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Primary Directive
Don Pendleton


Direct action is the President's best option when America stands in the crosshairs of terrorism. The covert counterinsurgent team known as Stony Man gets the green light to strike hard and fast–no red tape, no political stalemates, just results.When the world goes to hell, the warriors of Stony Man take the heat to ensure the enemy gets no second chances. Stony Man intelligence has picked up chatter about something bigger than any terrorist attack on U.S. soil. Now it's zero hour and the agency has dispatched operatives on two fronts: Panama and the Mexican border, where al Qaeda is using drug pipelines willing to accommodate cash payers to funnel terrorists into the country. It's clear the operation has been in the planning stages for a long time, with moles deep inside the U.S. security net. Now the only questions remaining are when and where the attack will take place. And how Stony Man is going to stop it…









THE NUCLEAR STAKES GOT HIGHER


“So what you’re saying is that if al Qaeda manages to get personnel inside of this place…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, we’re all thinking the same thing. And it explains why Bari’s tactical planning called for the smuggling of so many terrorist operatives into the country.”

“It’s unthinkable,” Brognola said. “A place like that could be a terrorist’s playground if they know where to look.”

“And they do,” Price said. “That’s why they were monitoring all the sites, particularly the I-25 corridor. They weren’t interested in attacking those shipments. They wanted to know when would be the busiest times, when the eyes of most personnel would be focused elsewhere.”

“All right,” the big Fed stated. “Let’s get hopping on this. Let’s get both teams on the horn immediately and apprise them of the situation.”

“Right,” Kurtzman replied, reaching for a phone that connected directly to their secure satellite uplink.

“And when you’re done,” Brognola continued, “get me the President.”




Primary Directive

Don Pendleton


Stony Man


AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY










www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.



PRIMARY DIRECTIVE


For all U.S. troops fighting abroad—

stay hard and live large!




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


In the haze of approaching dawn, the Mark IV river patrol boat knifed slowly through the calm waters of Lake Gatun.

Lieutenant Manuel Horst stood on the observation post above the cockpit and scanned the lakeside with his binoculars. The night shift had always been his favorite since enlisting in the Panama Special Boat Unit—much better than monitoring the hustle and bustle of day traffic through the canal. The regular pattern of buildings and twinkling lights of the coastal town of Gamboa came into view and Horst stopped on them a moment before lowering the binoculars.

“Slow to one-third, Specialist,” he called down to the cockpit.

The pilot acknowledged the order and immediately the boat engine rumbled down from twenty to fourteen knots.

A flash of sunlight on metal caught the lieutenant’s eye. He squinted in that direction, but didn’t see any movement or ships, then remembered the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. He scanned slowly across the shoreline off Gamboa and spotted a periscope.

Horst descended to the main deck once they were under way and rallied his men. He ordered his best gunner to man the .50-cals and the radioman to contact headquarters with a request for reinforcements. A submarine operating in the Panama Canal Zone without permission was a serious offense against U.S.-Panama treaty stipulations, not to mention a violation of at least a half dozen right-of-way regulations.

As the PBR drew nearer and the sun broke on the horizon Horst could see the sub had surfaced. It looked rather tiny, maybe twice the length of their own boat, and it didn’t have lines of any particular grade Horst recognized. That ruled out the submarine as U.S. surplus given to Panama or a military prototype. Horst’s eyes stopped when he spotted a wicked-looking weapon of an unfamiliar make on the forward prow. Before Horst could point it out to his crew, however, a hatch at the base of the mount opened and a man in dark fatigues emerged. The guy took up position behind the large weapon and swung it in their direction.

Horst shouted to his machine gunner, but the warning came too late. A cloud of smoke and flame belched from the muzzle of the massive weapon as the report cracked through the air. One of the .50-cals blew apart a moment later and sent large, razor-sharp shards of metal whistling in all directions. The gunner screamed as several lodged in his body. One piece of shrapnel cut through a neck artery and blood spurted from the gaping wound left in its wake.

Horst ducked in reflex action and shouted at the pilot to turn the boat starboard, then ordered another crew member to man the 20 mm chain gun. He then rushed forward to help the wounded gunner. As he reached his man, Horst heard the antimaterial weapon boom again followed by the sickly sound of shattered glass. He didn’t bother turning to make a damage assessment; he already knew they’d hit the cockpit. Horst managed to get a bulky dressing from the sideboard-mounted med kit pressed against the gunner’s wound before the sudden spin of the boat knocked him off balance.

Horst looked at his gunner. The young man’s eyes stared wildly back at him but the guy still seemed to have enough sense to keep the bandage pressed against his throat. The light in the man’s eyes dimmed quickly, though, and Horst figured he had maybe a couple of minutes before the blood loss rendered him unconscious. Horst jumped to his feet and rushed to the cockpit. As he reached the body of the pilot slumped over the wheel—the boat had now taken on a listing spin as the pilot had been turning it when struck by the antimaterial rifle—Horst heard the 20 mm chain gun rattle into action. That would keep that bastard’s head down long enough for his team to regroup and mount a counteroffensive, although Horst wondered how much they could do with two men down and one of their primary weapons neutralized.

Horst felt the pilot’s neck for a pulse but didn’t find any. He pulled the body off the seat and laid it gently on the deck, then directed his voice to the radioman belowdecks. “Send position priority! We’re under heavy small-arms attack by submarine of unknown origin! Request reinforcements now! ”

Horst then turned his attention out the view port as he swung the wheel to get the boat under control. He powered into a heading that put the port stern moving away from the sub at a forty-five-degree angle. That would give Vega on the chain gun a decent field of fire while minimizing exposure of the PBR to more barrages from the antimaterial gun. Horst never heard the report of the weapon that fired it, but there was little doubt of the consequences when a 104 mm shell landed smack-dab in the center of the prow just rear of the .50-cal turret. Wilson, the gunner, never had a chance as the explosion ripped his limbs from his body. The skin-searing heat—Horst could feel it even through what remained of the cockpit windshield—traveled belowdecks far and fast enough to turn the vulcanized rubber soles of Horst’s boots mushy. Horst heard the agonized screams of Bolidez as the flames reached the radioman.

As Horst turned the wheel hard astern so the boat headed back toward the submarine before the fire reached the steerage equipment, he heard the chain gun stop, knew that Vega no longer had a decent firing position. A moment later the man burst into the cockpit.

“What the hell are you doing, Manuel?” he demanded.

Horst had known Vega since childhood. They were well past military formalities. “If we’re going to die today, Maldo, then we’re going to take a few of these bastards!”

The familiar crack of the material rifle made Horst clench his teeth. Vega had already left the cockpit and a moment later he could hear his friend open up with their squad weapon, an Enfield SA-80. The antimaterial shell hit somewhere beyond the boat and the delay of the gunner having to reload had bought Horst the time he sought. There was no way they could stop the boat from ramming them now.

Through the cracked glass Horst could make out more shadowy figures spreading out across the submarine deck. His heart beat fast and heavy in his chest as the wink of muzzle-flashes and cap-gun-like reports began to sound from the myriad of automatic weapons being fired. A cold lump formed in his throat when the sounds of the SA-80 ceased and a moment later he watched the body of one of his best friends sail past and hit the deck with a dull thud. Horst could barely see through the tears that welled in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to give up.

No way will my men have died in vain, he thought.

Horst never heard the shot that killed him—never really felt more than a brief pain and the flash of light from the 104 mm shell—and he never knew he’d brought his boat to within twenty meters of the submarine before it exploded.

And he would never know of the legend he would create this day.




CHAPTER ONE


“Rodman Command, Rodman Command! This is a priority encoding from Gatun Unit One! Position is offshore Gamboa. Repeat, offshore Gamboa! Unidentified submarine in shallows! Unit One is under fire. Repeat, Unit One is under fire! Request assist! Request assi—”

Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm and one of the most powerful men in the Justice Department, looked at Aaron Kurtzman. “That’s enough, Aaron.”

A respectful, weighty silence followed the recording of the last transmission sent from Gatun Unit One of the PSBU. The men of Phoenix Force sat around the conference table in the War Room and traded somber looks.

“There were five men on that boat,” Brognola finally said. “No survivors.”

“Any sign of the sub?” asked David McCarter, Phoenix Force leader.

Brognola shook his head. “The sub was gone by the time reinforcements arrived. Panamanian officials contacted nearby Coast Guard cutters and eventually the word got out to put the U.S. Navy on alert, but presumably our mysterious ship submerged and slipped through the sonar nets.”

“This isn’t the first time the Panamanian government has reported this kind of activity,” Barbara Price said. The mission controller’s hair cascaded along her nape like a blond waterfall, the ends barely brushing her shoulders. Her inquisitive blue eyes studied each Phoenix Force warrior in turn. “But this is the first time there’s been hostilities of this level. In the past, Panama has blamed drug-runners as the primary culprits.”

“And that’s the story they’ve given the press for now,” Brognola added. “That should buy you enough time to get down there and check this out more thoroughly.”

“Any newshound worth his or her weight isn’t going to buy that, guys,” Rafael Encizo remarked. “A lot of the frequencies used by the PBSU are unscrambled and monitored 24/7.”

“Agreed,” McCarter said. “It won’t take them long to figure out what’s up. They might know the truth before we do.”

Price sighed. “Either way, we’ve been asked by the Panamanian government to get involved on this one. The First Vice President contacted the White House with the request personally.”

“No surprise,” Calvin James said. The lanky, black warrior—leaning on the back legs of his chair—pulled a toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it at his chest for emphasis. “I did a tour in Panama when I was in the Navy. I doubt they’re equipped with the resources to combat a menace like this. It sounds like whoever did this wiped out that patrol boat unit like it was nothing.”

“We believe we have a possible explanation for that,” Price said.

She looked at the man next to her, his wrestlerlike body confined to a wheelchair. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman headed the Stony Man cybernetics team. He wasn’t a mere whiz kid with computers. Kurtzman served as chief architect and systems administrator of one of the largest, most complex, state-of-the-art computer networks in the world. Nearly every scrap of processed information went through the Stony Man databases where powerful computers mined, compiled and sorted the data into neat little bytes.

Kurtzman took his cue. “The initial investigation of the site uncovered some interesting clues. My team’s still working on what this all means, but maybe the intelligence will help.”

The computer wizard tapped a key on the keyboard in front of him and the photo of a large weapon appeared on the projection screen at one end of the room.

“Gentlemen, I introduce you to the Steyr IWS-2000. In the event you’re not familiar, this is a 15.2 mm antitank rifle and, as you can see, it has a bullpup design.” He tapped a key and they got a different view of the weapon. “According to Cowboy, this weapon fires a distinct projectile shaped much like a finned dart, one of which was retrieved during salvage and recovery ops. Each shell fired weighs approximately 308 grains and exits at a muzzle velocity of almost 1500 meters per second.”

T. J. Hawkins produced a long whistle. In his soft, Southern drawl he said, “Holy guacamole. That is one bad dude.”

“It’s also a pretty interesting weapon to mount to a minisub,” Brognola added. “This is why we bring it to your attention. As you know, Steyr-Mannlicher is an Austrian company, and this particular make has never been exported for purchase.”

“So whoever acquired it probably did so in-country,” McCarter concluded.

Gary Manning cleared his throat and all eyes turned toward him.

“Al Qaeda still has pretty strong ties in that area,” Manning reminded the team. “If this was a terrorist operation and they were using those kinds of weapons, then I’d say they’re our most likely candidate.”

McCarter nodded. “That’s a bloody good assessment, mate.”

“The Panamanian government’s very concerned about the timing of this whole thing,” Brognola said. “Especially in light of the recent handoff of all canal operations to local oversight.”

“Didn’t they also pass some recent legislation to fund reconstruction and upgrade efforts?” Encizo asked.

Price nodded. “Yes, and some of those operations are already under way, although not in this particular area. Less than ten percent of the structures in Gamboa are even occupied, and there’s only one resort to service the tourist population.”

“Not to mention this is the off-season,” Brognola added.

“Gamboa thrived when it acted as a township under the old Panama Canal Zone,” Price continued, “but with the return of its resources to Panama officials, the departure of U.S. citizens and servicemen living there turned the place into a virtual ghost town.”

“I don’t get it,” James said. “If this wasn’t about drugs and these were actual terrorists, al Qaeda or otherwise, what the hell was the point? They didn’t blow anything up other than one small patrol boat, and they obviously didn’t stick around very long. What gives?”

“I think that’s what we’re going down there to find out,” McCarter replied.

“Exactly,” Price said. “Your local contact will be a Panamanian official from the First VP’s office. A CIA operative from the embassy in Panama City will also meet you in Gamboa.”

“Why’s the Company involved?” James asked suspiciously.

“They’re not,” Brognola replied. “This guy’s merely on an intelligence-gathering mission for the official reports. He’s been advised of your arrival. Both of these men have been told to give you their full cooperation, so it’s your show. All the way.”

“Dandy,” McCarter said with a grin. “Just the way I like it.”




CHAPTER TWO


U.S.-Mexican Border

Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales had known better days. Huge droplets of sweat rolled off his head and slid slowly down his neck and along his spine like globules of oil. His body ached, his shirt was soaked at waist and armpits and he had hunger pangs such as he’d never before experienced. The temperature had already reached nearly one hundred degrees with about ninety percent humidity, and it wasn’t even noon yet. He’d consumed nearly an entire canteen of water and a couple of salt tablets and still his tongue felt like 20-grade sandpaper. Blancanales removed his utility cap, wiped at the sweat on his forehead and behind his ears with an OD green hanky and then replaced his cover.

Squinting in the bright sun, the Able Team warrior studied the profile of the muscular man who stood next to him talking on a cell phone. The man’s frosty blue eyes stared with moderate interest at the work in progress in front of them. Some might have called this man a work in progress, but Blancanales knew better. Time and the brutal reality of urban combat had hardened and shaped this guy into the most rock-steady man it had ever been Blancanales’s pleasure to know.

“Yeah, I understand. Out, here,” Carl “Ironman” Lyons said, and then disconnected the call.

“Hal?” Blancanales inquired.

Lyons nodded. “Yeah. Says they just sent Phoenix down to Panama. Some kind of major shit hit the fan down there. Naturally, they took Jack, and Charlie’s somewhere with Mack.”

“So no dedicated wings for the ride home.”

“Nope,” Lyons said. “Says once we’re finished to give them a call and they’ll get us on the first MAC flight out of Fort Bliss.”

“Why so grumpy, Carl?” Blancanales asked. “Lighten up some and put on a happy face.”

“This is my happy face,” Lyons said with a sideways glance at his friend. He nodded toward another man working with the group near a ten-foot-high wall fifty yards from their position and added, “When’s Gadgets going to be finished with these eggheads already?”

Hermann Schwarz, whose wizardry and expertise in electronic surveillance and countersurveillance had earned him the “Gadgets” moniker, stopped to look at his two friends as if he had somehow read Lyons’s mind. He held up one hand in the “gimme five more minutes” sign and Lyons returned the gesture with a nod, although the look on the Able Team leader’s face said he was none too happy about having to continue waiting.

Lyons hadn’t been keen on taking the assignment to start with, Blancanales knew, but when in the service of an organization like Stony Man they didn’t get to pick and choose their assignments. And to some degree, each of them possessed some significant expertise in this particular endeavor. Lyons, of course, had a background as an LAPD cop dealing with illegal immigrants from Mexico on practically a daily basis and Blancanales, a man raised in East L.A., knew just about everything there was to know about border crossings. Finally, Schwarz had the greatest impact on this mission because of his significant expertise in electronic surveillance measures.

The End Zone Project was the baby of numerous computer scientists at Sandia Laboratories in New Mexico. Designed around two integral technologies—Forward Area Alerting Radar and Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting for Night—End Zone had the ability to not only detect when someone attempted to cross the border illegally, but further could deliver several neutralizing mechanisms to stun and immobilize the subject until Border Patrol units could arrive and take custody. End Zone had passed its final trials in time for implementation into the new border wall under construction by the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers.

The President had stressed the importance of the success of the project, not just because of its political and social ramifications, but also due to the increased violence resulting from unrest between the various special-interest groups keeping the topic of immigration hot.

“Mostly, we just want you to keep the peace and ensure domestic tranquillity,” Brognola had concluded in their mission briefing.

“Marvelous,” had been Lyons’s reply.

Now as they stood and watched their friend at work, Blancanales said with a smirk, “See there, the look on Gadgets’s face? See how happy you’ve made him?”

Lyons shook his head. “Whatever gets you through the day.”

The pair turned and ascended the steps that led into the Tactical Operations Center, a trailer-mounted facility that looked like a rail car, and the only air-conditioned building for miles. The place was relatively cool compared to the blistering heat outside. A small refrigerator in one corner contained shelves of soft drinks and bottled water.

Blancanales made a show of shuddering and said, “Brrr, it’s downright chilly in here.”

Lyons didn’t bother to reply, instead moving over to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water before taking up a stance to look over the shoulder of one of the controllers. The man wore a subdued three-up, one-down chevron on the collars of his desert camouflage uniform blouse: a staff sergeant.

“We online there yet, Sarge?” Lyons asked casually.

“No, sir.”

“How much longer you think?” Lyons asked.

“Almost there now, sir. We’ve rebooted the servers and we should be online…right…now.”

The trio of LCD screens in front of the controller came to life simultaneously and displayed different camera angles on Schwarz and the team members huddled around him near the wall. The pictures were displayed in high-definition format and rendered with full sharpness and opacity, and neither Blancanales nor Lyons could admit they weren’t somewhat impressed.

The pair continued to watch with interest as the controller talked with Schwarz over a headset. The two discussed a few techie-tech things and then Schwarz concluded the conversation with a thumbs-up to the camera before he stepped out of viewing range. A minute later Schwarz entered the TOC. His face beamed with pride and as soon as Blancanales saw it he looked knowingly at Lyons, who chose only to return the look with an exaggerated smile.

“Well, boys,” Schwarz said as he removed his work gloves and slapped at the make-believe dust on his uniform trousers. “It looks like that’s that. I’d have to say End Zone is a complete success.”

Lyons visibly brightened. “Great! Does that mean we can leave now?”

Blancanales mocked him with a stunned expression. “But, Ironman, this is just where the real fun begins.”

Lyons groaned and Schwarz held up a hand to placate him. “Don’t worry, buddy. We only have a few tests we have to run through tonight. But if those pan out, I’d say we’ll probably be able to head out first thing in the morning. So you can call Jack.”

“No go,” Blancanales said. He looked in the direction of the controller and then added, “He’s busy.”

Schwarz nodded, but before anyone could say another word the controller called for their attention. Able Team gathered around as the guy pointed toward one of the screens. It now displayed a different set of cameras that Blancanales recognized from having worked in that location two days prior. The group watched with fascination as two figures climbed over the top of the wall and dropped down onto the U.S. side.

“What’s going on?” Lyons demanded.

“Sergeant, do we have some kind of live exercise scheduled for that area today?” Schwarz asked.

The controller grabbed a nearby clipboard and flipped through several sheets until he came to the one he sought and let his finger trace down an itemized list.

“That’s a negative, sir.”

“Holy crap,” Blancanales said. “We got ourselves a couple real-life border crossers.”

“Where is that, Sergeant?” Lyons demanded.

The controller punched it up on another computer. “Those are the systems mounted at Pitchfork Point.”

“I remember that area,” Schwarz said, exchanging glances with his comrades. “It’s about twenty miles east of the Columbus, New Mexico, port of entry.”

Lyons looked at his watch. “At least an hour away.”

“Shit, sir!” The controller pointed at the cameras and Able Team noticed his face had gone white as a sheet. “What the hell is that?”

The pair who had vaulted the wall a moment earlier suddenly danced around like a pair of marionettes as red splotches appeared along their upper torsos. All the men of Able Team recognized the kind of destructive force that could only have come from automatic weapons.

“Let’s go!” Lyons snapped.



“T HAT’S RIGHT, YEAH !” Lyons barked into his cell phone for the third time in the past two minutes. “Pitchfork Point, that’s what I just said! What, you don’t speak English?”

“Tell them they need to get out of town first,” Schwarz said.

After another moment of silence, Lyons said, “Fine!” He clicked off and muttered, “Morons.”

“They know where they’re going now?” Blancanales inquired from behind the wheel of their Ford Expedition.

“Doubtful.” Lyons twisted in the passenger seat to look at Schwarz, who had his laptop open and was typing furiously at it. “What are you doing?”

“Working with Bear on a direct feed to my laptop. I just talked to Ricchio back at the TOC. He told me right after that pair got shot to shit that a whole gaggle of illegals came over that wall. This time, though, they didn’t shoot them.”

“Do we even know who they are?” Lyons asked.

“What’s a gaggle?” Blancanales asked to lighten the mood.

“Okay, the feed’s coming up now,” Schwarz announced.

They rode in silence for the next minute, each man in his own thoughts about what might lie ahead.

Finally, Schwarz whispered, “Good God…”

“What is it?” Lyons asked.

Schwarz turned the laptop so Lyons could see for himself. It replayed the shooting of the first two men who came over the wall and then displayed the mass of a dozen or so more who followed a minute thereafter. The last thing they saw astonished all of them. Four Border Patrol agents armed with M-16s stepped into view. Each pair grabbed one of the deceased men they had gunned down and dragged them off camera.

“Impossible,” Blancanales said through clenched teeth.

Lyons shook his head. “It’s unthinkable, I’ll agree.”

“Two things are evident here right off,” Schwarz interjected. “First, those two weren’t wasted by Minutemen. Anywhere the wall’s been completed is strictly off-limits to all but authorized personnel. Second, what about the fact they made entry here in the sight of a newly constructed surveillance system in broad daylight?”

“It signifies an act of desperation,” Blancanales replied.

“Exactly,” Lyons added. “There are plenty of easier places to cross the border. Proved places with fewer obstacles and way more running room. That point couldn’t be more than—what?—maybe half a mile from the access road off Route 9.”

“Something stinks to high heaven, no doubt about it.”

In a drifting, almost contemplative tone, Schwarz said, “It’s almost as if they wanted us to see it, to make us believe the Border Patrol gunned down two crossers and then dragged away the evidence.”

“Okay, but what about the rest of the group?” Lyons said. “Why gun down just those two?”

“I don’t know,” Schwarz replied. “But I’m running the feed again. See if I can pick up something else.”

“Well, we’re not just going to sit here on our asses,” Lyons replied. He engaged the speakerphone and dialed in the specially coded number to Stony Man Farm. The line rang twice and was then picked up by Brognola. “Hal, you getting this?”

“We’re watching it right now,” the Stony Man chief replied. “What the hell is going on down there? Border Patrol officers killing illegal immigrants?”

“We’re as surprised as you, boss,” Blancanales replied.

“Well, I have Aaron and his team checking out every inch of the footage we captured. We also talked to this Sergeant Ricchio while we were working on the wireless uplink. He says they lost the feed less than thirty seconds after the segment we recorded there.”

“Lost it how?” Schwarz inquired.

“I wish we knew. All Ricchio could tell us was that they believe the feeds were cut at the source.”

“So they destroyed the cameras,” Lyons said.

“Impossible,” Schwarz said. “Those things are housed inside boxes made of inch-thick titanium alloy plating. It’d take nothing short of a grenade or missile to destroy them. The only other way they could interfere with the transmission at the source would be through the use of a Wi-Fi jammer or severing the hardwired fusible links providing power. And to do that, they’d need some decent insider information.”

“Whatever the explanation,” Lyons said, “this changes the name of the game, Hal.”

“Agreed,” Brognola replied. His voice faded a moment as he asked, “What’s that?” Another tense moment of silence, then, “Bear’s people just came up with something hot. If you replay the footage of the large group coming over the wall, about the third or fourth player over you’ll see his hand rest on top of the wall as he climbs down. The tunic he was wearing is pulled back some and it exposed a tattoo on his forearm, just above the wrist.”

“Can you make it out?” Lyons asked.

“We’re checking the linguistic database now,” Brognola said. “But what we know for sure is it’s an Arabic symbol of some kind. We’ll send more intelligence along as soon as we have something definite.”

“Not good,” Blancanales said matter-of-factly.

“Definitely not good.”

“This could be a lot more serious than you might think,” Brognola continued. “Like I said earlier, David and Phoenix are in Panama. There was an incident down there two days ago. It hasn’t hit the press up here yet, but I’m sure it will shortly. It seems the Panamanian government may have traded shots with a submarine. We think it might have been sent by our al Qaeda friends.”

“You’re just full of good news today, aren’t you?” Lyons retorted.

“You started it.”

“I assume we’re clear to do whatever we have to on this one?” Lyons asked.

“Unequivocally,” Brognola said. “Find out what’s going on and act appropriately, but be as judicious as you can. We don’t need any bloodbaths down there if we can avoid it.”

“They started it,” Lyons said, and disconnected.

“Now what?” Blancanales asked.

“I guess we won’t really know until we get there,” Lyons replied. “See if we can find some clues from whatever pieces they left behind to pick up.”

“You think those were terrorists crossing onto U.S. soil?”

“I’d wager my next paycheck on it,” Lyons replied.

He turned to Schwarz. “How we fixed for armament, Gadgets?”

“We’re good. Kissinger packed all our usual fare, plus a little extra just in case.”

“I’d say this qualifies as a �just in case’ moment,” Blancanales said.

Lyons grunted his agreement. This smelled of a terrorist plot from the get-go and Lyons could feel a conspiracy at the very center of his gut. The al Qaeda terrorists had been spouting off for years about launching another catastrophic attack against America, and maybe they saw their chance in the recent tensions between Mexico and the U.S. concerning illegal immigration. Leave it to a pack of radical terror-mongers to exploit an already hot issue. There were issues about the 9/11 attacks that had driven wedges between the divisions on issues totally unrelated to al Qaeda and its unquenchable hatred for the United States and her allies. Why should this be any different?

Well, it would be different in one way. This time Able Team and Phoenix Force would be prepared for it. This time they’d be waiting for al Qaeda to make its move. And when it did, the terrorists would encounter a force unlike any they had faced before.




CHAPTER THREE


The men of Phoenix Force stepped onto the tarmac of the heliport in Gamboa as the blades of their Sikorsky H-19 wound down. The humid air brushed over them like oil paint on a canvas and the mugginess made it difficult to breathe.

A man with a long, thin nose and bushy mustache stood at the edge of the tarmac wearing a lightweight linen suit of white over a pink silk shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. The first thought that came to McCarter’s mind was that of Panama Jack, and as he drew closer to the man he noticed the facial features only reinforced his first impressions. The ends of the man’s mustache tapered off curlicue style and he had a smooth, swarthy complexion with mild crow’s-feet.

“Mr. White?” The man spoke English with a heavy mestizo accent. He extended a hand and McCarter shook it. “Robert Nativida. I am the Panama province secretary of the interior to President Espino.”

“Pleased to meet you,” McCarter replied easily. He introduced the others in turn by their aliases; they shook hands all around.

“Welcome to Panama, gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Phoenix Force accompanied Nativida to a pair of Jeepneys waiting at the edge of the road. McCarter took one with Encizo and Nativida, while James, Hawkins, Manning and their driver manned the other. They turned onto a road that led from the heliport and headed in a westerly direction.

“Where we going?” Encizo asked casually.

“There is an activity center near here,” Nativida replied over his shoulder from the front seat. “I will need to stop there and pick up some important documents. I apologize for running errands but as I’m sure you’re aware we’re trying to keep up appearances and this information deserves my attention.”

“No need to worry the tourists, eh, mate?” McCarter gibed.

Nativida nodded emphatically. “Precisely. From there, we will take you to the hotel. We have rooms booked for you at the Historical Villa. The apartments there are adjacent to the main resort. We assumed you would wish to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

“You assumed right,” Encizo replied.

“Although we’d like to see the site of the engagement first, if it’s all the same to you,” McCarter added.

“We can arrange that,” Nativida said.

They arrived at the activity center and Nativida ran inside. McCarter and Encizo could hear the buzz of unstilted dialogue between their comrades in the other Jeepney. McCarter couldn’t make out what his friends were saying but he trusted their professionalism and abilities to be discreet in their subject matter. Nativida returned a minute later with a large accordion binder in his hand, climbed into his seat and ordered the convoy to proceed.

They rode to the riverside docks in silence. When they arrived, a boat awaited them and all of the men save for the drivers climbed aboard. Nativida spoke briefly under his breath with the captain, then they set off on a journey along the river. Under other circumstances it would have been a nice, leisurely boat tour, but in this case grimness weighed on the minds of the Phoenix Force veterans as they considered the aftermath of the violence that had occurred here less than forty-eight hours ago.

They rounded a deep bend in the river, which Nativida identified as the Chagres, and off to their left the river opened onto a wide body of water. Nativida gestured to it and said, “That’s Gatun Lake. And over here is where Lieutenant Horst and his men encountered the alleged submarine.”

“Why do you put it that way?” James asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said �alleged,’” Encizo said. “As if for some reason you don’t believe what they reported.”

Nativida seemed a bit embarrassed by their retorts. He smiled and said, “Gentlemen, as you can probably see, the water is very shallow here and it was still rather dark. We cannot be sure that it was an actual sub they saw.”

“That’s funny,” Hawkins said. “Because we heard the tape of their final communications, and I’m pretty sure I heard �submarine’ real clearly.”

McCarter noticed Nativida suddenly express defensiveness and decided to step in with some damage control. “It doesn’t really matter what kind of boat it was. The point is, there’s no mistaking their intent or the fact they were hostiles.”

“Right,” Manning agreed. “What we should focus on now is who and why.”

“I’ve been giving that some careful thought,” Encizo said. “I don’t think any one of us would disagree that whoever attacked that boat crew did so because they were surprised. Obviously they weren’t expecting the crew to be there at that particular moment.”

“Meaning they had probably been watching the place for a time,” James concluded.

Encizo nodded. “And now seeing the location where it happened, it seems pretty apparent they were here to move one thing, and it wasn’t drugs.”

Hawkins furrowed an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

“Look at that spot,” Encizo replied, jerking a thumb at the site. “They had to have been a good forty meters or so offshore. And if we assume this was a sub, they would have been surfaced. Seeing as there aren’t any docks here, boys, I have to wonder exactly how they would have off-loaded drugs or any other type of contraband for that matter.”

“What about a boat?” Manning asked.

“No dice, mate,” McCarter answered. “The intelligence reports said the local authorities arrived within ten minutes after the shooting started.”

Manning tendered a conciliatory nod. “There wasn’t time.”

“Maybe they never even got that far,” James proposed.

“Doubtful,” Encizo said. “They took a great risk getting in here, and I can’t believe it was solely for reconnaissance purposes. I think the more plausible explanation is that whatever they dropped here didn’t require any mode of transportation other than the sub. In other words…”

“People,” McCarter concluded.

“So this was a personnel delivery of some sort?” James asked.

“In the lack of any other evidence at this point,” Encizo replied, “it seems like a logical conclusion.”

Manning crossed the boat and leaned close to McCarter’s ear. “What do you have in mind for our next move?”

“Let’s get to the apartments,” McCarter replied. “This CIA liaison should be waiting for us there. I want to get his take on all of this.”

Manning nodded and stepped off just a second before something caught McCarter’s eyes at the edge of the bank, maybe ten yards distant. He knew the movement of the tall grasses and flowers along the shoreline was anything but natural.

“We’re being watched,” he whispered. “About two o’clock. Tell Nativida to have the pilot head in that direction. Easy, though. I want to look like we’re going past.”

Manning nodded and immediately walked next to where Nativida stood very close to the cockpit. He didn’t turn to look at the man, simply kept his eyes straight ahead while he delivered McCarter’s message. The Phoenix Force leader turned and walked to where James and Hawkins sat on a bench mounted to the port side of the boat. He sat between them and fished a Player’s cigarette from a pack. He lit it, bent at the waist as if stretching, and whispered, “We got a watcher, mates. Follow my lead.”

McCarter then stood and looked in Encizo’s direction. Manning had just taken a seat next to him and the Briton could barely see Manning’s lips move as he delivered the message. Encizo’s eyes flicked in McCarter’s direction long enough to assure McCarter he knew the plan.

The Phoenix Force leader turned to face the prow of the boat and propped his right leg on the edge. He ground his heel down, flexing his thigh muscles in preparation for the jump. He hoped to make it close to the observation point by the first leap, although he didn’t yet have a measure of how deep the water would be there. Based on what he saw, he assumed it would come up to at least his knees.

The Briton took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke curl from his nostrils as he made a point of flicking it high in the air just as the boat chugged parallel with the target landing point. McCarter hoped the observer’s eyes would track the path of the cigarette long enough for him to reach the guy. A moment after it left his fingers, McCarter jumped. He landed much closer to shore than he’d originally anticipated, the water coming only past his boots. The Briton gained two steps and then crashed through the brush just as his quarry got to his feet.

McCarter took the offensive and delivered a roundhouse kick that connected, although he lost a bit of force as he wrenched the knee of his planted leg in the spongy ground. His opponent took the kick in the ribs, grunting with pain on impact, but then managed to get an arm wrapped around McCarter’s calf and trap the leg. The guy turned inward and jammed an elbow in McCarter’s knee, but not being fully planted himself, the blow was weak and saved the Phoenix warrior’s leg from debilitating injury.

McCarter leaned in full-force, grabbed fistfuls of the man’s collar and then pulled back, a move that took his enemy off balance. The Briton landed in a backward shoulder roll and used the impetus of his weight to bring his opponent with him in a Judo sacrifice throw that sent the man sailing overhead and into a nearby tree trunk.

Encizo and Manning crashed through the brush a moment later, both panting with the exertion. They immediately took control of McCarter’s opponent and wrestled him to his feet. The Phoenix Force leader looked into the man’s dark eyes for a moment.

And a mask of pure hatred stared back at him.



“H IS NAME’S Siraj Khatri,” Barbara Price said.

The men of Phoenix Force were gathered in one of their two apartments. The speakerphone echoed in the room but they were the only ones in that particular unit, so being overheard was hardly of concern. Not that the Panamanian government didn’t have the phones tapped anyway. For all they knew, half the cabinet could be listening in right at the moment.

“He’s a native of Pakistan,” Price continued. “He was born and educated there, although he did do a year on an exchange program at UCLA back in 2004.”

Lounging on a love seat with his leg propped and his knee on ice, McCarter replied, “Any known terrorist affiliations?”

“None we know of,” she said. “He returned to Pakistan as scheduled and completed his final year of schooling there as a software programmer. Then he just seemed to disappear until surfacing again in Mexico a few months ago.”

“What for?” Encizo inquired.

“He took a programming job there, apparently for some start-up company. Telemarketing and call center services of sorts, serving locations in both North and Central America.”

“Well, he’s a long way from Mexico,” Hawkins pointed out.

“Barb, do we have any other information on this guy?”

“I’m afraid not,” Price said. “Apparently he has no credit cards and no other links we can follow. Both parents were killed accidentally in 2002 during a shooting incident that occurred on the Afghani-Pakistan border during the very early phases of Operation Freedom. They were apparently Muslim missionaries of some sort.”

“Well, that would surely give him a motive to seek out al Qaeda,” Manning remarked.

“We also have some news to report,” Brognola chimed in. “It concerns Able Team’s mission in Texas. It appears there was a breach of the border a couple of hours ago, and one of the crossers had an Arabic symbol tattooed on his hand. It looked familiar to me but I couldn’t place it at first. It took us some time but we finally identified it after Aaron ran it through the database. The symbol dates back to a tattoo fire-branded onto the arms of mujahideen fighters meaning �struggle.’ They wore this during the liberation of Afghanistan from the Soviets.”

“Too bloody right,” McCarter replied. “A liberation movement that received plenty of manpower and funding from bin Laden.”

“And we’re back to al Qaeda,” James said.

“We’ve just passed the information on to Able Team, so they’ll be running this down from their end. Two things we know for sure now, though, are that terrorists have entered the country and that this most recent incident with Panama must contain a link. There’s no way these were coincidences.”

“Rafe has developed a pretty good theory about that,” McCarter said. He looked at the Cuban and said, “You want to elaborate?”

Encizo ran it down for the Stony Man logistics crew, including his theory about the sub being in Panama to subsidize terrorist personnel requirements, and concluded with, “I’m guessing this is some sort of pipeline.”

“Sure,” Brognola agreed. “Plant Islamic radicals in Central America to set up connection points, then smuggle in personnel and feed them up the chain into America using the illegal immigration network. It’s nothing short of brilliant.”

“Well, al Qaeda’s been harping about something big, bigger than the attacks in New York and Washington, for years,” Hawkins pointed out. “It seems to me this would qualify.”

“And they would certainly need a lot more players to top 9/11.”

“They’re holding this guy under armed guard by the locals right now,” McCarter stated. “Since he’s obviously in the country illegally, they’re telling us this falls to the jurisdiction of the Panamanian government.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with that, Hal?” Hawkins said. “I thought they wanted our help.”

“I’m not sure, guys, but we’ll get on it immediately. You’ll get their cooperation one way or another, I guarantee it.”

“What about your CIA contact?” Price asked. “Have you met with him yet?”

“Not yet,” McCarter replied. “We—”

A steady rap at the door cut him short.

“Speak of the devil, that’s probably him now.”

McCarter nodded to Manning, who crossed the room to answer the door, James on his heels as backup. They were probably secure in this location but in light of recent discoveries that might point to the fact the place was crawling with al Qaeda terrorists, there wasn’t any point in taking chances.

Manning opened the door after verifying James was in position and stood aside to admit a tall, well-dressed man with short red hair and a strong jaw. The man’s gray eyes darted from man to man, and he took in the entire room with a natural pause. He didn’t wait but a second before he began speaking.

“Hey, fellas,” he said in a deep, scratchy voice with a Southern twang. He tossed a salute and said, “The name’s Herndon. I’m with the Panama desk.”

Their CIA contact.

“We’ve been waiting on you,” McCarter said tightly. “You were supposed to meet us here over three bloody hours ago.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I got held up.”

Before anyone could reply, Nativida burst into the room with a flushed face and sweat soaking through all the usual places on his nice suit.

“Gentlemen, please come now! The man you captured is about to escape!”




CHAPTER FOUR


It didn’t take long for Able Team to find the bodies of the two immigrants who’d been shot. As soon as they arrived, the trio took charge and formed a skirmish line. Two sheriff’s deputies located the bullet-riddled pair nestled between a large patch of sagebrush. Able Team ordered the teams to continue walking their skirmish line to search for any clues while they checked the bodies for identification. To no one’s surprise, they didn’t find any.

“No doubt they’re Hispanic, though,” Blancanales said as he eyed the grim scene before them.

Lyons looked up and squinted at the hills to the north as if the solution to this mystery might be hidden somewhere among them. “Okay, so we have bogus Border Patrol agents killing Mexican immigrants, and Arab terrorists, possibly al Qaeda, crossing into the U.S. unmolested. That makes no sense.”

“It would if we were to assume these two were the coyotes,” Schwarz replied.

“What?”

“Sure, think about it. Al Qaeda decides to use the Mexican pipeline to funnel terrorists into the country. It wouldn’t be difficult for Arabs to pose as Mexicans. They train them in the language, mark them up so the receivers on this end can sort out the wheat from the chaff, as it were, and there you go! An instant, nearly endless supply of bodies to assist in preparation for whatever operations they have under way.”

“It would be a pretty ingenious plot if you really think about it,” Blancanales added. “U.S. Immigration is so backlogged that they have to pass off a good amount of the scutt work to Border Patrol and local police agencies. Mostly they treat this problem like a day of fishing on the lake. Get one you don’t want, you just throw it back.”

Lyons nodded in understanding. “And they only take the most basic information in these roundups, so they can more quickly identify them if they return.”

“Right. This means we’d only be helping them build their identities as Mexican nationals.”

“It’s a ready-made recipe for deception,” Schwarz observed.

Lyons folded his arms. “So let’s assume for the sake of argument that al Qaeda’s cooked up a plot to use the Mexican immigrant system to smuggle operatives into the country. And let’s also assume they got caught with their pants down in Panama. Moving any kind of operation force across that many miles of jungle is risky, at best, not to mention the costs involved.”

“Not as risky as trying to sneak them straight into the country by more conventional methods,” Blancanales said. “You’re forgetting it’s a lot easier for them to get operatives with Muslim backgrounds into Central American countries than North American. They aren’t running planes into skyscrapers and bombing federal buildings in these countries, so officials feel they have much less to worry about from Islamists.”

“Nobody’s immune to the horrors of terrorism,” Lyons said.

“Yeah, sure, but tell that to these poor starving Mexican nationals when the terrorists are waving plenty of cash around. What we make in a month would take many of those people years to earn, Ironman. You should know that as well I do.”

“All right,” Lyons said. “But we need a place to start looking. If al Qaeda’s behind this, then its headquarters has to be close by. Question now is, how do we find them?”

Schwarz stuck up his hand. “I think I might be able to answer that one.”



F ADIL B ARI WATCHED the crowd of American policemen through binoculars from his vantage point in the nearby foothills. A couple of times he had to caution his men to be silent as they waited. Additional reinforcements had arrived, and they were scouring the dry, dusty flatlands, probably looking for signs that would assist them in picking up Bari’s trail. They wouldn’t find any. The man hadn’t built his reputation by being careless and unthinking.

Bari watched for another minute, then crawled behind a large boulder. Two of his crew waited there, watching him expectantly.

“They are still down there,” he told them. “I’m concerned they might spot us if we attempt to leave, yet we cannot hold here indefinitely.”

“What if we wait until dark?” one of the men asked.

Bari considered that a moment, then shook his head. “This will only give them more time to bring in additional personnel and equipment. I may not like it, but we should move now. Waiting only increases our chances of being cut off from the base.”

The men nodded, then all three of them crawled to another area where their six new arrivals waited.

Bari hadn’t counted on the Americans moving their construction project along as fast as they had. Many of al Qaeda’s connections had done everything they could to delay it. They had lobbied or bribed every politician and every leader of every special-interest group from the American Southwest to Washington, D.C. They’d also tried to infiltrate the scientific community, figure out exactly what the secret project called End Zone had to do with the construction of the border wall, but those attempts proved unsuccessful. Even their contacts inside the American press couldn’t figure out exactly what was happening until recently.

The cell leader and his men rallied the new arrivals and began the arduous trek over nearly half a mile of uneven terrain to reach the half dozen 4x4s that awaited them beneath heavy camouflage made with netting and natural elements. From that point, they would travel the twenty-odd miles to a natural lava flow along the area called Mt. Riley that had carved a belowground cavern converted to quarters for Bari’s cell.

Nearly four hours elapsed before the terrorist leader and his tired crew entered the comparative coolness of the rocky operations center. He ordered his men to point out sleeping accommodations for the six new men, and then get them cleaned up and fed. That attended to, he walked across the cavern and into a separate antechamber carved by the movement of superheated lava thousands of years before.

The chalky remnants of soot made it almost impossible to keep their computer equipment clean. Two of the men assigned to the operation were computer experts. The pair had hacked into a nearby cellular tower and used it to establish a wireless broadband connection. They had been using this to communicate with their support units around the globe via various Web site and e-mail servers used to deliver pornographic spam. Because those servers delivered thousands of e-mails an hour, it made it harder for U.S. security systems to sift through them to find the ciphers and other hidden code behind photographs. Al Qaeda’s specialists had found pictures of naked women and “legitimate” porn sites to be perfect methods for cryptic communications due to the sheer number of hits even one of those sites received in a single twenty-four-hour period. The computer specialists looked up when Bari entered. He nodded in way of acknowledgment.

“What have you discovered?” he asked.

Amer Rajiya, younger of the pair, replied, “It would seem the Americans are in the final testing phases of End Zone. It appears the system is designed to monitor the border wall and send information to their border patrol units. Additionally, the system also has some type of antipersonnel feature to it.”

“What kind of �antipersonnel feature’?” Bari demanded.

“We are not yet sure,” said Jainal Hapilon, a former member of the Abu Sayyaf. “But we know that it is capable of neutralizing our agents for an indefinite period of time.”

The news was anything but good. The operation wouldn’t be any easier from this point, and without proper support they might not be able to execute it at all. Everything relied on an adequate number of personnel, since the attacks required split-second timing and they wouldn’t get a second chance if they didn’t execute the plan in the proper places and under the proper timing. Bari didn’t believe in contingency plans. Missions for God were typically one-way missions, missions of sacrifice, missions of martyrdom. Bari had planned this one to the last detail—he knew he most likely wouldn’t survive.

“This is a disturbing development,” he told them. “We cannot move forward with our plans if we do not have everyone in place. We need to get word back to our people that we may experience a delay. As soon as you have done that, gather the team leaders together here for a conference.”

“What are we going to do?” Rajiya asked.

“What else can we do? We must destroy this technology and those who created it before it becomes fully operational. All else depends upon it!”



“I T’S KNOWN AS LANTIRN,” Aaron Kurtzman announced to Brognola and Price.

They were gathered in the Annex Computer Room and viewing a complex schematic of an electronic device projected on the massive LCD screen in front of them.

“That stands for Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared System for Night. The Air Force originally used it on their F-15 and F-16 fighter craft, but it always had the ability to be retrofitted to any system with a military-grade digital multiplexer.

“The radar system inside of it operates at an altitudinal range of ten to one thousand feet, so fauna won’t give it any problems but it will track anything above that. Since the wall’s twelve feet in height, it’s easily capable of tracking any object that comes over. Additionally, it uses laser-range finder technology to create 3-D models of the terrain. Any deviation above a certain nominal limit will trigger the system into remapping. This will automatically tell the monitoring system what deviation has been detected and the most likely cause of the deviation, be it human, animal or otherwise.”

Brognola nodded. “Impressive.”

“Not as much as this next part,” Kurtzman said with a wicked grin. He tapped the keyboard to display a picture of an oval-shaped device mounted to a section of border wall. “We got this photograph courtesy of Gadgets.”

“Looks like one of those giant golf balls you see on the top of some pro shops,” Price noted.

“It may not look that impressive, but believe me when I say it’s quite the little gadget. What you’re seeing here is merely the outer shell. It’s originally based on the MPQ-54 Forward Area Alerting Radar first put in production back in the early 1970s. Although it’s had a number of impressive modifications through the years, including a brand-new computerized interface, the core technology is still the same. It’s been enhanced with the Firefinder family of ground radar systems, originally used to locate mortars and other ground-based artillery emplacements. A favorite of military tankers and engineering units.”

“How does it work?” Brognola asked.

“It’s pretty similar to its predecessors but again, lots of neat mods. It uses pulse-Doppler range gates to paint a three-dimensional picture of some given area, in this case a section of the border wall. The beam is translated via servomotors capable of scanning a 120-degree sector ten times per second. When combined with the other systems, the radar network it provides becomes virtually foolproof.”

Price raised her eyebrows. “Virtually?”

Kurtzman shrugged with a sheepish grin. “No system is perfect, Barb. Not even the one I created for Stony Man.”

“It’s close enough,” Brognola said. “So how are we thinking about using the system to help Able Team?”

“That’s where we get to the cool part,” Kurtzman said. “We already have a link to interface Gadgets’s laptop back here. The nice thing about this system is that it just so happens to have portable modules. Gadgets thinks he can modify the technology to work on his system. They’ll then transmit their data back here where our processing power can go to work on it. With a little bit of time and a lot of number-crunching, we may be able to pinpoint where the terrorists are operating. Able Team figures they’re operating close to the Columbus port of entry in New Mexico, and I’d have to agree.”

“Once you have the data, how long will it take to narrow the possibilities?”

“Well, that’s the trick. We don’t really know yet. Much of it depends on how long it takes our processors here to sort through the data. We’re talking about very complex mathematical operations here. But I can guarantee you we’ll ultimately get pinpoint accuracy in the results, and we’ll be able to do it much faster than with anything the boys have on-site there.”

Price waited a moment to make sure Kurtzman was finished, then turned in her chair to face Brognola. “In the meantime, Hal, Carl informs me they’ll have plenty to do.”

“How so?”

“Well, Able Team’s concerned about the people who created End Zone. It’s very likely if al Qaeda discovers we’re onto them, they might target the project’s scientists or military personnel to delay the system from going live.”

Brognola considered this point. Al Qaeda might just try something like that if it thought it would benefit. The President wanted to make sure there were no incidents, and this one would definitely add fuel to the fire. They wouldn’t be able to keep it out of the papers, of that much he was sure. They could suppress the footage of the cameras, but they still had two dead Mexican nationals on their hands. The Oval Office would have a bit of explaining to do not only to America but to Mexican officials, who would want the full details.

“I understand,” Brognola said. “Tell Carl I said he can do whatever he has to do. A protection detail is going to spread them pretty thin, but I don’t see as we have many other choices right now.”

“I’ll let them know,” she replied.

“The best we can hope for now is that Phoenix Force comes up with some answers down in Panama,” the big Fed said. “The trail has to start there somewhere. If they can choke off the pipeline, hit al Qaeda’s Central American network at the source, that might just buy us enough time to locate their operations on the receiving end and neutralize them before they can execute whatever operation they have in mind.”

“Well, we did recently come upon some information that might help us nail down who’s behind this,” Price said.

She accessed a nearby computer terminal, then flipped the screen so Brognola could see it. It displayed the picture of a dark-skinned man, middle-aged, with close-cropped hair and black eyes. He wore a long, traditional beard in the style of a Muslim cleric.

“This picture was taken a couple of months ago in D.C. during the Islamic Freedom Movement march on the White House. It was run through facial-recognition software by one of my SIG-INT contacts at the NSA, and she immediately called me to tell me about it. The man you’re seeing here is Fadil Bari. He’s a known member of al Qaeda, and according to the CIA, one of bin Laden’s chief operational strategists.”

“How come he wasn’t picked up immediately?”

“By the time the NSA realized it, the march was long over. It took nearly two weeks for this to surface. It might have been missed altogether except for the fact my friend just happened to return from an intelligence brief that contained, among other things, a complete dossier on Bari.”

Brognola shook his head. “When is Homeland Security going to learn they can’t sit on these things? They should have had an army of observers there.”

“Well, we think al Qaeda slipped Bari into the country during the influx of Arab Americans. You’ll remember the nightmare it created, the airports and train systems flooded with every size and color.”

“Not much point in racial profiling there,” Kurtzman quipped.

“It’s still no excuse,” Brognola said.

“Either way, this is too much to be a coincidence. If there is a new plot under way by al Qaeda to implement another terrorist attack here in America, you can bet your sweet bippy that Bari’s at the core of it.”

Brognola nodded. “Okay, make sure you get this to the boys right away. One way or another, I suspect they’re about to need all the help we can muster.”




CHAPTER FIVE


A battery of machine guns positioned inside the Gamboa police station fired on the Phoenix Force team as it approached. Bullets zinged and whined off the street and others buzzed past their ears. Two officers had taken position behind their older-model SUV while another pair used the palm trees that lined the street for cover. Every time someone moved, the guns would open up again and make the place sound like a war zone.

“Bloody hell!” McCarter said as he sidled up next to the police captain behind their SUV. “What happened?”

The flush on the captain’s face told it all. He obviously hadn’t dealt with anything like this before, Gamboa being mostly a quiet tourist town, and the stress lines made it evident he wasn’t coping too well with their present situation.

“We got call,” he replied in broken English. “Man and woman fighting at hotel, but when we get to call nobody there. We come back and they start shoot at us.”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The terrorists had obviously lured the police away from here with a bogus call of a domestic and then sent a heavily armed crew into the station to get their man out.

McCarter turned to shout at James, who had taken up a cover position with one of the officers behind a tree. He held up two fingers and then made a circular motion to indicate James to choose a partner and try to find a way to flank the building. Phoenix Force had left the apartments in such haste that they hadn’t bothered to bring their communications gear. To make matters worse, they were only armed with the sidearms they had donned during the chopper ride from Panama City to Gamboa.

A fresh volley of autofire raked the street on Encizo’s heels as the Cuban rushed to McCarter’s position. “We’re going to get our asses shot off if we don’t equal the odds quick here.”

McCarter nodded. “I bloody well can’t argue with that, mate. Ideas?”

“Gary’s on his way back to the chopper to coordinate some air support from Jack, and of course you’ve just tasked Cal and T.J. to find a possible back way in.”

The incessant volleys of machine-gun fire died out.

“Finally,” McCarter grumbled. He jerked a thumb at the police captain. “His English isn’t that great. You want to rap with him and see if he can draw us a layout of the interior of that station? I want to know every exit in there. Every nook and cranny. Got it?”

Encizo nodded and immediately began to speak with the captain. Although the Spanish dialect was slightly different, Encizo had enough training that he was fluent in most of its variants and nuances, a great tool in this instance over McCarter’s limited knowledge of the language. For the moment, the terrorists had stopped firing, but Phoenix Force couldn’t count on things to remain that way for long. They would need to act fast if they planned to salvage any part of this mission.

Manning’s idea to go for air support had been a good one—McCarter wished for a moment he’d though of it first. While the converted Chickasaw H-19 didn’t have any exterior weapons they could use, turning rockets on the building was out of the question anyway since there were civilians and other innocents inside. McCarter had noticed during their trip that the machine-gun mounts were still intact. Fortunately, he had elected to bring an M-60 E-4 machine gun fitted with a short, heavy barrel designed for sustained fire from Stony Man’s armory. It now looked like they would be able to put it to good use, not to mention the fact that the chopper also contained the remainder of their heavy equipment.

McCarter drew his 9 mm Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather and jacked the slide to the rear. All they needed to do now was buy enough time for the cavalry to arrive.



G ARY M ANNING WHIPPED the Jeepney around a sharp curve in the road with such force that he almost tossed both his passengers out the side. Herndon kept his silence through most of the trip, but Nativida had squealed like a stuck pig through the entire trip to the heliport, and now he was really starting to grind on Manning’s nerves. Thankfully, the big Canadian would soon be out of the Jeepney and airborne with one of the finest pilots in the world at the stick.

Manning shouted for the men to brace themselves as he jammed on the brake pedal and brought the vehicle to a skidding halt. He bounded from the vehicle and raced around the tail. Jack Grimaldi, ace pilot for Stony Man and longtime friend of Mack Bolan, sat on the main cabin deck of the Sikorsky H-19, cigar in his mouth and some kind of electronic flight book in his hands.

He looked up in surprise at Manning’s stormy arrival. Around a mouthful of the stogie he said, “What’s up, Gar’?”

“Get her spinning, Jack,” Manning said. “We’ve got trouble.”

Grimaldi didn’t bother to inquire further. If Manning or any other member of the team passed on bantering, the pilot knew they were hot, and it wasn’t time to play twenty questions. He spun into the chopper from his perch and climbed into the elevated flight deck. Manning entered the main cabin after him and reached for one of the large cases stored in the cargo area. He flipped open the lid and removed the three major pieces of the M-60 E-4—stock, forward receiver, short-heavy barrel—he would need to assemble the weapon.

Nativida finally managed to climb down from the Jeepney and stagger over to Manning, leaving Herndon seated in back talking animatedly into his cell phone with someone. “Mr. Brown, this is not good. You cannot simply flit around our airspace and shoot up our buildings.”

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary,” Manning countered without taking his attention from his task, “but that’s exactly what we can do. Your police force got you into this situation, and now you’re going to need to let us get you out.”

“Not at the risk of innocent lives!”

Manning stopped and pinned Nativida with a hard stare. “There are already innocent lives at risk here. You have support staff in that building, not to mention the officer left guarding the prisoner. Now maybe the other prisoners you have in there aren’t angels, but I’m sure none of them have done anything to deserve to die. In all likelihood we’re dealing with al Qaeda terrorists. We can’t afford a standoff and my country’s government, just like yours, does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“I’m afraid in this case you’re going to have to,” Herndon said as he walked up and stood next to Nativida. “I just got off the phone with the deputy director. He’s advised me we are not to get involved until the proper channels have had time to consult with the Panamanian government about this.”

“I don’t work for you or the deputy director,” Manning replied flatly. As the rotor engines began to wind up, he added, “Now step off the pad. I wouldn’t want you to get your head chopped off.”

“I don’t think you understand, pal,” Herndon said, taking a step closer to Manning. “You are not auth—”

Manning drew his Colt Model 1911A1 in a single, easy motion and leveled it in Herndon’s face. “I think you don’t understand. If you’re not part of the solution, then you’re part of the problem. Now…step back.”

The two men complied and Manning holstered his pistol once they’d moved to a safe distance. He looked up to the cockpit and saw Grimaldi smile and shake his head. Manning shrugged and then gave the pilot a thumbs-up that said he was clear to go. The vibrations increased, the thrum and whine of the chopper’s turbine power plant increasing until they had reached sufficient air resistance to take off, and then Manning watched the ground move away from his feet. The big Canadian completed his assembly of the M-60 E-4 and then mounted it. Next, he donned a headset and gave Grimaldi the approximate direction of the police station as he hooked up the winch he’d use to lower their equipment to his teammates.

“They’re probably spread out,” he told Grimaldi, “so we might have to hover in different locations.”

“You know the position of the emplacements inside?” Grimaldi asked.

“Sounded like three separate guns going when we first arrived, all of them at the front. I’d recommend you make a couple passes, though, so we can get an approximate idea of where our people are positioned.”

Grimaldi waved to indicate he got the picture, and Manning went about the task of donning a harness and safety straps to keep him inside the cabin. Grimaldi would approach very hot and his turns would be steep. It wouldn’t do for Manning to be caught unawares and get tossed out inadvertently. The rest of Phoenix Force would be relying on him, and Manning had never let his friends down before.

He sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.

Manning took position behind the M-60 as they approached the police station from the southeast and drew back the charging handle as Grimaldi began a steep turn on descent. He locked his shoulder against the butt of the weapon and kept all senses attuned to action on the ground below. It took two passes before he spotted the police vehicles parked on the road. He could see McCarter and Encizo using the lead one as cover. He marked each location of the officers and then searched in vain for James and Hawkins.

Where in the hell were they?

Manning was about to have Grimaldi make a third pass when he glimpsed James and Hawkins beelining from beneath treetop cover straight for the rear of the building. Manning considered his options and decided James and Hawkins would be priority, since not only did they have the tactical advantage but their location didn’t pose as much exposure risk.

“See them?” he called to Grimaldi.

The pilot put the chopper into a dizzying tailspin as he looked in the direction Manning gestured. He nodded, then straightened his path and darted toward James and Hawkins’s position. Manning felt his chest lock against the harness as the nose of the Sikorsky dipped forward from Grimaldi’s rapid braking maneuver. The pressure subsided when the pilot got into hovering position, gun-side smartly faced toward the rear of the police station.

Manning disengaged the safety straps so he could reach the winch. He double-checked the quick-connects and then flipped the power switch on the machine and engaged the release. The equipment descended on a steel cable at a quick but steady speed. Manning watched as from beneath the canopy of green his two friends emerged to receive the goods like ancient Greeks standing with arms outstretched in a drenching shower of much-needed rain from the gods.

Manning waited until they signaled all-clear, then began to retract the winch. The job was half-done when he heard a tink from something striking the fuselage of the aircraft. Then another. Manning looked in the direction of the police station and spotted the muzzle-flash of a pistol. A gunman stood at the back door and triggered his pistol several times.

Manning called to Grimaldi to hold her steady, then got to business on the M-60. He leaned into the weapon, took aim and squeezed the trigger. A high-velocity storm of 7.62 mm rounds chewed up large holes in the mud-brick exterior of the station near the gunner. It took only two bursts before Manning got his range, and with the third he caught the terrorist with a volley that ripped open the man’s chest and knocked him off his feet.

Manning ordered Grimaldi to get them over the area where the police cars were. “And get us as low as you can, Jack. I’m going to drop the gear to them.” It would save time.

The pilot swung another perfect arc and came into a hover almost directly above McCarter and Encizo. Manning swung the equipment boxes into position and kicked them out as he kept the barrel of the M-60 trained on the front of the station house. The machine guns there opened up almost immediately, and Manning returned the fire with equal ferocity. Windows shattered and dust rose in thick clouds as Manning poured on a maelstrom of lead at 600 rounds per minute. Hot lead pounded the building as the barrel started to redden with Manning’s sustained fire. He swept the weapon in a corkscrew pattern across the two-hundred-some-foot width of the windows, cautious to keep the majority of the firepower on the probable location of the emplacements.

The weapon finally expended its ammo and Manning ordered Grimaldi to get clear. “We need to find a place to land, Jack.”

“Already got it,” the pilot replied.

Two minutes later he was touched down in a clearing about a hundred yards from ground zero. Manning quickly disengaged the M-60 and then tossed a salute of thanks to Grimaldi before rushing from the chopper.

The big Canadian broke through the brush and found himself on a direct path to McCarter and Encizo’s position. He slowed to a steady jog and made contact with his friends unmolested.

“Greetings, guys,” he said. “Mind if I join the party?”

Encizo grinned as he slid into a flak vest he’d pulled from the gray strongbox. “Only if you have your invitation.”

Manning patted the M-60. “Right here.”

“That was Johnny-spot-on with the air cover, chum,” McCarter said with a slap to Manning’s shoulder. “I owe you one.”

“Great. Maybe I can use you as a business reference.” Manning risked a glance at the front of the station to inspect his handiwork. “What’s our situation?”

“They’ve been quiet since you laid out those no uncertain terms for them,” Encizo replied.

“We may have neutralized them in front, but Jack and I damn near got our asses shot off in the rear. They’ve moved at least one of those machine-gun emplacements to the back of the building.”

“All right,” McCarter said as he handed a headset to Manning and then clicked on the receiver of his own. “Red Leader to Red Team Baker. You copy?”

“Red Team Baker copies,” James confirmed through their headsets.

“Sitrep.”

“In position, side three.”

“You geared up?”

“Roger that, Red Leader.”

“Good. What do you make?”

A pause, then, “One, say again, one HPMG on point and three minis. No probes, no touch-offs.”

“Acknowledged,” McCarter said. “Stand by.”

Okay, so they faced one heavy-purpose machine gun supported by three personnel armed with at least pistols. They hadn’t traded fire with the enemy to verify actual position or strength, and getting inside would prove to be very difficult unless they could find a way to neutralize the terrorist defenses. Manning shook his head in disgust and blew out a ragged breath, then exchanged looks with Encizo and McCarter. “Doesn’t sound like their situation’s improved any to ours.”

“Sounds like it’s worse,” McCarter replied.

“You think a frontal assault is too risky?” Encizo asked the Phoenix Force leader.

McCarter nodded. “I don’t relish getting my team shot up because my arse got itchy, mate. We have to think this through.”

“Maybe I can provide us a distraction,” Manning suggested.

“What kind?”

Manning flashed him a wicked grin. “The kind that goes boom.”




CHAPTER SIX


The plan as they presented it to Calvin James and T. J. Hawkins sounded decent enough, and if anyone could pull it off James knew Manning could.

“How long do you think this little distraction of Gary’s will give us?” Hawkins asked James as they lay behind a decorative hedge no more than twenty yards from the station house.

“Maybe ten seconds.”

Hawkins turned to study the facade of the building. “That should be enough to cross that gap and make entry.”

James nodded. “Just in case, though, I’d suggest only one of us make a try for it. If that machine gunner’s alert, the diversion may not even buy us that much time, and it wouldn’t hurt to have some covering fire on the trip.”

“Agreed. Which one of us do you think can get the most out of that trip?”

“Probably you. You’re younger and smaller.”

James checked his watch. “We’ve got forty seconds to H-hour.”

Hawkins nodded and James could see from the intensity on his friend’s face he was mentally preparing himself for the sprint. McCarter had radioed the plan in very cryptic terms. Manning planned to rig a satchel charge to blow a large hole at the front southwest corner of the building, the reception and seating area. Phoenix Force hoped it would make the terrorists think they were trying to breach the building and force them to re-focus their defensive posture on that area. They couldn’t be sure it would make them redirect their firepower to the front, but McCarter had indicated he thought it might just divert enough attention to buy James and Hawkins what they needed to get up close on the station house. Heavy-purpose machine guns weren’t much good in close-quarters battle.

The explosion came right as James called “mark” in his mental countdown. He slapped Hawkins after a three-count, and the Phoenix Force warrior burst from cover. James steadied his M-16 and let loose a sustained volley of 5.56 mm rounds. The weapon chattered, muzzle spitting flame, as James laid on a firestorm that blew out glass and chewed through the facade. Hawkins had nearly reached the wall before the machine gun started up, but by that time the terrorists were too late—they couldn’t possibly hit him at that angle.

Hawkins made the wall, turned and crouched with his back to it. The machine gun stopped firing as he yanked an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary hand grenade from his harness, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb through the shattered window from which the smoking barrel of the machine gun protruded. James could hear the shouts of surprise. A moment later those shouts became screams of agony as the grenade exploded and distributed 4,000-degree molten iron capable of burning through armor up to a half-inch thick. That heat would melt that machine gun to slag and neutralize any enemy within immediate reach.

James ceased firing, jumped to his feet and sprinted to his teammate. He took a similar position, back to the wall, and grinned. “Nice job, pal.”

Hawkins nodded in reply, apparently still too winded to speak.

Shouts of shock and pain still emanated from the window near the machine-gun emplacement as James and Hawkins made their entry through the rear door by shooting out the lock. They crossed the threshold, stepped over the body of a terrorist and were greeted by a horrific scene. The TH3 had done its job. The smell of cooked flesh nearly overwhelmed the pair.

James pumped a pair of mercy rounds into each of the terrorists, then said, “Let’s see if we can find our prisoner.”



T HE EXPLOSION FROM M ANNING’S diversion signaled a time for action to McCarter and Encizo.

The pair left the cover of the police vehicle and split off to storm the station house from two directions. McCarter suspected at least one of the machine-gun emplacements had been destroyed by Manning’s onslaught from the chopper, which left only one machine gunner to contend with. As they got close to the front door of the station, the machine gun began to sound off.

But only one.

Encizo intended to take care of the other one. The Cuban rolled behind a large, decorative boulder positioned on the front lawn of the building. Rounds from the machine gun zinged off the rock or chewed up the ground around the boulder.

Encizo nodded at McCarter, who had secured cover behind the single, large tree directly opposite the boulder. The warrior dropped to a knee, leveled his HK33E carbine in the general direction of the enemy emplacement and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle of McCarter’s assault rifle spit flame as it delivered its 5.56 mm rounds at a cyclic rate of about 700 per minute.

Encizo primed a pair of M-67 fragmentation grenades, stood and tossed them one after the other through the run of windows. He and McCarter ducked behind the boulder. Moments later the grenades exploded, seconds apart. The Phoenix Force duo charged the front door. They waited on either side, backs to the wall, until Manning showed up with his M-60 and then made entry. Encizo went right, Manning left and McCarter straight up the middle.

Two terrorists popped up from behind the reception desk and leveled their SMGs at Manning. McCarter realized his teammate couldn’t respond in time with his bulky weapon and provided a solution to the problem. The Briton eased back on the trigger of the HK33E carbine and caught the first terrorist with a flesh-shredding burst to the chest. The man dropped from sight behind the counter. The second terrorist lost his head with McCarter’s follow-up shot as a pair of high-velocity rounds split his skull down the center, splattering blood and brain matter in all directions. The terrorist staggered blindly while what was left of his brain told the rest of his body he was dead. Then he crumpled to the floor.

“Hold position,” McCarter ordered Encizo.

The Cuban turned so his back faced the hallway and then tracked the room with the G-11 while McCarter and Manning sprinted down the hallway to the jail. McCarter demanded a sitrep from James and Hawkins as Manning filled the bolt lock of the door leading into the cell block with C-4 plastique.

“All clear,” James replied.

McCarter acknowledged him and peered through the square, bulletproof glass window of the heavy metal door. He looked to see Manning use a pencil to form a hole in the center of the plastique packed into the lock. The Canadian explosives expert then inserted a blasting cap with a small electronic receiver on the end of it.

“Let’s go,” Manning said, and the two backed a respectful distance and turned away their heads.

The big Canadian made a show of raising the small detonator box and flipping a switch. The powerful plastique made short work of the lock with an explosion that was deafening in the confines of the hallway. The pair rushed the door and Manning kicked it aside. He and McCarter nodded to each other, then burst into the cell block.

Manning spotted a terrorist exit a cell at the far end, the one where they were holding the prisoner. He shouted a warning to McCarter as the hardman sprayed the narrow walkway with a firestorm of lead. Manning and the Phoenix Force leader went prone and opened with an equally violent reply. Dozens of high-velocity slugs perforated the terrorist, opening bright red splotches in his belly and chest. The impact slammed the enemy gunman against the concrete wall and he slumped to the ground.

The Phoenix Force warriors got to their feet and rushed to the cell. The sight wasn’t pretty. Their prisoner sat partially upright on the metal bunk that folded out from the wall, his head cocked at an odd angle and his tongue hanging free from his gaping mouth. Blood and bits of flesh were splattered across the back wall in a grisly mosaic. More blood ran freely from the numerous bullet holes in his upper torso. Many were so close together and in such number that parts of the man’s intestines and other internal organs were visible.

“They executed him,” McCarter said. “Just in case he talked.”



“W HATEVER INTELLIGENCE our prisoner might have had,” David McCarter announced to Price and Brognola, “al Qaeda definitely wanted to make sure we didn’t get our hands on it.”

“We agree,” Brognola replied. “I can’t see them going to that great a risk unless the man was somehow critical to their operations.”

“Well, obviously they know we’re onto them now,” Price added. “They’ll be even more careful.”

“Right,” McCarter said. “Which is going to make it bloody hard to pick up their trail.”

“Can’t your Panamanian contact with the government assist with that?”

“Who? Nativida?” McCarter asked. He directed a pointed look in Manning’s direction.

Manning didn’t take his eyes from McCarter’s as he replied, “Well, there might be a bit of a problem with that. I’m afraid he’s feeling a bit uncooperative with us at the moment, as is probably Herndon.”

“Who?” Brognola asked.

“Kelly Herndon,” McCarter said. “Our CIA contact.”

A moment of silence followed, and Phoenix Force knew that Brognola and Price had gone to side conference.

“I’ve asked Barb to look into him for us,” Brognola said. “Offhand, though, his name doesn’t ring any bells with me.”

“I don’t think he’s had much of a notable career,” Encizo replied.

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say that I don’t think they’ll be getting in Gary’s face again anytime soon,” McCarter stated.

“All right,” Brognola replied, his voice saying he wasn’t totally satisfied with the answer but neither did he feel like pushing it. “Let’s just not shake up these people too much. They’re a valuable source of information, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to alienate them.”

“What about their orders to cooperate fully with us?” Hawkins asked.

“Nativida’s and Herndon’s interference might have cost the rest of us our lives, Hal,” McCarter added. “I’m not bloody well keen on someone risking my teammates on what amounts to little more than territorial politics. That’s to say nothing of the fact that delay might have contributed to our losing the only decent lead we had to al Qaeda’s plans.”

“I understand,” Brognola replied, “and I’m not saying you didn’t do right on this. Just asking you to keep the more sensitive issues in mind for the future.”

“Got it.”

“I just finished talking to Aaron,” Price’s voice cut in, “and he’ll be sending down Herndon’s info as soon as possible.”

“Thanks,” Manning replied.

Price continued. “We also have an update for you on Able Team. They found the bodies of the two Mexican nationals who were shot to death in New Mexico. They think al Qaeda definitely has something going in the immediate area, and Gadgets is working on modifying the End Zone system to track them down. We’ve also confirmed that a few months ago a man named Bari entered the country. He’s a top-level strategist for bin Laden and his presence in the country only confirms what we’ve been suspecting for some time.

“Bari sits on the ten-most-wanted lists of at least a dozen free nations. He’s as dangerous as they come, and I’m sure he’s probably the mastermind of this entire operation. Able Team has already provided us with some pretty damning evidence of his potential involvement.”

“And with Bari at the helm,” Brognola added, “you can bet things are only going to get worse.”

“Okay, thanks for the intel,” McCarter said. “I’m going to talk this over with the team and we’ll let you know what our next move is as soon as we’ve settled on it.”

“Acknowledged,” Brognola replied.

“Good luck,” Price said. “And be careful.”

They disconnected the call.



“T HOUGHTS ?” M C C ARTER ASKED his teammates.

“Let’s look at what we know,” James said immediately. “We have an al Qaeda brainchild in the U.S., obviously sent by bin Laden to plan and coordinate some type of major attack.”

“And to do that, he needs bodies,” Manning concluded.

Encizo nodded. “There’s no question the guy they killed in that jail cell had information critical to their operations, otherwise they wouldn’t have risked a half dozen personnel to kill him when they already have a potential shortage.”

“Right,” McCarter said. “This means they must have something up their sleeve they’re going to have to act on real soon.”

“Maybe they’re planning to move the personnel,” Hawkins offered.

“What do you mean?”

The Southerner waved his arm for emphasis. “They have an operation they have to get off the ground soon. Something big and bold, maybe something nobody would even think about. We’ve all agreed they obviously need a certain capacity of bodies to complete this mission, otherwise they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to start with. Keep in mind they’ve probably been funneling personnel into the U.S. for months. But if they’re smuggling them in through Panama, they have to get them from one point to the next.”

“He’s right,” James said, picking up Hawkins’s train of thought. “And the only way to do that is to utilize a network already established.”

“Of course,” Encizo said. “It all makes sense now. We know they used the immigration problem to get their people into the United States, so why not funnel personnel through the Central American drug corridor.” He looked at McCarter and added, “Drug dealers are more than happy to enter into any transactions that help fund their operations, and they aren’t too particular about who they work with as long as the other side’s paying cash.”

“So you think they’re running this human pipeline up through Central America via the powder trail,” McCarter said.

All of the men nodded their agreement and the Phoenix Force leader had to admit they were onto something. Their theory didn’t explain everything, but it did happen to fill a lot of the holes. Maybe their prisoner had this information, maybe he just knew the route. Whatever the case, it was their first and best place to start.

“Okay,” McCarter said. “If there are no other suggestions, we go with this and see where it leads us.”

“Great,” Hawkins chimed in. “But where do we start?”

A rap came at their apartment door and Encizo opened it to admit Robert Nativida. The interior secretary greeted each of them with a somber expression. Obviously he’d been in touch with his superiors, and they weren’t happy with the incident that had occurred earlier in the day.

Nativida cleared his throat and walked straight to Manning. As he extended his hand, he said, “I am obliged to apologize for my…indiscretion, sir. I hope you will excuse the behavior.”

Manning looked at the others in surprise and then shook Nativida’s hand. “No hard feelings.”

Nativida nodded, then turned to McCarter. “My government wishes to extend its thanks for your assistance today. We have confirmed only the terrorists suffered casualties. All our people are safely accounted for and as such you are to be commended. I have been instructed to cooperate fully with you and to satisfy any request you may have.”

McCarter smiled and then rose to stand in front of Nativida. “If it’s all the same to you, we’ll pass on the medals. But there is something I think you can help us with.”

“And what might that be?”

“Tell us about your drug-running problem.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


The first thing Able Team decided to do was to gather the scientists and other key personnel involved with End Zone into a secure location. The al Qaeda terrorists would consider the best chance of success lay in their ability to kill the designers and builders of the system. That meant Able Team had to act quickly to ensure their safety, and getting them out of Albuquerque and ensconced in a controlled, inconspicuous location.

Government officials tried to discourage Able Team from taking the scientists away from the labs, citing their security as some of the best of the country.

“I have no doubt about your security capabilities,” Lyons said. “But this isn’t a matter of keeping out your average bad guys. We’re talking about terrorists, and unless your people took some kind of intensive training I don’t know about, you’re not equipped to keep out al Qaeda operatives who are bent on killing these people.”

Ultimately they were forced to acquiesce when a call from the Oval Office made it clear they were to cooperate fully.

Two unmarked sedans with a detail of U.S. marshals took point and rear positions, with Able Team’s SUV and one with the scientists wedged between them. Stony Man had arranged for a safe house for the scientists at Elephant Butte—a reservoir fed by the Rio Grande tributary—just north of the tourist town of Truth or Consequences. The safe house, actually a cabin surrounded by woods, would provide a quiet place where the scientists could continue their work but provide an adequate defense posture.

The biggest concern on Lyons’s mind was the transit time. He would have preferred someplace closer but ultimately they decided the transfer was worth the risk, and it wasn’t likely the terrorists would know about the move.

Midway between Socorro and Truth or Consequences Lyons noticed the large semitruck as it merged onto Interstate 25 from Highway 107. The truck driver had seen the sedan as it passed to his right. The marshal at the wheel got smart and signaled a lane change, the SUV driver following his lead.

The semitruck driver either didn’t see the SUV filled with scientists or he didn’t care, because he swung onto the highway and immediately matched their speed as he cut into the far-left lane. The driver had to jam on his brakes to avoid being sideswiped.

“This is it!” Lyons announced. The Able Team leader watched as the SUV driver did the natural thing and slowed, then swerved into the right-hand lane and onto the shoulder. “Tell him to keep going!”

Blancanales got on the shortwave and gave the driver the instructions while Lyons waved at him to get alongside the semitruck. They passed the accelerating SUV on its left, then swung into the right-hand lane and closed on the rear tail of the semitrailer. Up ahead, Lyons saw smoke from tires locked up against pavement as the driver slammed his tractor-trailer into the rear of the point vehicle. By what could only be good training, the U.S. marshal at the wheel got his sedan under control by executing a power slide that took him off the road and onto the right shoulder, his nose now facing oncoming traffic.

Without hesitation Lyons rolled down his window and took aim at the rearmost wheels, triggering his Atchisson autoshotgun twice. The pellets easily penetrated the tires and produced an instant blowout from which the truck driver would never quite recover. The guy overcorrected in his steering and with a pop from the Jake-brake, the semitruck jackknifed and left the roadway with a screech of rubber on pavement.

Blancanales brought the SUV to a rocking halt on the shoulder of the road, and Lyons burst from the vehicle. He reached the side of the semitrailer in less than ten seconds, approaching from the driver’s side. The Able Team leader knelt and raised the Atchisson to his shoulder. The driver’s door opened and a young, Arab-looking male dropped from the tractor-trailer with an AKSU machine pistol in his hands. He never got a chance to use it. Lyons squeezed the trigger and delivered a blast that blew off the terrorist’s lower leg at the knee. The AKSU flew from the terrorist’s fingers and skittered off the shoulder into a steep ditch.

Blancanales went EVA in time to see a terrorist drop from the passenger side just as one of the escort sedans ground to a stop in the middle of the outside lane. Four agents leaped out, pistols in the hands of three, while a fourth toted a short-barreled Remington 870 shotgun. Blancanales saw the automatic rifle in the terrorist’s hands before the marshals did, but his shouted warning came a moment too late. The terrorist leveled an Israeli-made Galil and triggered a sustained burst. The two marshals who had occupied the front seats fell immediately under the onslaught of 7.62 mm lead.

Blancanales whipped out his P-239 and drilled the terrorist with a double tap.

A torrent of autofire buzzed past his head, a few striking the SUV with a metallic clang. The Able Team warrior turned in surprise to see a panel van parked on the inside shoulder of the divided highway, half a dozen terrorists firing on him and the marshals. Blancanales turned and dived inside the SUV, crawling over the console and rolling out the passenger door in a moment of self-preservation. He looked over just in time to see Lyons jump into the cab of the tractor-trailer.

What the hell was he doing? Didn’t he realize they had come under fire? Then Blancanales heard the engine roar to life and he grinned.



C ARL L YONS SLAPPED the wheel of the semitruck in victory as the engine roared to life. He took in the shift pattern diagram at a glance, then dropped the pneumatic-assisted shift lever into Reverse and engaged the accelerator as he used the vertical steering handle to whip the wheel in the opposite direction he wanted to move the trailer. The tractor-trailer lurched into life. Lyons alternated between his rearview mirrors as he moved the trailer into position between the terrorists in the grassy divider and their SUV. Lyons mused how kind it had been of the terrorists to provide such a barricade.

As he heard the rounds begin to strike the back of the trailer another idea popped into his mind. Lyons continued spinning the wheel hard to the left until he could see the terrorist’s panel van appear in his driver-side mirror. Then he moved in the opposite direction and poured on the speed. A moment later he was rewarded with the sound of metal crunching metal as he backed the trailer down the shallow embankment of the divider and directly into the front fender of the panel van. The trailer continued backward until it rode over the hood of the van’s front pickup chassis and crashed into the A-post, effectively crushing the cab of the vehicle.

Lyons leaped from the cab and yelled at the remaining U.S. marshals to get in their vehicle and get out of there. The men complied, and Lyons then called into the lapel microphone of the radio that the team should continue to the safe house. Idiots. Instead of doing their job—protecting the scientists and seeing them safely from points A to B—they were out here with what amounted to popguns trading shots with a crew of hardened al Qaeda terrorists armed to the teeth with automatic weapons.

Lyons stood by as the pair of sedans blasted down the right lane under cover of the semitrailer while Blancanales kept heads down with a barrage of rounds from his pistol. Once they were safely clear, Lyons joined Blancanales behind the cover of the SUV, trading his Atchisson Assault 12 with an M-16/M-203 combo from the floor of the backseat. He passed an M-16 assault rifle to Blancanales.

Lyons reached into the satchel on the seat, withdrew a 40 mm high-explosive grenade and loaded the launcher. Through clenched teeth he told Blancanales, “Time for thunder.”

The Able Team leader flipped the leaf-sight into play, moved to the front of the SUV and broke cover by steadying the weapon on the hood. He acquired a point beneath the semitruck trailer where it met the panel van. The weapon kicked his shoulder, the grenade hitting ground zero and detonating a heartbeat later. Half the terrorists were unable to escape the unexpected delivery of high-explosive charges. Red-orange flames and thick, oily smoke kicked into the sky as the gasoline fumes from the panel-van engine ignited. The intense heat melted tires to pavement as well as flesh from bone.

The three terrorists who managed to escape decided that charging the fortified position of their opponents seemed like a safer strategy than waiting to be incinerated behind inadequate cover. Lyons and Blancanales dispatched the terrorists with unerring marksmanship.

The echo of reports died away and left only a thunderous silence in Lyons’s ringing ears. Neither man left his position for several minutes, although to the combat-weary pair it seemed like an hour. Finally, Lyons twirled his finger to signal his belief they were clear. The pair rose and Blancanales checked the three dead terrorists on the highway for identification while Lyons frisked the pair that had manned the semitruck.

“Nothing. No big surprise there,” Blancanales remarked.

“This also means al Qaeda has someone inside the government’s security net,” Lyons stated.

“We’d better let Hal and friends know as soon as possible.”

“And Gadgets.”



“N O , I UNDERSTAND ,” Hermann Schwarz said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. See you soon.”

Schwarz hung up the phone and sighed, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His backside hurt, his muscles ached and his stomach growled for attention. The Able Team computer wizard looked at the thick, orange curtains as they bobbed in the breeze of the air-conditioning unit vents mounted into the wall below the window.

At some point it had grown dark outside. He climbed from his chair with a groan and went to the refrigerator of the hotel room they had set up for him about a mile off post. He didn’t like being here alone—especially not with his friends in the heat of the action without him—but Stony Man had decided it was better if he kept to himself for the time being. The unit members out of Fort Bliss assigned to work on End Zone were as vulnerable to attack from al Qaeda as the system creators, and they couldn’t afford to lose such a valuable member of the team. Schwarz remained a critical component in this operation given his familiarity with the system coupled with his expertise in electronic surveillance.

Schwarz removed some cold cuts and bread acquired from a nearby deli and went about the task of making a hoagie. After his lunch he got back to business. The system modifications had proved more difficult than he originally assessed but finally the algorithms were complete and he had transmitted them to Kurtzman. It was now basically in the hands of the Farm’s cybernetics experts to complete the original interface. That’s where the real expertise would come in. Schwarz didn’t try to be self-effacing about his abilities but he was generally a hardware man; Kurtzman, Carmen Delahunt, Akira Tokaido and Huntington Wethers were the main players in Stony Man’s technological arsenal, and a hell of an arsenal it was.

Schwarz added some notes to the schematics he’d been studying, then looked at his watch for the fourth time in an hour.

“Come on, Bear,” he muttered. “Call me back.” The harsh ring of the landline startled him and he studied the phone a second before picking it up. “Were your ears burning?”

“What’s that?” Kurtzman replied, although he caught the reference. “Sorry, it took a little more time than I thought.”

“Understood.”

“You got the call from Ironman?”

“Yeah,” Schwarz replied. “Just hung up maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Barb told me you should be extra careful,” Kurtzman said.

“Tell Mommy I’m fine. Really.”

Kurtzman paused for effect. “Maybe I’ll leave you to tell her that.”

“Chicken.”

“No, smart.”

Schwarz chuckled. “Okay, so give me the scoop.”

“All right, we ran your computations through our database. I also had Akira program some additional software algorithms into the graphics-rendering engine, so that should help you with the analysis part.

“Your idea to mount the tracking domes to the sides and top of that van and run them from a multibattery-supplied power unit’s brilliant. You can then pipe the wireless signal back to us as you follow the designated route and we’ll get that data into the system pronto.”

“How long do you think it will take us to pinpoint their base of operations?”

“Well, if our logistical calculations are correct about what’s a practical geographic boundary for al Qaeda to operate in, I’d be willing to say we can find them within a two-mile square radius in less than eight hours.”

Schwarz whistled his amazement. “Not bad at all, Bear!”

“We aim to please.”

“What about the operation itself? You guys got any further developments on that?”

“Barb’s still running down possible angles that could give us a better idea of Bari’s movements over the past few months, but you already know we’re not sure how soon that will develop some tangible leads, if ever. She did want me to tell you we think he left Washington, D.C., by private transportation headed for Chicago where he then got on the train for Albuquerque.”

“So there’s little doubt he’s heading up this operation.”

“Right.”

“Okay then.” Schwarz sighed. “I’ll get my equipment gathered up and get it transferred to the van. Then I guess it’s wait on Ironman and Pol.”

“When are they scheduled to be there?”

“Ironman said he thought shortly after midnight.”

“Well, you just watch it until then.”

“Okay,” Schwarz replied. “Oh…and, Bear?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Barb and Hal—No, check that. Ask them to get rid of the watch detail parked outside my motel. I’m sure they’re attracting more attention than helping and I don’t really need a babysitter.”

“I’ll pass the word but I can’t promise they’ll do it.”

“Understood, and thanks. Out, here.”

Schwarz disconnected the call and stared at the phone for a minute. An old clock on the wall ticked through the seconds—loud and annoying in the silence of the room. Schwarz reached his arms overhead, stretched and yawned, then closed the lid on his laptop and disconnected the cord attached to the unit power adapter from the wall socket.

He stood and pulled back the edge of the curtain to check on the two federal agents in the unmarked sedan he’d spotted parked there on his arrival early that afternoon. He didn’t know which agency they were with. NSA? U.S. Marshals Service? Military Intelligence? The sedan sat in the same place, but Schwarz couldn’t see the faces of the occupants because they were beneath a streetlight and the light reflected off the windshield. He let the curtain fall back and returned his attention to his laptop.

Schwarz lifted the computer from the table and then froze. Two trained agents who were assigned to a protection detail would never park their sedan under a streetlight. It would give any enemy observers the advantage because they could see the target was under observation and come up with some alternate plan, not to mention the fact it put the agents at risk.

Schwarz dropped the laptop and rushed to the front door. It swung inward with swift and violent force, and the edge caught Schwarz unawares in the shoulder. He bounced off it like a tennis ball. The Able Team warrior staggered backward but training took over and he rolled onto his back and kicked his right leg over his left shoulder as he tucked chin to chest. He continued through the backroll and came upright on one knee as four al Qaeda thugs charged through the doorway.




CHAPTER EIGHT


Schwarz didn’t have time to go for his Beretta 92-F in shoulder leather.

Fortunately, the first terrorist in line offered up his own weapon, an Italian-made Spectre submachine gun. The guy leveled the SMG at the Able Team warrior’s head, but he came a little too close in the effort. Schwarz grabbed the weapon and yanked downward as he sprang to his feet. With the terrorist off balance, Schwarz changed the direction and swung the man in a circle so that they now faced the man’s three comrades. The electronics wizard jammed his right thumb against the terrorist’s trigger finger and sprayed the unprepared trio with a swarm of 9 mm Parabellum rounds.




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