Читать книгу Doom Prophecy - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

David McCarter had a strong stomach, but when the horde of bloodred monstrosities fell upon the captive Special Forces soldiers, the Briton had to look away and shake his head. In the SAS, he’d seen countless atrocities committed against captured soldiers and policemen, and as a member and leader of Phoenix Force, he’d been at ground zero to several more. Every time he saw them, revulsion steeled him to fight harder against the madmen who sought to turn the world into their charnel house.

At the other end of the War Room table, a massive fist smashed down hard. Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s commander, had given in to his anger.

“That’s what you’ll be going up against, David,” Hal Brognola affirmed, ignoring Lyons’s outburst.

“Africa,” McCarter said. He looked at his mission plan. “Well, I’d like to at least have Calvin with me on this.”

Brognola glanced over to Calvin James. He was a tall, lanky black man, one of the first replacement members of Phoenix Force and their first American teammate. “I wish I could keep Phoenix Force together, but we don’t have enough manpower to keep the teams intact and handle what we think are the three hot spots in the AJAX hunt.”

McCarter sighed. “We can’t call Mack in on this?”

Brognola shook his head. “He’s gone hunting. He’ll be back when he can, but I want AJAX stopped immediately.”

McCarter sighed. “All right. Phoenix has split up before to take on missions. But once you find the gobs who’ve been snuffing those State Department boys…”

“We’ll be right on the first flight to the Sudan,” James answered.

McCarter winked at his longtime teammate. “Don’t make me have to bail you out, Cal.”

Rafael Encizo spoke up. “We’ve got Japan nailed down.” The stocky Cuban’s swarthy face split with a wide smile. He glanced over to James, who looked troubled. “You okay, amigo?”

“I just wish I could be in three places at once,” James said. “I hate leaving David in Africa without a brother to back him up. And Able Team’s going to San Francisco where a lot of cops were killed by the creeps who wiped out HedSpayce.”

McCarter frowned. When he first met Calvin James, he was a member of the San Francisco SWAT team. The ex-Navy SEAL had left behind the streets of Chicago where too many of his family had been lost to heroin and its abusers. Still, even after leaving the military, James wanted to do something to see that no one else suffered like his sister and mother. Putting on a badge was James’s first step in that crusade, but soon the ex-SEAL was called to join another war, taking the place of the fallen Keio Ohara. James still kept ties with the San Francisco police department, and helped vet blacksuits for Buck Greene from that department. McCarter had lost enough friends and partners to know how much James wanted to be part of the team that got even for the slaughter of his fellow lawmen.

“Cal, look at that ugly brute that just dented the table,” McCarter said. Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz, Lyons’s partners on Able Team, chuckled at the Briton’s description of their friend.

James looked at Lyons out of the corner of his eye. He made a face. “Do I have to?”

“Kin-A you have to.” Lyons grunted, slipping into caveman mode.

James looked over, and McCarter continued. “I know you want to do mean, nasty things to those cop killers and freaks who murdered twenty unarmed office workers. I know you’re dying to unleash every horror under the sun upon them. But, Calvin, you’re only human.”

Lyons snorted ferociously.

“That ugly bugger, he’s a bloody nightmare come to life. Do you honestly think there is a worse punishment on Earth than sending him after them?” McCarter asked.

“Well, since you put it that way,” James answered. “I know I sure wouldn’t want to see him as the last thing before I went to hell.”

McCarter gave his friend a clap on the shoulder. James would have gone to Japan and done his duty anyways. Still, it was good to relieve some of his tension and doubts.

“You done with the Mac and Lyons show?” Brognola asked, feeling a little impatient.

McCarter looked at Lyons and raised his eyebrows. The blond ex-cop nodded. “Thanks, Carl.”

“Anytime,” Lyons responded.

“Now that we’re done with that,” Brognola said, “any questions?”

Gary Manning, a broad, barrel-chested Canadian, raised his hand. “The Predator that knocked down the Pave Hawk that Kensington and his team were on. Has anyone been able to check to find out how it was tampered with?”

Brognola took a deep breath, chewing his cigar. “Unfortunately, the central processor unit was destroyed on impact with the Pave Hawk.”

“So we’re up a creek without a paddle on that,” T. J. Hawkins drawled. McCarter rubbed his chin as he looked at photographs of the wreckage.

“Why?” Hermann Schwarz asked, and looked across the table to Manning, Phoenix Force’s demolitions expert.

“Not only did the Pave Hawk veer off course after losing radio contact with their base, but the Predator that was assigned to watch their target followed them. You’d think that the drone’s crew would have picked up on any interference,” Manning responded.

Schwarz ran his index finger through his mustache and thought about it for a moment. “Well, Ka55andra, the leader of AJAX, appears to be a hacker. She could have overridden the Predator’s command codes.”

“From where?” Manning asked.

“With the right satellite hookups, anywhere on the planet,” Schwarz answered. “But she’d have to be a wizard to override its control systems.”

“She does claim to be a prophet,” Blancanales answered.

“A prophet of doom, just like the original Cassandra,” Hawkins stated.

“The original Cassandra?” Brognola asked.

“It’s in Homer’s Iliad, and various other myths,” Encizo cut in. “Cassandra was given the power of prophecy by Apollo because he had fallen in love with her. Unfortunately, she didn’t love him, so he cursed her so that no one would ever believe her prophecies. Since then, Cassandra’s name has come to take on the meaning of a prophet of doom.”

Blancanales shrugged. “Didn’t you read the Classics in school, Hal?”

Brognola’s nose wrinkled. “All right. I’ll have the cybercrew look up more about her. There might be something more to her background that might suggest a motive for our cyberwitch.”

Lyons shrugged. “Well, the warrior Ajax, during the sacking of Troy, attacked and raped Cassandra in the temple of Athena. Later, the goddess Athena smashed his ship with a thunderbolt to sink him. When that didn’t work and Ajax clung to a rock, Poseidon split the stone with his trident and drowned him.”

Brognola glared at Lyons out of one eye.

“Oh, come on. It was a movie just a couple of years ago,” Lyons answered.

Brognola grumbled and shook his head.

“So we might have a rape victim as the mastermind coordinating the assault on Homeland Security?” Blancanales asked. He looked like he’d taken a bitter bite at the thought.

“Not just a rape victim,” Schwarz answered. “She had her home destroyed by Ajax. Burned to the ground, the survivors scattered to the winds, her family slaughtered.”

“And she’s blaming the Department of Homeland Security?” Manning cut in.

“Someone high up, at least,” James said. “A director, a deputy director…”

“All of whom are powerful politicians who have enough power to sweep any scandal under the rug,” McCarter mused.

Hawkins scratched his chin with his thumb, his eyes focusing on the table. He glanced over to Encizo for a helpful suggestion.

“Well, Ajax was a warrior. We could narrow it down,” Encizo suggested. “Ex-soldiers who had been present at the destruction of a city or town.”

“Fairly young, too,” Schwarz added. “At least the past thirty-five years.”

“That means any conflict from Vietnam all the way through the first Gulf War,” Hawkins finally said. “Not counting soldiers who were forced to sit by and watch ethnic cleansing in places like Mogadishu or Bosnia.”

Brognola kept scribbling down notes as his two action teams threw out suggestions. While the Stony Man cybernetics team was among the best technical minds in the world, the eight commandos in front of him were far more than just mere gunmen. They were eight of the sharpest minds in the U.S.’s counterterrorism community, each of them having investigative and intelligence experience around the world. When they set their brilliant minds to work on the same project, there were few problems that they couldn’t solve.

“It might not be thinned down much,” Brognola said. “But you guys have given me a head start. I’ll run these ideas past Bear and the crew.”

“Chances are they’ve already picked up on Ka55andra’s symbolism,” Schwarz noted.

Brognola glanced over to the Able Team electronics genius. “And I suppose they’d know the Iliad.”

Schwarz shook his head. “You didn’t study that in school?”

Brognola rolled his eyes. “I got a D in literature.”

Schwarz shrugged. “And Cassandra was featured in a couple of Shakespearian plays…”

“All right!” Brognola snapped. He looked at his teams, then chuckled. “I bullshitted my way through the exam on that.”

The Able Team and Phoenix Force commandos laughed as they got up from the War Room table, their files committed to memory.

Lyons tossed Brognola a short salute. “That’s why you sit here dealing with the bureaucrats and getting ulcers, while the rest of us engage in stress-relieving exercise.”

“Politician” Blancanales raised an eyebrow. “Stress relieving, Ironman?”

“Forget it, Pol,” Schwarz chided. “Ironman’s in a world all his own.”

“Must be one hell of a planet,” McCarter noted as he lead his Phoenix Force partners out of the War Room.

FIFTEEN HOURS LATER David McCarter watched out the window as the transport jet seemed to lazily amble into a landing. He was stiff from sitting so long on the transatlantic flight, but at least he’d managed to catch a catnap. He glanced over at Manning and Hawkins who were gathering their duffel bags and equipment cases together.

McCarter took a moment to check his Browning Hi-Power in its holster. He sighed as he looked at the plastic magazine poking out of its butt; however, it was a concession he’d agreed to make. The other members of Phoenix Force had decided to carry Glock 34 Tactical pistols, at least for now. They convinced McCarter that the new, long-slide version of the ubiquitous Glock handguns were reliable and accurate enough for their needs. They wanted to have McCarter share in the upgrade to a lightweight autopistol with a 17-round magazine.

The SAS veteran, however, would never give up his beloved Browning Hi-Power. The gun was nearly a part of him. So the other members of Phoenix Force had convinced him to try the next best thing. Stony Man’s master armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had taken a Browning Hi-Power and altered the magazine well to accept Glock magazines. The unit, like all of Kissinger’s creations, was extremely reliable. Also, the dust cover under the Browning’s long, sleek barrel had been modified—built up to accommodate a mounting rail for gun lights, exactly like the Glock 34s that the other members of the team were using. Minor changes, but the handle still felt the same and the gun was just as accurate. The addition of an Insight Technologies XM-6 tactical light and laser illuminator unit was something that McCarter wanted to add to an assault pistol anyway.

The Phoenix Force leader shrugged. He’d have to get used to the updates of his beloved old Browning. He still had the familiar feel and controls of the classic autoloader, but also benefitted from twenty-first-century handgun designs. In a business where “change or die” was a mandate, McCarter felt he could make a few compromises. Plus, having a reliable, 17-shot magazine for his handgun, as opposed to the old 13-round clips that had to be down by one to insure that they worked, was something that he could get used to.

The transport rolled to a halt on the tarmac and McCarter was the first one to the door, carrying his bags. The door slowly opened. Hydraulics released the airtight seal and he looked out along the airstrip, seeing the green-black strip of jungle just beyond the fence. The sun had just risen, but it was already getting hot. They stepped out of the air-conditioned cabin and onto the rollaway steps; he was struck by humid, muggy heat that clung to his skin.

“Best put on your hats, lads,” McCarter called back, adjusting his black, baseball-style cap. “It’s a scorcher!”

Though he’d felt hotter sun in the deserts of Oman, Saudi Arabia and Iraq, the jungle humidity was stifling. He couldn’t sweat fast enough to cool down, as the air was already saturated with moisture. But it was nothing new for the Phoenix Force commander and he bounded down to the tarmac to greet Colonel Jeff Stewart, who rose from his military-style jeep.

“Get in the jeep,” Stewart said without ceremony. Not a large man, he was lean and wiry, with dark eyes and a long nose.

McCarter didn’t take the comment as rudeness or impatience. He scanned the tree line again, then glanced back at Manning. The Canadian’s sharp eyes naturally sought out places where a stealthy rifleman could hide. As Phoenix Force’s usual sniper, Manning could anticipate where the enemy would most feel comfortable setting up a lethal, long-distance shot.

Manning continued to keep watch as Hawkins grabbed the Canadian’s gear and threw it in the back of the jeep. Once they were loaded up, the barrel-chested sniper came down the steps and slipped into the vehicle. The driver floored it and pulled away as the transport plane crawled along the tarmac toward its hangar.

“We’ve got company,” the burly, soft-spoken Canadian said.

“The plane’s moving and so are we,” Stewart stated.

“It’s not enough,” Manning answered. “Incoming!”

The asphalt behind them erupted in a fountain of flame, dust and stone chunks. McCarter whipped around and saw the telltale crater of an RPG rocket, a cottony cloud trailed from the impact zone, stretching back four hundred yards to the tree line.

Manning and Hawkins opened their rifle cases as McCarter pulled his updated Browning.

“Everyone else has to deal with lost luggage when they fly internationally,” the Briton snarled as automatic rifle fire crackled from the perimeter. “We get shot at in the bloody airport!”

“They’re out of range for your pistol, David,” Hawkins called out. He shouldered his M-486 rifle. Converted by John “Cowboy” Kissinger to the new Special Forces standard caliber 6.8 mm SPC round, the bigger, heavier bullet made the short-barreled rifle a precision killing machine, even at six hundred yards. With the Aimpoint scope mounted on the rifle, the Southern-born Phoenix Force shooter could easily pepper a target with a salvo of lead.

Hawkins swung his M-486 toward one set of targets. Two men were busily reloading an RPG rocket. Hawkins was about to trigger the rifle when one of the grenadiers suddenly jerked at the same time a crack sounded near the Southerner’s shoulder. He turned to see Manning adjust his aim and tag the second RPG man with a single shot from his Heckler & Koch MSG-90.

“Three more, eleven o’clock,” Manning whispered to Hawkins. He gave the American a wink and swung to engage more targets with his marksman’s rifle.

Hawkins picked up on the targets that his Canadian partner pointed out to him and ripped into them with a trio of short bursts. The 6.8 mm round performed as it was designed to. At 450 yards, the rifle slugs smashed into the marauders and nailed their corpses to the ground. Meanwhile, Manning calmly picked off single shots.

McCarter watched the proceedings as he pulled his own M-486 out of its carrying case. He fed it a fresh magazine and realized that most of the marauders were still five hundred yards out, and still closing with the airfield. Sentries reacted to the newcomers, but even so, the combined rifle work of Manning and Hawkins took away targets as they appeared.

The Phoenix Force leader shouldered his weapon and spotted that another group had penetrated the perimeter at ninety degrees to the main force. He judged, with the aid of his scope, that they were about 350 yards away. They had cut through a gully that was overseen by two guard towers. A quick glance confirmed for McCarter that the guards in the towers were dead, sniped from the ditch before they’d had a chance to react.

“They’re a diversionary force,” McCarter called as he swept a line of long-range slugs across the new attackers. Since they were now only a little over three hundred yards from the jeep, they were well within range for their AK-47s. “T.J.!”

“I’m on you, boss,” Hawkins snapped back.

Manning turned and gave them cover fire. Between the efforts of the Phoenix Force trio, the squad of marauders trying to rush the airstrip was caught in a triple salvo of Stony Man lead. Enemy rifle fire skipped and skidded across the tarmac, the attackers aiming too low, their weapons falling short of the jeep, at least until one bullet ricocheted into the wheelbase of the vehicle. Tire blown out, the driver struggled to keep the 4X4 from lurching, but McCarter, Manning and Hawkins were hurled from their positions.

McCarter slid out of the shotgun seat, centrifugal force tossing him around like a doll. He hit the tarmac and rolled instinctively, feeling the breeze of the jeep’s fender barely miss the small of his back. If he hadn’t gotten out of the way, his vertebrae would have been crushed and he’d be left, paralyzed on the airfield. His M-486 clattered out of his reach, bouncing several yards away.

Even the sturdy Manning had trouble staying seated, but he’d managed to hold on to his rifle.

McCarter looked up, sore from his impact on the concrete. He watched the marauding gunmen grow closer, rifles chattering. He started for his M-4 when a bullet bounced off the tarmac and whizzed too close to his thigh.

The enemy was getting their range, and the Phoenix Force leader was caught, unarmed.

CARL LYONS FLASHED his federal badge as he entered the former offices of HedSpayce, Inc., but even as he walked in from the street, the sight of white outlines where San Francisco police officers had fallen tore at his soul like a vulture at carrion. He was no stranger to murder scenes, and by far, he’d seen enough murdered policemen in his days as a cop and as the leader of Able Team. Seeing the first murdered cop was too much for Lyons. To him, cop killers were among the lowest of scum.

Inside the large warehouse loft office, evidence technicians and photographers were hard at work. Lyons frowned.

The description of the criminals, from the surviving officer who first responded to the scene, were unusual. One was a giant of a man, with a shock of red hair. Another was the exact opposite, a four-foot-tall dwarf carrying an odd little silver bottle-like weapon that sliced through squad car doors as if they were tissue paper. The third was a tall, scrawny, snakelike man who moved with boneless grace and speed, dodging and weaving out of the path of oncoming bullets while he cut loose with a pair of handguns.

The Able Team leader was a workaholic, constantly studying rap sheets and files on known terrorists, mercenaries and criminals. In his line of work, he had to know his enemy. The trio’s descriptions nagged at Lyons’s memory as he squatted, sticking a pen through the casing of a long, narrow bullet.

“We’re trying to figure out what kind of ammunition that is, sir,” a technician wearing white, paper coveralls said. “Do you have any idea?”

“It’s 5.7 mm X 27 mm,” Lyons answered as he examined at the casing.

“We thought it might be some kind of rifle round. What kind of gun uses that?” the tech asked.

“It’s a new, proprietary round from Fabrique Nationale. The reason you guys never came across it is because it’s issued to police departments and special military units for the FN P-90 submachine gun and the Five-seveN pistol,” Lyons explained. He squinted at a pair of ring-shaped imperfections on the casing. He looked at the floor and saw several empty links.

“Do you know if there’s any gun that has belt links for the 5.7?” the technician asked.

“No production weapon that I know of,” Lyons answered. He looked at a metallic half ring on the floor. “May I?”

The tech handed Lyons a pair of latex rubber gloves and the ex-cop put them on. He picked up a belt link. “Too small to get any prints.”

Lyons nodded toward a fingerprint kit the evidence cop carried. He dusted the link, but it was clear of whorls and swirls. “The dwarf was said to have a belt-fed gun that cut through even police car doors.”

“Right. The 5.7…?”

“It’s armor-piercing. Designed to cut through body armor. A Crown Victoria wouldn’t stand a chance,” Lyons replied.

“Scary shit in the hands of a bad guy.”

“Looks like the dwarf was smart enough to wear gloves when he was preparing his ammunition,” Lyons muttered. He stood and looked at the crime scene. The floor was peppered with markers where empty cartridges ejected and littered the floor.

“You color coded the markers,” Lyons noted.

“Right. Yellow for those weird cases,” the tech began. “Red for the 9 mm ammo. Blue for the 12-gauge shells.”

Lyons looked at the floor. “Do you have an example of the 9 mm and 12-gauge?”

“Sure, but—”

“I’ll just make an imprint on a piece of paper,” Lyons answered.

The tech nodded and got a couple pieces of notepaper and a pencil.

While he ran the pencil across the bases of each cartridge through the paper, he thought about the crime scene.

This had a mixed feel to it. As an investigator, Lyons developed a sense of how a murder took place, just by standing at the scene. Even before the days of evidence markers, he could feel the vibes from a crime. Here, the vibes were mixed. This was at once an act of passionless slaughter and a thrill kill committed by madmen.

The dwarf stayed still. He could see the shape of his fallen brass, and he stood still, spraying the office with precision bursts. Like a turret. No chasing after victims. No exposing himself to more danger than he had to. The little guy was a pro, and he was at the center of things.

All his brass of the one with the 9 mm pistol was centered around a bloodless tape outline.

“Who was killed here?” Lyons asked.

“Amanda Cash, owner of the company. She was strangled and her neck was broken,” the technician said.

“Do you have a photograph?”

The tech handed over a copy. “We’re using digital cameras, and printing up with a mobile printer.”

“Good quality. Very useful,” Lyons said. He looked at the woman’s face. He remembered that this was Carmen Delahunt’s friend, and he shoved a pang of regret deep into the recesses of his subconscious and let his analytical mind take over. There, the regret for his friend’s loss could smolder, building into a flame to add to his fury over the loss of fellow officers. There, his mind could harden, and he’d be in the right frame of mind to handle this trio of mystery killers. He could hone that anger, that rage, into a razor-sharp precision edge with which he could rip through the murderers. His friends and superiors often described Lyons as a berserker, but that wasn’t the case. While his rampages could be legendary, his fury was controlled. He’d never take an innocent life, he’d never harm anyone on his side. He’d talk and grumble a good show, but when it came down to the line, the powder keg of retaliation burning down in the middle of his powerful frame was as focused as a laser, despite its destructive force.

Berserkers didn’t care who they hurt. Lyons took his rampage of revenge and laid every ounce of seething anger and hatred on top of the guilty. And he washed it away completely in his torrent of action. He never let it stick with him, and after every battle, he cleansed his mind. No lingering bitterness stayed, nothing to harden his mind and soul against the suffering of those he put his life on the line for. Everything gouted out of him like a stream of napalm, immolating his foes.

He looked at Cash’s face, keeping his conscious mind clear, analytical. She was racked with fear and sorrow. Her bulging eyes and furrowed brow showed that she watched most, if not all, of her friends, partners and co-workers slaughtered by the three-man wrecking crew. The freak who strangled her wanted her to watch, wanted her to feel that loss. It wasn’t enough for her to suffer only an instant with a 9 mm bullet in her head. It wasn’t enough to live through the agony of being strangled to death. Lyons knew that the killer wanted her to watch shock after horror after atrocity. The murderer probably fired over her shoulder and allowed her see where every one of his bullets stuck home.

It had to have been the thin man, the one who was like a snake. He may have looked scrawny, but it took a hundred pounds of force to shatter bone. To do that with one arm, it took strength that could only be surpassed by the giant, who waded into the cubicles after tossing a human being like a missile. But the snake, he was a constrictor. He loved the feel of a squirming victim against his chest. If he hadn’t been a killer for hire, he’d have become a serial killer.

That left the giant. The man-mountain had waded in, and that told Lyons two things. One, he trusted the dwarf’s aim. Two, he was like Lyons in that he preferred his violence at point-blank range. That was where their similarities ended, however. The mammoth who stampeded through the cubicle farm was a beast who unleashed a murderous rage upon unarmed, helpless victims. He reveled in being splattered with blood from contact-range shotgun blasts, and enjoyed the feel of bodies crushed in his massive fists.

Amanda Cash was just one of five victims who didn’t die of gunshot wounds, but as opposed to the pretty redhead, the others died swiftly. Smashed to pieces by being hurled through office equipment or having their necks broken by savage twists or brutal punches. The titanic killer was a professional, and thorough, shooting his victims in the head to make sure they were down, but there was a lethal fury at work in this killer, a desire to crush and pulp those smaller and weaker than he was.

Lyons got an imprint off the linking ring, and the 5.7 mm casing before he left. The papers would be faxed to Stony Man Farm in an effort to trace the ammunition lots that the murderers used. It would provide some kind of clue, but looking at the trio’s work, the Able Team leader had figured out the identities of the murderers.

Linn “Gremlin” Keller, a miniature master designer of weapons, embittered by shady business practices. He sold his skills as not only a gunsmith and arms supplier, but also as a killer.

David Lee Haggar was called The Mammoth when he was in the underground fight circuit. He reveled in killing with his hands, but also enjoyed the splash of gore present when a shotgun exploded in a victim’s face. After being wanted for several deaths in the ring, he decided to make his living as an assassin, hooking up with the tiny Keller, who designed weapons for the titan’s massive paws.

And the thin man was Jacob “The Snake” Cannon. Exbiker, meth dealer, with a rap sheet that pointed toward him being a serial rapist and an unashamed cop killer. The wild-card madman had to have hooked up with the other two, feeling a kinship with them.

Lyons had figured out who they were, but he didn’t know where they were or where they would strike next.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he was going to lead Able Team against them, and bring them down hard.

He owed the San Francisco Police Department, and Carmen Delahunt, that much.