going on or why this happened.”

Lyons shrugged and splayed his hands. “Well, we already know that much. Hal and Barb gave us the likely motive in this morning’s briefing. Were you sleeping during that part?”



ABLE TEAM had been at Stony Man Farm for a training exercise when the call came from the Oval Office to activate them. It took only fifteen minutes to get from the training grounds to the War Room in the basement of the old farmhouse, where Hal Brognola opened the briefing with a chilling statement.

“It would seem that some unknown party has laid their hands on the plans for a new prototype submarine being developed for the United States Navy.” Brognola then looked at Barbara Price and prompted her with a nod.

The Stony Man mission controller fingered a strand of her honey-blond hair behind her ear before saying, “Approximately three hours ago, four federal agents and a military scientist from the Washington Naval Yard were ambushed in downtown D.C. on their way to the Pentagon. Aaron?”

The other man in the room, a big and burly type despite being confined to a wheelchair, was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. The Stony Man cybernetics genius tapped a key on the terminal board in front of him, and an overhead projector displayed the face of a young, wiry-haired man in a business suit.

Simultaneously the lights dimmed and Price continued her narrative. “That’s Dr. Philip Stout, a specialist in the construction of nuclear-powered naval ships. Six years ago he graduated with his doctorate from MIT, an education he’d won on a scholarship after almost twenty-five years as a submarine officer. The vessel he designed was under a direct nod from the Secretary of the Navy and the Department of Defense.”

Brognola interjected, “You should probably know that this vessel is more than just another submarine. It’s a superweapon designed to carry a very small crew complement, penetrate enemy waters and deliver a first-strike nuclear payload.”

“And according to the information we received from the President, Dr. Stout was on his way to a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon to present the plans for the prototype,” Price said.

“Okay, question,” Lyons said. “I thought America had entered into a strict policy of nuclear nonproliferation.”

Price nodded. “They have, but with the continuing threat from nations like Iran and North Korea, not to mention the increased terrorist activity around the world since we first invaded Iraq and Afghanistan, there are certain elements within the DOD that insist on a backup plan. And apparently the President has agreed to this.”

“But only as a backup plan,” Brognola added.

“What about this attack?” Blancanales asked. “We have any suspects?”

Price shook her head. “Not yet, but we’re working on it. It seems pretty obvious to us, though, that we’re dealing with a terrorist organization of some kind.”

“What makes you think so?” Lyons asked.

“First, the attack was extremely well organized. It was done very early in the morning in a place where there were no witnesses and no emergency services close enough to render timely help. Second, whoever coordinated this attack obviously knew a good number of details, not only about this meeting and the route the FBI had planned out, but also relative to Stout’s work on this new prototype.”

“When you say prototype, are we to assume that they’ve already built this thing?” Hermann Schwarz inquired.

“Not insofar as we know,” Brognola answered.

“I don’t get it,” Lyons said. He shrugged and added, “I mean, what’s so special about this particular submarine?”

Price said, “It’s called a Fast-Attack Covert Operations Submarine, or FACOS. Its crew complement is only six men and it boasts an underwater speed nearly twice that of any conventional submarine currently in use around the world. It can deliver up to four nuclear warheads at ten megatons each. Its size makes it nearly impervious to any antisubmarine defenses and its footprint is generally too small to trigger most surveillance systems presently in use.”

Blancanales let out a long, low whistle. “What’ll they think of next?”

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “This gives you some idea why we’re concerned. If the plans for this prototype fall into the hands of any terrorist organization with significant resources, such as al Qaeda, the show is over for the free world.”

Price continued, “Even if a terrorist organization didn’t have the resources to build the FACOS, they could easily sell it to the highest bidder in trade for nuclear material. That would permit them to create dirty bombs or even begin exploring techniques for manufacturing nuclear fission devices. We can’t let that happen.”

“No argument there,” Schwarz said.

“So what’s the mission?” Lyons asked.

“You’ll be posing as FBI agents attached to Homeland Security,” Price answered. “You are to learn everything you can about the incident this morning, pick up the trail of its perpetrators and follow that wherever it leads you.”

“And if we find out it is terrorists?” Lyons asked.

“Then you have carte blanche to do whatever needs to be done to neutralize the threat,” Brognola replied. “The only caveat is that if you can’t recover the plans for the prototype, then you’re to destroy them and anyone who’s laid eyes on them.”



THE THREE MEN of Able Team had understood that order, and the potential consequences that might come from having to execute it. While they weren’t exactly keen on involving potentially innocent bystanders, they understood that the mission went well beyond the standard “terminate with extreme prejudice” clause. They were dealing with a critical threat: the potential of the design of a nuclear-powered and nuclear-armed warship that could be turned against the entire free world. So it didn’t exactly come as a comfort when Lyons heard the news from Blancanales and Schwarz that they weren’t any closer to identifying the enemy.

Before they could engage in any further discussion, a uniformed police officer approached them. “Are you guys with that Homeland Security task force?”

“Maybe,” Lyons replied.

“Well, if you are, there’s a guy from the D.C. traffic safety department in that big truck over there.” The officer pointed to a large white panel truck parked just beyond the yellow police tape used to cordon the area. “Says he wants to talk to somebody from the FBI.”

“That would be us,” Blancanales said with a smile at his two cohorts.

Able Team accompanied the officer to the panel truck and ascended the makeshift steps leading into the back. As they crowded inside, one of the two technicians wearing headphones and seated in front of several small monitors took the earpieces from his head and smiled.

“Morning, boys,” he said, extending a hand to shake each of theirs. “The name’s Grant. I’m a technician with the TSD and I think I have something you can use.”

With that, Grant turned in his seat and began to run some type of video on the monitor as the three men leaned closer. “Late last year,” Grant said, “the city implemented a new traffic safety program. Basically, we had an increase of traffic accidents at intersections so we put in a camera system at those areas with the highest numbers of incidents. That intersection out there was one of them.”

“Don’t tell me,” Lyons said. “You got all this on video?”

Grant shook his head. “No, not all of it but a small snippet—about twelve seconds to be exact. You see, the cameras are timed to take a picture any time a vehicle runs a red light or is detected speeding through an intersection. However, we also capture a video of the infraction because as soon as the light turns yellow, the system is set up to start performing a digital capture. It’s not admissible in court, but it does help the officers reviewing the photographs to make a positive determination as to whether on infraction actually occurred.”

“That’s all fascinating, pal,” Lyons said. “But we’re not really interested in what is or isn’t admissible in court.”

Blancanales obviously saw the potential for conflict and immediately stepped in with a pleasant chuckle. “Pay no attention to him, Grant. He’s always grumpy when he doesn’t get breakfast. I think what you’re trying to say is that you didn’t get the entire incident but did get about twelve seconds of it.”

Grant nodded enthusiastically, obviously not offended by Lyons’s brusqueness. “Yeah, it looks like whoever made that mess out there was too occupied to realize they were getting caught on candid camera.”

The Able Team warriors turned their focus to the video and watched with fascination as men in camouflage fatigues and black hoods with red bands burst from the back of a van. Fortunately, not only did they now have a description of the aggressors, but also the license plate shone clearly enough that they would likely be able to run a trace. After watching the twelve-second segment a couple of times, the trio exchanged knowing glances.

“Has anybody else seen this yet?” Lyons asked Grant.

The technician shook his head. “Nope, you’re the first.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Do you have a secure feed-transfer capability on this video?” Schwarz asked.

Grant smiled. “Of course!”

Schwarz then looked at his teammates and said, “Well, ain’t that just dandy.”



WITHIN AN HOUR of transferring the video segment to Aaron Kurtzman and his team of cybernetics wizards, Able Team was headed for an address on the south side of Washington, D.C. As Blancanales drove, Lyons and Schwarz rode in back of the specially equipped van that sported the latest technology in surveillance, electronic countermeasures and communications. They were engaged with Brognola and Price in a video conference facilitated by Stony Man’s dedicated satellite uplink systems.

“We think we finally know who the assailants are,” Price announced. “They call themselves the IUA, short for the Intiqam-ut-Allah.”

“Never heard of them,” Lyons replied.

“Loosely translated, the name means ‘the Revenge of Allah,’” Brognola offered helpfully.

“They’re a relatively new group, a radical cell that grew up from al Qaeda and finally split off when their numbers got large enough,” Price continued.

Schwarz snorted. “Oh, as if al Qaeda wasn’t radical enough.”

“What’s their angle, this IUA?” Lyons asked.

Price replied. “Murder, mayhem and terror wherever they can spread it.”

“In other words, the usual.”

“Yes. They are fundamentally an Islamic extremist group, interested only in the conversion of all peoples to their religion. Anyone not willing to convert ends up on the shortlist for termination and especially us heathen, capitalist dogs here in the United States.”

“Any idea how many we could be dealing with?”

“Not yet,” Brognola said. “This particular group hasn’t taken a whole lot of credit for terrorist acts around the world, which is interesting only due to the fact there are some significant incidents recently attributed to them by world opinion. They were especially prolific in Pakistan, India and some African countries. But their biggest impact has been recent events in Iraq. They have even taken on those terrorist groups with very similar platforms.”

“That’s odd,” Schwarz remarked.

“Yes, we thought so, too,” Price said. “But our intelligence, while scant, is pretty accurate.”

“Doesn’t sound like they play well with others,” Lyons said.

“Whatever the case, you’re to proceed with all haste but extreme caution. Understood?”

“Gotcha,” Lyons said.

“Jawohl!” Schwarz said.

“Muy bueno!” Blancanales added from the driver’s seat.

Price pursed her lips and shook her head with resignation before signing off.

“I don’t think she’s much on our sense of humor,” Schwarz said.

“Speak for yourself,” Lyons replied.

With that, the Able Team leader turned toward the armory. There wasn’t any reason not to take Stony Man’s intelligence at face value. If Price and Brognola were convinced that the IUA was extremely dangerous, then that was good enough for Able Team. Lyons opened a slide-away panel that released by punching in a code on the keypad set in the face of the heavily armored weapons safe.

“What’s your pleasure?” he asked Schwarz.

“I’ll take the G-11.”

A good choice indeed, Lyons noted. Manufactured by Heckler & Koch, the G-11 sported a fifty-round magazine positioned horizontally above the barrel. It chambered 4.7 x 33 mm DE11 caseless cartridges, which eliminated the need for any extraction or ejection mechanism and this minimized muzzle rise. This in turn provided a tremendous increase in first-hit probability, particularly in the hands of a marksman like Schwarz.

Blancanales called for the Beretta SCS-70/90. This weapon only differed from the assault rifle version by sporting a folding, tubular metal butt and slightly shorter barrel. Blancanales preferred it for these features in addition to the fact it fired 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds at a cyclic rate of six hundred rounds per minute with a muzzle velocity exceeding 900 meters per second.

Lyons decided a combat shotgun would not do this time, and opted for a trusted M-16 A-3/M-203 combo. He’d grown accustomed to earlier variants of this weapon while serving on the LAPD, and come to appreciate it over the years for its reliability and accuracy. Not to mention that if they were going up against some terrorist hardasses, the Able Team leader wanted some extra oomph in his arsenal, which the M-203 grenade launcher promised to provide.

Each of the Able Team warriors also carried his preferred sidearm and plenty of extra ammo. They weren’t expecting trouble—assuming the terrorists had done what they came to do and were probably long gone—but they were damn sure ready for it.

When they pulled up in front of the address where the vehicles had been registered, Lyons took shotgun position and looked out the window. The darkened structure loomed in the hazy afternoon light. The crumbling facade of the factory didn’t surprise Lyons in the least since he’d already convinced himself and his colleagues that the place would probably be abandoned. Neither did it surprise him to see the many broken windows, with glass strewed across the rutted parking lot. What really frosted Lyons was the audacity of the terrorists to have parked their vans out front in broad daylight. It was as if they were saying, “You moronic Americans are too stupid to track us down, so we aren’t even going to bother trying to hide our transportation.”

Well, Able Team had a message for them.

“Ballsy of them to just park right out front,” Blancanales said as if he could read his friend’s mind.

“Think they’re not expecting company?” Schwarz asked.

“No,” Lyons said. “I can’t buy that.”

“I smell a trap,” Blancanales offered.

“Me, too,” Schwarz said.

“Well, we’re not going to find out sitting around out here,” Lyons said.

Blancanales grunted and then put the van in gear and turned into the parking lot. He increased speed when he passed between the once stately chain-link gates that now dangled uselessly from their fence poles. Immediately the air came alive with autofire, and muzzle-flashes issued from the darkened interior of windows on the second floor. Most of the rounds missed but those that did hit ricocheted off the reinforced Kevlar and stamped-steel body of Able Team’s customized van—the latest in bulletproof technology being tested by Stony Man.

Lyons jacked the charging handle of his assault rifle and said, “Let’s play ball.”




CHAPTER THREE


Namibia, Africa

The road from Walvis Bay to Windhoek, national capital of Namibia, had seen its share of world history, and if the pain in David McCarter’s backside was any indication, it had seen more history than repairs in certain parts.

Windhoek, on the other hand, sported all the conveniences of most modern cities. Not that this had been McCarter’s first visit to the region. It had taken the South-West Africa People’s Organization, aka SWAPO, twenty-two years to bring independence to this area and another two within the United Nations to convince South Africa to end its regional administration. Since 1990, the country had been governed under a democratic constitution headed by a president and national assembly. And while McCarter spoke a little Afrikaans, very little, the official language thankfully remained English.

“Dr. Brown, let me be the first to welcome you to the Republic of Namibia,” said Dr. Justus Matombo, chief medical adviser to the national assembly.

“It’s our pleasure, Doctor,” McCarter replied, shaking Matombo’s hand.

Matombo wasn’t a terribly large man, although he had unusually thick forearms. The black skin of his forehead glistened only slightly with sweat in spite of the air-conditioned offices within the government building on Lossen Street in downtown Windhoek. His eyes were an unusual shade, almost slate blue, a testament to the mixed ethnicity that ran throughout the entire population. The ancestry in Namibia traced its roots to Dutch rule hundreds of years ago, so such ethnic mixes were the norm rather than the exception.

McCarter introduced the men accompanying him as his “medical colleagues” in turn; not all were physicians like himself. The only other “doctor” among them was a tall, lanky black man with a pencil-thin mustache who specialized in hematology. Calvin James nodded in greeting as he shook Matombo’s hand. The remaining three men were “scientists” with varying specialties in different areas. “Biologist” Rafael Encizo, “nuclear radiation specialist” Thomas Jackson Hawkins and finally “geologist” Gary Manning rounded out the five-man team.

The cover and credentials for the Phoenix Force operatives implied they worked for the World Health Organization. Matombo didn’t have a clue he faced five of the most dangerous combat veterans in the world. Dangerous to the thugs and criminals who terrorized nations and oppressed the innocent, that is. To those who could not protect themselves from the animals that preyed on the helpless, the five men of Phoenix Force were beacons of hope, justice and protection in a world filled with injustice and violence.

“I cannot tell you,” Matombo continued, “how very grateful we are for your assistance.”

“The details were sketchy,” McCarter said as Matombo escorted them to a meeting room. “We sort of got just a small understanding of your problem as they rushed us onto a plane. Could you elaborate more on the current situation, mate?”

After Matombo had shown them into the room, arranged for refreshments and they were comfortably seated at a conference table, he related the story.

“About two weeks ago, a local medical facility in the city of Lüderitz received three patients with radiation sickness. All in the same day.”

A weighty silence fell on the group as they briefly exchanged looks that ranged from surprise to genuine concern. The gravity of Matombo’s tone got attention from every man at the table.

“The story was written off originally as some kind of accident with a medical device, but given the compelling nature of the radiation poisoning, the medical center alerted my office,” Matombo continued.

“What did you do?” James asked.

“I sent a team down there immediately,” Matombo replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “The data they began to send back gave me and the entire presidential cabinet cause for concern, not to mention the medical community of specialists. Then one of the members of the team mysteriously disappeared. He hasn’t been heard from since. It was at that point I decided to recall them.”

“Only they didn’t make the return trip,” McCarter interjected.

That much Stony Man had alerted Phoenix Force about when they diverted their return from another mission and sent them straight to Namibia. When a CIA officer working inside the country got wind of the incident, he made notification to his handler, who in turn notified the South African section chief. Before long, the information had come before the eyes of the most powerful individual in the free world, and Harold Brognola had been ordered to send Phoenix Force to investigate.

“You said it was the nature of the radiation poisoning that compelled your investigation,” Hawkins said. “Why is that?”

Matombo sighed. “Because their signs and symptoms were not those of the type of radiation exposure they claimed it to be. They had all been exposed to raw ore, U-92 ore to be specific, and that could only happen in one of two places.”

“The Langer Heinrich or Rössing?” Manning inquired.

Matombo looked genuinely surprised. “You know your geography, sir.”

“No more than any other geologist,” Manning said easily.

In fact, Phoenix Force’s chief explosives expert knew quite a bit that would have surprised Matombo. His background in fighting terrorism coupled with the knowledge gleaned of terrain while serving with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had become areas of keen interest to Manning, much more as a hobby than profession. The Canadian had been over plenty of rugged country and he could read maps like nobody’s business. His knowledge of explosives also implied a peculiar sense of what types of explosives would work on what types of topography.

“For those of you who may not be as familiar,” Matombo said, “the Langer Heinrich calcrete uranium deposit and the Rössing Mining Properties are located in the Namib Desert, approximately twenty kilometers apart. They are both owned predominantly by the Rio Tinto Group out of Australia.”

McCarter noticed Matombo had failed to mention that Iran also had a partial-ownership interest of fifteen percent in the Rössing. For a long time now, the Namibian government had sworn up and down to the world community that Iran had neither purchased nor absconded with any of the U-92 ore from the mine, the key ingredient required to make weapons-grade plutonium.

“These mines have grown to become the fifth largest producer of uranium ore in the world, gentlemen,” Matombo continued. “And I can assure you that the operation is well secured. If individuals that far south are experiencing radiation sickness, it is highly unlikely they were exposed to either of those sources.”

“You think that someone may have discovered a new source?” Rafael Encizo asked pointedly.

“I believe it is a strong possibility we must consider at this point.”

“What about your team?” McCarter asked. “You said they didn’t return.”

Matombo nodded emphatically. “They sent me an e-mail advising they had completed all of the research they could there and they were going to leave Lüderitz the next morning. They never showed up and they were not found along any of the usual routes, even after a considerable search by our national rescue teams and a military detachment.”

“Could you confirm they even left Lüderitz?” McCarter replied.

“We cannot confirm or deny anything at this point.” Matombo’s eyes narrowed. “And that is a very unusual question coming from a physician. You almost sound as if you’re more interested in the disappearance of the team than in the medical situation. I thought you were sent here by the World Health Organization.”

The Phoenix Force leader could see that Matombo was nobody’s fool, and he knew if he tried to lie his way through it that the doctor might just challenge his medical knowledge. That wouldn’t bode well for any of them, in spite of the fact they were there at the behest of Ombarta Nandago, the Namibian prime minister. Stony Man granted some leeway of judgment to McCarter in these matters and it was his discretion as to how far to take their cover.

“Look, guv,” McCarter said, “you’re obviously an educated man. Let me come to the point. We are here in a bit more of a capacity than your government led you to believe. But trust me when I say we’re here to help.”

“And we’re interested in finding your people, yes,” James said. “If you want our help.”

Matombo’s expression remained impassive during this time, but when James extended the offer, the physician visibly relaxed. “Finding my team and seeing them returned safely is my number-one priority. Of course, finding out how these citizens protracted radiation sickness is also of great concern to me. I appreciate your candor, gentlemen. You shall have my full cooperation and the resources of my office. No questions asked.”

“Thank you,” Encizo said.

“Yeah, the ‘no questions asked’ part will be especially nice,” Hawkins added.

McCarter lent him a sour eye as he said, “We’ll need to know everything you can tell us about your team, dossiers on its members…everything. It would also help if you could give us some idea of when someone last saw them.”

“At least an eyewitness who can confirm or deny they left Lüderitz when they were supposed to,” James added.

“You think one of my people could be involved in this?” Matombo asked with incredulity.

“Involved in what?” McCarter asked with a shrug. “We aren’t even sure what’s going on here yet, mate.”

“We simply want to know whether or not they left so we know where to start looking,” Encizo added.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well,” McCarter explained, “it already seems obvious whoever grabbed up your chums are operating out of Lüderitz. Knowing whether they met their fate in the city before they left or if they were ambushed after leaving will give us a better idea of who to look for.”

Matombo shook his head. “I trust what you tell me, Doc…er, I mean, Mr. Brown. But what I do not understand is how you can help just by knowing this.”

“Simple. We’ll know if those behind the team’s disappearance are operating within the city or if they’re being fed intelligence.”

“In other words, we know the search needs to start in Lüderitz,” James said. “We just need to be certain if it will end there.”

Hawkins grinned broadly. “You see, we generally like to terminate problems at the source. Hitting lackeys isn’t usually a permanent solution to a problem like yours.”

“I understand now,” Matombo said. “I will see what I can do to get this information for you.”

McCarter nodded. “Right-o. In the meantime, we’re going to head straight for Lüderitz.”

“Would you like me to arrange an escort?”

“That won’t be necessary. But some decent transportation would be helpful.”

Matombo stood as he replied, “We have a fleet of various vehicles at our disposal. I believe we can find something appropriate.”



DR. JUSTUS MATOMBO was true to his word, and before long Phoenix Force was headed southeast out of the city and bound for the port city of Lüderitz in a pair of matching, late-model Dodge Nitro SUVs. They split the equipment between the two vehicles. McCarter and Hawkins rode with Encizo behind the wheel in the lead vehicle, followed by James, Manning and Matombo in the second. McCarter had tried to discourage Matombo from tagging along but the man wouldn’t hear of it, citing his required oversight of their transportation, as well as his cooperation as the official representative of his government. McCarter decided not to fight the guy about it. Matombo still had plenty of juice and could make it very difficult for them if he really wanted to, and McCarter figured it better to err on the side of cooperation.

That didn’t stop them from having Matombo ride in the tail vehicle. That afforded the Phoenix Force leader some privacy when he contacted Stony Man with his update. Brognola and Price listened while McCarter gave his report, telling them everything including how he felt compelled to reveal they weren’t exactly as the U.S. government had initially represented them.

“You think he’s trustworthy enough to stay quiet?” Brognola asked.

“For now,” McCarter said. “I think he’ll keep still as long as we cooperate with him. I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot off his mouth if he thought we were holding back.”

“This complicates things,” Price said.

“But we know you did what you thought was best,” Brognola added. “I have complete confidence in your decision. It’s probably for the better, anyway, since Able Team is stepping into the thick of it here.”

“They’re on a mission you think is related?”

“We don’t have any doubts at this point,” Price said. “What’s happened there coupled with the events here in Washington is too proximal to be mere coincidence.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never been much for coincidence, either, love.”

“Right.” Price filled him in on their discovery of the traffic video and the IUA. She concluded with, “Able Team has a lead they’re following up even as we speak.”

“So this is a new terrorist cell.”

“Pretty much,” Brognola said. “They only recently were identified by Israeli MOSSAD as a group who has grown large enough that they could pose a significant threat to the security of the U.S. and her allies. You are to assume they are fully trained and equipped, and you are to deal with them by S.O.P.”

McCarter didn’t have to ask what that meant; a rookie could’ve figured it out. “Acknowledged. As soon as we know more, we’ll get in touch.”

After they signed off, McCarter lit a cigarette and groaned. He reached back toward Hawkins, who in turn responded by pressing a sweaty can of soda into his palm. McCarter yanked the top and took a long pull from it, draining nearly half the contents. The dry, dusty air and afternoon sun beating through the windshield had left him parched.

“What’s the scoop, boss?” Hawkins finally asked.

“Either of you ever heard of the ‘the Revenge of Allah’?”

They shook their heads.

“Me, either. Until Barb and Hal just told me about them. They’re a new terrorist group, up-and-coming, and a case Able Team is working might just be related to what we’re doing here.”

“In what way?”

“Somebody lifted the plans to a nuclear-powered sub and left the designer and some federal agents dead. Took them out in bloody broad daylight, no less.”

“Sounds lovely,” Hawkins said.

“So plans go missing for a nuclear-powered device, and parties unknown suddenly show up here with radiation poisoning,” Encizo said.

“Right,” McCarter said. “Go figure.”

They rode a couple more miles in silence and then something cast a shadow over their vehicle. McCarter leaned forward and strained his eyes to see beyond the limits of the roof. He caught the first glimpse of the helicopter before they actually heard the sound of the rotors chopping the air, felt their vibration through the vehicle. They were flying awfully low and McCarter felt something prick his sixth sense. Before he could react, the shortwave radio clipped to his belt squawked for attention. He removed the earpiece from the clip holder on the lapel of his shirt and inserted it into his right ear.

Keeping one eye on the chopper, he answered, “Go.”

Manning’s voice came back. “We just talked to Matombo and he said that bird above you has markings of the Namibian national guard. It looks like maybe someone let the cat out of the bag.”

“What does he think they want?”

“Most likely they know about our little excursion here and they want us to stop. Apparently, official trips into Lüderitz have to be authorized.”

“Funny how that slipped Matombo’s mind.”

“He started apologizing as soon as he saw the bird,” Manning said in a quieter tone. “I don’t think it was purposeful.”

“Tell that to them?”

Before the Canadian could reply, the ground ahead of the lead vehicle churned with dust and the pattern that emerged could only have been produced by automatic weapons fire. Then the road erupted in a red-orange blast and left a crater three feet deep in its wake.

Encizo leaned on the brake pedal.

“Go off-road!” McCarter ordered. “Don’t stop.”

Encizo nodded and tromped the accelerator even as McCarter shouted at Manning to have James do the same. Both vehicles barely had all four wheels on the soft, sandy ground when heavy sparks followed by black smoke poured from the chopper hovering just above them. The whirlybird began to spin—lazily at first and then with increasing frenzy—before the pilot finally lost control and had to set it down. Hard. The smoke and dust left in its wake made it impossible to see in the mirrors of their SUV.

“There’s some cover,” Hawkins said as he gestured toward a rocky outcropping.

Encizo nodded and whipped the wheel to put the SUV in that direction while he expertly controlled the vehicle as it fishtailed in the loose sand of the Namibian wilderness. McCarter signaled Manning, who indicated they saw it, as well, and were right on their tail. Within a half minute they had reached the cover of the large rocks, although not without the cost of a few bullet holes in the frames of their SUVs.

As they bailed from the vehicle into the chill desert air, they could hear the reports of autofire, detect the whine of ricochets or the buzz of rounds burning the air just above their heads.

“Boy, oh boy,” James said as they converged on the cover of the rocks. “We have walked right smack-dab into a stinger’s nest.”

“What is happening?” Matombo demanded, fear evident in his voice. “Who are these men?”

“They aren’t friendly, whoever they are,” McCarter stated. He exchanged glances with the faces of his teammates. “Options.”

“I got us some heavy thunder, boss,” Hawkins said, patting the M-203 grenade launcher mounted beneath his M-16 A-2.

Manning hefted the M-60 E-4 heavy-barreled machine gun. “And I can bring some.”

“Good,” McCarter said. “That should give us the covering fire we need.”

“Need for what?” Matombo asked.

“To crash their bloody party,” the Phoenix Force leader replied with a wicked grin.




CHAPTER FOUR


“Let me off here!” Lyons ordered.

Blancanales pumped the brakes and Lyons went EVA with the vehicle still moving at better than twenty miles per hour. The Able Team leader didn’t lose stride as he touched the pavement and rushed the front doors of the broken-down factory. The terrorist gunners, firing from positions on the upper floor, tried to cut him down but they didn’t have fields of fire that close to the building. Lyons made it through the rickety doorway unscathed and into the cold, dusty interior.

His breath was visible by the only light in the factory, shafts of sunbeams streaming through cracks and holes in the darkened windows. The shadows nearly obscured a pair of terrorist gunmen save for the light reflecting off their machine pistols. Lyons swung his M-16 A-3 into acquisition and triggered it from the hip. The weapon chattered a 3-round burst that took the first terrorist in the guts before it flipped him onto his back. Lyons had the second gunman targeted before the body of the first hit the stripped concrete floor. Lyons’s rounds struck the terrorist even as the man fired his own weapon and sent bullets into the ground. The man dropped to his knees as blood poured from his chest wounds. The light faded from his eyes before he toppled face-first to the concrete.

Lyons tracked a 360-degree arc with the muzzle of the M-16 A-3 before rushing to a metal stairwell. The fact the enemy had only left a defense of two men on the lower level bothered the warrior enough to pause and consider that he might be walking into a trap. Then again, what did it matter? They had to stay on mission and make sure the terrorists didn’t get away from them, irrespective of the risks. Springing the trap would accomplish the same thing as planning a stealth assault.

Lyons shot up the steps and made it about three-quarters of the way to the second floor before another pair of terrorists emerged from the darkness above. The men hadn’t seen Lyons and he hadn’t seen them, so they nearly collided save for the Able Team warrior’s reflexes. Too close to engage with the business end of his assault rifle, Lyons spun the weapon so the butt came up and caught the terrorist to his right under the chin. He followed through and a crack echoed along the stairwell as the impact flipped the man over the metal railing. The shout of surprise died in the man’s throat when he landed head-first on the concrete.

The other terrorist realized the proximity made any use of his rifle useless and he whipped out a combat knife. He leaped toward Lyons, knife blade pointed down and away from his body. Years of Shotokan training screamed at Lyons and he reacted by stepping inside the entry point of attack that would put the knife wielder’s blade as far from its intended target as possible. As he leaped aside, Lyons delivered an elbow to the side of the terrorist’s jaw while simultaneously checking the nerve in the forearm with the butt of his rifle. He followed with a hammer fist to the man that crushed his nose against his face. The swiftness and efficiency of the attack bought Lyons the time he needed to follow up with a disarm maneuver.

The knife clattered from numb fingers.

Lyons really went to work. He swung the rifle into the terrorist’s solar plexus, and the air rushed from the man in a whoosh. Lyons followed with a stomp kick to the knee that crushed tissue and ripped tendons. The terrorist emitted a howl of anguish as he folded on himself, and Lyons finished his attack with another kick that smashed the man’s head between the sole of Lyons’s boot and the wall of the factory. The terrorist’s body tumbled down the stairs.

Lyons turned and continued up the stairwell, undaunted in his mission to eradicate every last one of the IUA terrorists.



BLANCANALES AND SCHWARZ were pinned down.

The van provided their only saving grace, as venturing from the shelter of the vehicle would have meant the end for the pair of Able Team commandos. Bullets zinged off the pavement or slammed into the roof. There were no windows on the side of the van facing the terrorist assault line inside the second floor of the warehouse, so the specialized Kevlar body of the van easily repelled the firestorm without compromising structural integrity.

“It would seem they’re not going to make this easy on us,” Blancanales announced.

“No, it sure doesn’t,” Schwarz agreed.

“I wish to hell Ironman would have given one of us time to go with him.”

Schwarz decided the moment had come to even the odds, and in way of response to his comrade he grunted as he flipped a switch on the control panel inside the specially equipped van. A small LCD screen set in the sensitive array flickered to life and a picture of several moving shapes materialized a moment later. The heat of the gun barrels firing on them obscured the targets somewhat, but not enough that Schwarz couldn’t implement an effective firing solution.

“Let’s see if we can’t give Ironman some support in another fashion.” Schwarz stabbed a button on the console and the van came alive with a steady, heavy vibration.

Blancanales gripped the arms of the driver’s seat and looked around the van nervously. “What the hell is that?”

Schwarz apparently hadn’t found time to fully brief his companions on every new on-board feature of the van, since they had taken possession of it only a few days ago. The roof-mounted, electronically controlled and fired .50-caliber machine gun happened to be one of those features.

Schwarz jerked a thumb toward the roof. “A top-ten hit by John Moses Browning and the Fifty Calibers.”

“I’ve heard that tune before,” Blancanales said with a grin. “An oldie but a goody.”

“I do try.”

Chips of concrete marked where the .50-caliber shells struck, raising clouds of dust and debris that obscured the van. Blancanales saw the opportunity to bail and cradled the Beretta SCS-70/90 in a ready position. He crossed the open space and managed to get clear of the front as he sprinted along the side of the building and came up on its rear. Once he reached a safe point, Blancanales stopped to catch his breath and put his back firmly to the wall. There were no terrorists shooting at the rear because there were no windows.

But Blancanales found what he’d hoped to find: a door.

The warrior took several more deep breaths of the chill midday air and then rushed to the door. He tried the handle first. Locked. Blancanales stepped back, held the SCS-70/90 tight and low and squeezed the trigger. The 5.56 mm rounds shredded the flimsy metal of the lock and the door popped from the lock and swung outward.

Blancanales smiled as he edged through the gap, thankful fate had gone easy on him so far. He’d never been the superstitious kind but right now was a time he could believe in it. Lyons had once again opted for the direct approach by charging the building in a frontal assault like a madman. Now Blancanales had to traipse after him, cover his six so he didn’t get it shot off by a horde of well-armed terrorists.

Blancanales spotted a stairwell to his right. The body of a terrorist heaped at the bottom of the steps marked Lyons’s trail. Blancanales hopped over the body and took the steps two at a time. The reports of autofire had faded with the onslaught delivered by the electronic heavy battery being poured out by Schwarz. Blancanales figured it was proving enough to keep terrorist heads down, and that would buy him the time he needed to find his friend.

Blancanales should have known it wouldn’t be difficult. As he reached the top of the steps, he glimpsed Lyons hunkered behind a large steel drum for cover as at least a half dozen terrorists were angling for a clear shot. Blancanales took them by surprise when he rested his Beretta across the railing that lined the opening to the stairwell and, using it as a sort of bipod, strafed them with a sustained barrage of NATO rounds.

Lyons glanced at his friend and then with a wicked smile he popped up from the cover of the steel drum and joined in the offensive. The terrorists were unprepared to have the tables turned on them in such a fashion, and it didn’t take much to cut them to ribbons. Blancanales took out four of the six with bursts that struck heads, chests and stomachs. Lyons implemented a more methodical strategy, taking the time to draw close aim on his targets before squeezing off 3-round bursts in precise kill-zones. Their assault lasted only a matter of seconds and when the dust cleared the Able Team pair couldn’t hear anything but ringing in their ears, didn’t smell anything but spent gunpowder.

A squawk resounded in Blancanales’s ear, a signal from the van com. “What’s up, Gadgets?”

Schwarz’s voice came back. “I got company here!”

Blancanales heard the autofire through the earpiece the same moment he and Lyons heard it echo through the cavernous second floor from outside. He tried to inform Lyons but the Able Team leader already seemed aware of it because he was on the move before Blancanales could utter a word. The two men descended the steps with all speed and made for the front door. They emerged from the semidarkness into the blazing sunlight, the effect nearly blinding them, but caught enough of the scene in front of them to understand.

Three terrorists had entered one of their vans and were trying to make a break for it, shooting at Schwarz as they attempted to flee. Before either Lyons or Blancanales could react, the unoccupied van suddenly exploded in a flaming gas ball. Metal shards rained near them and one missed Lyons by mere inches. The Able Team duo raced for their van as one of the terrorists who had taken advantage of the distraction got behind the wheel and fled with a squeal of tires.

Lyons and Blancanales reached the van, Lyons diving into the back and shutting the door behind him as Blancanales got behind the wheel.

“You all right?” Lyons asked, his eyes shooting to the splotch of blood soaked into Schwarz’s shirt.

Schwarz had been gripping his forearm, and when he pulled his hand away it was slick with more blood. “Minor wing.”

“Don’t look minor.” Lyons groused as he broke out the first-aid kit.

Blancanales put the van in motion and whipped it around with enough force to knock Lyons off balance. Lyons muttered curses under his breath but they weren’t really at Blancanales; he knew the stakes were high here. A lot depended on them catching up to those IUA terror-mongers. If the terrorists escaped, it could mean serious consequences for the entire country.

Lyons finished bandaging Schwarz’s arm and then moved to a spot between the front seats while Schwarz turned his attention to the console. The terrorists had put considerable distance between them but Blancanales managed to gain on them. Considering the head start they had, Lyons was impressed that Blancanales had enough foresight to figure their best direction, and he said as much.

“No sweatski,” Blancanales said. “The highway was the most logical choice for escape.”

“Still…” Lyons said, but he didn’t press it. The warrior looked over his shoulder at Schwarz. “You got any electronic doodads that might be able to disable that thing?”

Schwarz shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Lyons reached down and scooped up his M-16 A-3. He detached the M-203 from it as this model could perform in an attached or stand-alone capacity. The warrior reached into the bag and withdrew a 40 mm round. As he slammed it home and closed the breech with a pronounced movement he declared, “This should do the trick.”

Schwarz expressed horror. “That van’s our only remaining lead. You’re going to blow it up?”

Lyons grinned and his eye took on a fearsome glint. “Watch and learn, my friend. Pol, get up beside that thing.”

“Best possible speed. Aye-aye, skipper.”

Blancanales put pedal to metal and shortly they were gaining on the terrorists’ van. The thing the terrorists had forgotten was that most rental vans had governors on them—not that it would have been any competition against the 8-cylinder Hemi engine beneath the hood of Able Team’s van, which was further enhanced by a Cummins turbocharger. When they rolled up parallel, Lyons opened the side door of the van, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of the M-203. The shotgun-style pop of the weapon drowned out the sound of breaking glass.

The driver’s compartment immediately began to fill with smoke, and the van quickly took on an erratic course. Lyons ordered Blancanales to steer to their right rear quarter even with the front bumper of the enemy van so that they could keep the van from swerving into oncoming traffic. The thick white smoke now permeated the van interior, and the driver had no choice but to pull to the side of the road. He went a little too far and ended up rolling down a shallow, grassy embankment. Fortunately, the van came to halt where it wouldn’t pose any danger to bystanders.

As they came to a stop behind the van, Schwarz slapped Lyons on the shoulder. “Well played, Ironman!”

Lyons nodded acknowledgment before he bailed from the van with Blancanales and approached the enemy vehicle with weapons held at the ready. The rear doors opened and Lyons reached up and hauled out a pair of choking, gagging terrorists without giving them the chance to dismount. They hit the ground hard and Lyons held one down with his foot while he pointed the muzzle of his M-16 at the other.

Blancanales shouted for the driver to surrender, but the guy came out with SMG in hand and left Blancanales no choice. The terrorist triggered several rounds skyward as Blancanales tapped him with two rounds to the chest. The terrorist came off his feet and landed flat on his back in a muddy depression.

Blancanales returned to the prisoners and applied plastic riot cuffs on their wrists while Lyons covered him. He then took over watch duty while Lyons searched the van thoroughly.

The Able Team warrior finally emerged from the van several minutes later and Blancanales noted the puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t get it. What do you mean nothing?”

“Just like I said. There are no plans, no papers, nothing… zip, nada. The thing’s totally empty.”

“You didn’t actually think they were going to leave us the kitchen sink, did you?”

“That’s just it,” Lyons said. “If they didn’t have the plans with them, then that means either they already got rid of them or—”

“They blew them up,” Blancanales finished. “You’re right, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Lyons turned his eyes on their prisoner. Like the other IUA combatants they had encountered, Lyons noticed the burning fanaticism in the man’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose we’d have much chance of coercing this guy—” Lyons kicked the bottom of the terrorist’s heel “—into telling us anything.”

Blancanales studied him. “You’re probably right. And we don’t really have time anyway. If they—”

The roar of an engine and echo of autofire cut his words short. The pair looked in the direction of the van and saw Schwarz battling it out with another van full of IUA goons, this one similar to the others. The terrorists didn’t seem very interested in negotiations. About a half dozen IUA gunners, automatic rifles clutched in their fists, erupted from the side of the van as it skidded to a halt on the loose gravel along the side of the road.

“So that’s how they did it,” Blancanales said.

Lyons nodded quickly as he took off in Schwarz’s direction and called over his shoulder, “That’s our missing link!”

The Able Team leader only got about a half dozen strides before he noticed one of the IUA terrorists lift a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and aim it in the direction of Able Team’s new war wagon. Lyons glanced at Schwarz, who also saw the move, and felt a relief as Schwarz made haste to get clear. Lyons went prone and aligned his M-16 on the launcher-toting terrorist, but he was a moment too late. Milliseconds before his volley of 5.56 mm rounds struck flesh, the rocket left the launcher with a deafening roar. The terrorist’s body fell to the pavement at the same moment Able Team’s high-tech van burst into a fireball with enough force to lift it off the ground.

Flames roiled from the van and vapors shimmered in the air, distorting images surrounding it as heat consumed the combustible fuels. Lyons ignored the destruction, stealing a glance to make sure Schwarz made it away before he turned his rifle on the next terrorist. About the same time he heard Blancanales begin to open fire with the Beretta, and Schwarz joined moments later with another M-16.

The three Able Team warriors hammered the five remaining terrorist gunners with a fusillade of high-velocity rounds. The terrorists danced under the onslaught like marionettes controlled by puppeteers. One terrorist caught a number of slugs to the throat, and blood spurted from the gaping neck wounds as his body slammed against the wall. Two more fell under the unerring fire from Schwarz and tumbled down the slight incline.

The van lurched to life, tires squealing, but the trip came to an abrupt end when Lyons shot out both the front and rear tires on the passenger side, causing the driver to lose control. Seeing any attempt to operate the van as futile, the surviving terrorist bailed from the driver’s seat and used the van to cover his escape. Lyons scrambled to his feet and sprinted off in pursuit.

It took Blancanales some time to figure out Lyons’s intent. “Where the hell are you going, Ironman?”

But the blond warrior was already out of earshot.




CHAPTER FIVE


Namibia, Africa

The chopper crash hadn’t seemed to produce any ill effects on the crew that emerged from her smoking fuselage. Oily clouds vented into a sky colored a dark hue by the desert sunset and initially obscured their numbers. David McCarter counted roughly a dozen men. They toted machine pistols and assault rifles, which meant they were probably trained to use them, but McCarter knew it would take more than that to intimidate the battle-hardened veterans of Phoenix Force.

Behind a nearby rock, Manning had set up his M-60 E-4, and he opened up on their enemies as soon as they broke from the chopper. The steady chug of the heavy-caliber weapon played like music to the Briton’s ears as Manning poured on the heat. Manning wasn’t trying to hit anyone as much as keep heads down and attention away from Encizo and Hawkins, who left McCarter’s side as soon as Manning triggered the first salvo.

McCarter watched the two beat feet across the uneven and treacherous floor of this Namibian desert hellhole. At the moment, the Phoenix Force leader wished to be anywhere but here. He concentrated his thoughts and put all his energies into raising the muzzle of his Fabrique Nationale FAL battle rifle and triggering short bursts on sure targets in support of Manning’s efforts. The plan they put together was almost too simple. Encizo and Hawkins would try to gain a flanking position on the enemy and take them out with ordnance from Hawkins’s M-203 when they had a clear field of fire.

McCarter had ordered Calvin James to take one of the vehicles and escort Dr. Justus Matombo in the opposite direction from their position, not to stop until they hit Lüderitz and could notify the Namibian militia. At first, they had thought they were up against the militia, which served as the country’s national guard, but that seemed unlikely now. Matombo swore the military would never have fired on civilian vehicles—and especially not those with government markings—without ample warning. McCarter tended to believe that from his own experiences, even in a country that had experienced as much strife as Namibia. That left terrorists. Whether they were IUA didn’t matter at that point—staying alive was what counted right now.

McCarter made that point loud and clear as two enemy gunmen fell under his marksmanship. Years in the British SAS and training as a pistol champion had made McCarter a sharpshooter with few equals. The first terrorist he hit took a double-tap to the chest that flipped the man onto his back. The second gunman caught a slug that took out his knee and tripped him up so he landed hands and knees on the ground, sparing him the next shot. McCarter didn’t miss a second time and he finished the terrorist with a burst to the left flank.

McCarter paused to assess the results of Manning’s handiwork, who was no more a stranger to small arms than him. The M-60 E-4 sported a swivel bipod that operated smoothly and featured built-in recoil dampeners that prevented slippage even on smooth surfaces. The heavy weapon boomed a ceaseless, ear-busting tune as Manning swept the firing zone with steady side-to-side motions. The 7.62 x 49 mm NATO rounds pummeled the enemy gunners who were angling for any cover they could find, without much avail. Phoenix Force had claimed the only real protection among these rocks, and the area around the road where the chopper had put down was sparse, affording their adversaries little protection from Manning’s onslaught.

McCarter watched another moment and then took up position and continued firing.



T. J. HAWKINS and Rafael Encizo didn’t waste any time picking their way across the uneven terrain to gain a flanking position.

Not that their enemies weren’t mindful of that fact, as several of them charged the Phoenix Force pair while they were still on the move. Whether an accidental rendezvous or simply dumb luck on the part of the terrorists, Encizo didn’t wait to ponder the point. The Cuban raised his Heckler & Koch MP-5 subgun and triggered a 3-round burst that struck the first man in the upper chest and sent him reeling as the weapon he’d been toting flew from lifeless fingers.

The second terrorist didn’t fare any better as Hawkins fired his M-16 A-3 from the hip. A pair of 5.56 mm zingers punched through the target’s face and blew out most of the back of his skull. The gunner’s body stiffened a moment, the arms and legs making herky-jerky movements, and then he toppled to ground and left a cloud of dust in his wake.

The last of the trio realized the odds were no longer in his favor and smartly decided to find cover. Unfortunately for him, the thought came a moment too late. Encizo caught the man with a well-aimed trio of shots to the midsection. The bullets perforated the stomach and one lung. A crimson geyser erupted from the terrorist’s mouth. He stopped in his tracks a moment, dropped his weapon and then slowly collapsed in a heap.

Encizo shook his head. “That was close.”

“As a razor,” Hawkins added with a nod.

The pair continued toward their destination and in less than a minute they had come around on the enemy’s right flank. Hawkins went prone behind the base of a large tree while Encizo took up a firing position between two branches that would allow him to cover his friend from most any angle. As some of the chopper smoke cleared, Hawkins could see the terrorists were completely preoccupied with McCarter and Manning, and he and Encizo had reached their position undetected. Time to act before their luck changed for the worse.

Hawkins flipped up the leaf sight on the M-203 and quickly figured his range. They couldn’t have been more than half a football field from where the terrorists were cloistered together behind a couple of small boulders about ten yards apart. Hawkins sighted down the rails at his target and squeezed the trigger. The 40 mm HE grenade arced silently across the sky and landed dead-on. The explosion blew apart several of the closest men and disoriented the remaining terrorists.

Hawkins immediately loaded a second grenade, this one a red smoker, and let fly just forward of their position. As soon as it went, he and Encizo were up and moving. Hawkins loaded a third grenade on the run as Encizo sprayed the area ahead with repeated bursts from the MP-5. A couple of the terrorists tried to use the smoke to retreat from McCarter and Manning, completely oblivious to the fact they were trapped between the Phoenix Force warriors. In whatever direction they ventured, Phoenix Force had them covered and they wasted no time taking advantage of that fact.

Encizo dropped two terrorists with the subgun he triggered from the hip, holding low and steady on the run. The Cuban had honed his skills on hell-grounds around the globe, and the first terrorist fell with blood spurting from his side where twin 9 mm rounds had punctured his heart. Encizo’s shots caught the second man through the breastbone with enough force to flip him off his feet. Hawkins and Encizo were careful to keep some distance from the wall of red smoke because they could still hear the steady chop-chop-chop of Manning’s M-60.

It wouldn’t do to get caught up in the Canadian’s fire zone.

Not that it made any difference because a few more seconds elapsed before the machine gun fell silent and the echoes of small-arms fire utterly died away.

The Phoenix warriors converged and met at the center of the battle zone, which for all intents and purposes had become little more than a graveyard. Broken and bleeding bodies were strewed across the rocky desert floor. The odors of spilled blood and spent cordite, the smells of war, pelted their nostrils like the little bits of sand and gravel from a sudden swirl of dust devils around their fatigues.

“Well,” McCarter said, waving at a cluster of gnats buzzing around his nose as he inspected the devastation. “I’d say that’s the bloody lot of them.”

Encizo looked at the carnage and then toward the sky, which had completely reddened. “We’ve got maybe another twenty minutes of daylight before it’s totally dark. What time is it?”

Hawkins glanced at his field watch. “It’s going on 2100 hours.”

“We should do a quick recon on that chopper,” Manning suggested.

“You think it’s safe?” Hawkins said.

McCarter shrugged. “Guess we won’t find that out until we take a look-see.”

The warriors agreed on their approach and moved toward the chopper in a sweep-and-cover maneuver they had practiced hundreds of times before. Much of the smoke had dissipated and they could see the crumpled shape of the chopper clearly as they approached. When they were close enough, Hawkins could make out the emblem of the Namibian flag on the side, a red stripe running diagonally from the left bottom corner, bordered by white with a green triangle in the lower right and blue triangle in the upper left. Within the blue field was the image of a sun.

Encizo checked a pulse at the neck of the pilot, who sat motionless in the cockpit, and then shook his head at McCarter.

Manning made a quick inspection of the chopper, and after a time said, “Sikorsky CH-53G. I remember these babies when I trained with the GSG-9. Probably surplus purchased from the German Bundeswehr after the Cold War ended.”

“That pilot,” McCarter said to Encizo. “What nationality?”

“Hard to tell for sure but he looks Middle Eastern.”

McCarter nodded. “Yeah, they’re bloody IUA, all right. Only question is, how did they get hold of military equipment?”

“Maybe they stole it,” Hawkins offered.

“Would’ve been some kind of report on that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe there was,” Manning said. “Maybe we just didn’t know about it.”

McCarter frowned. “Well, whatever the explanation is, we better head out to see if we can catch up to James and Matombo. They ought to have at least a half hour on us.”

And with that, they headed for the remaining SUV.



CALVIN JAMES HADN’T LIKED the idea of separating from his unit, and he especially despised trading combat action for this baby-sitting detail on Matombo. But like every professional in Phoenix Force, James did his job and he knew how to follow orders. Whether he liked it or not, he had a responsibility to pick up his share of the risk but he also had a responsibility to work as part of a team. That team took its orders from leader David McCarter, and there was no room for negotiation in that sense.

Fortunately, the attack had come when they weren’t too far from Lüderitz, and it took less than a half hour before they found themselves entering the eastern fringes of the city. Lights twinkled and a chill south Atlantic breeze blew across the Namib Desert coast. Like most seaports, Lüderitz had known prosperity greater than the less hospitable cities inland. Its origins as a trading post and fishing village lacked fanfare, but the discovery of diamonds in 1909 changed the fortunes of its citizenry. The one stigma had been the rocky and shallow floor of the harbor, effectively preventing the entry of larger seacraft. However, this had increased the appeal of the port for historical tourist value and its prime, seaside real estate in both the commercial and residential sectors.

“Would you like me to show you to the waterfront district?” Matombo asked.

“What’s there?” James asked.

“This is where the medical center is located.”

James thought it over and shook his head. “I’d rather not until my team’s reassembled.”

“You do not operate alone.” Matombo’s voice implied it was merely an observation.

“Sort of,” James replied, keeping his eyes on the winding, narrow road glowing in the headlights. “We take individual paths when mission parameters dictate it.” James cast a glance at Matombo. “Like keeping you alive. But as a habit, no, we don’t like to operate independently. Our teamwork is what makes us most effective.”

Matombo cleared his throat. “I will say that while I disagree with your deception, your friends seem to be men of good character. Such a trait is considered admirable and honorable in my country.”

James nodded appreciatively. “Thanks. We like to think so, too.”

They rode the remaining distance to their hotel in silence. The Lüderitz Seaport Hotel occupied a prime seaside location with a stunning view of the Atlantic. In other circumstances it would have been a paradise for the getaway vacationer, but James somehow had trouble getting comfortable. Matombo had arranged for an entire block of rooms adjoining one another where the doors separated three two-room suites. Fortunately, Lüderitz was in its off-season and the hotel was all but completely vacant.

Once James had unloaded the gear from the vehicle, he attempted to contact McCarter by secured satellite phone.

The Phoenix Force leader answered midway through the third ring. “Yeah?”

“You’re clear?” James said with an audible sigh.

“Right-o and no casualties. At least, nobody friendly. You’re at the hotel?”

“Roger that.” James looked over his shoulder at Matombo, who was digging busily through the portable refrigerator for a complimentary drink. “Our digs are pretty nice, although I don’t think we’ll be here much to enjoy them.”

“All the best vacation spots seem to get taken up by mission-minded blokes like us,” McCarter joked.

James chuckled. “It’s our lot in life.”

“That it is, mate.”

“Instructions?”

“Hold tight until we get there. I’d say we’re no more than ten minutes out.”

“Understood. Dr. Matombo wanted to show me straight to the medical clinic but I figured I’d wait up for you. Didn’t feel right going it alone.”

“That’s a good call. And, James?”

“Yeah, chief.”

“I didn’t give that to you with the idea of a shit detail in mind. You were the best man for the job under the circumstances.”

“Aw, shucks, you say the sweetest things, boss.”

“Just keep your eyes open. Matombo’s our only decent connection right now and his credentials should go a long way to getting cooperation from the locals. He’s a key asset and that’s why I want you watching his back.”

“Got it.”

“Stay frosty and we’ll see you shortly.”

The click of the call disconnecting wasn’t as loud as the one James heard coming from the slightly open window. The curtain billowed inward and James caught the flicker of light on metal. The Phoenix Force warrior shouted a warning at Matombo even as he dived for the doctor, who stood at a nearby table with a pocket-size bottle of liquor in one hand and a tumbler filled with ice cubes in the other.

The sudden chatter of autofire was followed a heartbeat later by the shattering of that tumbler in Matombo’s grip. James caught just a glimpse of Matombo’s surprised expression before he tackled the physician, saving him from a maelstrom of hot lead buzzing the space they occupied a millisecond earlier.

James felt one round tear through his shirt and the burn of a graze. The Phoenix pro landed on top of Matombo, and then rolled them both together until they were behind the moderate cover of the bed. James ordered Matombo to stay down as he reached beneath his shirt on his right flank and produced a Colt M-1911 A-1 pistol. James didn’t like the thought of firing blindly without confirming his backstop but the tattered curtain and continuous weapons fire offered a viable target. The firing ceased just a moment before James triggered three rounds, aiming for what he estimated as center mass.

The curtain barely wisped with the passage of the 185-grain .45-caliber slugs, but the tormented squeal outside the window left little doubt to their effect. James got to his feet and pressed the attack by sprinting across the room and diving out a second window he’d noticed open on check-in. James landed catlike, crouched and aimed his pistol down the walkway. The gunman he’d shot lay on the ground, body still twitching. James heard footfalls behind him and spun in time to see a second attacker level a machine pistol at his hip and spray the area with rounds. James rolled into the cover of a rocky outcropping, the beginning of massive rocks bordering the sea.

The rounds ricocheted off the surrounding rocks with buzz-whines and then the firing stopped. James poked his head up long enough to watch the retreating gunner as he rounded the corner of the hotel. James gave it only a moment of thought before he jumped from the rocks and sprinted after his attacker. If he could take the guy alive, Phoenix Force might be able to obtain critical mission intelligence. He hated disobeying orders but he knew McCarter would understand given the circumstances. Nobody posed a threat to Matombo at that point.

The chase covered the distance of the parking lot and continued over a waist-high wrought-iron railing, through a decorative hedgerow and then across an open oceanside square overlooking a harbor filled with sailboats and fishing trawlers scattered at anchor. The antique lamps cast eerie shadows across the decorative square that sported benches and massive, decorative slabs of concrete underfoot. James’s lanky form and long strides propelled him across the distance and before long he was on his quarry’s heels.

They crossed a street and entered a shopping district before James overtook the gunman. He delivered a trip-kick maneuver that toppled the man and sent him rolling along the sidewalk head over heels. The gunman lost his weapon somewhere and came to his feet gracefully only to find himself facing down James’s gun barrel.

The guy delivered a spin kick with greased lightning behind it that took James utterly by surprise. He didn’t drop his pistol but the kick deflected the barrel long enough to provide the distraction his enemy needed to follow with a front kick directed toward James’s groin. Reflexes honed from years of training and experience in hand-to-hand combat saved James from a crippling injury. James took the brunt on his thigh and ignored the shooting, numbing pain that lanced up his leg.

James pivoted and delivered a left haymaker that landed on the man’s jaw and snapped his head sideways. James immediately followed with a back-fist to the exposed temple and then delivered a smash kick that took out a knee. The guy dropped like a stone and howled in agony. James cut the outburst short by sticking the barrel of his .45 into the gaping maw.

“So much as try anything else and you’re dead,” James said.

Wisely, the man whimpered around the barrel and nodded once to signal his compliance.




CHAPTER SIX


A gathering of onlookers along a sidewalk in the shopping district near their hotel drew McCarter’s curiosity as the remaining members of Phoenix Force rode into Lüderitz. He couldn’t see what the crowd was staring at so he shook it off. None of their concern—he had other things to worry about, like pulling the team back together and locating the missing medical team.

Under other circumstances, the United States didn’t commit their sensitive operations groups or paramilitary units to domestic events in sovereign countries. Most of that work was clandestine and best left to the CIA or military intelligence. Whenever nuclear materials were involved, though, that rightly got the brass nervous and always prompted the President to make it Stony Man’s business.

“Rafe, stop.”

Encizo’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, where he caught the surprised expression in Manning’s profile. Without another word, he pumped the brakes and brought the SUV to the curb.

“What’s up?” McCarter asked.

“I just saw Calvin,” Manning said. “Or at least I think I just saw him.”

T. J. Hawkins, who was seated in the rear seat next to Manning, said, “Well, which is it, partner? You saw him or you didn’t see him.”

“There.”

Manning pointed to a place where the crowd had parted and watched as James proceeded down the sidewalk with a fistful of an unknown, young male held by his jacket in one hand and in the other hand his pistol held in a discreet fashion at his side. Being on the passenger side of the vehicle, Manning and McCarter immediately bailed from the SUV and rushed to assist.

James nodded at the pair when they were close enough to recognize. “About time you guys get here.”

McCarter noticed the blood-soaked sleeve of James’s jacket. “You hit?”

“Graze. I’ll be okay.”

“Who’s your new friend?” Manning asked as he jerked a thumb at James’s prisoner.

The sudden wail of an approaching siren reached their ears.

“No time for chitchat, boys,” McCarter said. “Let’s get going before the law arrives. Last thing we need is a firefight with the bobbies.”

As they made for the SUV, James said, “They have bobbies here?”

“I don’t think so,” Manning said.

McCarter made no reply.



IT TOOK JUSTUS MATOMBO more than an hour of interviews and several phone calls to the capital city before he could dispel any further inquiries from local police constables. Whatever he’d said, Matombo somehow managed to protect the five members of Phoenix Force from being questioned, so McCarter had cause to rejoice about that. The team didn’t need that kind of attention right now. Matombo had even arranged for a room to replace the one with shattered glass and bullet-riddled walls.

Sometimes the backing of the Oval Office had its advantages.

Matombo stepped into the hotel room, closed the door and sauntered over to the prisoner Phoenix Force had bound to a chair. To everyone’s surprise, he hauled off and slugged the Arab male in the chin, snapping his top and bottom teeth against each other and damn near knocking him out cold. James and Manning rushed forward to haul Matombo out of reach even as the doctor was winding up for a second shot.

“You bastard!” Matombo’s face had taken on a visibly reddened hue even given his dark skin. “Were it not a violation of my oath, I would kill you.”

“Yo, yo…easy there, Doc,” Hawkins said as he inserted himself between Matombo and the prisoner. “We need this one alive to talk to us.”

As James and Manning released Matombo after making sure he wasn’t going to try again, the physician straightened his rumpled clothes from the tussle and reverted to his more dignified persona before speaking. “That animal is responsible for the disappearance of my people. I am sure of it. For that, he must pay.”

“And he will—you can count on it, guv,” McCarter said. “But right now you need to get hold of yourself and let us do our jobs.”

Matombo appeared to think that over and then in one final gesture of defiance told the prisoner, “I will make it my personal mission to see that my government hangs you for your crimes.”

The Arab male stared hatefully at Matombo but remained silent.

McCarter, who had been seated with his arms draped over the back of a chair, kicked himself to his feet and rapped a knuckle against the side of the prisoner’s head. “Listen up, junior. We know you and your friends are up to no good in this country and we expect you to talk. So let’s not be making it difficult on us.”

Encizo nodded. “Yes. Otherwise we might have to make it difficult on you.”

“You work for the Revenge of Allah,” McCarter said.

The prisoner sat stony-faced and quiet.

McCarter rapped him again. “I’m sorry, but you bloody well are going to have to speak up because I couldn’t hear you. Now, are you working for the Revenge of Allah?”

Still nothing.

McCarter stepped back, folded his arms and scratched his chin with a sigh. Finally he looked at James with a nod. The medic took his cue and went to the bed where he’d stored his medical bag. In addition to the combat medical equipment contained within it, enough to treat any of them for even serious injuries, James always carried several doses of a variety of barbiturates designed to reduce the inhibitions of resolute prisoners and get their tongues wagging. While the concept of “truth serums” belonged in books and movies, many studies had proved beyond any doubt that certain combinations of these drugs were sufficient to the task when coupled with effective interrogation techniques.

McCarter never liked to resort to this sort of thing except in special circumstances and, as head of Phoenix Force, he had sole approval or veto authority for the use of such methods. Of course, he also absorbed responsibility if it resulted in the death of a prisoner. To his recollection, a subject had never died in the care of Phoenix Force when such methods were employed, and he meant to keep it that way.

Within twenty minutes they had broken the prisoner’s will and had the guy chatting away amiably, in almost flawless English, no less, about their plans in the country and the whereabouts of the missing medical team. As soon as the interrogation finished, McCarter ordered James to give the prisoner a sedative that would keep him docile and under wraps long enough for a military detachment to arrive from Windhoek and take custody of him. He then went into an adjoining room for privacy and contacted Stony Man Farm.

When Price and Brognola got on the line, McCarter briefed them on the events of the past few hours.

“At least you managed to get Matombo’s cooperation,” Price said when McCarter had finished.

“That bloke’s been a real godsend, for sure,” McCarter replied.

“What did you have in mind for your next move?”

“Well, naturally we’ll have to mount a rescue operation for the medical team. We can’t be effective going against the IUA presence here until we’re certain all innocent parties are accounted for and not going to get in our line of fire.”

“That should make things go over better in the international-relations department,” Brognola said. “Then what?”

“It looks like we were right about another source being discovered near the two yellow-cake mines, although we aren’t really sure of the exact location. The prisoner we questioned told us the IUA has sent a detachment of miners smuggled in through Lüderitz to perform the extraction, get it back here and transport it out. They weren’t taking very good precautions and so when they got sick it just happened to be the dumb luck of medical staff that they discovered it when they did.”

“It makes sense,” Price said. “Lüderitz is really the picture-postcard version of a small German folk town since that’s its roots. Since it’s off-season for tourists, they could probably get the U-92 out of there without anyone noticing.”

“Except somebody did notice,” Brognola pointed out. “So you plan to rescue the medical team, which is being held at an old diamond mine just outside of town, and then go after the mining operation itself.”

“That’s the plan,” McCarter said. “We’ll still have to pinpoint the exact location of the yellow-cake mine. We’re hoping someone on the medical team can tell us more. We think it’s probably somewhere south of Langerheinz. The terrorists have the medical crew holed up in a place called the Kohlmanskop Ghost Town. It’s about fourteen klicks outside of the city. As Barb’s already pointed out, nobody’s been there recently while tourism is down so the place is perfect since it’s virtually deserted year-round.”

“That means you should be able to confine casualties to our terrorist friends, too.”

“That’s how we figured it. Looks like the luck of the draw was with us this time, Hal.”

“All right, sounds like you have things well in hand. Contact us again when you have more to report. There’s a call coming in now from Able Team so I’m sure I’ll have something more to tell you about their progress on this end.”

“Right,” McCarter said. “Out here.”



BARBARA PRICE FROWNED as she stared at the conference phone receiver in the center of the table. She signaled Brognola—still on the phone with McCarter—through the glass enclosure of the massive briefing room in the Annex that he should join her as soon as he wrapped it up.

“You want to say that again?”

“I said the IUA totaled our van,” Lyons replied. “And nearly totaled Gadgets with it. But we did manage to take two prisoners, which are proving to be most cooperative.”

“How did you get them to talk?”

“You really want to know, Barb?”

“No…not really,” Price said.

Although the spunky and beautiful mission controller for Stony Man didn’t micromanage, Price still expected the teams to operate with some semblance of military decorum. It didn’t mean she called every shot, though. Sometimes it was best to leave certain details to the team leaders and not get too cozy with the minute-by-minute operations. Occasionally Lyons or McCarter pulled a doozy of a stunt, and in those times she had no trouble coming down hard on them. But those times were so few and far between that Price usually tried to look the other way. Give them too much and they’d take advantage; don’t give them enough, though, and they would become ineffective. And that latter one could easily get every member of the team killed during an operation.

Price never wanted that on her conscience. Beside the fact, Brognola did enough worrying about that for both of them, and at least one of the two had to remain clear and levelheaded at all times.

“What did you find out?” Price asked.

“Well, we recovered the plans to the FACOS prototype,” Lyons said. “But I don’t think we’re out of the woods.”

“Ironman, I just got off the horn with McCarter,” Brognola interjected. He took a seat across from Price at the table. “He says they’re close to rescuing the hostages, but that they also discovered the IUA is running some kind of rogue mining operation for U-92. And apparently they’re hell-bent on protecting their assets because the team’s already been ambushed twice. What’s happening there?”

Lyons recounted the events of their assault on the warehouse, as well as their encounter with the terrorists along the highway.

“It sounds like you’ve achieved the mission objectives,” Brognola said. “What makes you think there may still be a threat?”

“The two prisoners we took here have told us their superiors set up some kind of secret construction facility in Charleston.”

“South Carolina?” Price asked.

“That’s the one,” Lyons said.

“What in the devil could the IUA be cooking up there?”

“A project to build these submarines and a bunch of them,” Lyons said. “Neither of these turkeys admits they know exactly where it’s located, only that it exists.”

“And you believe them?” Brognola asked.

“Yep.”

“But if they never had the plans, how could they possibly build the prototypes?” Price said.

This time, it was Rosario Blancanales who answered. “Apparently, the design specifications for this sub were leaked long ago, Barb. The terrorists have been ongoing in their construction efforts for months. There are at least four prototype submarines ready, and another two that should be completed in short-order.

“You see, they only needed the plans in order to figure out how the nuclear reaction chamber was constructed, since that serves as the primary means of shipwide power. Everything else is apparently active and they are only waiting for the raw materials.”

“Well, I just got off the horn with David,” Brognola said. “Phoenix Force has their hands full in Namibia, but I have his assurances they’ll put this one to bed in less than twelve hours. There is a possibility, however, that the terrorists managed to get at least one shipment of ore out of the country.”

“If they have and that U-92 ore reaches American shores, it’s a good bet the terrorists could still get these submarines active,” Lyons said.

“Even without the plans?”

“Well, not from the sense of nuclear propulsion,” Blancanales answered, “but Gadgets has a theory about that. Hold on, I’ll put him on because there are only two extensions here at the motel.”

A moment passed and then Schwarz’s voice came on the line. “Hey, gang.”

“Politician says you have a theory about these terrorist subs,” Brognola said.

“You betcha,” Schwarz replied. “Our canaries here told us in the event this didn’t go off, the head honcho of their outfit had a contingency plan.”

“Which was?” Price said.

“Apparently they arranged to have a buyer procure about half a dozen specialized diesel motors from a local firm in Charleston. These motors are unique in that they’re used by diving outfits and underwater salvage companies to power equipment and the like. I’m betting the terrorists plan to drop these in as substitutes if they can’t get their hands on the original design specifications for the nuclear power plants.”

“So you think they could still make these things active?” Brognola asked.

“Well, at least enough to put out to sea and launch a series of nuclear warheads at specified targets, yeah.”

“I can’t understand how this would’ve gotten past our initial screenings,” Price said, looking directly at Brognola. “We thoroughly questioned everyone with a security access to this program from the Oval Office to the Pentagon. They all swore that if any information had been leaked it would have to be by Dr. Stout.”

Brognola nodded and directed his voice toward the speaker. “That’s true. Stout was the only one to possess the technical knowledge to create this sub. And he was under constant watch.”

“What about information and data security on his equipment? Could it have been compromised?” Schwarz asked.

“Members of our own team assisted the NSA with security and counterbreach implementations.”

“In fact, nearly line for line of the security programs was written by Akira himself,” Price added.

That spoke volumes. Aaron Kurtzman oversaw the team of cyber wizards that included Carmen Delahunt, Akira Tokaido and Huntington Wethers. Schwarz’s experience in electronic surveillance and counterintelligence paled in comparison to the combined efforts of that brilliant crew, and he said as much. “Well, Akira’s kung fu is strong. If our own people were working on it, it’s highly unlikely the IUA would have acquired the resources necessary to penetrate Stout’s systems.”

“Then that can only mean one of two things,” Lyons said. “Either someone on the inside knew more than they let on or the IUA’s managed to plant a mole real high up. I’m betting the latter.”

“Based on what?” Price asked.

“A few things are glaring. First, they had to have known the exact time and route the escort team planned to use when they transported Stout to the Pentagon. Second, they were ready and waiting for us at the factory, because the ambush they set up had been too elaborate for them to craft on the fly. And finally, Hal said that Phoenix has been ambushed twice since they got into Namibia and they’ve only been there what, three or four hours? The IUA seems to be one step ahead of us on every mark up until now. That’s more than coincidence or tactical foresight.”

“And while I hate to ever admit Ironman’s right, seems to me they could have just as easily split with the plans and not given us another thought,” Schwarz said. “Instead, they chose to stick it out and try to put us down for good, which means someone told them we were too great a threat to be ignored. Not likely they came to that conclusion all by their lonesome.”

Price looked sideways at Brognola. “Those are awfully good points, Hal.”

Brognola nodded. “As much as I wished otherwise, I think you’re right on the money with this. And since it’s your theory, I’m open to hearing suggested tactics.”

“I say we get to Charleston and find this base before the terrorists go live. If even one of those subs gets loose, we could have a disaster on our hands.”

“Agreed,” Brognola replied. “You have my authorization to proceed directly to South Carolina and learn whatever you can.”

“That’s almost five hundred miles, which means a driving time of at least seven hours.”

“Yeah,” Schwarz said, “but that’s only if we let Politician behind the wheel.”

As Price picked up another line she said, “We’ll arrange transport to Dulles. You can pick up one of the commercial flights that leave nearly every hour on the hour for South Carolina. Leave your weapons with whatever crew picks you up at the hotel. We’ll arrange for a fresh arsenal to be equipped in your vehicle when you arrive.”

“Understood,” Lyons replied.

“Take care,” Brognola said.

“We’ll take it any way we can, boss,” Lyons said.

And then he was gone.

Brognola looked at Price with a grave expression. “We’re running out of time.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


Latif al-Din tried to hide his rising anger as he listened to the reports from his cell leaders.

The news could have been better, much better, but boiling himself into a fury wouldn’t change the situation. Somehow the Americans had figured out what they were up to and had managed to ruin his plans for the project they called FACOS. Now he would have to fall back to his secondary plan, and while that remained a viable option, it wasn’t his preferred course of action.

No good could ever come in letting the enemy dictate a response, no matter how foolproof the contingency plans. It gave them entirely too much power.

Al-Din now considered his options and after a time he ordered the chief project overseer to begin installing the diesel engines.

“And what of the men from whom we bought them?” al-Din’s second-in-command asked.

“I’m led to understand they live above their shop.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Send a small force late tonight to eliminate them and destroy their building. That should erase any evidence of their dealings with us.”

“Of course.”

After the aide bowed and left the room to relay al-Din’s orders, the chief tactician in charge of their Namib Desert operations signaled for permission to speak. Al-Din nodded.

“Sir, were it in my power I would wish to be the one to carry better tidings.”

“Your news isn’t good, either?”

“Unfortunately not. The team you ordered me to send to destroy the American strike force utterly failed. We believe it may have been caused by mechanical failure of the chopper we stole from their maintenance yard.”

“Sounds more like a failure in your training methods,” al-Din interjected. “But we shall deal with that later. What else have you to report?”

The tactician cleared his throat before saying, “As soon as I received word of what had transpired, I sent our two lookouts in Lüderitz to dispatch one of the Americans and a government representative working with this commando team.”

“This representative… Who is he? Some kind of intelligence operative?”

“No, sir, we do not believe so. We think he is a doctor.”

“A doctor? You mean to tell me that two of our trained assassins were overcome by one scum-sucking American agent and an unarmed physician?”

“The doctor is a man named Matombo. He is the chief medical adviser to the Namibian government and his circle of influence is large. And the American—”

“Enough!” Al-Din could feel his face flushing now. “I have had all I might stand of your insolence and ineptitude.”

The man fell silent and lowered his head in a demonstration of shame. Under the circumstances, al-Din considered it fitting the man acknowledge his shame. Such a gesture was humbling, putting inferiors in their proper place and making a public show of the fact they considered themselves beneath al-Din. Such things were more tradition among the former glory of the Algerian freedom fighters. Before the Americans invaded Iraq, and before the war killed every living member of al-Din’s family.

“I bow to your advice, sir.”

“And you do well in that,” al-Din told the tactician. “It is time we turn this over to our European associates.”

This announcement stunned the tactician so much he raised his head enough to glance into al-Din’s eyes.

“You look surprised, Hezrai, although I can’t imagine why such a move would shock you. After all, we built our alliance with that mercenary group for a very good reason. Our security and secrecy has been compromised.”

“But is it the right time?”

Al-Din produced a scoffing laugh. “It is the perfect time. In fact, I cannot think of a better time to exploit this opportunity. Certainly we have paid them enough money to do nothing up to this point. We must find a way to divert the Americans from our plans, to confuse their intelligence network. The Europeans would provide a perfect ruse.”

Al-Din paused to reflect on his own ingenuity, the chair beneath him creaking as he put his weight on the rear legs and stroked his beard.

He was glad to have it back. Upon first entering the United States he’d shaved it off, leaving only the wisp of a mustache. He’d then dyed his mustache and hair a striking blond, and with glasses and several months of proper training he managed to enter the country posing as a Dutch investment broker. They had stolen the identity from a real man, whose name al-Din no longer even recalled, after kidnapping him and killing his family. Once inside the country, they let it slip to Interpol and Dutch authorities that the man was responsible for killing his own family and then released him inside the United States.

It didn’t take American law enforcement long to find the man, but by then al-Din no longer even moderately resembled the man he’d managed to impersonate. Now almost a year had passed and their construction renovations beneath the American port city of Charleston were complete.

“I want you to contact the Europeans in Walvis Bay. Tell them we need them to draw the Americans away from the mine until our team is safely away from Namibia with the U-92.”

“And what of the shipment currently en route?”

“What of it?” al-Din asked with a shrug. “It is being processed into weapons-grade plutonium during transport, but it will not be enough for all of the missiles. We must hit every target. Not just some of them. Otherwise our efforts here will be utterly in vain.”

“As you wish, al-Din. I shall contact them immediately.”

When he hesitated to leave al-Din looked at him with irritation. “Something else?”

“Yes, sir, but I hesitate to bring it up at this time.”

“Stop wasting my time, Hezrai,” al-Din rumbled dangerously.

“The small contingent of Americans in Washington, D.C.”

“What of them?”

“They managed to capture two of our own.”

“Can’t your informants help us with that little problem?”

“I suppose but…”

“What, fool? What?”

“Sir, they will expect additional payment.”

“They can expect whatever they wish. Were I in your predicament, I might remind them that they have been compensated more than enough and we expect their services to continue until we’ve achieved our mission objectives. Now get out of here, I have work to do.”

“I shall pass on your, em, sentiments, sir.”

When Hezrai had left him alone—finally, blessedly alone—al-Din reached into the drawer of his desk and withdrew a bottle of French cognac. His countrymen didn’t drink alcohol as a matter of religious principle. Some even considered it a mortal sin, but al-Din had never been a religious man—something that proved to be a disappointment to his superiors back in Algiers. It was their intolerance of his lifestyle and confounded interference in his plans for revenge that had finally driven al-Din from his home country. One day he hoped to go back but for now he was content to proceed with his plans.

His father had left him well enough off that he didn’t need money. His connections had provided all the necessary resources for this particular operation. Finding members sympathetic to his cause with the expertise in ship-building he required had proved the most difficult task. But al-Din didn’t know the meaning of the word cannot, never mind the fact he didn’t even believe in the impossible. His father had taught him there wasn’t anything he could not do that he put his mind to do and it was a lesson al-Din had clasped close to his heart for these years. After enjoying a couple of drinks in silence, al-Din stowed the bottle and rose from his seat. He proceeded out of the office in the back of the waterfront shop they were using for cover. Proceeding down the hallway to the back of the shop, al-Din pressed a lever disguised as a light fixture and a part of the wall suddenly gave way to reveal a set of narrow winding steps. Al-Din descended the stairwell and emerged onto a grated catwalk that overlooked the construction facility.

It wasn’t terribly large at a span of only one hundred yards, but they didn’t require a lot of room. The thing that amused al-Din most had to be the fact the infrastructure had already been put in place courtesy of the U.S. government. The facility was originally designed to provide a sea-based post of operations and secondary hiding location for high-ranking members of government, but the Department of Defense had eventually abandoned the project due to budget constraints. The original contractor, suddenly finding itself without funds, pulled out quickly and the place had been abandoned.

Some money in the right hands revealed its location, and aside from some corrosion and dust from years of disuse, al-Din found the place relatively well preserved.

The restoration project began immediately and in just three short months al-Din had an infrastructure suited to the task of constructing the FACOS prototypes. Now he watched with admiration as the crews of fifty welders, riveters, shipbuilders and metalworkers were tasked by engineers educated in the finest Middle Eastern universities.

As he watched them work harmoniously, a sense of pride swelled in his chest and a smile played at his lips. Over the past months he’d watched the ominous forms take shape, six in all. They sat like sharks hovering just above the water in their dry docks of the frames, their rear-mounted sails rising ominously above the sleek, knifelike bodies. The sails were equipped with full sensor suite packages, each one costing about a third of their value on the black market. These had been secondary stock produced by a Japanese electronics firm with a DOD contract.

The submarines were marvels of engineering; al-Din had no trouble admitting that fact. Each sub was eleven meters in length and three meters from the keel to the top deck. The deck in the bow was currently open to reveal the launching systems for the missiles, each one capable of delivering a payload of one, but during submersion they were covered. They could hold up to eight men but their standard complement was only six.

They had only two weaknesses. First, because of their compact size they could not exceed a maximum depth of 110 feet, although al-Din didn’t consider this a flaw since they could easily match the speed of most U.S. submarines in service and easily outrun all but the swiftest high-performance surface vessels. Second, they were not able to fire their missiles while submerged because the pumps weren’t big enough to provide the ballast required to move the water through. Still, al-Din knew they would be able to deliver the missiles and still have time to make their escape in the end.

Yes, once the Americans realized the threat, it would be far too late. There would be no effective response to the missiles launched against the cities all along the prime real estate they called the East Coast, and although the yields of these missiles would not be that of ICBMs or aerial deployed bombs, the death toll would still be in the millions.

Soon, Latif al-Din would show America the price of his flesh and blood.

Namibia, Africa

SYLVAN FACCIO HUNG up the phone, spit into a waste-basket at his feet and swore.

“Don’t be a slob, Sylvie,” a voice behind him admonished.

Faccio turned to face his blond partner, who sat on the bed. The big and muscular German was named Weisgaden. “My sinuses are fucked up. And for chris-sake stop calling me ‘Sylvie.’”

“All right, sheisse.” Weisgaden threw up his hands. “Why be so squirrelly, freund?”

That was Weisgaden’s other habit that irritated Faccio. Not only was the guy unable to take just about anything seriously, but Weisgaden also had a tendency to speak half in English and half in German. Just certain words, really. Nothing specific that Faccio could put his finger on, but more like a random annoyance. Enough of an annoyance that there were moments Faccio felt like carving out the German’s eyes with the red-hot tip of the combat knife he took everywhere with him.

A third man emerged from the bathroom, the sound of a flushing toilet announcing his entrance. He stood there tall and lanky, attired in hiking boots, khaki pants, a military-cut shirt and OD-green vest. Just like a great hunter on an African safari, the man known as Norm Hellerman said, “I think both you mates ought to just move past all the foreplay and get married already. I mean, why be coy about how you truly feel for each other?”

Weisgaden expressed something between a grimace and a grin. “Fuck you, you kangaroo bush-hopper.”

Hellerman looked at Weisgaden a moment longer and then exchanged a grin with Faccio. “See there? He’s already talking dirty. What more could a guy ask for, mate?”

Faccio only gave the Australian mercenary the finger. He couldn’t figure how he’d been so lucky getting on a detail with these two clowns. Things had been fine doing local work back on Sicily. How he’d ever let a former client talk him into working with the likes of Hellerman and Weisgaden, Faccio would never understand. But at the moment, it didn’t really matter because they finally had some action on the horizon, and he would be able to find comfort in doing what he did best.

“You two want to stow that shit long enough to listen up?”

Hellerman looked surprised. “That’s kind of funny, ’cause I don’t remember anybody dying and leaving you in charge.”

“I ain’t saying I’m in charge. But I just got off the phone with our client. Seems they’ve run into some trouble in Lüderitz.”

Weisgaden put down the pistol he’d been rubbing with a gun cloth, and his eyes flashed with a new alertness. “Lüderitz? Why should they have any trouble in that ghost town?”

“They say there are five Americans and one local, some kind of doctor, causing trouble for their operations.”

“Five Americans? Military? Maybe Delta Force?”

Faccio shrugged. “Don’t know—they didn’t say. Could be U.S. black ops, maybe even independent contractors. Whoever they are, our contact wants us to shag our asses down there and take care of business.”

“Well, I for one am ready to get the hell out of this shithole,” Hellerman said as he gathered up his gear. “Sitting around here’s putting corns on my bum.”

“Too much information, bush-hopper,” Weisgaden replied.

Without further banter, the three men gathered their equipment and prepared to depart the hotel. They decided not to check out of their rooms since they were paid up through the week and the drive from Walvis Bay to Lüderitz wasn’t that far. With any luck, they could get down there, do the job and be back by morning. Five Americans wouldn’t be much of a problem if they weren’t expecting trouble—especially the kind of trouble at which the three mercenaries excelled.

Faccio hadn’t worked with Hellerman or Weisgaden before—and he fervently hoped he wouldn’t ever have to again—but word in his circle of influence was they each possessed considerable skills and were respected soldiers of fortune in their own right. So they weren’t a class act and personable types. So what? They knew how to do the job and that’s all Faccio really cared about. He only had to work with them, not be their bosom buddy.

They loaded their equipment in the SUV and Hellerman took the wheel. He’d operated in South Africa many times before and knew the terrain better than either Faccio or Hellerman. He maneuvered through the cold, rain-washed streets of Walvis Bay like an expert and soon they were on the B-4 bound for Lüderitz.

Movement throughout the country was surprisingly simple. Namibia didn’t have the legal resources of other countries and frankly didn’t need them. Crime wasn’t particularly high in the sparsely populated areas, and what zones might be more dangerous—such as highly concentrated areas of workers around diamond mines and the like—were highly restricted. Vehicles caught anywhere near forbidden zones were immediately stopped, occupants searched and all possessions seized. Random death and destruction occurred regularly in those parts, and unless one had a death wish they were best avoided altogether.

In some respects, Faccio had to admit he liked it that way. It made things much easier for operations like this one, and they could pretty much assume the role of dumb tourists if they did come in contact with authorities. Tourism provided most of the economic staple in this part of the world, and police hassling visitors was generally frowned upon by the majority of citizens. There was a sort of live-and-let-live policy in force and only the most serious crimes got any attention from the law.





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