Читать книгу Extreme Arsenal - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Virginia

T.J. Hawkins sighed and slipped his Glock 26 into its hip holster. A second, identical tiny Glock was holstered at his ankle, and two 12-round magazines were clipped to his belt. He looked over to Calvin James as the man checked the loads on his .45-caliber Colt Commander and his backup short-barreled Colt Python.

“Jet Aer G-96 in an ankle sheath,” James told Hawkins.

“We’re going to CIA Headquarters. They’re just going to try to take our weapons away anyhow,” Hawkins replied. “Why do we have to run this drill every time we go out armed?”

Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo both shook their heads as they made sure of their weapon loads.

James, a tall, black man, held up his hand to the others. “T.J. hasn’t done as much legwork as we have, guys. Just because we’ve had some pretty soft travels for the past few years with him on military flights and not a lot of street-level investigation…”

Manning, a brawny Canadian, nodded. “I know. You were dropped in without being told how cold the water was with us. Since the majority of our activities lately have been paramilitary operations, T.J. hasn’t been given much exposure to the classic Stony Man Tourist Luck.”

“Stony Man Tourist Luck?” Hawkins asked.

Encizo, a handsome Cuban, grinned widely. “Whatever can come out of the woodwork will come out of the woodwork.”

“Terrorists at the airport,” James began.

“Thuggee assassins with strangling scarves,” Manning added.

“Don’t forget wolves,” Encizo admonished Manning. “Of all the times to have been without my PPK…”

“And ninjas,” James stated.

“Like cucarachas.” Encizo spit.

“This is CIA Headquarters, guys. Not downtown Beirut,” Hawkins explained. “Sometimes I think McCarter’s feeding you paranoid pills.”

“We tried,” James said with a sigh.

Manning slipped a magazine full of .357 Magnum slugs into the grip of his Desert Eagle and stuffed it in his shoulder holster. “No knives. But I have an Impact Kerambit wrench in my right front pocket.”

The others nodded.

“Come on,” Manning ordered. “T.J., you drive.”

Hawkins saluted the Canadian with an index finger touch to his brow. “Yes, sir.”

AGENT SAM GUTHRIE looked at his desk clock and saw that his noon appointment with the four Justice Department agents was only minutes away. He closed the top button of his shirt, readjusted his tie and made sure his shirt was tucked into his suit pants. Being a tall, slim man, it was hard to find clothes that fit him so that he matched the image of a neat, suave spy. At least the short bristle of his graying blond hair was hard to mess. He turned off his computer and stepped out of his office.

“Want anything from the commissary on my way back, Xian?” Guthrie asked his secretary.

Xian, a pretty Vietnamese-American woman, gave him a warm smile. “No thanks. My roommate Dawn packed some quesadillas for me and I picked up some pop on the way in.”

“All right. I’ll catch you later,” Guthrie said, and left for the meeting, which was being held outside in a courtyard. The small park was ringed with white-noise generators concealed under bushes to prevent eavesdropping. It was also in sight of several low-profile guard emplacements, with Marine sharpshooters on duty. It may have seemed paranoid, but Guthrie knew from recent history that even Langley wasn’t immune to attack.

The four “Justice Department” agents looked like a motley crew to Guthrie—a tall, slender black man, a barrel-chested Caucasian, a stocky, swarthy Hispanic, and a lean, but average-looking Caucasian.

“I’m Roy. That’s Rey, Farrow and Presley,” Manning stated. “Hal Brognola arranged this interview.”

“Right. Something about an old acquaintance of mine,” Guthrie replied. “It wouldn’t be Roberto DaCosta, would it?”

Manning nodded. “What have you heard?”

“That he was murdered last night,” Guthrie replied. “I used to work with him down in El Salvador.”

“Doing what?” Encizo asked as Guthrie directed them to a granite table with matching semi-circular benches.

“We were investigating ORDEN and the ESA, the governing body of El Salvador and their pet killers, back in the eighties,” Guthrie replied. “Roberto was an asset within the organization, and he kept us up to date on ORDEN’s less than legal operations.”

“Death squads,” James challenged.

“Among other things,” Guthrie responded. “Even back then, we weren’t too excited to be associated with professional murderers. Once the Sandinistas murdered an American missionary in Nicaragua, and it appeared as a full-page spread in Newsweek, we became a lot more gun shy about who we worked with.”

Guthrie shook his head at the thought. “Roberto wanted out desperately, and I arranged for his relocation to London after ORDEN collapsed. Even though someone went to town exterminating the death squads that made up the ESA, it really wasn’t safe for him in-country anymore.”

Encizo nodded at the answer. He remembered Able Team’s wars with Fascist International, the primary supplier of right-wing death squads to Central and South America. Though he’d only been involved in one operation against the Reich of the Americas, he kept up with after-action reports and knew that when Able put Fascist International in its collective grave, the world became a better place to live. He ruminated for a moment on how much of a link there might be between a revived FI and the assassination of DaCosta.

“Did DaCosta keep close tabs on things back home?” Hawkins inquired.

Guthrie shrugged. “I tried to limit my contact with him. I didn’t want to compromise his new location.”

“You still refer to him as Roberto, though,” James stated. “He was more than just an asset.”

Guthrie frowned. “You picked up on that.”

“We’ve been around a few times,” Manning said. “What did you hear?”

“His nephew is on the run from something,” Guthrie replied.

“What happened?” Hawkins asked.

Guthrie shook his head. “I don’t know. That much didn’t get back to me, but I started trying to find him through my own resources…”

The throb of a helicopter cut through the air and caught the attention of the assembled men.

“Classic Stony Man Tourist Luck,” Hawkins muttered loud enough for James to hear over the approaching aircraft before the hiss of rockets split the air. Rooftop targets spit up geysers of flame, and Hawkins realized that the helicopter had just destroyed the heavy antiaircraft emplacements nestled atop the office buildings.

The ex-Ranger would have laughed if he hadn’t seen the weapons pods bristling like stubby wings on the sides of the helicopter. Instead, he dived across the marble table and threw Guthrie to the ground.

From the towers, Marine marksmen opened fire, but their rifle bullets only sparked ineffectually off the hull of the sleek gunship overhead.

A line of machine-gun fire chopped across the courtyard and a .50-caliber slug smashed a crater in the center of the marble table that Phoenix Force had been sitting at.

Manning dumped the magazine out of the butt of his Desert Eagle and stuffed in a clip of 180-grain, keg-shaped hunting loads. It wouldn’t be much more effective than the rifles the Marines had in the towers, but the combat rounds he had loaded previously would flatten like spit balls against an armored aircraft. Encizo unleathered his Heckler & Koch USP and pumped out a half dozen 9 mm Parabellum rounds before he ducked behind his heavy stone bench.

A rocket lanced from the wing pod and blew a Marine sentry in his perch to oblivion. Another two helicopters popped out over the main computer center, but unlike the slender-tailed, bulb-headed dragonfly that swept death and destruction over the Langley compound, these were ugly, reptilian sharks, disgorging rappelling lines and black, armor-clad killers.

“Look familiar?” James asked Guthrie.

“Nope,” the CIA agent replied as they got to their feet. James pushed Guthrie toward the shelter of another marble table as the deadly bug-shaped gunship pivoted and spotted them.

Manning fired two shots from his Desert Eagle, aiming the accurate weapon at the barrel-like rocket pod hanging off the side of the helicopter. The 180-grain keg-shaped slugs hit the drum-size target, but one round sparked wildly off the rocket launcher and ricocheted into the main body of the gunship. The second bullet punched through the thin, precut sheet-metal cover of the artillery rocket pod and glanced off the top of the tube. A fearsome jet of flame erupted from the front of the pod as the explosive dart was detonated by a .357 Magnum penetrator. The gunship rocked, but the pod was well-designed, containing and funneling the explosion into a thrust of superheated gas and shrapnel that peppered the windows of a building.

Explosive bolts fired and the heavy, drumlike canister tumbled off the stub-wing and sailed toward the ground. Hawkins had taken cover behind a tree, and was drilling 9 mm slugs at the bottom of the helicopter. His rounds had little effect, and he leaped wildly as the rocket pod smashed through the branches of the tree and cracked the concrete where he’d been crouched instants before.

Hawkins whirled and looked at the pod. A red light began flashing rapidly on its top, and the Phoenix Force warrior knew that the electronic box wasn’t going to be healthy for anyone in the courtyard if it reached its peak. He aimed his stubby little Glock 26 and hammered out the remnants of its magazine into the black transmitter. The metallic box crumpled and shattered, sparks flying as battery capacitors discharged. Hawkins took a deep breath as he realized that being close enough to recognize the remote detonator for what it was, was also near enough to ground zero to be vaporized by the self-destructing rocket pod.

He shook off the thought of being that close to death and fumbled a 12-round magazine into the butt of the tiny Glock, his hands trembling with the aftershocks of an adrenaline rush that slipped him into overdrive. Hawkins took cover behind a tree beside the inert rocket pod and took three quick breaths to get his thundering heartbeat back under control. A burst of .50-caliber slugs tore through the dirt and punched into the tree trunk, spraying Hawkins’s hair with splinters.

Rafael Encizo rushed toward the entrance of the building where the black-armored commandos disgorged onto the roof. A quick glance told the stocky Cuban that this was the computer center at Langley. He hit the doors with his shoulder and bounced off the glass. Electronic locks had shut down the building, and he knew that he couldn’t shoot through the clear doors. CIA Headquarters was protected by armored glass that was resistant to even rifle rounds.

The Cuban turned and saw the gunship swivel. He decided to play chicken with the aircraft. It would be a one in a million chance, but the Computer Center was under assault by mysterious invaders, and the CIA would need all the help it could get from the members of one of America’s finest fighting forces. The Cuban pro fired off three quick shots at the silhouette of the pilot behind his armored cockpit dome. Even the high-potency 9 mm NATO ball ammo bounced off the heavy curved Plexiglas, but it drew the ire of the gunship’s jockey.

The heavy M-2 machine-gun pods suddenly erupted with fire and Encizo threw himself behind the heavy granite cylinder that provided both decoration for the courtyard and antiramming and car-bombing protection for the Computer Center building. Four feet in diameter, the heavy stone block stopped the first salvo of 750-grain, half-inch slugs from the deadly gunship, even though each impact created a four-inch deep crater in the face of the pedestal. Encizo rolled to one side as the helicopter swiveled and tried to get a new line of fire on him. Behind him, the armored glass doors detonated into a rain of cracked shards as armor-piercing .50-caliber bullets smashed through them. The power of the big fifties had served Encizo in opening up the Computer Center, though he was pinned down now.

It wasn’t hopeless, however. Three other members of Phoenix Force were in action in the courtyard.

Calvin James and Gary Manning exchanged a quick glance, and the black ex-SEAL and the burly Canadian leveled their .357 Magnum sidearms at the tail boom of the gunship. James’s short-barreled Colt Python wasn’t designed for long-range shooting, but across the forty yards to the NOTAR tail boom of the gunship, it was plenty accurate and powerful. Manning’s massive Desert Eagle had proved itself capable of hitting targets five times that distant. Heavy-duty penetrating slugs from both mighty Magnum weapons hammered into the tail boom. James’s 158-grain lead slugs and Manning’s 180-grain hunting rounds struck the air vanes that directed forced thrust to stabilize the helicopter in flight. The NOTAR was protected from ground fire, its vulnerable tail rotor replaced by a powerful fan housed in a cylinder of armored metal. However, the directing vanes needed to be exposed to allow the helicopter to turn in one direction or the other.

The .357 Magnum maelstrom directed at the tail boom vents smashed the louvers out of place, wrecking them on their pivoting mechanisms. The gunship jerked as the pilot fought to keep the aircraft straight.

“T.J.! Go with Rafe!” Manning bellowed.

The Southerner nodded and broke for the Computer Center as the Cuban raced into the now-excavated entrance.

James rushed across the courtyard as the helicopter and gunner fought to keep the gunship in the air. He skidded to Manning’s side behind another marble table. “Any plans to deal with the chopper?”

“It’s moving too erratically for us to target any more vulnerable points,” Manning answered. The big Canadian’s eyes narrowed as he watched the aircraft dip, then swerve. The machine guns ripped wildly, blowing out windows in another building. “Still, if it keeps shooting, it’ll kill people in the buildings, even without aiming.”

James popped the cylinder on his Colt Python and thumbed two fresh rounds into the revolver. “I wish I’d brought a rifle or a grenade launcher…”

Manning looked over to the jettisoned pod, then back to James. “How about a rocket launcher?”

James grinned. “How’re we going to set it off?”

“I’ll improvise,” Manning replied.

The two Stony Man commanders rushed toward the rocket pod.

THE SECURITY GUARDS spotted Encizo and Hawkins as they rushed into the lobby, guns drawn, but the Phoenix Force warriors had out their badges. Recognition of their authority had saved them from a mistaken-identity shooting.

“It’s a war outside!” one guard snapped. “What the hell is going down?”

“Two helicopters dropped a squad of commandos on your roof,” Hawkins replied. “Are you getting any reports from upstairs?”

The sentry keyed his radio and heard static and screams over the speaker. “This is all we’ve got.”

The other guard nodded anxiously. “We were going to evacuate the building, but with that gunship out there…”

“Keep an eye on people down here,” Encizo ordered. “We’ll take care of things. Do you have any shotguns or submachine guns?”

“I’ll take you to the security office,” the second guard said. “All we have are—”

A wraith in black burst into view, heading toward the security office. The newcomer’s head was wrapped in a shiny black helmet, making him look almost insectlike, an alien invader out of a science-fiction movie. Hawkins, Encizo and the two security guards all acted as one and unleashed a swarm of 9 mm slugs at the black-clad invader. The swarm of bullets knocked the intruder down, and Encizo rushed up to the fallen invader, keeping the muzzle of his HK leveled at the helmeted face.

The black-clad killer suddenly jerked to life and swept the muzzle of his machine pistol at the Cuban, but he kicked the frame of the weapon. His armored adversary’s grip was too strong to dislodge the gun, but Encizo had saved himself from a chestful of bullets. He fired point-blank at the assassin’s head, but jerked away as his 9 mm slugs rebounded off the shiny helmet. The invader twisted and hooked the Cuban’s ankle with one arm. Off center, Encizo struggled to maintain his balance as his opponent rolled and toppled him. The machine pistol’s muzzle swung up toward Encizo’s face, the unblinking eye of the barrel threatening to be the last thing he ever saw when a hurtling form crashed into the downed pair.

Hawkins wrapped his forearm around the intruder’s throat. “Stick him, Rafe!”

Encizo didn’t need prompting as he drew his Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. The reinforced chisel point flashed for a moment, then plunged through the tough black fabric across the invader’s chest. It took every ounce of the Cuban’s weight and strength to penetrate the body armor, and even then, the razor-sharp blade lodged in the killer’s rib cage.

“Cristo.” Encizo cursed as he redoubled his efforts to eviscerate the bulletproof attacker. A second surge of the muscular Phoenix Force warrior’s frame against the invader’s armored chest, and the full six and a half inches of reinforced, chisel-bladed steel snapped through bone and bullet-resistant material. Pulling with all his might, Encizo dragged the deadly knife through the marauder’s stomach, slitting him open like a fish. The black-clad intruder thrashed in Hawkins’s grasp for a moment, then died.

“Holy shit,” Hawkins gasped. “What the hell is this bastard wearing?”

“Good stuff,” Encizo answered as he plucked the machine pistol from the killer’s lifeless fingers. He dumped the magazine and checked the top round, a bottle-necked, greenish-black tipped slug. “Teflon-coated tungsten penetrators, 6.5 mm.”

“Same caliber as the creeps David ran into in London,” Hawkins said as he handed Encizo spare magazines. He plucked a handgun from the dead man’s holster and checked its load. “Same ammo for this one, too…but it’s a high-capacity 1911.”

“You take that one until we can find one of these things for you,” Encizo replied, holding up the Bofors PDW.

Hawkins holstered his mini-Glock and took two spare magazines for the high-cap 1911. “Twenty rounds per stick. Not that bad a piece.”

“Come on. If they penetrated this far, then they’re probably all over the building,” Encizo responded.

The two Phoenix Force commandos left the security guards to retrieve their heavier weapons to protect the CIA employees in the lobby.

GARY MANNING EXAMINED the pod as Calvin James watched the lurching gunship. The big Canadian ducked as a scythe of .50-caliber slugs ripped the air over his head, ignoring James’s exclamation as the salvo came too close.

“Hurry up, Gary,” the black ex-SEAL admonished. “That thing’s taken out a lot of windows and sections of wall.”

Manning pulled his Impact Kerambit wrench from its sheath and chopped its reinforced fiberglass point between the seams that formed the end of the drum. He twisted hard and broke off the tip, but pried apart the metal enough for him to fit his powerful hands in. The Canadian’s massive shoulders swelled as he wrenched the metal pod open, his face beet-red from the effort.

James tried to ignore his friend’s display of nearly superhuman strength, but even with a deadly gunship spraying lethal streams of fire overhead, it was a sight to behold. The drum popped open and armored tubes were visible inside. Manning swallowed hard, breathing deeply, then planted one foot against a tube and wrapped both of his paws around another. “I need your Taser, Cal.”

The tall ex-SEAL nodded. “Think it’s got enough of a charge to set that off?”

“It should. These things don’t need that much voltage to fire.” Manning grunted as he flexed against the tube. Metal crumpled and wrenched as the brawny Canadian hauled on the rocket tube. He’d freed one end, levering it out of the pod when James tackled him to the ground. A heartbeat later a thunderstorm of bullets hammered into the ground, destroying what was left of the tree stump. Dirt and wood chunks rained on the prone Stony Man commandos.

“Thanks,” Manning replied, breathing hard.

“Anytime,” James answered. “You’re going to end up with a hernia.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” the Canadian replied as he returned to the rocket pod. It had been left untouched by the stream of lead that nearly chopped the Stony Man warriors to pieces. Manning braced himself again before the pilot could swing the helicopter around.

“He’s not shooting the other rocket pod,” James noted. “He must not want to hit his own people inside the Computer Center.”

Twisting steel shrieked as Manning ripped the rocket tube free.

“It’s loaded,” he said softly, exhaustion having crept into his voice. James knew Manning possessed prodigious endurance, regularly running in marathons and engaging in weight-lifting contests with Carl Lyons, Able Team’s muscular commander. For him to show weariness meant that he’d tapped reserves of strength that the Phoenix Force demolitions expert had rarely touched. “Fire off your Taser, Cal.”

James nodded and fired the X-26 point-blank into the dirt. The launching probes shot out, but he released the trigger, preventing the battery’s capacitor charge from draining. Manning grabbed the probes and hooked them up to the wire leads at the base of the rocket pod.

James slid his slender but strong frame under the tube and shouldered it. “You aim.”

Manning nodded as he wrapped the wire leads around the electrical probes at the tip. He stepped clear of the back of the rocket tube, sighting along the top of the bore as the black ex-SEAL grunted under the weight of the armored cylinder and its explosive payload. The wobbly helicopter saw what the two Phoenix Force warriors were doing and struggled to come level with them, its machine gun muzzles swiveling onto the pair.

“Gary…”

“If we miss, that’s it,” Manning admonished. The enemy gunship stabilized for one moment and pointed straight at them. The initial machine-gun bursts slammed into the earth on either side of the Stony Man commandos.

“And we’re in their blind spot,” Manning added. He pulled the trigger on the X-26 Taser. The little pocket-size unit cut loose with its charge, and the rocket motor fired to life. The 77 mm warhead leaped out of its tube and speared through the bulbous head of the gunship, lancing it like a soap bubble filled with napalm. The shock wave bowled over James and Manning, flaming wreckage fluttering down in a burning snow that ignited patches of the Phoenix Force warriors’ suits.

The hot licks of flame jolted the two stunned Stony Man fighters and forced them to roll to put out the burning tongues that flared on their clothes.

Their immediate emergency over, James and Manning surveyed the area. Others in the courtyard had been hiding behind stone walls and marble tables, and those who had been injured were being tended to by fellow employees.

“Come on,” James said, helping Manning to his feet. “You got enough left to deal with a marauding force of ninja killers?”

“I guess I’ll have to.”

The Canadian pulled his sleek Desert Eagle and followed the black commando into the Computer Center.