Читать онлайн книгу "War Tactic"

War Tactic
Don Pendleton


Profit PiratesTensions between China and the Philippines are on the rise, and a series of pirate attacks on Filipino ports and vessels only makes things worse. Phoenix Force discovers that the pirates are armed with American weapons. As they struggle to neutralize the threat on the sea, Able Team must hunt down the mastermind behind the attacks before the United States is forced into war.Stony ManThe best military fighters and cyber techs from around the world, the Stony Man teams are on the front lines of America's war against terror, wherever it takes them. These elite black ops warriors put their lives on the line in the name of freedom.







PROFIT PIRATES

Tensions between China and the Philippines are on the rise, and a series of pirate attacks on Filipino ports and vessels only makes things worse. Phoenix Force discovers that the pirates are armed with American weapons. As they struggle to neutralize the threat on the sea, Able Team must hunt down the mastermind behind the attacks before the United States is forced into war.

STONY MAN

The best military fighters and cyber techs from around the world, the Stony Man teams are on the front lines of America’s war against terror, wherever it takes them. These elite black ops warriors put their lives on the line in the name of freedom.


“NOW, GARY, NOW!”

Manning made no reply. He didn’t need to. The automatic grenade launcher began spewing 40-millimeter death at the already crippled motor launch. The grenades blew the little boat to cinders, biting off great chunks of it, as if the vessel were being devoured from stern to bow. The flaming bodies that were thrown into the sea bore horrible testament to the destruction.

McCarter turned his attention back to the boat that was still moving.

Grimaldi did the same. He was harrying the motor launches to keep them from targeting the Filipino ship again with their handheld rockets.

From what McCarter could see of the men on the decks, they didn’t look military. At least, they weren’t wearing uniforms. But there was more. Military men had a certain bearing and, from what little he could see through the smoke, the sailors on the motor launch didn’t have it. They were casual. Pirates, or maybe civilian contractors. But how would such men get their hands on the latest high-tech weapons from the US, weapons whose export was strictly controlled?

Either RhemCorp was careless or RhemCorp was dirty. But they didn’t yet know which.


War Tactic






Don Pendleton









CONTENTS


Cover (#ud559552b-580f-5848-bd7d-812999eadff8)

Back Cover Text (#uc08e6392-84a0-5e69-b904-d4724039eb15)

Introduction (#u92f596f1-3aed-5abc-a01e-984238449b1d)

Title Page (#uf02e2518-1cf6-5b63-93bd-940a8275bca3)

Prologue (#u2e8a61da-6c95-5f24-a5e3-272c8c50a369)

CHAPTER ONE (#u70978f39-6a87-52b4-8bbc-2b473c6bfcff)

CHAPTER TWO (#ud789cca2-6544-52d9-b04d-711540f6a1e9)

CHAPTER THREE (#u443ae35f-0f96-587f-a25a-d46e294c0449)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ue1e2b019-0014-5705-947c-780a82ca4dd6)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u4dd8f00e-0d8f-511b-84c9-de847aac64c5)

CHAPTER SIX (#ub3d44b77-3830-5858-a836-29bee000c975)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE


The South China Sea

Yanuar Wijeya squinted at the ship in the distance as he stood on the bow of the Penuh Belut, a rust-eaten, twenty-five-meter dhow, or Arab freighter, that served as the mother-tender to his two fast-attack motor craft. Salt spray flecked his face. In his gnarled fingers he held a pair of binoculars, only one half of which still worked. The other set of lenses was badly cracked and stained. With one eye closed, he could see his first mate, Mhusa, in the lead fast-attack vessel. The deceptively soft popping of gunfire, mild at this distance, told him that his men were already taking fire from the Filipino freighter.

The freighter was a large one, many times the size of his own craft. While it could have outrun the Penuh Belut, it had no chance to flee the motor craft. The captain of the Filipino vessel had opted to turn and fight rather than let Mhusa’s crew use the freighter for target practice.

Wijeya wore combat boots without laces on otherwise bare, callused feet. His cut-off jeans were bleached yellow-white from dirt, oil and the pitiless sun. The handle of a machete jutted from the MOLLE-equipped scabbard on his back, which also bore a pistol-grip shotgun. In the rhinestone-studded belt that barely held his pants above his hips, Wijeya carried two Indonesian kerambit knives. The ring-handled knives with their curved blades were the only reminder of his homeland, which was otherwise a place he was happy to leave behind. Also behind his belt was a pitted Soviet Bloc Makarov pistol. Wijeya had himself pried the pistol from the fingers of a dead man.

From the pouch tied to his belt, Wijeya took a khat leaf, telling himself he would permit himself no more this afternoon. The drug was a pleasant one, a stimulant that sharpened his senses, helped him keep his edge. He had, however, seen too many men fall under the spell of the leaves. He had no desire to hollow himself out, or worse, to become distracted and sick if the supply were to dry up. Khat, like every other luxury aboard the Penuh Belut, ebbed and flowed. There were days that they were rich and days that they were poor. Until very recently, the poor days had far outnumbered the rich ones.

But not so much now.

As if his benefactor could read his thoughts, the satellite phone in Wijeya’s pocket began to vibrate. Sighing, the pirate captain pulled the device out and pressed the glowing green key. The voice he heard was familiar. Its owner had never wasted time saying hello to him, or asking after the well-being of his crew.

“Are you on schedule?”

“We are doing it now,” Wijeya answered. He was not an uneducated man. He spoke English well; he had attended the National University of Singapore, a final gift from his once-affluent parents. His father had been a supremely arrogant man, unable to see the folly of his ways even when a series of reckless investments had left the family destitute. The thought made Wijeya want to laugh. His benefactor reminded him often of his father. It was the haughty way both men spoke. Perhaps, one day, the invisible man on the satellite phone would swallow a gun barrel the way Wijeya’s father had.

The thought brought a smile to the pirate’s lips.

If only my father could see how far I’ve come, he thought. There was real bitterness in him, he knew. But a man was what he was. He remained as he had been made.

“We are taking the ship now,” Wijeya said. He pressed the working half of the binoculars closer to his eye and recited the registration number of the vessel. “This is the one you specified, yes?”

“Yes,” said the voice. “Are you in the correct position? The locations have been calculated for specific impact. It’s a pattern. I don’t want you to deviate from it.”

“This you say to me every time we speak. I waited until we reached the coordinates you specified. I was careful. I am always careful.”

“See that it remains that way,” the voice warned. “Your success in the region is thanks to the XM-Thorns I’ve been sending you.”

“Yes. This I know,” said Wijeya. “Very well. You promised us more. And more rifles. More ammunition for them.”

“You will have it,” the voice promised. “Put in to your usual port and I’ll make sure the provisions are waiting for you. I always do.”

“Yes,” said Wijeya. “This I know.”

“No prisoners this time,” said the voice. “Leave none alive.”

“But—” Wijeya began.

The line went dead. Wijeya took the phone from his ear and stared at it. Always, it was the owner of the voice who cut off the transmission. Never had the mysterious speaker bothered with parting sentiments. The pirate switched the phone to standby, noting the battery charge percentage, and tucked it back into his pocket.

He told himself that this invisible man, the voice, was a means to an end. He had first encountered emissaries of the voice while in one of the ports of call his crew frequented. Those had been lean days, scratching out a living taking whatever vessels they could, never daring to attack a ship much larger than their own. Controlling the crew, in those days, had likewise been difficult. It was back then that Wijeya had been forced to fall back on his Silat training; the martial art of the blade that, when he had learned it as a child of privilege, had been little more than theory to him.

Again he laughed to himself. When his father had agreed to pay for private lessons from a wizened old man from a nearby village—a man renowned for his Silat prowess—no doubt Wijeya’s parents had thought the move one to keep their rebellious son out of trouble. Give him the discipline of a martial art, they had thought. Give him something to fill his idle hours. Yet today Wijeya had killed no less than four men in personal hand-to-hand combat with his kerambit knives. Three of those had been crew members who sought to take the title of captain from Wijeya. One had been a drunken fool in a port town, who had been quicker with a switchblade than Wijeya would have thought the old drunk capable. The scar that now curled across Wijeya’s abdomen was proof of that.

He told himself to focus on the task at hand, to stop wool-gathering while his face grew slick with droplets of sea foam. Once more he pressed the working lens of the binoculars to his eye. Behind him, he could hear Lemat, the little Frenchman, bearing the walkie-talkie. Lemat’s approach was wreathed in static. Wijeya smiled at his own joke.

“Captain,” said Lemat. “The launches report they are ready.”

“Tell them to begin the attack,” Wijeya directed, never taking his eye from the motor craft circling the target freighter. Sporadic gunfire continued from the deck of the target ship. That was a surprise, honestly.

Shipping lines, despite the increased dangers to their freight from pirate crews like Wijeya’s, had felt the turn of the global economy just as had everyone else. They were always looking for ways to cut costs. One of the methods they employed was cutting back crews, which left little extra manpower for such things as guards. Wijeya knew that some of the ship captains had taken it on themselves to purchase, quite illegally, arms with which to equip their men. The idea was that in the event of pirate attack, the crew would take up weapons and fight off boarders. Every major shipping company had corporate policies forbidding this practice, but men had a way of ignoring rules that could get them slaughtered.

Still, it would not matter. Not in this case.

“Move us in,” Wijeya told Lemat. “Prepare to support our boarding crews.”

Lemat gave the order. The Penuh Belut began to vibrate beneath him as her diesel engines thrummed to life. Large quantities of black smoke began to spew from the aft section of the old boat. Wijeya knew every inch of the dhow’s deck plates, every streak of rust, every weld. He had spent more years aboard her now than he cared to think.

“Sir?” Lemat prompted. He held the walkie-talkie to his ear. “Mhusa asks if he may fire rockets.”

“Tell him above the water line only,” Wijeya said. He waited while Lemat relayed the order. Moments later streaks of smoke joined the motor launches and the upper decks of their target. The explosions that rang out scattered men from the deck of the larger ship. Soon, automatic gunfire from Wijeya’s attack boats carried across the water.

The automatic weapons were nothing special, but they were reasonably new and all in good working order. Kalashnikov rifles were plentiful in this part of the world. A man with enough cash could purchase a warehouse full of them for twenty dollars US each. But Wijeya’s benefactor saw to it that the flow of ammunition for the weapons, new and reliable magazines, and parts for repair was steady. The voice knew Wijeya’s major ports of call in the area and never failed to arrange for supply drops.

More important than the automatic weapons, however, were the XM-Thorns. The high-tech rocket launchers had given Wijeya the power to take on craft many times his size. The rockets and their launch tubes were made of a high-tech, carbon-fiber and alloy combination that resisted salt corrosion, making the weapons light and easy to store aboard ship. With the XM-Thorns, it was possible for Wijeya’s launches to attack even a cruise liner if they so chose.

Large craft had a number of weaponry that could be employed against pirate ships. The bigger the enemy craft, the greater the danger. Some of the weapons employed by captains in the region were approved by their corporate masters and some were not. While cowardly businessmen disapproved of giving crewmembers SKS rifles or handguns, they were happy with anything that was not a gun that could still drive away the likes of Wijeya. One of the most popular options, given the vast quantity of water available, was high-pressure hoses. Another, employed mostly by the affluent cruise liners, was a sound cannon. Wijeya, before his benefactor had found him, had once been on the receiving end of such a sound weapon. It had been…unpleasant.

But everything had changed one day in a seedy bar in Manila. Wijeya and what was left of his crew at the time—Mhusa, Lemat and two or three others—had been drinking away their latest failure, determined to use up the last of their coin. Staring into the bottom of a dirty glass full of rum, not sure what he would do next or how he would survive, Wijeya had thought perhaps he was destined to keep failing at life. Bitter recriminations had rolled through his mind, waves crashing on the breakers of his failed dreams.

But then a stranger had handed him a business card.

Wijeya remembered looking up at the stranger. The man had the look of a go-between, a messenger. Nothing about his features was remarkable. The stranger had nodded once at the card then disappeared into the smoky darkness of the bar.

On the card was written nothing but a phone number. It had taken a few more drinks before Wijeya’s curiosity got the better of him. Expecting some sort of scam, some kind of confidence routine, he had dialed the number, prepared to take out his frustrations on whoever answered. It would feel good to shout at someone. Perhaps then he would get into a fight. With the cracked receiver of the bar’s pay phone to his lips, he listened to the ringing at the other end while sizing up the other patrons in the bar.

There, he thought. That one. The one with the fat face and the loud mouth. He looks like he might be Samoan. I will enjoy putting my fist through that face.

But then a voice had answered the telephone call.

Over the course of many telephone calls to come, Wijeya would come to know that voice, the voice of his benefactor, very well. The voice had told him that a very special man was being sought, a man who could take instructions exactly. The reward for following such instructions would be wealth and success, more than any pirate could ever want. The means through which this would be done were simple: all a good pirate needed to conquer even the largest vessels was the correct weaponry. Would the latest XM-Thorn rockets, capable of sinking even a cruise ship, not be sufficient to such a task?

Wijeya had told the voice he thought it might be.

And so Wijeya had entered into the service of the mysterious voice. He supposed he would never know how long the voice’s agents had spied on him, watched him and evaluated him before Wijeya was finally given the business card. It did not matter. He did not care. All he cared about was money. Thanks to his benefactor, thanks to the voice, there had been plenty of that.

Wijeya had often considered the possibility that his was not the only crew his benefactor had chosen to finance. This simply made sense. Whatever the voice might be trying to accomplish, the pirate attacks were clearly being coordinated across a large area. That explained why the coordinates were so precise, and it also explained the voice’s insistence on strict timetables. A single pirate ship that started attacking where it was not supposed to could easily run afoul of other crews funded by the voice, could it not? At least, that was how it seemed to Wijeya. Not for the first time, he pondered what it was his benefactor might be trying to do. And then…what would happen to Wijeya and his crew when the voice achieved its goal?

In the back of his mind Wijeya knew that there was great danger here. It might not be near. It might be many years yet in coming. But he was not stupid. He knew that his benefactor had something more in mind than simply advancing the lifestyles of pirate crews. Wijeya’s attacks were very specific, conducted at times and locations of the voice’s choosing. Sometimes the targets were also specified, and other times it was enough that he find any vessel within a given range of coordinates. Just what this was accomplishing for the voice, Wijeya did not and could not know. But he knew he was a pawn. He knew that when his usefulness to the voice ended, he would either be cut loose to make his own way or he would be killed.

The former was, fortunately, the more likely. A man of wealth and power who had little time to spare on hellos or goodbyes would hardly occupy himself with the assassination of one such as Wijeya. It was far more possible that one day the calls and the weapons would stop coming. At that point, it would be up to Wijeya to leverage the success they had experienced thus far.

Already, he and his crew were several steps ahead of most typical pirates. They were not scrounging just to eat. They were actually making a profit. Most of his men drank and whored their way through whatever shares they earned. Mhusa, who cared as little for money as he did for the future, gave most of his earnings away. Lemat was investing his and probably had a foreign bank account, as well, but then, Lemat was always overqualified to be a pirate. He had been some kind of accountant or businessman in his previous life, before a disgrace had prompted him to leave. How a man like that managed to adapt to life at sea, Wijeya did not know. But Lemat had already managed to serve with distinction aboard a cruise ship, acting as purser, before he’d been caught embezzling and thrown in prison. Wijeya had caught wind of it in yet another portside bar. Sailors talked. He had needed someone who could help him with the financial aspects of his business. So he had bribed Lemat’s way out of jail and spread around enough money to ensure the Frenchman’s freedom that Lemat was beholden to Wijeya from that point on.

Wijeya had also explained to Lemat that, should the Frenchman ever steal from Wijeya as he had stolen from previous employers, Wijeya would flay him alive. The warning seemed to have had its desired effect.

The Penuh Belut passed through a pall of black smoke wafting from the deck of the target freighter. Wijeya waited while his men moored the tenders alongside the motor craft, which were secured to the sides of the target vessel with grappling hook lines. Each launch had one man with an AK-47 in it, to stand as guards. Wijeya’s other crewmen, led by his first mate, the one-eyed Liberian, Mhusa, would already be aboard. He could hear sporadic gunfire, but it was all the hollow metallic clatter of Kalashnikovs. That meant his men had control of the target ship.

Lemat threw a grapple, the line to which was also connected to a rope ladder. Crewmen already aboard the target freighter hauled the line up and pulled the rope ladder with it. Wijeya used this to ascend, planting his feet on the deck of his prize. His attack crews were already rounding up the enemy sailors. A cluster of prisoners stood on the deck. Mhusa, with his AK-47, glowered at them. A nearby pile of captured rifles showed that most were bolt-action Mausers. There were a few ancient Russian rifles mixed in, and one or two M-1 carbines. A few clips of ammunition were scattered among the pile. The poor sailors had not had much with which to work. They had been no match for Wijeya’s men.

Mhusa separated an older man from the group of prisoners and shoved him forward. “This is their captain,” he said. “His name is Gable.”

“Take your hands off me!” said Captain Gable. “This is a violation of maritime law!”

Wijeya stood in front of Captain Gable. He reached behind his back and withdrew the machete from its scabbard. “There is no law here,” he said. “There is only strength.” He motioned to Mhusa, who forced Gable to kneel. To the Liberian, Wijeya said, “Lean him forward. I want a clear shot at his neck.”

“What?” Gable protested. “You can’t be serious.”

“Kill the others,” Wijeya ordered. There was a sudden thunderous report as two of Wijeya’s men opened up with their automatic Kalashnikovs, murdering the survivors among Gable’s crew. The dead prisoners fell to the deck on top of one another. The spreading pool of blood quickly reached Wijeya’s boots.

“Wait,” Gable said. “Wait!”

Wijeya raised the machete. “No survivors,” he repeated.

“There’s no need for that!” pleaded Gable. “You don’t…I mean, we can work something out! Ransom, yes? My company would probably pay a ransom. You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” said Wijeya. “I do.”

The razor-sharp blade of the machete sang downward.




CHAPTER ONE


Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, pushed a lock of honey-blond hair from her eyes as she climbed out from under the briefing-room conference table. Examining her tight slacks for dust, she brushed her hands across her thighs and looked to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. Kurtzman was sitting in his wheelchair, looking at her expectantly.

“Well?” he said.

“Let ’er rip,” Price stated.

Kurtzman nodded and pressed a button on the control box in the surface of the table. He had spent the past few days wiring up new, higher-resolution, flat-screen monitors for the walls of the briefing room. Tasks such as these were among the hundreds of behind-the-scenes undertakings that Kurtzman and his cybernetics team fulfilled in support of the Farm’s missions. While Kurtzman’s upper body was massive and he could easily have pulled himself under the table to make the necessary connections, Price had offered to do it for him, if only to save him time.

At Kurtzman’s touch, the wall screens switched on, displaying a test pattern.

“Well, that looks good,” said Price. “We should be ready when Hal calls for the briefing.”

“Yeah,” Kurtzman agreed. “I just want to—” He stopped. One by one, the wall screens switched from the test pattern to the image of a rounded, purple cartoon monster eating a lollipop. As Price watched, amazed, the monster began to find its way through a series of mazes bearing math problems. At the end of each passageway, it devoured another piece of candy.

“What in the world?” Price asked.

“Gadgets.” Kurtzman spit the name as if cursing.

“Gadgets?” Price asked. “What does he have to do with it?” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz was the technical expert on Able Team, one of the Farm’s two counterterror teams. He was as skilled with electronics and hardware as Kurtzman, the Farm’s computer expert and support team leader, was with software.

“Our network runs in several shells,” said Kurtzman. “I keep the loosest security on the outer shell, the one that runs the office hardware. Encryption for our transmissions is handled on a deeper level of the network. But the outer layer, the one that handles just general connectivity among the hardware, can be adjusted internally.”

“I don’t follow,” said Price. “What’s the connection?” She pointed at the cartoon monster. “What is that, Bear?”

“That,” Kurtzman explained, “is Candy Monster Maze Farm online, one of the most popular smartphone apps on the market. It’s one of those addictive puzzle games. I keep deleting it from the outer network shell. Gadgets keeps hacking his way in to put it back on, no matter how many times I revoke his admin privileges.”

Price hid her mouth behind her hand so Kurtzman would not see her smile. Schwarz was a notorious practical joker whose antics often helped the Farm’s personnel blow off steam. Given the extreme stress under which they all operated, Price was secretly grateful for Schwarz’s effect on morale. It might explain why, even though Able Team’s leader, Carl Lyons, was an irascible grump, unit cohesion in Able Team was as high as it had ever been.

That was also true of Phoenix Force, Stony Man’s other counterterror team. Before David McCarter had become the leader of Phoenix Force, he was noted for his sharp tongue and glib nature. Yet the Briton had been awfully serious in the years since assuming leadership of the team, following the death of veteran Farm commando Yakov Katzenelenbogen.

It was true what they said about the mantle of leadership. Price spent all her time worrying about the personnel of both teams, not to mention the support personnel who held them all together and made their missions possible.

Kurtzman had produced a wireless compact keyboard and was now typing furiously at it. The purple, spherical monster was replaced on the wall screens with lines of code. As the monitors returned to the test pattern and then to a live feed of Hal Brognola sitting at his desk, a voice shouted from the corridor outside the briefing room.

“No!” said Schwarz as he walked through the doorway. He was holding his secure satellite smartphone and watching the screen as he walked, tapping away with both thumbs. “I was almost to level ten. Now I’m going to forfeit my bonus lollipops.”

“Gadgets—” Kurtzman snarled.

“Uh,” Brognola interrupted from the wall screen. “If we could begin? I have an appropriations committee meeting in half an hour.” Brognola was speaking from his office on the Potomac. As Director of the Sensitive Operations Group and one of the few men alive who understood the extent and scope of the Stony Man Farm Operation, Brognola had his fingers in a lot of pies in Washington.

Not for the first time, Price looked at the big Fed, wondering about his health. Over the years Brognola had cut back on a number of bad habits as stress, work load and time had conspired against him. How he managed on a day-to-day basis was a testament to his mental and physical strength. Nobody was shooting at Hal—although, over the years, that had happened a time or two—but he shouldered a load that was as great or greater than any of the fighting personnel on the Farm’s black-ops staff.

Schwarz put his phone on the table. Kurtzman glared at the slim, nerdy-looking counterterrorist. Schwarz offered a sheepish grin before turning to greet his fellow Able Team members.

Drinking from a disposable coffee cup that was probably full of Kurtzman’s own nuclear-strength brew, which Kurtzman fermented in an industrial coffeemaker in the Farm’s office annex, Carl “Ironman” Lyons strode into the briefing room. He nodded at Schwarz before settling his big frame into a chair of his own. The former LAPD detective was a big, imposing man…with a temper to match. Nonetheless, he was an extremely effective leader. Being able to tolerate Schwarz’s sense of humor on a daily basis was probably a big point in his favor.

Behind Lyons was Rosario Blancanales, who had been nicknamed “Politician” for as long as Price had known him. Blancanales, a soft-spoken Hispanic man with gray hair, was an expert at “role camouflage” and a former Black Beret. As Lyons and Blancanales exchanged knowing looks first with Schwarz and then with Kurtzman—who was still doing his best to look angry at Schwarz—Price signaled Kurtzman to bring up the satellite feed for Phoenix Force. The Phoenix Force team was preparing to embark from an air base in Manila and had set up a portable satellite transmission unit in one of the outbuildings. It looked as if the five members of Phoenix Force were sharing space with several stacks of wooden crates and other supplies, including a leaning tower of oil cans.

While they barely fit within the field of view of their field camera, the members of Phoenix Force were all present. There was David McCarter, the fox-faced Briton who was their team leader. Beside him crouched Rafael Encizo. The stocky, Cuban-born guerilla fighter was much shorter than square-jawed giant Gary Manning, a demolitions expert who had once served with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Kneeling in front of them was Calvin James, a lanky black man and former Navy SEAL from Chicago’s South Side. Also kneeling to fit within the camera frame was T. J. Hawkins, the youngest member of the team. The Georgia-born former Ranger had also earned himself a set of para wings along the way. His easygoing manner belied just how experienced he was at what all the Phoenix Force commandos excelled—the dealing out of fast, efficient, overwhelming force.

“Okay, Hal,” Price confirmed. “We’re go.”

Brognola cleared his throat. He pressed a button on the keyboard at his end. The display of his office was replaced by a graphic representation of the South China Sea, with several blinking target points indicated.

“Beijing has laid claim to most of the South China Sea,” he said without preamble. “This isn’t the abrupt territory grab it might seem. They’ve been rattling their saber in the area for quite some time. It wasn’t that long ago that they started sending oil rigs into the region, stepping up their resource exploration in waters claimed by nations like Vietnam. Sovereignty over all kinds of islands, and the waters around them, is in dispute. Most of Asia is getting nervous because China has gotten more and more aggressive over the past few years. They’re the new military power on the block and they know it.”

“Like their new stealth fighter, which uses stolen American Raptor technology,” Schwarz put in.

“Just so,” said Brognola. “China also has a pretty spotty record of conducting �military exercises’ in the area that have proved dangerous to anyone who gets in the way. They’ve consistently expanded the budget for the People’s Liberation Army. Throughout Asia, world leaders are concerned that China is getting ready to just take what it wants, and the rest of the world can like it.”

“Given how badly stretched our own military is,” David McCarter said, “it makes sense. The Chinese are starting to feel like they can do what they want and nobody’s going to stand up to them.”

“There’s that,” said Brognola. “But, potentially, it’s already gotten to a shooting war, albeit a poorly publicized one. These red target indicators all designate locations for raids. Several Filipino ports and a number of cargo vessels and naval craft have been attacked. Some of the survivors of these raids are claiming the attackers were running Chinese colors, although so far, there’s no proof of that.”

“So they’re, what, trying to back up their claim to the area through force?” Lyons asked.

“Possibly,” said Brognola. “Beijing swears it isn’t behind the armed aggression, although the Filipinos are screaming bloody murder and asking for NATO intervention. It isn’t just the Philippines that have seen their ships attacked, either, although so far they’ve taken a good portion of the damage. And it isn’t uncommon for China to say one thing while doing another. The tensions are high. The entire region has become very volatile.”

“What’s our stake, Hal?” Lyons asked.

“The Man wants us to get to the bottom of the attacks,” Brognola replied. “Obviously there are very sensitive politics at play.”

“You mean the Chinese hold our markers,” said McCarter. “And they’re not shy about letting us know we owe them money.”

“The global economy is more complicated than that,” Brognola said. “If things go south between the US and China, it will have far-reaching effects throughout the world, not just for us or for them. And, frankly, if China is getting more aggressive, we may need to step in and put them down.”

“Except we can’t look like we’re doing that,” said McCarter.

“Correct,” said Brognola. “That’s why it’s us and not a more overt military action. The White House considered sending a carrier into the region, and still might, but that’s symbolism only. What we need is real problem solving…but the problem solvers can’t be linked to the United States government. That’s where Phoenix Force comes in.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter said quietly.

Brognola pretended not to hear. “The world cannot afford war with China. But first, we’ve got to neutralize the immediate threat while getting to the bottom of what’s going on. We have tasked several of our newer satellites to tracking the comings and goings of the marauder ships. Using advanced imaging technology similar to methods we’ve employed before, we have produced a list of potential target sites, as well as probabilities for future raids. There is definitely a calculated pattern to the attacks. They are not random. Your job, Phoenix, will be to neutralize the raids while determining, if you can, who the players are. You will be supported by Jack Grimaldi, who’ll act as your pilot for both transportation and air support.”

“We saw G-Force outside,” Calvin James said. “He’s got a pimped-out Sikorsky waiting for us.”

“And Able, Hal?” Lyons asked.

“That’s where the other shoe falls,” said Brognola. “What evidence the Filipinos have recovered points a strange finger away from China and toward the United States. Several fragments and discarded pieces of weaponry have been recovered from the raids. They’re the latest high-tech hardware from RhemCorp, a United States contractor.”

Schwarz made an exaggerated face-palm. “Not again.”

“Gadgets is right,” Blancanales said. “This wouldn’t be the first time we’ve encountered an American businessman selling high-tech weaponry to foreign powers. I’m starting to think the security clearance process our military employs for vendors may be seriously flawed.”

“Regardless,” Brognola continued, “Able will investigate RhemCorp’s facilities here in the United States. Export of the weapons concerned is strictly controlled by US law and security regulations. The only way these weapons are getting out is if they’re doing so illegally.”

“Let’s just go arrest the guy,” muttered Lyons. “I guarantee you it’s the suit in charge.”

“RhemCorp’s CEO is this man,” Price said. She reached across Kurtzman and tapped a key on his keyboard. The photo of a middle-aged man with oddly smooth features appeared on the wall screens.

“Whoa.” Schwarz whistled. “Somebody’s been at the Botox.”

“That guy’s doctor left him with just the one expression, I guess,” Lyons said.

“Harold Rhemsen,” said Price. “He’s forty-five years old. No known political ties. He’s a registered independent. No affiliations to any group more controversial than the local rotary. We’ve been through his business records.”

“I searched pretty thoroughly,” Kurtzman advised. “Obviously we can always go deeper. He could be hiding things using shell corporations we’ve not yet discovered. But so far, no smoking guns. Whatever he’s doing, if he is dirty, is pretty well concealed, and probably goes back a long way.”

“How so?” Brognola asked.

“I can answer that,” Schwarz offered. He was quietly typing with his thumbs on his smartphone again, but he did not even look down as he spoke. “Financial fraud is like trolling the internet. The longer you have to set up your dummy accounts, the older they’ll be when somebody looks at them, and the more legitimate they’ll appear.”

“Spoken like a man who has done his fair share of online trolling,” Kurtzman commented, spearing his colleague with a disapproving eye.

Schwarz flushed slightly. Kurtzman picked up for him. “The point is,” said Kurtzman, “everything about Rhemsen could be made up, but if it was established long enough ago, it’s going to take a while for us to find evidence of that.”

“I still say we just roll in there and arrest him,” Lyons said. “He’s going to lie. And then we’re going to leave. And when we come back he’s going to try to kill us. Let’s just cut to the end.”

“Five bucks says he tries to kill us right way,” Schwarz said.

“You’re on,” said Lyons. He turned away from the electronics expert as the monitors switched from the picture of Rhemsen to the feed from Brognola’s office.

“If I could continue…” Brognola cleared his throat again. “Obviously, I need you to use some discretion. Able Team will be operating under the auspices of Justice on this, since the origin of the US-made weaponry has nothing to do with China itself. But of course the two are connected, if only because the raids are being conducted using these illegally obtained rocket systems.”

“XM-Thorns,” Schwarz declared, apparently scrolling through data that had been uploaded to his phone. “Nasty stuff. Very compact. Very light and very powerful.”

“Yes,” Brognola agreed. “That’s part of what makes this so urgent, separate from the greater political concerns where China is involved. Bear has transmitted complete mission dossiers to all of your secure smartphones, including the specifications for the recovered weaponry, the target lists and real-time updates as our satellite imaging provides new data for Phoenix.” He looked down at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to that meeting.”

“We’re on it,” McCarter stated. “Wheels up in five.”

“Thanks, Hal,” Price said. “Stay safe.”

“This is Wonderland,” Brognola responded. “Nobody’s safe. Good hunting, all of you.”

The screens went blank and then returned to the test pattern. Lyons stood and gestured to his Able Team colleagues.

“Let’s move, ladies,” Lyons grumbled. “I’ll draw an SUV from the motor pool and have Cowboy fill it with things that explode.” He was referring to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s armorer.

“Catch you later,” Schwarz said to Price and Kurtzman. Blancanales nodded. The two men followed their team leader into the corridor, leaving Price and Kurtzman alone in the briefing room.

Kurtzman pushed his chair away from the table. Just as Price, too, started to rise, the image on the conference room screens once again became that of the purple, spherical monster chasing candy through its puzzle maze. Kurtzman sighed heavily and put his head in his hands.

Price hurried out, hoping she could make the control room before she started to laugh.




CHAPTER TWO


Fayetteville, North Carolina

“Level twenty-one,” Schwarz announced triumphantly. He went through the motions of a little victory dance in the passenger seat of the old Chevrolet Suburban, something he had been developing for the past several levels. Or at least, that was what he had been telling Blancanales and Lyons. From the driver’s seat, Lyons shot him a sidelong glance.

“You can quit that anytime,” he growled.

“No, I really can’t,” Schwarz said. He had his secure satellite smartphone in his hands and was once again playing the candy monster game. He did not look up as he spoke. Blancanales, as he often did, pretended not to hear the exchange, instead watching out the window of the SUV.

The old Suburban was one that had been in the Farm’s motor pool rotation for a while. It had steel running boards, which you hardly ever saw on big SUVs these days. It even had a few patched bullet holes that Blancanales had noticed when Lyons had first brought the vehicle around. He knew that, regardless of its appearance, the old truck would be well maintained by the mechanics at Stony Man Farm. Not for the first time it occurred to him how fortunate they all were to be able to take the maintenance of their vehicles and weapons for granted.

The resources of the Farm were extensive, but they were not limitless. Brognola went through a number of different legal and political gymnastics in Washington to divert the funds from various black bag project budgets to pay for the Farm. It helped that the President of the United States was in on the Sensitive Operations Group’s existence, of course. The Man always saw to it that budget expenditures manipulated by Brognola were signed off as they came up. But it was still an ongoing battle, not just coordinating a venture as elaborate and as dangerous as the Farm’s counterterrorism efforts, but also making sure the budget money flowed where it needed to flow. Blancanales understood very well the politicking and people wrangling that must come with the job. He was glad the tasks did not fall to him.

“Level twenty-two!” Schwarz whooped and moved his arms in a tight circle like a sorority drunk at a nightclub.

“I am going to throw that thing out the window,” Lyons threatened. “You’ve been doing that for the past two hundred miles.”

“I could go back to �I spy with my little eye,’” Schwarz said. “I spy—” he began.

“Pol,” Lyons said without turning to look back at Blancanales. “I want you to take out your Beretta, put it to the back of my head and put me out of my misery.”

“You can make it, Ironman,” Blancanales said encouragingly. “Maybe focus on the mission. Count to ten and think of England.”

“One,” Lyons muttered. “Two. Three…”

They were outfitted with their usual complement of personal weapons, as well as some of the latest goodies from Stony Man Farm’s armorer. Lyons was carrying his customary Colt Python in a shoulder holster under his bomber jacket, while Blancanales and Schwarz had opted for light windbreakers to conceal their pistols. Blancanales had long ago become very comfortable with the Beretta M-9, while Schwarz often opted for the Beretta 93-R machine pistol. His slightly oversize, select-fire pistol also rode in a shoulder holster. His twenty-round magazines were also compatible with Blancanales’s weapon, should it come to that.

In a large duffel bag in the back was Lyons’s tremendous automatic shotgun, a drum-fed Daewoo USAS-12. There was also a cut-down Colt 9 mm SMG for Schwarz and a short-barreled M-4 carbine for Blancanales. Plenty of loaded magazines, grenades, explosive charges and other hardware had been provided—Blancanales wondered, sometimes, how many blacksuits spent their days just thumbing ammunition into magazines for the Farm’s counterterror teams—as had been an M-32 six-round 40 mm grenade launcher. The modified Milkor MGL-140 with a fore-grip, collapsible modular buttstock, recoil pad, and quad-rail Picatinny fore-end could empty a half dozen grenades on target in less than three seconds. Their grab bag of firepower from the Farm also included plenty of Hellhound breaching/antipersonnel rounds and DRACO thermobaric grenades. Blancanales would have to check to be sure, but he thought their load-out also included some buckshot rounds—each grenade boasting twenty-seven 00 buckshot spheres that could blow a cone almost a hundred feet across at almost 900 feet per second.

It was a pretty typical bag of tricks for Able Team.

Each man also carried a tactical one-hand-opening folding knife with an integral guard, sizable chunks of steel that had been honed to razor edges. Blancanales had been resisting the urge to play with the one issued to him. It was clipped inside his right front pocket.

“Level twenty-three,” Schwarz announced. He turned to regard Lyons smugly. Lyons kept his eyes on the road, but Blancanales thought he could see the big former cop’s shoulders tense. Lyons might not really snatch the phone and pitch it out the window, but he seemed to be giving it some serious thought.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Lyons said, still staring straight ahead. His knuckles grew less white on the steering wheel as he spoke. “We hit the parking lot and break out the heavy hardware. Gadgets, you break left, cover the left side of the lobby as we head in. Pol, you break right. Watch the flanks while I drive up the center. You’ll lay down covering fire as I—”

“Wait,” Blancanales said. “What?”

“Uh,” Schwarz said. “Ironman?”

“What?” Lyons said, sounding annoyed.

“Are you…are you planning to just roll in and shoot everybody?”

“Well, what else?” Lyons said. “Obviously he’s the bad guy. He’s going to try to kill us as soon as he figures we have enough evidence to take him down. So, like I said at the briefing, we just cut to the end. It will save a lot of time and hassle.”

“You’re not serious,” Schwarz argued.

Lyons sighed. “No. I’m not. But it got you to put down that damned game for thirty seconds, didn’t it?”

Blancanales looked at Schwarz, who looked at Lyons. Lyons looked at both of them before turning his attention back to the road. Then Carl “Ironman” Lyons began laughing. It was a deep, hearty laugh.

“You had me going,” Blancanales admitted.

Schwarz blew air through his mouth. “Yeesh,” he said. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Ironman.”

“You’re already on it,” Lyons said. “You and that candy monster whatchamacallit.”

“Level—” Schwarz started.

“You announce what level you’re on one more time,” Lyons warned, “and I’m going to throw you out of this truck at seventy miles per hour.” Schwarz wisely chose not to comment further. “Twenty bucks says this Rhemsen character tries to punch our tickets the moment he thinks he can’t get away with his lies.”

“You’re on,” Schwarz said. “We’ve seen too many corrupt captains of industry. Sooner or later one of them’s bound to be a patsy.” He looked back at Blancanales. “You want in on this action, Pol?”

“I know better than to get in the middle of you two when you’re bickering,” Blancanales said.

“This isn’t bickering,” Lyons said. “I’m not bickering.”

“I might be,” Schwarz said.

“Might?” Lyons shot him another side-eye.

Blancanales could not help but grin. It was not too much longer before the windshield-mounted GPS announced the turn for their destination. Lyons pulled onto the RhemCorp property and rolled up to the guest parking spots near the front. He was careful to back the old Suburban in for a fast getaway, should it come to that. While he was doing that, Blancanales sent a scrambled text to the Farm from his satellite smartphone, alerting Barbara Price and mission control that they were on-site and preparing to make contact with Harold Rhemsen.

“Check it,” Schwarz said as they exited the vehicle. He jerked his chin toward the guards at the front door. There were two outside the building, one on either side of the ornate double doors. Both had Brugger and Thomet MP-9 submachine guns with extended barrels and skeletonized stocks. The weapons had red-dot optics and fore-grips with built-in weapon lights.

“That’s a lot of hardware for civilian contractors on American soil,” Blancanales noted.

“There’s still time to break out the bigger guns,” Lyons said. “I’m game.”

“Now you’re just teasing,” Schwarz put in.

“Come on,” Lyons said. “Let’s go through the motions.” He reached under his bomber jacket and adjusted his shoulder holster. As they neared the security guards, the insignia on the two operatives’ uniforms became visible.

“Blackstar,” Schwarz mumbled under his breath.

“Well, that’s just great,” muttered Lyons. “How many legit businessmen would sign on with those ghouls? Want to give me that money now, Gadgets?”

“I’ll pay as I go,” Schwarz quipped.

Blancanales frowned. Blackstar was a notoriously discredited military contractor and mercenary supply outfit. Government oversight committees were even now investigating Blackstar’s parent company for war crimes in both Iraq and Afghanistan. If RhemCorp was employing armed mercenaries for security, that did not bode well. Blancanales was tempted to think Lyons’s plan to just knock the place over might be a good idea.

Lyons eyed the two Blackstar men hard as Able Team passed between them. The trio of counterterror operatives emerged in the lobby of RhemCorp. It was an unremarkable space, not overlarge. The building itself was similarly nondescript. Able Team had seen some pretty lavish and indulgent office structures in their time working on United States soil. Whatever sort of power-broker Rhemsen was, he wasn’t the kind of man given to ostentatious displays of wealth.

Lyons, with his teammates close behind, strode up to the reception desk. The receptionist was an older woman, her face lined and haggard. Blancanales watched as Lyons tried and did not quite succeed in hiding his reaction when she looked up from paperwork in front of her.

“Yes? May I help you?” she asked. Her voice was piercing and nasal. It was the kind of voice television comedians put on for a laugh. Evidently this was the one she’d been born with.

“Agents Perry, Tyler and Hamilton,” said Lyons. “We’re with the Justice Department.” He flashed her the Justice credentials Brognola’s office had issued to Able Team. Lyons had no idea what names were actually written on the credentials. In situations such as this he just offered the first three names that came to mind. He could always disclaim these as cover identities if someone started to ask questions and demanded to closely examine the identification cards. The badge contained in the ID holder was completely legitimate. Able Team’s operatives were, for all legal purposes, fully authorized operatives of the United States Justice Department. Brognola would back them up on that, no matter what.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist.

“No,” Lyons answered. “It’s a matter of national security. Have Mr. Rhemsen greet us in the lobby. We need to speak to him privately.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said, reaching for the telephone on her desk. The big former cop reached out and laid a heavy paw on the handset in its cradle.

“He’s in,” Lyons said. “No runarounds. No excuses. No meetings that can’t be interrupted. Get him down here. Now.”

Something in Lyons’s expression caused the receptionist’s already pale face to turn gray. She looked at the handset, waited for Lyons to release it and picked up the phone. She pushed only a single button, waited a moment and then said, “Sir. You had better come down. Right away.”

Moments later the single elevator in the lobby chimed. When the doors slid open, the man who slithered out was wearing a suit that was probably worth as much as Able Team’s SUV. Blancanales was momentarily taken aback. Rhemsen’s face was a ghastly mask of too-smooth flesh stretched across his skull in a way that made him look like a snake. His eyes, under hooded lids, were very blue—too blue to be natural. He was obviously wearing colored contacts.

“Gentlemen,” Rhemsen said, showing a thousand-watt smile full of capped and brilliantly white teeth. “I understand there’s a rather urgent matter that demands my attention.”

“You might say that,” Lyons said. “Justice Department. We need to talk to you about some weapons systems RhemCorp manufactures.”

“I can’t imagine you would have anything else to talk to me about,” said Rhemsen. “Come with me, gentlemen. We’ll go straight to my office.” He gestured for them to follow him to the elevator.

Able Team stepped in with Rhemsen in the lead. There were several security guards milling around in the lobby, and as Rhemsen put his hand in front of the electric eye of the elevator, two of the goons started to walk over.

“Nope,” Lyons said. “Your Blackstar Bunnies can wait in the lobby.”

The shadow of something unpleasant passed across Rhemsen’s plastic face, but he managed to hide it right away. “Of course, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. At a hand motion from him, the guards suddenly discovered very interesting and invisible things to occupy them on either side of the elevator doors.

Rhemsen took his hand away and looked at Schwarz, who was standing closest to the control panel.

“Uh…floor?” Schwarz asked, looking glib.

“The one labeled �P’ for �Penthouse,’” said Rhemsen.

Schwarz pushed the button. The elevator began to move, silently and swiftly. Quiet saxophone music began to filter in through the elevator speakers.

“I’ve never heard an elevator version of �Soul Finger’ before,” Schwarz commented.

“You still haven’t. I think that’s �Girl from Ipanema,’” Blancanales said.

Lyons glared daggers at them both. The elevator reached its destination.

“I assume this has something to do with my Thorn missile systems,” said Rhemsen. “I assure you, gentlemen, I am the victim of a smuggling ring. I’m very aware of export controls and other regulations that the government puts on restricted hardware.”

The doors opened. Blancanales was amazed to see that Rhemsen’s office was oval in shape. It was, in fact, a reasonably accurate replica of the office of the President of the United States. Framed on the wall were, not the paintings of the President and the Vice President, or even the President and the First Lady, but Harold Rhemsen dressed as some kind of Napoleonic general. On the desk, which was itself a replica of the President’s, was a gold placard. It read, The Buck Stops At My Bank Account. To say it was all a little megalomaniacal would be an understatement.

Rhemsen seated himself at his desk and opened a desktop humidor. “Cuban cigar, gentlemen?” He grinned that electric smile again. “Apologies. A bad joke. Cuban cigars are, of course, illegal to import. These are, somewhat regrettably, Honduran, but I assure you they are of fine quality.”

The members of Able Team looked at each other.

“Will you have a seat, gentlemen?” Rhemsen gestured to the quartet of leather-upholstered chairs arrayed in front of his desk. Apparently he was accustomed to entertaining visitors.

The Stony Man operatives sat. Lyons produced a sheaf of papers from inside his bomber jacket. “These are the particulars,” he said. “They detail the items recovered and what we’ve been able to determine about the provenance of the missile systems. They’re not counterfeit, before you suggest it,” Lyons said. “We’ve run into that excuse before. These are verifiably your gear, Rhemsen.”

“You don’t look like government agents,” Rhemsen said, still smiling. Something in his body language shifted. Blancanales didn’t like it. He saw Lyons tense and, next to him, Schwarz sat straighter.

“What makes you say that?” Lyons said. His hand began to inch toward his chest.

“Government agents wear suits,” Rhemsen said. “They also understand how to be polite. How to follow the rules. Obey the forms. You gentlemen…well. You’re not gentlemen at all, are you? You’re…thugs.”

“Now just a minute, pal,” Lyons said. He started to rise in his chair. Blancanales knew the action was intended to cover the draw from his shoulder holster.

“I wouldn’t,” Rhemsen warned. He pointed to the mirror on the wall behind them. When he spoke next, his voice was raised. “Lower it,” he said.

The pane of glass slid down on electric motors. Four of Rhemsen’s Blackstar guards were standing there, their tricked-out submachine guns pointed at Able Team. The green dots of laser targeting systems danced across Able Team’s foreheads.

“I’m going to have to owe you that twenty,” Schwarz said quietly to Lyons.

“Son of a bitch,” Carl Lyons said.




CHAPTER THREE


At The Edge of Puerto Galera, South China Sea

The retrofitted Sikorsky S-61R, mounting 7.62 mm belt-fed M-240 machine guns and a Mark 19 automatic belt-fed 40mm grenade launcher, had extra fuel pods, giving it longer range. At the stick, Stony Man ace pilot Jack Grimaldi held the combat-ready troop helicopter low over the waves. Through the open door of the fuselage, the members of Phoenix Force watched their target.

David McCarter held a high-tech monocular to one eye and adjusted the magnification. “Bloody hell. I hate waiting,” he muttered.

That drew some muffled snickers from the other members of the team. McCarter shot Calvin James a squint-eyed glare before returning to the monocular.

“Why do I get the stink eye?” James asked.

“You were closest,” McCarter replied without looking back at him.

“Figures,” James said.

Through the monocular, McCarter watched the Filipino naval vessel. It was relatively small as patrol craft went, but still more than large enough that a marauder would have to be insane to try to take it down. Yet the Filipino navy had lost two ships just like it to what was either pirate activity or, frankly, the covert action of the Chinese military, which of course was the source of all the tensions in the region. It was Phoenix Force’s job to figure out which…while putting a stop to all the fun and games in the South China Sea. At least, that’s what the Phoenix Force leader had taken away from the briefing. Sometimes the nuances were lost on him…mostly because he chose to ignore stupid nuances in favor of getting the mission done.

That was all part of leadership. Nobody had told him that; he’d had to figure it out on his own, ever since taking over for Katz. It wasn’t about the orders you executed. Any idiot could follow orders to the letter. Leading Phoenix Force was about knowing when judgment calls were needed in the field. Things changed and the best-laid plans of mice and morons went awry, or some such tripe. He didn’t dwell on it too much. He had too much work to do to be dwelling on such things. And then, too, there were the men whose lives he was ultimately responsible for.

“You think they know we’re out here?” T. J. Hawkins asked. His drawl made the question seem more casual than it really was. “If I was the captain of that boat I’d want to know what we were doing, shadowing them all day.”

“Hal has squared it with the Filipino authorities,” Grimaldi put in from the cockpit. Given the noise of the helicopter, none of them would be able to hear each other under normal circumstances. Grimaldi had patched in to the wireless frequency connected to the team’s earbud transceivers, tiny radios that sat in their ears like hearing aids. Through these, the team members could hear each other and also Grimaldi as clear as day. The transceivers were “smart,” too; they had noise-canceling software built into them that cut the noise from gunfire and other ambient sounds.

“Squared it how?” Manning asked. The big Canadian rarely took things at face value. He frequently acted as McCarter’s sounding board.

“You know,” Grimaldi said. “Did that thing he does.”

“That thing?” Hawkins asked.

“Vague promises of assistance and threats of reprisal,” James answered. “Followed by assurances that the government of the United States will remain within their territory for no longer than it takes to get the job done. And, of course, the implied threat that if they don’t cooperate, things might get a hell of a lot worse when whatever big bad force we’ve come to deal with gets out of hand.”

McCarter looked at James. He opened his mouth to say something.

“I mean I’ve heard,” James added.

In the distance, a pair of fast motor launches hove into view. They were swift enough, their engines powerful enough, that they threw up great sprays of seawater as they punched through the waves.

“That’s it, lads,” McCarter said. “Those are our targets.”

“Those dinky things?” Hawkins said. “That Filipino navy ship will tear them apart—”

Plumes of smoke erupted from the launches. The shoulder-fired missiles surged from the smaller craft to level the deck of the Filipino ship, tearing holes in whatever structures they encountered.

“Bloody hell,” McCarter muttered. “Jack! Get us in there, now!”

“Roger.” The Sikorsky roared as Grimaldi squeezed all available speed from the mighty craft, sending the nose dipping as the chopper threw itself toward the ship.

“T.J., Rafe, on the guns!” McCarter ordered. “Gary, get on that grenade launcher and stand by. Calvin, with me!”

There were grunts of assent from the others. McCarter rushed to connect his drop harness and made sure James had done the same. As the chopper picked up speed, the Briton could hear the pop of automatic gunfire from the targets below.

“In range,” Grimaldi announced.

“Hit them, lads!” McCarter shouted.

Vibration traveled from the deck up through McCarter’s boots as the M-240 machine guns opened up. Manning looked at McCarter expectantly.

“Wait for it, Gary,” McCarter promised.

The Sikorsky swooped low, like a hawk plucking a field mouse from the ground. The first of the two motor launches erupted in fire as the machine guns touched off something on the deck. McCarter waited for the arc of the chopper’s travel to take them over the smoking, flaming deck of the Filipino ship. Then he pushed off, signaling James to follow.

The line caught him and jerked him up a few feet short of the deck. The Briton hit his quick-release lever and landed on the deck, hard, rolling out and bringing up the Tavor rifle attached to his single-point harness. Every member of Phoenix Force had been equipped with one of the high-tech Israeli assault weapons. The bullpup-configured rifle fired NATO-standard 5.56 mm ammunition and was modular, configurable for different missions. Manning’s Tavor had a 4.0mm grenade launcher affixed, while all the rifles had close-quarters red-dot optics.

Each man also carried a 9 mm Glock handgun. At least, that was the plan John Kissinger, the Stony Man armorer, had had when he’d outfitted Phoenix Force for the mission. Kissinger had also seen to it that each man had a full-size, drop-point combat, fixed-blade knife to mount on his gear. But McCarter, as he usually did, had insisted on his beloved Browning Hi-Power. Kissinger had known better than to argue the point.

Outfitting the team with foreign weapons was part of the drill. In the shadowy world of politics and plausible deniability, everybody knew what was going on, but everybody pretended they didn’t. That was one of the reasons even allies routinely spied on each other. There would be no doubt, if Phoenix Force was captured or killed, that they were likely a Western commando team. But as long as there was no concrete proof, they could operate outside established international laws. The very notion was ridiculous to McCarter. There were no international laws that were not enforced behind the barrels of guns. Like the one he held now.

The deck of the Filipino ship was on fire. The crew was doing what they could to douse the flames. McCarter threw them a salute, hoping they would understand he was on their side. They regarded him suspiciously if they noticed him at all; for the most part, they were too worried about survival to spare him much time. He immediately went to a section of the railing that was clear of debris, braced his Tavor and started tracking the second motor launch.

The first of the two fast-attack boats was trailing a thick plume of black smoke. As McCarter watched, the Sikorsky flew past, turned and lined up the grenade launcher.

“Now, Gary! Now!” McCarter said.

Manning made no reply. He did not need to. The automatic grenade launcher began spewing 40 mm death at the already crippled motor launch. The grenades blew the little boat to cinders, biting off great chunks of it, as if the vessel were being devoured from stern to bow. The flaming bodies that were thrown into the sea bore horrible testament to the destruction being wrought. McCarter turned his attention back to the boat that was still moving.

Grimaldi did the same. While the second boat, the moving boat, was out of position, he had pursued the wounded first vessel, but his strategy was a sound one. He was harrying the motor launches to keep them from targeting the Filipino ship again with their handheld rockets. From what McCarter could see of the men on the decks, they did not look military. At least, they did not wear uniforms. But there was something more to it. Military men had a certain bearing and, from what little he could see through the smoke of the carnage on the water, the sailors on the motor launch didn’t have it. They were casual. That meant they were pirates, or at least, civilian contractors. But how would such men get their hands on the latest high-tech weapons from America, weapons that were strictly controlled when it came to export to foreign powers? Either RhemCorp was careless or RhemCorp was dirty. But they did not yet know which.

McCarter let the red dot of his Tavor optics fall on the moving motor launch. It continued to fly through the water, making widening circles around the Filipino ship. The crew, around McCarter, was starting to bring the fire under control. James took up a protective position at McCarter’s back, looking in toward the deck, and started shooing sailors away from his position with a collection of hand gestures and dirty looks. The sailors seemed content to give the two Phoenix Force members plenty of room, especially when McCarter started firing on the pirate launch still rolling through the waves.

“David, this is G-Force,” said Grimaldi over the transceiver frequency. Phoenix Force typically used first names as code names for missions like this. Surnames could be tracked, but first names and nicknames would yield little if overheard.

“Go ahead,” said McCarter. He did his best to lead the speeding motor launch and started squeezing off short bursts with the Tavor, knowing he had little chance of hitting any of the men on the deck of the small, fast-moving craft from this distance.

“From up here,” said Grimaldi, “it looks like their circuits are getting wider. They’re going to try to break off at some point, once they think they’ve got enough range not to get cut apart when they give us their backside.”

“You’re right about that,” McCarter said. “Keep them moving. Our friends here have had enough Thorn rockets for one day.”

“Roger that,” Grimaldi said. “What do you want me to do once they start running?”

“Let’s follow them back to wherever they’re going,” McCarter said. “Small ships like that, they’re going to have another, bigger craft somewhere around here. Plenty of ships in these waters. It will make it easier if we know precisely which one we’re looking for. Have the Farm do some serious real-time imaging of what’s moving, too. If we lose them, maybe they can sleuth out what we’re hoping to find.”

It was the Farm’s satellite imaging technology that had given them the priority target list they now had. Kurtzman and his team of computer jockeys had found a crazy kind of pattern to the pirate strikes, or whatever they were, and had accurately predicted the assault on the Filipino ship. McCarter wondered what other wizardry the Farm’s personnel might come up with once they had some actual combat data to work with.

“David?” Grimaldi’s voice sounded again in McCarter’s ear. “Something’s up. I’ve got unusual activity on the deck of that ship. They’re dumping something into the water.”

Something white under the churning waves caught McCarter’s eye.

“Calvin!” McCarter called over his shoulder. “What do you make of that?” He pointed.

“Oh, hell, no,” James said. He looked at McCarter.

The Briton swore, grabbed James and threw them both to the deck. The action came none too soon. Whatever was in the water struck the side of the Filipino ship and exploded, shaking the vessel and throwing shrapnel up over the railing. McCarter flinched as something burned his cheek.

Some kind of klaxon began to sound belowdecks on the Filipino ship. The sailors trying to put out the fire on the deck became even more agitated, several of them disappearing below.

“What the hell was that?” James asked. “Some kind of torpedo?”

“We’ll figure that out later,” said McCarter. “Right now we’ve got to keep them off us. G-Force, did you copy that explosion? They’re using some kind of submerged hardware to target us. We may be going down. Do what you can to keep them off us.”

“On it,” Grimaldi said. “G-Force, out!” The Sikorsky immediately took a more aggressive posture, driving the motor launch farther and farther out.

McCarter didn’t know what kind of range the submersible weapons had, or whether the enemy had more of them, but when no more came spinning through the waves, he figured they were doing okay.

Grimaldi finally reported that the motor launch was heading off and asked for orders. “Should I follow as planned?” the pilot asked.

“Negative,” McCarter answered. He and James were making their way below now. Their weapons hung on their slings. The Filipino sailors looked at them strangely but seemed to understand that these men in combat fatigues without insignia were somehow on their side. If nothing else, the fact that McCarter had fired on the pirates had established that. Eventually, the two men encountered a man directing a work crew. Water was rushing in through a rupture in the hull, but the crew was moving fast to patch it. The man overseeing the action wore the uniform of a captain in the Filipino navy.

“Captain!” McCarter called. “English?”

The captain whirled and fixed them with a wide-eyed look. “I speak,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Friends, Captain,” McCarter said. “I’m with a regional counter-piracy force. Your government was told we would be in the area.”

“Chopper?” the captain asked. He pointed above his head, as if Grimaldi’s bird could be seen through the bulkheads.

“Yes,” McCarter said. “That was us. We’re here to help. Tell us what to do.”

The sailors were struggling to manhandle metal plates into position, which the other members of the work crew were bolting down. The captain gave up on finding the words and simply pointed. McCarter and James joined the Filipinos and began heaving metal plates from one side of the compartment to the other, fighting against the rising waters already swamping their boots.

“This is G-Force,” announced Grimaldi’s voice in McCarter’s ear. “The pirate craft has withdrawn. Repeat. The enemy vessel has withdrawn. I am flying standby cover to make sure nothing else creeps up on us. I’ve also alerted Filipino naval command that one of their ships is in distress, although I suspect the folks aboard her have already done that. I’m told help is on the way.”

“Good,” McCarter said. “Get ready to touch down on the deck if it looks like we can’t keep this thing afloat. We didn’t see any wounded, but if they’ve got them, we need to be prepared to evac.”

“Roger,” Grimaldi acknowledged. “Wait. Wait, I have contact again. The launch—”

A burst of static made McCarter grab his ear in pain. He tapped the transceiver as suddenly there was nothing on the line.

James looked at McCarter and pointed to his ear. “Do you have anything?” he asked before going back to helping the Filipinos mount another metal plate.

“Nothing,” McCarter said. “G-Force? Come in, G-Force!”

The klaxon, which had been quiet, started up again. Red lights mounted in protective steel cages began to blink above the compartment hatchway.

“Captain?” James asked. “What is it?”

“Pirates!” the Filipino shouted. “Pirates come back!”

Another explosion, somewhere under the water and near the hull, caused the entire beleaguered ship to tremble beneath their feet.

“Oh, man,” said James. “I do not like the sound of that.”

“Captain!” McCarter called.

“We die now,” the captain said.




CHAPTER FOUR


“You owe me twenty bucks, Gadgets,” Lyons growled.

“I’m pretty sure,” Blancanales said, “that you two established that.”

The members of Able Team were zip-tied by wrist and ankle to straight-backed wooden chairs. They sat in a storage room on the basement level of Rhemsen’s headquarters. There was no other furniture in the locked room. The walls were bare cinder block. The only light was a bare energy-saver compact fluorescent bulb plugged into a light socket hanging by its wire from the ceiling.

“It’s good to know that RhemCorp is committed to keeping the world a greener place,” Schwarz said, looking up at the bulb.

“Shut up, Gadgets,” Lyons and Blancanales said in unison.

“Not for nothing,” Schwarz continued, ignoring them both, “but I really enjoy these pre-interrogation banter sessions.”

“If I had a dollar for every time we’ve been captured and worked over by some goon squad,” Lyons began.

“I do,” Blancanales said. “I’ve been investing my captured-by-goons dollars. I’m going to leave Able and retire early. Now seems like a good time.”

“Don’t you start, Pol,” Lyons warned. He opened his mouth to say more but the door to the storage room was thrown open. In it, framed by the scant light from the overhead bulb, stood a man in a gray Blackstar Corporation T-shirt and a pair of tiger-striped fatigues. The pants were bloused into polished combat boots, probably steel-toed. Lyons took special note of the chromed .45-caliber automatic in a drop-holster on the man’s thigh. The man was big, as big as Carl Lyons, with swollen biceps and sinewy forearms to match. He cracked his knuckles through the half-fingered leather gloves he wore.

“Well, well, well,” the newcomer said. His head was shaved smooth, his features craggy and thick. His jaw was square enough to cut diamonds. “Three little pigs, trussed up as nice as you like. Feel flattered, little piglets. I’m a commander in the Blackstar Corporation, which means you rate the big guns.”

“You got the wrong room, Tinkerbell,” Lyons said. “Stripper-gram delivery is down the hall.”

That brought a frown to the Blackstar man’s face. “The name,” he said, his tone low and menacing, “is Fitzpatrick, Jason J. �Jay’ to my friends and the lovely ladies I always leave wanting more. And to you, I answer to �God.’ Because that, my little pigs, is what I am—God of your universe, until you beg me to kill you.”

“Oh, no,” Schwarz said. “He’s going to douche us to death.”

Fitzpatrick quietly closed the door. He turned and fixed Schwarz with a stare Lyons could only describe as bloodthirsty. That was bad. Lyons had seen that type before. Fitzpatrick was probably a vet, but one of those who had done his tour or tours just at the edge of crazy. There were always men who took a war zone to mean that there were no rules…and that meant there was no need for humanity. Fitzpatrick had the look of a man who enjoyed killing…and who knew he did because he’d indulged the urge. As the big Blackstar man came closer, Lyons noted the clip of a folding knife in his left-hand front pocket.

“Say that again,” Fitzpatrick said to Schwarz.

“Are those weight-lifting gloves?” Schwarz said, looking up at the Blackstar man. “Please tell me those aren’t weight-lifting gloves. Nobody is that gigantic a douche nozzle.”

Lyons winced despite himself. He saw Fitzpatrick draw back his hand; saw the motion telegraphed from a mile away. Then the big Blackstar mercenary pimp-slapped Schwarz so hard that, for a moment, Lyons feared his partner’s jaw might be dislocated. The Stony Man Farm electronics expert did his best to ride the momentum of the strike, but there was only so much he could do strapped to a chair. Blood sprayed from Schwarz’s lower lip.

“You’re going to find,” Fitzpatrick said, “that I’ve got no sense of humor. No sense of humor at all.”

“That explains the dude-bro body spray,” Schwarz said.

“Stop it, damn you!” Lyons barked. Schwarz turned to Lyons and managed a bloody grin. Fitzpatrick did the same then slapped Schwarz across the face again. This time, the electronics whiz did not manage a witty retort. Lyons felt fire begin to smolder deep in his stomach.

“Now,” Fitzpatrick said, “this is relatively simple. You came onto this property representing yourself as federal agents. You claim knowledge of Mr. Rhemsen’s export activities. Obviously you have connections. I want to know what those connections are. I want to know exactly what government agency is looking into Mr. Rhemsen, and I don’t for a second believe it’s the Justice Department. Who are you with? Intelligence? CIA? Homeland Security? NSA?”

“NSA,” Schwarz said, spitting blood. “And we need to talk to you about all the porn you’re downloading on your wireless phone.”

This time Fitzpatrick cuffed Schwarz on the side of the head. It was a casual blow, almost contemptuous, but there was a lot of muscle behind Fitzpatrick’s strikes. Schwarz could not take that kind of punishment for long.

“You’re a coward,” Lyons heard himself say.

“What’s that?” Fitzpatrick said. He sounded genuinely curious. Fixing his attention on Lyons, he took a step closer. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re the leader of this little band of heroes, aren’t you? You have the look.”

“You want to beat on somebody, Tinkerbell,” Lyons said, “you beat on me. Only a coward picks the skinniest guy in the room.”

Fitzpatrick looked at Blancanales, then back to Lyons. “I don’t know,” he said. “The gray-haired fellow there doesn’t look much more substantial. But I have this thing about beating up senior citizens.”

“I doubt it,” Lyons said.

“Okay, you got me,” Fitzpatrick replied. “I don’t care who I beat up. But you’re missing the point, hero. This isn’t a fight. It isn’t even schoolyard bullying. This is an interrogation. You’re going to tell me who you work for. You’re going to tell me what the government knows. And when you’ve finished telling me, I’m going to kill you quickly, and you’re going to be grateful.”

“Fat chance,” Lyons said.

“I’m sorry,” Fitzpatrick said. He flexed his fingers together, cracking all his knuckles at once. “I might have given you the idea that we were debating that. We aren’t. I’m telling you exactly what’s going to happen. I like to skip to the end.”

“Funny,” Schwarz said. “We were just talking about that.”

“Enough,” Lyons growled. He admired his partner’s courage, but now was not the time. Provoking this psychopath was just going to make things worse.

“Still,” Fitzpatrick said, “I get your point. And, yeah, this is hardly sporting.” He drew his folding knife from his pocket. Lyons realized it was one of Able Team’s knives, taken by the Blackstar guards when Lyons and his team were searched and then tied up. Fitzpatrick snapped open the blade with a flick of his wrist, ignoring the thumb stud that would have let him snap it open more securely and with less grandstanding. The Blackstar man examined the edge against the tip of his finger. “Nice and sharp,” he said. He went for Schwarz again.

“Over here!” Lyons shouted, straining against his zip ties hard enough to make his chair shift beneath him. The wood of the chair creaked in protest. “Over here, you son of a bitch! Try me!”

“Cool your jets, Captain Ham-hands,” Fitzpatrick taunted. “See? I can make funny jokes, too. You like jokes, little man?” He was talking to Schwarz now. “You’re going to love this one.”

Lyons braced himself for what was to come. The men of Stony Man Farm were no stranger to the types of horrors that could be visited on an imprisoned man. In years past, when the Mafia had held sway, it was nothing to their torturers to carve up victims so badly that a mercy killing was the only option. It was an art with some of those jackals. Fitzpatrick didn’t have that kind of finesse, but he was probably no stranger to stabbing helpless victims. Able Team’s leader told himself that he just might have to watch Schwarz die in front of him.

“You do this,” Lyons said, “and you’re going to die with your neck under my boot.”

“I’ll do what I can to live with the fear of that,” Fitzpatrick said. He reached out and, in one smooth slash, cut the zip tie securing Schwarz’s left wrist.

Lyons’s jaw dropped.

Fitzpatrick wasn’t finished. He cut the tie securing Schwarz’s other wrist, then the ones at the Stony Man commando’s ankles. Stepping back, he struck a martial arts pose and beckoned with one hand. “Come and get it, little man.”

“Perry,” Lyons cautioned, using his cover name. “Don’t.”

“Sorry, boss,” Schwarz said. “But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t kick this jackass in the—”

Fitzpatrick danced close as Schwarz was rising from the chair, lashing out with something concealed in his left hand. The tick-tick-tick of the electric transformer was unmistakable. The Blackstar man had just lit up Schwarz with a stun gun that he had concealed on his person. The effect was immediate: Schwarz’s muscles clenched and he went weak in the knees. Fitzpatrick grinned and threw down the little black plastic box.

To his credit, Schwarz did not fall, but Fitzpatrick followed the jolt with a knee to the Able Team operative’s groin. As the electronics expert doubled over, the Blackstar commander drove both his massive elbows down onto Schwarz’s back, knocking the much slimmer man into the floor.

“Stop this!” Blancanales called out.

“You’ll get your turn,” Fitzpatrick said. He threw a savage kick to Schwarz’s ribs. Schwarz grunted in pain and tried to roll out. Then he was up, on his feet, shaking but game, his hands raised and ready. “Hey, we’ve got a player!” Fitzpatrick said. “Come on, boy. Show Uncle Jay what you’ve got. I promise, I won’t cripple you so badly that you’ll have to have somebody feed you for the rest of your life. But then again, my promises usually don’t mean jack.”

“You are such a dick,” Schwarz said, and kicked Fitzpatrick in the face.

It was a good kick, and Schwarz might have laid low a smaller man with it, but he was weakened from the stun gun and had already had his brain knocked around inside his head for a few rounds. Fitzpatrick absorbed it, shook it off and slammed a Muay Thai round kick into Schwarz’s flank that dropped him to the floor again.

“Tell me what I want to know,” Fitzpatrick said to Lyons. He stood with his foot on Schwarz’s chest as Schwarz gasped for air. “If you don’t, I’m going to beat this man to death in front of you. I’m guessing that the idea of that bothers you a lot, big man. You hero types, you live and breathe for this kind of thing. Seeing your buddy get his guts stomped out…well, I’m betting that’s more than you can handle.”

“You’d be surprised,” Schwarz started to say, trying to form another verbal jab. Fitzpatrick cut him off, raising his boot and slamming it down, driving out what little air Schwarz had in his lungs. Schwarz wheezed in pain.

“He’s cute, in a stupid sort of way,” Fitzpatrick said. “Every squad’s got one of this guy. The guy who’s always cracking jokes. The guy who never takes anything seriously. And you know what happens to that guy, big man? One day he gets fragged, and nobody much cares, because everybody is sick and damned tired of hearing him talk all the time.”

“I’m pretty sick and tired of hearing you talk,” Lyons said. He kept his voice low. It was a struggle to maintain his self-control. He wanted to punch this Fitzpatrick into a bloody bag of meat.

Schwarz was still stirring on the floor, so Fitzpatrick kicked him in the head. Schwarz grew still, his limbs slack. He was still breathing—Lyons could tell that much—but he was clearly out cold. Well, that was probably for the best. Unconsciousness was Schwarz’s best friend right now, especially because it meant he couldn’t run his mouth and take any more punishment.

“I think we’ve exhausted the entertainment value of that one,” Fitzpatrick said. He went to Blancanales, whose eyes followed the knife carefully before landing on the stun gun still on the floor. “Oh, you’re thinking about that, aren’t you, Gramps?” the Blackstar commander said. “You think that little battery-powered toy is going to put me down? You’re going to have to do that on your own. And you’re going to have to do it while your team leader watches you get your—”

Blancanales slammed the heel of his palm up under Fitzpatrick’s jaw before raking his fingers back down the man’s face. In World War II jargon, the maneuver was called a chin jab, and if Blancanales hadn’t been trying to do it while rising from the chair in which he’d been held, it might have done some serious damage. As it was, Blancanales’s full body weight was not supporting the strike. Fitzpatrick hissed in displeasure and slammed an elbow into the side of his opponent’s head. Blancanales went down but, thanks to his training, managed to perform a shoulder roll and come up again.

Fitzpatrick was ready for it. As Blancanales rolled through the fall, Fitzpatrick stuck to him like a shadow and when Blancanales started to rise again, the bigger man slammed the butt of his chromed pistol into the back of Blancanales’s skull. The Able Team warrior made no sound as he dropped to his hands and knees, stunned. Fitzpatrick stopped long enough to grin smugly at Lyons.

“Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you, Tinkerbell?” Lyons said. “Beating up a couple of guys who can barely stand because the circulation to their hands and feet has been cut off for an hour. Yeah, you’re a real macho guy.”

Fitzpatrick kicked Blancanales, but it wasn’t a rib-cracker this time. Blancanales was able to roll away from the kick. The Blackstar man dropped on top of Blancanales anyway, wrapping one thick arm around his captive’s throat. Dazed as he was, Blancanales didn’t appear to have much of a chance, not the way this “fight” had been set up against him from the start. Fitzpatrick tucked his arm into the crook of his other limb and wrapped one hand around the back of Blancanales’s head in a classic rear naked choke. It wasn’t long before Blancanales was unconscious. Fitzpatrick dropped the commando and stood, once more facing Lyons.

“Just you and me now, champ,” he said.

“I’m game for a main event,” Lyons said. “Cut me loose and I’ll show you a few things.”

“You keep calling me Tinkerbell,” Fitzpatrick said. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Tinkerbell’s a fantasy,” said Lyons. “That’s what you are. A fantasy. A legend in your own mind. I’m going to break you, Tinkerbell. I’m going to show you that the real life ain’t nothing like the badass fantasy you’ve built for yourself.”

“I gotta admit,” Fitzpatrick said, “that I did not see that coming. It was about the last thing I’d thought you’d say. And now I’m going to leave you alone in here with your buddies.”

“Come on!” Lyons shouted. “What are you afraid of, you coward?”

Fitzpatrick laughed. “You probably think you’ve got me figured out, big man,” he said. “But, news flash. You don’t. Much as I’d like to kick your behind all around this room, that’s not the game. Making you watch me beat up these two, now that’s the game. I’m going to come back every half hour, give or take. Just long enough for your guys to shake it off each time I clean their clocks. Of course, it’s going to get worse as I go. Pretty soon they’ll be lucky if they still remember math. Some teeth are going to come out. And before we’re done I may start cutting off fingers, just for the fun of it.”

“Keep talking,” Lyons warned. “Just keep talking.”

“I want you to think about that,” Fitzpatrick said. “I want you to think about what I just did, and what I’m going to do. Wait for twenty minutes. A guy like you probably can do it in his head. I don’t care if you count it off. Just wait for it. And when I come back, know that I’m going to keep taking your little boys apart until you give me the information. It’s not a lot to ask. It won’t even get anybody else killed. Are their lives—” he gestured to Blancanales and Schwarz “—worth what you’re withholding?”

The big Blackstar man took the time to strap the two Able Team operatives back into their chairs. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Lyons blew out a sigh of relief.

Schwarz opened one eye. “Is he gone?”

Blancanales opened both of his. “I thought that guy would never shut up.”

“He talks almost as much as Gadgets,” Lyons said.

“Hey,” Schwarz complained. “That’s not fair. I think he cracked my ribs.”

“First good news I’ve heard all day,” Lyons teased.

“Then get ready for the second good news,” Blancanales said. There was a click. Blancanales shifted in his chair and, suddenly, his hands were in front of him, unrestrained. Using the folding knife he had lifted from Fitzpatrick’s pocket during the fight, he cut the fresh zip ties securing his feet. Then he cut Schwarz’s bonds and went to free Lyons.

“Gadgets,” Lyons said, “you still owe me twenty bucks.”

“Pol, can I borrow twenty bucks?” Schwarz said.

“Depends,” Blancanales answered. He held up the brown leather billfold he had also picked from the Blackstar commander’s pocket. “How much cash you figure a guy like that carries on him?”




CHAPTER FIVE


“Captain!” shouted McCarter over the klaxon. “Keep your people working on the repairs. We’ll handle the threat out there!”

The Filipino captain seemed unconvinced, but stopping his ship from sinking was foremost on his mind. He said something that McCarter either couldn’t understand or could not hear—it was indecipherable to the Briton—and turned back to his repair team. McCarter, meanwhile, held his Tavor tighter to his body and rushed back up the gangway to take the ladder to the deck. James hurried close behind.

Once on the deck, McCarter immediately started taking fire. He ducked back, using the metal shell around the gangway for cover. “Look out! Contact forward!”

James scooted up around his team leader and managed to make the deck before sparks caught on the metal. Bullets rang like angry bees around both men. James was fast, though, faster than the enemy gunfire. He dodged in and around the structural outcroppings on the deck, using them for cover, working his way to the left. McCarter took the cue and started working toward his own right. The gunfire was coming from the bow, whereas they were currently amidships.

Abruptly a storm of wind and sea spray caught him in the face. He looked up, following the noise. The Sikorsky shot past, flying laterally, as Grimaldi lined up the nose. Then the great chopper’s guns and grenade launcher opened up, targeting a section of the water itself. McCarter watched, amazed, until the gunfire from forward of his position drove him back behind the cover of the next “step” in the deck layout.

“G-Force!” he called, pressing his transceiver against his ear. “Come in! What are you doing?”

There was still no reply. McCarter had thought perhaps something about the structure of the ship had interfered with their signal, perhaps depending on where Grimaldi was positioned relative to McCarter and James. But now, on the deck, with line of sight to the chopper, he still could not raise a signal. What the bloody hell was going on?

“David,” said James in his earbud, “I’ve got eyes on them. They’re hiding behind a railing about five meters from the bow. The area just to the left of the gray tarp. I’m seeing some grappling hooks, too. Looks like not all the pirates were blown up when we took out that first launch.”

“Makes sense,” McCarter responded. “The rats found the nearest sinking ship.”

Just then, another set of explosions rocked the damaged Filipino vessel. McCarter was drenched once more with spray. What he saw, when he looked to the sea once more, was bewildering for a moment. Grimaldi was still strafing the water and sowing the waves with 40 mm grenades. Then there was yet another explosion, bigger than what a grenade or even a series of grenades going off could create.

That cheeky bastard, McCarter thought. He’s detonating whatever those submersible torpedo weapons are. He’s keeping them off us.

There was no way to explain what was interfering with his communications with the chopper, but Grimaldi was obviously alive and doing fine…or as fine as a man could do while taking fire in a combat zone. There was small-arms fire coming from the second motor launch, the one that survived, and that boat was now making fast circles well wide of the Filipino ship. The idea, McCarter imagined, was to keep the launch out of range of the Filipino ship’s guns and to avoid becoming a target for the Sikorsky.

McCarter tried to gauge just how many men might be aboard that launch. It couldn’t be that many, given the boat’s size. If the fast-attack boat had carried a limited payload of Thorn rockets, that might explain why the crew had turned to whatever those torpedo-like devices were. He made a note to scan back through his dossier in the Farm’s mission brief to look for other technical specs on RhemCorp weaponry. So far, the Thorns were the only ones that had been used in previous attacks, and thus those were the only ones McCarter had bothered to familiarize himself with.

A shipment of rockets was one thing; weapons could go missing, and frequently did, when they were shipped overseas. But if the pirates were equipped with a full array of RhemCorp’s catalog, that looked very bad for Harold Rhemsen and his company.

None of which made a damned bit of difference right now, McCarter considered as the ship on which he was currently taking fire might sink out from underneath all of them at any minute.

“How many shooters do you have?” McCarter asked James. He did his best to work his way up toward the bow. The deck of the Filipino ship descended from the bridge area to the bow in graduated steps, each step bordered by a metal railing and whatever structural reinforcement was required for the equipment built into that area. This translated into plenty of cover, but it also meant the shooters near the bow could keep laying down bullets relatively unhindered from farther down the deck.

“I’ve got eyes on two,” James said. “No, scratch that. Three. One looks half scorched, but he’s mobile. They’ve all got Kalashnikovs and they look plenty mean.”

“They’ve got nowhere to go unless they take down this ship,” McCarter said. “If they can’t make it safe for the other launch to swing back and pick them up, they’re out of luck. I think the penalty for piracy, even internationally, is still hanging around these parts, mate. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Yeah.” James said nothing more for several moments, giving McCarter time to get into position.

Finally the Briton judged he was as close as he was going to get to the pirate boarders. Around them on the deck, fires still continued to burn, although the Filipinos had all disappeared. They were below, trying to keep the ship afloat. Hopefully none of the fires up here would get bad enough to seriously endanger the boat before they could be attended to.

From where he was now positioned, McCarter could see the tops of the three pirates’ heads. One of those heads was shaved bald and looked very red, then very black. Those were nasty burns. Shock and exposure might kill that man before somebody could put a round through his dome. For now, though, the pirate was mobile and fighting.

“I’ve got them, too, now,” McCarter advised James. “On my mark, I want you to lay down enough fire on the left to drive them over to the right. There’s a gap in the railing there. Just crowd them, mate. Drive them toward the gap. I’ll do the rest.”

“Affirmative,” James said.

“Now!” McCarter ordered.

James’s Tavor started belching 5.56 mm death. The Stony Man commando squeezed measured bursts from the weapon, which Phoenix Force had used many times before. The compact design and modular ergonomics made the rifle a favorite among combat troops. It was comfortable and accurate. The red-dot optics offered good, fast, target acquisition, and the rate of fire was quick enough to be truly fearsome.

From his position, McCarter was basically guessing. In combat, you took what you could get. Much like a hunter who ascertains his target then fires at the shadow where his target will be, McCarter simply waited for what light he could see through the gap to disappear. He did not need much. A single moment was all it would take.

There it was.

McCarter fired, just once, then once again for good measure. The shadow disappeared from the gap. That would be his pirate target falling away from the section of railing that had betrayed him.

“Lather, rinse, repeat,” James said through the transceiver. Once more he drove the pirates back toward the gap where McCarter could see them, and once more McCarter took the shot that was offered. The trick would not work a third time, however. No matter how hard James tried to light up one section of the railing, the third and final pirate simply would not move from his spot.

“I think he might be down,” James said. “I can’t get him to budge.”

A shot rang out from where the pirate was sheltered. There was a pause, then two more shots, one of which ricocheted close to McCarter.

“No such luck,” McCarter stated. “He’s still with us, mate.”

“Cover me,” James directed. “I’m going over there and have a talk with that man.”

McCarter allowed himself a tight, grim smile. When Calvin James had a heart-to-heart talk with someone, it usually involved the business end of a combat knife. The Stony Man commando was one of the most experienced knife fighters McCarter had known in his professional career.

The Sikorsky continued to make arcs overhead, its guns blazing, chasing and harrying the motor launch. Finally, though, the pirate craft stopped making circuits closer to the Filipino ship and started to recede instead. McCarter reached for his earpiece, intending to give Grimaldi orders. If they could make sure the ship was going to stay above the water line, the Briton would feel comfortable tasking the Sikorsky once more with pursuing the pirates back to their tender. No sooner had he touched the earbud than he realized, of course, that he could not.

The Sikorsky turned to present the cockpit to the deck of the Filipino ship. McCarter checked for enemy fire. There was none. The gunfire had all ceased. The only sounds now were the distant whine of the motor launch as it retreated, the crackling of flames aboard the Filipino ship and the ringing of the alarms belowdecks. McCarter stood and signaled Grimaldi to come closer.

As the chopper turned, McCarter could see that there was damage to the fuselage. Wisps of smoke trailed from a scorched hole in the helicopter. There was some connection between the damage and the radio failure, but McCarter had no idea what that could be.

T. J. Hawkins began to descend on a drop line. The youngest member of Phoenix Force hit his quick-release when he was still a couple feet from the deck. He dropped and absorbed the fall with his knees.

“Hawk,” said McCarter when he joined him, “what’s the condition of the chopper?”

“They hit us with something,” Hawkins said.

“One of the Thorn rockets?” McCarter asked, knowing as he said it that it could not be true. If the Sikorsky had taken a Thorn it would have been damaged much worse than it had been.

“No. Some kind of nonexplosive warhead that crippled our electrical systems,” Hawkins elaborated. “Jack is keeping the chopper up there, but there’s a whole lot that’s not working. He says he needs time to set her down and get her properly repaired.”

“Then following the pirates is out of the question,” McCarter said.

“Jack says we’re lucky he hasn’t taken up swimming, so I’d say yes, that’s about the size of it,” Hawkins drawled. “He says if you want anything, flash him with Morse where he can see you.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter swore. “My Morse code is as rusty as my…well. Actually, it does seem to come up now and again, doesn’t it?”

The Briton worked his way around to where James had gone to have his “talk” with the third boarder. He found James going through the pockets of the dead man, who was slumped against the railing on the deck in a spreading pool of his own blood.

“Ghastly,” McCarter commented. “Did you put him down?”

“No,” James said. “Found him like this. I guess those last few shots were his way of saying goodbye. He’s got a nick in his femoral artery. Bled out fast.”

“I’m sure no one will mourn his passing,” McCarter said. “Not much, anyway.” The man was gray from blood loss. As it turned out, this was the scorched pirate, who had evidently gotten the worst of the explosion that had obliterated the first of the pirate launches.

There was a sudden bustle of activity from below. The Filipino captain and several of his men emerged. Four of the sailors carried M-16 A-1 rifles, one of the standard infantry weapons of the armed forces of the Philippines. The soldiers took up formation, two kneeling, two standing, and aimed their weapons at McCarter, James and Hawkins. The captain looked more than a little annoyed.

“We no sink,” he said.

“Now see here, mate,” McCarter said. “I realize perhaps now that things are under control, you’re feeling like asking just what we’re doing on your ship. But as you can see—” he pointed to the helicopter hovering overhead “—we’re the reason you didn’t get blown out of the water.”

“I check with my government,” the captain said. “You no move.”

“That’s fair enough, mate,” McCarter said. “We no move. But I’d like to signal my chopper to put in to port. He’s got electrical problems.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed and his hand drifted to the M-9 automatic now holstered on his belt. Evidently the captain had decided, after seeing to the damage to his vessel, that a trip to the armory had been in order. McCarter couldn’t say he blamed the man. Under the circumstances, it seemed unlikely that McCarter would himself just ignore boarders who claimed to be on the right side.

More crew members were moving around the deck now, using portable extinguishers to put out the fires still burning. The captain watched them, probably to make sure everything was under control. In the distance across the water, several vessels were now approaching.

James pointed, but the captain shook his head.

“You called for help?” McCarter asked the captain.

“Navy coming,” the captain announced. “Hope you three check out.”

“We will, mate,” McCarter said. “We will.” He took his signal mirror from a pouch on his web gear and angled it at the chopper. Hoping he was getting the message across, he did what he could to flash “port” a couple of times. Grimaldi got the hint, dipped the nose of the helicopter then turned and limped away.

“There goes our ride,” James said.

“I’m sure the captain here could be convinced to help us put in to port,” McCarter said. “Once he’s determined to his satisfaction that we’re not his enemies. Which I think he already understands, for the most part.”

“I can feel his understanding through those four assault rifles,” Hawkins said.

“People have different ways of expressing trust,” James said.

McCarter wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the Filipino captain crack a smile.

“Trust issues,” the captain noted.

“What’s that, mate?” McCarter asked.

“I have,” the captain said, grinning.

The troops lowered their weapons. James and Hawkins exchanged glances.

“Don’t we all,” James said. He blew out the breath he had been holding. “Don’t we all.”




CHAPTER SIX


Fitzpatrick entered Rhemsen’s office and helped himself to a chair without being asked. As he always did, Rhemsen glared through that frozen plastic face of his, but there wasn’t much he could do about Fitzpatrick’s liberties. After all, Rhemsen knew as well as Fitzpatrick did that without Blackstar men to provide muscle for RhemCorp’s operations, there would be nothing between Rhemsen and a half dozen major enemies the man had already made.

Some of those enemies, like the Mob, wouldn’t hesitate to start knocking over RhemCorp holdings if they thought they could do so without provoking a war. But with Blackstar guarding Rhemsen’s assets, and given just how many men with guns Blackstar could put on the street, even the mafia knew better than to poke that hornets’ nest with a stick.

“You look nervous, boss,” Fitzpatrick said. “More nervous than usual. Nervous even for you, I mean.”

“What do you think, Jason?” Rhemsen said. He was drinking something with a lot of ice in it. The glass clinked when Rhemsen snatched it and gulped the contents down. His eyes were wide when he looked up again. “There are powerful forces that know what we’re doing.”

“Which powerful forces are those, Harry?” Fitzpatrick said, grinning. He knew that Rhemsen hated being called “Harry.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Rhemsen said. “Government involvement was inevitable. But it’s too soon. It throws off my timetable considerably.”

“Wait a minute,” Fitzpatrick said. “I thought you said you had this all figured out. That’s why we grabbed those guys. That’s why you said it was okay to disappear them. How deep are you digging this hole? I don’t want to end up in prison for the rest of my life.”

“I’m the reason you aren’t already there,” Rhemsen argued. “Don’t forget that, Jason. Without me, without my lawyers, without my financing, Blackstar wouldn’t even exist in its current form. The corporation that now bears the name isn’t the first to hold the moniker, nor will it be the last before we’re finished. If you want to stay one step ahead of Uncle Sam and his investigators, you need me as much as I need you.”

“Would you calm down already?” Fitzpatrick said. “You’re worse than my mother. Or you would be if she was still alive, that miserable broad. Look, I know that, all right? I just want to know what you think this means for the operation.”

“What do you think it means?” Rhemsen shot back. “We’re going to have to suspend our sales pipelines outside the country until we’re sure we aren’t compromised. And I need you to mobilize elements of Blackstar in the Philippines. If the government is sending agents to my doorstep, it means they’re certain RhemCorp hardware is involved. They just don’t know what they can prove yet as far as I am concerned. So they’ll be investigating both ends, and that means there will be government agents sniffing around the ports in the South China Sea. Set a trap, if you can. Lure whomever the government has sent and make them disappear. That should stall things, at the very least, as they try to figure out where they went wrong. Make sure your men coordinate with my pirates.”

“Listen to you,” Fitzpatrick said. “Your pirates. You’re paying a bunch of broken-down, sea-going thieves and you’re hoping for loyalty. That’s not going to end well. They’re not professional soldiers. Not like me. Not like my men.”

“They’re vicious and, for a price, they take orders,” Rhemsen said. “That is precisely what I require them to be. Isn’t that what you call it? �Pay to play.’ Isn’t that how Americans refer to trade with China? America hates China, paints it as the aggressor, disrespects the nation with the largest standing military force on Earth…but then, for a price, sells its manufacturing to this nation it so reviles.”

“You talk like you’re not part of that,” Fitzpatrick said. “Last I knew you were part of the American capitalist machine, Harry.”

“So I am,” Rhemsen replied. “Fortunately for both of us I’ve spread enough of the proceeds around that capitalist machine in Washington, in the form of bribe money. It will serve to slow the process of any investigation that will arise. Or at least, I thought I would do so. These men…it worries me, not knowing exactly who or what they represent. Money will only take us so far if forces inside Washington have decided to take direct action against us. This is unusual. Direct action is usually last on a long list of delaying tactics in the government.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fitzpatrick said. “I’ll break those agents. If their leader doesn’t crack, one of his two subordinates will. I’ll kill one of them if I have to. That ought to shake the other one up. And if it doesn’t, watching them both die will soften up the big one. It should only take a few days of sleep deprivation and torture to get him to spill.”

“I’m not sure we have a few days,” Rhemsen said. “And I wish you wouldn’t talk that way.”

“Don’t be a weakling,” Fitzpatrick said. “What do you want me to say—�enhanced interrogation’? We both know what I’ve got to do to get them to talk. But you need to consider something, boss.”

“And that is?”

“What are you gonna do if they come clean? Let’s say laughing boy and his two friends turn out to be NSA operatives. Are you prepared for the fallout from killing agents of the most secretive intelligence agency in the country?”

“Intelligence is a dangerous business,” Rhemsen declared. “People employed in it disappear all the time.”

“If I didn’t know better, boss,” Fitzpatrick said, “I’d think you spoke from experience.” He dragged his boots from where he had propped them on Rhemsen’s desk and planted them on the floor. “I’ll get what they know. And then we can assess just how badly your revenue streams are impinged. But I gotta ask, Harry…”

Rhemsen sighed. “What is it you �gotta ask’?” The last two words were full of contempt.

“What’s your exit strategy?” Fitzpatrick pushed up from the chair. “I know mine. Blackstar can’t keep reorganizing under new management forever. Sooner or later, some of those investigative hearings, or the Infernal Revenue bastards, are going to catch up to us. When that happens, I’ve got enough money and guns tucked away to keep me happy for a good long while, sitting on a beach with a drink in my hand in a country with no extradition treaty.”

“I’ve never heard of such a plan,” Rhemsen said dryly. “Truly, you possess a unique mind.”

“So it’s not the most original of plans,” Fitzpatrick said. “But it will work and it’s enough. What happens to you and your company, Rhemsen? The US government might forget about one guy, but they’re not going to forget an entire corporation running high-tech weapons to enemies of the homeland. What are you going to do when this all comes out and they freeze your assets, Rhemsen? You ready to spend your nights on television, maybe on one of those webcam things, talking about how the American government is going to ice you? It’s only a matter of time after that happens, you know, when they find somebody to cry �rape’ and then bring you up on charges. It happened to what’s-his-name, the internet guy.”

Rhemsen started to say something when the phone on his desk rang. Glaring at Fitzpatrick, he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. There was a pause. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, Mr. Lao. I’d like to meet to discuss with you those matters that have…occupied us previously…Yes…Yes, of course…All right. My secretary will apprise you of the time and location.” He hung up the phone.

“You doing online dating now?” Fitzpatrick quipped.

“Shut up, Jason.” Rhemsen sounded tired. “Just do your job.”

“When have I not?”

“Just… Fine. Let me worry about my �exit strategy,’ Jason,” Rhemsen said. “What I need from you is to find out just which branch of the government I need to throw money at next. Get those field agents to talk. Once they do, make sure nobody finds the bodies. That should be simple enough, even for you.”

“Man, you are grumpy today.” Fitzpatrick sneered. “You stay up here in your ivory tower for as long as you like, Harry. I’ll go do the dirty work.”

“See that you do.”

Choking back another retort, Fitzpatrick figured he had needled the King of Plastic Surgery enough for one day. He left Rhemsen’s office and sauntered down the hall, taking the elevator down to the subbasement level. He was now on the east end of the substructure. All the way on the opposite wall, the west end, was the interrogation section.

Rhemsen didn’t like it when Fitzpatrick called it “the dungeon,” but that’s what it really was, and for the first time in a long time, it was being put to its intended use. The “storage closet” had never really been used for storage. Rhemsen’s manufacturing facilities were all elsewhere. This building was nothing but offices full of engineers and bureaucrats, operatives and con artists. That’s how all the suits looked to Fitzpatrick. He took a dim view of any profession he did not really understand, figuring that if he couldn’t tell what a man did after ten seconds of explanation, then what that man did was probably bull.

Fitzpatrick liked to keep things simple.

At the thought, he cracked his knuckles again. He was really going to enjoy this. Growing up, he’d always been “hyperaggressive” or so the counselors had called it. With few prospects for college and a dismal high school record marred with disciplinary problems, it was only a matter of time before he’d ended up charged with assault and battery as an adult. He just liked fighting too much. So he’d joined the Marines.

That had lasted only as long as boot camp, where a savage fight with another recruit had ended in his washing out. He’d tried to join the Army after that, but whatever black mark was on his record had kept him out. He was actually marching out of that Army recruiting center, mad as he’d ever been, when one of Blackstar’s recruiters had appeared out of nowhere to chat him up.

So he wanted to fight for his country, did he? Well, there was a way he could still do that. All he had to do was sign on with Blackstar. The pay was good and the questions were few. All he had to be able to do was follow orders.

Well, Fitzpatrick didn’t give a damn about fighting for his country. He just wanted to fight, and he wanted to be paid for doing it. Blackstar or, more correctly, the company that would become Blackstar several name changes later, was happy to have him. Fitzpatrick rose quickly through the ranks. It helped that, eventually, he’d learned to channel his urge to smash people and things. Being able to hold that impulse in check, most of the time, allowed him to advance in the company’s ranks and assume even greater positions of authority.

Now, he had a reasonable amount of autonomy. Blackstar didn’t care what he did as long as he got things done. The company’s management was busy for the most part just fielding and evading various congressional investigations, so they didn’t care what was happening with him as long as the money flowed. Rhemsen paid well and he needed a lot of manpower. And so the cash came in, Fitzpatrick stayed employed, Blackstar’s management left him alone and everybody was happy.

But it looked as if that all might come thundering to a close, if they couldn’t get a handle on what was really going on. Rhemsen’s weapons sales were the only thing keeping the company going, keeping it profitable. Rhemsen had slipped up and admitted that much to him before. The money spent in research and development on the Thorns, the GGX drop charges, the EM pulse taggers, the portable torpedoes…it was a lot. And apparently government contracts, combined with all the controls and regulations the government expected RhemCorp to follow, meant that the company couldn’t manage a decent profit level. At least, that’s what Rhemsen said. Who knew what that margin was supposed to be? Harry had expensive tastes, from what Fitzpatrick could see. No dude who was addicted to plastic surgery could be trusted around money, if you asked Jay Fitzpatrick. There was something just…wrong…about that guy’s face. He was probably skimming profits from the company.

Either way, for the cash to keep flowing to Blackstar and thus into Fitzpatrick’s pocket, RhemCorp’s illegal arms sales, and the shipping pipelines that sustained them, had to stay open. Fitzpatrick wasn’t privy to all the details in the South China Sea, but Rhemsen had alluded to big markets over there. Whatever his hired pirate crews were doing had something to do with all that. That was why Rhemsen had risked arming the pirates with RhemCorp’s own hardware. It wasn’t just an expedient means of accomplishing his goals in that part of the world. It was also some of the only leverage Rhemsen had, with the rest of his cash tied up in hiring muscle like Blackstar and the pirates themselves.

What a tangled web. That was what people said, right? The thought brought Fitzpatrick back to what Rhemsen had said about China and its government. What the hell had that been all about? And who was Lao? Could be Rhemsen was reaching out to the money men in China to back some of his losses. That didn’t seem like a smart strategy to Fitzpatrick, using China to debt-roll RhemCorp’s operations, but Fitzpatrick only cared so much. His interest in RhemCorp’s financial health extended only as far as how much of Rhemsen’s money was going into Blackstar’s coffers. Even that was a relative thing. Jason Fitzpatrick wasn’t really the loyalty type. He just knew not to crap where he ate.

He would do the job Blackstar needed him to do, and even enjoy it, as long as they kept paying him. If anything changed he’d find another outfit to take him. Private contracting was all the rage these days. Wars were expensive and outsourcing was economical. The business world had discovered that a long time ago. For that matter, hiring mercenaries to do the dirty work was a long-standing tradition in the history of war. He wasn’t exactly a student of history, but he knew that much.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/don-pendleton/war-tactic/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.



Если текст книги отсутствует, перейдите по ссылке

Возможные причины отсутствия книги:
1. Книга снята с продаж по просьбе правообладателя
2. Книга ещё не поступила в продажу и пока недоступна для чтения