War Tides. Don Pendleton
added. “I have complete confidence in your decision. It’s probably for the better, anyway, since Able Team is stepping into the thick of it here.”
“They’re on a mission you think is related?”
“We don’t have any doubts at this point,” Price said. “What’s happened there coupled with the events here in Washington is too proximal to be mere coincidence.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve never been much for coincidence, either, love.”
“Right.” Price filled him in on their discovery of the traffic video and the IUA. She concluded with, “Able Team has a lead they’re following up even as we speak.”
“So this is a new terrorist cell.”
“Pretty much,” Brognola said. “They only recently were identified by Israeli MOSSAD as a group who has grown large enough that they could pose a significant threat to the security of the U.S. and her allies. You are to assume they are fully trained and equipped, and you are to deal with them by S.O.P.”
McCarter didn’t have to ask what that meant; a rookie could’ve figured it out. “Acknowledged. As soon as we know more, we’ll get in touch.”
After they signed off, McCarter lit a cigarette and groaned. He reached back toward Hawkins, who in turn responded by pressing a sweaty can of soda into his palm. McCarter yanked the top and took a long pull from it, draining nearly half the contents. The dry, dusty air and afternoon sun beating through the windshield had left him parched.
“What’s the scoop, boss?” Hawkins finally asked.
“Either of you ever heard of the ‘the Revenge of Allah’?”
They shook their heads.
“Me, either. Until Barb and Hal just told me about them. They’re a new terrorist group, up-and-coming, and a case Able Team is working might just be related to what we’re doing here.”
“In what way?”
“Somebody lifted the plans to a nuclear-powered sub and left the designer and some federal agents dead. Took them out in bloody broad daylight, no less.”
“Sounds lovely,” Hawkins said.
“So plans go missing for a nuclear-powered device, and parties unknown suddenly show up here with radiation poisoning,” Encizo said.
“Right,” McCarter said. “Go figure.”
They rode a couple more miles in silence and then something cast a shadow over their vehicle. McCarter leaned forward and strained his eyes to see beyond the limits of the roof. He caught the first glimpse of the helicopter before they actually heard the sound of the rotors chopping the air, felt their vibration through the vehicle. They were flying awfully low and McCarter felt something prick his sixth sense. Before he could react, the shortwave radio clipped to his belt squawked for attention. He removed the earpiece from the clip holder on the lapel of his shirt and inserted it into his right ear.
Keeping one eye on the chopper, he answered, “Go.”
Manning’s voice came back. “We just talked to Matombo and he said that bird above you has markings of the Namibian national guard. It looks like maybe someone let the cat out of the bag.”
“What does he think they want?”
“Most likely they know about our little excursion here and they want us to stop. Apparently, official trips into Lüderitz have to be authorized.”
“Funny how that slipped Matombo’s mind.”
“He started apologizing as soon as he saw the bird,” Manning said in a quieter tone. “I don’t think it was purposeful.”
“Tell that to them?”
Before the Canadian could reply, the ground ahead of the lead vehicle churned with dust and the pattern that emerged could only have been produced by automatic weapons fire. Then the road erupted in a red-orange blast and left a crater three feet deep in its wake.
Encizo leaned on the brake pedal.
“Go off-road!” McCarter ordered. “Don’t stop.”
Encizo nodded and tromped the accelerator even as McCarter shouted at Manning to have James do the same. Both vehicles barely had all four wheels on the soft, sandy ground when heavy sparks followed by black smoke poured from the chopper hovering just above them. The whirlybird began to spin—lazily at first and then with increasing frenzy—before the pilot finally lost control and had to set it down. Hard. The smoke and dust left in its wake made it impossible to see in the mirrors of their SUV.
“There’s some cover,” Hawkins said as he gestured toward a rocky outcropping.
Encizo nodded and whipped the wheel to put the SUV in that direction while he expertly controlled the vehicle as it fishtailed in the loose sand of the Namibian wilderness. McCarter signaled Manning, who indicated they saw it, as well, and were right on their tail. Within a half minute they had reached the cover of the large rocks, although not without the cost of a few bullet holes in the frames of their SUVs.
As they bailed from the vehicle into the chill desert air, they could hear the reports of autofire, detect the whine of ricochets or the buzz of rounds burning the air just above their heads.
“Boy, oh boy,” James said as they converged on the cover of the rocks. “We have walked right smack-dab into a stinger’s nest.”
“What is happening?” Matombo demanded, fear evident in his voice. “Who are these men?”
“They aren’t friendly, whoever they are,” McCarter stated. He exchanged glances with the faces of his teammates. “Options.”
“I got us some heavy thunder, boss,” Hawkins said, patting the M-203 grenade launcher mounted beneath his M-16 A-2.
Manning hefted the M-60 E-4 heavy-barreled machine gun. “And I can bring some.”
“Good,” McCarter said. “That should give us the covering fire we need.”
“Need for what?” Matombo asked.
“To crash their bloody party,” the Phoenix Force leader replied with a wicked grin.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Let me off here!” Lyons ordered.
Blancanales pumped the brakes and Lyons went EVA with the vehicle still moving at better than twenty miles per hour. The Able Team leader didn’t lose stride as he touched the pavement and rushed the front doors of the broken-down factory. The terrorist gunners, firing from positions on the upper floor, tried to cut him down but they didn’t have fields of fire that close to the building. Lyons made it through the rickety doorway unscathed and into the cold, dusty interior.
His breath was visible by the only light in the factory, shafts of sunbeams streaming through cracks and holes in the darkened windows. The shadows nearly obscured a pair of terrorist gunmen save for the light reflecting off their machine pistols. Lyons swung his M-16 A-3 into acquisition and triggered it from the hip. The weapon chattered a 3-round burst that took the first terrorist in the guts before it flipped him onto his back. Lyons had the second gunman targeted before the body of the first hit the stripped concrete floor. Lyons’s rounds struck the terrorist even as the man fired his own weapon and sent bullets into the ground. The man dropped to his knees as blood poured from his chest wounds. The light faded from his eyes before he toppled face-first to the concrete.
Lyons tracked a 360-degree arc with the muzzle of the M-16 A-3 before rushing to a metal stairwell. The fact the enemy had only left a defense of two men on the lower level bothered the warrior enough to pause and consider that he might be walking into a trap. Then again, what did it matter? They had to stay on mission and make sure the terrorists didn’t get away from them, irrespective of the risks. Springing the trap would accomplish the same thing as planning a stealth assault.
Lyons