Читать книгу Doom Prophecy - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Rafael Encizo kicked up through the black, murky water and glanced around. As soon as the second motor launch disappeared in a flash of orange flame and splinters, he dived into the harbor. Blinking droplets from his eyes, he looked around. He wasn’t concerned about immersion affecting the MP-5 for its brief dunking, but he wanted to know where his partner Calvin James had disappeared to. Johnstone and the rest of his crew had evacuated the boat, as well, and they were popping up through the surface around him.

Something grabbed Encizo’s ankle and he felt himself being yanked under again. In the inky-black waters, he could barely see the outline of a shadowy diver who hung on to him. He let go of the machine pistol and let it float on its sling, and pulled his knees tightly up to his chest. The stocky, Cuban-born Phoenix Force commando somersaulted toward his attacker, head and shoulders ramming into the chest of the enemy swimmer.

The impact and the leverage of Encizo’s tumble combined to pop his ankle free from the underwater killer’s grasp, and the Cuban reached up, hooking his fingers around the hose leading to the diver’s face mask. With a savage kick, he twisted again and hammered his knees into the attacker’s chest, yanking back with all his prodigious strength. While he wasn’t a weight-lifting powerhouse like Carl Lyons or Gary Manning, he was easily the second strongest member of Phoenix Force. His might was enough to tear the mouthpiece from the wetsuited marauder’s lips.

A knife scythed through the water and deflected off his body armor, Kevlar and water resistance teaming up to save Encizo from being instantly gutted. The swarthy Cuban diving expert pulled his own Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath and in a single fluid motion raked the chisel-shaped tip across the face of the killer. The enemy diver thrashed violently as the blade carved through one cheek between his teeth and out the other. An explosion of bubbles and black blood spiraled stormily to the surface.

Encizo’s lungs were starting to burn, so he knew he had to finish this quickly. A kick to the underwater attacker’s knife arm jarred the enemy blade loose. A hard tug on the hose connected to the swimmer’s tanks and the Phoenix Force diver pulled his foe closer and plunged his knife deep into the joint between the killer’s neck and shoulder. With a quick twist, he’d gotten his knife free, then wrapped his lips around the diver’s mouthpiece. He exhaled and sucked in a fresh lungful of air, the foul taste of the chemicals in a Draeger bubbleless rebreather filling his mouth.

No wonder the swimmers had snuck up on the boats. He looked around, trying to make sense of the situation, but saw only mayhem as bodies thrashed underwater. Taking another deep breath, he stomped his foot into the chest of the dead attacker and kicked toward the surface, hoping to find James.

As Encizo broke the surface, he noticed that Johnstone’s remaining forces had been halved yet again. The enemy swimmers had taken them by storm, and the one thing that the Phoenix Force pro knew was that he was a sitting duck if he stayed in the water.

“Get on board!” Encizo shouted. He drew his Glock 34 and clicked on the Insight Technologies XM-6 gun light with the rocker switch at the front of the trigger guard. He kicked below the surface again and hoped that the 9 mm rounds would have enough punch to take out an enemy, even through water resistance. James and Encizo had tried out the handguns under water, and they fired and cycled reliably while immersed. That, plus their polymer frame and rust-resistant finish, made them seawater-proof. John Kissinger had left one of their Glocks fully loaded at the bottom of a seawater tank for six months, and when he pulled it out, there was only a slight bit of rust. It worked perfectly, and the rust had buffed out.

But now, using it in underwater combat for the first time, Encizo wondered just how well it would do. He certainly couldn’t swim up to each attacking diver and knife them to death, not before they dragged more of the CIA strike force under to their doom.

He swung the cone of light toward one diver, who stopped, caught like a deer in the headlights. As far as Encizo was concerned, terrorist season was year round, and he triggered the Glock twice. The 9 mm slugs from the long barrel smacked the killer and tumbled him backward, blood reddening his white light’s glare.

So it worked. Encizo was relieved; this meant he could continue to protect the helpless strike force members swimming for the railing.

Another figure knifed into the water downrange and suddenly a separate cone of white light split the inky blackness. More thumps of a weapon discharging underwater reached Encizo’s ears, and he knew it was James entering the conflict.

Encizo was glad he wasn’t going it alone, because in the glow of his XM-6, he spotted three men kicking toward him, knives drawn. One had a speargun and swiveled it toward the stocky Cuban. Encizo kicked forward, making himself a smaller target and spearing his Glock ahead of him. A 9 mm bullet smashed the speargun-wielding diver through his face mask, jolting him to a halt. The launched spear sliced the water, glancing off Encizo’s boot.

However, the shooting-fish-in-a-barrel phase of the battle was about over. One knife-wielding swimmer wrapped his hand around Encizo’s gun wrist, pushing the muzzle away from him. Under the water, the agile Cuban let the momentum of his enemy’s tug swing him around as he kicked both of his heels into the face mask of the terrorist diver. The man’s head snapped back brutally, and Encizo twisted free, kicking as if to go to the surface for a fresh breath of air.

The other rebreather-equipped murderer turned to come after Encizo, but the Cuban jackknifed instead, pressing the muzzle of his long-barreled Glock into the man’s head. As soon as he felt the jolt of the skull against his gun, he pulled the trigger and the water erupted into a blossoming cloud of blood.

The dead diver tumbled backward, disappearing into the murky depths. The remaining member of the trio recovered his senses from Encizo’s head kick. He twisted and plunged after his partner’s corpse. Encizo swung his gun, but the flashlight only reflected so far, and the rebreather-equipped killer had disappeared for now. Encizo twisted and saw that James had extinguished his gun light.

Encizo shut his off, as well, and kicked to the surface, making for the junk.

“Shit,” Johnstone growled. “I’m sorry I gave you boys a hard time.”

The CIA man reached down for Encizo’s hand and helped haul him aboard. James was pulled on deck by other men, as well, and the Phoenix Force pair swiftly reloaded their pistols.

“It was a trap,” James grumbled.

Encizo looked out over the water, wiping his brow clear. “Yeah, but they still got a lot of good people.”

“It’s not over yet, Rafe,” James said.

“I know,” Encizo replied. “We’ll get them.”

“Not that…” James noted. “Look!”

“All this racket’s drawn the harbor patrol,” Johnstone snarled. “Crap.”

“Cal, take the helm,” Encizo called. He pulled out his knife again and rushed to the railing where the anchor rope was visible. “The rest of you, make sure there’s no more booby traps on this tub. If you’ve got a multiband communicator, check to see if there’s surveillance equipment aboard, too.”

Johnstone stood frozen for a moment, then waved for his men to follow the Phoenix Force vet’s orders. Encizo chopped down on the anchor mooring, the sharp edge of the Cold Steel blade easily cleaving though the thick hemp.

The engine struggled to turn over and James gave the outboard another pull. When that failed, he opened the casing on the engine, slowly and carefully. Encizo rushed over to his side.

“Anything?”

James lowered the casing back down. “I felt a wire hooked to the lid.”

“Booby trap?”

“I’m not taking a chance. Rafe, get the other launch,” James said.

“Got it,” Encizo responded, and he leaped over the side, spearing into the water like a dolphin.

With the leap he made, and a few powerful kicks, he was at the other launch in moments. James assembled the survivors of Johnstone’s team on the deck after heaving the possibly booby-trapped engine over the back. Just because it looked like a dud didn’t mean that it couldn’t still be dangerous. Even as Encizo pulled himself into the motor launch, the water shook and bubbled, an explosion ripping through the inky depths.

He glanced over at his friend and partner.

“Good call, Cal,” Encizo said as he reached for the outboard.

James gave his friend a thumbs-up. “Hurry up, the patrol’s getting close.”

The stocky Cuban fired up the electric motor and zoomed the craft, much quicker and more agile without the weight of a full load, over to the side of the junk. James plunged into the water, rather than come aboard the craft, while Johnstone and the others clambered over the railing.

“Where’d he go?” Johnstone asked.

“Checking to see if our raiders left a mine attached to our hull,” Encizo answered. He looked across the water, seeing the Hong Kong harbor patrol closing in. A spotlight splashed across the opposite side of the junk, throwing it into stark silhouette. Encizo and the strike force survivors ducked down so they wouldn’t be visible.

James popped up to the surface and started to crawl in.

“Nothing?” Encizo asked.

“No,” James answered as the powerful Cuban hauled him over the edge and into the boat. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Encizo answered.

Cutting between the larger junks and parked ships, the Phoenix Force pair wove through the thickest accumulation of craft. Even if the patrol boat had noticed them, unlikely in the harsh shadows of the junks and over the sound of their diesel engines, they would not have been able to follow them.

Encizo turned to James as he pulled into the dock where they had launched from. They’d managed to save some lives, but too many good people died that night, and they were no closer to getting a clue than before.

But the gauntlet had been thrown down, and Phoenix Force was always up to the challenge.

AARON KURTZMAN, his beard scruffy, his build round, yet powerful, certainly lived up to the descriptive nickname “The Bear” in looks. Still, there were times when he thought that he might be living like a bear, practically living in the cave known as Stony Man’s Computer Room. Here, in the nerve center of the Farm, he was able to access an array of supercomputers and processing servers that combined to create one of the most powerful search engine bases on the planet.

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, strolled over to check the big board. So far, there hadn’t been much news from the boys in the field, but Kurtzman knew that didn’t mean anything yet. Pretty soon, unless they found themselves cut off from all outside contact, information would start to pour in.

All the while, the Bear was busy in his cave, listening to Internet whispers, news articles, rumors, field reports, arrest records, all of which might allow the cyberteam to give their friends in the field some hook, some angle that might give them the edge. They were down in force, Carmen Delahunt having gone in person to San Francisco on a promised trip to meet up with an old friend and a valuable resource in her research.

What should have been a reunion, however, was a trip of mourning. Amanda Cash and her staff at HedSpayce were murdered, possibly due to their investigation of Ka55andra and AJAX.

No, not possibly. There were times when coincidence factored heavily into Kurtzman’s life, but when someone involved in an investigation ended up murdered in a spectacular massacre, then that meant something was up. Huntington Wethers, the tall, pipe-chewing African-American member of the cybercrew, was going over HedSpayce’s data with a fine-toothed comb. If anyone could methodically plod his way through mountains of information, it was the coolly analytical and highly organized Wethers. He could spend hours looking at lines of code in the hope of finding a single misplaced character, a single stretch of data that could be the fingerprint of a virus or a worm, and not grow tired.

Conversely, Akira Tokaido, the long-haired, young Japanese-American cyberpunk, was listening to wild music on his iPod and plowing through the transmission information regarding the final hours of Knight Seven and the mysteriously overridden Predator UAV drone. Tokaido, as opposed to Wethers, was more an instinctive, imagination-driven programmer and hacker. Bear assigned him to the matter of what happened to the slaughtered Knight Seven Special Forces team and how they had been lured off course into their trap.

It wouldn’t go easy. Carmen Delahunt was brilliant at being the in-betweener for the pair, able to bridge the deliberate, painstaking methods of Wethers and the off-the-cuff, wild energy of Tokaido. Kurtzman had managed without her efforts before, though, and he could handle it now.

“We’ve got an incoming call,” Price stated, pointing to the main board. “San Francisco.”

“Able has a lead already? “ Tokaido asked. He looked up from his monitor and slid his headphones off his ears, the tinny rattle of heavy-metal music issuing from the foam-covered speakers.

“It’s Carmen,” Wethers corrected as he went to the fax. “And you were right. Lyons got some case-head impressions from the HedSpayce massacre.”

“I’ll get on it. You keep looking through their investigation data about Ka55andra,” Kurtzman volunteered. Wethers came to him, handing the man the pages of the fax.

“All right. I’m starting to pick up a pattern, but I’m only a fifth through the data that they gave us,” Wethers said.

Delahunt’s face appeared on the screen, her Web cam transmitting her tired features across the expanse of the country.

“Damn, Carm, you look like…” Tokaido began before catching a glare from Kurtzman.

“Don’t worry about it, Bear,” Delahunt answered. “I know I’ve had a rough time. Carl gave me a list of names you might find interesting.”

Wethers spoke up, his deep timberous voice filling the computer center. “You know, you could tell him that the Farm has its own investigative resources.”

“You’d like to tell the Ironman to drop what he’s doing?” Delahunt asked.

“My apologies,” Wethers offered.

“No offense taken,” Delahunt replied.

“Besides,” Kurtzman noted. “Able Team and Phoenix Force weren’t hired for their pretty looks. These are smart, dedicated people. This is a two-way street. Any information they uncover only gives us more to help them with.”

Price looked at the faxed list of names. “Keller. Haggar. Cannon. Pretty impressive group of killers if Carl’s right.”

“He probably is,” Kurtzman replied. “According to the descriptions of the trio the S.F.P.D. encountered, and what records we have on Carl’s list, they’ve just made our short list of suspects even shorter.”

He tilted his flat-screen LCD toward Price and she read two parallel windows of information. One was the report given by a surviving police officer from the hospital, and the other window had three subwindows with photographs and verbal descriptions of Keller, Haggar and Cannon. Kurtzman highlighted dozens of matching keywords between one window and the next.

“And yet, he plays dumb so well,” Price muttered. “There are times when he’s almost Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, but the deerstalker cap doesn’t match his commando fatigues,” Tokaido quipped.

“Carl and the others took off. He probably is heading to one of the trio’s San Francisco hangouts,” Delahunt replied.

Kurtzman did a quick scan and nodded. “If they’re going to find anyone, it’ll be Haggar. He was part of an outlaw motorcycle gang for a few years, and his records indicate that he used to frequent a bar in the Frisco area.”

Price groaned softly. “Able Team at a biker bar?”

Kurtzman raised an eyebrow. “They’ll be as discreet as they can be.”

Price frowned. “You know why I made the effort to keep those three on American soil. They’re a diplomatic relations disaster waiting to happen. Hell, even in the U.S., they leave big, messy footprints wherever they go into action.”

“They get results,” Kurtzman said.

Price sighed. “I know. I’ll just get ready to start calling in favors in Southern California. Just in case they accidentally set off the San Andreas fault.”

Kurtzman smiled. “Chances are, when Lyons and company are finished, the authorities will just wish that the big one had hit instead.”

“You’re not bolstering my confidence, Bear,” Price moaned, heading back to her operations office.

She was at the door when another signal lit up from Kenya.

Price stopped and looked back.

“Hang on, Carmen, I have incoming from David,” Kurtzman said.

“Let it through. He’s probably calling, complaining about another Hugh Grant movie on the flight,” Delahunt said.

“David, you’re on,” Kurtzman acknowledged, once Wethers signaled that the call was clean.

“Bloody hell,” David McCarter’s voice snapped over the satellite phone. “Careful!”

“Sorry, David,” Gary Manning responded.

“What happened?” Price asked.

“Gary’s stitching my bloody shoulder shut…literally bloody,” the Phoenix Force commander answered. “Barb, someone was waiting for us to get off that ruddy jet.”

“You were attacked when you landed?” Price asked.

“They tried to make it look like the whole base was the target, but they were looking for us. What information did Stewart have about us?” McCarter asked.

“Just that you were a joint task force counterterrorism team sent over to help investigate Algul, his blood cult, and their ties to the Shining Warrior Path and AJAX,” Price responded.

“Well, they were waiting to throw us a party. RPGs, a couple of waves of AK-toting psychos, and enough ammunition to cripple the transport jet and kill five U.S. military personnel,” McCarter explained. “I thought we were supposed to be protecting people, not springing traps and getting them killed.”

“Sorry,” Price answered. “She must have Task Force Camelot’s communications all sewn up.”

Kurtzman pointed to Tokaido, who put his current work on hold to burn up the keyboard about the possible snooping.

“It makes me wonder if they weren’t planning a ‘how do you do’ for Cal and Rafe in Hong Kong,” McCarter said.

“We’ll get back to you if anything came up,” Price promised. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry about my lads,” McCarter grunted. “Luckily, I’m the only one splashing the red vino around, though T.J. and Gary are covered with scrapes from diving to the concrete.”

“All right,” Price answered. “When Calvin and Rafael call in, we’ll let them know you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Barb,” McCarter answered. “Bear, this operation’s full of leaks. That Ka55andra witch must be nearly as good as you are.”

“If you’re trying to challenge me, it’s working,” Kurtzman replied. “I’ve got our people looking all over for her. All we can do is keep shaking trees and hoping something drops into our laps.”

“Any leads on the Cassandra mythology angle?” McCarter asked.

“No reported rape charges in the current administration, both in the White House and in the Department of Homeland Security, though we have had several officials who have been present at the destruction of small towns and villages from Hanoi to Baghdad,” Kurtzman answered.

“And all points in between,” McCarter grumbled. “Bleed-in’ wonderful.”

“It’s taking time, but we’ll come up with something,” Kurtzman promised.

“In the meantime, we’ll knock up this chap Algul and see what he has to say about things,” McCarter replied.

“Be careful, David,” Price requested.

“I always take care of business, Barb. Don’t drink the coffee.” McCarter signed off.

Price looked at the mug in her hands, one she’d prepared during McCarter’s report, and wrinkled her nose at the black ugly sludge. She shrugged and took a sip anyway, screwing up her face at the bitter foulness of it.

“He asked you not to drink the coffee,” Kurtzman noted.

Price looked at him and shrugged. “That’s okay. I know David. He’s not going to be careful, either.”

Kurtzman winked and returned to conferencing with Carmen Delahunt.

It was going to be a long week.

T.J. HAWKINS HANDED over McCarter’s M-486 carbine and gave his commander a mock salute. “All cleaned up and accounted for.”

The ex-SAS commando checked his rifle, just to be sure, and nodded to the former Ranger. “Thanks, mate.”

“You think Rafe and Cal stumbled into a trap?” Hawkins asked.

“I bloody well know it,” McCarter responded. “But, I know those two. If anyone can scurry out of the fryer, it’s them.”

Manning applied the last bandage to the Briton’s shoulder and gave him a light tap on the back. “It’s the best I could do. Calvin could have done a better job with his eyes closed.”

“If Calvin was fixing my hide, he’d better keep his bloomin’ orbs peeled for the job,” McCarter rumbled.

“Cranky that you didn’t get your bottle today?” Manning chided gently.

“Having my Coke is the least of it, Gary,” McCarter snapped back. “T.J., did Stewart give you any intelligence on the blokes that hit us?”

“As far as we can tell, they’re the reason why Kenya let in a contingent of multinationals,” Hawkins answered. “Shining Warrior Path. I took a look at the bodies we recovered, and none of them were done up in ceremonial mud or paint like Algul’s men.”

“Too bad we didn’t take any prisoners,” McCarter growled. “I’d get them to talk.”

“Remember what Yakov said about torture, David,” Manning gently reminded.

“What torture? I forgot my country music CDs anyway,” McCarter quipped.

“Hey now…” Hawkins spoke up, exaggerating his drawl. “So what is our plan?”

“I’ll go check with some SAS lads in the British barracks,” McCarter replied. “Gary, you see if any of the Canadian task force boys know anything. If they don’t know you, at least you have the credentials Barb printed up. T.J., you think you know some Rangers assigned to this task force?”

“If not, I can get in good with them after a few minutes. A lot of Special Forces troopers are good ol’ boys. A little jawin’, and I’ll flip ’em over to my way of thinking in no time.”

“Right, whatever you said,” McCarter answered with a wink. “Just see what the good ol’ boys know about the local situation. Deep-down information that they might not have passed on through channels.”

“And then we’re going to have to find a way off the base,” Hawkins added.

“Stewart put us on lockdown?” Manning asked.

Hawkins gave a curt nod. “Tighter than a frog’s ass. His orders were that nobody goes off base without his say-so.”

McCarter shrugged. “Since when have we obeyed orders?”

Manning cupped his chin in his hand, folding his other arm across his broad, barrel chest. His brow furrowed for a moment. “Are you counting simple orders like ‘get down’ and ‘hit ‘em’?”

McCarter grinned. “All right, meet back here at 2200. We go over the fence at Oh-dark-hundred.”

Hawkins and Manning took off, McCarter slipping into a fresh BDU shirt before they set out on their tasks. His shoulder felt stiff and ached, but the thought of revenge for the injury already deadened the pain.

HERMANN SCHWARZ OPENED his gear locker in the back of the rented Econoline van that Able Team had loaded with weapons of war. While the standard gun cases were stored within cardboard boxes, Schwarz kept his portable locker in plain sight. The electronics equipment wouldn’t cause as much consternation on a simple traffic stop as Lyons’s and Blancanales’s rifles, handguns and submachine guns. Schwarz had his own weaponry, as well, hidden in the packing boxes, but the most important stuff, at least for surveillance, was right now at hand.

“Give me a preview, Mr. Wizard,” Lyons said.

Schwarz pulled out a telescope and attached a thermal imaging unit to it. The imager was one of his own designs, and had the power and range, even in full daylight, to see through flimsy walls into buildings. It was good for counting small numbers of people, but heavily crowded bars and clubs could provide a problem. Even then, if the mass of humanity was enough to make individual identification problematic, that was still important advance intelligence. He peered through the viewing reticle and furrowed his brow.

“Ah, hell,” Schwarz said. “There’s a blob of them in there.”

“Anyone outsized?” Lyons asked.

“Outsized?” Schwarz shot his partner a confused glance.

“Any giants or dwarfs?” Lyons asked. “Or can’t you cut it that fine?”

“I could probably pick up one—Whoa—” Schwarz cut off. “Giant?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone just stepped into the back room,” Schwarz announced. “He was a head taller than anyone else in the bar.”

Lyons slid into a leather jacket, then checked his shoulder holster and belt rig. In his belt, he had a Kissinger-tuned Colt 1911A1 pistol, while under his armpit, he had his .357 Colt Python. In the biker bar, he’d need every ounce of firepower and stopping power he could get. The heavy .45 pistol and its Magnum revolver counterpart would prove some serious medicine for dropping a rampaging biker, if worse came to worst.

Lyons looked over to Blancanales. “Pol, you’re not going to be too popular with the biker crowd.”

“You want me as backup?” Blancanales asked. He realized that Lyons was right. Outlaw bikers, the one-percenters as they called themselves, were fiercely jingoistic. They didn’t even like foreign-made guns, let alone Japanese motorcycles. Hispanics and blacks would be looked at as intruders, and at the very best, would leave covered in bruises.

“Keep the driver’s seat warm,” Lyons said. “And get some heavy firepower to back up me and Gadgets.”

Blancanales nodded, pulling a Heckler & Koch UMP-45 out of his case. The high-tech, .45-caliber submachine gun provided more punch than the 9 mm subguns the Able Team had carried in the past. The lightweight machine pistol was an optimal compromise between an M-16 and an Uzi, it could fire twenty-five fat, subsonic rounds, either with authoritative thunder or muffled silence with the right suppressor. With built-in rails for scopes and gun lights, as well as a polymer frame and stock, it was a featherweight, while still possessing awesome firepower. “I’ve got your back, Ironman.”

Schwarz took a deep breath and put his surveillance equipment away, double-checking his gear. “Glock 23 and Kissinger Colt. Two magazines for each.”

“Pocket a couple more,” Lyons suggested. “These guys might not give us much time to get some fresh ammo.”

Schwarz nodded and pocketed a few fresh clips. “We’re not really here to just talk.”

“It’s their choice,” Lyons answered solemnly.

Schwarz did another check to make sure he could reach his guns easily. “I was afraid of that. Get ready to bail us out, Pol.”

Blancanales was already affixing an M-203 grenade launcher to the rail under the UMP-45’s barrel. “Ready, willing and able.”

“Real funny, Pol,” Schwarz commented, getting out of the van.

Schwarz hopped down to the dirt, then looked over at Lyons whose face was a mask of intense concentration. He knew his buddy was in the zone, now. Focused, ready for anything, and he knew from experience that not even a platoon of Spetsnaz special forces soldiers could slow him when he was like that.

The Skulls and Chains bar loomed in front of them, and when they were still a few feet from the small porch, still behind the wall of Harley-Davidson bikes, the front door slammed open. Two grim, burly bikers with shotguns burst into view, their faces twisted into rictuses of anger.

Schwarz reached for his Colt and his Glock, and dived to one side. He knew, though, that things were going bad when the blast of the shotgun slammed into Carl Lyons’s chest, billowing out the lapels of his leather jacket.