ADMIRAL REMAR LOOKED GRIMLY AT KISSINGER

“Last week I got my first live-fire demo. They put fifty-seven thousand grenades into an area no larger than a football field in under a minute.

“I’m telling you, John, this is heavy duty ordnance you’re dealing with. If you or Hal are connected with the people charged with tracking down whoever stole the prototypes, you’re going to have your work cut out for you. But I think I can help.”

“That would be appreciated,” Kissinger replied. “And you’re right about our people. If they have to go up against any force of considerable size, it’s my responsibility to arm them with the proper tools. That’s their only chance for success. I need to get my hands on some of those weapons.”

“Fight fire with fire.”

Other titles in this series:

#12 BLIND EAGLE

#13 WARHEAD

#14 DEADLY AGENT

#15 BLOOD DEBT

#16 DEEP ALERT

#17 VORTEX

#18 STINGER

#19 NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE

#20 TERMS OF SURVIVAL

#21 SATAN’S THRUST

#22 SUNFLASH

#23 THE PERISHING GAME

#24 BIRD OF PREY

#25 SKYLANCE

#26 FLASHBACK

#27 ASIAN STORM

#28 BLOOD STAR

#29 EYE OF THE RUBY

#30 VIRTUAL PERIL

#31 NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR

#32 LAW OF LAST RESORT

#33 PUNITIVE MEASURES

#34 REPRISAL

#35 MESSAGE TO AMERICA

#36 STRANGLEHOLD

#37 TRIPLE STRIKE

#38 ENEMY WITHIN

#39 BREACH OF TRUST

#40 BETRAYAL

#41 SILENT INVADER

#42 EDGE OF NIGHT

#43 ZERO HOUR

#44 THIRST FOR POWER

#45 STAR VENTURE

#46 HOSTILE INSTINCT

#47 COMMAND FORCE

#48 CONFLICT IMPERATIVE

#49 DRAGON FIRE

#50 JUDGMENT IN BLOOD

#51 DOOMSDAY DIRECTIVE

#52 TACTICAL RESPONSE

#53 COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

#54 VECTOR THREE

#55 EXTREME MEASURES

#56 STATE OF AGGRESSION

#57 SKY KILLERS

#58 CONDITION HOSTILE

#59 PRELUDE TO WAR

#60 DEFENSIVE ACTION

#61 ROGUE STATE

#62 DEEP RAMPAGE

#63 FREEDOM WATCH

#64 ROOTS OF TERROR

#65 THE THIRD PROTOCOL

#66 AXIS OF CONFLICT

#67 ECHOES OF WAR

#68 OUTBREAK

#69 DAY OF DECISION

#70 RAMROD INTERCEPT

#71 TERMS OF CONTROL

#72 ROLLING THUNDER

#73 COLD OBJECTIVE

#74 THE CHAMELEON FACTOR

#75 SILENT ARSENAL

#77 FULL BLAST

#78 MAELSTROM

Maelstrom

STONY MAN®

AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

Don Pendleton

For Mr. William Fieldhouse—mentor, colleague, friend

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Adelaide, Australia

He watched the puffs of smoke rise into the air as the weapon cycled through sixteen 40 mm grenades at the rate of four per second.

Wallace Davidia knew the shells were nonlethal—their noses packed with iridescent orange powder versus high explosives—but they weren’t the object of his attention. The mechanism of delivery was what took center stage. That weapon, and the others like it, being demonstrated at the fifth annual Defence Science and Technology Organisation Land Weapons Conference, was what had brought the Resurrected Defense League to Australia. It was this technology that he wanted—no, had—to possess, and the reason the men with him now sat and waited patiently, professionally.

Davidia lowered the binoculars and looked at the shadowy figures seated near him, illuminated only by the small opening in the side of their shelter. The fourteen-foot moving truck stunk of sweat mixed with anticipation and fear. Davidia knew those scents well; he’d known them from his adolescent years growing up in the heart of Brooklyn. Those had been the hardest times of his life. He was the youngest son of Jewish parents who barely escaped the Holocaust only to find another war for survival going on in their own neighborhood. Nonetheless, he’d done his part for his country, serving four years in the Marine Corps, including a stint in Operation Desert Storm, and returned to New York afterward to become a police officer on beat patrol in his old stomping grounds. Life hadn’t always been easy, but he’d been happy until called off shift early one morning to have the police chaplain tell him a surprised burglar murdered his wife, a burglar whose attorney got him off on a technicality by proposing that the police had discriminated against the man because he was Palestinian.

Determined to right a wrong, Davidia joined the Jewish Defense League and even spent a short time with a radical Jewish activist group conducting underground operations in New York City, but one too many protests in the streets, one too many acts of violence, eventually led to a demand for his resignation. Davidia didn’t go quietly. He found his wife’s murderer and put a bullet in the guy’s head before renouncing his citizenship and fleeing America. Eventually, Davidia founded the Resurrected Defense League. He trained his mind and his body, honing the military skills Uncle Sam taught him and the terror tactics gleaned from membership in the Kach-Kahane Chai to a sharp edge. It had all led up to this day. This would be the day that he would reveal his abilities for the first time since his self-imposed exile. The RDL was about to make a statement the world would never forget.

Davidia nodded with assurance to his lieutenant before raising his voice just loud enough. In Hebrew he said, “We move in two minutes. Weapons check.”

They had timed the operation down to the final second, laid out every part of the demonstration grounds to the last detail. His men knew every corner of this area and they were familiar with every street in Adelaide. They had spent months visiting the area, mapping various escape routes and planning for every possible scenario. They had to do this to insure the success of their mission and secure escape. Davidia knew the weapons he sought were prototypes, but the RDL’s engineers were waiting at a secret location far from here, a location known only to him and his lieutenant, Boaz Rasham. If something happened to one of them, the other could still accomplish the objectives. If both of them bought it, the mission was terminated and the men were under clear orders to cover and conceal, and escape by any means possible. Capture or surrender was unacceptable.

His organization wasn’t large, maybe 150 in membership with about triple that in financial supporters, but it was a force big enough to implement Davidia’s plans. Years before, the Kach-Kahane Chai had attempted to utilize a technological device to effectively end the conflicts on the West Bank once and for all. Unfortunately the plan had failed, thwarted by Mossad agents and Americans from an unknown organization. Davidia left the Kach-Kahane Chai and took his staunchest supporters with him. He knew that ending the war between Israel and the Palestinians would never truly stop the oppression. No, the only way to stop their sworn enemies was to utterly eradicate them. Davidia’s plans called for the total extinction of those vermin, and the most ingenious part was that the nations of the world would do most of the work—starting with America.

“Thirty seconds,” Davidia announced as he stored the binoculars. The terrorist leader then checked the action on the mini-Uzi, putting the weapon in battery before letting it dangle at his side by its strap. Davidia then swung one leg over his seat and positioned himself comfortably on the seat of the four-wheel ATV.

The sound of ATV engines being started echoed loudly inside the confines of the semi-trailer. There were twelve ATVs in all, each one manned by the very best of Davidia’s soldiers. These were the cream of the crop, the most experienced members of the RDL’s strike teams. Davidia had handpicked the crew for this mission, given its importance. The success of their action now would set the stage for the rest of his plans and he couldn’t afford to let anything go wrong. These men were his first, best insurance policy against any eventualities. They would succeed—God was with them.

Davidia nodded to Rasham, who would stay behind with the truck and prepare for the return of the men and their spoils. The man grabbed the door release and heaved. The sunlight nearly blinded them as the door rolled upward and Rasham kicked out the ramp. The ramp dropped to the ground with a clang that was drowned by the roar of the first ATV engine as its rider rolled out with a pop of the clutch.

Davidia revved the engine of the ATV and anxiously waited his turn to exit the trailer. It was time to make history.

CHAPTER ONE

His name was David McCarter, and he was team leader to some of the most dangerous men on earth.

The fox-faced Briton turned to study the profile of one of those men now. Just the way the man held his tall and lanky form betrayed his readiness, and his sharp, brown eyes intently searched their field of fire. In all the years McCarter had known this man, he’d come to respect his professionalism and integrity, not to mention his skills in the heat of action. This guy could hold it together in the toughest situation. He was a first-rate soldier.

Calvin James cast a sideways glance at first notice that McCarter was watching him, then turned his head fully and grinned at the Phoenix Force leader. “What?”

“Just thinking,” McCarter replied, turning his attention back to their assigned watch.

“Well, if you like what you see, I’m free Saturday night,” James cracked.

“You’re not my type, mate,” McCarter said, grinning. Then the smile disappeared. “Actually, I was just wondering when Hal sent us out on this bloody mission if you might have been thinking the same thing I was.”

James shrugged and scratched his chin. “What, that this is a waste of resources? Much as I hate to admit it, any decent security team could have handled this. We should be out chasing down bad guys, not baby-sitting a bunch of tight-assed military contractors.”

McCarter chuckled and said, “You got to start saying how you really feel about stuff, Cal. You hold back too much.”

“Well, I can’t believe you disagree. Say it isn’t so.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But remember that Hal sent us here to get a feel for these new weapons systems. Kissinger has him convinced they’ll be useful in the field for future operations.”

James nodded toward the field. “Yeah, and Cowboy’s down there right now in the firing area with a ringside seat to this circus. We should be down there with him instead of standing on the sidelines and feeding peanuts to the elephants.”

John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the top weapons smith for Stony Man Farm, America’s premier counterterrorist organization, and one of her best-kept and most effective secrets. It was Kissinger who had convinced Harold Brognola, chief of the Stony Man operation, to let the members of Phoenix Force accompany him to Australia for their first look at the weapons of the future. Naturally, Phoenix Force was on call at a moment’s notice at all times, ready to be dropped into anything, at anytime and in any place. Nonetheless, all of its men were consummate professionals who had taken the job without complaint, and McCarter couldn’t have asked for more. Still, James was right—this was a waste of talent.

McCarter chuckled. “You’re beginning to sound as cynical as Carl.”

Before James could reply, McCarter keyed up the wireless transceiver attached to his belt, which was no larger than a standard pager. Phoenix Force had recently decided to go with one of Akira Tokaido’s latest inventions—a communications system for the team to use during sensitive or covert operations that might require distance between them, thus splitting up one of the world’s most effective counterterrorist units. This system was quite different from the one they’d used in the past, since these transceivers sent microwave signals. Under normal circumstances, such transmissions would have required line-of-sight, but with a satellite linkup there was no such limitation. A programming algorithm designed by Tokaido to control the burst-rate provided the security. This system had a range comparable to Los Angeles County, and all of those factors made it much more effective and reliable for the team.

“All units check in,” McCarter said.

“Red team’s clear,” came the voice of Gary Manning, indicating he and Rafael Encizo, positioned at the other end of the field, had things well under control. McCarter detected the boredom in Manning’s voice, but he didn’t let that bother him. Both the men in red team were as dedicated to their jobs and Phoenix Force as James.

“Blue team’s clear,” echoed T. J. Hawkins, who had partnered with the liaison of the parade ground security chief.

Leaving the youngest and newest member of Stony Man on his own with a much less experienced man hadn’t been McCarter’s first choice. After one look, the Briton could tell that the security chief was nowhere close to being as experienced or seasoned as Hawkins. Still, McCarter knew Hawkins was the best choice, since blue team was working the bleachers where the military observers were seated and the younger guy was “best fit” to act as an active Army soldier. Hawkins, a former member of a Delta Force team, had immediately taken to the role since it allowed him to put on the uniform once more.

McCarter nodded with satisfaction and was about to kill the transceiver when Hawkins added, “Gold team, check that last comm. Looks like trouble in grid six.”

McCarter checked that direction. It was a large open space comprised of mostly tall, dry grass, scattered trees and the occasional boulder that separated the demo field from a busy uptown street. However, it was a fairly open space and it didn’t make a whole lot of sense that someone would launch an attack from that direction. It wasn’t until he saw the dozen or so ATVs racing toward the demo field that McCarter changed his mind.

McCarter keyed the transceiver. “Red team, move to defensive posture. Blue team, stand post and watch for alternates in case this is a diversion. First to targets calls the ball.”

As both teams acknowledged his transmission, McCarter and James burst from their position and sprinted down the slight grassy knoll bound for the center of the demo field. It was long odds they could make it in time to implement a fully effective defense, but what had the Briton more concerned were the intentions of these new arrivals. It was possible they were just a group of crazies who wanted to stir the pot, but McCarter didn’t buy it. They were attired in desert camouflage uniforms and the Phoenix Force warrior was certain he’d seen light reflecting off gunmetal. Kids weren’t so brazen and showy, and they certainly didn’t congregate in those kinds of numbers. McCarter smelled nothing but bloody trouble.

And he didn’t like it one damn bit.

RAFAEL ENCIZO and Gary Manning spotted the group on ATVs at the same moment Hawkins reported them, and the pair of Phoenix Force warriors immediately bolted into the fray.

“First to targets calls the ball,” McCarter had said. Well, Encizo knew exactly what the hell that meant. While the Phoenix Force leader was charged with all final decisions, it sometimes made sense to let whoever was closest to the enemy direct the action. After all, a field soldier’s report of troop movement and direction was much more accurate than that delivered by some armchair quarterback in the rear. Encizo’s and Manning’s position put them much closer to the approaching ATVs, and that meant they would likely reach the perimeter of the demo field before James and McCarter. In that event, Encizo would take the lead.

The two men reached the demo field and sprinted for the fence line. Encizo could hear Hawkins shouting at somebody from the bleachers, but he didn’t bother to risk a backward glance. The young Texan was probably yelling at the Aussie security team to clear the field of all nonessential personnel. Those weren’t soldiers seated in those stands, they were officers and defense contractors who were slow and well stocked on doughnuts. And the guys by the weapons were nothing but engineers, thereby incapable of putting up a fight with their prototype weapons, except of course Kissinger.

Phoenix Force would handle this.

“Definitely hostiles…at least ten…well armed,” the Cuban reported to them as he breathed heavily from the exertion. “We’re engaging.”

Encizo produced the MP-5K he’d concealed beneath his jacket, and in his peripheral vision he noticed Manning had already drawn a SIG-Sauer P-239 with an extended 8-round magazine. The big Canadian preferred not to indulge in compact machine pistols like the MP-5K, finding them too bulky for a mission of this type. However he was no less deadly with a semi-automatic pistol than Encizo with a machine pistol.

Encizo was the first to demonstrate that fact as he stopped near the fence, knelt and steadied his sights on the first target. He’d set the MP-5K for 3-round bursts, and the first trio of rounds took one of the ATV riders in the chest. Blood stained the man’s shirt as the impact lifted him from his ride. The ATV careened toward the fence, spinning only at the last moment, the two left wheels striking the fence, which held firm despite the weight of the vehicle.

Manning missed once in his opening salvo, but round two caught another rider in the gut. The driver keeled over, and his ATV slowed considerably as the man clutched his abdomen. Even from that distance, Encizo could see the agony on the guy’s face. The driver looked up in time to see that he was going to hit the fence and he tried to avoid it, but the ground was still damp from rains that morning and the ATV slid into the fence. The rider was hurled face-first and the impact twisted his head at an odd angle. Encizo could tell the guy was dead from a broken neck before the body hit the ground. The warrior looked for his next target, but McCarter’s voice interrupted the action.

“Incoming!”

Manning and Encizo threw themselves to the ground in time to avoid the whistling projectile that passed only yards above them. A moment later the ground shook as a blast erupted. Encizo risked a glance long enough to determine the source of the attack. A few of the ATV riders had stayed back and were providing covering fire utilizing CIS 40GLs. The Singapore-made grenade launcher was almost identical in design to the M-203—it fired 40 mm grenades with a maximum effective range up to 400 meters.

“That’s some heavy shit we’re up against here,” Manning muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Encizo replied.

“Get some cover,” McCarter advised even as the two Phoenix Force commandos were on their feet and converging on their position. “We’ll lay down some fire for you.”

“Roger,” Manning answered through his transceiver.

The sounds of James’s and McCarter’s MP-5Ks resounded through the air as they laid down a full-auto onslaught against the enemy troops. Encizo knew there was no way they could hope to repel an attack of this kind, and that the fence would serve only as a minor barrier.

The best bet was to evacuate the innocents and hope some window of opportunity opened.

JOHN KISSINGER WASN’T exactly a warrior, but he knew how to take care of himself. Unfortunately he’d been serving in the capacity of VIP to the weapons demonstration and, being that close to the prototypes, he wasn’t allowed to carry a firearm.

Not that it really mattered. A pistol was no good against high-explosive grenades anyway—at least not when the grenadiers were at the range they were. Staying alive seemed a bit more important to Kissinger and he saw it as his duty to keep the weapons operators and engineers that way, as well. After all, they were fellow gun junkies, and Kissinger watched out for his own kind. Besides, the men of Phoenix Force could take care of themselves. The best he could do was to get the innocents out of the way.

“Move!” he told the engineers and operators. “Go for that cover over there!”

Kissinger waved them in the direction of a low-slung building that ran parallel to the bleachers. It was made of heavy concrete and steel, with a small open-air observation window that provided a full view of the field. It was actually a bunker-style observatory, designed for inclement weather and to provide some relative protection during demonstrations similar to this one.

One of the operators tripped and Kissinger reached down and hauled him to his feet. He practically dragged the guy as he rushed toward the cover of the observation building. They had just reached the door as the second grenade struck the bleachers and sent an explosive blast of sharp, superheated aluminum shrapnel in every direction. A pang of fear stabbed at Kissinger’s heart even as he pushed the operator—whose name he remembered was Randy Wallis—through the door of the building. The armorer turned his attention toward the bleachers and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were already empty.

HAWKINS HAD BEEN the first to spot the team of ATV riders approaching the demo field, and he knew immediately they weren’t an Olympic cross-country team just out for some fun. He’d started screaming orders at the surprised military observers and contractors. A couple of the generals in the crowd had at first acted as if he were nuts, giving Hawkins stern looks that signaled he was violating military protocol. The explosion of the first 40 mm grenade a mere twenty-five yards from their position turned annoyance into pandemonium, ending any further doubts the observers might have had about Hawkins’s maintaining a military decorum. People scrambled down the five rows of bleachers, moving toward the bunker-like building in the rear under the direction of Hawkins and the head of security, a young and inexperienced lad named Thaddeus Kornsby. What the youth lacked in experienced he made up for in enthusiasm and steadiness under fire. His handling of the situation was admirable.

Which is why Hawkins felt anger wash over him when, halfway to the building, he turned at the sound of the second explosion that blew apart the bleachers and toppled Kornsby, who was now short his left arm. The young security officer stared blankly into Hawkins’s eyes, oblivious to the sound of the woman pinned under him, who was screaming and kicking. Hawkins realized something the woman, covered in the gore that had erupted from the stump of Kornsby’s wound, didn’t. He’d sustained his injuries throwing himself on top of her to save her life.

Hawkins turned and rushed to retrieve both of them before the situation could get any worse. Although he really didn’t see how that could be possible.

MCCARTER AND JAMES went prone about the same time they’d warned Encizo and Manning to grab cover. The Phoenix Force leader watched helplessly as a 40 mm grenade sailed over the demo field in a lazy arc and came to land about thirty meters on the backside of where they had set up the new prototype weapons. Less than a minute passed before there was a loud crack and a second grenade landed in the bleachers, although it appeared Hawkins and Kornsby had already cleared the spectators.

McCarter also noticed that Kissinger had managed to gather the weapons operators and engineers away from the hot zone. With innocents out of the way, it would make it easier for Phoenix Force to do its job.

McCarter keyed the transceiver. “Blue team.”

“Go,” came Encizo’s voice.

“We’ve lost sight of you, mate. Are you clear?”

“We’re in the range building.”

McCarter scanned the grounds and quickly found the location. The range building was, in fact, a small wooden structure dug into the earth, its roof and about two feet of uprights actually aboveground. McCarter had seen many like it. It was designed for range cadre to mark distances during live-fire exercises and call back the data to weapons operators. McCarter had familiarized himself with the process long before, when competing in pistol matches all over the world. But that had been a lifetime ago, when he was still with the SAS. Now the enemy seemed to have the advantage.

McCarter meant to change that.

“Red team, what’s your status?”

“We’re inside the observation building,” Hawkins replied.

“Do you have a clear line of fire?”

“We did…until they blew up the damned bleachers. Now there’s too much smoke.”

“Hang tight, mates,” McCarter said, hearing the tension in his teammate’s voice. “We’re coming for you.”

McCarter and James got to their feet and continued charging toward the demonstration grounds. The group of ATV riders was now inside the fence line and headed straight for the prototypes. The Briton got within what he deemed was a reasonable distance, then knelt and steadied his MP-5K. He delivered another sustained burst, with James following suit. Another rider’s body flipped sideways off the ATV and his machine caromed off that of one of his partners before rolling onto its side and stopping, one handlebar leaving a gouge in the soft dirt-sand mix of the demo grounds.

James entered the fray, capping one of the several hardmen in a group that had reached the prototypes. Rounds from the MP-5K slammed into the rider’s back as the man dismounted from his ride, and he pitched forward violently and landed face-first.

McCarter could now see the winking of muzzles from the open slit in the range building. It looked as if Manning and Encizo had them in a cross fire. The Briton grinned. That pair was performing admirably, despite the overwhelming odds. Phoenix Force was neither heavily armed nor prepared for this kind of an assault. They weren’t packing any spare clips, heavy weapons or explosives of any kind. The enemy had every advantage here.

As if in response to the thought, McCarter heard the unmistakable sounds of two grenade launchers being fired. He yelled at James to get clear as he got to his feet and sprinted toward a large boulder. The natural terrain here was rocky, comprised of heavy dirt and sand. There were plenty of boulders like this around, especially in their area, which is why McCarter had chosen it as strategic for observation. That decision was probably going to prove to be one that saved his life and the life of his colleagues.

When the grenades struck, he’d managed to get far enough away. The only consequence was the shower of dirt and rocks—the direct result of his proximity to the explosions. As the last of the debris settled, McCarter risked exposure by glancing at the area over the boulder. His heart sank into his stomach when he saw the motionless form of Calvin James lying close to the smoldering impressions left by the twin blasts.

“I’ve got one down,” McCarter said into the microphone of his transceiver.

Then he left his cover and rushed for his friend.

IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING McCarter’s transmission, Hawkins made it a point to find Kissinger so they could discuss their options.

“This isn’t good,” Hawkins said.

“That’s an understatement,” Kissinger replied. “You’re the pro here. What do you want to do?”

“Our first mission is to protect these people,” Hawkins said in a hushed tone. “I can’t very well leave you alone with them, and if I try to get to David, I’ll get my ass shot off.”

“I can stay here with them.”

“And do what?” Hawkins asked with disbelief. “You’re not packing. I’ve got the only weapon, and it’s just a pistol. And if we don’t get out of here very soon, Kornsby’s going to bleed to death.”

“Yeah, we really got caught with our pants down on this one,” Kissinger replied. “But I think we’ll be okay without you. I think whoever the hell that is out there is after the prototypes, and nothing else.”

“Maybe,” Hawkins replied, gritting his teeth. “But I just can’t take that chance.”

ENCIZO AND MANNING could barely see through the haze and smoke left in the wake of additional grenade explosions. This didn’t account for the smoke that was filling up their position. It stung their eyes, causing them to choke, and it wasn’t dark or thick, which told the pair that they were the victims of CS gas. The enemy was stealing the prototypes and there wasn’t a damned thing either of them could do about it.

Encizo couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this helpless.

As Manning wiped tears from his face, he said, “I hope Cal is all right.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Encizo said, one muscle twitching in his cheek. “If he’s dead, I’ll hunt down every one of those bastards and kill them barehanded.”

“Let’s not jump the gun, Rafe,” Manning said quietly. He cleared his lungs with a fit of coughing and then continued. “We don’t know if he’s dead or not dead. David just said he had one down. We don’t know what that means.”

Encizo’s eyes were as haunting as his expression. “I know what it means.”

Manning decided not to argue with his teammate; partly because he didn’t see any point and partly because he knew it didn’t much matter. The roar of the ATV engines and subsequent fading as they moved away from the demo grounds told the whole story. Their enemy had escaped with their booty and Phoenix Force had been unable to stop them. The reasons no longer mattered, that was just the way the chips had fallen.

One thing was certain in Manning’s mind. This wasn’t over. Not even close.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The unlit cigar nearly fell from Harold Brognola’s mouth as he sat forward in his chair.

“Say that again, please?”

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, had just walked into the big Fed’s office and set a cup of coffee in front of the man. She took a seat in front of his desk. Price immediately observed the knuckles of Brognola’s hand turning white. He was clutching the phone and furrows were forming above his eyebrows. That wasn’t a good sign. It meant the Stony Man chief was stressing, his anxiety building to a point that would one day either cause him a stroke, heart attack or some other fatal ailment. He already suffered from digestive problems.

“Okay, I’m sure we’ll hear from our people shortly. Thank you for calling, sir. I’ll keep you informed.”

Brognola dropped the phone into the receiver.

“Hal, what is it?” Price asked.

“That was the President,” he said, looking her in the eye with a granite expression. “The Secretary of State just notified him that there was what the Australian government described as an ‘incident’ at the conference.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently a dozen or more heavily armed men, which by the way have not yet been identified, attacked during the middle of a demonstration and began shelling the area with grenades and automatic weapons fire. Security teams responded, including Phoenix Force, but apparently there were some casualties. One of them was identified as a black man belonging to a, quote ‘private security detachment assigned to the conference,’ end quote.”

“Calvin.”

“There’s no confirmation of that yet,” Brognola reminded her with a stern look and a wagging finger. “And there have also been no reports of any deaths, so let’s not jump to any conclusions until we know what the hell is going on.”

“Well, why haven’t we heard from Phoenix yet?”

“I’m not sure,” Brognola replied. “It may be that if one of them was injured, they’re getting medical attention first. I’m sure David will contact us when he can.”

As if on cue, a buzzing sounded on Brognola’s phone. It was a unique signal that indicated the call was coming from the internal voice and data communications network that connected the farmhouse with the Annex, a new underground facility that housed highly advanced centers for communication, cybernetics and security to support all of Stony Man’s operations.

“Brognola,” the Stony Man chief barked into the phone. “They are? All right, we’ll be right there.”

Price wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him move so fast. Brognola was out of his chair and hurrying toward the electric car that ran nearly a quarter-mile underground between the farmhouse and the Annex. Price followed him with all of the same vigor.

The big Fed flipped a switch and the car obediently surged toward the Annex. “That was Aaron on the phone. He says that David’s called in.”

“Did he say how he sounded?”

Brognola shook his head. “I don’t think Aaron knows yet that there was even trouble.”

“Well, if I know David, he knows now.”

They arrived at the Annex and a minute later they were standing outside the Computer Room, their way blocked by a burly guy with a wrestler-like body that was, unfortunately, confined to a wheelchair for life. Still, that fact had never broken the mind or the spirit of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman. The indomitable technology genius greeted them at the door and raised a cautionary hand.

“Everyone’s okay,” Kurtzman reported. He fixed Brognola with a gentler expression and added, “Including Calvin.”

Price felt the anxiety ebb from her and she could literally see the tension dissipate in Brognola’s shoulders. She thought it odd that she could read her boss, even from the rear, but the tension in his posture had been so evident that the relief could only be equally so.

Kurtzman turned and entered the Computer Room, followed by Brognola and Price.

Brognola said to strategically placed speaker phones, “David, you with us?”

“Yes, and you bloody well kept me waiting long enough here, Hal.”

Price couldn’t help but smile. She winked at Brognola when he looked at her and smiled triumphantly before saying, “Report.”

McCarter sighed. “We took some pretty bad hits. This has to be one of the worst security gigs we’ve ever done.”

“I just got off the phone with the Man, and he tells me the Australian government was hedging when briefing the SOD.”

“That’s a mild understatement, “ McCarter replied. “They had just completed their fourth demonstration and were about to move on in the presentation when it all hit the bloody fan. Aggressors were dressed in standard desert camouflage fatigues, carrying a variety of automatic rifles and machine pistols, and launching high-explosive grenades into the area like it was free.”

“How many are we talking here?”

“A dozen, give or take. We managed to bring down about half before it all went to hell.”

“Were you able to determine origin?” Price interjected.

“No, but there wasn’t exactly time to ask them where they were from, and none of us got close enough to tell. They were definitely thorough. They not only got the weapons, but they managed to round up their dead.”

“Obviously looking to avoid any type of identification,” Price concluded.

Brognola nodded at her, then asked, “What’s Calvin’s status?”

“He’ll pull through. The bugger took a bit of shell shock. The concussions from their HE grenades damn near knocked us all batty. We had to get him and all of the civilians evacuated first before I could touch base with you. We’re at our hotel now and this is the first chance they’ve given us to contact you.”

“First chance who’s given you?”

“Investigators from the Crown,” McCarter replied in a sour tone.

“They have no right to hold you under any circumstances,” Brognola replied. “I made sure your credentials granted you diplomatic immunity. I’ll make a call and get you released.”

“Well, make it quick, will you? We’re in a foul mood here, and the rest of the blokes are about to vote on making a break for it and shooting our bloody way out of here. Can’t say as I blame them, and I might just do it anyway.”

“Don’t cause any trouble. Just hang tight and keep a low profile. I promise I’ll have you out of there within the hour. In the meantime, give me whatever else you can.”

“Well, I can tell you this was no ordinary terrorist attack.”

“How so?”

“Our friends here had a particular goal in mind. They came with the intent to steal the new prototypes from Stormalite Systems, and that’s just what they did. It didn’t seem like they were interested in taking hostages or murdering innocent civilians.”

“So they weren’t looking for shock value,” Brognola said. “Go on.”

“It also seems obvious they knew exactly what they were doing, Hal, and they got away with it. Their tactics were ingenious and unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve fought against a group quite like this. Very methodical and calculated.”

“You said there were maybe a dozen or so?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so that means just a small group was trained for this operation. And given they knew what to hit and how to hit it, I’d have to guess very specialized in these kinds of operations. I agree with your assessment. This was no ordinary terrorist attack. This was a military operation.”

“Or at least an attack by a group well-versed in military tactics,” Price added.

Kurtzman shook his head with a disbelieving expression. “Mercenaries?”

“Possibly,” Brognola replied. “It would explain the theft of these prototypes.”

“Well, I managed to get in a few words with the blokes from Stormalite before reinforcements showed up. Thanks to Cowboy, I managed to glean the inventory that was stolen. I’ve got it here on our transceiver if you want me to send it.”

“Do it,” Brognola said, nodding at Kurtzman.

The computer wizard did a one-eighty in his chair through a single motion from his powerful arms and raced over to a communications console. He got to the nearest keyboard, which consisted of nothing but a flat rubber base with soft-touch keys, and quickly entered a fifteen-character alphanumeric code. A moment later tones similar to a fax-modem resounded through the room in bursts. The data transmission took less than thirty seconds.

“Bear, did you get it all?” Brognola asked when the tones ended.

Kurtzman checked the large, flat-panel LCD monitor at a nearby workstation and nodded. “You bet. Looks like there’s a full inventory here of everything they had, plus schematics. Very nice work, David. But how did you get all of this in such a short period of time?”

“I downloaded from one of the engineer’s notebooks.”

“That’s good work,” Brognola said, and they knew he meant it because the Stony Man chief wasn’t one to toss compliments lightly. “That’s excellent work, as a matter of fact.”

“So, what do you think this mysterious new group might be planning?” Price asked.

“I was hoping you might have some ideas about that,” McCarter replied. “We’ve talked among ourselves here about it already, and the consensus seems to be that this group plans to build additional weapons from the prototypes.”

“Agreed,” Brognola said. “There’s no way this group could do much with the prototypes. While these weapons are powerful, there aren’t enough of them in circulation to be effective during a terrorist operation.”

“There’s something else we have to consider,” Price said.

“What’s that?” McCarter asked.

“Well, it’s possible this group doesn’t plan to use the prototypes at all. Up to this point, we’ve assumed they have some purpose or use with them, but maybe they just stole them and plan to sell to the highest bidder.”

Brognola nodded. “That would fit more in line with the mercenary theory.”

“We considered that at our end, and immediately dismissed it,” McCarter replied. “They went to some considerable risk to get these weapons. They had it planned to the last detail. If an outside party hired them, then they gave the group a lot of privileged intelligence. Much more intelligence than I would think such a group would have.”

“David has a point,” Price said, nodding in agreement.

“Well, we can sit around on our duffs and debate this for the next ten years, or find out who this group is and what they want. With that information, I think we might have enough to figure out where they’re going.”

“We’re already working with the Australian security team that was charged with this here. Our contact is a guy named Tad Kornsby. He’s a pretty good chap. Even though the Aussie’s federal agencies are ready to jump in, they’re still hedging until asked for help. Right now, we have to rely on local and state police authorities to investigate and it’s taking them for-bloody-ever.”

That made sense. The Australian Security Intelligence Organisation was responsible for gathering intelligence and producing information that would alert Australian officials—particularly the Department of Defence—to any threats against national security. However, the ASIO was a last resort, and it was natural that local police agencies, operating under the jurisdiction of South Australia’s Minister of Justice, would want to keep control. This would remain in the hands of state authorities until such time it was determined that this attack was actually a terrorist attack, or that the prototypes had been removed from the country. Thus far, it didn’t sound as if there was any evidence to support either of those scenarios, and so the ASIO would naturally not become involved until such proof surfaced.

“I’ll see if I can get the President to nudge this up a bit, David. In the meantime, I’ll definitely get you freed up. If this group plans to smuggle those prototypes out of the country, I want to be able to put Phoenix Force on their trail at a moment’s notice.”

“The sooner, the better, Hal,” McCarter replied.

Price said, “You mentioned something about an angle you were working with the locals. What’s the story there?”

“This group attacked us using four-wheelers. They left a few of them behind, so the SA’s Justice Technology Services are going over every inch of them to determine their origin. They also apparently have video surveillance tapes that might have captured pictures of one or more of the players. We’re hoping we can get our hands on them.”

“You know, Bear,” Brognola interjected, “if any of those tapes have pictures of our people, we’re going to have to make sure they disappear.”

Kurtzman sighed. “Yeah, and that’s going to take some time. But I’ll get our contacts working on it. I’ll also see if I can glean some information from the tapes once we have them.”

Brognola nodded, and then said, “We’ll start digging in here and see what kind of intelligence we can get you, David. It’s going to take us a little time, but I’ll make this everyone’s top priority. I’ll also get the Man briefed on your situation there. Expect to hear from me within twelve hours.”

“I hope we have that much time,” Price said after the call was disconnected.

Brognola didn’t reply.

Adelaide, Australia

JUST AS BROGNOLA promised, federal officials contacted South Australia’s Ministry of Justice. They were ordered to extend all diplomatic courtesies to Phoenix Force, and every member of the team was free to move about the country as necessary. That trouble resolved, Phoenix Force was able to solicit cooperation from men working under Tad Kornsby, and the SAMJ officials assigned to investigate the attack at the demonstration grounds.

Their first order of business was to view the tapes. David McCarter and Rafael Encizo met up with Kornsby’s second in command, Anthony Halsford, at the Justice offices in downtown Adelaide. When they were finished viewing the tapes, Halsford turned off the television monitor and then sat back on the table and folded his arms. He was a burly fellow, with a shock of reddish hair. He had thick sideburns, beard and a mustache that were reminiscent of the type worn by many officers during the American Civil War. Thick, aromatic smoke curled from an ornate pipe clenched between his teeth.

“So…what do you think?” Halsford asked. His Australian accent was heavy and his voice a rich baritone.

“I think we’re dealing with terrorists, mate,” McCarter replied.

“I agree,” Encizo added. “Those guys were definitely more than mercenaries. If they look like terrorists act like terrorists and move like terrorists, they’re probably terrorists.”

Halsford pulled the pipe from his mouth and eyed the Cuban warrior with a mix of interest and suspicion. “Kornsby tells me you’re a private security detail hired by Stormalite Systems.”

“That’s right,” Encizo said in a congenial tone.

“For a security group, you seem quite well informed. And from what I saw of your movements on those tapes, I’d guess this isn’t the first time you’ve been in these kinds of circumstances. Am I correct?”

Encizo smiled but kept the tone in his voice cool. “It’s probably best you don’t ask any more questions like that. Nothing personal.”

Halsford studied Encizo a moment and then shook it off with a shrug and a grin, stuffing the pipe back in his mouth. “It’s nothing to me. We’ve got the go-ahead to cooperate with you mates in whatever way we can, and as I understand it, that came straight from the prime ministers office.”

“Tell me something, Mr. Halford. What do you know about those four-wheelers recovered by your people?”

“Our technical people are still examining them. We believe they were purchased from several local dealerships throughout the city, as well as some surrounding areas. The blooming things aren’t exactly uncommon here. The locals have been swearing to hundreds of sales daily.”

“So they won’t be so easy to trace,” Encizo finished for him.

Halsford frowned. “I’m afraid that’s true.”

“What about these tapes?” McCarter asked. “How many people have seen these?”

“Aside from yourselves, only I have—and my immediate superiors.”

Encizo stepped forward, slid an arm around Halsford’s shoulders and patted the guy’s arm with camaraderie. “I don’t suppose you could keep it that way for a bit longer. Could you?”

Halsford shrugged. “I don’t believe it would hurt anything, as long as I can get some cooperation from you in return. How would you make it worth my while?”

“Well, let’s talk about that,” McCarter said. “Your federal boys don’t know anything about these tapes yet, right?”

Halsford nodded.

“That means they don’t necessarily have to know about it. And if our people can get a look at those tapes, then maybe, just maybe, we could make sure whatever information we get we share with you.”

Encizo smiled and whistled. “That would look awfully good on you and Kornsby, huh? You’d be the first to crack the case. I’m already picturing it—press releases, newspaper headlines, CNN interviews.”

“Not to mention the commendations and promotions,” McCarter said, adding some additional fuel to Encizo’s already roaring fire.

“Did you say promotions, mate?”

“You bet,” Encizo said. “We’re talking at least captain, maybe even major.”

There was a long silence and the two Phoenix Force warriors could tell from Halsford’s expression that the wheels were turning. Of course, they didn’t have any real control over that stuff, but a word from the Oval Office could make a little go a long way. And they certainly wouldn’t leave Kornsby’s people hanging on this. They would find some way to make good on it without actually promising anything. Stony Man’s connections ran wide and deep, and touched members of the highest governmental circles in nearly every foreign government.

“Very good, then,” Halsford finally said. “As the Americans like to say, ‘We have a deal.’”

And the trio shook on it.

CHAPTER THREE

Brooklyn Heights, New York

Carl “Ironman” Lyons was angry, and with good reason.

Yeah, it bothered him when innocent people died, but when they died because of their skin color, that really riled him. In fact, it put him in a damn foul mood, and when he got feeling like this, not even his long-time friends and brothers-in-arms liked being around him. Still, neither Hermann Schwarz nor Rosario Blancanales would have thought even a moment of abandoning Lyons—not in a million years.

So Lyons decided to hold his temper in check until they could get the gist from New York City’s finest. In fact, he was all smiles as he questioned the lead detective while Schwarz and Blancanales maneuvered their way through the broken glass and twisted metal of storefronts, stooping to look into the faces of the Arabic victims who owned the variety of shops and eateries along Atlantic Avenue.

“So explain this to me again,” Lyons said.

“It’s just like I said, sir,” the detective replied. “Everything you’re seeing here is corroborated by the stories we’ve gotten so far from witnesses. We’re still canvassing, but I don’t think anyone we talk to from here out will have much to add. It just happened too damned fast.”

The detective was a guy from the neighborhood, a third-generation Lebanese assigned to one of the local boroughs. He’d introduced himself as Elmore Nuri. Lyons didn’t know if that was his given name, but it didn’t much matter. The guy seemed pretty knowledgeable about the area, and he was acting as though the devastation now before them was nothing new. Nothing behind Nuri’s dark eyes betrayed he was the least bit surprised by the carnage. It was a whole new world.

Lyons looked around him again. The scene was gruesome.

At approximately 1545 local time, a school bus stopped in front of a group of shops on Atlantic Avenue where it borders Cobble Hill. Witnesses claim at least fifteen men and women, dressed in combat fatigues and armbands emblazoned with the Star of David, and toting assault rifles, jumped off the bus and lined up in front of the shops. Moments later, they simultaneously opened fire on the commercial area that was chock-full of citizens from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, although predominately Middle Easterners and Asians. The butchery continued for nearly a full minute as the terrorists periodically reloaded their weapons and each delivered at least two full magazines worth of wanton violence and destruction.

It had all occurred less than two hours earlier, and apparently it hadn’t ended there. A pair of transit cops who had just emerged from a subway station apparently tried to evacuate nearby citizens in an orderly fashion when the terrorists spotted them. Several members of the terror group turned their weapons on the officers—the transit cops never stood a chance. Several witnesses also said that they watched helplessly from alleyways or behind cars as the heavily armed assailants then entered several of the shops and polished off any possible survivors of the barbaric attack. Less than two minutes had elapsed when the terrorists got back on the bus and it fled the scene well before the first squads arrived.

As soon as the first of it went out over the airwaves, computers at Stony Man Farm alerted Kurtzman and his team. Able Team had been on its way back from a mission via chopper when Price called and ordered them to detour to JFK. The details had been sketchy at that point, and even now they didn’t know much more than they had when they arrived. Nonetheless, Price had told them they had authorization from the highest levels and to use their standing credentials as a special task force of U.S. Deputy Marshals with the Department of Homeland Security.

“What can you tell me about this area?” Lyons asked, turning his attention back to Nuri.

The detective shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the neighborhood. Is it mostly Arabic?”

Nuri half coughed, half snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Look, Detective, I don’t have any time for games,” Lyons replied with a scowl. “So let’s cut this small-talk shit and stick to facts.”

“Yes, sir…sorry, sir. Mostly, it’s a pretty mixed neighborhood. This part of the Heights is older and we’ve got a pretty good mix. There’s a section of Russians, French and even Hispanics, but it’s primarily Arabic.”

“Any Jewish population?”

“You bet,” he replied with a nod. “In fact, the population concentration in this part is Middle Eastern. I’m talking Iraqis, Iranians, Pakistanis, Jews, Indians. Hell, there’s practically every known representation of the Fertile Crescent here. And for the most part, everyone’s always gotten along. Brooklyn Heights just isn’t known for these kinds of hate crimes. I mean, this was some serious shit.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around lately, guy,” Lyons told him. “Thanks for your help. I’m going to go take a look-see with my partners now. I may have some more questions, so don’t get lost.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nuri replied. “I’ve got the feeling I’m going to be around here for quite a while.”

Lyons nodded and then turned on his heel and went off in search of his comrades. The Able Team warrior found “Gadgets” Schwarz first inside one of the small Mediterranean restaurants. He was kneeling over the body of a little, dark-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. There was a large, gaping wound in her forehead, and the prone corpse of woman—the back of her bloody coat shredded—covered the better part of the girl’s frail form.

“Probably her mother,” Lyons said quietly. “Looks like she was running for cover with the girl when the shooting started. She bought it, girl got pinned beneath her and then one of the bastards came in and finished the job.” Lyons pointed to his forehead for emphasis.

Schwarz looked at him with a gaunt expression and Lyons saw something dangerous in the man’s brown eyes.

“Easy there, pal. You look like maybe you want to lose control.”

Schwarz stood and took one lasting look at the girl. “I’m cool, Ironman. We need to find these bastards—and quick.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, stepping forward and clapping a firm hand on his warrior friend’s shoulder. “But let’s find Pol first.”

They found Blancanales in a nearby clothing shop, where there was more glass on the threadbare carpet than blood. Most of the blood spatter had soaked into the many garments hanging on the crowded racks, some of which were now in cockeyed positions. Obviously the place had been flooded with autofire, just as the other shops and eateries. The decimation and horror of it was almost surreal.

Rosario Blancanales, known as the “Politician” for his amazing ability to remain suave, cool and diplomatic under even the worst conditions, put his hands on hips and shook his head.

“I don’t know about you guys, but this was no ordinary terrorist attack.”

“Since when is any terrorist attack ordinary?” Schwarz asked.

“That’s not what I meant,” Blancanales replied quietly, fixing his teammate with a level but questioning gaze. He then looked at Lyons and continued. “Look, there was something much more behind this. Call it another purpose, an ulterior motive, or whatever, but I’m telling you there’s something real funky going on here.”

“Explain,” Lyons said, stepping closer to his friend.

“Well, for one thing, it seems strange that all of the players in this were wearing Jewish symbols. I mean, come on, the usual mode of operation for most terrorist groups is to claim credit after the fact, and Jewish terrorists are no exception. If this were the Kach-Kahane Chai or a violent offshoot of the Anti-Defamation League, we’d be standing here with our thumbs up our collective asses, wondering who the actual perpetrators were.”

“And we’d finally hear two or three days from now who was actually responsible,” Schwarz interjected.

Lyons nodded in agreement. “That never occurred to me. That’s insightful thinking, Pol.”

“I won’t expect any medals,” Blancanales replied, waving the compliment away and grinning his usual, disarming grin. “But thanks for noticing.”

Lyons sighed deeply. “Okay, so if these weren’t Jewish terrorists, who were they?”

“I’m not saying they weren’t Jewish terrorists,” Blancanales reminded him. “I’m just saying that there must be a reason they made it so obvious. I think if we figure that out, we’ll also figure out who’s behind it and—”

“Excuse me. Deputy Irons?”

The threesome turned to see Nuri standing in the doorway of the shop.

“What is it?” Lyons asked.

“A report just came over the radio. Apparently that bus was sighted and there’s a chase on.”

“Where’s it headed?” Gadgets asked.

“Uptown Manhattan.”

The trio exchanged looks and each could tell he’d reached the same conclusion as the others.

“Let’s move!” Lyons ordered.

Able Team left the shop and sprinted for their government SUV. Blancanales got behind the wheel, Lyons took shotgun and Schwarz jumped into the back seat. Seconds later they were speeding away from the crime scene and headed for the posh, uptown section of one of New York City’s nicest districts.

Schwarz reached behind the back seat and retrieved a bag of toys that Stony Man had arranged to be waiting at JFK when they landed. They were already wearing shoulder holsters with pistols—Blancanales a Glock Model 19, Lyons a .357 Magnum Colt Python Elite and Schwarz a silenced Beretta 93-R—but those would hardly be enough against a dozen or more terrorists armed with assault rifles and machine pistols. It was time for heavier hardware.

Schwarz loaded a 10-shell box magazine into the well of an S&W Assault Shotgun and passed it to Lyons. It was an AS-3, an automatic shotgun originally developed for the U.S. military’s Joint Service Small Arms Program. Similar to the Atchisson, the more modern AS-3 could easily fire 3-inch Magnum 12-gauge shells of Lyons’s favorite combo of No. 2 and double-aught shot in single, 3-round burst, or full-auto modes. Its cyclic rate of fire was about 375 rounds per minute at an effective range of nearly a hundred meters, and it was a room broom in the hands of an experienced user.

Schwarz next turned his attention to an MP-5 A-3, a variant of one of the most efficient and widely used submachine guns in the world. Manufactured by Heckler & Koch, the MP-5 A-3 had an extending metal stock that could reduce or increase the overall length of the weapon in a heartbeat. It was chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds and considered one of the most precise weapons of its kind.

After passing the MP-5 A-3 to Blancanales, Schwarz procured his own weapon of choice, a 5.56 mm FNC manufactured by Fabrique Nationale Herstal SA. He had grown fond of it for its durability and versatility. While classified as an assault rifle, the FNC was a compact and powerful weapon, built on the popular rotating-bolt standards of its H&K competitor. It had a folding stock, a 30-round detachable box magazine, and fired about 700 rounds per minute, but it was still as light and manageable as nearly any submachine gun.

Schwarz reached into the bag and withdrew a police scanner equipped with an earpiece. He turned it on, punched in the UHF channel range of the New York City police department’s bandwidth and then donned the ultrasensitive earpiece. He reported the situation to his comrades as they raced toward uptown Manhattan.

“Doesn’t sound like the situation’s all that good,” Schwarz said. “The bus was spotted by a police chopper. Apparently the cops thought it suspicious that a bus that should be taking children home from school was instead sitting in a forest preserve on the edge of the city.”

Lyons couldn’t argue with that, and he hoped that NYC would see to it the cops in that chopper were decorated for being so sharp and alert. Having been a cop in Los Angeles for many years before joining Stony Man, Lyons had nothing but respect for the men and women in blue. They had a tough job, and most of them performed admirably in the line of duty—especially those serving in this city.

“What’s happening now?” Blancanales asked.

“They apparently converged on the bus, the driver panicked, and they’re chasing him through Manhattan. In fact, right now they’re trying to clear the road ahead. I guess the driver’s not being too careful about what he hits and doesn’t hit, and there are already half a dozen injured bystanders. I’m also hearing there’s a foot pursuit and sporadic shootouts between the cops and those that managed to get off the bus before it split.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, “I think what’s going down in Manhattan should take the priority.”

“Agreed,” Blancanales said, keeping his eyes on the road. “More bystanders.”

“And more potential for it to get out of hand.”

“May have already,” Schwarz replied. “Just got word the chase has stopped and they’ve got the bus trapped between their squads and a street closure.”

“Sounds like our terrorist friends are planning to make their last stand right there,” Blancanales said, casting a sideways glance at Lyons.

“Sounds like your ‘sounds like’ is right,” the Able Team leader quipped.

“How far away are we?” Blancanales asked, his gaze flicking to Schwarz’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“I’d say another five or ten minutes unless traffic gets backed up,” Schwarz replied.

Minutes later the trio emerged from the SUV and double-timed it in the direction of the standoff.

WHEN ABLE TEAM finally arrived, they found the police had the entire block cordoned off, and a wall of blue was the only thing keeping back a pressing crowd of curious onlookers.

“Come on, folks,” one cop was telling them. “Just move along. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Lyons could tell the cop was about to lose his cool and he decided to redirect the man’s attention by shoving his forged Homeland Security credentials under the man’s nose.

“Irons, U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No, but you should watch your mouth,” Lyons growled. “What’s going on down there?”

The cop eyed Lyons suspiciously for a moment, but the ice-cold blue eyes, grim stare and amount of heavy-duty hardware seemed to put him in a suddenly more cooperative and respectful mood.

“We’ve got about eight or nine terrorists pinned down on a bus. We think a few of them have managed to get off. It had been a vehicle pursuit, but I guess the bus took a turn a bit too wide and flipped onto its side. Beyond that, I don’t know much, sir.”

Lyons nodded, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the line of flashing lights where the police had parked their cruisers nose-to-tail to block access to that part of the city. “Who’s in charge down there?”

“That would be Captain Roberson, sir,” the cop replied.

The policemen let Able Team past the barricade and then went on about his business of keeping back the growing crowd.

The trio was jogging down the center of the street when the sound of automatic weapons fire suddenly erupted. The cordon of police vehicles shielded the SWAT team and patrol officers as they returned the fire with a volley of their own. Able Team reduced its exposure to possible stray fire by moving to the sidewalk under Lyons’s lead, and continuing toward the police line. They were within about ten yards of where a group of officers were cloistered behind one of the SWAT vehicles when someone noticed them and raised a shout.

Lyons managed to produce his badge just as a half dozen of the rear security members from the SWAT team trained AR-15s on the Able Team warriors.

“U.S. Marshals!” Lyons replied.

A tall, dark-haired N.Y.P.D. policeman wearing the rank insignia of a captain raised his arms and called, “Stand down!”

Once Lyons had verified it was safe to approach, Able Team joined the small crew huddled around a makeshift field table set up behind the SWAT truck. The officer who had called off the SWAT team wore a nametag that read I. Roberson. Decorations and meritorious service ribbons galore donned the left breast of the uniform, including the Medal for Valor, one of the highest awards rendered in the department. Lyons offered his hand and the Roberson took it.

“Now what the hell brings the U.S. Marshals Service to the Big Apple?” Roberson asked.

“We’re a special detachment from the Office of Homeland Security,” Lyons recited. “We’re here to assist you.”

“No offense, Deputy—?”

“Irons.”

“Yeah, Irons. Okay…no offense but I think we got this pretty much under control,” Roberson said.

“And no offense to you, sir,” Blancanales said, stepping forward. He knew Lyons would explode if he didn’t intervene, and Lyons knew that he knew, so he let Blancanales take the wheel on this one. “But exactly what control?”

“Complete control,” Roberson replied. “There are about six terrorists inside that bus, and we think some of them are wounded. We’ve got them pinned down to no more than one city bus, and I have two SWAT detachments clearing civilians out right now. They’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Blancanales replied. “But what intelligence do you actually have? Do you know, in fact, whom you’re dealing with? You have any idea who these people are, or what they want?”

“Well, er, ah—”

“That’s what I thought,” Lyons muttered.

Blancanales threw his teammate a cautioning look, then returned his attention to Roberson with the friendliest grin and calmest tone he could muster. “Listen, Captain, we’re not here to step on your turf.”

Roberson looked at his men, his face flushing, then said, “My people here agree that they’re either militants or religious fanatics. One of them tried to escape from the bus when it flipped, and we shot him dead.” Roberson turned and picked up a bloody armband from the table. He held it up and added, “The suspect didn’t have any ID on him, but he was wearing this.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re here. We don’t think these are either militants or religious fanatics. We don’t have any solid evidence yet, but we do have experience, and we think maybe we have some information you might not have.”

Roberson’s expression hardened some. “And just what is that? You guys just got here. How could you possibly know more about this than we do?”

“You’d be surprised what we know,” Schwarz said.

“Look, we just came from that slaughterhouse over in Brooklyn Heights,” Lyons interjected. “From what we saw there, we have reason to believe these are terrorists trying to make it look like some nut-group’s behind all of this.”

“Now what the hell reason would they have for doing that?” Roberson said, cocking back his hat and scratching his head.

Lyons jacked the slide on the AS-3. “Let’s go ask them.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rosario Blancanales converged on the bus in a cover-and-maneuver drill he’d practiced countless times before. He’d act as point while Lyons and Schwarz covered him by taking firing positions at the corners of opposing rooftops. The rest they could only watch play out and react accordingly. While it was possible Roberson’s intelligence was sound, and the good guys did in fact have the upper hand on the terrorist group, Able Team had no intention of taking unnecessary risks. They planned to play this one by the book, and they also had to account for maintaining appearances. Their alleged “covers” as U.S. Marshals had to hold up to any scrutiny.

Blancanales reached the rear of the school bus and knelt with his back to its belly. He yanked an AN-M83-HC smoker from the satchel on his hip, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb overhand in front of him. He retrieved a second one and let it fly.

Lyons couldn’t see the grenades from where he laid—the fixed sights of the AS-3 trained on the area just above Blancanales’s head—but he heard them clank and clatter along the side of the bus. A moment later he could barely pick up the faint sounds of them dropping through the open windows and the subsequent shouts of the occupants. Those last sounds caused him to smile. Naturally the terrorists wouldn’t know whether they were dealing with smoke or CS; for all they knew, it was poison gas. Regardless of what might be going through the terrorists’ minds, the grenades produced the desired effect.

Only a few moments elapsed before bodies emerged from the windows of the bus. Lyons and Schwarz began shouting for the terrorists to surrender. The group apparently figured it was better to stand and fight than to risk capture and interrogation. Only a couple of the terrorists went prone on top of the bus, others not bothering to get cover of any kind, and all of them began to spray the area with gunfire.

Lyons ducked behind full cover and quickly keyed his microphone. “Guys, we need to take at least one of them alive!”

The Able Team leader couldn’t tell if either of his teammates had received the response over the sudden cacophony of weapons reports, both that of the terrorists and the SWAT teams. Lyons cursed under his breath—this was no good! Roberson had promised he’d show restraint, but the guy’s word apparently meant nothing. Instead, he was letting his people shoot at will, and every round meant one less chance of taking a prisoner.

Lyons switched channels and cut into the N.Y.P.D. frequency. “Dammit, Roberson, tell your people to shut it down! Now!”

He got no reply, but after a few more seconds, weapons reports coming from their AO went silent. There were some scattered shots from the terrorists now on the bus, but there were no more return shots from the SWAT team members.

Lyons had a perfect view of the terrorists that had exposed themselves, and took a quick head count: seven. Okay, so that wasn’t too bad at all. He leveled the shotgun sights on the closest terrorist, took a deep breath, braced the shotgun tightly against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The AS-3 roared as the first specialty load rocketed from the muzzle and took one of the terrorist’s full in chest. The terrorist dropped the AK-47 as the heavy shell flipped him off his feet. The force of the blast landed him on his back and his butt crashed through one of the few unbroken windows.

Schwarz got the terrorist next to Lyons’s target a few moments later with a well-placed 3-round burst from his FNC. Two of the 5.56 mm NATO rounds punched through the terrorist’s throat and the last split his skull wide open. The guy’s head exploded in a grisly spray of blood and gray matter, and his body spun awkwardly. He dropped off the edge of the bus and disappeared from view.

The terrorists turned their attention in every direction above their heads, probably in realization they were no longer taking their fire from ground level. They began spraying the area with fresh autofire, and Lyons moved back as a few of the rounds chipped away plaster and stone from the edge of the parapet. As soon as there was a lull in the firing, Lyons returned to his position, sighted the next target and delivered another shell blast. This time, though, Lyons was gunning for a prisoner. The special shotgun load did a number on one terrorist, blowing out a large chunk of the guy’s knee. The terrorist dropped with a scream that sounded like combined pain and surprise to find he was suddenly unsupported by both of his legs.

BLANCANALES KNEW his chances of staying alive in this environment wouldn’t last. His mission had been to smoke the terrorists into the open, and he’d done that. Now it was time to get the hell out of the line of fire before the terrorists realized he was immediately below them and posed an easy target. The Able Team warrior yanked the Glock Model 19 from his shoulder holster, jumped to his feet and rushed for a corner drugstore with a square, brick support in front of it. He made it to the thick support just in time to avoid a hail of slugs fired at him by several of the terrorist goons. Blancanales waited until the firing stopped, then risked exposure in tracking for a target, pistol held in a Weaver’s grip, forearms braced against the support.

It didn’t take him long.

Blancanales quickly found his target and squeezed the trigger successively. Both 9 mm rounds reached flesh, the first punching through the enemy gunner’s stomach and the second cleanly detaching his left ear. The terrorist dropped his weapon, one hand clutching his gut while the other attempted to stop the sudden, violent flow of blood from his head. The terrorist dropped to his knees and began to moan, but it didn’t appear to Blancanales that either shot was lethal.

SCHWARZ WATCHED the terrorists fire on Blancanales as his friend sprinted for cover. The Able Team warrior found it interesting that they would focus all of their energies on one man. That wasn’t the typical discipline of terrorists, especially when they were the ones being terrorized. Then again, now wasn’t exactly the time to worry about it.

He listened for any further signals from Lyons, but the Able Team leader—his blond hair visible even in the twilight—wasn’t showing any sign of letting off the pressure on the terrorists below. He watched as Lyons took another one with a head shot. Schwarz followed suit. He aimed at one of the terrorists focused on killing Blancanales and squeezed the trigger. A trio of rounds rocketed from the muzzle of the FNC and drilled through the terrorist’s shoulder, continuing onward to blow out a good part of his chest wall.

The body of one of the terrorists they had wounded began to convulse and jerk. It took Schwarz only a moment to spot the reason for it. A lithe, shorter terrorist had managed to squeeze clear of one of the rearmost windows. A cascade of dark hair protruded from under the terrorist’s cap. The terrorist was a woman, her body lithe and shapely, even beneath the coveralls she was wearing.

Schwarz keyed his transmitter. “We’ve got one female party killing our wounded, guys!”

“Acknowledged,” Lyons replied. “Take her out.”

Schwarz nodded, sighted his target and squeezed the trigger. Milliseconds before fire from the Able Team trio reached her, the woman turned and dropped off the back edge of the bus. Schwarz was in motion even as he noticed movement from Lyons in his peripheral vision. His headset crackled with a burst of static and the sound of Blancanales’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He keyed his transmitter as he reached the fire escape. “Say again, Politician…I didn’t copy.”

“I said, ‘she’s headed eastbound on that side street.’ She’ll be closest to you, Gadgets.”

“Copy.”

“We’ll have to hold our position here, buddy,” Lyons replied. “You’ll be on your own on this one, so watch your ass.”

“Understood,” Schwarz replied as he slid down the ladder, then began to descend the steps of the fire escape three at a time.

It took him only twenty seconds to reach the sidewalk and he made it in time to see the woman duck inside a large club half a block down. Schwarz launched himself in the direction of the club, trading his FNC for the Beretta 93-R on the fly.

The Able Team commando came low through the club entrance, pistol tracking quickly and smoothly. It was comparatively cool to the muggy, outdoor air. He cleared the vestibule of the club, which was decorated with muted blues, grays and purples, and then proceeded into the main area. It was a pretty decent club, typical for middle-class clientele. The place was crowded, not surprising since it was a Friday and it was happy hour, and Schwarz kept his pistol low and behind him as he maneuvered between the tables. He smelled booze, food and cigarettes, and he also detected the fearful odor of his prey; she was very close.

So close that he nearly got his head blown off.

The female terrorist emerged from the shadows of an alcove Schwarz hadn’t seen and unleashed hellfire from her machine pistol. The Able Team electronics genius rolled to avoid being hit, came up near the bar and prepped to take his target. But pandemonium erupted after the shooting started and too many people scrambling for the exit made the job a bit too risky. One young woman caught a bullet that dropped her on the floor and left her screaming and writhing with pain.

Schwarz waited until the firing ceased with a click of a bolt locked back on an empty magazine, then exposed himself long enough to rush the felled bystander while simultaneously laying down a hail of fire in the terrorist’s general direction. It was meant more as a play to keep the gunner’s head down than to actually hit her. Besides, they still needed to take one of the terrorists alive, and Schwarz had no idea if any of the ones they’d wounded in the initial play at the bus were still alive after their cohort had turned her weapon on them.

Schwarz reached the wounded club-goer and dragged her behind a heavy, overturned table. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were closed. He checked her carotid pulse—it was strong and regular—and a quick check of ear to nostrils confirmed she was breathing. Okay, so she’d passed out from the pain, which was sure as hell better than being conscious for it.

Schwarz waited for a lull in the firing and then decided to take a risk. He had to neutralize this woman and fast. He reached to his belt and latched on to a flash-bang grenade. He pulled it from the belt with a quick turn of the wrist. A pop and snap followed, indicating the special mechanism he’d rigged to his belt had broken the plastic strap designed to prevent inadvertent dislodging of the spoon and simultaneously removed the pin. He jumped into view and hammered the area where he estimated his target had taken cover. While firing to force the terrorist to keep her head down, Schwarz released the grenade in a light over-hand toss.

The electronics whiz went flat, opened his mouth and plugged his ears. The grenade went off a moment later, then he was up and moving. He vaulted the table he’d been using as cover, Beretta in one hand and FNC in another. He quickly found his opponent writhing on the floor, her eyes and ears discharging watery blood. Schwarz holstered the Beretta and reached for her, but the terrorist surprised him with a judo circle throw.

Schwarz landed hard on his back, sucking down air to replace the wind knocked from him. He blinked several times and in one of those saw his opponent suddenly loom above him, her hands raised over her head as she wedged his skull between her thighs. Something kicked him into high gear and he brought both arms up in a cross block. Having stopped the combat knife from being buried in his chest, he then reached around and snagged her wrist. A quick sideways jerk and she landed on her right shoulder, facing him. He landed a rock-hard back fist punch on his adversary’s forehead and she dropped the knife, cried in pain and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

The Able Team commando rose, a bit winded from the encounter, but a quick physical inventory said he was still in one piece. He snapped riot cuffs on the terrorist, then returned to aid the bystander. He found the gunshot wound, a clean hole through the fleshy part of her thigh that exited the other side. He’d seen much worse and he knew she’d survive the physical scars, although the mental ones would have a more lasting effect. She was just becoming conscious as Schwarz removed two field compresses and bound them on the entrance and exit wounds, securing them with his belt.

She looked at him, a haze in her eyes.

He smiled at her. “Just relax. You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is on its way.”

“What happened?”

“Someone will explain it to you soon enough. For now, you’ve been shot and I want you to lie still.”

“I’ve…I’ve been shot?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes, but it’s not fatal. You’re going to pull through just fine.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve been shot plenty of times,” he said with a chuckle, pouring on the charm. “I just know. Will you trust me?”

“I guess,” she whispered, smiling at him a little before she passed out again.

Schwarz sighed.

“Gadgets!” called a familiar voice.

He turned toward the entrance in time to see Lyons and Blancanales enter the club, weapons drawn and held at the ready.

“Over here,” he reported tiredly.

They quickly rushed to his aid.

“You hit?” Lyons asked.

He shook his head, then pointed at his patient. “She took an in-and-out in the leg, but I’ve controlled the bleeding. She’s got some shock, but I think she’ll be okay.”

Blancanales helped him to his feet as Lyons quickly scanned the room. His eyes came to rest on the terrorist. “Is she dead?”

Gadgets scowled with a negative shake of his head. “Dreamland. She nearly impaled me with this, though.” He held up the knife.

Blancanales gingerly took the knife from him and whistled. “Looks like she was planning on some Schwarz-ka-bobs.”

“Very funny,” the electronic expert deadpanned.

SHE CALLED HERSELF Magdalene Darmid from Israel, but a quick fingerprint analysis said she was Deborah Babbit from Kansas. Able Team settled on the second name as the most believable.

“Although she’s got a great accent going there,” Carl Lyons told them just before they entered the interrogation room.

Because she’d lied, they decided a hard approach was the best kind.

Blancanales started. “Listen, Deborah—”

“My name is not Deborah!” She was irritated because everyone coming into and out of the room in the last hour had been saying “Hi, Deborah” and “Would you like something to drink, Deborah?” and “Deborah, that’s such a pretty name.” Needless to say, that had her frazzled and angered enough to tell the Able Team commando where to stick it.

“You’re not making things easy on yourself,” Lyons warned her when she tried to spit on Blancanales. He easily sidestepped the offense, which only seemed to anger her more.

“I’d listen to him,” Schwarz added, jabbing a thumb at Lyons.

Lyons’s voice went quiet. “Maybe that beating you threw her wasn’t good enough, Deputy Black.”

Schwarz looked at him straight-faced a moment, then said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to do a more thorough job.”

“Now that you mention it, your work has been sloppy lately,” Lyons replied with a curt nod.

“Hey…wait a minute.” Blancanales raised his hands in mock innocence and said, “She’s now under the protective custody of the U.S. Marshals Service. You two can’t just start beating the hell out of her. We’ll all lose our jobs!”

“Calm down,” Lyons replied, waving at him casually as if he had it all under control.

“Yeah, really,” Schwarz jumped in. “What are you getting all backed up about? She just killed a bunch of innocent people. You think we should give a shit about her? Who’s going to complain?”

Lyons stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the throat, transforming her smug look into one of terror. “I’m sure after some neck-wringing we’ll put her into a spirit of cooperation.”

The woman managed to emit a squeal of outrage and pain before Lyons closed her trachea with one squeeze, immediately depriving her of oxygen. With her arms cuffed behind her, she had no way to defend herself. She tried to kick at him, but the proximity of her chair to the table made the attack ineffective. A moment later it stopped being an act of defiance and started to become an act of desperation. Her lips began to turn blue and her ears reddened.

Blancanales stepped forward and cracked a fist down on the brachial-cephalic nerve area of Lyons’s arm. The blow looked real enough, although Blancanales insured he was actually an inch off the actual nerve bundle. Lyons let go of Babbit’s throat with a mock yelp. The hulking Ironman turned on the Politician, but it was Schwarz who got in between them.

“Knock it off!” he said, trying to sound like the voice of reason.

“Yeah, but did you see what that fu—”

“I said, knock it off!”

The room went silent as Schwarz and Lyons squared off on each other for nearly a full two minutes. It was finally Blancanales with his calm voice and lax demeanor who became the voice of reason.

“Hey, we shouldn’t be fighting with each other,” he said. He pointed to Babbit and said, “She’s our enemy.”

“Yeah,” the two men chorused.

Blancanales turned back to Babbit and said, “What you have just seen is a test. This is only a test. If this had been an actual emergency, I would have just let him strangle you to death. Now, do you want talk to us? Or should we just skip the formalities, take you out into a public square and shoot you dead?”

“You’re crazy! All of you are fucking crazy!” She began to scream and shout additional obscenities. “You can’t just take me out and kill me!”

“Well, actually, we can,” Lyons said. “You see, you’re not an American. You’re a foreigner who has entered this country and committed a terrorist act. Under the new laws enacted by the Homeland Security Act, the things you and your friends did today are considered crimes against humanity and acts of war, and as such that means you are subject to the rules of war.”

“He’s right,” Schwarz said. “You have no rights as a civilian, since you’re not a citizen of this country.”

“In fact, you’re not even in the country legally,” Blancanales added.

That did it.

“Yes, I am! I am! My name is Deborah Babbit. I live in Kansas City, and I went to high school at Monroe High and I can tell you anything about my life you want. But I’m an American citizen and you can’t execute me!”

“We couldn’t execute you anyway,” Lyons said with a shrug, and started to walk toward the door, Schwarz on his tail. “Summary execution of a POW is a violation of Geneva Convention rules.”

Her eyes reverted to Blancanales’s who was now seated across the table and studying her with a broad grin. “Let’s start from the top.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“So that’s the story,” Carl Lyons finished, his voice resounding through the speaker.

Hal Brognola sat back, folded his arms and chewed thoughtfully at his unlit cigar. For a moment nobody said a word. Price and Kurtzman stared at Brognola, waiting with anxious expressions. They didn’t wait long.

Brognola grunted and said, “All right, let me see if I heard you right. You’re saying that these Jewish terrorists aren’t really Jewish?”

“Right,” Lyons said. “Maybe one or two originally hail from Israel, but the one we got to roll said she’s from Kansas, and the N.Y.P.D.’s computers confirmed it from her prints.”

“Did this Babbit give you any explanation for her being an American?”

“Nothing other than she was hired to do the job by parties unknown. They went to a secret training camp stuck in some part of the Louisiana backwater for two months. Claims she has no idea where because she was blindfolded along with the rest of her comrades and nearly beaten and starved to death during the first week.”

“Sounds like your standard, run-of-the-mill mercenary training,” Price remarked.

“Maybe and maybe not, but in either case it doesn’t matter,” Brognola said. “Even if we could find this camp, I don’t think it could tell us much more than Babbit has. What’s your recommendation, Carl?”

“I say we stick with our current information. I think she’s telling the truth, and she’s already agreed to help us in return for leniency. She got into this for the money and nothing more, which she says was real good by the way.”

“It seems strange that someone would pay them to do this,” Brognola said. “Why hire a group of Americans to dress as Jewish radicals and waste a bunch of innocent people in front of God and country?”

“Well, they obviously want to start a street war,” Price offered. “Maybe stir hatred for Jewish radical groups.”

“I can buy fueling the fire for a street war,” Lyons said. “I just talked to our liaison with the N.Y.P.D., and he said this incident has already started riots in three separate areas of the city. The cops are calling in everyone they can find to help out.”

Kurtzman sighed. “Great.”

“But that second part about stirring hatred up for Jewish groups just doesn’t wash, Barb,” Lyons continued. “In fact, Babbit told us how this one guy kept telling them they were fighting for the Jewish cause and to think how nice it would be to secure their country from the Pakistanis, the Arabs and so forth. She was adamant about what he said, and we all agree here that she’s telling the truth. She said this guy preached pure hatred of them.”

“Like it was personal,” Price said, looking at Brognola.

Brognola nodded. “Carl, you said something earlier about this group that I found interesting. Something about arm bands they were wearing?”

“Yeah, the witnesses canvassed by the uniforms where the massacre took place consistently referenced arm bands with the Star of David.”

“Wait a minute!” Kurtzman snapped his fingers. “We just received the first transmissions of the tapes from David McCarter. Those terrorists they went up against were wearing arm bands just like that.”

Price inhaled sharply. “These two incidents are connected, then?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet,” Brognola said. “Although I think we’d better consider that as a possibility.”

“What happened to Phoenix Force?”

Price gave him a quick overview of the situation, skipping most of the minutiae. When she was finished explaining, they all agreed that the similarities and the timing were more than coincidences. There had to be a connection, and it had now become Stony Man’s number-one priority to find out what that was and to predict the group’s next action.

“Like I said before, this Babbit’s willing to help us,” Lyons concluded. “She says she has some sketchy details of other plans this group might have. If we grant her immunity, she’ll deal.”

“You know our policy, Carl,” Brognola replied. “We don’t ‘deal’ with terrorists.”

“I understand that, but we may not have any other choice. If David and the rest can’t make a connection there, then we’ll have to work it from our end. She’s the one lead we have, Hal, and I want to exploit that to our advantage.”

Lyons was right, of course, and Brognola knew it. Sometimes the rules had to be bent. That was the name of the game, and it was fortunate that Stony Man had the freedom to conduct operations as they saw fit, as long as they kept the President apprised.

“All right,” Brognola conceded. “I’ll arrange for her to be cut loose and remanded to your custody. See where she leads you. But whatever you do, keep her alive. You’re right. She’s our only link to whoever’s behind this.”

“Understood,” Lyons said, and he disconnected the call.

ONCE THEY HAD concluded their call with Lyons, Price and Kurtzman began working on their intelligence, performing keyword searches and investigations into the backgrounds of Babbit’s deceased associates. It didn’t take long to figure out that most of them had ended up at the remote training camp in Louisiana after responding to an ad in a mercenary magazine. An anonymous caller took out the ad by contacting one of the magazine’s copy editors, faxing the three ambiguous lines advertising paid mercenary training, and paying for the job by money order mailed without a return address. The caller had given a fake name and the address and telephone number turned out to be that of an elderly woman who had two weeks before been admitted to a long-term nursing facility.

“They call themselves the Resurrected Defense League,” Barbara Price told Phoenix Force.

McCarter’s face filled the computer screen in the Communications Center of the Annex. John Kissinger—on a charter flight back to the States—was also on the conference line via his cellular phone, but he had no video feed.

“Sound like a nice bunch,” Kissinger interjected.

Price talked about their conversation with Lyons, then said, “We’re convinced these two incidents are connected, and we’re also sure these won’t be the last.”

“You have any luck with those tapes we sent?” Encizo’s voice cut in, although Price couldn’t actually see his face.

“Bear and Carmen are now working with facial recognition software to see if they can identify any of the dead and tie them to any of the members Able Team neutralized in New York. We’re also analyzing the prototypes data you sent to see what connections we can pull from that.”

“What else do we know about this group?” McCarter asked.

Price frowned. “Not much. They’re relatively new to this game.”

“Couldn’t prove it by us,” T. J. Hawkins said. “This attack was well planned and coordinated. They were obviously practiced and ready for any eventuality.”

“They managed to take us by surprise,” Gary Manning said.

“Only the fact we were separated saved our hides,” Calvin James added. “If we’d been together when it went down, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“It’s good to hear you’re back to your old self, Calvin,” Price said, smiling into the camera.

James’s grinning countenance suddenly filled the screen, pushing McCarter slightly out of view. “Thanks, Barb, because it damn sure feels good to be alive.”

McCarter took back center stage and with a cock-sure grin and sideways glance, said, “You can play nice-nice later, mate.”

The line erupted with laughter.

“Okay, enough with the court jester routine,” Price said, although she knew they weren’t taking her that seriously. She was happy to know everyone was still breathing. The morning’s news had really worn on her.

“What about the prototypes, Barb?” Kissinger asked. “Is there anything you think can help us there?”

“Possibly, but I’m not sure how far we can go. As you know, although Phoenix Force may not have been told, we were first alerted to this from a Pentagon connection of Hal’s. There’s a Navy man who spent considerable time consulting with the design and development engineers at Stormalite’s headquarters near Lake Victoria. His name is Kendall Remar, a rear admiral with the Naval Air Warfare Detachment at NAF Key West. What I need you to do, Cowboy, is to divert there. He’s expecting you. He has a wealth of additional information he can provide, which we then need you to forward to us and the field crews.”

“No problem,” Kissinger replied.

“What about us?” McCarter asked.

“I think I can help out there,” Kurtzman replied, wheeling up next to where Barbara Price stood with her arms folded. “I have Carmen sending an upload to you now. We connected two of those faces with a photo capture by a camera posted at the airport. We don’t have positive IDs on either of these guys yet, but we have confirmed they’re both players you went up against at the conference.”

“Where are they headed?” McCarter asked.

“Well, we can only guess as to final destination, but the plane they boarded was headed for Spain.”

“Seems like a strange place to go,” Gary Manning interjected.

“Not really,” Price replied. “There is significant support in Spain for a wide variety of terrorist organizations. We’ve known this for years, actually, but because of very stringent laws and Spain’s influence in both the UN and the European Union, we’ve never really considered the risks of operating there worth the potential costs in U.S. foreign relations.”

“Of course,” McCarter said, snorting. “We wouldn’t want to upset those protecting terrorists. That would be a bloody shame.”

“I know the politics are something that sticks in your craw, guys, but you know there’s little I can do about that,” Price said.

Price was very empathetic to the teams. Walking the line they had to walk was difficult. It certainly wasn’t something she could have brought herself to do; her political convictions were a little too strong for that. But the members of Able Team and Phoenix Force had to temper those convictions and maintain some level of neutrality. Still, it didn’t stop them from bitching about it, and Price saw no reason to begrudge them being able to verbalize. Most of the time, it was just a way to blow off steam.

“So where do we go from here?” James asked.

“Well, I just spoke with Jack and he’s waiting for you at Adelaide Airport. He’s fueled and ready to go. The plane that carried our two terrorists landed in Madrid less than twelve hours ago, so you’re not far behind.”

“Far enough,” Encizo pointed out.

“Listen, we’ve already got every operative in Spain on this,” Price said. “As soon as we know something, I promise we’ll let you in on it. We also have to consider that where two of these terrorists go, more are likely to follow.”

“Seems to me we ought to account for the possibility this pair is just a decoy,” Manning said. “Barb’s right about Spain being a terrorist group haven, but we could be headed on a wild-goose chase.”

“I agree,” Encizo added.

“Well, it’s not a bloody democracy here,” McCarter said, “and that means we’ll go with Barb’s plan. If we’re chasing our tails, then we’ll damn well find it out soon enough.”

“It’s a risk, but it’s one you’ll have to take,” Price said. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best lead we have right now and we should pursue it.”

“I’ll get you the information as quickly as I can on these prototypes, David,” Kissinger added. “That should at least help you be better prepared.”

“Having been close enough to see the abilities of those weapons firsthand,” Hawkins announced, “I can tell you we don’t stand a chance against this Resurrected Defense League if they decide to turn even the prototypes on us.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure we don’t give them that chance,” McCarter replied.

All of the Phoenix Force warriors nodded in agreement.

Cartagena, Spain

WALLACE DAVIDIA KEPT one eye on the door leading from the shipping warehouse and the other on his men as they unpacked the crates containing the prototypes for repackaging in new boxes.

Once they made their escape from Adelaide, they traveled to a remote location, quickly disassembled the weapons using specifications purchased from a former employee at Stormalite Systems, and then smuggled them as various parts of the ATVs. Triggers and firing mechanisms were stored in drained fuel tanks, barrels concealed in hollowed tail pipes. The electronic firing chips were removed and stored inside the instrumentation and the nonessential material was destroyed. Their engineers in Madrid could refabricate those parts. The ATVs were then sent to distributors throughout the city, and forged paperwork and purchasing documents called for them to be shipped to Cartagena by plane and boat. Originally, Boaz Rasham had suggested they ship the prototypes straight to Madrid, but Davidia disagreed. The more time wasted and false clues they threw any potential pursuers, the more difficult it would be for their enemies to pick up the trail. Thus far, Davidia’s plan had been successful, and he was proud of that.

But pride cometh before the fall, Davidia reminded himself.

“Wallace, I have to protest one more time my concerns about your plan,” Rasham said, intruding on Davidia’s introspection. “This is not efficient in any way. We’re wasting precious time. The sooner our engineers get these prototypes, the sooner we can move forward with this.”

Davidia turned, smiled and placed a firm hand on Rasham’s shoulder. “You are like a brother to me, you know this, but you have this annoying quality about you that tries me at moments. You need to learn patience.”

“I have tolerance,” Rasham replied. “And tolerance is an adequate substitute for patience. You’ve said so yourself.”

“True, but I’ve said that in the context of training others in our ways,” Davidia reminded him. “During an actual operation, patience is a preferable and admirable quality.”

Rasham waved as if shooing away an annoying insect. “Either way, our goal is to get results. I haven’t seen any.”

Davidia’s eyes swept the small warehouse, one of many that dotted the shores of Cartagena’s wharf district. “We successfully escaped with the prototypes and at an acceptable loss. You don’t consider those results?”

“I won’t split hairs with you, Wallace,” Rasham said. “And I won’t draw lines in the sand. I am a man of truth and candor. You know that about me, as much as I know it about you. I will always speak my mind.”

“And this is what I admire most about you,” Davidia replied. “But I was elected the leader of our group, and you seem unwilling to accept my plan.”

“If blind obedience is what you expected when we elected you to lead us to the remembered glory of our nation, then you accepted your nomination under misguided pretexts and arrogant assumption. After all, you’re an American.”

Davidia smiled, but he lent no warmth to it. “You’re coming dangerously close to crossing a line with me now, my friend. I’ve neither said nor done anything to suggest my men should follow me blindly. However, we should not forget that obedience to orders is a part of military discipline. The outsiders call us terrorists, and that’s their opinion, but I consider us soldiers for a cause. Soldiers don’t follow their leaders blindly because of some idealism, Boaz. They follow them because they know it’s a matter of discipline, and they’ll expect the same courtesy from their subordinates one day when they’re tasked to carry on our fight.”

Davidia paused for effect. “So please, don’t presume I’ve lost my objectivity by suggesting I’ve gone through some twisted process of self-deification. Like you, I’m human and bleed, and like you, I’ve suffered at the hands of others. So I leave the god complex to the fanatics of history. I’m just a soldier who happens to be a leader of soldiers. My past and my lineage have nothing to do with that. I’m in the here and now.”

Rasham smiled and shook his head. “That was quite a speech, and I still disagree with your plan. However, I cast my lot with you, so I will stay faithful to our cause and follow you to my death.”

Davidia threw his arm around Rasham and kissed his cheek. “I will make sure it does not come to that, brother. I would prefer that none of us should die, but I know this is the cost of war. You know it, too.”

The matter now behind them, Davidia and Rasham turned to the packaging activities. If all went as planned, they would be able to transport the weapons to Madrid by no later than the following afternoon. They could have started shipping some of it by truck tonight, but they had to wait for two of their people to arrive in Madrid and make preparations.

A sleeper group awaited there, including the engineers they had hired to manufacture copies from the prototypes, as well as a rather large guard unit. The RDL’s largest difficulty in the operation had been funds. Fortunately, splinter group supporters in America as well as those from small Kach-Kahane Chai units had helped the cause in that light. The operation was expensive. Obtaining weapons and other material at rock-bottom prices had been the easy part—it was financing the forged passports and shipping manifests, bribes to customs agents all over the Middle East, Europe and North America, and payments to the technical people, that had cost them a significant amount of money. That was one of the reasons that Davidia was taking his time. He wouldn’t rush the operation simply because he couldn’t rush it. Some of his investors were quite powerful people in the international community of terrorism and he had no aspirations to lose his head over this. Careful planning was the key; strategy and stealthy movements were the mechanisms to carry out the plans. He’d accounted for everything to the last detail.

Once they had the weapons, Davidia planned to split the group into two teams: one would go to the United States and the other to Israel. Reports and rumors were already coming in that their first attack in New York had been successful, although there was talk that they had lost the group to N.Y.P.D. tactical units. That was fine. Davidia had considered the possibilities and the risks that they might encounter. Their instructions had been clear: do not be taken prisoner.

They still had other cities to hit. Davidia had managed to catch a television report of the New York massacre and that there was now looting and rioting going on in a number of areas in the Big Apple heavily populated by Arabs and Jews. That was excellent news. Before it was over, they would find the same kind of trouble in Chicago, although Davidia’s unit was there only to scratch the tip of the iceberg. He planned to bring the prototypes with him and start a major war himself.

They had considered hitting other major cities, but the cost had become too great. By attacking just the major Arab-Jew population centers, word would spread like wildfire and there would be fallout in other cities sufficient to take eyes off of the RDL and its real goal. Terrorist alerts would rise, naturally, but by making it look as if this were a local problem and not one instigated on a global scale, the U.S. government would shift focus toward handling the domestic problems and make less consideration of any international fallout.

It was all just part of the plan. Davidia wasn’t worried about anyone discovering what was really happening. And even if they did, by the time anyone could muster a response, they would be well on their way toward reaching their goal. He predicted that within a month, RDL would have gained enough support to hold the Arab world at bay. Citizens in the Middle East would be afraid to come out of their own houses for fear of reprisal and the Israeli people would finally have the upper hand.

Yes, the Jews had been oppressed quite long enough. Once the Arabs were under control, RDL could then turn its attentions to the fascists, the Neo-Nazi and Skinhead movements. At last, the Jews of the world would stand united and unchallenged in accomplishing their goals. Jews everywhere could stop being afraid, because the Resurrected Defense League would become a veritable army of freedom fighters so powerful and massive that not even the superpowers of the world could oppose them.

And no one would ever steal from them again.

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