Читать книгу Orbital Velocity - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Hermann Schwarz entered the cybernetic paradise that was known as the Stony Man Farm War Room. He paused, looking at the wall of digital LCD monitors that offered a tapestry of views from around the globe. Workstations sprawled out, each indicative of their owner, all of whom were at work right now. There was an optional side station that Schwarz and Manning had appropriated for themselves whenever they were working at the Farm. The Canadian utilized the station simply for research on his varied fields, from ballistics to structural physics. Schwarz, on the other hand, fiddled and experimented with computer codework, constantly updating and improving the efficiency of the programs that he ran on his personal cell phone and the combat Personal Data Assistants that he’d assigned to his comrades in the action squads Able Team and Phoenix Force.

Right now, his Able Team partner and friend Carl Lyons was in Los Angeles, already in town on a rare moment of much-earned leave. With the veiled threat against Russia and the rest of the G8, Lyons had gone back on duty immediately. Schwarz was watching his combat PDA, knowing that it was possible that he’d be called to action to deal with problems along the coast.

In the meantime, Schwarz was working with the rest of the cybernetic team at the Farm in an effort to backtrack the kinetic shafts that had struck Moscow. They surely weren’t the only ones trying to figure out the trajectory of the deadly missiles, but at least they could act on that information almost as soon as they received it, as opposed to a more conventional agency, which needed at least four hours of logistics and even more time for intricate planning.

It wasn’t that Able Team and Phoenix Force could ever be accused of going off without a plan. However, the two Stony Man Farm teams had enough experience and skill, as well as the ability to think unconventionally, that they could be called upon at a moment’s notice. They trained for as many contingencies as possible, honing and refreshing their skills in the time between their missions. Their intelligence, training and the technology they were able to fall back upon had all combined into a cohesive catch-all for whatever they could face.

That had been proved by the events in London less than an hour ago, when two members of Phoenix Force had been the deciding factor in what could have been a tragedy, containing mass violence and allowing innocent civilians to escape from seething, violent soccer hooligans. Schwarz made certain to listen in on Lyons’s conversation with Brognola, though the big Able Team leader had gone silent as the VOR station at LAX was mentioned.

Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman turned his attention toward Schwarz. “You come up with anything yet, Gadgets?”

Schwarz looked at Bear, the Stony Man cybernetics expert, and shook his head. He was still running mathematical calculations in his mind, but the Able Team electronics genius was the kind of a person who could mentally multitask with remarkable ease. When his teachers complained that he, as a youth, seemed to be antsy and distracted in class, he realized that it was because the lessons they gave him only occupied a small fraction of his brain power. He needed other distractions. Schwarz would hum to satisfy the part of his mental focus that needed music, while he idly designed circuits or performed complex equations as mere doodles. He literally had designed some of his gadgets in his sleep, the burning intellect trapped in his skull looking for something to do even as he dreamed.

In one way, it was a godsend for the brilliant technician. The burning need to create, to tinker, to modify and program allowed him to live in the moment, to focus on nothing and thus able to experience everything. There were times when he seemed to have an almost paranormal danger sense, but while the genius believed in the possibility of ESP, he knew the truth was a matter of being able to reconcile his conscious and subconscious minds. The human subconscious was vastly aware of the world around it, but very few people had tuned their upper mental faculties to pay attention to those background cues. Schwarz’s subconscious awareness was a directly accessible part of his mind, allowing him to process the sound of a scrape as either a breeze blowing a twig or a boot sole scuffing concrete.

“The nearest I could make out was that we’re looking at an eastward launch,” Schwarz replied. “The people who fired those darts were using Earth’s rotation to add to the relative velocity of those missiles. And who knows how many times they orbited the planet before they struck.”

“Given an equatorial launch, we could assume two or three cycles around the earth to angle in on Moscow,” Kurtzman replied.

“Maybe more, since those darts came in almost directly from the east,” Schwarz mused. Something caught his eye in his peripheral vision, and he turned his head, focusing on it.

“What is it?” Kurtzman asked.

“Something on the world map,” Schwarz said, getting up and walking toward the plasma screens. He headed toward the monitor panel that contained northern, equatorial Africa. It was a small flicker in Cameroon.

The monitor screen kept watch for anomalies that would add up to flags for potential problems that would end up in Stony Man’s lap. The computer would look for trends in increased criminal or terrorist activity, either smuggling or intensified violence. Then it would take regular census numbers of American or allied agents in those areas. Operatives who had not reported in for three consecutive days raised the flag.

“What do we have in Cameroon?” Schwarz asked.

“Nothing for CIA or NSA as far as we can tell,” Barbara Price spoke up from her liaison station. She frowned. “I’m checking Department of Defense.”

“You think this might be relevant?” Kurtzman asked.

Schwarz pointed at the proximity of the African coastal nation to the equator. “What were we just talking about, launchwise?”

Kurtzman grimaced. “Barb, what is the DoD looking at?”

“Two operatives were sent to the Congo to look into reports of kidnapping among the local population,” Price answered. She looked up. “Modern-day slavery, and in that region, slaves equal diamond mines.”

“Not necessarily in this case,” Schwarz said, “But then, there had to be something done to fund a potential launch pad.”

“Construction teams for a launcher,” Price murmured. “The Congo is akin to a million square miles…”

“One point four million square miles to be exact,” Schwarz corrected. “That’s just for the river basin, which is one of the top three largest unspoiled rainforests in the world.”

“Even with satellites, it’s going to take a lot of time to look through all that jungle,” Price noted, taking a deep breath. “And it’s not as if we have a lot of eyes in the sky looking down at the Congo.”

“Things are more interesting with piracy off the Horn of Africa or around the Mediterranean,” Kurtzman added. “Reallocating orbital surveillance for something that’s only a hunch is going to take a lot of effort and might raise too many flags.”

Schwarz turned, regarding Kurtzman. “I know it’s just a hunch, but everyone else is looking to the sky and pointing fingers at China and the U.S.”

“The only two countries with the resources to launch orbital bombardment satellites,” Price noted. “Though we’re concerned with something in the U.S. Lyons informed us that the Reich Highwaymen were skulking around LAX.”

“Reich Highwaymen in the U.S., Jakkhammer Legacy in England,” Schwarz mused. “Anything on our Nazi watch?”

“There’ve been funds flying around the backtrails, but nothing that points in any solid direction,” Carmen Delahunt spoke up. “All we know is—” she looked at her screen, her green eyes flashing as she did some quick math “—the amount of money in the stream is increased.”

“And no old artifacts or gold has turned up,” Schwarz stated.

“That’s true, but violence has increased in Europe among diamond smugglers,” Delahunt replied, anticipating Schwarz’s next supposition.

The Able Team genius frowned. Being right while he grasped at rumors and hints to form a plan of action was no victory. While he’d put together circumstantial evidence for where Stony Man should direct its attention for the origins of their unknown enemy, the conspiracy seemed to have links to violent, neofascist, racial supremacist groups from Moscow to Los Angeles. Putting boots on the ground in Africa would do nothing to stem the tide of mayhem that humans could cause, as opposed to the destruction wrought by throwing giant crowbars at cities from orbit.

Able Team had encountered the adherents of racial intolerance in the U.S. and engaged them in brutal combat. They were bloodthirsty and ruthless in their ideology, and recently the white supremacist scum had gone from supplementing their income with drug dealing and weapons smuggling to becoming full-time players, exercising their greed at easy money, power and prestige.

The Reich Highwaymen were symptomatic of this trend, being among the most successful smugglers across the border between California and Mexico. There were also five warrants for RHM members wanted for questioning in regard to twenty murders.

That’s just what the police knew. Unreported killings, in Schwarz’s experience, would be exponentially more.

“See if the Highwaymen have any friends here on the east coast,” Schwarz suggested. “It’s not as if the FBI and the CIA aren’t following more obvious, less arcane leads, right?”

“It could just be that you’ve got a bias against those gangs,” Price noted. “We could be spinning our wheels for an old grudge against a particular type of biker.”

“What was that about Jakkhammer Legacy?” Schwarz asked. “British neo-Nazis who are the strong-arm behind the British Imperial Revival Society? Looking for the day when all the brown peoples in the world know their place, and it’s usually toiling for a white limey?”

“You’re fast on the research,” Kurtzman noted.

“I heard Barb talking about it with David,” Schwarz said.

“A worldwide fascist conspiracy, and they’re working out of darkest Africa,” Price said.

“Using black slaves to mine diamonds and build launch pads,” Schwarz added. “Can you think of something a white supremacist wouldn’t like more than having Africans work themselves to death for their purposes?”

Price shook her head reluctantly. “Racist bastards… For once I completely agree with Carl about dealing with them.”

“Shoot first, ask questions, then finish shooting,” Schwarz explained for the computer experts in the War Room.

A phone warbled. Price picked it up. “Gadgets, it’s Pol.”

“Pol” was short for “Politician,” the nickname for the diplomatic and smooth-talking Rosario Blancanales, the third and final member of Able Team. When Lyons had activated and stayed on station in Los Angeles, the ex-LAPD cop had suggested that someone go on alert in Washington, D.C., preferably working from street level to avoid duplicating the efforts of federal agencies who were looking at terrorist groups and foreign governments. Lyons had been a beat cop, and while he had the advantage of electronic, satellite and internet-scoured information, he had never given up on the reliability of rumors and chatter on the mean streets. Blancanales, an affable, nearly chameleonlike person who could disarm an enemy with his words and his hands, had volunteered, leaving Schwarz free to utilize his particular skills.

Somewhere Blancanales had come through, prying loose some nugget of information that would give Stony Man Farm an edge.

Schwarz punched the speaker phone button, so that Blancanales could be heard by the rest of the War Room staff. “What’s the news, Pol?”

“I stumbled my way to a town just a mile past Chevy Chase,” Blancanales answered. “Don’t tell Carl, but his primitive, stone-age cop ways still work.”

Schwarz grinned. “A town?”

“Barely a town, actually. Basically, it’s the runoff from an interstate. It’s got some fast-food restaurants, two major gas station franchises and a bunch of small rest stops catering to the nomadic sort,” Blancanales explained.

“Bikers and truckers,” Schwarz translated for Price. She rolled her eyes, exasperated by the assumption that she hadn’t learned the verbal shorthand utilized by the field teams.

“I work at a desk for a few hours a day. I’m not a hermit stuck on an island,” Price responded.

“Anyway, there’s a congregation meeting. It looks as if they’re getting set for a holy revival,” Blancanales said. “Be nice if you got here.”

“Is Jack or Charlie around?” Schwarz asked, referring to Jack Grimaldi or Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s two resident pilots.

“I’ve had Charlie keep a helicopter on standby,” Price said. “Get to the pad, and he’ll take you up as soon as you get there.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Pol,” Schwarz said. “Tell Barb your exact location so Charlie can take me there as the crow flies. Need party favors?”

“I’m pretty well strapped. Just bring plenty of ammo,” Blancanales replied.

Herman Schwarz raced out of the War Room.

It was time to ask some questions, Able Team style.

The Congo

JOHN CARMICHAEL TRIPPED but recovered his balance by hugging a tree trunk. The trouble with doing that in a rainforest was that creatures started crawling along his arm, making a beeline for his shoulder and neck. It took five hard, quick slaps to make certain everything had been either knocked off or crushed, and the smashed insects that clung to his dark arm left behind a gooey mess that attracted hungry flies. He mopped the stuff off his arm, not wanting to catch a bite from a tsetse fly or some infection from a disease-ridden set of insect mandibles.

“Congratulations, you made it another hundred yards before something else tried to kill you,” he panted. He glanced back, trying to take consolation in the fact that the only things that had been after him, at least those that he could see, weren’t men packing assault rifles.

“Only problem with that,” he told himself, “is you can’t shoot bugs.”

Carmichael felt that he could relax his pace now. Too much exertion in the heat and humidity of the jungle would drain and dehydrate a man, despite the amount of moisture in the air.

He checked his satellite phone again, as if some how the bullet hole through it would have disappeared. Naked electronics, a shattered silicon board, peeked out, and Carmichael sneered. Arcado had been carrying the device when he’d been hit. The memory of his partner came unbidden, and he clenched his teeth.

“Don’t think about it,” he told himself, putting one foot in front of the other. Each step was closer to civilization, another step toward warning the world of what was going on. He checked his watch; it was only hours since the rocket went up.

That didn’t mean much, Carmichael calculated. At orbital velocities, whatever had been launched could have gone around the world a dozen times in just sixty minutes. He could just be too late to raise the alarm that death would be raining down from above.

If that was the case, Carmichael would have to bring in someone to avenge those killed, including his best friend. Raw anger gnawed at him along with the willingness to channel that rage.

Carmichael glanced over his shoulder again, looking back toward the jungle-camouflaged base. He frowned as he realized that the enemy wouldn’t give up. There was someone on his trail, willing to enter the sprawling rainforest basin to keep their secret. They couldn’t afford to let Carmichael reach civilization alive. Once he spoke, they would die.

Carmichael had only given himself a lead on the enemy; he hadn’t given them the slip. He didn’t know what kind of cushion he had. Slowing down would be the only rest he could get. Stopping for any length of time would give his hunters a chance to catch up. He wiped his brow and sighed. There were only two spare magazines for his Kalashnikov, giving him ninety rounds for the rifle, and the four magazines for the 1911 he used for a sidearm. He also had five shots for the tiny .357 Magnum Centennial he wore in the small of his back, but if it got down to handguns, especially the two-inch-barreled snubby, he was doomed. The enemy would have a full combat kit and outnumber him at least four to one, putting him at a disadvantage when it came to a fight.

Arcado’s advice, from back when Carmichael was a rookie operative for the DoD, came to mind. “Guns make you fight stupid. Sure, firepower could possibly save your ass when it comes to bad-breath distance, but if you want to fight smart, you stay away from fights. And if you can’t avoid a fight, then don’t fight stupid. But I don’t have to tell you that. When you’re in the shit, you’ll be scared. And when you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

It wasn’t until Carmichael had read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War that he realized that Arcado was paraphrasing the brilliant Chinese general. Carmichael paused and assessed his situation.

What were his strengths? He knew how to get through a jungle and survive off the land, thanks to his Robin Sage Green Beret training. As only one man, he was a low-profile target, making him more mobile and able to hide in smaller places. He knew he was being hunted, and he knew how vital it was for the enemy to capture him, so he could gauge how much force they had and how well-skilled his pursuers would be. He knew in which direction he’d been heading as he smashed his trail through the rainforest while moving at full-tilt.

What were his enemy’s strengths? They outnumbered him. They outgunned him. They had a home-field advantage. They had communications and could call on extra resources if necessary. They were trackers, and they had been good enough to be within sweating distance for at least the first hour of their pursuit. They were smart enough to ease up and let Carmichael burn himself out running like hell, so they had been resting for the past two hours while he exerted energy and used up vital reserves.

Carmichael was already painfully aware of his weaknesses; no apparent water source to replenish his lost fluids, low on ammo, far from his allies. Carmichael looked for their weaknesses, even as he trod through the jungle, taking care to move slowly and easily, not breaking branches or tearing leaves with his passage. He made certain to step on exposed roots and fallen, heavy branches to minimize his footprints, though most of them were readily swallowed by the thick undergrowth that somehow thrived on faint rays of sunlight that had penetrated the forest canopy.

“There are more of them, so moving quietly will be more difficult for them,” Carmichael reminded himself. As he made that assessment, he added another strength that they possessed over him. Because they had numbers, they could fake him out, distracting him with a larger number, thus herding him toward a scout who would be moving singly and with stealth.

“They have confidence,” Carmichael said. “They have the perception of certain superiority. I know I’m in the hole.”

He went back to Arcado’s words. “When you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

Carmichael continued his march. He was scared, but his training and determination kept him from blind panic. The shots of fear kept him wary, attuned, in a state where his body was able to pump all manner of energy into fight or flight, but his mental processes were clear and focused.

“Survive for David,” Carmichael told himself as he continued into the dark rainforest, demons nipping at his heels.