Читать книгу Doom Prophecy - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Calvin James and Rafael Encizo stood on the prow of the small launch as it chugged through the junks moored in Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbour. The sprawl of floating boats was as much a city as the landlocked skyscrapers and shantytowns that gleamed like a blaze of diamonds on the shore. James and Encizo had both ridden in the passenger seats of F-14 fighters, ferried from Langley airfield to Japan, where they met up with the Tokyo headquarters of the U.S. Homeland Security task force.

There, State Department, CIA and other agency personnel gathered under one roof to coordinate their overseas Southeast Asia efforts. While the “Axis of Evil” focus was on the Middle East, there were still threats from China, North Korea and the Asian heroin trade that kept the Pacific branch of Homeland Security busy on a daily basis. As well, in the Philippines and Indonesia, offshoots of Muslim extremist groups engaged in bombing and murder campaigns against the allies of the United States.

It was just more evidence that terrorism wasn’t simply a matter of a simple skin color or religious creed. Madness and carnage festered like a cancer in the hearts of enough people that there would always be a need for men like Phoenix Force, Able Team and their counterparts in thousands of law-enforcement agencies around the world. That gave James a small pause as they continued navigating the maze of anchored junks in the harbor. What started for the slim black man in a Navy recruitment center years ago as a chance to join the military to escape the thugs running rampant through the streets of Chicago, to get a medical degree and make something of himself, became a different kind of surgery. Instead of closing wounds, James found himself on a crusade, cutting away the tumorous infestations of violent, hate- and greed-driven murderers who unleashed their illness upon the world. Instead of healing the sick, James was engaging in preventative medicine, hunting killers and terrorists before they could slaughter or maim innocents.

However, the one weakness in the Stony Man crusade was that they had to know where the symptoms of terror and crime were evident. People had to suffer and die for the men of Phoenix Force to spring into action to protect further victims.

It was a form of triage, James thought, making sure his FN P-90 hung under his coat, out of view to prevent the harbor residents from panicking at the sight of men with guns. He didn’t like the fact that with that form of triage, he had to wait for people to be hurt, to die.

Every loss still hurt, but James was glad for that hurt. It meant he still cared. The day he stopped sympathizing with the victims of terrorism and crime was the day he knew his career was over. He knew deep down that it was a very real possibility, drummed into him by his deceased mentor and former commander, Yakov Katzenelenbogen. The reason Phoenix Force, and by extension their counterparts in Able Team, were so much better than any other special operations unit, was that they had been chosen because they believed in a cause. They had a passion to protect the innocent that drove them to fight impossible odds on a daily basis. Sure, they received government paychecks, but they were only employees in the sense that they were given the opportunity to engage in a crusade to protect America, and the whole world, from the barbarian hordes laying siege and preying off its suffering.

Now, the sky dark, stars rendered invisible by the fierce glow of Hong Kong’s city lights, James and Encizo were finishing their trek to hook up with a defector from AJAX who had approached the Homeland Security task force.

Her name was Terremota, an Argentinian woman who was known to be a demolitions expert. The nomme du guerre she worked under literally meant “Earthquake” in Spanish. Terremota promised to divulge the secrets of AJAX’s worldwide terror network, if only she could be granted asylum from her partner.

It had been a crash course, but James had learned about Wilson Sere. Sere was a self-proclaimed modern-day ninja, a master of disguise and deception, as well as of martial arts and modern weaponry. The record of kills attributed to him was impressive, and he was known to be responsible for the deaths of at least thirty American intelligence operatives and military personnel since the beginning of AJAX’s reign of terror. Terremota, herself, was no saint. Her bombs had wounded hundreds, and claimed over forty lives in concert with Sere.

She claimed, however, that she had a lover’s spat with Sere, a falling out that had compromised her usefulness to the modern-day American ninja. People who were no longer useful to Sere ended up in the discard pile, usually in unmarked graves.

Hal Brognola wanted James and Encizo to be part of Terremota’s protective crew, simply because one of them was familiar with the Japanese language and both were needed to baby-sit the volatile Argentinian in Tokyo. The pair had been trained in martial arts, and both battled with ninja-trained opponents on several occasions.

The Phoenix Force duo were naturals at handling boats and were expert swimmers.

Brognola figured that the CIA retrieval team could use them as backup.

“This is going to turn out badly,” Encizo said softly to James, the sound of the outboard motor keeping his words from carrying to the other men in the motor launch. Across his knees, under a blanket, rested a Heckler & Koch MP-5, his favorite submachine gun. While it didn’t have the 50-round firepower of James’s FN P-90, it was still a reliable, accurate weapon. Both men were armed to the teeth. Aside from their long guns, both were packing at least two handguns and their favorite fighting knives.

Part of the reason Phoenix Force pushed for the change to the Glock 34 pistols was that their magazines and controls were identical to the minuscule Glock 26. While the Glock 34 was a light gun, and slightly smaller and much flatter than the Beretta M-9 or the Colt Government model, it was still a formidable weapon, with plenty of barrel length to squeeze every ounce of power and accuracy out of their 9 mm ammunition. By contrast, the Glock 26 was tiny enough to slip in a trouser pocket or an ankle holster. James and Encizo both had their backup 26s tucked in their BDU cargo pockets, within easy reach, but still small and out of the way. If necessary, the compact, polymer-framed handguns could use the larger Glocks’ magazines.

Encizo backed his pair of Glocks with a 7.65 mm Walther PPK. While he was a fan of Heckler & Koch weapons, the excellent 9 mm USP wasn’t as ubiquitous as the Glock, and finding spare magazines around the world would be more difficult. As well, the brand-new P-2000 compact didn’t share the Glock 26’s record or reliability, nor the capability to use the larger USP’s magazines. Preferring to have a familiar tool on hand, he went with his Walther, despite a sideways glance from Stony Man Armorer John “Cowboy” Kissinger.

“You might as well just throw it at them,” Kissinger, a fan of the .45 ACP round, stated.

“I’ve had my luck with the 7.65 mm,” Encizo answered with a grin.

In addition to his Cold Steel Tanto knife, he also had three unusual pieces of cutlery in a forearm sheath under his sleeve. A trio of four-pointed throwing stars, the infamous shuriken, rested in the sheath. Encizo’s deceased teammate, Keio Ohara, had instructed him in the deadly mastery of these tiny pieces of metal. He’d been able to save his life on several occasions by having the skill to punch one of the razor-sharp tines through an eye socket or an exposed throat.

James had his favorite G-96 Jet-Aer Boot and Belt knife. It was an old friend, from his ex-SEAL days in the Navy, a trusted implement that had logged countless hours with the black Phoenix Force medic every day, carried concealed, or in a sheath in full combat black. The black-handled, double-edged blade was considered a collector’s item, but James simply felt entirely comfortable with it.

It was a lot of gear to be carrying, especially since the other members of the CIA strike team were carrying only folding-stocked mini-Uzis in shoulder holsters. But both James and Encizo preferred to err on the side of being too prepared for mayhem, rather than end up as statistics.

James glanced at their destination, a single junk parked, without lights. It was a fifty-footer and its railing was low to the water. It would be easy for anyone to scramble on board, even claw themselves up from the water. He looked to his stocky friend Encizo, his instincts on edge.

“It looks like a trap,” the swarthy Cuban commando agreed. “Plus, it’s low enough that someone could jump from a neighboring deck.”

“These boys aren’t going to turn back without Terremota,” James replied. “And I think our girl is expecting just that.”

“A sucker play,” Encizo muttered. “If a fight breaks out here, we’re going to have a hell of a time retreating.”

James glanced at the trailing launch, loaded with more CIA strike force members, then sighed. “The file on Terremota stated that she may have trained al Qaeda operatives for the bombing of the USS Cole.”

“So she knows how to mix water and demolitions,” Encizo answered.

“Johnstone,” James said.

“What is it, Mr. Farrow?” Mills Johnstone, a brawny, pug-nosed man asked. He was the commander of the strike force, and ever since James’s and Encizo’s arrival as Calvin Farrow and Rafael Rey, he’d harbored an edge of impatience in his voice.

“Keep your men on this boat. We’ll go aboard,” Encizo said.

Johnstone’s craggy face bent into a frown. “You boys are too paranoid.”

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” James asked. He glanced toward the rail they were approaching. “Listen, if it’s safe, no problem. If not… Well, you won’t lose any of your men.”

Johnstone snorted. “Fine.”

James slid his hand under his coat, wrapping it around the curved plastic grip of the FN P-90 where it hung by its sling. He placed one foot on the prow of the launch and prepared to hop the rail when he spotted something bobbing in the water.

His body tensed and he looked to Encizo. “Rafe!”

That’s when an explosion ripped through the night. Splinters of the shattered boat sailed on a wave of billowing orange flame.

GARY MANNING THREW HIMSELF out of the jeep when he realized that David McCarter had just developed a case of road rash. T.J. Hawkins was hot on the Canadian’s heels, somersaulting to the ground as a wave of AK-47 steel-cored bullets hammered at the vehicle they exited. Stewart flopped to the ground, wincing in pain from his clumsy dive for cover.

The driver, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was pinned to the driver’s seat for the rest of his short life as 7.62 mm COMBLOC rounds punched through his chest, soaking his woodland camouflage with slick, red blood. Manning’s jaw tightened as he watched the lifeless chauffeur flop over the steering wheel moments before the vehicle’s destroyed tire snagged on the tarmac. The jeep preformed a flip, and if the poor bastard was still alive after being cored by a wave of flying bullets, Manning knew it was too late as several tons of steel sandwiched his corpse between itself and the ground. The Canadian came out of his roll and brought the MSG-90’s scope to his eye.

There would be time to mourn later. Right now, he had to help repel the sudden invasion on the base.

The transport jet they’d come in on gouted flames where an RPG shell had ruptured its hull. Luckily, the grounded bird didn’t need its hydraulics to fly, and its wings were where the volatile fuel was stored. A subsequent hit, however, could change all that.

Manning homed in on an RPG crew and the Bushnell scope atop his rifle brought the faces of the two rocketmen into sharp relief. One was a native Kenyan by the look of him, while the other was an Arab. Somehow, the two nationalities seemed to have come to an agreement of mutual hatred against the U.S. It didn’t matter how they got that way. In a moment, they would both be united in death.

The Phoenix Force sniper triggered his MSG-90 and planted a 175-grain precision match bullet through the forehead of the Kenyan, spraying his brains out the back of his skull in an eruption of crimson and stringy tissue. The Arab, waiting for his companion to load the next shell into his rocket-propelled-grenade launcher, gawked in momentary horror at the disintegration of a large part of his partner’s head. He scrambled for the next shell, but Manning leveled the crosshairs on the base of the terrorist’s neck and milked the trigger again.

He watched to make sure the Arab’s corpse landed on the ground, a massive chunk of spine torn out by the 7.62 mm NATO round, even at a range of 400 yards. Satisfied he hadn’t left a killer still able to fight, he shifted his aim and realized that the remaining guard towers were coordinating their fire. The brawny Canadian turned toward the ditch and saw that the enemy had closed to nearly two hundred yards.

Hawkins hammered out long bursts from his M-4 carbine, 6.8 mm slugs crashing into the attackers even as Air Force and Army personnel flooded out of their barracks. The surprise attack had been slowed enough by Phoenix Force’s instantaneous reaction that the U.S. military garrison could mount a counterattack. Half-dressed soldiers armed with M-16s raced into view.

McCarter, however, was caught out in the open without the protective bulk of the overturned jeep to shield him from incoming fire. Armed only with his custom Browning, he did the only thing he could think of—charge the enemy. There was a method to the Englishman’s madness. While the marauders were still adjusting their aim after engaging in a long-distance shooting match with the other members of Phoenix Force, they were unprepared for the lean, sleek Briton’s mad dash. As they struggled to shoot at the serpentining Phoenix Force leader, McCarter mentally counted down the distance between himself and his foes. All he needed to do was to get within one hundred yards. Precision rifle fire from Manning was buying McCarter some breathing space, while Hawkins and the other U.S. servicemen were doing their best to bat cleanup. AK-47 fire still gouged the ground at McCarter’s feet, and he kept pressing.

When he guessed he was within one hundred meters, he threw himself forward, landing flat on his stomach. Hot 7.62 mm slugs sizzled over his head, barely missing him. Now prone, McCarter swung his front sight to the nearest target and squeezed the trigger on his Browning twice. One hundred meters was a long shot for a pistol, but McCarter was an Olympic-level handgun marksman, and he practiced with his Hi-Power regularly at extreme ranges for emergencies such as these.

His first target was already tumbling into the afterlife when he swung the muzzle to a second terrorist and sent him a few more 9 mm pills to cure him of his antisocial tendencies. Sprays of slugs chewed up the ground in front of the Briton, and he rolled over three times, feeling the thump of bullets strike so close to him. When he came to a stop, he noticed that the squad of attackers was thinned out by the efforts of his partners, but there were still enemies kicking.

Worse than kicking, they were shooting. McCarter ripped out six shots in rapid fire, 9 mm brass ejecting from the breech and raining on his back as downrange, his sweep of Parabellum slugs scattered the remaining attackers in that group. A rifle round rebounded off the tarmac and sliced across his shoulder. It burned only skin deep, but it was enough to make the Phoenix Force commander roll once more, triggering his Browning as he flipped over. Even tumbling, he managed to tag the rifleman whose weapon’s muzzle-flash flickered at him.

The gunman jerked and sprawled lifelessly as McCarter’s 9 mm rounds punched into him. The sound of gunfire rose to a crushing crescendo around the SAS veteran, then died out.

As quickly as the attack had begun, it was repulsed.

McCarter pushed himself shakily to his feet, his flesh wound trickling blood down his triceps. He was out of breath, and his chest hurt where he slammed hard into the ground. His aches were catching up quickly to him as his adrenaline rush died away. He dumped the partially empty clip from his Browning, and was surprised to see there were still rounds in the magazine. He fed the gun a fresh 17-round stick, however. This could have been only a lull in the action.

He looked back to Manning and Hawkins. Both shot him a thumbs-up, indicating that they were unhurt. McCarter was glad for that, but he’d seen enough of the defending servicemen hurt and killed by this attack to realize it was hardly a perfect victory.

Another thing nagged the Phoenix Force commander—how in the hell did these bastards know that they were coming?

Apparently, even the cloak of secrecy around Stony Man Farm wasn’t protection enough against the powers of the deadly Ka55andra.

McCarter holstered his Browning as his partners got closer, Hawkins bringing his fallen M-4 carbine. This was just the opening shot in Phoenix Force’s fight with AJAX’s forces in Kenya.

CARMEN DELAHUNT FELT in a daze as she walked into the Moscone Center, San Francisco’s premier meeting and exhibition hall. She’d been to the twenty-acre facility before, for previous Law Enforcement Technology expos, helping to keep Stony Man Farm abreast of some of the latest developments in computers, programs and tech gear devoted to helping fight crime. Before, even though she’d grown jaded and cynical in her career, the awesome expanse of the convention managed to shake loose her sense of wonder and awe.

Now, all of that was numbed beneath guilt and mourning. Delahunt couldn’t help but think that if she hadn’t employed Hedspayce’s white-hat hackers in tracking down Ka55andra, her friend Amanda Cash would be alive today. A deeper emotion, rage, nagged at the edges of her haze of mourning.

She wanted revenge for her friend. Though she was part of Stony Man Farm’s elite cybernetics crew, Delahunt managed to keep her fiery temper cooled in relation to the atrocities that she encountered on a daily basis. She had a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that her computer wizardry enabled the two action teams of the Farm to go out and strike blows for justice against the predators of the world.

But Amanda was personal.

“This is Houston control to Carmen, come in.” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz’s voice cut through her daze. She turned and looked at the friendly, mustached face.

She pursed her lips, sending a command for a smile, but not quite making it. “Hi, Gadgets. You’re not with Carl?”

“Ironman wanted to do the cop thing, and he thought Pol and I would only get underfoot,” Schwarz answered.

Delahunt raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was telling the truth. It was likely, Carl Lyons had a tendency to engage in a bit of lone wolf activity, but she sensed that Schwarz and his partner, Rosario “Politician” Blancanales, were with her for another reason. Even as her suspicions were raised, she already noticed the nondescript, massive frame of a Secret Service command center truck in the parking lot.

“You think that Ka55andra might make a move here?” Delahunt asked.

“You caught me in a lie, Carm,” Schwarz said, shaking his head.

Blancanales made his way through the crowd toward the duo. He looked around before speaking. “This place has the potential to be a security nightmare.”

Schwarz shrugged. “It looks like the convention center staff is handling things well enough.”

“Sure, they can handle a rowdy crowd, and maybe a few creeps with switchblades. Maybe even someone with a .38 and an urge to blow away Bill Gates,” Blancanales noted. “But against someone…”

Able Team’s diplomatic Puerto Rican glanced at to Delahunt.

“You’re talking about the freak show that killed my best friend and her company staff,” she answered.

Blancanales nodded. “They’ll blow through this place like a tornado through a trailer park.”

“We just have to figure out when and where,” Schwarz replied.

“And who,” Blancanales added.

“Well, the President, and the deputy director of the Department of Homeland Security, Riddley Mott, are going to be appearing here Saturday,” Delahunt confirmed.

“Mott?” Schwarz asked. He threw a glance to Blancanales.

“Yeah,” Delahunt answered.

“He was in the Special Forces,” Blancanales said.

“We worked with him on a couple operations,” Schwarz added. “But even back then, he was a pompous, know-it-all ass.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard you guys grumbling about him when he was hired to the position of deputy director,” Delahunt answered.

“I’ll never forget the time he started into you for your parents being ‘wetbacks,’” Schwarz said to Blancanales.

“It was all Mack could do to keep me from pounding Mott to a pulp right then and there. I didn’t care if I got thrown in the brig. I was born in Puerto Rico, but my parents risked their lives to bring me to a country where I could grow up in a better place,” Blancanales replied. “My father and mother worked hard to become legitimate citizens after getting here, and I joined the Army as a way of repaying my new country. Me, a wetback?”

“It’s cool, Pol,” Schwarz began.

“Sorry, Gadgets,” Blancanales answered.

“He certainly cleaned up his act once he’d gotten into politics. He must have worked his ass off covering up all the stories about his old life,” Carmen stated. “Right now, he’s as bulletproof as you can get. A true-blue American patriot.”

“Yeah. Remember my nickname,” Blancanales said. “Politician. Not just because of my diplomacy, but because I could put on a second face and prance around completely in character. If I came up to you tomorrow, in a full beard and my head as clean as the bottom of a bowl, I could have you going for an hour before I let you recognize me.”

Blancanales glanced toward the auditorium stage through the double doors. “Mott’s an actor, too. Except, he’s acting to save his ass. If people knew what a total jerk he was…”

“He wouldn’t have a job at the top of one of the biggest federal agencies in America,” Schwarz concluded. “An agency which, if it wanted, could squish the Farm if we got into his face.”

Blancanales frowned. “We never shirked away from doing the right thing before because the enemy was too powerful. And Striker never backed down, either.”

Delahunt nodded. “Pol, if we find anything out that’s fishy about Mott, we’ll bring him down. But right now, we’re supposed to be protecting the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Yeah, well, I thought the goal of the guy who proposed it was to decrease the size of government, not create a bloated bureaucracy,” Blancanales muttered.

“We can’t do everything by ourselves,” Schwarz answered.

“Yeah, but you’d think that American law enforcement could coordinate without this petty jurisdictional bullshit,” Blancanales quipped.

“The day that happens, I’ll hang up my shotgun,” a new voice cut in. The Able pair looked to their commander, Carl Lyons.

“Hey, Ironman,” Schwarz greeted.

“What is this? Point/Counterpoint?” Lyons asked.

“Just reminiscing about an old buddy of Pol’s and mine, Riddley Mott.”

“Oh, yeah, he was in the Special Forces, too,” Lyons said. He paused and looked at Delahunt. For a moment, his gruff exterior softened. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Delahunt looked up and smiled weakly. “Yeah, Carl, thanks.”

Lyons nodded.

“Listen, I’m going to my room and hop on the laptop. I want to see what Bear and the others have going,” Delahunt told them.

“Wait,” Lyons said. He handed her a few scraps of notebook paper. “I took impressions of bullet casings used in the massacre, and I have a list of likely suspects.”

“You do? But the police weren’t able to identify them yet.”

“No, they don’t have pictures from any security cameras, but they had descriptions. That, and their style at the crime scene gave me a strong hunch,” Lyons said.

Delahunt read the names. “Linn Keller. Jacob Cannon. David Lee Haggar. These are some pretty heavy hitters on the FBI’s most-wanted list.”

“I know,” Lyons answered. “I keep up to date on that. Have Bear run some checks to see if I’m barking up the right tree.”

“Knowing you, you’re probably dead on,” Delahunt said. “I’ll fax these over.”

“Thanks.”

She headed back to the hotel while Blancanales and Schwarz only looked at him.

“What?” the blond ex-cop asked.

“We’re just wondering who you are and what you did with the real Carl Lyons,” Blancanales said first.

“I’m betting it’s pod aliens,” Schwarz chimed in.

“You always think it’s pod aliens,” Blancanales returned.

“All right, all right, enough grab-assing,” Lyons snapped.

“Ah, he’s back to normal,” Blancanales said.

“Temporary alien mind control.” Schwarz chuckled.

Lyons popped Schwarz lightly on his shoulder. “Cool it, Mr. Wizard.”

Schwarz rubbed his arm, still chuckling. Even a light tap from the Ironman was enough to raise a painful bruise. “Okay, Mr. Stone.”

“We’ve got a lead?” Blancanales asked, slipping back into professional mode.

“If I know David Lee Haggar, he loves to hang out at biker bars,” Lyons said. “And in San Francisco, he’s rumored to hang out at the Skulls and Chains.”

“Not waiting for Aaron to confirm that Haggar was involved?” Schwarz asked.

“I think the proper terminology in police work is ‘interviewing a person of interest,’” Blancanales offered.

“Saying hi to a perp is still saying hi to a perp,” Lyons said. “You guys wearing your vests?”

“Just like my credit cards. Don’t leave home without them,” Schwarz quipped.

“Then let’s roll.” The Able Team leader grunted. “The sooner we find these murderers, the sooner Carmen…”

He trailed off, aware that Blancanales and Schwarz were smiling.

“The sooner we find the killers, the better,” Lyons concluded.