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CHAPTER THREE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The five battle-hardened warriors of Phoenix Force sat attentively as Harold Brognola, head of the most covert special operations agency in America, opened the briefing.

“We’re long on intelligence and short on time, so let’s get right to it,” Brognola said. He looked at Barbara Price and nodded.

Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, tapped the key on the table-top keyboard in front of her and the operations center conference room lights dimmed. A moment later the face of a young man with dirty-blond hair appeared on the 72-inch LED screen at one end of the room.

“Gentlemen, meet Dr. Oleg Dratshev. This picture was taken about ten years ago when he was age twenty-five. For more than a decade Dratshev has been Russia’s foremost military R and D scientist in the areas of electromagnetic pulse weapons. He holds several advanced degrees and his work has been financed directly by the Kremlin. Two days ago he disappeared.”

Price paused for effect and met the gaze of every Phoenix Force warrior before she continued. “Dr. Dratshev is highly respected by most members of the military scientific community. His security was handled by the FSB. He was taken by a party or parties unknown, and thus far no ransom demand has been made. The Russian government has attempted to keep his disappearance a secret, but it was hardly possible given that he disappeared shortly after arriving in Minsk and the grabbers left the bodies of four FSB agents behind.”

Phoenix Force’s team leader, David McCarter, cleared his throat and asked, “Do we know why he was in Minsk?”

Price shook her head. “We don’t have any positive proof but we believe he may have been there to oversee the test demonstration of some prototype weaponry he designed.”

Calvin James let out a low whistle. “Funny they’d think testing weapons of that size in a foreign territory would be something they could keep a lid on.”

“Well, the buzz running through the highest channels at both the CIA and NSA would indicate they weren’t testing high-energy weapons,” Price replied.

“Wait a minute,” Gary Manning interjected. “Are you saying Dratshev has come up with a design for EMP application using small arms?”

“It would seem so,” Price replied.

Each of the Phoenix Force members muttered curses under their breath and an icy tension settled on all present.

“That’s unthinkable,” Rafael Encizo said. A Cuban native and one of the original Phoenix Force veterans, Encizo was the team’s resident specialist in maritime operations and an expert knife fighter.

“As far as we know,” Price said, “the capabilities of EMP in small arms are still little more than an untested theory. But we do think that given how long Dratshev’s been working on the project, coupled with the Russian government’s continued financing of his research, those capabilities are a very real possibility.”

“Excuse me,” Thomas Jackson Hawkins said, raising a hand in automatic reflex.

“T.J.?” Price acknowledged with a nod.

“I was under the impression EMP was still somewhat poorly understood. At least from the perspective of safe weaponization.”

“I think Bear could give us a more expert opinion on that concept,” Brognola said. “Aaron?”

The other man in the room differed more than the rest in just the fact that he was confined to a wheelchair. By any standards Aaron Kurtzman had an IQ nearly off the charts and the uncanny ability to collect, sort and manipulate copious amounts of electronic data into logical chunks of intelligence. Those talents, coupled with his leadership of all of Stony Man’s computer-based operations, had saved the lives of every field team member on occasions almost too numerous to quantify.

Kurtzman grinned, happy as always to be in his element. “From the standpoint of physics, electromagnetics is a relatively simple principle to grasp. Think about the Earth. Surrounding our atmosphere is an electromagnetic field, which is generated by the Earth’s core of molten metal spinning at thousands of miles per hour. At least that’s the generally accepted scientific axiom.

“That field helps contain our air and moisture, but more importantly it protects us from the cosmic radiation generated by the sun. Now suppose that you could harness such a field on a microcosmic level and confine it into a narrow beam, a particle beam of sorts. By creating the initial energy and then liberating said energy, a pulse is formed that has all the magnetic force behind it with one distinct difference—it can be focused at a single point.”

“Sounds more like you’re talking about a laser,” McCarter remarked. The fox-faced Briton furrowed his brow. “Is there a difference?”

“Big difference,” Kurtzman replied. “A laser beam has to be intensely focused and remain constant to weaponize it. This requires an intense amount of sustained energy. That’s where we draw the line between science and science fiction. But with an EMP, the energy is already contained within the pulse. It then becomes merely a matter of focusing it.”

“But wouldn’t the same principle apply?” James asked. “I mean…wouldn’t it take as much energy to build up an electromagnetic charge as a laser beam?”

Kurtzman shook his head. “Not according to what Dr. Dratshev’s many years of research has revealed. Somehow, Dratshev has discovered a way to generate that energy at the atomic or even subatomic level.”

“Or at least that’s what our intelligence agencies have surmised,” Price said.

“Unfortunately we don’t have the time to give you a full physics lesson right now,” Brognola cut in. “The important thing to know is that Dratshev has found some way of doing it, and now he’s fallen into the hands of someone willing to go to great lengths to possess that knowledge. Someone we deem to be extremely dangerous.”

“But how can we know they’re dangerous with any certainty?” Hawkins asked.

It was Gary Manning, former member of the RCMP and a self-taught expert on nearly every terrorist organization in the world, who answered. “Because anyone bold enough to go up against the Russian government and, in particular the FSB, is just plain crazy.”

“Or fanatical, at least,” McCarter added.

“In any case,” Price said, “we have to assume the worst. Dratshev’s abduction must be deemed a direct threat against the United States and her allies until otherwise verified. That’s why we’ve activated Phoenix Force.”

“And Able Team,” Brognola added.

“We’re going to work together on this one?” James inquired.

“Not exactly,” Price said. “Not too long after we received the news of Dratshev’s disappearance, an incident occurred at a U.S. Department of Agriculture research facility in a rural area north of Des Moines, Iowa.”

“Uh-oh,” McCarter said. “If memory serves, Barb, isn’t that—?”

“Yes, it’s a data backup warehouse for a special sector of international satellite operations overseen by the NSA.”

James looked at McCarter in amazement. “How the hell did you know that?”

McCarter shrugged. “I read the classified CERN bulletins.”

Hawkins chuckled. “The European Organization for Nuclear Research bulletins? What a nerd.”

“Don’t forget mission controller’s pet,” Encizo added.

“Moving right along to the incident?” Brognola prompted

“Go ahead, Barb,” Manning said. “I’m listening.”

Price smiled. “An armed force of about a dozen men breached the USDA facility and was engaged by security personnel. A number of men were killed on both sides, and about half of this mysterious team managed to escape. Unfortunately there were no survivors to question.”

“Any idea who they were working for?” James asked.

“No,” Price said, shaking her head. “All of the deceased were American citizens with military experience, however. So we’re thinking some sort of mercenary group.”

Brognola said, “The NSA apparently got wind something like this might take place and so they beefed up security just in case there was something to it. Turns out they were right.”

“Then they must have some idea what this team was after,” McCarter said. “Breaking into a bloody NSA data facility is a risky op. The stakes had to be high.”

“We won’t know for sure until Able Team can get there and start an investigation of its own,” Price replied. “What’s interesting about this attack, though, is that the particular data sets stored there by the NSA include covert operations in Belarus and a number of surrounding countries.”

“Which is where Dratshev disappeared,” Hawkins concluded.

“Right,” Brognola said.

Price added, “That’s why we think the two incidents are connected, and thus far the intelligence we’ve gathered would seem to support that theory.”

“What we don’t understand yet is what domestic interest would launch an operation on U.S. soil and why,” Brognola pointed out.

“Well, it sure wasn’t whoever snatched Dratshev,” Encizo replied. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Unless they were trying to divert our attention.”

McCarter shook his head. “I’d have a lot of trouble buying that, Hal. First, it would imply that our own people snatched Dratshev. Second, it wouldn’t make sense to put good resources as such risk for the purpose of creating a smoke screen.”

“That would be an expensive diversion,” Price conceded with a nod.

“And we’re not dealing with idiots or amateurs in any case,” Manning remarked. “That much is obvious.”

Price said, “Well, we figure Able Team will be able to tell us something soon enough. Meanwhile, we’re sending you to Belarus. You’ll pick up whatever clues you can.”

“Are we sure that’s the best place to start?” McCarter asked.

Price nodded. “We have a CIA contact there who’s been shadowing the FSB team sent to retrieve Dratshev when he contacted his handler and reported he’d been compromised. An insider told our contact there was a significant delay notifying the backup team.”

“So this was an inside job,” Hawkins observed in his typical Texas drawl.

“It would seem so.”

McCarter scratched his jaw in consideration. “Any possibility the Russians staged this whole thing?”

“It’s always possible,” Price said with a shrug. “But to what end?”

“Maybe they wanted to throw everyone off Dratshev’s trail? Think about it. They fake his abduction and then everybody starts looking for him in all but the obvious place. His own backyard.”

“We posed that as a potential scenario to our CIA contact and he didn’t think it was likely,” Brognola said. “He’s convinced the kidnapping is real and the threat is viable, mostly due to the amount of scrambling the FSB’s doing. They’ve apparently crawled under every rock and into every crevice of the city.”

“Okay, then I guess it’s off to Minsk we go,” McCarter said.

“If there’s any more intelligence that comes our way while you’re en route,” Price said, “we can always divert you.”

The five warriors nodded in concert.

“Good luck, men,” Harold Brognola added.

* * *

CARL LYONS WAS enjoying an icy swim through a Mississippi tributary in northern Minnesota when the waterproof GPS device around his wrist sent a very mild tingle along his skin.

Lyons pushed his body against the strong current, his muscular arms and shoulders propelling him through choppy waters that would have bested a lesser man. This was just one of the many feats that had earned Lyons his Ironman nickname.

Lyons reached shore and climbed from the water onto the trunk of a fallen tree. He swung his legs over it and planted his feet on terra firma. Beads of water dribbled from every part of skin that had taken on a golden-bronze tone under three days of the early summer sun.

Lyons checked the device as it signaled him again and then set off into a half-mile trot until he reached the spot where he’d left his two companions. He found them both fast asleep, a rock pit smoldering with red-orange wood coals the only remainder of the campfire they’d started the night before.

Lyons put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Pathetic.” He then walked over and kicked the soles of their feet.

The first man, husky and muscular with gray-white hair, awoke with a start. “What’s the big idea, Ironman?” Rosario “Politician” Blancanales demanded. “That’s no way to wake up a friend.”

The other man had barely stirred, although that hardly fooled Lyons. He knew that both of them were trained well enough they’d probably detected his approach while he was still out of sight. Those same instincts, forged from years of combat and training, were the ones that had registered Lyons as an entity that didn’t pose any threat.

Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz yawned. “Yeah. Really, Ironman, you have no class.”

“Shape up, boys,” Lyons said. “I got buzzed.”

Schwarz looked at Blancanales and rubbed one eye. “He’s not a very nice person.”

“Old age has made him cantankerous,” Blancanales replied.

“Stuff it,” Lyons muttered as he reached into his backpack and retrieved his cell phone.

Lyons issued a voice-coded command and the phone automatically dialed the secure satellite uplink to the communications center at Stony Man Farm.

When Price answered on the second ring, Lyons said, “You rang, Mizz Daisy?”

“I did,” she replied. “I’m sorry to cut your vacation short but we have big trouble. We just finished briefing Phoenix Force and they’re getting ready to depart for Belarus. We need you guys to head to the location I’m sending to your phone via secured traffic.”

“Can I have a clue?”

“North of Des Moines, Iowa. A research facility belonging to the USDA.”

“Understood. We’ll head for the car now.” He looked at Blancanales and Schwarz and grinned as he added, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum were only sleeping.”

“Probably trying to catch up.”

“We’ll get all the sleep we need when we’re dead.”

“Not funny, Carl.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Get moving and call me back when you’re on the road. I can talk to all of you via the car phone.”

“Roger that. Out.”

Blancanales watched expectantly as Lyons disconnected while Schwarz had simply rolled over and started to drift. “Where we headed?”

“Some USDA facility in Iowa,” Lyons replied.

* * *

“AMERICAN MERCS OPERATING on American soil?” Lyons said into the roof-mounted speaker once they’d returned to their car. “That’s bizarre.”

“I think you’ve understated it,” Blancanales said from behind the wheel.

From the backseat Schwarz asked, “So I assume you think they were after something in the data vaults, Barb?”

“That’s our thought,” Price said. She explained their theory as it related to the disappearance of Dratshev.

“The timing does seem noteworthy,” Blancanales agreed.

“So what’s our approach?” Lyons asked. “I assume the FBI and NSA are already knee-deep in this. Are we going to run into territorial dick flexing?”

“Probably,” Price replied. “But you’d hardly be able to avoid it, no matter what. We did manage to put in a good word with the FBI’s SAIC, who’s been appointed as the lead in the investigation.”

“And who is this FBI Special Agent In Charge?”

“You’ll want to make contact with a guy named Robert Higgs. He’s a veteran investigator and one of the FBI’s most decorated agents.”

“What’s our cover?”

“Use your BATFE credentials,” Price replied. “If you come in expressing only interest in the weapons that were used, that should buy you at least some partial good will. Learn what you can and then funnel the information back to us.”

“Understood,” Lyons said. “We’ll get the info out of them.”

“Just find out everything you can and report back to us as soon as possible. It’s important we determine how this fits in to Phoenix Force’s mission before they reach Minsk,” Price explained.

“We’ll do our best,” Blancanales said.

“As always,” Schwarz added.

After they disconnected, Lyons tendered a grunt.

“What is it?” Blancanales asked.

“Just something really odd about it all.”

“You think the Farm’s right about a connection between Dratshev’s disappearance and this assault on the NSA data vault?” Schwarz asked.

“I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand,” Lyons replied. “They’re usually right about those kinds of things. I wish we could take a more direct approach, though. Seems more and more that we’re being forced to fight bureaucratic red tape in our missions.”

Blancanales chuckled as he met Schwarz’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like Ironman’s got a bit of nostalgia for the good old days.”

“Can you blame him?” Schwarz replied. “He makes a good point, actually. Used to be we could go in, kick ass and take names. Now we have to walk on eggshells just to keep our cover.”

“Exactly,” Lyons agreed.

“Look at it this way, Ironman,” Blancanales said. “Those are opportunities to build your skills in normal social interaction.”

“I have skills,” Lyons rumbled. “Aim and squeeze the trigger. Playing nice-nice wasn’t anywhere in my job description.”

“Well, guess we have to adopt the maxim that the only easy day was yesterday.”

“Yeah,” the Able Team leader replied. “But that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”