Читать книгу Close Quarters - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

A cloud of dust—acrid and lung searing with explosive residue—rolled through the interior of the shuttle bus.

Gary Manning knew that scent. The expended cordite stung his nostrils as he worked to extricate his body from beneath the legs tangled with his own. He did a quick physical inventory as he wriggled to freedom; he hadn’t suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. The Phoenix warrior turned to the nearest motionless figure. A quick check of the pulse at Rafael Encizo’s neck revealed a strong and steady rhythm. Manning confirmed rise and fall of the Cuban’s chest before producing a relieved sigh of his own.

“Roll call!” McCarter shouted in a raspy voice.

“Check,” Manning said. “Rafe’s out cold but stable.”

An all-clear came back from the remaining Phoenix Force members, including a quip from Hawkins about who got the license number of the truck. It seemed to take Russell a little longer but eventually he sounded off to indicate he was conscious and mostly in one piece. Even as they began to shift and attempt to right themselves inside the capsized shuttle bus, the first metallic pings against the body of the vehicle reached their ears.

“We’re taking fire!” Manning said.

“Un-ass this AO!” McCarter shouted.

Fortunately the Phoenix warriors had debarked from the plane with concealed pistols so they weren’t entirely unarmed. Hawkins ordered Russell to help him wrestle Encizo from beneath the overturned bags while McCarter, James and Manning broke free of their confines and crawled to the rear and a shattered back window. Manning removed the jagged shards at the edge of the frame with a few swift kicks of his boot before lurching through it feet first, propelled by grabbing the crossbar typically used for standees. Clear of the wreckage, Manning took one knee and produced a .45-caliber Colt Government Model pistol from shoulder leather. He panned the rear flanks with the muzzle of the pistol but didn’t detect any muzzle-flashes. Either the enemy had taken concealment or they were positioned on the opposite side. Their stopping point with the nose of the shuttle bus facing the leeward edge of the road may have well been their only saving grace, and Manning thought it made good sense to take maximum advantage of such good fortune.

James and McCarter followed him out and Manning briefed them.

“You two cut around and head toward those trees,” McCarter directed. “See if you can draw their fire.”

The pair nodded and left the position of safety without hesitation.

The chatter of full-auto reports—some kind of light squad weapon, Manning and James guessed—reached their ears as they dashed for the tree line. Rounds bit at the ground just ahead of their path, churning dust and stone chips from the gravel road as the enemy gunner tried to gauge an appropriate lead. They reached the trees unharmed and dived into the cover of deep grass and thick, gnarled tree trunks.

“That was too close!” James observed.

Manning nodded in agreement and said, “We’re not dealing with novices.”

The Canadian risked a glance through a gap in two ground vines and spotted the winks of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun just a heartbeat before it stopped. Manning pointed in that direction and James nodded. The pair raised their pistols, Manning leveling his .45 and James wielding a 9 mm H&K P-2000. They opened up hot on the enemy position, pumping as much lead as they could downrange. Maybe they wouldn’t hit their target but at least they could keep the heat off their friends long enough to buy them time to get clear of the vehicle.

* * *

AS SOON AS MANNING AND James took off, McCarter turned and headed in the opposite direction with a Browning Hi-Power in hand.

As he ran along the road, hunched to minimize his profile, the Phoenix Force leader listened for the direction of the fire. The targets his friends presented had obviously commanded the full attention of the enemy gunner because McCarter didn’t detect any rounds buzzing over his head or chewing the ground at his feet. He ran toward a large rock near a copse of trees and dived for cover. McCarter grinned when he peered around the rock and got his first look at the enemy position. He had a clear line of sight, and even through the shadows provided by the tree line he could see two of his opponents.

McCarter took careful aim on one of his targets, estimating the distance at fifty yards, and waited until his friends opened up from their position. He stroked the trigger twice. Both 9 mm Parabellums hit their mark and McCarter detected just the faintest hint of spray, confirming once more the reason he’d taken home prize after prize for his pistol marksmanship. The hits took their enemy by surprise, obviously, because McCarter perceived a bit of scrambling among those trees and heard a shout.

Maybe they no longer had the advantage of surprise, but McCarter figured at least this one time he’d made it count for something.

* * *

T. J. HAWKINS PANTED, the muscles in his shoulders bunched like knotted cords as he dragged the unconscious Rafael Encizo through the opening and down the shallow slope of the road that provided a defilade. Russell followed on his heels and dropped to his belly in a cloud of dust.

“You. Stay here and watch him,” Hawkins ordered. He handed Russell his pistol and said, “You don’t leave his side for any reason. Got it?”

Russell took the weapon with unflinching resolve and nodded, his lips pressed into a thin set.

Hawkins slapped his shoulder, then dashed back to the shuttle bus and dived inside. He quickly located the duffel bag he sought. He unsnapped the clips with practiced efficiency, reached inside and came away with exactly what he’d hoped. The M-4 A1/M-203 A1 was the perfect small-arms weapon in Hawkins’s mind. Not only had the weapon proved itself through its parent model, the M-16 A2, but its lighter weight and compact profile made it perfect as a tactical operations alternative to the full-size deal. Hawkins reached into the bag again and withdrew two readied 30-round magazines, one of which he inserted into the well.

A yank of the charging handle brought the weapon into battery. Hawkins searched the wrecked vehicle like a dog mad on a scent until he found the hard box that contained 40 mm HE grenades. He loaded one into the breech of the M-203 A1—a special military variant of the M-203 designed specifically for the M-4 A1—and stuffed two more into the pocket of his khaki trousers.

Hawkins cleared out and rounded the corner of the shuttle bus. He immediately flattened to the ground, avoiding a volley of high-velocity rounds that burned the air just above him. Hawkins had the leaf sight up and in position. He estimated his distance at sixty yards max, settled the stock of the M-4 A1 tight against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The pop and kick from the grenade launcher mimicked that of about a 12-gauge shotgun but the results were much more spectacular. The high-explosive blew on impact, blowing the machine gun position and its owner apart in a fifteen-foot tower of flame.

Hawkins pressed the attack by following with a second grenade before charging the position and triggering short bursts on the run. He looked to his flanks and saw McCarter, James and Manning leave their own positions to provide covering fire. Hawkins produced a rebel war cry as he continued to advance on the

enemy’s position—or what was left it—his M-4 A1 spitting 5.56 mm rounds at anything that appeared to move. The four warriors converged on the tree line simultaneously with weapons blazing, more intent on keeping heads down and shocking the enemy into panic or retreat than on taking viable targets. Hawkins had expended his first magazine by the time they breached the position, and rammed the second one home as he knelt and gestured for the others to continue forward while he provided cover.

The other three Phoenix Force warriors crashed through the trees, careful to circumvent the immediate area seared by superheated gases and what was left in the wake of the twin grenades. They expanded their search and found three bodies. McCarter was certain one of them was the one he’d shot, while the other two were close to one another just behind the smoking, broken shell of a machine gun wedged in the mud.

“The gunner and his spotter, more than likely,” Manning said.

“You think this was it?” Hawkins asked.

“No bloody way to tell, mate. But I’m guessing if there were any others they’re moving away from here as fast as possible.”

James stared into the darkened jungle and said, “That’s okay. We’ll catch up with them later.”

“Bet on it,” McCarter agreed.

The four men retreated to the vehicle and James immediately began to work his magic on Encizo, performing a full assessment and breaking out smelling salts and water. Hawkins and Manning provided a loose

perimeter while Russell helped McCarter salvage whatever equipment and weapons they could find. McCarter only had to look at the body of the driver for a moment to know the guy was long gone.

Yeah, they would catch up to whoever had done this.

And there’ll be bloody hell to pay when we do, David McCarter thought.

Miami, Florida

THE WINDOW AIR-CONDITIONING unit produced a drone as it blasted ice-cold air into the hotel room. Able Team hadn’t picked the choicest place in town to stay but it was large, clean and comfortable. They’d immediately changed their plans with Harland including switching vehicles, accommodations and wardrobe. They now sat ranged around the small coffee table of the suite.

Schwarz sat back on the couch and propped his feet on the table. “Ah, now this is more like a vacation.”

Blancanales had just returned from the kitchen and handed a bottle of water to Harland before cracking the top on his own. As he plopped next to Schwarz on the couch, his friend asked, “Where’s mine?”

“In the fridge,” Blancanales said as he took a long pull and smacked his lips. “Ah, very refreshing.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t get me one.”

“I’m not your mother.”

“Shape it up, you two,” Lyons said, rubbing vigorously at his blond hair, wet from the shower. “We have weapons to clean and decisions to make.”

The cell phone at Lyons’s belt signaled for attention with the theme from Mission Impossible.

“Really?” Schwarz said. “Really, Ironman?”

Lyons’s waggled his eyebrows before he answered, “It’s your nickel.”

He turned and left after listening a moment, retreating to the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

“Must be a new girlfriend,” Blancanales said, although he knew otherwise.

“He’s been so mysterious lately,” Schwarz quipped.

The pair sat and watched television with Harland for about five minutes before Lyons emerged from the bedroom. His face had colored a dark hue. Blancanales and Schwarz realized he hadn’t liked whatever he’d heard, a fact that became even more evident when Lyons stormed across the living area, grabbed Harland by the shirt and hauled the young man out of the overstuffed chair. Lyons dragged Harland into the center of the room, yanked his arm behind his back and shoved him to his knees.

“Ironman, what the hell—” Blancanales began.

“Stay out of this!” Lyons exclaimed with a new flush to his face. He leaned close to Harland’s ear before continuing. “Now listen to me and listen good, you little son of a bitch. I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing but whatever it is you’ve got about five seconds to come clean or I swear I’ll snap your arm in two.”

“What is happening here?” Schwarz said.

Lyons looked at him and replied, “You want to know what’s happening? Our friends down in Paraguay just got hit by Hezbollah terrorists and nearly all of them bought the farm. One of them was injured.”

Lyons turned his attention back to Harland, who could barely talk fast enough, his voice little more than a high-pitched squeal of outrage mixed with pain. “Let…me…go!”

“I’ll let you go,” Lyons said. “I’ll let you go right out that window if you don’t talk and talk now!”

“Hezbollah?” Blancanales inquired.

“Yeah. And there’s a lot more to the story, but I’ll fill you in on the rest of it later. For now our orders are to turn two-face here over to the U.S. Marshals as soon as they arrive. But they weren’t very specific about what condition he has to be in. Only that he’s still breathing.” Lyons directed the last statement to Harland. “And if he doesn’t fess up here in the next few seconds he’s going to be breathing through a straw.”

“Okay! Let me go— You’re breaking my arm!” Harland wailed, and then began sobbing. “Please…”

Lyons released his hold, got Harland to his feet and tossed him into the chair he’d occupied a minute earlier. He then folded his arms. “We’re listening. Spill it, shithead.”

“Yeah, Harland,” Schwarz said. “What’s this all about?”

“I swear I didn’t want to do it!” Harland said, rubbing his arm as he stared daggers at Lyons. The ice-cold blue eyes staring back caused Harland to look at the floor. “They told me if I didn’t play along they’d kill me.”

“Who told you that?” Blancanales asked.

“Those…those bastards,” Harland confessed. He looked at Lyons. “You’re right, they are terrorists. They didn’t tell me which group they were with. The guy who talked to me spoke English but he had an accent. I couldn’t figure it out at first but after talking to him awhile I deduced he had to be Arab, Muslim or something. Somewhere from the Middle East, I was pretty sure of that.”

“How could you tell?” Lyons demanded.

“I hold a Masters Degree in liberal arts. I’ve been to many countries. I know Middle Easterners when I see them.”

“And this story you gave the Embassy about you being blindfolded,” Schwarz said. “About not seeing anything other than the camp and the two men who captured you. Was all of that just bullshit?”

“It was a lie. Part of the story they told me to tell.”

“Oh, Christopher,” Blancanales said in a voice heavy with disappointment. He shook his head. “You should’ve told us the truth from the beginning. This has only made things much more complicated.”

“They said if I didn’t cooperate they’d kill my friends!”

“Your friends may already be dead, genius,” Lyons replied. “Did you ever think about that? Terrorists aren’t typically interested in taking hostages unless it’s distinctly advantageous to their goals.”

“So you’re being tracked?” Schwarz asked.

Harland kept his eyes to the floor as he nodded slowly.

“How?”

Harland reached slowly to the watch on his wrist and removed it. He handed it to Blancanales, who then passed it immediately to Schwarz after a cursory glance. Schwarz reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small leather case. He flipped open the soft lid and after a moment carefully selected a miniature flat-tip screwdriver. He carefully pried the lid off the back and inspected the contents. After a minute and a grunt of satisfaction, Schwarz replaced the screwdriver, withdrew another implement and began working at the innards. He soon came away with a small chip held between the tiny three-pronged extractor.

“Very interesting,” Schwarz said, staring at the chip.

“What is it?” Blancanales asked.

“Microtransmitter, I’d guess. Hard to tell for certain without the proper testing equipment here, but I’d say it probably has about a ten-mile range if it transmits low-band. More likely it’s GPS-enabled, in which case it has an almost limitless range.”

“So they know where we’re at?” Lyons asked.

“Hard to tell,” Schwarz replied. “But I can tell you this is advanced electronics. High-grade stuff, amigo, not something you can get just anywhere.”

“Grand,” Lyons replied.

“What else do you know?” Blancanales asked. “You need to tell us everything you heard and saw. There are other men risking their lives to help your friends. You owe them that much.”

Harland nodded and began to spill it all to them. He told them about how they first encountered the terrorists, described the leader’s mode of dress and the other things he saw. He included every nuance of the conversation he had with the leader and some of the foreign words he’d heard used between the leader and his men. He also gave them the details of the story they had forced him to memorize several times over. When he’d finished, he sat back in the chair with utter exhaustion, the tears streaming down his cheeks unabated.

While Blancanales rose to get Harland a rag for his face, Lyons considered the information. He would wait until they’d dumped Harland on the U.S. Marshals Service before he told them of their new mission parameters.

Lyons had cringed when Price and Brognola informed him Able Team would be taking a trip out of the country. He’d listened with rising anger as they’d relayed the story of how a man named Hemmati had contacted the CIA with an incredible tale of a possible coup at the highest levels of Iranian government. He could remember the anger reaching the boiling point when they’d revealed McCarter and the rest had been ambushed while meeting their NSA contact, and how Rafael Encizo had been injured—although Lyons understood the tough Cuban would be okay.

“I’d normally send Phoenix Force on this,” Brognola had said, “but with what they’re juggling down there, I don’t think it’s tactically sound.”

“I get it,” Lyons had said. “I may not like it but we’re the better choice for this kind of mission. We’re also smaller and better suited for the urban environment.”

Price had directed, “You’ll take a civilian hop to the city of Sulaimaniyah, near the Iran-Iraq border. From there, you’ll have a CIA contact who’ll arrange for a HALO jump into the Elburz Mountains. There’s a deep-cover ops team that will pick you up there and get you into the city.”

“Once you reach Tehran you’ll coordinate with Hemmati,” Brognola’d told him. “He’ll be your guide and sole contact outside of the two Company men. Your job is to take custody, help Hemmati’s people and then get your collective asses out of there with Hemmati in one piece.”

“You know what?” Lyons had replied. “Pol and Gadgets were right. Florida’s looking better all the time.”