ïż


body { font-family: serif; }
h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; }
h1 { font-size: 200%; }
h2 { font-size: 180%; }
h3 { font-size: 160%; }
h4 { font-size: 140%; }
h5 { font-size: 120%; }
h6 { font-size: 100%; }
p { margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0.1em; text-indent: 3em; text-align: justify; }
img { border: none; }
blockquote { margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; color: rgb(228,175,0); }
li { display: block; }
.epigraph { max-width: 25em; float: right; margin: 0pt; font-size: smaller; }
.epigraph p { text-indent: 2em; }
.espace { clear: right; margin: 0pt; padding: 0pt; }
.author { margin-left: 3em; margin-bottom: 1em; color: rgb(192,64,64); }
.poem { margin: 2em; }
.stanza + .stanza { margin-top: 1em; }
.stanza p { text-align: left; text-indent: 0pt; }
.note { position: relative; top: -0.3em; font-size: smaller; text-decoration: none; }
.annotation { border: solid black 1px; font-size: smaller;
margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; padding-left: 0.3em; }
.toclink { text-decoration: none; }
.props { margin-top: 2em; border: none; border-collapse: collapse; }
.props td { border: solid black 1px; vertical-align: top; padding-left: 0.3em; }
.propsec { text-align: center; font-weight: bolder; border: none !important }
td p { text-indent: 0pt; }
.center { text-align: center; }

Primary Directive





Don Pendleton'sPrimary Directive
Table of contents

Annotation

Prologue


Chapter One


Chapter Two


Chapter Three


Chapter Four


Chapter Five


Chapter Six


Chapter Seven


Chapter Eight


Chapter Nine


Chapter Ten


Chapter Eleven


Chapter Twelve


Chapter Thirteen


Chapter Fourteen


Chapter Fifteen


Chapter Sixteen


Chapter Seventeen


Chapter Eighteen


Chapter Nineteen


Chapter Twenty


Chapter Twenty-One


Chapter Twenty-Two


Chapter Twenty-Three


Chapter Twenty-Four


Chapter Twenty-Five


Chapter Twenty-Six


Chapter Twenty-Seven


Chapter Twenty-Eight


Chapter Twenty-Nine


Epilogue




Â


Hazardous deployment.
Stony Man intelligence has picked up chatter about something bigger than any terrorist attack on U.S. soil. Now, it's zero hour and the agency has dispatched operatives on two fronts: Panama and the Mexican border, where Al-Qaeda is using drug pipelines willing to accommodate cash payers to funnel terrorists into the country. It's clear the operation has been in the planning stages for a long time, with moles deep inside the U.S. security net. Now, the only questions remaining are when and where the attack will take place. And how Stony Man is going to stop it.

Â
For all U.S. troops fighting abroad â€" stay hard and live large!
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.


Prologue
In the haze of approaching dawn, the Mark IV river patrol boat knifed slowly through the calm waters of Lake Gatun.
Lieutenant Manuel Horst stood on the observation post above the cockpit and scanned the lakeside with his binoculars. The night shift had always been his favorite since enlisting in the Panama Special Boat Unit â€" much better than monitoring the hustle and bustle of day traffic through the canal. The regular pattern of buildings and twinkling lights of the coastal town of Gamboa came into view and Horst stopped on them a moment before lowering the binoculars.
"Slow to one-third, Specialist," he called down to the cockpit.
The pilot acknowledged the order and immediately the boat engine rumbled down from twenty to fourteen knots.
A flash of sunlight on metal caught the lieutenant's eye. He squinted in that direction, but didn't see any movement or ships, then remembered the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. He scanned slowly across the shoreline off Gamboa and spotted a periscope.
Horst descended to the main deck once they were under way and rallied his men. He ordered his best gunner to man the .50-cals and the radioman to contact headquarters with a request for reinforcements. A submarine operating in the Panama Canal Zone without permission was a serious offense against U.S.-Panama treaty stipulations, not to mention a violation of at least a half dozen right-of-way regulations.
As the PBR drew nearer and the sun broke on the horizon Horst could see the sub had surfaced. It looked rather tiny, maybe twice the length of their own boat, and it didn't have lines of any particular grade Horst recognized. That ruled out the submarine as U.S. surplus given to Panama or a military prototype. Horst's eyes stopped when he spotted a wicked-looking weapon of an unfamiliar make on the forward prow. Before Horst could point it out to his crew, however, a hatch at the base of the mount opened and a man in dark fatigues emerged. The guy took up position behind the large weapon and swung it in their direction.
Horst shouted to his machine gunner, but the warning came too late. A cloud of smoke and flame belched from the muzzle of the massive weapon as the report cracked through the air. One of the .50-cals blew apart a moment later and sent large, razor-sharp shards of metal whistling in all directions. The gunner screamed as several lodged in his body. One piece of shrapnel cut through a neck artery and blood spurted from the gaping wound left in its wake.
Horst ducked in reflex action and shouted at the pilot to turn the boat starboard, then ordered another crew member to man the 20 mm chain gun. He then rushed forward to help the wounded gunner. As he reached his man, Horst heard the antimaterial weapon boom again followed by the sickly sound of shattered glass. He didn't bother turning to make a damage assessment; he already knew they'd hit the cockpit. Horst managed to get a bulky dressing from the sideboard-mounted med kit pressed against the gunner's wound before the sudden spin of the boat knocked him off balance.
Horst looked at his gunner. The young man's eyes stared wildly back at him but the guy still seemed to have enough sense to keep the bandage pressed against his throat. The light in the man's eyes dimmed quickly, though, and Horst figured he had maybe a couple of minutes before the blood loss rendered him unconscious. Horst jumped to his feet and rushed to the cockpit. As he reached the body of the pilot slumped over the wheel â€" the boat had now taken on a listing spin as the pilot had been turning it when struck by the antimaterial rifle â€" Horst heard the 20 mm chain gun rattle into action. That would keep that bastard's head down long enough for his team to regroup and mount a counteroffensive, although Horst wondered how much they could do with two men down and one of their primary weapons neutralized.
Horst felt the pilot's neck for a pulse but didn't find any. He pulled the body off the seat and laid it gently on the deck, then directed his voice to the radioman belowdecks. "Send position priority! We're under heavy small-arms attack by submarine of unknown origin! Request reinforcements now!"
Horst then turned his attention out the view port as he swung the wheel to get the boat under control. He powered into a heading that put the port stern moving away from the sub at a forty-five-degree angle. That would give Vega on the chain gun a decent field of fire while minimizing exposure of the PBR to more barrages from the antimaterial gun. Horst never heard the report of the weapon that fired it, but there was little doubt of the consequences when a 104 mm shell landed smack-dab in the center of the prow just rear of the .50-cal turret. Wilson, the gunner, never had a chance as the explosion ripped his limbs from his body. The skin-searing heat â€" Horst could feel it even through what remained of the cockpit windshield â€" traveled belowdecks far and fast enough to turn the vulcanized rubber soles of Horst's boots mushy. Horst heard the agonized screams of Bolidez as the flames reached the radioman.
As Horst turned the wheel hard astern so the boat headed back toward the submarine before the fire reached the steerage equipment, he heard the chain gun stop, knew that Vega no longer had a decent firing position. A moment later the man burst into the cockpit.
"What the hell are you doing, Manuel?" he demanded.
Horst had known Vega since childhood. They were well past military formalities. "If we're going to die today, Maldo, then we're going to take a few of these bastards!"
The familiar crack of the material rifle made Horst clench his teeth. Vega had already left the cockpit and a moment later he could hear his friend open up with their squad weapon, an Enfield SA-80. The antimaterial shell hit somewhere beyond the boat and the delay of the gunner having to reload had bought Horst the time he sought. There was no way they could stop the boat from ramming them now.
Through the cracked glass Horst could make out more shadowy figures spreading out across the submarine deck. His heart beat fast and heavy in his chest as the wink of muzzle-flashes and cap-gun-like reports began to sound from the myriad of automatic weapons being fired. A cold lump formed in his throat when the sounds of the SA-80 ceased and a moment later he watched the body of one of his best friends sail past and hit the deck with a dull thud. Horst could barely see through the tears that welled in his eyes, but he wasn't about to give up.
No way will my men have died in vain, he thought.
Horst never heard the shot that killed him â€" never really felt more than a brief pain and the flash of light from the 104 mm shell â€" and he never knew he'd brought his boat to within twenty meters of the submarine before it exploded.
And he would never know of the legend he would create this day.


Chapter One
"Rodman Command, Rodman Command! This is a priority encoding from Gatun Unit One! Position is offshore Gamboa. Repeat, offshore Gamboa! Unidentified submarine in shallows! Unit One is under fire. Repeat, Unit One is under fire! Request assist! Request assi..."
Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm and one of the most powerful men in the Justice Department, looked at Aaron Kurtzman. "That's enough, Aaron."
A respectful, weighty silence followed the recording of the last transmission sent from Gatun Unit One of the PSBU. The men of Phoenix Force sat around the conference table in the War Room and traded somber looks.
"There were five men on that boat," Brognola finally said. "No survivors."
"Any sign of the sub?" asked David McCarter, Phoenix Force leader.
Brognola shook his head. "The sub was gone by the time reinforcements arrived. Panamanian officials contacted nearby Coast Guard cutters and eventually the word got out to put the U.S. Navy on alert, but presumably our mysterious ship submerged and slipped through the sonar nets."
"This isn't the first time the Panamanian government has reported this kind of activity," Barbara Price said. The mission controller's hair cascaded along her nape like a blond waterfall, the ends barely brushing her shoulders. Her inquisitive blue eyes studied each Phoenix Force warrior in turn. "But this is the first time there's been hostilities of this level. In the past, Panama has blamed drug-runners as the primary culprits."
"And that's the story they've given the press for now," Brognola added. "That should buy you enough time to get down there and check this out more thoroughly."
"Any newshound worth his or her weight isn't going to buy that, guys," Rafael Encizo remarked. "A lot of the frequencies used by the PBSU are unscrambled and monitored 24/7."
"Agreed," McCarter said. "It won't take them long to figure out what's up. They might know the truth before we do."
Price sighed. "Either way, we've been asked by the Panamanian government to get involved on this one. The First Vice President contacted the White House with the request personally."
"No surprise," Calvin James said. The lanky, black warrior â€" leaning on the back legs of his chair â€" pulled a toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it at his chest for emphasis. "I did a tour in Panama when I was in the Navy. I doubt they're equipped with the resources to combat a menace like this. It sounds like whoever did this wiped out that patrol boat unit like it was nothing."
"We believe we have a possible explanation for that," Price said.
She looked at the man next to her, his wrestlerlike body confined to a wheelchair. Aaron "the Bear" Kurtzman headed the Stony Man cybernetics team. He wasn't a mere whiz kid with computers. Kurtzman served as chief architect and systems administrator of one of the largest, most complex, state-of-the-art computer networks in the world. Nearly every scrap of processed information went through the Stony Man databases where powerful computers mined, compiled and sorted the data into neat little bytes.
Kurtzman took his cue. "The initial investigation of the site uncovered some interesting clues. My team's still working on what this all means, but maybe the intelligence will help."
The computer wizard tapped a key on the keyboard in front of him and the photo of a large weapon appeared on the projection screen at one end of the room.
"Gentlemen, I introduce you to the Steyr IWS-2000. In the event you're not familiar, this is a 15.2 mm antitank rifle and, as you can see, it has a bullpup design." He tapped a key and they got a different view of the weapon. "According to Cowboy, this weapon fires a distinct projectile shaped much like a finned dart, one of which was retrieved during salvage and recovery ops. Each shell fired weighs approximately 308 grains and exits at a muzzle velocity of almost 1500 meters per second."
T. J. Hawkins produced a long whistle. In his soft, Southern drawl he said, "Holy guacamole. That is one bad dude."
"It's also a pretty interesting weapon to mount to a minisub," Brognola added. "This is why we bring it to your attention. As you know, Steyr-Mannlicher is an Austrian company, and this particular make has never been exported for purchase."
"So whoever acquired it probably did so in-country," McCarter concluded.
Gary Manning cleared his throat and all eyes turned toward him.
"Al Qaeda still has pretty strong ties in that area," Manning reminded the team. "If this was a terrorist operation and they were using those kinds of weapons, then I'd say they're our most likely candidate."
McCarter nodded. "That's a bloody good assessment, mate."
"The Panamanian government's very concerned about the timing of this whole thing," Brognola said. "Especially in light of the recent handoff of all canal operations to local oversight."
"Didn't they also pass some recent legislation to fund reconstruction and upgrade efforts?" Encizo asked.
Price nodded. "Yes, and some of those operations are already under way, although not in this particular area. Less than ten percent of the structures in Gamboa are even occupied, and there's only one resort to service the tourist population."
"Not to mention this is the off-season," Brognola added.
"Gamboa thrived when it acted as a township under the old Panama Canal Zone," Price continued, "but with the return of its resources to Panama officials, the departure of U.S. citizens and servicemen living there turned the place into a virtual ghost town."
"I don't get it," James said. "If this wasn't about drugs and these were actual terrorists, al Qaeda or otherwise, what the hell was the point? They didn't blow anything up other than one small patrol boat, and they obviously didn't stick around very long. What gives?"
"I think that's what we're going down there to find out," McCarter replied.
"Exactly," Price said. "Your local contact will be a Panamanian official from the First VP's office. A CIA operative from the embassy in Panama City will also meet you in Gamboa."
"Why's the Company involved?" James asked suspiciously.
"They're not," Brognola replied. "This guy's merely on an intelligence-gathering mission for the official reports. He's been advised of your arrival. Both of these men have been told to give you their full cooperation, so it's your show. All the way."
"Dandy," McCarter said with a grin. "Just the way I like it."


Chapter Two
U.S.-Mexican Border
Rosario "The Politician" Blancanales had known better days. Huge droplets of sweat rolled off his head and slid slowly down his neck and along his spine like globules of oil. His body ached, his shirt was soaked at waist and armpits and he had hunger pangs such as he'd never before experienced. The temperature had already reached nearly one hundred degrees with about ninety percent humidity, and it wasn't even noon yet. He'd consumed nearly an entire canteen of water and a couple of salt tablets and still his tongue felt like 20-grade sandpaper. Blancanales removed his utility cap, wiped at the sweat on his forehead and behind his ears with an OD green hanky and then replaced his cover.
Squinting in the bright sun, the Able Team warrior studied the profile of the muscular man who stood next to him talking on a cell phone. The man's frosty blue eyes stared with moderate interest at the work in progress in front of them. Some might have called this man a work in progress, but Blancanales knew better. Time and the brutal reality of urban combat had hardened and shaped this guy into the most rock-steady man it had ever been Blancanales's pleasure to know.
"Yeah, I understand. Out, here," Carl "Ironman" Lyons said, and then disconnected the call.
"Hal?" Blancanales inquired.
Lyons nodded. "Yeah. Says they just sent Phoenix down to Panama. Some kind of major shit hit the fan down there. Naturally, they took Jack, and Charlie's somewhere with Mack."
"So no dedicated wings for the ride home."
"Nope," Lyons said. "Says once we're finished to give them a call and they'll get us on the first MAC flight out of Fort Bliss."
"Why so grumpy, Carl?" Blancanales asked. "Lighten up some and put on a happy face."
"This is my happy face," Lyons said with a sideways glance at his friend. He nodded toward another man working with the group near a ten-foot-high wall fifty yards from their position and added, "When's Gadgets going to be finished with these eggheads already?"
Hermann Schwarz, whose wizardry and expertise in electronic surveillance and countersurveillance had earned him the "Gadgets" moniker, stopped to look at his two friends as if he had somehow read Lyons's mind. He held up one hand in the "gimme five more minutes" sign and Lyons returned the gesture with a nod, although the look on the Able Team leader's face said he was none too happy about having to continue waiting.
Lyons hadn't been keen on taking the assignment to start with, Blancanales knew, but when in the service of an organization like Stony Man they didn't get to pick and choose their assignments. And to some degree, each of them possessed some significant expertise in this particular endeavor. Lyons, of course, had a background as an LAPD cop dealing with illegal immigrants from Mexico on practically a daily basis and Blancanales, a man raised in East L.A., knew just about everything there was to know about border crossings. Finally, Schwarz had the greatest impact on this mission because of his significant expertise in electronic surveillance measures.
The End Zone Project was the baby of numerous computer scientists at Sandia Laboratories in New Mexico. Designed around two integral technologies â€" Forward Area Alerting Radar and Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting for Night â€" End Zone had the ability to not only detect when someone attempted to cross the border illegally, but further could deliver several neutralizing mechanisms to stun and immobilize the subject until Border Patrol units could arrive and take custody. End Zone had passed its final trials in time for implementation into the new border wall under construction by the U.S. Army's Corps of Engineers.
The President had stressed the importance of the success of the project, not just because of its political and social ramifications, but also due to the increased violence resulting from unrest between the various special-interest groups keeping the topic of immigration hot.
"Mostly, we just want you to keep the peace and ensure domestic tranquillity," Brognola had concluded in their mission briefing.
"Marvelous," had been Lyons's reply.
Now as they stood and watched their friend at work, Blancanales said with a smirk, "See there, the look on Gadgets's face? See how happy you've made him?"
Lyons shook his head. "Whatever gets you through the day."
The pair turned and ascended the steps that led into the Tactical Operations Center, a trailer-mounted facility that looked like a rail car, and the only air-conditioned building for miles. The place was relatively cool compared to the blistering heat outside. A small refrigerator in one corner contained shelves of soft drinks and bottled water.
Blancanales made a show of shuddering and said, "Brrr, it's downright chilly in here."
Lyons didn't bother to reply, instead moving over to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water before taking up a stance to look over the shoulder of one of the controllers. The man wore a subdued three-up, one-down chevron on the collars of his desert camouflage uniform blouse: a staff sergeant.
"We online there yet, Sarge?" Lyons asked casually.
"No, sir."
"How much longer you think?" Lyons asked.
"Almost there now, sir. We've rebooted the servers and we should be online... right... now."
The trio of LCD screens in front of the controller came to life simultaneously and displayed different camera angles on Schwarz and the team members huddled around him near the wall. The pictures were displayed in high-definition format and rendered with full sharpness and opacity, and neither Blancanales nor Lyons could admit they weren't somewhat impressed.
The pair continued to watch with interest as the controller talked with Schwarz over a headset. The two discussed a few techie-tech things and then Schwarz concluded the conversation with a thumbs-up to the camera before he stepped out of viewing range. A minute later Schwarz entered the TOC. His face beamed with pride and as soon as Blancanales saw it he looked knowingly at Lyons, who chose only to return the look with an exaggerated smile.
"Well, boys," Schwarz said as he removed his work gloves and slapped at the make-believe dust on his uniform trousers. "It looks like that's that. I'd have to say End Zone is a complete success."
Lyons visibly brightened. "Great! Does that mean we can leave now?"
Blancanales mocked him with a stunned expression. "But, Ironman, this is just where the real fun begins."
Lyons groaned and Schwarz held up a hand to placate him. "Don't worry, buddy. We only have a few tests we have to run through tonight. But if those pan out, I'd say we'll probably be able to head out first thing in the morning. So you can call Jack."
"No go," Blancanales said. He looked in the direction of the controller and then added, "He's busy."
Schwarz nodded, but before anyone could say another word the controller called for their attention. Able Team gathered around as the guy pointed toward one of the screens. It now displayed a different set of cameras that Blancanales recognized from having worked in that location two days prior. The group watched with fascination as two figures climbed over the top of the wall and dropped down onto the U.S. side.
"What's going on?" Lyons demanded.
"Sergeant, do we have some kind of live exercise scheduled for that area today?" Schwarz asked.
The controller grabbed a nearby clipboard and flipped through several sheets until he came to the one he sought and let his finger trace down an itemized list.
"That's a negative, sir."
"Holy crap," Blancanales said. "We got ourselves a couple real-life border crossers."
"Where is that, Sergeant?" Lyons demanded.
The controller punched it up on another computer. "Those are the systems mounted at Pitchfork Point."
"I remember that area," Schwarz said, exchanging glances with his comrades. "It's about twenty miles east of the Columbus, New Mexico, port of entry."
Lyons looked at his watch. "At least an hour away."
"Shit, sir!" The controller pointed at the cameras and Able Team noticed his face had gone white as a sheet. "What the hell is that?"
The pair who had vaulted the wall a moment earlier suddenly danced around like a pair of marionettes as red splotches appeared along their upper torsos. All the men of Able Team recognized the kind of destructive force that could only have come from automatic weapons.
"Let's go!" Lyons snapped.
* * *
"That's right, yeah!" Lyons barked into his cell phone for the third time in the past two minutes. "Pitchfork Point, that's what I just said! What, you don't speak English?"
"Tell them they need to get out of town first," Schwarz said.
After another moment of silence, Lyons said, "Fine!" He clicked off and muttered, "Morons."
"They know where they're going now?" Blancanales inquired from behind the wheel of their Ford Expedition.
"Doubtful." Lyons twisted in the passenger seat to look at Schwarz, who had his laptop open and was typing furiously at it. "What are you doing?"
"Working with Bear on a direct feed to my laptop. I just talked to Ricchio back at the TOC. He told me right after that pair got shot to shit that a whole gaggle of illegal's came over that wall. This time, though, they didn't shoot them."
"Do we even know who they are?" Lyons asked.
"What's a gaggle?" Blancanales asked to lighten the mood.
"Okay, the feed's coming up now," Schwarz announced.
They rode in silence for the next minute, each man in his own thoughts about what might lie ahead.
Finally, Schwarz whispered, "Good God..."
"What is it?" Lyons asked.
Schwarz turned the laptop so Lyons could see for himself. It replayed the shooting of the first two men who came over the wall and then displayed the mass of a dozen or so more who followed a minute thereafter. The last thing they saw astonished all of them. Four Border Patrol agents armed with M-16s stepped into view. Each pair grabbed one of the deceased men they had gunned down and dragged them off camera.
"Impossible," Blancanales said through clenched teeth.
Lyons shook his head. "It's unthinkable, I'll agree."
"Two things are evident here right off," Schwarz interjected. "First, those two weren't wasted by Minutemen. Anywhere the wall's been completed is strictly off-limits to all but authorized personnel. Second, what about the fact they made entry here in the sight of a newly constructed surveillance system in broad daylight?"
"It signifies an act of desperation," Blancanales replied.
"Exactly," Lyons added. "There are plenty of easier places to cross the border. Proved places with fewer obstacles and way more running room. That point couldn't be more than â€" what? â€" maybe half a mile from the access road off Route 9."
"Something stinks to high heaven, no doubt about it."
In a drifting, almost contemplative tone, Schwarz said, "It's almost as if they wanted us to see it, to make us believe the Border Patrol gunned down two crossers and then dragged away the evidence."
"Okay, but what about the rest of the group?" Lyons said. "Why gun down just those two?"
"I don't know," Schwarz replied. "But I'm running the feed again. See if I can pick up something else."
"Well, we're not just going to sit here on our asses," Lyons replied. He engaged the speakerphone and dialed in the specially coded number to Stony Man Farm. The line rang twice and was then picked up by Brognola. "Hal, you getting this?"
"We're watching it right now," the Stony Man chief replied. "What the hell is going on down there? Border Patrol officers killing illegal immigrants?"
"We're as surprised as you, boss," Blancanales replied.
"Well, I have Aaron and his team checking out every inch of the footage we captured. We also talked to this Sergeant Ricchio while we were working on the wireless uplink. He says they lost the feed less than thirty seconds after the segment we recorded there."
"Lost it how?" Schwarz inquired.
"I wish we knew. All Ricchio could tell us was that they believe the feeds were cut at the source."
"So they destroyed the cameras," Lyons said.
"Impossible," Schwarz said. "Those things are housed inside boxes made of inch-thick titanium alloy plating. It'd take nothing short of a grenade or missile to destroy them. The only other way they could interfere with the transmission at the source would be through the use of a Wi-Fi jammer or severing the hardwired fusible links providing power. And to do that, they'd need some decent insider information."
"Whatever the explanation," Lyons said, "this changes the name of the game, Hal."
"Agreed," Brognola replied. His voice faded a moment as he asked, "What's that?" Another tense moment of silence, then, "Bear's people just came up with something hot. If you replay the footage of the large group coming over the wall, about the third or fourth player over you'll see his hand rest on top of the wall as he climbs down. The tunic he was wearing is pulled back some and it exposed a tattoo on his forearm, just above the wrist."
"Can you make it out?" Lyons asked.
"We're checking the linguistic database now," Brognola said. "But what we know for sure is it's an Arabic symbol of some kind. We'll send more intelligence along as soon as we have something definite."
"Not good," Blancanales said matter-of-factly.
"Definitely not good."
"This could be a lot more serious than you might think," Brognola continued. "Like I said earlier, David and Phoenix are in Panama. There was an incident down there two days ago. It hasn't hit the press up here yet, but I'm sure it will shortly. It seems the Panamanian government may have traded shots with a submarine. We think it might have been sent by our al Qaeda friends."
"You're just full of good news today, aren't you?" Lyons retorted.
"You started it."
"I assume we're clear to do whatever we have to on this one?" Lyons asked.
"Unequivocally," Brognola said. "Find out what's going on and act appropriately, but be as judicious as you can. We don't need any bloodbaths down there if we can avoid it."
"They started it," Lyons said, and disconnected.
"Now what?" Blancanales asked.
"I guess we won't really know until we get there," Lyons replied. "See if we can find some clues from whatever pieces they left behind to pick up."
"You think those were terrorists crossing onto U.S. soil?"
"I'd wager my next paycheck on it," Lyons replied.
He turned to Schwarz. "How we fixed for armament, Gadgets?"
"We're good. Kissinger packed all our usual fare, plus a little extra just in case."
"I'd say this qualifies as a just in case' moment," Blancanales said.
Lyons grunted his agreement. This smelled of a terrorist plot from the get-go and Lyons could feel a conspiracy at the very center of his gut. The al Qaeda terrorists had been spouting off for years about launching another catastrophic attack against America, and maybe they saw their chance in the recent tensions between Mexico and the U.S. concerning illegal immigration. Leave it to a pack of radical terror-mongers to exploit an already hot issue. There were issues about the 9/11 attacks that had driven wedges between the divisions on issues totally unrelated to al Qaeda and its unquenchable hatred for the United States and her allies. Why should this be any different?
Well, it would be different in one way. This time Able Team and Phoenix Force would be prepared for it. This time they'd be waiting for al Qaeda to make its move. And when it did, the terrorists would encounter a force unlike any they had faced before.


Chapter Three
The men of Phoenix Force stepped onto the tarmac of the heliport in Gamboa as the blades of their Sikorsky H-19 wound down. The humid air brushed over them like oil paint on a canvas and the mugginess made it difficult to breathe.
A man with a long, thin nose and bushy mustache stood at the edge of the tarmac wearing a lightweight linen suit of white over a pink silk shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. The first thought that came to McCarter's mind was that of Panama Jack, and as he drew closer to the man he noticed the facial features only reinforced his first impressions. The ends of the man's mustache tapered off curlicue style and he had a smooth, swarthy complexion with mild crow's-feet.
"Mr. White?" The man spoke English with a heavy mestizo accent. He extended a hand and McCarter shook it. "Robert Nativida. I am the Panama province secretary of the interior to President Espino."
"Pleased to meet you," McCarter replied easily. He introduced the others in turn by their aliases; they shook hands all around.
"Welcome to Panama, gentlemen. If you'll follow me, please."
Phoenix Force accompanied Nativida to a pair of Jeepneys waiting at the edge of the road. McCarter took one with Encizo and Nativida, while James, Hawkins, Manning and their driver manned the other. They turned onto a road that led from the heliport and headed in a westerly direction.
"Where we going?" Encizo asked casually.
"There is an activity center near here," Nativida replied over his shoulder from the front seat. "I will need to stop there and pick up some important documents. I apologize for running errands but as I'm sure you're aware we're trying to keep up appearances and this information deserves my attention."
"No need to worry the tourists, eh, mate?" McCarter gibed.
Nativida nodded emphatically. "Precisely. From there, we will take you to the hotel. We have rooms booked for you at the Historical Villa. The apartments there are adjacent to the main resort. We assumed you would wish to be as inconspicuous as possible."
"You assumed right," Encizo replied.
"Although we'd like to see the site of the engagement first, if it's all the same to you," McCarter added.
"We can arrange that," Nativida said.
They arrived at the activity center and Nativida ran inside. McCarter and Encizo could hear the buzz of unstilted dialogue between their comrades in the other Jeepney. McCarter couldn't make out what his friends were saying but he trusted their professionalism and abilities to be discreet in their subject matter. Nativida returned a minute later with a large accordion binder in his hand, climbed into his seat and ordered the convoy to proceed.
They rode to the riverside docks in silence. When they arrived, a boat awaited them and all of the men save for the drivers climbed aboard. Nativida spoke briefly under his breath with the captain, then they set off on a journey along the river. Under other circumstances it would have been a nice, leisurely boat tour, but in this case grimness weighed on the minds of the Phoenix Force veterans as they considered the aftermath of the violence that had occurred here less than forty-eight hours ago.
They rounded a deep bend in the river, which Nativida identified as the Chagres, and off to their left the river opened onto a wide body of water. Nativida gestured to it and said, "That's Gatun Lake. And over here is where Lieutenant Horst and his men encountered the alleged submarine."
"Why do you put it that way?" James asked.
"Excuse me?"
"You said 'alleged,'" Encizo said. "As if for some reason you don't believe what they reported."
Nativida seemed a bit embarrassed by their retorts. He smiled and said, "Gentlemen, as you can probably see, the water is very shallow here and it was still rather dark. We cannot be sure that it was an actual sub they saw."
"That's funny," Hawkins said. "Because we heard the tape of their final communications, and I'm pretty sure I heard 'submarine' real clearly."
McCarter noticed Nativida suddenly express defensiveness and decided to step in with some damage control. "It doesn't really matter what kind of boat it was. The point is, there's no mistaking their intent or the fact they were hostiles."
"Right," Manning agreed. "What we should focus on now is who and why."
"I've been giving that some careful thought," Encizo said. "I don't think any one of us would disagree that whoever attacked that boat crew did so because they were surprised. Obviously they weren't expecting the crew to be there at that particular moment."
"Meaning they had probably been watching the place for a time," James concluded.
Encizo nodded. "And now seeing the location where it happened, it seems pretty apparent they were here to move one thing, and it wasn't drugs."
Hawkins furrowed an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"
"Look at that spot," Encizo replied, jerking a thumb at the site. "They had to have been a good forty meters or so offshore. And if we assume this was a sub, they would have been surfaced. Seeing as there aren't any docks here, boys, I have to wonder exactly how they would have off-loaded drugs or any other type of contraband for that matter."
"What about a boat?" Manning asked.
"No dice, mate," McCarter answered. "The intelligence reports said the local authorities arrived within ten minutes after the shooting started."
Manning tendered a conciliatory nod. "There wasn't time."
"Maybe they never even got that far," James proposed.
"Doubtful," Encizo said. "They took a great risk getting in here, and I can't believe it was solely for reconnaissance purposes. I think the more plausible explanation is that whatever they dropped here didn't require any mode of transportation other than the sub. In other words..."
"People," McCarter concluded.
"So this was a personnel delivery of some sort?" James asked.
"In the lack of any other evidence at this point," Encizo replied, "it seems like a logical conclusion."
Manning crossed the boat and leaned close to McCarter's ear. "What do you have in mind for our next move?"
"Let's get to the apartments," McCarter replied. "This CIA liaison should be waiting for us there. I want to get his take on all of this."
Manning nodded and stepped off just a second before something caught McCarter's eyes at the edge of the bank, maybe ten yards distant. He knew the movement of the tall grasses and flowers along the shoreline was anything but natural.
"We're being watched," he whispered. "About two o'clock. Tell Nativida to have the pilot head in that direction. Easy, though. I want to look like we're going past."
Manning nodded and immediately walked next to where Nativida stood very close to the cockpit. He didn't turn to look at the man, simply kept his eyes straight ahead while he delivered McCarter's message. The Phoenix Force leader turned and walked to where James and Hawkins sat on a bench mounted to the port side of the boat. He sat between them and fished a Player's cigarette from a pack. He lit it, bent at the waist as if stretching, and whispered, "We got a watcher, mates. Follow my lead."
McCarter then stood and looked in Encizo's direction. Manning had just taken a seat next to him and the Briton could barely see Manning's lips move as he delivered the message. Encizo's eyes flicked in McCarter's direction long enough to assure McCarter he knew the plan.
The Phoenix Force leader turned to face the prow of the boat and propped his right leg on the edge. He ground his heel down, flexing his thigh muscles in preparation for the jump. He hoped to make it close to the observation point by the first leap, although he didn't yet have a measure of how deep the water would be there. Based on what he saw, he assumed it would come up to at least his knees.
The Briton took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke curl from his nostrils as he made a point of flicking it high in the air just as the boat chugged parallel with the target landing point. McCarter hoped the observer's eyes would track the path of the cigarette long enough for him to reach the guy. A moment after it left his fingers, McCarter jumped. He landed much closer to shore than he'd originally anticipated, the water coming only past his boots. The Briton gained two steps and then crashed through the brush just as his quarry got to his feet.
McCarter took the offensive and delivered a roundhouse kick that connected, although he lost a bit of force as he wrenched the knee of his planted leg in the spongy ground. His opponent took the kick in the ribs, grunting with pain on impact, but then managed to get an arm wrapped around McCarter's calf and trap the leg. The guy turned inward and jammed an elbow in McCarter's knee, but not being fully planted himself, the blow was weak and saved the Phoenix warrior's leg from debilitating injury.
McCarter leaned in full-force, grabbed fistfuls of the man's collar and then pulled back, a move that took his enemy off balance. The Briton landed in a backward shoulder roll and used the impetus of his weight to bring his opponent with him in a Judo sacrifice throw that sent the man sailing overhead and into a nearby tree trunk.
Encizo and Manning crashed through the brush a moment later, both panting with the exertion. They immediately took control of McCarter's opponent and wrestled him to his feet. The Phoenix Force leader looked into the man's dark eyes for a moment.
And a mask of pure hatred stared back at him.
* * *
"His name's Siraj Khatri," Barbara Price said.
The men of Phoenix Force were gathered in one of their two apartments. The speakerphone echoed in the room but they were the only ones in that particular unit, so being overheard was hardly of concern. Not that the Panamanian government didn't have the phones tapped anyway. For all they knew, half the cabinet could be listening in right at the moment.
"He's a native of Pakistan," Price continued. "He was born and educated there, although he did do a year on an exchange program at UCLA back in 2004."
Lounging on a love seat with his leg propped and his knee on ice, McCarter replied, "Any known terrorist affiliations?"
"None we know of," she said. "He returned to Pakistan as scheduled and completed his final year of schooling there as a software programmer. Then he just seemed to disappear until surfacing again in Mexico a few months ago."
"What for?" Encizo inquired.
"He took a programming job there, apparently for some start-up company. Telemarketing and call center services of sorts, serving locations in both North and Central America."
"Well, he's a long way from Mexico," Hawkins pointed out.
"Barb, do we have any other information on this guy?"
"I'm afraid not," Price said. "Apparently he has no credit cards and no other links we can follow. Both parents were killed accidentally in 2002 during a shooting incident that occurred on the Afghani-Pakistan border during the very early phases of Operation Freedom. They were apparently Muslim missionaries of some sort."
"Well, that would surely give him a motive to seek out al Qaeda," Manning remarked.
"We also have some news to report," Brognola chimed in. "It concerns Able Team's mission in Texas. It appears there was a breach of the border a couple of hours ago, and one of the crossers had an Arabic symbol tattooed on his hand. It looked familiar to me but I couldn't place it at first. It took us some time but we finally identified it after Aaron ran it through the database. The symbol dates back to a tattoo fire-branded onto the arms of mujahideen fighters meaning 'struggle.' They wore this during the liberation of Afghanistan from the Soviets."
"Too bloody right," McCarter replied. "A liberation movement that received plenty of manpower and funding from bin Laden."
"And we're back to al Qaeda," James said.
"We've just passed the information on to Able Team, so they'll be running this down from their end. Two things we know for sure now, though, are that terrorists have entered the country and that this most recent incident with Panama must contain a link. There's no way these were coincidences."
"Rafe has developed a pretty good theory about that," McCarter said. He looked at the Cuban and said, "You want to elaborate?"
Encizo ran it down for the Stony Man logistics crew, including his theory about the sub being in Panama to subsidize terrorist personnel requirements, and concluded with, "I'm guessing this is some sort of pipeline."
"Sure," Brognola agreed. "Plant Islamic radicals in Central America to set up connection points, then smuggle in personnel and feed them up the chain into America using the illegal immigration network. It's nothing short of brilliant."
"Well, al Qaeda's been harping about something big, bigger than the attacks in New York and Washington, for years," Hawkins pointed out. "It seems to me this would qualify."
"And they would certainly need a lot more players to top 9/11."
"They're holding this guy under armed guard by the locals right now," McCarter stated. "Since he's obviously in the country illegally, they're telling us this falls to the jurisdiction of the Panamanian government."
"Yeah, what's the deal with that, Hal?" Hawkins said. "I thought they wanted our help."
"I'm not sure, guys, but we'll get on it immediately. You'll get their cooperation one way or another, I guarantee it."
"What about your CIA contact?" Price asked. "Have you met with him yet?"
"Not yet," McCarter replied. "We..."
A steady rap at the door cut him short.
"Speak of the devil, that's probably him now."
McCarter nodded to Manning, who crossed the room to answer the door, James on his heels as backup. They were probably secure in this location but in light of recent discoveries that might point to the fact the place was crawling with al Qaeda terrorists, there wasn't any point in taking chances.
Manning opened the door after verifying James was in position and stood aside to admit a tall, well-dressed man with short red hair and a strong jaw. The man's gray eyes darted from man to man, and he took in the entire room with a natural pause. He didn't wait but a second before he began speaking.
"Hey, fellas," he said in a deep, scratchy voice with a Southern twang. He tossed a salute and said, "The name's Herndon. I'm with the Panama desk."
Their CIA contact.
"We've been waiting on you," McCarter said tightly. "You were supposed to meet us here over three bloody hours ago."
"Yeah, sorry about that. I got held up."
Before anyone could reply, Nativida burst into the room with a flushed face and sweat soaking through all the usual places on his nice suit.
"Gentlemen, please come now! The man you captured is about to escape!"


Chapter Four
It didn't take long for Able Team to find the bodies of the two immigrants who'd been shot. As soon as they arrived, the trio took charge and formed a skirmish line. Two sheriff's deputies located the bullet-riddled pair nestled between a large patch of sagebrush. Able Team ordered the teams to continue walking their skirmish line to search for any clues while they checked the bodies for identification. To no one's surprise, they didn't find any.
"No doubt they're Hispanic, though," Blancanales said as he eyed the grim scene before them.
Lyons looked up and squinted at the hills to the north as if the solution to this mystery might be hidden somewhere among them. "Okay, so we have bogus Border Patrol agents killing Mexican immigrants, and Arab terrorists, possibly al Qaeda, crossing into the U.S. unmolested. That makes no sense."
"It would if we were to assume these two were the coyotes," Schwarz replied.
"What?"
"Sure, think about it. Al Qaeda decides to use the Mexican pipeline to funnel terrorists into the country. It wouldn't be difficult for Arabs to pose as Mexicans. They train them in the language, mark them up so the receivers on this end can sort out the wheat from the chaff, as it were, and there you go! An instant, nearly endless supply of bodies to assist in preparation for whatever operations they have under way."
"It would be a pretty ingenious plot if you really think about it," Blancanales added. "U.S. Immigration is so backlogged that they have to pass off a good amount of the scutt work to Border Patrol and local police agencies. Mostly they treat this problem like a day of fishing on the lake. Get one you don't want, you just throw it back."
Lyons nodded in understanding. "And they only take the most basic information in these roundups, so they can more quickly identify them if they return."
"Right. This means we'd only be helping them build their identities as Mexican nationals."
"It's a ready-made recipe for deception," Schwarz observed.
Lyons folded his arms. "So let's assume for the sake of argument that al Qaeda's cooked up a plot to use the Mexican immigrant system to smuggle operatives into the country. And let's also assume they got caught with their pants down in Panama. Moving any kind of operation force across that many miles of jungle is risky, at best, not to mention the costs involved."
"Not as risky as trying to sneak them straight into the country by more conventional methods," Blancanales said. "You're forgetting it's a lot easier for them to get operatives with Muslim backgrounds into Central American countries than North American. They aren't running planes into skyscrapers and bombing federal buildings in these countries, so officials feel they have much less to worry about from Islamists."
"Nobody's immune to the horrors of terrorism," Lyons said.
"Yeah, sure, but tell that to these poor starving Mexican nationals when the terrorists are waving plenty of cash around. What we make in a month would take many of those people years to earn, Ironman. You should know that as well I do."
"All right," Lyons said. "But we need a place to start looking. If al Qaeda's behind this, then its headquarters has to be close by. Question now is, how do we find them?"
Schwarz stuck up his hand. "I think I might be able to answer that one."
* * *
Fadil Bari watched the crowd of American policemen through binoculars from his vantage point in the nearby foothills. A couple of times he had to caution his men to be silent as they waited. Additional reinforcements had arrived, and they were scouring the dry, dusty flatlands, probably looking for signs that would assist them in picking up Bari's frail. They wouldn't find any. The man hadn't built his reputation by being careless and unthinking.
Bari watched for another minute, then crawled behind a large boulder. Two of his crew waited there, watching him expectantly.
"They are still down there," he told them. "I'm concerned they might spot us if we attempt to leave, yet we cannot hold here indefinitely."
"What if we wait until dark?" one of the men asked.
Bari considered that a moment, then shook his head. "This will only give them more time to bring in additional personnel and equipment. I may not like it, but we should move now. Waiting only increases our chances of being cut off from the base."
The men nodded, then all three of them crawled to another area where their six new arrivals waited.
Bari hadn't counted on the Americans moving their construction project along as fast as they had. Many of al Qaeda's connections had done everything they could to delay it. They had lobbied or bribed every politician and every leader of every special-interest group from the American Southwest to Washington, D.C. They'd also tried to infiltrate the scientific community, figure out exactly what the secret project called End Zone had to do with the construction of the border wall, but those attempts proved unsuccessful. Even their contacts inside the American press couldn't figure out exactly what was happening until recently.
The cell leader and his men rallied the new arrivals and began the arduous trek over nearly half a mile of uneven terrain to reach the half dozen 4x4s that awaited them beneath heavy camouflage made with netting and natural elements. From that point, they would travel the twenty-odd miles to a natural lava flow along the area called Mt. Riley that had carved a belowground cavern converted to quarters for Bari's cell.
Nearly four hours elapsed before the terrorist leader and his tired crew entered the comparative coolness of the rocky operations center. He ordered his men to point out sleeping accommodations for the six new men, and then get them cleaned up and fed. That attended to, he walked across the cavern and into a separate antechamber carved by the movement of superheated lava thousands of years before.
The chalky remnants of soot made it almost impossible to keep their computer equipment clean. Two of the men assigned to the operation were computer experts. The pair had hacked into a nearby cellular tower and used it to establish a wireless broadband connection. They had been using this to communicate with their support units around the globe via various Web site and e-mail servers used to deliver pornographic spam. Because those servers delivered thousands of e-mails an hour, it made it harder for U.S. security systems to sift through them to find the ciphers and other hidden code behind photographs. Al Qaeda's specialists had found pictures of naked women and "legitimate" porn sites to be perfect methods for cryptic communications due to the sheer number of hits even one of those sites received in a single twenty-four-hour period. The computer specialists looked up when Bari entered. He nodded in way of acknowledgment.
"What have you discovered?" he asked.
Amer Rajiya, younger of the pair, replied, "It would seem the Americans are in the final testing phases of End Zone. It appears the system is designed to monitor the border wall and send information to their border patrol units. Additionally, the system also has some type of antipersonnel feature to it."
"What kind of 'antipersonnel feature'?" Bari demanded.
"We are not yet sure," said Jainal Hapilon, a former member of the Abu Sayyaf. "But we know that it is capable of neutralizing our agents for an indefinite period of time."
The news was anything but good. The operation wouldn't be any easier from this point, and without proper support they might not be able to execute it at all. Everything relied on an adequate number of personnel, since the attacks required split-second timing and they wouldn't get a second chance if they didn't execute the plan in the proper places and under the proper timing. Bari didn't believe in contingency plans. Missions for God were typically oneway missions, missions of sacrifice, missions of martyrdom. Bari had planned this one to the last detail â€" he knew he most likely wouldn't survive.
"This is a disturbing development," he told them. "We cannot move forward with our plans if we do not have everyone in place. We need to get word back to our people that we may experience a delay. As soon as you have done that, gather the team leaders together here for a conference."
"What are we going to do?" Rajiya asked.
"What else can we do? We must destroy this technology and those who created it before it becomes fully operational. All else depends upon it!"
* * *
"It's known as LANTIRN," Aaron Kurtzman announced to Brognola and Price.
They were gathered in the Annex Computer Room and viewing a complex schematic of an electronic device projected on the massive LCD screen in front of them.
"That stands for Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared System for Night. The Air Force originally used it on their F-15 and F-16 fighter craft, but it always had the ability to be retrofitted to any system with a military-grade digital multiplexer.
"The radar system inside of it operates at an altitudinal range often to one thousand feet, so fauna won't give it any problems but it will track anything above that. Since the wall's twelve feet in height, it's easily capable of tracking any object that comes over. Additionally, it uses laser-range finder technology to create 3-D models of the terrain. Any deviation above a certain nominal limit will trigger the system into remapping. This will automatically tell the monitoring system what deviation has been detected and the most likely cause of the deviation, be it human, animal or otherwise."
Brognola nodded. "Impressive."
"Not as much as this next part," Kurtzman said with a wicked grin. He tapped the keyboard to display a picture of an oval-shaped device mounted to a section of border wall. "We got this photograph courtesy of Gadgets."
"Looks like one of those giant golf balls you see on the top of some pro shops," Price noted.
"It may not look that impressive, but believe me when I say it's quite the little gadget. What you're seeing here is merely the outer shell. It's originally based on the MPQ-54 Forward Area Alerting Radar first put in production back in the early 1970s. Although it's had a number of impressive modifications through the years, including a brand-new computerized interface, the core technology is still the same. It's been enhanced with the Firefinder family of ground radar systems, originally used to locate mortars and other ground-based artillery emplacements. A favorite of military tankers and engineering units."
"How does it work?" Brognola asked.
"It's pretty similar to its predecessors but again, lots of neat mods. It uses pulse-Doppler range gates to paint a three-dimensional picture of some given area, in this case a section of the border wall. The beam is translated via servomotors capable of scanning a 120-degree sector ten times per second.
When combined with the other systems, the radar network it provides becomes virtually foolproof."
Price raised her eyebrows. "Virtually?"
Kurtzman shrugged with a sheepish grin. "No system is perfect, Barb. Not even the one I created for Stony Man."
"It's close enough," Brognola said. "So how are we thinking about using the system to help Able Team?"
"That's where we get to the cool part," Kurtzman said. "We already have a link to interface Gadgets's laptop back here. The nice thing about this system is that it just so happens to have portable modules. Gadgets thinks he can modify the technology to work on his system. They'll then transmit their data back here where our processing power can go to work on it. With a little bit of time and a lot of number-crunching, we may be able to pinpoint where the terrorists are operating. Able Team figures they're operating close to the Columbus port of entry in New Mexico, and I'd have to agree."
"Once you have the data, how long will it take to narrow the possibilities?"
"Well, that's the trick. We don't really know yet. Much of it depends on how long it takes our processors here to sort through the data. We're talking about very complex mathematical operations here. But I can guarantee you we'll ultimately get pinpoint accuracy in the results, and we'll be able to do it much faster than with anything the boys have on-site there."
Price waited a moment to make sure Kurtzman was finished, then turned in her chair to face Brognola. "In the meantime, Hal, Carl informs me they'll have plenty to do."
"How so?"
"Well, Able Team's concerned about the people who created End Zone. It's very likely if al Qaeda discovers we're onto them, they might target the project's scientists or military personnel to delay the system from going live."
Brognola considered this point. Al Qaeda might just try something like that if it thought it would benefit. The President wanted to make sure there were no incidents, and this one would definitely add fuel to the fire. They wouldn't be able to keep it out of the papers, of that much he was sure. They could suppress the footage of the cameras, but they still had two dead Mexican nationals on their hands. The Oval Office would have a bit of explaining to do not only to America but to Mexican officials, who would want the full details.
"I understand," Brognola said. "Tell Carl I said he can do whatever he has to do. A protection detail is going to spread them pretty thin, but I don't see as we have many other choices right now."
"I'll let them know," she replied.
"The best we can hope for now is that Phoenix Force comes up with some answers down in Panama," the big Fed said. "The trail has to start there somewhere. If they can choke off the pipeline, hit al Qaeda's Central American network at the source, that might just buy us enough time to locate their operations on the receiving end and neutralize them before they can execute whatever operation they have in mind."
"Well, we did recently come upon some information that might help us nail down who's behind this," Price said.
She accessed a nearby computer terminal, then flipped the screen so Brognola could see it. It displayed the picture of a dark-skinned man, middle-aged, with close-cropped hair and black eyes. He wore a long, traditional beard in the style of a Muslim cleric.
"This picture was taken a couple of months ago in D.C. during the Islamic Freedom Movement march on the White House. It was run through facial-recognition software by one of my SIG-INT contacts at the NSA, and she immediately called me to tell me about it. The man you're seeing here is Fadil Bari. He's a known member of al Qaeda, and according to the CIA, one of bin Laden's chief operational strategists."
"How come he wasn't picked up immediately?"
"By the time the NSA realized it, the march was long over. It took nearly two weeks for this to surface. It might have been missed altogether except for the fact my friend just happened to return from an intelligence brief that contained, among other things, a complete dossier on Bari."
Brognola shook his head. "When is Homeland Security going to learn they can't sit on these things? They should have had an army of observers there."
"Well, we think al Qaeda slipped Bari into the country during the influx of Arab Americans. You'll remember the nightmare it created, the airports and train systems flooded with every size and color."
"Not much point in racial profiling there," Kurtzman quipped.
"It's still no excuse," Brognola said.
"Either way, this is too much to be a coincidence. If there is a new plot under way by al Qaeda to implement another terrorist attack here in America, you can bet your sweet bippy that Bari's at the core of it."
Brognola nodded. "Okay, make sure you get this to the boys right away. One way or another, I suspect they're about to need all the help we can muster."


Chapter Five
A battery of machine guns positioned inside the Gamboa police station fired on the Phoenix Force team as it approached. Bullets zinged and whined off the street and others buzzed past their ears. Two officers had taken position behind their older-model SUV while another pair used the palm trees that lined the street for cover. Every time someone moved, the guns would open up again and make the place sound like a war zone.
"Bloody hell!" McCarter said as he sidled up next to the police captain behind their SUV. "What happened?"
The flush on the captain's face told it all. He obviously hadn't dealt with anything like this before, Gamboa being mostly a quiet tourist town, and the stress lines made it evident he wasn't coping too well with their present situation.
"We got call," he replied in broken English. "Man and woman fighting at hotel, but when we get to call nobody there. We come back and they start shoot at us."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The terrorists had obviously lured the police away from here with a bogus call of a domestic and then sent a heavily armed crew into the station to get their man out.
McCarter turned to shout at James, who had taken up a cover position with one of the officers behind a tree. He held up two fingers and then made a circular motion to indicate James to choose a partner and try to find a way to flank the building. Phoenix Force had left the apartments in such haste that they hadn't bothered to bring their communications gear. To make matters worse, they were only armed with the sidearms they had donned during the chopper ride from Panama City to Gamboa.
A fresh volley of auto fire raked the street on Encizo's heels as the Cuban rushed to McCarter's position. "We're going to get our asses shot off if we don't equal the odds quick here."
McCarter nodded. "I bloody well can't argue with that, mate. Ideas?"
"Gary's on his way back to the chopper to coordinate some air support from Jack, and of course you've just tasked Cal and T. J. to find a possible back way in."
The incessant volleys of machine-gun fire died out.
"Finally," McCarter grumbled. He jerked a thumb at the police captain. "His English isn't that great. You want to rap with him and see if he can draw us a layout of the interior of that station? I want to know every exit in there. Every nook and cranny. Got it?"
Encizo nodded and immediately began to speak with the captain. Although the Spanish dialect was slightly different, Encizo had enough training that he was fluent in most of its variants and nuances, a great tool in this instance over McCarter's limited knowledge of the language. For the moment, the terrorists had stopped firing, but Phoenix Force couldn't count on things to remain that way for long. They would need to act fast if they planned to salvage any part of this mission.
Manning's idea to go for air support had been a good one â€" McCarter wished for a moment he'd though of it first. While the converted Chickasaw H-19 didn't have any exterior weapons they could use, turning rockets on the building was out of the question anyway since there were civilians and other innocents inside. McCarter had noticed during their trip that the machine-gun mounts were still intact. Fortunately, he had elected to bring an M-60 E-4 machine gun fitted with a short, heavy barrel designed for sustained fire from Stony Man's armory. It now looked like they would be able to put it to good use, not to mention the fact that the chopper also contained the remainder of their heavy equipment.
McCarter drew his 9 mm Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather and jacked the slide to the rear. All they needed to do now was buy enough time for the cavalry to arrive.
* * *
Gary Manning whipped the Jeepney around a sharp curve in the road with such force that he almost tossed both his passengers out the side. Herndon kept his silence through most of the trip, but Nativida had squealed like a stuck pig through the entire trip to the heliport, and now he was really starting to grind on Manning's nerves. Thankfully, the big Canadian would soon be out of the Jeepney and airborne with one of the finest pilots in the world at the stick.
Manning shouted for the men to brace themselves as he jammed on the brake pedal and brought the vehicle to a skidding halt. He bounded from the vehicle and raced around the tail. Jack Grimaldi, ace pilot for Stony Man and longtime friend of Mack Bolan, sat on the main cabin deck of the Sikorsky H-19, cigar in his mouth and some kind of electronic flight book in his hands.
He looked up in surprise at Manning's stormy arrival. Around a mouthful of the stogie he said, "What's up, Gar'?"
"Get her spinning, Jack," Manning said. "We've got trouble."
Grimaldi didn't bother to inquire further. If Manning or any other member of the team passed on bantering, the pilot knew they were hot, and it wasn't time to play twenty questions. He spun into the chopper from his perch and climbed into the elevated flight deck. Manning entered the main cabin after him and reached for one of the large cases stored in the cargo area. He flipped open the lid and removed the three major pieces of the M-60 E-4 â€" stock, forward receiver, short-heavy barrel â€" he would need to assemble the weapon.
Nativida finally managed to climb down from the Jeepney and stagger over to Manning, leaving Herndon seated in back talking animatedly into his cell phone with someone. "Mr. Brown, this is not good. You cannot simply flit around our airspace and shoot up our buildings."
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary," Manning countered without taking his attention from his task, "but that's exactly what we can do. Your police force got you into this situation, and now you're going to need to let us get you out."
"Not at the risk of innocent lives!"
Manning stopped and pinned Nativida with a hard stare. "There are already innocent lives at risk here. You have support staff in that building, not to mention the officer left guarding the prisoner. Now maybe the other prisoners you have in there aren't angels, but I'm sure none of them have done anything to deserve to die. In all likelihood we're dealing with al Qaeda terrorists. We can't afford a standoff and my country's government, just like yours, does not negotiate with terrorists."
"I'm afraid in this case you're going to have to," Herndon said as he walked up and stood next to Nativida. "I just got off the phone with the deputy director. He's advised me we are not to get involved until the proper channels have had time to consult with the Panamanian government about this."
"I don't work for you or the deputy director," Manning replied flatly. As the rotor engines began to wind up, he added, "Now step off the pad. I wouldn't want you to get your head chopped off."
"I don't think you understand, pal," Herndon said, taking a step closer to Manning. "You are not auth..."
Manning drew his Colt Model 1911A1 in a single, easy motion and leveled it in Herndon's face. "I think you don't understand. If you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the problem. Now... step back."
The two men complied and Manning holstered his pistol once they'd moved to a safe distance. He looked up to the cockpit and saw Grimaldi smile and shake his head. Manning shrugged and then gave the pilot a thumbs-up that said he was clear to go. The vibrations increased, the thrum and whine of the chopper's turbine power plant increasing until they had reached sufficient air resistance to take off, and then Manning watched the ground move away from his feet. The big Canadian completed his assembly of the M-60 E-4 and then mounted it. Next, he donned a headset and gave Grimaldi the approximate direction of the police station as he hooked up the winch he'd use to lower their equipment to his teammates.
"They're probably spread out," he told Grimaldi, "so we might have to hover in different locations."
"You know the position of the emplacements inside?" Grimaldi asked.
"Sounded like three separate guns going when we first arrived, all of them at the front. I'd recommend you make a couple passes, though, so we can get an approximate idea of where our people are positioned."
Grimaldi waved to indicate he got the picture, and Manning went about the task of donning a harness and safety straps to keep him inside the cabin. Grimaldi would approach very hot and his turns would be steep. It wouldn't do for Manning to be caught unawares and get tossed out inadvertently. The rest of Phoenix Force would be relying on him, and Manning had never let his friends down before.
He sure as hell wasn't about to start now.
Manning took position behind the M-60 as they approached the police station from the southeast and drew back the charging handle as Grimaldi began a steep turn on descent. He locked his shoulder against the butt of the weapon and kept all senses attuned to action on the ground below. It took two passes before he spotted the police vehicles parked on the road. He could see McCarter and Encizo using the lead one as cover. He marked each location of the officers and then searched in vain for James and Hawkins.
Where in the hell were they?
Manning was about to have Grimaldi make a third pass when he glimpsed James and Hawkins beelining from beneath treetop cover straight for the rear of the building. Manning considered his options and decided James and Hawkins would be priority, since not only did they have the tactical advantage but their location didn't pose as much exposure risk.
"See them?" he called to Grimaldi.
The pilot put the chopper into a dizzying tailspin as he looked in the direction Manning gestured. He nodded, then straightened his path and darted toward James and Hawkins's position. Manning felt his chest lock against the harness as the nose of the Sikorsky dipped forward from Grimaldi's rapid braking maneuver. The pressure subsided when the pilot got into hovering position, gun-side smartly faced toward the rear of the police station.
Manning disengaged the safety straps so he could reach the winch. He double-checked the quick-connects and then flipped the power switch on the machine and engaged the release. The equipment descended on a steel cable at a quick but steady speed. Manning watched as from beneath the canopy of green his two friends emerged to receive the goods like ancient Greeks standing with arms outstretched in a drenching shower of much-needed rain from the gods.
Manning waited until they signaled all-clear, then began to retract the winch. The job was half-done when he heard a tink from something striking the fuselage of the aircraft. Then another. Manning looked in the direction of the police station and spotted the muzzle-flash of a pistol. A gunman stood at the back door and triggered his pistol several times.
Manning called to Grimaldi to hold her steady, then got to business on the M-60. He leaned into the weapon, took aim and squeezed the trigger. A high-velocity storm of 7.62 mm rounds chewed up large holes in the mud-brick exterior of the station near the gunner. It took only two bursts before Manning got his range, and with the third he caught the terrorist with a volley that ripped open the man's chest and knocked him off his feet.
Manning ordered Grimaldi to get them over the area where the police cars were. "And get us as low as you can, Jack. I'm going to drop the gear to them." It would save time.
The pilot swung another perfect arc and came into a hover almost directly above McCarter and Encizo. Manning swung the equipment boxes into position and kicked them out as he kept the barrel of the M-60 trained on the front of the station house. The machine guns there opened up almost immediately, and Manning returned the fire with equal ferocity. Windows shattered and dust rose in thick clouds as Manning poured on a maelstrom of lead at 600 rounds per minute. Hot lead pounded the building as the barrel started to redden with Manning's sustained fire. He swept the weapon in a corkscrew pattern across the two-hundred-some-foot width of the windows, cautious to keep the majority of the firepower on the probable location of the emplacements.
The weapon finally expended its ammo and Manning ordered Grimaldi to get clear. "We need to find a place to land, Jack."
"Already got it," the pilot replied.
Two minutes later he was touched down in a clearing about a hundred yards from ground zero. Manning quickly disengaged the M-60 and then tossed a salute of thanks to Grimaldi before rushing from the chopper.
The big Canadian broke through the brush and found himself on a direct path to McCarter and Encizo's position. He slowed to a steady jog and made contact with his friends unmolested.
"Greetings, guys," he said. "Mind if I join the party?"
Encizo grinned as he slid into a flak vest he'd pulled from the gray strongbox. "Only if you have your invitation."
Manning patted the M-60. "Right here."
"That was Johnny-spot-on with the air cover, chum," McCarter said with a slap to Manning's shoulder. "I owe you one."
"Great. Maybe I can use you as a business reference." Manning risked a glance at the front of the station to inspect his handiwork. "What's our situation?"
"They've been quiet since you laid out those no uncertain terms for them," Encizo replied.
"We may have neutralized them in front, but Jack and I damn near got our asses shot off in the rear. They've moved at least one of those machine-gun emplacements to the back of the building."
"All right," McCarter said as he handed a headset to Manning and then clicked on the receiver of his own. "Red Leader to Red Team Baker. You copy?"
"Red Team Baker copies," James confirmed through their headsets.
"Sitrep."
"In position, side three."
"You geared up?"
"Roger that, Red Leader."
"Good. What do you make?"
A pause, then, "One, say again, one HPMG on point and three minis. No probes, no touch-offs."
"Acknowledged," McCarter said. "Stand by."
Okay, so they faced one heavy-purpose machine gun supported by three personnel armed with at least pistols. They hadn't traded fire with the enemy to verify actual position or strength, and getting inside would prove to be very difficult unless they could find a way to neutralize the terrorist defenses.
Manning shook his head in disgust and blew out a ragged breath, then exchanged looks with Encizo and McCarter. "Doesn't sound like their situation's improved any to ours."
"Sounds like it's worse," McCarter replied.
"You think a frontal assault is too risky?" Encizo asked the Phoenix Force leader.
McCarter nodded. "I don't relish getting my team shot up because my arse got itchy, mate. We have to think this through."
"Maybe I can provide us a distraction," Manning suggested.
"What kind?"
Manning flashed him a wicked grin. "The kind that goes boom."


Chapter Six
The plan as they presented it to Calvin James and T. J. Hawkins sounded decent enough, and if anyone could pull it off James knew Manning could.
"How long do you think this little distraction of Gary's will give us?" Hawkins asked James as they lay behind a decorative hedge no more than twenty yards from the station house.
"Maybe ten seconds."
Hawkins turned to study the facade of the building. "That should be enough to cross that gap and make entry."
James nodded. "Just in case, though, I'd suggest only one of us make a try for it. If that machine gunner's alert, the diversion may not even buy us that much time, and it wouldn't hurt to have some covering fire on the trip."
"Agreed. Which one of us do you think can get the most out of that trip?"
"Probably you. You're younger and smaller."
James checked his watch. "We've got forty seconds to H-hour."
Hawkins nodded and James could see from the intensity on his friend's face he was mentally preparing himself for the sprint. McCarter had radioed the plan in very cryptic terms. Manning planned to rig a satchel charge to blow a large hole at the front southwest corner of the building, the reception and seating area. Phoenix Force hoped it would make the terrorists think they were trying to breach the building and force them to re-focus their defensive posture on that area. They couldn't be sure it would make them redirect their firepower to the front, but McCarter had indicated he thought it might just divert enough attention to buy James and Hawkins what they needed to get up close on the station house. Heavy-purpose machine guns weren't much good in close-quarters battle.
The explosion came right as James called "mark" in his mental countdown. He slapped Hawkins after a three-count, and the Phoenix Force warrior burst from cover. James steadied his M-16 and let loose a sustained volley of 5.56 mm rounds. The weapon chattered, muzzle spitting flame, as James laid on a firestorm that blew out glass and chewed through the facade. Hawkins had nearly reached the wall before the machine gun started up, but by that time the terrorists were too late â€" they couldn't possibly hit him at that angle.
Hawkins made the wall, turned and crouched with his back to it. The machine gun stopped firing as he yanked an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary hand grenade from his harness, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb through the shattered window from which the smoking barrel of the machine gun protruded. James could hear the shouts of surprise. A moment later those shouts became screams of agony as the grenade exploded and distributed 4,000-degree molten iron capable of burning through armor up to a half-inch thick. That heat would melt that machine gun to slag and neutralize any enemy within immediate reach.
James ceased firing, jumped to his feet and sprinted to his teammate. He took a similar position, back to the wall, and grinned. "Nice job, pal."
Hawkins nodded in reply, apparently still too winded to speak.
Shouts of shock and pain still emanated from the window near the machine-gun emplacement as James and Hawkins made their entry through the rear door by shooting out the lock. They crossed the threshold, stepped over the body of a terrorist and were greeted by a horrific scene. The TH3 had done its job. The smell of cooked flesh nearly overwhelmed the pair.
James pumped a pair of mercy rounds into each of the terrorists, then said, "Let's see if we can find our prisoner."
* * *
The explosion from Manning's diversion signaled a time for action to McCarter and Encizo.
The pair left the cover of the police vehicle and split off to storm the station house from two directions. McCarter suspected at least one of the machine-gun emplacements had been destroyed by Manning's onslaught from the chopper, which left only one machine gunner to contend with. As they got close to the front door of the station, the machine gun began to sound off.
But only one.
Encizo intended to take care of the other one. The Cuban rolled behind a large, decorative boulder positioned on the front lawn of the building. Rounds from the machine gun zinged off the rock or chewed up the ground around the boulder.
Encizo nodded at McCarter, who had secured cover behind the single, large free directly opposite the boulder. The warrior dropped to a knee, leveled his HK33E carbine in the general direction of the enemy emplacement and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle of McCarter's assault rifle spit flame as it delivered its 5.56 mm rounds at a cyclic rate of about 700 per minute.
Encizo primed a pair of M-67 fragmentation grenades, stood and tossed them one after the other through the run of windows. He and McCarter ducked behind the boulder. Moments later the grenades exploded, seconds apart. The Phoenix Force duo charged the front door. They waited on either side, backs to the wall, until Manning showed up with his M-60 and then made entry. Encizo went right, Manning left and McCarter straight up the middle.
Two terrorists popped up from behind the reception desk and leveled their SMGs at Manning. McCarter realized his teammate couldn't respond in time with his bulky weapon and provided a solution to the problem. The Briton eased back on the trigger of the HK33E carbine and caught the first terrorist with a flesh-shredding burst to the chest. The man dropped from sight behind the counter. The second terrorist lost his head with McCarter's follow-up shot as a pair of high-velocity rounds split his skull down the center, splattering blood and brain matter in all directions. The terrorist staggered blindly while what was left of his brain told the rest of his body he was dead. Then he crumpled to the floor.
"Hold position," McCarter ordered Encizo.
The Cuban turned so his back faced the hallway and then tracked the room with the G-l 1 while McCarter and Manning sprinted down the hallway to the jail. McCarter demanded a sitrep from James and Hawkins as Manning filled the bolt lock of the door leading into the cell block with C-4 plastique.
"All clear," James replied.
McCarter acknowledged him and peered through the square, bulletproof glass window of the heavy metal door. He looked to see Manning use a pencil to form a hole in the center of the plastique packed into the lock. The Canadian explosives expert then inserted a blasting cap with a small electronic receiver on the end of it.
"Let's go," Manning said, and the two backed a respectful distance and turned away their heads.
The big Canadian made a show of raising the small detonator box and flipping a switch. The powerful plastique made short work of the lock with an explosion that was deafening in the confines of the hallway. The pair rushed the door and Manning kicked it aside. He and McCarter nodded to each other, then burst into the cell block.
Manning spotted a terrorist exit a cell at the far end, the one where they were holding the prisoner. He shouted a warning to McCarter as the hardman sprayed the narrow walkway with a firestorm of lead. Manning and the Phoenix Force leader went prone and opened with an equally violent reply. Dozens of high-velocity slugs perforated the terrorist, opening bright red splotches in his belly and chest. The impact slammed the enemy gunman against the concrete wall and he slumped to the ground.
The Phoenix Force warriors got to their feet and rushed to the cell. The sight wasn't pretty. Their prisoner sat partially upright on the metal bunk that folded out from the wall, his head cocked at an odd angle and his tongue hanging free from his gaping mouth. Blood and bits of flesh were splattered across the back wall in a grisly mosaic. More blood ran freely from the numerous bullet holes in his upper torso. Many were so close together and in such number that parts of the man's intestines and other internal organs were visible.
"They executed him," McCarter said. "Just in case he talked."
* * *
"Whatever intelligence our prisoner might have had," David McCarter announced to Price and Brognola, "al Qaeda definitely wanted to make sure we didn't get our hands on it."
"We agree," Brognola replied. "I can't see them going to that great a risk unless the man was somehow critical to their operations."
"Well, obviously they know we're onto them now," Price added. "They'll be even more careful."
"Right," McCarter said. "Which is going to make it bloody hard to pick up their trail."
"Can't your Panamanian contact with the government assist with that?"
"Who? Nativida?" McCarter asked. He directed a pointed look in Manning's direction.
Manning didn't take his eyes from McCarter's as he replied, "Well, there might be a bit of a problem with that. I'm afraid he's feeling a bit uncooperative with us at the moment, as is probably Herndon."
"Who?" Brognola asked.
"Kelly Herndon," McCarter said. "Our CIA contact."
A moment of silence followed, and Phoenix Force knew that Brognola and Price had gone to side conference.
"I've asked Barb to look into him for us," Brognola said. "Offhand, though, his name doesn't ring any bells with me."
"I don't think he's had much of a notable career," Encizo replied.
"What happened?"
"Let's just say that I don't think they'll be getting in Gary's face again anytime soon," McCarter stated.
"All right," Brognola replied, his voice saying he wasn't totally satisfied with the answer but neither did he feel like pushing it. "Let's just not shake up these people too much. They're a valuable source of information, and I don't think it's a good idea to alienate them."
"What about their orders to cooperate fully with us?" Hawkins asked.
"Nativida's and Herndoris interference might have cost the rest of us our lives, Hal," McCarter added. "I'm not bloody well keen on someone risking my teammates on what amounts to little more than territorial politics. That's to say nothing of the fact that delay might have contributed to our losing the only decent lead we had to al Qaeda's plans."
"I understand," Brognola replied, "and I'm not saying you didn't do right on this. Just asking you to keep the more sensitive issues in mind for the future."
"Got it."
"I just finished talking to Aaron," Price's voice cut in, "and he'll be sending down Herndon's info as soon as possible."
"Thanks," Manning replied.
Price continued. "We also have an update for you on Able Team. They found the bodies of the two Mexican nationals who were shot to death in New Mexico. They think al Qaeda definitely has something going in the immediate area, and Gadgets is working on modifying the End Zone system to track them down. We've also confirmed that a few months ago a man named Bari entered the country. He's a top-level strategist for bin Laden and his presence in the country only confirms what we've been suspecting for some time.
"Bari sits on the ten-most-wanted lists of at least a dozen free nations. He's as dangerous as they come, and I'm sure he's probably the mastermind of this entire operation. Able Team has already provided us with some pretty damning evidence of his potential involvement."
"And with Bari at the helm," Brognola added, "you can bet things are only going to get worse."
"Okay, thanks for the intel," McCarter said. "I'm going to talk this over with the team and we'll let you know what our next move is as soon as we've settled on it."
"Acknowledged," Brognola replied.
"Good luck," Price said. "And be careful."
They disconnected the call.
* * *
"Thoughts?" McCarter asked his teammates.
"Let's look at what we know," James said immediately. "We have an al Qaeda brainchild in the U.S., obviously sent by bin Laden to plan and coordinate some type of major attack."
"And to do that, he needs bodies," Manning concluded.
Encizo nodded. "There's no question the guy they killed in that jail cell had information critical to their operations, otherwise they wouldn't have risked a half dozen personnel to kill him when they already have a potential shortage."
"Right," McCarter said. "This means they must have something up their sleeve they're going to have to act on real soon."
"Maybe they're planning to move the personnel," Hawkins offered.
"What do you mean?"
The Southerner waved his arm for emphasis. "They have an operation they have to get off the ground soon. Something big and bold, maybe something nobody would even think about. We've all agreed they obviously need a certain capacity of bodies to complete this mission, otherwise they wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to start with. Keep in mind they've probably been funneling personnel into the U.S. for months. But if they're smuggling them in through Panama, they have to get them from one point to the next."
"He's right," James said, picking up Hawkins's train of thought. "And the only way to do that is to utilize a network already established."
"Of course," Encizo said. "It all makes sense now. We know they used the immigration problem to get their people into the United States, so why not funnel personnel through the Central American drug corridor." He looked at McCarter and added, "Drug dealers are more than happy to enter into any transactions that help fund their operations, and they aren't too particular about who they work with as long as the other side's paying cash."
"So you think they're running this human pipeline up through Central America via the powder trail," McCarter said.
All of the men nodded their agreement and the Phoenix Force leader had to admit they were onto something. Their theory didn't explain everything, but it did happen to fill a lot of the holes. Maybe their prisoner had this information, maybe he just knew the route. Whatever the case, it was their first and best place to start.
"Okay," McCarter said. "If there are no other suggestions, we go with this and see where it leads us."
"Great," Hawkins chimed in. "But where do we start?"
A rap came at their apartment door and Encizo opened it to admit Robert Nativida. The interior secretary greeted each of them with a somber expression. Obviously he'd been in touch with his superiors, and they weren't happy with the incident that had occurred earlier in the day.
Nativida cleared his throat and walked straight to Manning. As he extended his hand, he said, "I am obliged to apologize for my... indiscretion, sir. I hope you will excuse the behavior."
Manning looked at the others in surprise and then shook Nativida's hand. "No hard feelings."
Nativida nodded, then turned to McCarter. "My government wishes to extend its thanks for your assistance today. We have confirmed only the terrorists suffered casualties. All our people are safely accounted for and as such you are to be commended. I have been instructed to cooperate fully with you and to satisfy any request you may have."
McCarter smiled and then rose to stand in front of Nativida. "If it's all the same to you, we'll pass on the medals. But there is something I think you can help us with."
"And what might that be?"
"Tell us about your drug-running problem."


Chapter Seven
The first thing Able Team decided to do was to gather the scientists and other key personnel involved with End Zone into a secure location. The al Qaeda terrorists would consider the best chance of success lay in their ability to loll the designers and builders of the system. That meant Able Team had to act quickly to ensure their safety, and getting them out of Albuquerque and ensconced in a controlled, inconspicuous location.
Government officials tried to discourage Able Team from taking the scientists away from the labs, citing their security as some of the best of the country.
"I have no doubt about your security capabilities," Lyons said. "But this isn't a matter of keeping out your average bad guys. We're talking about terrorists, and unless your people took some kind of intensive training I don't know about, you're not equipped to keep out al Qaeda operatives who are bent on killing these people."
Ultimately they were forced to acquiesce when a call from the Oval Office made it clear they were to cooperate fully.
Two unmarked sedans with a detail of U.S. marshals took point and rear positions, with Able Team's SUV and one with the scientists wedged between them. Stony Man had arranged for a safe house for the scientists at Elephant Butte â€" a reservoir fed by the Rio Grande tributary â€" just north of the tourist town of Truth or Consequences. The safe house, actually a cabin surrounded by woods, would provide a quiet place where the scientists could continue their work but provide an adequate defense posture.
The biggest concern on Lyons's mind was the transit time. He would have preferred someplace closer but ultimately they decided the transfer was worth the risk, and it wasn't likely the terrorists would know about the move.
Midway between Socorro and Truth or Consequences Lyons noticed the large semitruck as it merged onto Interstate 25 from Highway 107. The truck driver had seen the sedan as it passed to his right. The marshal at the wheel got smart and signaled a lane change, the SUV driver following his lead.
The semitruck driver either didn't see the SUV filled with scientists or he didn't care, because he swung onto the highway and immediately matched their speed as he cut into the far-left lane. The driver had to jam on his brakes to avoid being sideswiped.
"This is it!" Lyons announced. The Able Team leader watched as the SUV driver did the natural thing and slowed, then swerved into the right-hand lane and onto the shoulder. "Tell him to keep going!"
Blancanales got on the shortwave and gave the driver the instructions while Lyons waved at him to get alongside the semitruck. They passed the accelerating SUV on its left, then swung into the right-hand lane and closed on the rear tail of the semitrailer. Up ahead, Lyons saw smoke from tires locked up against pavement as the driver slammed his tractor-trailer into the rear of the point vehicle. By what could only be good training, the U.S. marshal at the wheel got his sedan under control by executing a power slide that took him off the road and onto the right shoulder, his nose now facing oncoming traffic.
Without hesitation Lyons rolled down his window and took aim at the rearmost wheels, triggering his Atchisson autoshotgun twice. The pellets easily penetrated the tires and produced an instant blowout from which the truck driver would never quite recover. The guy overcorrected in his steering and with a pop from the Jake-brake, the semitruck jackknifed and left the roadway with a screech of rubber on pavement.
Blancanales brought the SUV to a rocking halt on the shoulder of the road, and Lyons burst from the vehicle. He reached the side of the semitrailer in less than ten seconds, approaching from the driver's side. The Able Team leader knelt and raised the Atchisson to his shoulder. The driver's door opened and a young, Arab-looking male dropped from the tractor-trailer with an AKSU machine pistol in his hands. He never got a chance to use it. Lyons squeezed the trigger and delivered a blast that blew off the terrorist's lower leg at the knee. The AKSU flew from the terrorist's fingers and skittered off the shoulder into a steep ditch.
Blancanales went EVA in time to see a terrorist drop from the passenger side just as one of the escort sedans ground to a stop in the middle of the outside lane. Four agents leaped out, pistols in the hands of three, while a fourth toted a short-barreled Remington 870 shotgun. Blancanales saw the automatic rifle in the terrorist's hands before the marshals did, but his shouted warning came a moment too late. The terrorist leveled an Israeli-made Galil and triggered a sustained burst. The two marshals who had occupied the front seats fell immediately under the onslaught of 7.62 mm lead.
Blancanales whipped out his P-239 and drilled the terrorist with a double tap.
A torrent of autofire buzzed past his head, a few striking the SUV with a metallic clang. The Able Team warrior turned in surprise to see a panel van parked on the inside shoulder of the divided highway, half a dozen terrorists firing on him and the marshals. Blancanales turned and dived inside the SUV, crawling over the console and rolling out the passenger door in a moment of self-preservation. He looked over just in time to see Lyons jump into the cab of the tractor-trailer.
What the hell was he doing? Didn't he realize they had come under fire? Then Blancanales heard the engine roar to life and he grinned.
* * *
Carl Lyons slapped the wheel of the semitruck in victory as the engine roared to life. He took in the shift pattern diagram at a glance, then dropped the pneumatic-assisted shift lever into Reverse and engaged the accelerator as he used the vertical steering handle to whip the wheel in the opposite direction he wanted to move the trailer. The tractor-trailer lurched into life. Lyons alternated between his rearview mirrors as he moved the trailer into position between the terrorists in the grassy divider and their SUV. Lyons mused how kind it had been of the terrorists to provide such a barricade.
As he heard the rounds begin to strike the back of the trailer another idea popped into his mind. Lyons continued spinning the wheel hard to the left until he could see the terrorist's panel van appear in his driver-side mirror. Then he moved in the opposite direction and poured on the speed. A moment later he was rewarded with the sound of metal crunching metal as he backed the trailer down the shallow embankment of the divider and directly into the front fender of the panel van. The frailer continued backward until it rode over the hood of the van's front pickup chassis and crashed into the A-post, effectively crushing the cab of the vehicle.
Lyons leaped from the cab and yelled at the remaining U.S. marshals to get in their vehicle and get out of there. The men complied, and Lyons then called into the lapel microphone of the radio that the team should continue to the safe house. Idiots. Instead of doing their job â€" protecting the scientists and seeing them safely from points A to B â€" they were out here with what amounted to popguns trading shots with a crew of hardened al Qaeda terrorists armed to the teeth with automatic weapons.
Lyons stood by as the pair of sedans blasted down the right lane under cover of the semitrailer while Blancanales kept heads down with a barrage of rounds from his pistol. Once they were safely clear, Lyons joined Blancanales behind the cover of the SUV, trading his Atchisson Assault 12 with an M-16/M-203 combo from the floor of the backseat. He passed an M-16 assault rifle to Blancanales.
Lyons reached into the satchel on the seat, withdrew a 40 mm high-explosive grenade and loaded the launcher. Through clenched teeth he told Blancanales, "Time for thunder."
The Able Team leader flipped the leaf-sight into play, moved to the front of the SUV and broke cover by steadying the weapon on the hood. He acquired a point beneath the semitruck trailer where it met the panel van. The weapon kicked his shoulder, the grenade hitting ground zero and detonating a heartbeat later. Half the terrorists were unable to escape the unexpected delivery of high-explosive charges. Red-orange flames and thick, oily smoke kicked into the sky as the gasoline fumes from the panel-van engine ignited. The intense heat melted tires to pavement as well as flesh from bone.
The three terrorists who managed to escape decided that charging the fortified position of their opponents seemed like a safer strategy than waiting to be incinerated behind inadequate cover. Lyons and Blancanales dispatched the terrorists with unerring marksmanship.
The echo of reports died away and left only a thunderous silence in Lyons's ringing ears. Neither man left his position for several minutes, although to the combat-weary pair it seemed like an hour. Finally, Lyons twirled his finger to signal his belief they were clear. The pair rose and Blancanales checked the three dead terrorists on the highway for identification while Lyons frisked the pair that had manned the semitruck.
"Nothing. No big surprise there," Blancanales remarked.
"This also means al Qaeda has someone inside the government's security net," Lyons stated.
"We'd better let Hal and friends know as soon as possible."
"And Gadgets."
* * *
"No, I understand," Hermann Schwarz said. "I'll keep my eyes open. See you soon."
Schwarz hung up the phone and sighed, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His backside hurt, his muscles ached and his stomach growled for attention. The Able Team computer wizard looked at the thick, orange curtains as they bobbed in the breeze of the air-conditioning unit vents mounted into the wall below the window.
At some point it had grown dark outside. He climbed from his chair with a groan and went to the refrigerator of the hotel room they had set up for him about a mile off post. He didn't like being here alone â€" especially not with his friends in the heat of the action without him â€" but Stony Man had decided it was better if he kept to himself for the time being. The unit members out of Fort Bliss assigned to work on End Zone were as vulnerable to attack from al Qaeda as the system creators, and they couldn't afford to lose such a valuable member of the team. Schwarz remained a critical component in this operation given his familiarity with the system coupled with his expertise in electronic surveillance.
Schwarz removed some cold cuts and bread acquired from a nearby deli and went about the task of making a hoagie. After his lunch he got back to business. The system modifications had proved more difficult than he originally assessed but finally the algorithms were complete and he had transmitted them to Kurtzman. It was now basically in the hands of the Farm's cybernetics experts to complete the original interface. That's where the real expertise would come in. Schwarz didn't try to be self-effacing about his abilities but he was generally a hardware man; Kurtzman, Carmen Delahunt, Akira Tokaido and Huntington Wethers were the main players in Stony Man's technological arsenal, and a hell of an arsenal it was.
Schwarz added some notes to the schematics he'd been studying, then looked at his watch for the fourth time in an hour.
"Come on, Bear," he muttered. "Call me back." The harsh ring of the landline startled him and he studied the phone a second before picking it up. "Were your ears burning?"
"What's that?" Kurtzman replied, although he caught the reference. "Sorry, it took a little more time than I thought."
"Understood."
"You got the call from Ironman?"
"Yeah," Schwarz replied. "Just hung up maybe twenty minutes ago."
"Barb told me you should be extra careful," Kurtzman said.
"Tell Mommy I'm fine. Really."
Kurtzman paused for effect. "Maybe I'll leave you to tell her that."
"Chicken."
"No, smart."
Schwarz chuckled. "Okay, so give me the scoop."
"All right, we ran your computations through our database. I also had Akira program some additional software algorithms into the graphics-rendering engine, so that should help you with the analysis part.
"Your idea to mount the tracking domes to the sides and top of that van and run them from a multibattery-supplied power unit's brilliant. You can then pipe the wireless signal back to us as you follow the designated route and we'll get that data into the system pronto."
"How long do you think it will take us to pinpoint their base of operations?"
"Well, if our logistical calculations are correct about what's a practical geographic boundary for al Qaeda to operate in, I'd be willing to say we can find them within a two-mile square radius in less than eight hours."
Schwarz whistled his amazement. "Not bad at all, Bear!"
"We aim to please."
"What about the operation itself? You guys got any further developments on that?"
"Barb's still running down possible angles that could give us a better idea of Bari's movements over the past few months, but you already know we're not sure how soon that will develop some tangible leads, if ever. She did want me to tell you we think he left Washington, D.C., by private transportation headed for Chicago where he then got on the train for Albuquerque."
"So there's little doubt he's heading up this operation."
"Right."
"Okay then." Schwarz sighed. "I'll get my equipment gathered up and get it transferred to the van. Then I guess it's wait on Ironman and Pol."
"When are they scheduled to be there?"
"Ironman said he thought shortly after midnight."
"Well, you just watch it until then."
"Okay," Schwarz replied. "Oh... and, Bear?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell Barb and Hal â€" No, check that. Ask them to get rid of the watch detail parked outside my motel. I'm sure they're attracting more attention than helping and I don't really need a babysitter."
"I'll pass the word but I can't promise they'll do it."
"Understood, and thanks. Out, here."
Schwarz disconnected the call and stared at the phone for a minute. An old clock on the wall ticked through the seconds â€" loud and annoying in the silence of the room. Schwarz reached his arms overhead, stretched and yawned, then closed the lid on his laptop and disconnected the cord attached to the unit power adapter from the wall socket.
He stood and pulled back the edge of the curtain to check on the two federal agents in the unmarked sedan he'd spotted parked there on his arrival early that afternoon. He didn't know which agency they were with. NSA? U.S. Marshals Service? Military Intelligence? The sedan sat in the same place, but Schwarz couldn't see the faces of the occupants because they were beneath a streetlight and the light reflected off the windshield. He let the curtain fall back and returned his attention to his laptop.
Schwarz lifted the computer from the table and then froze. Two trained agents who were assigned to a protection detail would never park their sedan under a streetlight. It would give any enemy observers the advantage because they could see the target was under observation and come up with some alternate plan, not to mention the fact it put the agents at risk.
Schwarz dropped the laptop and rushed to the front door. It swung inward with swift and violent force, and the edge caught Schwarz unawares in the shoulder. He bounced off it like a tennis ball. The Able Team warrior staggered backward but training took over and he rolled onto his back and kicked his right leg over his left shoulder as he tucked chin to chest. He continued through the backroll and came upright on one knee as four al Qaeda thugs charged through the doorway.


Chapter Eight
Schwarz didn't have time to go for his Beretta 92-F in shoulder leather.
Fortunately, the first terrorist in line offered up his own weapon, an Italian-made Spectre submachine gun. The guy leveled the SMG at the Able Team warrior's head, but he came a little too close in the effort. Schwarz grabbed the weapon and yanked downward as he sprang to his feet. With the terrorist off balance, Schwarz changed the direction and swung the man in a circle so that they now faced the man's three comrades. The electronics wizard jammed his right thumb against the terrorist's trigger finger and sprayed the unprepared trio with a swarm of 9 mm Parabellum rounds.
The first terrorist took a burst that left bright splotches of red across his chest. The man staggered backward and crashed into his partner in the confines of the small motel room. As the second terrorist attempted to disentangle from his deceased comrade, Schwarz caught the remaining gunner with a fusillade of rounds that stitched the terrorist from crotch to throat. The man danced backward, spun into the wall and then collapsed onto the bed. As he slid off the edge, he left a gory puddle of blood soaking into the cheap quilt.
Still gripping the Spectre, Schwarz stomped a heel onto the instep of his opponent's foot with enough force to crack bones. The terrorist roared in pain and released his hold on the SMG. Schwarz whipped an elbow into the man's temple as he yanked the Spectre free and then drove the metal stock of the weapon backward to break the terrorist's nose. The Able Team warrior then grabbed the back of the terrorist's collar and yanked him backward as he swept the man's injured leg. The terrorist landed with a loud thud on the threadbare carpet.
The last terrorist had finally broken free of his partner and was bringing a semiautomatic pistol to bear. Schwarz beat him by milliseconds with the Spectre and triggered a short burst that punched holes through his adversary's stomach and chest. The impact lifted him off his feet and tossed him into a chair.
Schwarz panned the room as the sounds of battle died out, but he wasn't presented with any further threats. The Able Team warrior checked the terrorist lying at his feet, verified he was unconscious and then rushed out to the sedan where the two Feds had been watching him. He found both bodies in the front seat, covered in blood streaming from neck wounds where they had been garroted. Schwarz whispered a silent eulogy for the pair and then returned to the motel room. The terrorist he'd battered had just begun to regain consciousness, so Schwarz hauled him up by his shirt and slammed the guy into the other unoccupied chair.
"Wake up, sleeping beauty," Schwarz said. "You have questions to answer."
* * *
Carl Lyons studied the terrorist seated in front of him with an expression that said he'd like nothing better than to take the man apart limb by limb. They had faxed their prisoner's prints and photograph to Stony Man and were waiting to see if Kurtzman could come back with some sort of identification. In the meantime, the man had refused to answer any questions â€" he also tried to make them believe he only spoke Spanish â€" demanding that they provide him with an attorney.
"You can kill the Mexican immigrant routine," Blancanales told him in Spanish. "We know you're with al Qaeda and we know what you're up to. You're not doing yourself any favors by refusing to cooperate."
"Yeah," Lyons added. The Able Team leader spun one of the metal chairs and dropped into it. He folded his muscular arms over the back of the chair, pinning the terrorist with one of his cold stares. "And don't even think about asking for an attorney again or I'll punch your teeth down the back of your throat."
The door to the interrogation room opened. Blancanales and Lyons looked up to see Schwarz poke his head through the doorway and beckon them outside. Lyons gave the terrorist one last hard look before they joined Schwarz in the adjoining hallway of the El Paso Intelligence Center. EPIC was located at Biggs Army Air Field and run by a conglomerate of U.S. law-enforcement agencies, including Homeland Security, Border Patrol and the DEA.
When the door had closed securely behind them, Lyons put his hands on his hips and inquired, "What's up?"
Schwarz held up a sheet of paper. "This just came back from the Farm. Our friend in there is Khalid Karim. He's a known terrorist with ties to an Ansar al-Islam cell operating in Iraq. It seems he disappeared about a year ago from an area outside of Basra after he ended up wanted on an intelligence advisory."
Blancanales slapped the side of his cheek in mock surprise. "What? You mean he's not a Mexican immigrant?"
"Nope," Schwarz quipped. "He's a real, live al Qaeda terrorist."
"He's a piece of shit," Lyons groused. "What else do we know about him?"
"He's wanted for murdering Iraqi citizens, and they think he might be responsible for the placement of a couple IEDs that killed a couple members of a U.S. Army EOD team operating there. A real sweet guy."
"Well, he's not going to talk to us," Blancanales said. "And while I know you'd just like to stay here and beat the answers out of him, Ironman, I don't think we can afford the time."
"Agreed," Schwarz added. "We need to get my equipment up and running so we can find their base."
"All right," Lyons said. "Let's get this done."
And with that, Able Team left the complex.
* * *
Fadil Bari sat with an impassive expression as he listened to the reports from his men. Twice they had attempted to eliminate the core team of scientists responsible for the system called End Zone; twice they failed to accomplish their objectives. Bari wasn't accustomed to these types of failures. Such incompetence was considered wholly intolerable.
In the field, however, and particularly on enemy soil, Bari had learned that it was better to forgive mistakes than to punish soldiers of the cause. Each man had his own talents and Bari knew well it didn't make sense to send the weaker operatives when success was a critical factor. All he'd done in this case was lose vital personnel that he would now have to replace.
"How many men in total have been killed?" he asked Sahrout Dahabi, his second in command.
"Eleven."
"Anyone captured?"
"Khalid," Dahabi said. "Khalid Karim. He was taken to Biggs Field in El Paso, to the intelligence facility there."
"Any way we can get him out?"
"Possibly," Dahabi replied. "But this facility is well guarded. If we could retrieve him, it might be at some significant cost. If I might be bold, I would not recommend we make the attempt."
Bari's eyes narrowed. "So you would rather we let another one of our men succumb to imprisonment for the rest of his life by the Americans. To sit in some dark cell, fed nothing more than bread and water while his flesh rots off, or for him to suffer some other abuses as he waits for the sweet call of merciless death to transport him into paradise?"
"No, of course not. I was simply..."
"Get out of my sight!"
Dahabi turned and burst from the makeshift office Bari had procured on his arrival in America.
Bari thought briefly about his outburst, thought about recalling Dahabi and apologizing, but he decided against it. The man had it coming, and Bari made a note that at some point he would have to replace Dahabi and return the man to the base for some remediation. Meanwhile, he was still presented with a new challenge to solve.
When he first presented his plan to the higher-ups, Bari had stressed the importance of getting into America as quickly as possible so he could oversee the entire operation. They had disagreed, citing the risks involved with any new operation, and ordered Bari to monitor the situation for a time until they could determine if the plan could succeed. "A time" turned into weeks and months, and eventually â€" when more than eighteen months had passed and there seemed to be no decision â€" Bari pressed them into agreeing to let him go.
Now look at where they were? They still didn't have any chance of completing their mission until the remainder of their men arrived. To complicate matters, he received reports from his intelligence people that their insertion into Panama had been discovered by authorities and American operatives, probably Delta Force or some other similar group, were now involved and had captured one of their key members. Bari had ordered an attempted rescue that ultimately failed and resulted in the deaths of countless men, not to mention that they'd been forced into killing one of their own to keep him from revealing their smuggling operations.
Two days. That's how long they told him it would take to unite with the remainder of the personnel they would need for the attack. As it was, that would only get them to their transfer point in the Sierra Madre. Bari would then have to send a detachment across Mexico to retrieve the men, bring them back across the border and see to it they made it this far. Then, and only then, could he accomplish the real objective.
Bari left his desk and moved over to the large map on the wall. He traced his finger along the stretch of highway the Americans referred to as the "I-25 Corridor." On a regular basis since 1999, the U.S. Department of Energy arranged for the delivery of transuranic radioactive waste material by special containers from undesignated points all over the United States to the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant in the southeastern desert of New Mexico. The Americans had built the facility over salt formations nearly a half-mile underground and established it as their personal dumping ground.
Rocky Flats, an environmental technology site in Colorado, had become the chief benefactor of this system along with a national nuclear laboratory in Idaho. The I-25 Corridor served as one of the main routes of transport for the radioactive waste, and after months of assessment and study, putting spies into those locations or inserting moles in every key level position with the DOE, Bari had finally devised an operation that would devastate America and achieve maximum destruction with minimum effort. He smiled when he thought of the bigger picture.
The DOE monitored all shipments with the satellite-based Transportation Tracking and Communications System â€" TRANSCOM â€" that Bari's technical geniuses had finally managed to hack after almost two months of effort. The only way for the attack to be significant was to coordinate the strike so that they hit both shipments simultaneously while also attacking the plant itself. The DOE had never really tested their system for resistance or response capabilities based on a terrorist attack, even after the base's first victory against the Western dogs on September 11.
Bari was confident in their plan. He knew the Americans would not be prepared to handle the fallout of the radioactive waste material on any grand scale. The cloud of radioactive waste would be carried across key population centers in the Southwest, specifically Denver and Santa Fe, and it would cause many to become sick. Babies would be born with birth defects if they lived at all. Westerners would call for an end to the advancement of nuclear physics. This would cost thousands of jobs and mitigate the threat of nuclear armament against the base's operating centers.
Yes, they would then see how America got along without its precious nuclear power; how they would survive by having to face the warriors and martyrs of his people by conventional arms instead of technological advancements. Unlike many of his predecessors, Bari held no misconception that they could ever win this war against a superior nuclear power.
Bari stepped back and studied the map in more detail. The shipments were scheduled to depart in just three days; they were running out of time. They couldn't afford to wait any longer. If he lost any more personnel, then one or more of their operational targets became riskier. Their mission could succeed only if they had enough personnel to complete it. And those numbers were dwindling with every passing minute. They would need to leave for Mexico soon.
Very soon.
* * *
"We're live," Schwarz announced from the rear of the van.
Lyons sat next to him and watched with fascination as the electronics wizard worked his magic. Blancanales had agreed to drive the van so Lyons could coordinate any findings with the crew back at Stony Man. The entire operation had gone on high alert, and they were in constant communications with Kurtzman and his team. Price, they had been told, was working on some political snafu with her contacts at the CIA.
"Apparently," Brognola told Lyons, "the boys in the Company don't want to work and play well with others."
Lyons grunted. "That's no big surprise. I think it's always been a sore spot with them they aren't legally permitted to operate within U.S. borders, so they have to be as territorial as they can with everything else going on outside the country."
"I'm actually surprised."
"You, Hal?" Blancanales said into the receiver of his headset linked to the three-way call Schwarz had arranged. "I thought you'd become too old for surprises."
"Watch it, Pol," Brognola joked. "Or your next detail will be a forty-eight fire watch back here at the Farm."
Blancanales did his best to put genuine hurt in his tone. "I meant the term strictly as a sign of respect. You know, a reference to your experience and all."
"Can it, you guys," Kurtzman said. "I have some real information to pass along."
"Go ahead, Bear," Schwarz replied.
"We're analyzing the first pass you made. There's been a definite change in the terrain based on flybys that were done of that area during early testing of End Zone. I'm sending the data now. Let me know when it's up on your screen."
Schwarz typed the encryption codes into his laptop that would connect to Stony Man's servers and begin downloading the 3-D terrain models built by Akira Tokaido's software engine. The information looked quite complex to Lyons, but he knew Schwarz would pick it up in a heartbeat.
"Okay," Schwarz said. "I'm getting the first pictures now."
A map of the area â€" fifteen miles west of Columbus, New Mexico, to the eastern border of the state and spanning sixty miles north of the Mexican border â€" materialized on the screen. The software model rendered each unique geographic formation in a different color. The software then split the map by grid lines and differentiated heat-generating formations from those that would give off little to no IR signatures.
"You see it yet?" Kurtzman inquired.
"Yeah," Schwarz said. He pointed out to Lyons unique lines that slowly formed on the map and then dissipated. They would return and then disappear again. The lines went through this cycle several times before they were emblazoned permanently on the map and froze.
"What you just saw there were time-enhanced readings that the system took over about the past six months. The lines represent heat transfer, most likely from some kind of all-terrain vehicle like a 4x4."
"You mean, ATVs?" Lyons asked.
"Right," Kurtzman replied. "The tracks are too small to be an SUV or pickup."
"How sure are you about this, Aaron?" Schwarz asked.
"Sure as we can be without more data. At first we thought maybe they were weather-related phenomena since they were random, but then we did some additional analysis. Hunt is pretty positive those lines are heat generated by friction."
"Like tires on sand," Schwarz replied.
"Exactly like that. Yes."
Schwarz looked at Lyons. "It makes sense. Al Qaeda smuggles their people across the border. Given the numbers we saw, they would need some way of transporting them to their operations base."
"Okay," Lyons replied. "But for the sake of argument, and because we don't have time to embark on some wild-goose chase, how do we know these tracks aren't kids or something?"
"Because they're always along the same path," Kurtzman said. "And they both originate and terminate at an uninhabited area known as Mt. Riley. It's the site of an abandoned airfield and the ruins of what's pretty much ruled a ghost town. We're scanning satellite photos now to see if we can detect any gross changes in terrain."
"Like someplace where they might hide their equipment under surveillance-resistant camouflage?" Schwarz asked.
"Right again," Kurtzman said.
"Okay, I'll buy it," Lyons said.
He called to Schwarz, "To Mt. Riley, driver. And step on it!"


Chapter Nine
Five men dropped from the hovering chopper into the deep jungles of Nicaragua. Dawn was still several hours away but David McCarter had determined Phoenix Force couldn't afford to wait. According to Stony Man and Nativida's intel, the overseers of the White Trail ran a round-the-clock operation and any delay in shipments reduced profit. If drug-runners were zealous of anything it was making money.
When they were safely deployed, McCarter gave Grimaldi the all-clear signal.
"Roger that," Grimaldi replied. "I'll meet you boys at the next designated landing zone. Eagle One, out."
Phoenix Force performed a quick recon of their perimeter to clear any potential threats, then gathered around McCarter. He broke out a map of the region from his waterproof daypack. He had marked the laminated surface with a grease pencil to indicate their various entry points and the most likely bivouac spots of the pipeline runners based on recent photos of the terrain taken by Stony Man's dedicated satellite.
McCarter gestured to a red X on the map. "Here's our current position. According to Bear, we've maybe three kilometers until we reach their encampment."
"That should give us enough time to hit them before it gets light," Encizo remarked.
McCarter nodded and continued. "We're going to get one shot at this, so I'll skip the pep talks. Just keep your eyes bloody well open. Let's move out."
Without a word the men of Phoenix Force formed a single-file line, ten yards between each man, and began their trek through the dense foliage. Encizo took point, followed by McCarter, Hawkins, Manning and James. Encizo carried an MP-5 with a Barnett crossbow slung across his back with silver-tipped bolts in a thigh quiver. Hawkins had traded Manning for the M-60, just in case they needed to get firepower to the front quickly, and the Canadian now toted an FN-FAL battle rifle. James carried an M-16/M-203 combo and McCarter sported one of his favorites, the old but trustworthy Ingram MAC-10.
Not a creature seemed to stir as the men made their way through the bush, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. McCarter couldn't be sure they would find the drug-runners since the pictures of the site were at least a day old, but he trusted Kurtzman's instincts. If they didn't find the men they sought at that site, then that would put them somewhere between just north of Matagalpa and the port town of La Libertad in El Salvador.
"What about beyond La Libertad?" McCarter had asked Stony Man.
He hadn't liked the answer. The pipeline could run a number of different ways, although the fastest and cheapest way with the least chance of discovery would be for the runners to travel by boat up the shoreline to Mazatlan. Allegedly, this place continued to serve as a crucial pivot point for many of the drugs moving up from Colombia and other South and Central American supply points. Some years before, Mexican officials and local police authorities' alleged efforts with American DEA to shut down the revolving door in Mazatlan had succeeded. Stony Man knew it was bunk and so did McCarter. In fact, a rather passionate discussion had ensued between Phoenix Force and Herndon on that very subject.
"It's true," Herndon had told them back in their apartment when they were going over their plans. "There hasn't been any major drug action through there in a decade or more."
While the rest of Phoenix Force sat and looked at Herndon stupefied, Encizo simply had to laugh. "Says who?"
"Operation Clean Sweep," Herndon recited mechanically. "In 1998, the Mazatlan undercover agents worked almost two years with DEA officers to smash the transshipment point there. They seized hundreds of kilos of drugs and either killed or arrested more than fifty major players in the operation."
"You mean, more than fifty patsies," James countered.
"There's never been a link between those who were arrested in Clean Sweep and the people actually responsible for running the drugs," McCarter added.
"Oh, and by the way," Encizo said, "most of those undercover agents were as corrupt as the drug-runners themselves."
"How would you know?" Herndon challenged.
"Because like the rest of us," McCarter cut in, "the bloody case files from every one of those operations were required reading."
"Required by whom?" Herndon asked.
McCarter fixed him with a frosty smile. "Me."
"Yeah," Hawkins added quickly, "he likes us to keep up on world events and all."
"The fact remains, gentlemen," Herndon said with a venomous expression, "you've presented no incontrovertible evidence mere's anything going on in Mazatlan or even that this theory of yours about al Qaeda using drug smugglers to get across the Mexican-U.S. border has any merit whatsoever."
"You know, Herndon, I sometimes get the impression we're not even on the same side," James said. He stood in front of Herndon and crossed his arms. "We're getting great cooperation from Nativida and he isn't even from the U.S. You, on the other hand, you're one of our own countrymen and you act like you despise our very presence here."
"I didn't ask for this assignment. In fact, I didn't ask to be here at all. They handed me a job in this shithole instead of letting me stay in Washington where I was happy."
"Our arses don't bleed right now for anyone's personal problems," McCarter said. "Now we're real sorry if you're dissatisfied working for Uncle Sam but this is important. You're either going to work with us or you're not, and if you make that second choice I can pretty much guarantee your assignment to the Panama desk will be the least of your bloody problems."
Herndon looked at Encizo, who said, "He's not kidding."
The CIA agent stood there with an uncomfortable expression for a long time. Then he scratched his chin and said, "Well, guess I don't have much choice."
"No," McCarter replied, "you don't."
So the plan was set. Herndon helped them with details to execute their plan and pledged to pull his alter egos on the other Central American desks to help out. Nicaragua didn't have any formal CIA contacts, but Herndon had assured the team he had people inside the government who would agree to help out if he asked nicely and offered something in return. This had gotten Phoenix Force to this point where, for a short time, the Nicaraguan officials would turn their heads while a nameless unit of special ops from the American government violated their airspace and entered the country without visas and clearly with hostile intent. Subsequently, Herndon had agreed to tag along with Grimaldi and meet them at the extraction point since he had a number of connections in Mazatlan.
McCarter didn't mind saying he hoped it didn't go that far. Despite Herndon's promises, he didn't trust the CIA man; moreover, he didn't like the guy. And with good reason. All the Stony Man teams had dealt with moles, traitors and other corrupt operatives within the U.S. intelligence and law-enforcement services. Their ability to operate on foreign soil without oversight tended to leave the door open to temptations. Just look this way while we move a few kilos of dope or that way while we engage in smuggling operations. Before those poor schmucks knew it, they were on the payroll of the very villains they'd been hired to thwart.
McCarter was glad he knew no such restrictions inside Stony Man. Sure there were politics, but the majority of the time Brognola and Price stepped back and let the guys do the job so long as it accomplished mission objectives. The Phoenix Force leader had never known such freedom until becoming a part of Stony Man.
They walked their makeshift trail without incident, keeping to natural pathways as often as they could. Thrashing and chopping at the jungle wouldn't bode well as they neared the encampment. It tended to remove any hope of a stealthy approach. In a way, McCarter felt some relief they would make ground zero a short while before it got light. The hour before dawn had always been the best time to launch an assault from a tactical standpoint, and it looked as if they were going to hold that advantage.
Their eyes had adjusted to darkness and McCarter noticed immediately when Encizo had raised one hand. The shimmer of the night-glow band around the wrist of their point man helped a bit, too. McCarter delivered a similar gesture for the remainder of his crew and they crouched in the brush. He directed his attention to Encizo and used hand signals to indicate the Cuban should move forward to investigate while the rest of them waited.
Encizo faded into the surrounding foliage without a sound.
Five minutes passed before McCarter started to get nervous. He realized it might take time, but it almost seemed like forever crouched here in the dark with only the nighttime sounds of the jungle for company. He exhaled in relief when Encizo returned at the stroke of minute seven.
Encizo got right up on McCarter's ear. "This is it. Camp's just beyond a stream. Maybe thirty meters from the far embankment."
"Steep?" McCarter asked.
Encizo shook his head.
"Sentries?"
Encizo held up two fingers and then rubbed his palm over his eyes to indicate they were sleeping. A tap of his knife handle told McCarter he didn't have to ask if Encizo made sure they stayed that way. He could surmise the gruesome details well enough.
McCarter turned and gestured for the rest of Phoenix Force to fall in on him. He laid it out for them along with the plan, and then after another noise check on their equipment they fanned out and moved through the brush. The five warriors made their way down the embankment, across the stream and up the opposite side without a sound. They formed a skirmish line on the perimeter of the camp, ten meters between each man.
Encizo gestured to the two shallows the drug-runners had dug out where the sentries had been.
McCarter could barely discern the motionless outlines of their bodies. He nodded an acknowledgment, now visible as the first hint of dawn's light touched the gaps in the trees to their right. Four large, canvas tents surrounded a pair of beat-up Chevy Suburbans. In the stillness, McCarter made out the steady drone of a generator and caught the barest whiff of diesel â€" the drug-runners had probably buried the generator. Suddenly a pair of sentries appeared from around a far tent and started to beat on their aluminum entrance doors. Wakeup call! McCarter raised his hand to signal for the attention of his men and when all eyes were on him he dropped it with swiping motion.
Phoenix Force hit the camp perimeter hard with guns blazing. The sentries were taken by surprise at the swift and sudden ferocity, and by the time it registered they were actually under attack it proved too late for either of them. McCarter got one with a burst to the midsection that lifted the sentry off his feet and dumped him on his back, a half dozen holes in his belly.
The second sentry never had a chance to bring to bear the Uzi machine pistol slung on his right shoulder. Encizo got him with a 3-round burst that slammed him into the side of the tent. The man slid to the ground and slumped over, dead before he came to rest.
Shouts of confusion emanated from inside the tents as Phoenix Force spread throughout the camp. Each of them took one tent while Hawkins remained on the perimeter to cover rear guard. It wasn't unheard-of for drug-runners to send out a dawn patrol to protect the rest of the crew while they slept, and the men of Phoenix Force had no desire to get shot from behind because they failed to protect their flanks.
The door to the tent Manning covered flung open and two half-dressed men clutching SMGs burst through the doorway. They leveled their weapons in Manning's direction but without effect. The big Canadian dispatched them with a pair of short bursts from his FAL. The high-velocity 7.62 mm rounds left a merciless destruction of flesh in their passage.
McCarter didn't wait for an invitation, instead choosing to take his enemies while they were still scrambling out of bed. He stalked through the doorway like an angel of death and took out the first man to his right who drew down on him with a pistol. McCarter triggered the Ingram and practically took the man's head off with a short burst. Another volley dispatched a second man, who managed to squeeze off a wild spray of auto fire from a Finnish-made Jatimatic. The man's finger continued depressing the trigger, the muzzle lancing rounds skyward and through the roof of the tent as the impact of slugs from McCarter's weapon knocked him out of bed. The other pair was caught completely unawares by the assault and having seen two of their comrades fall under McCarter's handiwork decided not to even make the attempt.
McCarter gestured with the muzzle of the Ingram and in Spanish ordered them outside.
* * *
Calvin James leveled his M-16/M-203 and jacked home a shell as one of the terrorists emerged with a shotgun in his hands. The drug-runner's weapon boomed a report distinctive above the other sounds of autofire. T. J. Hawkins saw James flinch, twist to one side for a moment and he knew his teammate had been caught partially by the shot. Then Hawkins heard the unmistakable plunk from the M-203 and a heartbeat later the tent exploded in a fiery blast of high explosives. At that range, the shock and back blast was powerful enough to incinerate the flesh off the shotgunner and knock James to the ground.
Hawkins saw two more sentries seem to arrive out of nowhere and level their weapons at James. Hawkins sighted down the barrel of the M-60 and unleashed a fusillade of hot lead. The 7.62 mm NATO rounds pummeled the pair before they could squeeze off a single shot. The body of one twisted oddly, stiffened and collapsed to the ground while his partner danced like a marionette under the impact. Blood splattered in every direction as Hawkins swept them with an endless barrage of violence. He spotted movement in his peripheral vision and swung the machine gun in that direction. In a moment he took it in â€" marked Gary Manning kneeling at the front dealing with a drug-runner who had emerged through the door â€" then continued traversing the area with the barrel of the M-60 until he settled on two more hardmen who emerged from an opening they had obviously cut in the back of the tent.
Hawkins leaned on the trigger again and swept the barrel in a side-to-side motion as he caught the pair in a firestorm of lead. The machine gun responded obediently, spitting round after round downrange. The men fell under his relentless delivery.
Hawkins's ears rang as the reports from multiple weapons died away. He swept the perimeter repeatedly, looking for any new threats, but no other enemy came to meet them. The assault had ended.
* * *
Rafael Encizo questioned each of the five prisoners in turn, who now formed a rakish line in the mud. They had disarmed the drug-runners, and secured their hands and feet behind them with thick plastic riot cuffs. Once they were through with them, Phoenix Force would turn the men over to the Nicaraguan government. That had been the line in the sand in their agreement â€" they were not to remove any prisoners from the country. The Nicaraguans preferred to deal with their own, and for the sake of maintaining good relations Rafael Encizo knew the drug-runners would face harsh punishment in the custody of government officials.
Encizo finished talking to the last man and then ambled over to where McCarter waited. The Phoenix Force leader was leaning against one of the Suburbans, smoking a cigarette and staring with absence into the surrounding jungle. Manning and Hawkins sat nearby dressing the wounds James had suffered from one of the drug-runner's shotgun blasts. McCarter straightened at Encizo's approach.
"What's up?"
Encizo shook his head. "Not good news, I'm afraid. None of the terrorists are here."
"That seemed pretty obvious from the get-go."
"Yeah."
"Were you able to get them to confirm our theory about al Qaeda using them to smuggle terrorists?" McCarter asked.
"No, they flat-out denied being involved in it."
"Which means they're probably up to their blooming necks in it."
"Right."
McCarter mashed his cigarette against the bottom of his boot and stuffed the butt in the breast pocket of his jungle fatigues. "All right then. They'll damn well regret not talking to us soon enough." He looked at the prisoners and added, "Whatever their own government has in store for them will be a lot bloody worse than what they'd experience in an American jail."
Encizo also gazed at their captives. "Agreed. So what now?"
"We do the only thing we can," McCarter replied. "Head to Mazatlan and wait them out."


Chapter Ten
The attack came out of the black of night in the form of two older-model SUVs. They rolled up to flanking positions behind Able Team's van as it traveled along the gravel maintenance road headed toward the abandoned airfield near Mt. Riley, the most probable spot for al Qaeda's base of operation according to the report from Kurtzman. They had managed to triangulate a likely target more quickly than originally anticipated.
As Able Team heard the faint stutter of autofire and the plink of rounds off the metal shell of the van, Schwarz said, "Looks like Bear was right on the money."
"Yeah," Blancanales called from the front. "And I think our terrorist friends are none too happy about it."
"Don't stop," Lyons said as he reached behind the backseat to withdraw his Atchisson 12 shotgun.
Lyons moved to the back of their custom van and slid aside the cover of a gun port in one of the rear doors. Under normal circumstances they wouldn't have had such luxuries, but Stony Man had provided this vehicle through one of their many contacts. It had similar firing ports on the sides, as well as side and rear exit doors. The standard engine had been replaced with a straight-eight .451 boasting a computer-controlled fuel system designed by NASA engineers. The van also sported the most advanced electronic equipment suite on the market and a weapons suite complete enough to make a platoon of Marines drool.
Lyons jacked a shell into the automatic shotgun and took a comfortable firing position. He could see the wink of muzzle-flashes from their pursuers as rounds ricocheted off the bulletproof rear windows. Lyons steadied the shotgun and squeezed off two shots. The headlight of one vehicle went out with the first shot and sparks spit from the grille on impact of the second. Lyons could see the vehicle swerve to avoid further damage. He led the erratic movement and delivered another two-shot volley. Smoke and steam belched from the hood of the SUV, and it swerved to the soft shoulder of the maintenance road.
Blancanales called for them to hold tight as he pumped his brakes to negotiate a tight turn in the road. Lyons stuck his arm out a moment too late and jammed his wrist. He swallowed hard and ignored the lances of pain that shot up his muscled forearm. Blancanales delivered a quick apology as he fought to control the fishtailing van. Lyons couldn't blame his teammate. The guy was doing his best to keep things in control, no mean feat considering the darkness and slick crush-refined gravel of the crude roadway.
Lyons repositioned and prepared to deal with the other pursuer. "Gadgets, I could use some help."
"On it," the Able Team warrior replied as he snatched up the Beretta SCS70/90 and joined his friend at the rear.
Schwarz opened a port mounted high in the door opposite Lyons and stuck the barrel of the weapon through the opening. He locked the rifle butt against his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock and let loose with successive, controlled bursts. The Beretta jumped in his hands as the 5.56 mm slugs punched through the front grille and windshield of the remaining SUV. The SUV zigzagged to avoid Schwarz's assault but the pursuers proved no match for Schwarz's unerring accuracy. In a flash of moonlight Schwarz saw the results of his handiwork in the form of a spiderwebbed windshield smeared red.
"Uh-oh!" Blancanales leaned on the brakes. "Dead end, partners!"
The van skidded to a halt. The SUV swerved to avoid the van and clipped a large boulder with a screech of stone tearing away metal. The enemy vehicle rocketed past their van and jounced over several rough patches beyond where the roadway ended before slamming to a halt in a shallow arroyo.
The Able Team trio went EVA and fanned out to find cover. The SUV sat canted at a forty-five-degree angle in the arroyo, the taillights obscured by the cloud of dust left in its wake. Lyons reached the cover of a natural rut composed of rocks and dirt just as the SUV doors opened and several armed terrorists bailed from their wrecked vehicle. Lyons went to work with the shotgun, tagging the front-seat passenger before he could bring his SMG to bear. The blast of No. 2 double-aught buckshot slammed into his chest and drove him off his feet. The terrorist landed on his back, raising dust with the impact.
Rosario Blancanales â€" who had left the driver's seat with only his SIG-Sauer P-239 â€" knelt and braced his forearms against the trunk of a mature desert willow. Pistol clutched in a Weaver's grip, the Able Team warrior snapped off three rounds at his mark. The first two rounds caught the al Qaeda hardman in the shoulder, but the third ripped through the side of his neck and exited his right cheek. He spun awkwardly as his finger convulsed on the trigger of his machine pistol. The weapon stuttered several reports, the rounds driving harmlessly into the dirt before the terrorist toppled onto the berm of the arroyo and rolled out of sight.
From a prone position behind the boulder the terrorists had struck, Schwarz dispatched the last enemy gunman with a 3-shot burst to the stomach. The man screamed and dropped to his knees; his SMG sprang from his hands and clattered down the arroyo embankment. Blood poured from the wounds, visible and ghastly in the glow of the taillights. The terrorist's scream died in his throat when Schwarz sent a fourth round through his forehead. The man's head snapped backward and his body followed a moment later.
For a long time the Able Team warriors didn't move and with good reason. They heard the stop-and-go approach of the other SUV. Steam and hot radiator fluid gushed from the front of the hood, visible in the headlights as the SUV rounded a curve and ground to halt just meters from the back of the van.
Able Team changed directions from their various points of cover and opened up full salvos at the vehicle. The occupants never stood a chance under that firepower. The Beretta SCS70/90 thundered with a vengeance as Schwarz raked the vehicle with an unending stream of autofire. Lyons and Blancanales supported the maelstrom with repeated volleys from their respective weapons. One shot had to have gone on a lucky stray because even as they ceased firing the interior of the SUV suddenly erupted in bright flames. One man dived from a rear door awash in fire. The human torch danced and weaved for a time before Blancanales pumped a pair of mercy rounds into him. The body went still for a moment, then collapsed prone in the dirt, the flames abating in a wash of dust.
The echo of battle faded into obscurity to the crackle and pops of the makeshift funeral pyre.
* * *
It was well past dawn by the time Able Team located the camouflaged SUVs, and another hour passed before finding the actual base. Deserted. "Damn!" Lyons threw an empty can of condensed bean with bacon soup into the makeshift dirt floor and kicked it across the room.
"Looks like we got here too late," Schwarz said into the phone connection to Stony Man as he kept one watchful eye on his incensed friend. "They left their computers behind, though, and intact."
"Which means they may be back," Brognola replied. "I assume you're going to try to get an uplink to us so we can start digging into those systems?"
"I'll get on it," Schwarz replied.
With that, he disconnected the call.
Lyons turned to face his two teammates, an expression of anger combined with worry creasing his features. "If you can't coax some solid intel out of these boxes, Gadgets, we may have hit our first and last lead."
"I'll do my best, Carl. We'll find something."
Blancanales, arms folded, began to walk along the walls of the cavernous base. Occasionally he would stop to study something in particular, some little bit of evidence, and then he would continue on his way until he reached the next item of interest. Eventually, he returned to the main area and called for Lyons's and Schwarz's attention.
"This is odd."
"What is odd?" Schwarz asked his friend.
"Well, it's pretty obvious from what I've seen that al Qaeda left this base in a hurry."
Lyons furrowed an eyebrow and shrugged. "So? Why's that important?"
Blancanales chuckled. "Follow me on this a moment, if you will. Al Qaeda sends one of its top strategists into America to plan some sort of spectacular attack. They then stage this operation in full sight of the End Zone system, which they had to know was under operational testing, in plain view. Then they pull out all the stops to take out the scientists and us, particularly when we get very close on their heels. But we get here and the place has been abandoned. They moved pretty quickly on this, which tells me one of two things. They either have spies inside the very highest levels of government or..."
As his voice trailed off, Lyons saw where he was going and finished. "Or they wanted us to find this place."
"Right, which means they're stalling for time."
"But time to do what?" Schwarz asked.
Blancanales shrugged and jerked a thumb at the computers. "Let's hope something in there will tell us that."
"Okay, so they obviously have a target in mind," Lyons said. "We know it's something big and spectacular they're planning. We can also assume that they need quite a number of personnel to pull it off."
"Which means either multiple targets or something spread over a large geographical area," Schwarz added.
Blancanales held up a finger. "Or both."
"Well, let's see," Lyons said absently. "The 9/11 attacks involved planes spread over a large geographic area."
"Doubtful they would try that again," Blancanales replied.
"What about a city? Albuquerque or Santa Fe. They could hit multiple targets there, and both are relatively close."
"Doesn't make sense they would require all of those personnel if they were planning something like that. They could do that with easily half of the force we estimate they have in country right now."
"Let's just see what these babies can tell us," Schwarz said.
He got to work on powering up the computers. Once they were booted to log-in screens, he withdrew a CDROM disk from his pouch and inserted it into the drive of one machine. He then rebooted the computer terminal he worked at and it came up with white text on a deep blue background. Schwarz entered some commands and then tapped the Enter key. The disk drive began to hum, the whirring sound amplified by the echoing cavern.
"It'll take the program a little time to hash the passwords we need to get into the system," Schwarz said to nobody in particular. "At least we have the user name, which should cut way down on the amount of time it takes."
"What do you estimate?" Blancanales inquired.
Schwarz turned with a "beats me" expression and replied, "Depends on the character length and complexity of the password they used. Could be anywhere from a few minutes to an hour."
"I'm surprised they left their computers intact," Lyons remarked as he watched with a smidgen of interest.
"It'd make perfect sense if they were planning to come back here," Blancanales said.
"You're saying they were stalling but not because they actually expected us to find this place."
"Right."
"So what other reason could they have?"
"They're either going to launch their operation soon and were buying time to get in position," Blancanales surmised. "Or they were stalling us so they could make it out of this base before we could stop them."
Lyons deadpanned. "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, Pol."
"I owe it all to you."
"Well, the idea they were trying to get out before we discovered them doesn't wash with your theory they weren't expecting us to find this place. So let's work on the idea they're getting ready to execute their attack."
"I'm in!" Schwarz declared.
He clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously and then began to stab away furiously at the keyboard. "First I need to get an uplink established to Stony Man's computer database. Done." Some more typing. "Then we need to set up a program that can do keyword searches."
Schwarz worked at the computer with renewed verve as Blancanales and Lyons took seats. The task would probably take a while so they figured it was as good a time as any to relax, wind down and decompress some. Lyons wasn't worried â€" Stony Man was on it.
He knew they'd have some answers soon enough.
* * *
"The target is WIPP," Kurtzman announced.
When he offered no explanation, Brognola said, "Which is?"
"Waste Isolation Pilot Plant. It's the program begun by the Department of Energy." Kurtzman tapped a code into the computer terminal in the conference room of the Annex and piped a feed onto the massive screen at the other end of the table where he sat with Price and Brognola.
"This is a picture of the plant itself in New Mexico." Kurtzman continued. "Waste is transferred from eight different locations in the United States. Four national labs including Argonne, Idaho, Los Alamos and Lawrence Livermore along with the Rocky Flats site in Colorado, Hanford Site in Richland, and sites in Nevada and along the Savannah River. The majority of TRU waste, that means transuranic, from these sites is contact-handled, which means simply things like clothing, soils, sludge and other materials that have a much lower dose rate at the contact point of the shielded containers than the remote-handled waste. Remote-handled TRU waste must be loaded into one of two special containers, an RH-72B or CNS 10-160B, for transport and dropped at the final location through shielded passages designed to protect waste workers."
"So any shipments in those containers would be the most likely targets?" Price asked.
"I'd say that's a good bet."
Lyons's voice echoed over the speaker as Able Team had been listening to Kurtzman's report via the high-tech communications system built into the briefing room. "We have no idea which of these shipments al Qaeda's actually looking at, Bear?"
"We do," Aaron said. He tapped another key and a map of the United States materialized on the screen.
"The DOE uses something called TRANSCOM to monitor their unclassified shipments by satellite. To keep the public safe they also maintain two-way communications with their drivers, who are required to report in two hours ahead of arriving in any given state. The system is operated and maintained out of the DOE's field office in Carlsbad, New Mexico." Two roads began to flash in red on the map. "What you're seeing there at your end, boys, are Interstate 80 and 25. These routes cross two of our eight locations, namely Idaho National Labs and Rocky Flats. These two are also, coincidentally, the largest producers of TRU waste, more than triple the annual contributors to WIPP than any other single locale."
"And I'd venture to guess they also transport the highest amount of the remote-handled waste," Blancanales interjected.
"Correct, although none is scheduled to ship anytime soon."
"Okay," Brognola said, "I think we've seen enough to know what al Qaeda has planned. There would be no other reason for them to have this information. When are the next shipments scheduled to leave either of these facilities?"
"Three days."
"Seems a bit soon for them to abandon this base of operations," Lyons said.
"In any case," Price replied, "there's no way you can be expected to cover all the possible scenarios here. Hal, I think we ought to put the DOE on full alert, let them know we have strong evidence of a possible terrorist attack."
"Agreed. Why don't you get on that immediately, Barb?"
Directing his comments to Able Team, Brognola continued. "Men, I want you to get on high alert with this. Barb's right in that you can't possibly know where or when they'll attack, but we have to put you somewhere to wait it out. Any suggestions?"
"Why don't we see if we can pick up their trail?" Schwarz asked. "I mean, seeing as we've already gone to all this work with End Zone."
"Sounds like a good start."
"I think we ought to send at least one of us to guard those scientists near Elephant Butte, Hal," Blancanales interjected. "It's still entirely possible al Qaeda has moles inside Sandia Labs, and I don't think we should chance those people's lives against the assumption they won't try again."
"Are you volunteering?"
"Sure, if Ironman doesn't have any objections."
"It's okay with me," Lyons replied. "But if we come up with zero using End Zone to track the terrorists, I think Gadgets and I might do some good at the Carlsbad site."
"How so?" Brognola asked.
"Bear, didn't you say that this TRANSCOM system they use to track the shipments was operated there?"
"You bet."
"Well, then, given that this is also the location of the WIPP receiving facility and the road crews are supposed to call states two hours ahead of crossing lines, it makes sense the terrorists would try to take out that system first if they had any shot of a successful attack against the shipment containers."
"That's a good point," Kurtzman replied as he looked at Brognola.
"Okay," Brognola said, "we'll go with this battle plan for now, but be advised it might change on a moment's notice."
"I'd be surprised if it didn't," Lyons muttered.
"What do we know about Phoenix Force's progress?" Blancanales inquired.
"They missed a chance at taking out the terrorists in Nicaragua," Price said. She explained their theory about the drug-smuggling connection and the White Trail. "Their next destination is Mazatlan, but we won't really know for sure how that pans out for quite a while yet."
Lyons chuckled. "I'll bet that's got David pulling his hair out."
"Don't you know it."
"We'll pass this along to them," Brognola said. "You guys be careful down there. If you run into our al Qaeda friends, you're authorized to do whatever you have to do, but I want you to stop it cold."
"Oh," Lyons replied coolly, "you can bet on it, boss."


Chapter Eleven
The noonday sun hung high in the sky by the time Phoenix Force arrived at the rendezvous.
Kelly Herndon met them at the LZ with Grimaldi, as promised, where they turned the drug-runners over to Nicaraguan military police. They then headed straight for Mazatlan via chopper and Herndon guided them to a hotel where they could set up a new base of operations.
Their search for the al Qaeda terrorists wouldn't be easy. Mazatlan was a big place with a population of nearly five hundred thousand combined in the city and surrounding municipality. Part of the Mexican state of Sinaloa, it was also the largest commercial seaport in the country and littered with tourists year-round due to its climate and accommodations. People came and went by droves, and five multinational men would not stick out like a sore thumb.
"I think we need to try a soft probe first," McCarter told the men when they had cleaned up and met in one of their hotel rooms. "Rafe and James seem the two best candidates."
"What about Herndon?"
"Supposedly he has quite a number of contacts within the local police establishment," Encizo said. "That could really work to our advantage."
McCarter nodded. "It's a place to start. Get on it."
Encizo and James nodded and headed out the door. They stopped at Herndon's room to round up the CIA guy before they grabbed a taxi and headed for the main police precinct in the modern, uptown section of the city.
Their trip was uneventful and twenty minutes later they exited the cab where it stopped in front of police headquarters.
The trio ascended the chipped, imitation flagstone steps and entered the comparative coolness of the building. The station house couldn't be described as swank. Air-conditioner units in several windows hummed and chirped with age. Square, linoleum tiles â€" cracked in places with the occasional gaps â€" covered the floor and in some places there were tiles whiter than those surrounding it. Chipped, gray paint adorned the walls. Metal desks were scattered throughout the room in a semiregular pattern, some with computers and others with nothing more than a typewriter or pen and pad. Telephones jangled incessantly, drowning out the hustle of officers, some uniformed and others plainclothes, moving in and out the squeaky front doors.
An older, scruffy man with the fullest and longest mustache James had ever seen sat behind a raised desk to their right. He had a phone in one hand, a wet stogie clenched in the other and a scowl that would frighten away lesser men. He stopped conversing only a moment to study them with his dark eyes before he returned to his conversation that sounded like little more than grunts and phrases.
Abruptly the man dropped the receiver into the phone cradle. In Spanish he said, "Yes? What do you want?"
Herndon cleared his throat and said as politely as possible, "We would like to see Captain Aguilar. Is he in?"
"He's busy."
"He's expecting us," Herndon said, passing one of his diplomatic cards to the sergeant.
The man studied it a moment over the edge of his glasses and then held up a meaty finger and picked up the phone receiver. He did more grunting and nodding into it as his eyes roved over them, studying each man in turn. He muttered "Si" into the mouthpiece, then hung up and gestured for them to follow.
The sergeant led them through the maze of desks to a set of rickety stairs and they ascended to the second floor. He opened a door at the top and stepped aside with a jerk of his thumb. They passed, and Encizo and James nodded acknowledgment to the sergeant. The man said nothing, gave no indication he even saw them.
A tall, thin man in the tailored uniform of a Mexican police captain rose and extended his hand. He was clean-cut except for the thin, straight line of a mustache that ended at the corner of his lips with such precision it looked as if someone had drawn it on him. His eyes were mud-colored and his nose bulbous. He wore his hair high-and-tight and the creases on his shirt and pants were as sharp as a butcher knife.
He extended his hand to Herndon. "Kelly, welcome to Mazatlan. It's been too long."
"Yes, it has," Herndon said.
Captain Berto Aguilar introduced himself to James and Encizo and then gestured toward some chairs in front of his desk. He offered them a drink but the two Phoenix Force warriors declined. Once they were seated, Herndon got right to business.
"I wish this were a pleasure visit, Berto," the CIA agent said as he crossed his legs, "but I'm afraid we're here on important business."
"Of course, of course. How can I help you?"
"We, uh..." Herndon looked at Encizo and James and then found his voice. "These men were sent to Panama to investigate the possible resurgence of drug smuggling through Mazatlan."
"You cannot be serious, Kelly." Aguilar looked at the Phoenix Force pair and switched to English. "Gentlemen, you have my personal assurances that this kind of activity isn't tolerated in my country. We shut down that pipeline many years ago, and since then we've had no trouble with the drug-runners. I'm afraid there has been some mistake. The White Trail was closed down years ago, my friends. All that is left of this are rumors. Fables, really."
"You see?" Herndon said to James and Encizo. "It's just like I told you."
James fired a harsh look at him and replied, "Is it really?"
Encizo locked eyes with Aguilar and said, "I don't mean to sound obnoxious, Captain, but the fact remains that the White Trail's alive and well in Central America. And you know it. The American government has confirmed this fact with both Mexican and other regional authorities. The problem is not tourists and the Golden Triangle, it's apathy on the part of your people to pursue the leads given to you by CIA and DEA officers."
Aguilar's face reddened visibly. "Might I remind you, gentlemen, that you are guests of the Mexican government? The only reason I even agreed to see you was because I am indebted to Mr. Herndon for certain matters..." he glanced at Herndon "...but even such indentures are not without limitations."
"The loyalty you might feel toward Mr. Herndon," Encizo persisted, "or any agreements with him are none of our affair. The fact remains you have a bigger problem than just the White Trail. We believe Mexican nationals are being paid by al Qaeda to smuggle terrorists over the border between America and Mexico."
"And as you are probably aware," James added, "we don't look too kindly on infiltration of terrorists on American soil."
Aguilar jumped from his chair. "That's absurd! Do you have any proof of your allegations?"
"We have a dead boat crew out of Panama, several al Qaeda contacts slaughtered by their own people and the names of local Arabs working here in your country under employment visas obtained for them by legitimate Mexican businesses." Encizo smiled.
"Basically," James said, "we have proof-positive that al Qaeda terrorists are using the goodwill of law-abiding Mexican citizens to accomplish their own ruthless ends. We're here to make sure this gets dealt with."
"I will not tolerate wanton bloodshed and violence in my city," Aguilar warned, although his haughty front had begun to falter.
They could see the wheels turning in the guy's eyes and knew they'd hit close to home. It was possible a guy like Aguilar saw only how this would impact his career if it were discovered he'd been warned of terrorist activities in his jurisdiction and chose to ignore it. In one regard, James couldn't say he blamed the policeman much. If he put himself in Aguilar's shoes, the entire story they were telling him sounded nothing short of preposterous. James couldn't be sure he'd believe it if their roles were reversed. Nonetheless, Aguilar didn't strike him as a stupid man.
"Okay," he replied with a deep sigh. "Let us suppose for a moment that you gentlemen are correct, and terrorists are operating here in Mazatlan. Or even drug-runners. And I do not say there are," he added quickly. "What do you propose I do about it?"
"You don't need to do anything about it," Encizo replied.
"Once we find them, we'll know how to deal with them," James added.
"It's that first part that'll be the trick," Encizo stated, "and that's where you come in. All you need to do is supply us with the most likely places drug-runners might operate, assuming that the White Trail had reopened. Anything you can give us. Abandoned warehouses they might use as drug labs or places in the outskirts where they could hide for a time."
"But that is just it. There are no such places. Do you see the futility of this?"
Encizo shook his head. "Sorry, but I can't believe that since Operation Clean Sweep the police haven't made any drug-related arrests. No matter how good you think you are, there is no way to shut down every drug operation here or anyplace else. There will always be a few who escape and you pick them up after the fact. So think about it."
Aguilar sat back in his chair with a creak and chewed his lower lip for a time. Plainly the guy didn't want to give up his little corner of the world. It was obvious Aguilar considered them outsiders and resented their interference. A man like him â€" a man used to calling the shots and dealing with these types of things internally â€" wouldn't want to illuminate trouble spots in his jurisdiction.
Finally he nodded. "I tell you what I shall do. I will make some inquiries and see what intelligence I might provide for you. Do you have a place where you will be staying?"
Herndon took pen and paper from his pocket, scribbled the hotel number and address on it and handed it to Aguilar. That concluded the meeting. The men rose and shook hands in turn before departing the station.
Once they were in a cab on the return trip to the hotel, James said, "Well, that didn't go so hot."
"I warned you before that he wasn't likely to be too cooperative," Herndon said.
"If he knows anything at all, he's not going to tell us," Encizo reminded them. "Not right away. He'll poke around and ask some questions, and if he finds anything out he'll check it himself first before he comes to us."
"Not true." Herndon turned in his seat to look at the two warriors in back. "Look, I've known Berto Aguilar for a lot of years. We did some missions together early in my career. He's a lot of things, but a liar isn't one of them. Sure, he may not tell you everything, especially if he doesn't think it's in his best interests, but if he said he'll look into it and get back to us, then he'll do it. We just have to give him a little time to figure it out. But he'll come through."
"Well, I have my doubts, but you know him better than we do," Encizo said. "For now, it's best we get back to the hotel and let the rest of them know what's going on."
"Eeesh," James said. "I have the feeling our illustrious team leader isn't going to like what we have to report."
"Really? What makes you say that?" Encizo's eyes looked ahead and then he tapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to stop.
"What are you doing?"
As Encizo opened the door he said, "Whatever good we did or didn't do back there, we made it clear to him we don't have a clue where to start. But Aguilar said he'd get back to us, which makes me believe that if he's on the up-and-up like Herndon here suggests, he does have an idea where to start looking."
"So what're we going to do? Follow him?"
"I'm going to follow him," Encizo replied. "You and Herndon get back and report what we know."
James fixed his friend with a serious expression. "I don't like the way this is going down, man. We shouldn't just split up, and you sure as hell shouldn't be doing this alone."
Encizo raised a cautionary hand.
"Face it, pal, I have a much better chance of blending in alone. I can pass for a local. If you get made, though, the jig will be up and we won't have a chance of finding these drug-runners. Now please do as I'm asking." He patted the breast pocket of his khaki shirt where he carried his cell phone. "I'll have it on at all times so you can track me. When I find something, I'll call you immediately."
James tried furiously to think of an argument but he couldn't. His friend was right â€" there was no other way.
"All right," he finally conceded, but then stuck a finger in the man's face and said, "But you damn well better be careful. You get killed and I might never forgive myself."
Encizo beamed. "Aw, you say the sweetest things."
"Beat it."
* * *
"It's utter rot, mate," David McCarter replied, true to James's predictions. "The bloke strung you along. And you let him!"
"I know it's not the best way, David, but I don't see as we have much choice."
"We always have a choice, Cal." McCarter looked at the others. "Suggestions?"
"I have to agree with David," Manning said. "I don't think standing around here scratching our heads and waiting for this Captain Aguilar to come to us is definitely the way to approach this scenario. If I'd been in Rafe's shoes, I would have done the same thing."
"Why?" Hawkins inquired.
"Well, we're pretty confident al Qaeda knows we're onto them. In fact, we originally thought that it would be a good idea to just send Rafe and Cal with Herndon so we don't draw attention. Maybe that's going about it all wrong."
"So what, you're suggesting we do something to call attention to ourselves?" James said.
Manning shrugged. "No, I just think keeping a low profile and playing everything so close to the vest isn't the best way to get information. At least, not in this situation."
"Okay, but we don't even know where to start," McCarter interjected. "I mean, if we had anything to bloody go on to begin with, we'd already be pursuing it instead of wasting our time with the Mexican police."
James shook his head. "Yeah, but that was exactly Rafe's point. We shook Aguilar up, whether we knew it or not. At least enough to promise he'd look into it. That means he does have something to go on, a place to start looking. I think Rafe keyed in on that fact and decided to exploit it to our benefit."
"Fine," McCarter said, "but I'm not big on the idea we just sit here on our arses while one of our own is out risking his own hide."
The phone rang and McCarter looked at the others before rising from the couch and picking it up. "Yeah?"
"It's me."
McCarter sighed at the sound of Encizo's voice. "You're in deep."
"Yeah, I missed you, too. Listen, I think my hunch paid off. I trailed Aguilar down to the docks. He came straight here after leaving the station."
"That's good work," McCarter replied. "Real good work."
"Thanks. You better round up the cavalry and get down here as quick as possible."
Encizo gave McCarter the address and general directions from the hotel.
"That's only a few blocks from here. All right, hang tight, mate, we're on our way. And don't bloody do anything until we get there. That's an order."
"Understood. Out, here."
McCarter replaced the receiver and turned to his men. "Tally-ho."


Chapter Twelve
Captain Berto Aguilar considered these new developments.
One thing that bothered him was how the Americans had managed to figure out the transshipment operations in Mazatlan were very much alive. He'd expended considerable resources to ensure his longevity and financial independence; he didn't mind bending a few rules to safeguard the lifestyle to which he'd become accustomed. Aguilar had been very careful about how and where he spent the extra money. He never purchased anything of value and didn't live in extravagance â€" at least not here â€" and no one knew about his growing bank account in Cancun, not even his beloved wife and children. Aguilar had stashed away nearly a million dollars, and as soon as he reached that magic number he planned to resign his police commission and move to the Cayman Islands to live out his remaining days in the lap of luxury.
First, however, he needed to dig deeper into this current situation. Aguilar was certain he'd done a reasonable job of convincing the Americans of his ignorance to the drug smugglings but he couldn't stave them off forever. The men he'd met were tenacious, that much he'd discerned about them, and would uncover the operating locations of the pipeline eventually. Aguilar would have to ensure he had the appropriate failsafe in place when they made their discoveries and reported them to him. If nothing else, they would expect his full support once they had proof. He knew he'd have to arrange some sort of "accident" to remove this threat when the time came.
First things first, however. Aguilar had ordered his driver to drop him in the garment district a few blocks from the docks and walked the remainder of the way to the warehouse.
Tiago Pomona rushed to Aguilar as he entered through the office door in the rear of the warehouse and shook his hand with vigor. Aguilar had never known Pomona to use any of the cocaine or methamphetamines he moved through Mazatlan, but the drug-runner tended to flit around like he was on something. His eyes danced to and fro, never really stopping to look at anything, and he always wore grimy clothes. Aguilar had to pull his head back a bit to ward off the smell that emanated from Pomona, the odors of a body that hadn't seen soap and water in better than a week. Oddly, Pomona's face was always clean and shaved.
"Captain, it is good to see you," Pomona said with a wide grin. "What brings you to our humble abode? There was no problem with the last shipment, no?"
"Just be quiet and listen. I had men in my office a little while ago." Pomona gestured toward the steps that led to the second floor and the offices. As they walked, Aguilar continued. "They were Americans and they told me quite a tale. They mentioned the drug-smuggling operation had started up again through Mazatlan and they also said they believed the drug smugglers were being paid by al Qaeda terrorists to move personnel up the White Trail into the U.S. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that. Would you?"
Pomona didn't miss a beat in his reply and Aguilar knew immediately the guy was lying. "I know nothing of this." They entered his office where Pomona closed the door and waved Aguilar to a seat. "Would you like some coffee?"
"What I would like, Tiago, are answers. Are you involved with smuggling terrorists as a sideline to our business?"
Pomona sat behind his desk and smiled with false ingratiation. "As I said, Captain, I know nothing of this. I am a simple servant..."
"Stop lying!" Aguilar felt his face redden and the acid rise from his stomach as he grew incensed. More calmly, he added, "These men did not make this up."
"I did not say that they did," Pomona replied. "But I swear to you that I know nothing about these men or their claims."
"For now I will believe you because I have no proof to controvert your story," Aguilar replied. "But if I discover that you have lied to me or you are in business with any other parties and you have not paid your proper tribute, I will have my men cut your throat from ear to ear and dump your body in the ocean for the fish. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Mazatlan is my city, Tiago, and I say what goes on here. Don't forget that."
Aguilar rose and turned to leave when one of the sea-facing windows shattered. He watched as a heavy object landed on the wood floor of the office, rolled across the room and the top burst off in a shower of sparks. A moment later smoke began to pour from the OD-green canister and filled the room. Aguilar's eyes and throat started to burn immediately and he gagged. The bare skin of his face and hands also started to itch.
Tears streaming down from his eyes, Aguilar staggered for the door and freedom from the noxious gas.
* * *
"Bull's-eye!" James declared triumphantly as the 40 mm CS grenade sailed from his M-203 through the second-story window of the warehouse.
"Now," McCarter said into his headset.
Manning and Hawkins went into action. They were kneeling on either side of the rear door as Manning withdrew a quarter-pound stick of C-4 plastic explosive from his satchel. He broke it in two, molded half around a blasting cap attached to the upper hinge of the door and the remainder attached to the bottom hinge. The pair stepped back on Manning's direction and the Canadian explosives expert triggered the detonator. The powerful HE blew out the door nicely and the pair of Phoenix Force warriors made their entry before the smoke had cleared.
McCarter flipped a thumbs-up to Encizo and James, who charged from cover and rounded the corner of the warehouse bound for the front door. Encizo hadn't been able to tell them much about the interior layout, but McCarter figured they would make the best headway if they assaulted from two directions and squeezed the drug smugglers toward the center, ultimately catching them in a cross fire. This would also give Aguilar and his cronies the least opportunity to escape. McCarter had considered the possibility Aguilar had only come to this place for alternate reasons, although he could hardly believe it. The evidence seemed overwhelming, especially in light of the fact Aguilar had come here immediately after Encizo, James and Herndon departed his office. Still, they had to move on the place using non-punitive measures on the remote possibility there were only innocents inside the warehouse.
The staccato of autofire from the interior nicely removed any niggling doubts McCarter might have had. The Briton jumped from cover and headed toward the opening left by Manning's handiwork. McCarter allowed a slight grin as he stepped through, Ingram MAC-10 held ready, and prepared to face the enemy.
For better or worse, they were back in business.
* * *
T. J. Hawkins led the charge through the door, MP-5 held high and ready. Maiming followed on Hawkins's right flank, his weapon low and sweeping to cover the gaps. The two men proceeded through the vestibule and into the office, making it halfway across the room before spotting their first target.
Hawkins and Manning triggered simultaneous bursts that caught the gunman midsection. The double impact pushed him back until he staggered into a counter. With no other place to go, his lifeless corpse slumped to the floor and left a red smear on the finish.
They pressed onward, Hawkins stopping briefly at steps that led to the second floor. He directed the muzzle of his weapon upward to verify no threats appeared to descend and flank them, then continued on into the main warehouse area with his partner.
Two drug dealers rounded the far corner of the aisle they traversed and stopped short when they saw Hawkins and Manning. They clawed for pistols in shoulder leather but the Phoenix Force pair already had the drop on them. Hawkins triggered a 3-round burst that sent bullets coring through one gunner's chest and drove him off his feet. Manning took the other with two well-placed shots to the head. The drug-runner's head split open and splashed blood and gray matter on both corpses. Hawkins and Manning continued moving forward even as the two men collapsed simultaneously to the cracked, concrete warehouse floor.
* * *
Encizo and James couldn't initially find a way through the secured front door, so James decided on a more practical method of entry. They moved a respectful distance from the door and he loaded a 40 mm HE grenade in the launcher, took a steady position, eased out a deep breath as he aimed at the door and squeezed the trigger. The M-16/M-203 kicked against his shoulder as the grenade left the launcher with a whip-crack report. The door disappeared in a wash of red-orange flame and a concussive roar a moment later, leaving only the smoldering edges of a large hole in its wake.
Encizo and James charged the opening and came through without hesitation, weapons held at the ready.
James took the first threat, a trio of Mexican gunmen toting SMGs, with a sustained volley of 5.56 mm slugs. The maelstrom of metal zipped through their flesh, opening large splotches in their upper torsos as they exited with high velocity. James's opponents danced like puppets under the autofire, then collapsed to the floor, one body landing atop another.
Encizo caught another pair of dope smugglers with a controlled burst of his MP-5. He knelt with the weapon held tight and steady at midlevel, and triggered off rounds as he swept the muzzle side-to-side in a rising burst. Bullets entered the stomach of one man and the chest of another, continuing upward in alternate fashion until they both took slugs to the face. The proximity of the shots sent them off their feet and rocketing into nearby shelves. They collapsed amid a crash of cardboard boxes and metal machine parts.
James and Encizo turned their attention to the main aisle ahead and took stock of the half dozen or so armed men who rushed their position. The Phoenix Force warriors took up firing positions from behind the ends of the massive bins that lined the aisle. They steadied their weapons and fired on the approaching mob with controlled bursts. The gunmen scattered to avoid the autofire, triggering their own weapons in a counteroffensive that soon had rounds crisscrossing the aisle, ricocheting off the concrete and surrounding metal bins.
The cacophony of weapons fire produced a steady din of destruction on the ears, and the Phoenix Force warriors could only hope their backup would arrive shortly to help level the battlefield odds.
* * *
As David McCarter came through the back door, a dark-haired man in a police uniform descended a stairwell and staggered into the office. The Briton identified him as Aguilar, and charged the officer.
Aguilar reached for his sidearm, managing to clear the Colt PSAR809 .38-caliber pistol from his holster before McCarter connected with a rock-hard uppercut to the chin. The blow nearly lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing into a wall. The blow jarred the pistol from his grip and it skittered across the floor.
The police captain recovered and went low, delivering a punch that caught McCarter in the gut. The Phoenix Force leader doubled over with a loud grunt as the blow forced air from his lungs. He went to one knee but managed to keep his senses enough to duck aside and avoid a second punch aimed for his head. McCarter continued down and lashed out with his right foot in a roundhouse kick to Aguilar's chest, followed by a punch to the groin. Aguilar roared in pain and dropped both hands instinctuaUy to his genitals. McCarter regained his feet and drove a knee into the man's temple. The shot bowled Aguilar onto his side and he lay there, rocking and moaning while clutching his groin.
McCarter turned and bent to retrieve Aguilar's pistol. As he grabbed the Colt, he caught a whiff of strong body odor milliseconds before something abrasive looped around his neck and yanked him backward. McCarter lost his balance and tumbled to the floor, one hand grabbing toward the rough piece of thick rope encircling his throat, maintaining his grip on the pistol with the other. The PSAR809 was similar in design to Colt's M1911A1, so McCarter hoped Aguilar had enough common sense to keep one round chambered. The warrior thumbed the safety and blindly wrapped his thumb around the hammer to cock it as he struggled not to pass out from lack of oxygen. He tried to gain a better position, but his assailant had the advantage of surprise and used all his weight to maintain a taut rope.
McCarter made one more effort to bring as much of his body weight forward as possible and then slammed his head back against his assailant's chest. Confident of the man's position, the Briton jammed the pistol behind the right side of his head and fired. The proximity of the pistol report left McCarter's ear ringing, but he was rewarded with a shout of pain and something warm and wet splattering his earlobe as the pressure on the rope subsided.
McCarter rolled away onto his right shoulder, snap-aimed at a Mexican writhing on the floor and squeezed three more shots. The man's movement ceased and the former SAS commando remained in that position, weapon held at point-blank range, breathing heavily from his near brush with death. After nearly a minute, McCarter crawled to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest.
Still catching his breath, McCarter went to Aguilar and quickly secured the man to a metal desk bolted to the floor with a pair of riot cuffs. He cinched a second pair around the guy's feet for good measure, then picked up his MAC-10 and headed out of the office.
The thunderous echo of gunshots reverberated through the massive warehouse, wearing on McCarter's already thinned nerves. The Briton followed the shots until he rounded a corner and saw Manning and Hawkins under the cover of a large crate, trading fire with a heavily armed band maybe fifty yards down a large aisle. McCarter caught a glimpse of Encizo at the far end of the aisle as he burst from cover and fired shots at the same group.
McCarter waited for a lull in the firing and dashed to Hawkins and Manning's position. "Sitrep!"
"Looks like your little plan worked," Manning said as a fresh volley of stingers buzzed past their heads. "We managed to catch them in a cross fire. It's only a matter of time before they run out of ammo."
"Yeah, well, let's just bloody well hope they run out before we do. Any casualties on our side?"
"None reported," Hawkins replied before trading a fresh burst of auto fire with the enemy.
McCarter risked a glance over the crate to assess the situation more thoroughly and ducked before getting his head shot off by a steady burst of slugs from their opponents. Manning was correct. Phoenix Force had the superior position and probably the firepower, but they couldn't afford to permit the standoff to last forever. Something had to give. McCarter knew what that something was.
The Phoenix Force leader keyed up his microphone. "Red Leader to Red Three."
James came back a moment later. "Red Three here, go."
"How's about you put a bang into this party?"
"Copy that," James replied.
"Let's the rest of us give him something to work with," McCarter said to the remainder over the radio.
In a concerted effort, the four Phoenix Force warriors directed a murderous storm of lead at their enemies while James sighted on their position with his M-203. With an abruptness for which they were hardly prepared, the enemy's holdout area erupted in a geyser of flame and heat, the concussion ripping limbs from bodies and propelling both through the air.
One forearm landed a few yards from McCarter's foot and bounced a half dozen more before coming to a stop.
McCarter immediately noticed something on the wrist, a bluish marking of some kind. Like a tattoo.


Chapter Thirteen
Leaving the area with Berto Aguilar unnoticed hadn't proved easy, but with a little misdirection and a lot of luck they managed to avoid the police units converging on the warehouse and return to the hotel with the police captain intact. Shock and disappointment filled Kelly Herndon's face as he listened to Phoenix Force tell of the encounter at the warehouse and Aguilar's subsequent betrayal.
"I don't believe it," he finally said. "I can't believe it."
"Whether you believe it or not doesn't make it any less true," Encizo said.
"The guy's a traitor to that uniform he's wearing and his country," McCarter added. "He's obviously been dealing with these drug smugglers for years."
"But... he and I worked together during Clean Sweep," he said. "He was responsible for arresting dozens of the people involved in smuggling drugs."
"Things change," James said.
"People change," Hawkins added.
Herndon's fists shook at his sides as he turned and looked at Aguilar with venom. "You son of a bitch!" He leaped at Aguilar and wrapped his hands around the guy's throat, bent on strangling him to death right there, murder evident in his eyes. "You bast..."
"Let him go!" Encizo said as he and Manning stepped forward, pried his fingers loose from around Aguilar's throat and dragged him back some distance.
"Go for some air," McCarter ordered, pointing at the door. "Right now."
Herndon shook his arms loose from Encizo's and Manning's grips, then wheeled on his heel and left the hotel, slamming the door behind him.
"You want us to tail him?" James asked.
McCarter shook his head. "No, he'll cool down."
He turned and walked over to Aguilar. He folded his arms and studied the man's face. Aguilar didn't flinch, but McCarter knew that only meant the guy was a good actor.
"I was told we didn't get off to a very good start with you," the Briton began, "so we're going to pretend everything that's happened before is water under the bridge. From here out you get three strikes." McCarter held up three fingers to emphasize his point. "Each incorrect or false answer you give me will count as a strike. Tell me what I want to know, I turn you over to your own government to deal with you. I'm sure they can think of a suitable punishment."
"You might as well kill me now," Aguilar replied. He spit on McCarter's boot. "I will tell you nothing, and you can prove nothing since you have no witnesses. If you turn me over to my own government, they will simply free me."
"Let's put it like this," McCarter said, propping one foot on a chair next to Aguilar's and scratching the two-day's growth of beard. "If you get three strikes, I'm going to turn you over to some of the local DEA boys."
"I am not frightened of you," Aguilar said, trying to maintain a courageous face even though his bravado had started to fade.
"Look, friend," Encizo said. "It's no skin off our noses whether you live or die. Since you refused to tell us about the little drug-smuggling operation you had going there, we can only assume you were also in on supporting al Qaeda's efforts to penetrate the United States. Our standing orders permit us to kill anyone caught aiding and abetting terrorists."
"You have no proof that I was aiding terrorists."
"You're right," McCarter replied, "we killed all the witnesses, which is exactly what you were hoping for."
The Phoenix Force leader reached into his combat satchel and removed the stump of the arm that landed near him in the warehouse. He'd wrapped it inside a large, plastic bag. He tossed it underhanded and it bounced off Aguilar's chest before landing at his feet. Aguilar jumped involuntarily when the object struck him.
"See that symbol?" McCarter said, pointing at the bag. "That's a mujahideen symbol, Arabic for 'struggle.' That's from one of the gunmen we went up against in the warehouse. We think it's being used by al Qaeda to positively identify their own men from Central American nationals who've been smuggling the terrorists along the White Trail."
"Including your partners," Encizo added.
"Now I don't bloody well give a damn whether you think we have proof or not," McCarter said. He stepped up to Aguilar, drew his Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather in one easy motion and pointed it at Aguilar's forehead. "And I swear to you that if you don't start telling us what you know about this, I'm going to put a bullet in your useless brain pan right here."
Aguilar emitted a scoffing laugh. "Neither your government nor mine would ever permit you to commit a summary execution."
"We don't need permission."
"This is not a very private place for such activities. Your shooting me would bring a dozen policemen here in minutes. You would never get out of this country alive."
McCarter cocked the hammer. "It'll be bloody well worth it."
It seemed like time slowed by half as Aguilar and McCarter stared at each other, one trying to read the other's thoughts. McCarter could see the resistance melt in Aguilar's expression with each passing second.
"What's it going to be?" McCarter finally said.
At last Aguilar said, "All right. I will tell you what I know but I demand you release me into the custody of Mexican authorities."
"We'll get to that after you talk to us," Encizo said.
Aguilar looked at the men of Phoenix Force in turn, as if he were trying to decide whether to trust them, and then said, "It is true that the White Trail has been open for several years. I know only of our operation here in Mazatlan. I have no control over the drugs before they arrive here and after they leave."
"How are the drugs brought in?"
"We have men in our customs service who stall the inspection of certain boats as they enter port authority for search. The drugs are off-loaded by men in motorboats and legitimate imports loaded in their stead under cover of night. Then the boats pass through the normal customs process, are inspected and ultimately declared clean."
Encizo nodded. "This way they cover their asses in case DEA or Mexican secret police decide to conduct inspections of their own."
"How long has this been going on?"
Aguilar shrugged. "Four... maybe five years."
"What about the terrorists?" McCarter asked.
"I did not know of this," Aguilar said. "This is what surprised me when your men came to see me today. I had gone to the warehouse to ask my man who manages the loading operations. He denied knowing anything about it."
"Did you believe him?"
Aguilar didn't say anything for a long time, which seemed to be all the answer Phoenix Force really needed. Then he said, "I do not know whether to believe him or not. Tiago was never that bright, but he had a number of business transactions he ran on the side to make extra money."
"If they were off-loading drugs without him overseeing them," McCarter said to his team, jerking his head at Aguilar, "there's no reason not to believe he didn't know about them smuggling terrorists."
James took the photo Stony Man had sent them of Siraj Khatri and held it in front of Aguilar. "You ever see this man before?"
Aguilar studied the picture for a time and then shook his head.
"His name was Siraj Khatri," McCarter said. "He was working here in Mexico as a software programmer until we caught him spying on us in Panama. His al Qaeda buddies killed him before he could be questioned about his involvement in this smuggling operation."
"You see," Encizo said, "these terrorists have been very careful until just recently when they started getting sloppy. We think it's because they're planning an attack against the United States in the next few days and are starting to feel rushed."
"And we're here to make sure that doesn't happen," McCarter said. "Now I'll ask you again, did you believe your man didn't know about the smuggling operation?"
"I am not sure," Aguilar replied. "I felt he was deceiving me, but I don't know if it was about that. I think maybe it was something else, something he wasn't telling me. And by my asking him about this he felt I was getting close to the truth."
"Well, that hand is evidence enough that they were working with the terrorists." McCarter lit a cigarette and popped the top on a Coca-Cola. He took a long swallow and asked, "Who else knew about your operation?"
"Nobody. I swear."
"You sure about that?" Encizo asked. "I know this country pretty well, and I find it hard to believe your sergeant we met at the station isn't onto what's happening."
Aguilar shook his head. "I told no one. I wanted the whole profit for myself."
"What sergeant is this?" McCarter asked. "You didn't mention him before."
"I don't know," Encizo said. "I couldn't swear to it, but there was something about that guy that didn't sit quite right with me. I just can't put my finger on it."
"I thought he was acting a little strange, too," James added.
McCarter nodded and then looked at Aguilar. "All right. I want you to tell us everything you know about this guy. Start with his name and where we can find him."
* * *
Sergeant Geraldo Cortina stood with hands on hips and surveyed the smoldering remains of the bodies in the warehouse. It didn't bother him to find so many of the workers dead â€" they were easily and cheaply replaced â€" as it did to see that Tiago Pomona hadn't survived. Unknown to very few people, Pomona was his brother-in-law and his death meant his sister would now be a widow strapped with three tots and no way to provide for them. Well, Cortina would see to their care one way or another. Maybe he'd move them, too, just in case this was some type of retribution by their competition.
Although it was difficult to distinguish faces in that pile of charred flesh, Cortina felt a passel of certainty that the body of his captain wasn't among them. That begged the question: what had become of Berto Aguilar? Cortina couldn't move forward with his plans until he knew Aguilar's location and, more important, what he knew about the operation.
When he and Tiago had first made the deal with the representative sent by al Qaeda, they considered bringing Aguilar into the deal. Ultimately they'd decided it would be wiser and more profitable to keep their mouths shut, splitting the booty between them fifty-fifty rather than three ways. Tiago had been nervous about this, no great surprise as his brother-in-law typified paranoia, but Cortina had managed to convince him to keep quiet and he'd take care of everything. Great. What he saw here today was not what he'd had in mind.
Fortunately he and Tiago had been the only two to know about the arrangement, so as long as he could find Aguilar before anyone else got to the man, he could keep things that way. It frustrated him in some respects that this would happen now, especially so close to the conclusion of the deal. For each body he'd moved, al Qaeda had paid him ten thousand euros. He'd moved nearly fifty men over the past year, netting a cool half-million, of which he split half with Tiago.
Well, not exactly half; Cortina had told his brother-in-law they were making a thousand per body, so the split actually turned out to be ninety-ten. What Tiago didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and the guy still made more than enough to live comfortably and supply his family. And, after all, now that he was dead wouldn't it be Cortina who took responsibility to make sure his sister and her kids didn't want for anything the rest of their lives? What more could one ask?
One of his subordinates approached and handed him a plastic bag. Cortina held the bag up in the light to peruse its contents. There were several pieces of a broken pocket watch along with the button from a Mexican police uniform. The button could have come off the uniform of any policeman his rank or greater, but Cortina recognized the watch immediately as having belonged to Berto Aguilar.
So he had been here, probably earlier in the day.
Cortina tucked the bag into the pants' pocket of his uniform and stared down the aisle in contemplation. He'd been called to the scene of an assault near the precinct station just before the arrival of the American and his two companions. Cortina had recognized Kelly Herndon but he'd never seen the other two. He'd marked the one as Spanish, and the black man could have been from anywhere, although Cortina guessed they were both Americans. Whatever they had come to discuss with Aguilar had obviously bothered the captain because the officers said he left the station immediately after the three men departed and did not say where he was going or when he'd return.
Cortina settled on a decision, turned and headed for the front door. He left one of the assistant sergeants in charge of the scene, indicated he was going to try to locate the captain and then left. It wasn't entirely untrue. He'd get around to searching for Aguilar more diligently, but right now a more urgent matter required his attention. If he hoped to see the last of his money he knew he'd have to report to his contact.
Cortina drove across Mazatlan and into a commercial section of the municipality that served as home to several new, modern businesses. The companies here were mostly multinational concerns that realized they could employ cheap labor and pay less for office space by conducting their business on Mexican soil. After all, kickbacks to local politicians were much cheaper than paying all those taxes and other fees reserved for most businesses transplanted into the area.
The sergeant parked in the visitor's space close to a single-story building with tinted windows and headed inside. The air-conditioned interior cooled the sweat against his forehead. He wiped at it with an already-damp handkerchief and advised the secretary he needed to see the president. When she inquired if he had an appointment, he announced his name and rank and advised it was an official police matter. That would tell his contact something important had happened and they needed to discuss it.
Five minutes later the receptionist showed him into the man's comfortable, spacious office. He didn't have to wait long before Kamesh Razahim entered from a side door. Razahim was tall for an Arab, in Cortina's opinion, nearly six foot two. He had smooth, dark skin and the blackest eyes Cortina had ever seen.
"You recall the last time we spoke, you were to avoid coming here," Razahim said as he took a seat behind his desk. "It is too much of a risk. And yet, here you are again. This had better be important."
Cortina tried to ignore Razahim's deprecatory tone, and said, "One of your men is dead."
Razahim remained unaffected by his expression but he paused for a moment before asking, "Which one?"
"I'm not sure. There wasn't enough left of him for me to identify. But I would assume he was the one working at the warehouse, the one who was supposed to receive the last of your crew tonight."
"What happened?"
"I don't know." Cortina cleared his throat and then reached for a cigarette. He fished one out of the pack but a stern look from Razahim stopped him from lighting it. "There's a chance someone has discovered our operation. We cannot risk bringing the last of the men in."
"This is unacceptable," Razahim replied. "You've been paid..."
"A third," Cortina said. "All I've received is a third."
"And you were to receive the balance when the job was finished. This was our agreement."
"Well, I'm altering the agreement. You give me the rest of the money for my inconvenience and I'll make sure your men get to you on time and unharmed."
"What are you trying to pull?"
"Nothing," Cortina said. "But I've lost my workers, which means I'm going to have to recruit others to complete the job. These will expect to be paid up front. I need funds."
Razahim sat back, considered the request. Then he said, "I will have to clear this with my masters. I will contact you in two hours."
Cortina rose with a nod and started for the door.
"Sergeant?" Razahim called after him. "I do not know what has happened or what your problems may be, nor do I care. But I would advise you to correct the situation before the remainder of our men arrive tonight, or I can promise the consequences will be very undesirable."
"Don't threaten me, Razahim," Cortina said, and he made a show of lighting the cigarette. "It wouldn't be healthy. Just get me my money and I'll do the rest."
And with that, Geraldo Cortina got far away from there as fast as possible. He had work to do.
He needed to find Captain Berto Aguilar.


Chapter Fourteen
Rosario Blancanales rubbed the sore, stiff muscles of his lower back as he climbed from the rented sedan he parked in the driveway at the safe house on Elephant Butte Lake.
His eyes roamed the adobe architecture of the large former bed-and-breakfast they had reserved for the scientists from Sandia Laboratories, seeking anything out of the ordinary. Total tranquility.
Blancanales took in his surroundings another minute or so, tucking telltale facts in his consciousness for future reference before he removed his overnight bag from the backseat and made his way up the cobblestone path. He did nothing to conceal the SIG P-239 pistol holstered in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Everyone had figured the men of Able Team as security personnel of a sort and he saw no reason to try hiding the fact, particularly in light of the fact they'd seen all three men in action against the al Qaeda terrorists on the highway.
Blancanales stepped through the heavy screen door of the enclosed porch and continued through the front entrance into a large foyer. A woman with silvery hair appeared from around a corner. She was plump and pleasant faced with the clearest blue-green eyes Blancanales had ever seen. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for his bag. Blancanales marked her age in the late fifties.
"Hello. Welcome," she said in a singsong voice. Her eyes suddenly came to rest on his pistol. "Oh. Are you with the others?"
Blancanales nodded as she tugged hesitantly on his bag. He produced the most charming smile he could and said, "I'm here solely as a security precaution. I promise not to make myself a nuisance."
The woman locked eyes with him in measured study, and then the smile slowly returned. "Well, okay, I guess I'll take your word for it. My name's Estelle, and my sister and I are the housekeepers. I can't imagine where Wendy has gotten off to right at the moment." She leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper added, "She can be a bit scatterbrained at times."
Blancanales nodded with an expression that said he knew exactly what she meant and said, "I'll keep that in mind."
"Are you hungry?"
"I'm famished, but..."
"You'd probably like to get cleaned up first. Right?" She turned and gestured for him to follow. "This way, and we'll get you settled in. I'm afraid all we have left is a pullout in the back bedroom. You'll have to share that with two other men."
"Anyplace you put me's fine. I don't take up much room."
Estelle led him to a large, comfortable room with twin beds and a large bureau of drawers. Blancanales assisted Estelle with unfolding the bed and straightening the pancake-thin mattress. She laid out a towel and washcloth for him, and then departed with a smile as he thanked her.
Blancanales stripped, showered and donned a fresh pair of loose jeans and a tan, Australian bush shirt with the large pockets and epaulettes. He shrugged into the shoulder holster, secured it, and then after donning black tennis shoes with neoprene soles he followed the odor of fresh-brewed coffee to a massive kitchen. He was pleased to find a plate stacked with sandwiches atop one of the counters and a second plate next to it covered with vanilla-and chocolate-cream cookies.
Estelle came from a back pantry and smiled. "Feel better?"
Blancanales nodded, making a show of eyeing the sandwiches. "Much. Uh..."
She laughed. "Yes, I'm going to serve these now. Why don't you make yourself comfortable in the dining room."
He nodded and took a seat at the head of a long wooden table with eight chairs. Two women came through the dining room entrance opposite where Blancanales sat, and he immediately recognized them as scientists from the lab. There were three males around somewhere, as well, one of them Dr. Lee Sakamura, the project leader. He searched his memory for the names of the two females. He experienced a fuzzy moment at first but eventually remembered. The tall, shapely blonde was Dr. Sarah Boggs and her dark-haired associate, a short and big-boned type who didn't hold a doctorate but apparently possessed credentials that would put Gadgets Schwarz to shame, was Leticia Cranston.
"Well... hi there," Boggs said with a smile.
Cranston only nodded.
"Hello," Blancanales said pleasantly.
Boggs sat next to him and Blancanales immediately caught the scent of green apples. Cranston took a seat on his left.
Boggs cocked her head, squinted and said, "Um â€" Agent Rodriguez, isn't it?"
He nodded. "You can just call me Rosario."
"Rosario," she repeated softly.
Blancanales didn't mind a bit; in fact, he liked the way she said it. "And you're Sarah and Leticia."
"Right," Cranston replied. She had a deep, almost manly voice.
"Where did you guys run off to so quick yesterday? We didn't get any time to thank you," Boggs said.
"We had some other business that required our attention," Blancanales said in a polite tone that conveyed it was best she not ask a lot of questions.
Boggs seemed to take no offense. "Ah, I see. Kind of hush-hush."
"Has everything been okay?" Blancanales asked as a matter of changing the subject.
"We're doing fine," Cranston replied.
A silence ensued as Estelle pushed through the swing door of the kitchen with plates and cookies. She took a drink order from each and then returned to the kitchen.
Cranston waited until she left the room, then continued, "Those U.S. marshals you left us with seem pretty diligent. I slept like a baby last night."
"Yes," Boggs added, but Blancanales noticed a weird exchange between her and Cranston.
Then with her happy face she said to Blancanales, "But it still doesn't go without saying how very grateful all of us are for what you did yesterday. We owe you our lives and if there's anything I can ever do to repay you, please don't hesitate to let me know."
She set her hand on his forearm, a rather blatant and intimate gesture under the circumstances. To Blancanales, it felt as if her fingertips had sent a charge up his arm into the side of his neck and almost made him twitch involuntarily.
Get a grip, he told himself. What was she, about half his age?
Blancanales covered the best he could, hopeful the flush he felt in his cheeks wasn't too evident, and patted her hand with a noncommittal smile. "That's quite okay, just doing our jobs. But I'll pass it on to my partners when I see them."
Boggs graced him with another one of her winning smiles. "Sure, Rosario. You do that."
Cranston cleared her throat and the moment passed. Blancanales gave the woman his full attention. "So you were saying the marshals have done a good job?"
"Right," she said, eyeing him with apparent disdain. "But despite all the good work they're doing, I was kind of wondering when we might get out of here."
"You're anxious to get back to work."
Cranston shrugged as Estelle emerged from the kitchen once more rolling a fray topped with glasses of iced tea for the women and a carafe of coffee for Blancanales. She served them up and told them to dig into the food. "Eat up. I don't want it to go to waste."
"Oh, no worries about that," a voice said.
Blancanales and company looked to see the speaker, Dr. Garrett McElroy, enter, followed by Doctors Samuel Trefoil and Lee Sakamura. McElroy was a tall bear of a man, built a lot like Aaron Kurtzman save for the midfrfties paunch. Without question he'd proved to be the garrulous and pretentious one of this otherwise conservative lot.
"Ah," Sakamura said, walking over to Blancanales and extending his hand. "I see we have a friend back in our midst."
Blancanales shook Sakamura's hand with a nod.
"We appreciate everything you've done for us," Sakamura said. "Especially yesterday. And my family thanks you. I just talked with my wife and assured her we're in most capable hands. I told her this would be over soon. I do hope I wasn't premature in saying so."
"No, you weren't," Blancanales replied. "We're going to end this as soon as possible."
Sakamura nodded with a grateful expression and then took a chair at the other end of the table. Trefoil and McElroy joined him there and Estelle attended to their drink requests immediately. The group ate in relative silence, only an occasional comment about the weather or some other bit of trivial news engendering a bit of discussion. It was the most formulaic conversation in which Blancanales had ever participated, as if the six people were merely travelers from different parts of the country engaged in a happenstance meeting on some stormy night at a guesthouse in the middle of nowhere.
When the meal had finished, each went his or her separate way and Blancanales finally relaxed his guard and sat propped against two large pillows in the comfort of the cot. He'd found a book in the small library provided among the shelves adorning either side of the fireplace in the main sitting room, and when his eyes grew heavy he set it aside and lay flat. A couple hours of sleep would make all the difference in the world to his disposition.
* * *
Blancanales awoke suddenly, his senses alert to another presence in the room. Afternoon had given way to dusk and cast varying depths of shadows through the room. The Able Team warrior reached for hardware but the familiar smell of green apples stayed his hand.
"I'm sorry I startled you," Boggs said.
He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "Don't be sorry. It's well past the time I should be up. Where is everybody?"
"The guys are out at the picnic table talking about guy stuff," she said. "And last time I saw Tish, she was helping our hostesses with making pies or some crazy thing." She laughed.
"She bakes?" Blancanales asked, still in a haze and not realizing how it sounded until the words were out in the open.
"I guess."
Boggs sat next to him on the bed and Blancanales tensed a bit. She apparently noticed because she said, "It's okay, you can relax. There are plenty of marshals on guard out there."
Blancanales shook his head. "I know that. I wouldn't have allowed myself a nap otherwise. But it's time I get up and do something to earn my pay."
"Do what?" she asked, furrowing one eyebrow quizzically.
Blancanales swung his legs around her body and sat up. He steadied his feet on the ground and wiggled his toes to bring some circulation to them.
"You sleep with your shoes on?"
Blancanales flashed a wicked grin. "Never know when I might have to get out of bed in a hurry."
She leaned closer, the intent obvious in the move as she said throatily, "Or get in."
Blancanales could really smell her shampoo now, and feel the stray strands of her hair tickle his neck. He experienced those sensations in his head again and this time he realized it wasn't his own imaginings. Boggs had obviously sensed a similar magnetism, as well.
"Damn it all, will you stop," Blancanales replied. He stood and walked a few steps, then turned to face her.
She looked at him, puzzlement in her eyes. "Stop what?"
"Look, if it were another place and time I'd be a sap not to take you up on your offer. But here and now I have to keep my head. It's nothing personal. But it isn't fair to your friends out there who've got the same rights to my protection as you. And it isn't going to happen, not here and not now. Do you understand why?"
She nodded slowly and he could see her tremble just slightly. "I understand, I'm sorry. And I'm not usually so forward, like, this jumpy and all. It's just... Well, it's just been a while and you're right, there's something..."
He smiled. "I know, okay? I know what you're saying. But let's keep our heads and stay alive."
Blancanales looked her in the eyes, verified she understood and hadn't taken his rebuff too much to heart. "We'll pick this up later."
As he headed for the door she said, "You mean it?"
He stopped, turned and winked at her. "Count on it."
Blancanales left her in the semidarkness and walked down the hallway. He stopped at the front entryway and looked through the screen porch to see Sakamura, Trefoil and McElroy laughing and joking over cans of beer. He also saw two U. S. marshals hanging near them, off far enough to give them some space but in easy distance to render aid if it came down to it.
Blancanales nodded to himself in satisfaction and then headed to the kitchen. He pushed through the door and found it empty save for a pair of pies cooling on racks on the island. He called for Estelle and Wendy but neither of them answered.
Turning, he walked to the back patio. Unlike the front porch, this area was open-air save for the roof overhanging a seating area composed of several circular tables encircled by six chairs each. A couple of lounge chairs also adorned the outdoor decor. An arboretum and garden spread across the backyard with flagstone paths seamed by red gravel snaking through the lush display of flowers, bushes and frees.
The Able Team commando stood still for a moment, cocked his head to listen as he scanned the area for any sign of movement. Unlike before, he didn't get the sense of tranquil beauty he'd noted when first arriving. No birds sang, no wind blew. It was dead still â€" too still, really â€" even with the echo of laughter and loud voices drifting from the male bonding party engaged at the front of the house.
Blancanales took the radio from his belt, tuned it to the frequency of the day and keyed it up. "Sierra Three, status report." Silence. "Sierra Three, this is Sec-Corn. Report."
More silence, a burst of static, and Blancanales could feel his ears begin to ring. They should have responded immediately. He keyed up again as he drew his pistol and headed for the back side of the garden. "Sec-Corn to Sierra Two, Sierra Three is not responding. Go to situation Bravo. Sierra One and Four, remain on post."
Acknowledgments came from all three respectively as Blancanales dashed down the winding path bound for the approximate location where Sierra Three should have been positioned. It took only a minute to find the two U.S. marshals, one lying atop the other, their throats garroted. The blood still running freely from the gaping wounds.
Just like Schwarz had found the two agents at the hotel in El Paso.
Blancanales had to give it only a moment of thought and then turned to look toward the house. He frantically ordered all units to converge on the house save Sierra One â€" the agents who had been watching the three men â€" and then poured on the speed. He heard the breaking of glass as he reached the back patio and then a woman screamed. He looked in the direction of the noises and watched with horror as a pair of boots disappeared through a broken casement window. Blancanales whipped the sliding-screen door aside and entered the house, pistol held at the ready. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the enemy who confronted him.
An enemy whom he could only remember smelled like green apples.


Chapter Fifteen
Carl Lyons and Hermann Schwarz stood in the staging area attired in white Tyvek coveralls, gloves and respirators. The high-density polyethylene fibers of their hooded suits were designed to provide minimal protection and lessen exposure to the radiation of the waste-transport containers now arrayed before them. These particular containers were of the largest concern to the Able Team warriors since an attack by terrorists that included penetration of the facility and descent into the storage vaults a half mile below seemed unlikely.
"Al Qaeda will go for the easiest target possible," Lyons had told the security people. "They'll want to create maximum damage with the least amount of effort."
The voice of their DOE radiation specialist, Dr. Brian Hossler, resounded inside their enclosed suits from a small communications system. He was answering Schwarz's question in relationship to the contact-handled shipping containers they were viewing versus the remote-handled containers they thought might be al Qaeda's more viable target.
"No," Hossler said, "I don't think al Qaeda would have much luck going after the remote-handled containers here. They're taken immediately to the disposal rooms belowground and pumped directly from the 10-160B containers into the salt walls via the use of horizontal emplacement equipment. The only way an attack would likely be successful against remote-handled materials is if they attacked the 10-160B containers during transport."
"And when during transport would they be most vulnerable?" Lyons asked.
Hossler shrugged. "That's hard to say. You'd probably want to talk to one of our DOT guys about that. They're better qualified to answer that question than I am. Anything I say would be pure speculation, and this seems way too important for me to start flapping my jaws on a topic about which I know next to nothing."
Lyons could certainly respect that attitude. He'd liked Hossler right from the moment he'd met him, and now he knew why. This guy wasn't the stereotypical scientist â€" some were just too intelligent for their own good â€" since he seemed to possess quite a bit of street sense.
"So any assault made against this place, these containers here would be the most likely target," Schwarz said.
"Well, they're the most vulnerable, anyway." Hossler gestured toward the upright containers, each about ten feet high and eight feet in diameter, lined in three rows of four each. "These are the TRUPACT-II containers. The outer casing is composed of steel about three-eighths of an inch thick. At the tops and bottoms of the drums are what we call impact limiters, which are basically aluminum casings molded into the shape of honeycombs. These provide the vertical stability and security in the event the container falls. The inner casing is Lytherm insulation composed of ceramic fiber about a quarter-inch thick, and what we call outer containment and inner containment vessels that are basically just lead shields to shield from alpha and beta radiation particles. The area between the inner casing and outer shell is packed with about ten inches of polyurethane foam."
"How many drums can one of these hold?" Lyons inquired.
"Well, this particular type is capable of holding fourteen fifty-five-gallon drums, but most of the time we have to pack less than that because DOT says the entire shipment can't weigh more than forty-four tons."
"That includes the transport vehicle?" Schwarz asked.
Hossler nodded. "Fully loaded, I'd say one of these weighs an average of just under ten tons. That'd be another question for the DOT guys."
Lyons swept his hand at the containers. "What about the strength of these things? How much stress can they take?"
"You're wondering if the terrorists disabled the vehicle, would it be enough to crack them open." Hossler sighed and folded his arms. "It's highly unlikely. The TRUPACT-II containers were tested extensively right here in New Mexico by the folks at Sandia Labs. The results astounded even me."
"How so?"
"Hmm," he said. "I think we should probably go talk to the DOT guys. I think they could give you a much better picture on all of this than I can. They're much more into the kinetics and stuff like that. My focus is really on handling once the containers arrive here, the effects of radiation, things like that."
"Sounds good to me," Lyons said.
Hossler led them from the facility through a makeshift tunnel made of Tyvek stretched onto the walls and secured by magnetic, air-sealed doors at either end. They entered the clean room and immediately began a decontamination process that included hot water and tincture of green soap in scrub pads mounted to CNC-controlled robotic arms. Once they were washed, they stepped into a second antechamber and removed the suits, dropping them into a waste receptacle labeled with NBC symbols of every kind. A team of technicians and medical personnel inspected the three, did a radiation count to ensure their exposure had been within acceptable limits. With that completed, they accepted their hard hats and radiation badges and accompanied Hossler across the compound to the DOT-DOE combined operations center.
"This is where they monitor TRANSCOM and what-not," Hossler told them.
He led them through a hallway that bordered the actual communications center. Technicians sat at consoles littered with computer terminals and other sophisticated electronics. Lyons smiled as he saw Schwarz's eyes light up.
"Feel like a kid in a candy store, Gadgets?"
Schwarz grinned as they continued down the hall to a suite of offices.
Hossler introduced them to a tall, harried-looking man dressed in rumpled clothing and sporting a pocket-protector crammed with no less than fifteen writing instruments. He had thick glasses, wavy black hair and a five-o'clock shadow that looked perpetual. He had thin arms with bony wrists, and every now and again he would raise his left hand and shake his wrist to reposition his watch farther down his arm.
"Walt, I'd like you to meet Special Agents Irons and Black."
The man shook hands with each of them in turn and Lyons noticed his armpits were sweaty, yet his handshake was cold and dry.
"Walter Boertlein," he said. "Director of WIPP Transportation."
"Walt here is with the DOT," Hossler said. "I'm sure he could answer all the questions you were asking me."
Boertlein waved them toward some chairs in front of his desk and Hossler excused himself on a matter of importance, promising to return later to give the Able Team pair a tour of the remaining facility.
When they were settled, Boertlein said, "So what can I do for you gents?"
"We'd like to know what kind of force it would take to crack one of those TRUPACT-II containers Dr. Hossler showed us," Schwarz said.
Boertlein laughed. "Oh, quite a bit. When our boys at the labs conducted the testing, they performed drops of the containers at their fill weight, which is just a tad over nineteen thousand pounds, from a height of thirty feet."
"How much force are we talking here then?" Lyons said.
"An average of twenty times more severe than could be conceived by any traffic collision. Let me give you a more practical comparison, though. Let's say that a vehicle traveling sixty miles per hour strikes a barrier, like a concrete divider. The force created on that object is around forty-five g's, give or take. The free-drop tests we performed on the TRUPACT-II containers generated in excess of three-hundred-eight gravities."
Schwarz emitted a long, low whistle. "That's incredible."
"It's more than that when you consider the steel drums inside remained intact."
"What about explosives?" Lyons asked.
"What do you mean 'explosives'?"
"Rockets, grenades, that kind of thing."
"Well, we basically dismissed what might happen if they actually blew up since any explosive gases, like radon, wouldn't build up in sufficient quantities to generate an explosion of any magnitude. However, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission requires these containers go through three other tests before they'll issue them Type B C-O-Cs. In addition to free-drops, we also do burn tests, immersion tests and puncture tests. For the burn tests, we douse the container with jet fuel and light it. This yields a temperature of about fifteen hundred degrees and we expose the container to that level for thirty minutes."
"And they remained leakproof even after that?" Lyons asked.
Boertlein nodded and smiled. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"
"It's impressive," Lyons agreed. "I assume you were informed by your superiors why we're here."
"I was told we suspect a terrorist attack against a shipment."
"Good, then I don't have to do a lot of explaining." Lyons paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. "From what you've told us, it sounds to me like an attack against these containers wouldn't yield much benefit unless they were using something short of scud missiles or hydrogen bombs."
"That's about right."
"That means they probably have something else in mind," Lyons said.
"What about creating a UNRE?" Schwarz suggested.
"It's possible," Boertlein replied, "although like the other scenario it's highly improbable."
"What's a UNRE?" Lyons asked.
"An uncontrolled nuclear reaction event," Boertlein said. "But the reason I say it's improbable is because we do what's called a pipe overpack when dealing with waste products contaminated with high concentrations of americium or plutonium."
"Isn't that what you use the remote-handled containers for?" Lyons asked.
"Not necessarily. Pipe overpacking has been proved a functional and adequate way to prevent spontaneous reaction of fissile materials. It also provides additional radiation shielding and immobilizes particulate wastes."
"How?"
"We fill a standard transport drum with a form-fitted impact limiter composed of fiberboard and plywood. Then we slide a pipe component body into that, then the TRU waste drum, and finally a pipe component lid equipped with a filter. The drum then gets topped with a standard lid with a filter vent."
"And this is effective?"
"In this case, yes." Boertlein sat forward in his chair, folded his arms on his desk and added, "But keep in mind, guys, we use pipe overpack in less than five percent of all TRU waste transports, and it has to undergo the same rigorous testing as the containers themselves."
"What about sabotage of a container at the source? You know, someone inside who could make it weaker, subvert the standards in some way?" Schwarz asked.
"Well, you would have to get with Dr. Hossler on the details, but I can tell you that the DOE has to submit a safety-analysis report on every container to the NRC before they can obtain a certificate of compliance. It's a very closely monitored process with triple and sometimes even quadruple oversight mechanisms in place."
Lyons and Schwarz wrapped up their meeting with Boertlein. Lyons couldn't help but feel frustrated about the whole thing. While they had obtained a lot of decent technical information, they still weren't any closer to understanding al Qaeda's goal in all of this.
"It doesn't make sense," he told Schwarz when they were back at quarters.
"What's that?"
"Well, I've been over this again and again, and I don't see how al Qaeda could hope to launch a successful attack against a WIPP shipment by any known conventional means."
"I'd have to agree that it seems the DOE and DOT have pretty much thought of every contingency. But you saw the same information I did. We pulled it off their computers and it's obvious they're going to hit those shipments. Maybe rather than try to guess what they're up to we should just delay those shipments?"
"I'm not sure they will," Lyons said. "They won't want to leave all that nuclear waste material just stockpiled somewhere indefinitely. They're not equipped for that. Besides, by letting them go with their plan we stand a pretty good chance of drawing them into the open."
"But like you said, we still can't figure out exactly what they're planning or how they'll execute it."
Lyons gave it some additional thought, then ventured, "I think our answers are in this smuggling operation they've had under way for the last year or so. They went to a lot of trouble and expense to make sure they had an adequate number of bodies to pull this job. That tells me that big numbers are critical to the success."
"Agreed," Schwarz replied. "So we've already figured whatever they have planned is big, either because it requires lots of people or spans a large geographic area. Maybe they're going to use some type of diversion?"
Lyons shook his head and furrowed his brows. "Possible, although that doesn't really sound like their style. We've never known al Qaeda to operate that way before. They usually shoot from the hip, something big and spectacular and totally unexpected."
"Expecting them to do something big, spectacular and unexpected is unexpected." Schwarz chuckled. "That's my whole point. We know their MO and they know that. Maybe they'll change tactics this time."
"Maybe." Lyons thought for a moment. "Okay, so we have a theory that just happens to fit the facts. Now we have to start piecing it together. They can't blow up these containers without using heavy-duty arms..."
"Which would be hard to get into the country," Schwarz interjected.
Lyons nodded. "And we found no evidence at their base to suggest they had anything like that."
"So that leaves something internal," Schwarz said. "Maybe they just want to create a panic. Even the rumor of a nuclear waste spill on U.S. roadways would generate a pretty good stir. Highways would have to be shut down, traffic diverted, commerce interrupted, major security protocols implemented. Complete chaos. Grid-lock and panic, even."
"The works," Lyons agreed. "I suppose it's possible."
"And maybe that kind of disruption is what they're looking for. Maybe they plan to use that as a diversion for the real target, after all."
"Maybe, shmaybe," Lyons groused. "All we have here are theories and more theories. There's no tangible evidence we're right about any of this stuff. We're shooting in the dark at this stage."
"What about your scenario someone might be working for al Qaeda to sabotage the containers from the inside?" Schwarz asked. "I know Boertlein dismissed it out of hand, but I think the idea stands on merit alone."
"Thanks," Lyons said, trying to hide the dejection in his voice when he added, "But you heard the guy. They go through a rigorous certification process."
"What about a process that's rigged?"
That got Lyons's attention. "What do you mean?"
"We already know al Qaeda has at least one person inside Sandia Labs. How else could they have compromised our security? And we also know now that's where all the testing and analysis is done on these containers. Why is it so hard for anybody to believe someone might have tampered with them?"
"Then sent a false report to the NRC?"
Schwarz shrugged. "Sounds as solid as anything else we've managed to come up with today."
Lyons considered that and had to admit the possibility existed, however remote, somebody might have tampered with the TRUPACT-II containers and dummied the reports to the NRC. The only thing that would make their job more difficult if they pursued that theory would be finding the perpetrator, getting him or her to confess and then identifying the actual container or containers that were bad. What made it more impractical was that they had three potential targets; maybe more now that they had shot holes in their original assessment about remote-handled TRU waste being the most viable target over contact-handled. From what Hossler had said, it seemed quite the opposite. Contact-handled was transported in much greater abundance, plus Aaron Kurtzman had already cited the fact no remote-handled TRU was planned for shipment anytime soon.
"Okay, so let's look at this a bit more," Lyons finally said. "If we suppose that one or both of the containers headed here the same day are potential targets, how would they know which container to hit?"
"They wouldn't," Schwarz said. "Which is probably why they're planning to do both, which would also explain why they need so many personnel. Think about it. They need people to hit the Idaho shipment, the Rocky Flats' shipment and this place to take out the TRANSCOM facility."
"They're going to need the personnel before they need anything else," Lyons said. "I think we should concentrate on that. Maybe we can shut this thing down before it ever gets to that point."
"I'll get started right away," Schwarz said. "They've made some space for me in one of those lab areas at the monitoring headquarters. It should be ready by now."
Lyons nodded. "Good. In the meantime, I'll touch base with Hal and the gang, let them know what we're thinking on this. I'm sure they can use the resources at their end to start tracking the backgrounds of all the lab personnel involved in the testing and certification process. Maybe we'll get lucky."
Schwarz looked at his watch. "You might want to call Pol while you're at it. He's almost an hour past check-in."
"You're right," Lyons said with a pang of concern.
That wasn't like Rosario Blancanales. The guy was always on time â€" he took the job very seriously in that light â€" and if he missed a check-in that tended to be a sign of bad news. Not that Lyons and/or Schwarz could do anything about it if he had run into trouble. Lyons wouldn't worry about it too much; the Politician could take care of himself.
"I'll do that right after I give the Farm a call."
Before either man could do another thing, a rap at the door demanded attention. Schwarz opened it to admit Hossler. The guy had changed his clothes and apparently showered. He now wore black chinos, brown suede shoes and a blue-and-gray-plaid shirt.
"Hey there, fellas," he said as he entered. "Thought maybe you were interested in taking the rest of that tour."
"Actually, I have some things to setup at the TRANSCOM facility," Schwarz said. "But I'm sure Irons would be happy to join you."
"Sure thing," Lyons said as he got up and headed for the bedroom where he could get some privacy. "Have to check in with Washington, though. Give me five... ten minutes."
Hossler nodded and dropped onto the plain, gray sofa in the main living area. "Sure thing."
"I'm heading out!" Schwarz called after Lyons's retreating form.
Lyons grunted in way of reply. As he closed the door to the room and headed for the phone on a nightstand next to his bunk he couldn't help but reconsider Blancanales was an hour past check-in.
Where the hell are you, Pol? he thought.


Chapter Sixteen
The very sight of Sarah Boggs faced off with him, an AKSU machine pistol clutched in her hands, nearly took the breath from Blancanales. The Able Team warrior considered for a moment that perhaps things weren't as they appeared â€" that she was a soldier of the same side â€" but those hopes quickly dissolved as she pointed the muzzle of the AKSU in his direction.
Blancanales executed a shoulder roll and came to a kneeling position with a clear line of sight. He snap-aimed the P-239 and squeezed the trigger twice. The bullets struck Boggs center mass and sent her crashing into the hallway wall, but she recovered almost instantly and leveled the AKSU at him again. He realized a moment too late to correct the error that she was apparently wearing some type of body armor. He rolled from his firing position as a fresh metal storm of auto fire burned the air near him.
Blancanales rolled to his feet near the kitchen door and duck-walked through it. He dashed toward the other end of the house where he figured to find Estelle and Wendy's quarters, which he did, but neither woman seemed to be there. Blancanales took a moment to catch his breath. He wondered how she could have turned him so easily. Damn it, he'd almost let his guard down there in the bedroom. He couldn't help but think how it might have turned out if he'd succumbed to the desires of his flesh.
A fresh torrent of gunshots reached his ears and Blancanales put it in high gear. He stepped onto one of the beds in the hostess's quarters and pushed his bulky frame through the casement window. He then crouched to the right of the window and waited patiently. A minute later, true to form, Boggs appeared at the window, peered out and then climbed through it same as he did â€" except she didn't notice Blancanales.
Stupidly, Boggs had not led with her AKSU as she climbed out, so Blancanales had no trouble stepping up and disarming her before she had a chance to take any sort of defensive posture with the machine pistol. In one easy motion, he delivered a karate chop to the radial nerve of her forearm, a painful and debilitating blow that caused her to drop the AKSU. He followed immediately with a rear naked choke, encircling her neck so her chin rested above the V-shaped portion between his muscular bicep and forearm. A clasp of the hand and flexing of the muscles immediately cut the flow of oxygenated blood to her brain. Boggs struggled for about fifteen seconds, kicking at his heels, stomping for his instep and trying to elbow him, but Blancanales maintained perfect neutral position. Shortly, she blacked out and Blancanales held her there another fifteen seconds before letting her body slump to the ground.
Despite her betrayal, the Able Team warrior wasn't into murdering women. Besides, she might have information critical to countering al Qaeda's plans and he didn't want to destroy that advantage. He reached into the back pocket of his pants and withdrew a pair of plastic riot cuffs. He bound her arms behind her, used the strap of the AKSU to hog-tie those to her feet, and then left her on her side so she didn't smother to death with her face in the dirt.
Blancanales then took the AKSU, verified the weapon was in battery and charged toward the front of the house. As he rounded the corner he saw the two men of Sierra One engaged in a firefight with some al Qaeda terrorists. The terrorists had seized the advantage by pinning down the security forces from firing positions on the enclosed porch.
Keeping below the level of the raised porch floor, Blancanales used a pocketknife to cut through the screen. He then took up a firing position, muzzle of the AKSU out in front of him, and squeezed off a pair of short bursts. The body of the first terrorist twitched involuntarily under the impact of the 7.62 mm slugs that punched through his left ribs and ripped across his spine. The second terrorist turned in surprise and jumped to one knee, swinging his Uzi SMG in Blancanales's direction. The Able Team warrior triggered his weapon again, this time aiming for the head. The man's skull exploded under the impact, washing the screen and frame with blood and brain matter.
Blancanales rose, whistled at the men so they knew not to shoot him and then charged the porch door. He burst into the front room as two guns from the security team entered the rear porch door, the missing women in tow. None looked too worse for wear. Blancanales ordered one of the U.S. marshals to escort them to the hostess's quarters and guard them there while he and the other man swept the remaining rooms of the house.
A U. S. marshal Blancanales knew only as Harris joined him. They moved down the hallway, weapons drawn and ready to meet any threat. They cleared the B and B room by room until reaching the rearmost where Blancanales had slept. It was still dark and the Able Team warrior slapped a wall switch as he entered. The first thing he noticed was the closet door ajar. He tapped Harris on the shoulder, gestured to it, and Harris nodded. The pair approached the door, one on either side. When they reached it, Harris moved close to the door handle and waited for the "go" signal from Blancanales. When he got it, he yanked the door and an al Qaeda gunman let loose with a sustained burst from his Uzi. Blancanales had been prepared for such a response and went prone in time to avoid the deadly slugs that ripped the air overhead. He triggered the AKSU and stitched a bloody line from the enemy's crotch to his throat. The impact drove the terrorist farther into the closet where he collapsed in a lifeless heap.
Blancanales got to his feet with a helping hand from Harris. They cleared the back resfroom and then returned to the living room where Sierra One now had the three men contained. Blancanales ordered Harris to get his partner from the back room with Estelle, Wendy and Cranston, and then made his way outside where he found a wide-awake Boggs staring angrily at him.
Blancanales released the hog-tie and hauled Boggs to her feet. She didn't say anything although he stared hard at her for some time. Finally he grabbed her roughly by the arm and walked her toward the house.
"Why?" he asked. "That's all I want to know. Just tell me what would make you betray your own country, Sarah? Or is that even your real name?"
"It's my real name," she said. "But Boggs's my maiden name."
"You were married?"
"Yes," she said quietly as tears began to stream from her eyes. "To a man named Rajish Hamud."
Blancanales only had to think about it a moment before the name flooded him with memories.
The name of a man he'd killed.
* * *
"Two years ago," Blancanales said into the phone. "That's when it happened."
"I remember," Carl Lyons replied. "In Los Angeles. We went up against that cell of Jemaah Islamiyah that got into the States and planned to blow up an LAX terminal."
"That's the one. You'll recall we didn't have any information on the cell leader at the time, but they were getting insider information from Rajish Hamud, who was working with an air passenger security company contracted by TSA."
"The same ones who lost their contract that month," Barbara Price added.
As soon as Blancanales had secured his prisoner he'd placed a private call by landline to his partners in Carlsbad, who in turn arranged a three-way conference with Stony Man. He sat in a private room at the B and B and awaited a full dossier on Boggs to be sent to his PDA via Kurtzman's highspeed computer system network at the Farm two thousand miles away.
"I can't be sure what the connection actually is here," Blancanales said. "We have enough evidence, though, that this is al Qaeda behind the smuggling operation so there might not really be any."
"All the intelligence we can get helps, Pol," Price replied. "We're also reviewing Bari's file, too, and he does have past links with the JI."
"This may be the break we're looking for," Lyons said.
The Able Team leader then ran down their discoveries at the WIPP Operations Center in Carlsbad, as well as the potential insider who might have been able to sabotage one or more of the containers and slip a certified safety-analysis report through the screening process at the NRC offices in Washington.
"It would seem to fit," Price said.
Blancanales sighed. "Okay, maybe it fits and maybe not, but it's still all a matter of conjecture at this point. And I can pretty much guarantee we're not going to get any cooperation from Boggs. She already advised she wants an attorney and that she won't make any more statements without a lawyer present."
"There are ways around that," Lyons said. "The Patriot Act comes to mind."
"We don't get around something like this, Carl," Brognola said.
"Come on, Hal! Are you kidding me? This woman's quite possibly responsible for facilitating a terrorist attack that could result in the spill of radiation contaminants across half the American Southwest. You really think anybody's going to scrutinize how we get our information out of her at this point?"
"That's not the issue," Brognola said. "The issue is she's an American citizen and we don't have any proof of wrongdoing other than she attempted to kill Blancanales. She could make a half dozen claims as to what and why, and keep us chasing our tails both politically and judicially for the next five years. It's better we don't press the issue right now."
After a brief silence Price asked, "Pol, you said you thought you might be able to get her to talk to you?"
"Maybe," he said. "But I'd have to reveal that it was me who gunned down her husband to do it, and shock-factor interrogation can go either way."
"Not to mention that the details of our mission are still classified on that level," Brognola said. "No, I think it's better we turn her over to representatives of Homeland Security and let them deal with this."
"Well, at least we can be confident al Qaeda won't try to hit this clan again," Blancanales replied. "Especially now that we've taken the potential mole out of the loop."
"Agreed," Lyons said. "I think they'll be safe now and I'd like to get Pol back here with us as soon as possible."
"All right, Pol, you did real well. Get back to Carlsbad on the double as soon as you've wrapped things up there. You guys going to wait it out for him there, Ironman?"
"Yeah, we â€" What's that?" Lyons's voice trailed off and they could hear Schwarz speaking quietly in the background. The Able Team leader came on a moment later. "We have to go. They just sounded some sort of general alarm. We're going to check it out."
"All right, do your thing," Brognola replied.
"Pol, we'll see you in a few hours?" Lyons asked.
"At most."
"Good enough. Out, here." Lyons's connection clicked out.
"Before you go," Price said to Blancanales, "just take note that we've sent a detail of six additional U.S. marshals to your location. They'll be there within the hour to take custody of Boggs and move the rest of the group to an alternate location. Like you've said, there's likely no further danger to them now that al Qaeda doesn't have eyes and ears inside."
"Understood."
"You be careful all the same," Brognola added. "Err on the side of caution."
"Count on it," Rosario Blancanales replied.
* * *
Carl Lyons emerged from the bedroom in their quarters on Schwarz's heels.
Dr. Brian Hossler stood in the middle of the room with a look of concern in his eyes. He had one hand shoved deep in his trouser pockets and the other holding a cell phone against his ear. In the distance, Lyons could make out the steady hoot of the base-wide siren. Lyons didn't know what it meant but from Hossler's behavior he could guess it wasn't good.
"What's going on?" he demanded as Hossler clapped the lid closed on his phone.
"A security breach?" Schwarz asked.
Hossler had gone comparably pale and shook his head emphatically as if unable to find his voice. Finally he said, "Those are radiation proximity alarms. They only trigger them in a drill or actual nuclear emergency. I just got off the phone with the JIC. All they would tell me is it's no drill. Radiation response teams are headed for the central storage area right now. That's where we were earlier. All nonessential personnel have been ordered to stay here. I'm afraid that includes both of you. I understand the security issues, guys, but your safety is the first matter of importance and trumps all else. We can't risk you being exposed to radiation without the proper protective equipment and training. Basically, the base is on a complete lock-down until any leakage or spills can be verified and contained."
"We answer to a higher authority," Lyons replied.
"I'm afraid not," Hossler said. "In this case, the Department of Energy is the highest authority. Not even the Oval Office can supersede our procedures. It's a congressional precedent and falls under the safety protocols enacted by the OEM, NRC and DOE."
Lyons slammed his fist into his hand. "Great. Looks like al Qaeda knew exactly what they were doing on this one. I'll bet bottom dollar one of those containers is probably leaking, and it might even be one that Boggs or her cronies sabotaged."
"Sabotage?" Hossler repeated. "What do mean by that? What are you talking about?"
Lyons shook his head. "We've got no time to get into that right now. If we..."
A new alarm sounded, this one louder and closer. "What's that?"
"Now that would be a security alarm," Schwarz said.
Hossler just swallowed hard and nodded.
Lyons fixed him with a resolute gaze. "That's our specialty. The breaching of this facility by terrorists overrides your safety considerations, Doc."
"The protocol still stands," Hossler said.
"Listen!" Lyons countered. "Your rad teams are in no way equipped to battle a radiation leak and combat armed terrorists simultaneously. This is what we're trained for and we plan to do our job. And I'm authorized by an Executive Order to utilize whatever force is necessary to neutralize such threats to U.S. security."
"Up to and including shooting anyone who gets in the way," Schwarz added.
Lyons reached to his holster and drew the .357 Magnum Colt Python, keeping the pistol at his side. Hossler hadn't struck him as the squeamish type, but Lyons had enough sense to know that in a tense situation like this he could capture more flies with honey. "You need to decide whether you're going to help us or hinder us. Right now."
Hossler produced a level gaze and obviously saw the mettle in Lyons's countenance. He finally nodded. "Okay. But you'll need to suit up. You're not supermen."
"Fine," Lyons said. "You know where we can get some gear?"
"Storage locker at the end of the hallway." Hossler produced a set of keys and turned for the door. "Follow me!"
Hossler left their quarters and trotted down the hallway with the Able Team pair in tow. He accessed the locker, turned to study the pair and then selected the correct garment measure from the row of boxes on the shelf. He tossed them to the pair and gestured for them to don the Tyvek suits while he procured additional accessories including booties, gloves and specialized masks.
"These should do. They have wide-field eye shields so they shouldn't obstruct your vision any."
Hossler's thought process surprised Lyons a bit. Just when he surmised the guy couldn't get any brighter. "Thanks."
Hossler shrugged. "Don't mention it. I figure you'd like to be able to see what you're aiming at when you might have to shoot terrorists."
"It helps," Schwarz said with a grin.
They climbed into their suits, donned the accessories and finished by cinching the hoods over their heads. It wouldn't have been Lyons's first choice of combat wear, but he had to agree with Hossler's assessment that they weren't immune to radiation any more than they were bullets.
After they finished dressing, the pair returned to their room for arms and munitions while Hossler made a call to the WIPP Joint Information Center to get details on the approximate location where the perimeter had been breached.
Lyons selected a pair of MP-5 Ks, Heckler & Koch's answer to the 9 mm machine pistol. The weapons were especially effective in CQB and would prove much easier to control under the circumstances. Schwarz went with the tried and true Fabrique Nationale FNC. A continuing favorite of many Stony Man field members, the FNC operated on the rotating bolt principle attached to a gas piston rod headed by twin heavy lugs. The weapon was as versatile in the role of an SMG or automatic rifle with its folding, tubular butt, yet it could expend 5.56 mm M193 ammo at a cyclic rate of 700 rounds per minute.
After a double check of their equipment, the Able Team pair shrugged into ultralight Kevlar vests, an added precaution they agreed to given their reduced visibility. Preparation complete, they left Hossler in the room with hand signals of thanks and headed out the door. They emerged from the VIP barracks via an emergency fire exit and dashed across a parking lot adjoining an open, macadam slab in the direction of the northern perimeter.
Lyons turned to see a pair of orange, US-DOE security sedans racing in the same direction, their yellow lights blazing in the twilight of dusk. Lyons's legs pumped and he wheezed for air, feeling his throat constrict and the mask tighten against his face with each inhalation. No way were these masks designed to be used under circumstances of physical exertion.
Lyons pushed the discomfort from his mind as, through the transparent face shield of the mask, foggy at the edges, he saw the security forces arrive at the fence and exit their vehicles. They drew their pistols and pointed them at a group of figures clad in black fatigues and toting automatic weapons.
And Lyons watched helplessly as the terrorists engaged their enemy with a merciless storm of hot lead.


Chapter Seventeen
Price found Brognola in the office he used while at Stony Man, hunched over the desk with reading glasses perched on his nose and working an unlit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. He seemed focused on the documents spread in front of him. Piles of paper and used coffee cups lay everywhere.
Brognola looked up when she rapped on the door frame. "Barb, come on in."
Price sat in a chair across from him and said, "I finished looking through Able Team's mission brief from that job in Los Angeles."
Brognola removed his reading glasses and dropped them on the desk, then leaned way back in his chair and rested his hands on his stomach.
"Any conclusions?"
"Yes." Price took a deep breath and continued. "I'm convinced that Bari was behind that plot, as well. In fact, I think he was the one who turned Hamud, convinced him he was betraying Islam if he didn't work with the JI on the LAX thing and then neatly arranged for his discovery knowing full well Hamud would probably die in the attempt."
"Leaving no witnesses," Brognola concluded.
"Precisely. And while we're on the subject, it also occurred to me that it would have been in Bari's best interests to sow enough disinformation Sarah Boggs's way to convince her Hamud's death by the American government had been racially motivated."
"Sounds a little thin," Brognola said. "Boggs has a record as being a brilliant scientist. I don't think she would fall for that so easily."
"Doesn't matter how smart, Hal. You tell somebody something enough times and they begin to believe it. Eventually it becomes impossible to tell fact from fiction."
"So you think Boggs can be turned the other way?"
"I think it's possible," Price said. "If you let me do it."
Brognola arched an eyebrow. "You want to conduct a field op."
"Not really," Price said, shaking her head. "You could arrange for Boggs to be brought to D.C. I don't necessarily have to go to New Mexico."
"I don't know, Barb," Brognola said, tugging at his ear. "You know how I feel about our support and logistics staff operating in field situations. You're too valuable in your current position, and you're not really trained for it, to boot. Things go wrong, remember?"
"I'm just saying that we've hit a dead end here with our information, and I think it will take too long to review all the data to come up with a viable location for the faulty containers. Neither Able Team nor Phoenix Force has that kind of time. So I'm asking you to trust me on this one, Hal, and give me the opportunity to take a crack at Boggs. What's it going to hurt at this point?"
Brognola sighed and Price sat on pins and needles waiting for him to render a decision. The final call was always his, and if he decided not to green-light the operation, that was the beginning and end of it. Price was too much of a pro to argue with him and she had never gone over his head on anything. She'd pulled a string or two with Striker, aka Bolan, now and again where it concerned Brognola but only out of devotion and friendship.
"All right," Brognola finally replied. "You've got your shot. I'll arrange a flight to Washington within the hour. But I want you to be very careful. If Boggs did sabotage any of those shipping containers or falsify the safety reports, she's become a liability to al Qaeda and they'll stop at nothing to silence her."
"I understand." Price rose, unable to repress her glee. She stopped in afterthought at Brognola's office doorway and turned to look at him. "And, Hal?"
"Yes, Barb?"
"Thanks."
* * *
Schwarz went prone, took tight and steady aim with his FNC and squeezed off two successive bursts.
A volley of 5.56 mm rounds struck two of the terrorists who were providing covering fire while the remainder made their way over the twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped by concertina wire. The slugs ripped through their stomachs and chests just as they shot and killed one of the DOE security officers. The remaining security team, armed only with pistols, dived behind the cover of their doors as they realized they were outgunned.
Lyons planned to reverse that misfortune as he found cover behind the concrete stanchion of a light pole and brought the MP-5 Ks into play. He triggered both weapons simultaneously, the muzzles flashing in concert.
One terrorist, still halfway down the inside of the fence, took a pair of rounds to the face that split his skull like a machete through a watermelon. Blood and brain matter sprayed the others near him and he dropped from the fence like a paralyzed spider from a wall. Another terrorist took a trio of shots from Lyons's twin MP-5 Ks in the chest as he reached the top of the fence and prepared to climb over the concertina. The impact knocked him off his perch and sent him sailing onto the roof of one of the pickups. The terrorist's body bounced once on the hood and then rolled out of sight.
Schwarz and Lyons continued trading shots as they dispatched the terrorists man by man. The remaining security officers, courage invigorated by the support from the Able Team pair, returned fire anew in retaliation for losing one of their own. The dead officer's partner, in a moment of righteous fury, killed a terrorist with a pair of rounds through the neck. The enemy managed to keep one hand on the fence while he used the other to stanch blood spurting from an artery, but eventually he succumbed to the uncontrolled hemorrhaging and released his hold. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The battle continued to rage for another minute until Schwarz took the last terrorist with a double-tap from his FNC.
Lyons and Schwarz were on their feet and headed to the nearest security sedan in a heartbeat. The Able Team leader ordered the officer and his partner to step on it as he and Schwarz climbed into the back. The officers complied and within a minute they were off the facility and in pursuit of the pickups. They followed National Parks Highway rather than attempt to pursue their quarry cross-country.
"Where are you going?" Lyons inquired of the driver.
"This is a shortcut," his partner answered. "The road curves up here and that's where it looks like they were headed."
"If we just stay on the hardball, we'll intercept them," the driver added.
Lyons shut his mouth. Better to trust these guys â€" this was their territory and they knew it a lot better than he did. True to words, they rounded a sharp bend in the highway and as they accelerated Schwarz pointed out the trail of dust left in the wake of the two pickups as they headed for the road.
"Kill those lights," Schwarz ordered the officers.
As they got close, Lyons could see they were going to just barely make it. He rolled down the window and leaned out, MP-5 Ks held at the ready. Simultaneously, Schwarz managed to get his lithe form out the other window, riding on the bottom of the door frame with his FNC positioned across the top of the roof.
"What the hell are you doing?" demanded the officer on shotgun.
"Plowing the road," Lyons barked.
Simultaneously the Able Team warriors triggered their weapons and blanketed the two pickups with bullets. Rounds chewed through windshields and tires while Schwarz focused his high-velocity fire on the engine and frames with the intent of permanently disabling the vehicles. Whichever of their varying tactics proved most effective, their combined efforts were enough to bring the terrorists to a standstill. One lost control of his truck and steered into a rut. The front tires left the ground and the vehicle flipped onto its side. It cut a furrow in the dirt and slid to a stop twenty-odd yards from where it came down.
Rounds from Lyons's MP-5 Ks killed the other driver instantly. Now operated by a corpse, the pickup accelerated from the weight of the dead man's foot on the pedal before crashing into the thick trunk of a free. A few seconds elapsed and then the pickup burst into flames as the engine exploded under pressure and the ignition of gas somewhere along the fuel system chain.
As soon as the driver jammed his brakes and brought the sedan to a halt, Lyons and Schwarz went EVA and charged the one truck still relatively intact.
The driver had apparently managed to escape without any injuries beyond a small cut to his forehead. Schwarz and Lyons slowed to a trot as they approached the al Qaeda hardman who now had his hands in the air.
Lyons approached with caution while Schwarz covered him with the FNC. The terrorist studied Lyons with dark eyes that burned with hatred and fanaticism. It wasn't like an al Qaeda terrorist to surrender so easily. Most were trained to commit suicide rather than allow themselves to be caught, and Lyons couldn't help but wonder if the terrorist didn't have some trick up his sleeve like a package of dynamite strapped to his chest or a pistol hidden within easy reach.
He managed to breathe easier when he got a pair of riot cuffs on the terrorist's wrists and secured them behind his back. He was cinching them tighter when the two security guards approached from having inspected the other vehicle.
"That one's toast," the driver noted with a jerk of his thumb toward the flaming truck.
"You think?" Schwarz rebutted.
The driver's partner, whose name tag read Sgt. Emmons, said, "You guys are in deep."
Lyons scowled. "Say what?"
"You interfered with a DOE security operation," Emmons replied. "We had everything under control until you got involved. That little stunt you pulled back there may have gotten one of our guys killed."
"You know what?" Lyons countered. "I'm getting really tired of all the ungrateful attitudes around here. And here's a news flash for you, pal. First, I was doing this before you were head-high to your daddy's fart hole. Second, in case you hadn't noticed..." Lyons turned the terrorist and lifted his arm so Emmons could see the tattoo "...this happens to be the symbol of al Qaeda terrorists. So unless you got something of use to actually contribute to what's going on here, I'd suggest you keep the flippant comments to yourself."
"Hey... Ironman?"
Lyons spun on his heel to see Schwarz crawl from the window of the truck cab with something in his hand. He stood and held it up, like a fisherman with his first large bass of the season. "Just lookie what I got here."
Lyons did. It was a map.


Chapter Eighteen
Since they knew Sergeant Geraldo Cortina could already identify James and Encizo easily, Phoenix Force decided to send Hawkins and Manning to sit on the Mazatlan police station headquarters to wait for Cortina to show while Encizo and McCarter scoured the area for potential hangouts and made contact with local DEA in the city. Given his bum leg, Calvin James agreed to stay behind and babysit Aguilar until his friends returned.
While they didn't have anything solid to go on, McCarter was convinced Cortina knew something about the smuggling operation. A quick check into Cortina's background by Stony Man revealed he had a younger sister who had married one Tiago Pomona in Mexico City. Pomona's photograph just happened to be on file with local DEA agents who described him as a scurrilous dock-worker with a past criminal history. McCarter recognized Pomona as the one who'd attacked him in the warehouse when one local DEA contact, a rough and tough character named Marty Escobar, produced the picture at a local bar where he met with McCarter and Encizo.
"Guess that proves out a connection between Pomona and Cortina," McCarter remarked. "It's his brother-in-law."
Escobar took a deep hit off the hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth and said, "So you're telling me these scumbags have been smuggling the dope off-ship before they get it into customs and replace it with crates of imported tchotchkes or whatever happens to be handy at the time?"
Encizo nodded and added, "And half the loot they..." he made quote signs "...import is hot stuff stolen from locals to begin with."
"Son of a freaking bitch!" Escobar slammed his hand on the semiclean table, causing their sweating beer bottles to jump. "Our boss is going to freak out when he hears this. It's just a bite in the ass, you see? I don't even know why the hell we're still here trying to help these morons."
"You love your country?" Encizo quipped.
McCarter added, "The only real evidence we have about anything we're telling you comes from this lying scumbag Aguilar, so I'd take that for whatever it's bloody worth to you, chum."
"Won't be worth much to us if we can't find Cortina," Escobar said. "You know, this place is so rife with corruption I sometimes wonder if we're fighting a losing battle down here. It's like nothing we do seems to make a difference. For every one of these pukes we take out of the system, two more crop up from nowhere to take their place."
"It can be a long, hard road," Encizo said, not without empathy. "We have no doubt of that. But believe me, what you're doing does make a difference."
"Whether you know it or not," McCarter added. "Which is why any intelligence you can give us about the operations down here, anything you know at all, might help us nip this smuggling op of al Qaeda's in the bud before it goes bloody well out of control."
Escobar looked skeptical as he took a long drink from his beer bottle. He smacked his lips, lit another cigarette and said, "You guys really think al Qaeda has their hands into this."
"We can prove it," Encizo replied.
"I suppose you're not authorized to disclose that information to us DEA types," Escobar said with an unfriendly snort. "I mean, after all, somebody like me probably don't have the security clearance."
McCarter reached into his pocket and withdrew a picture they had printed of the symbol on the arm of the terrorist killed at the warehouse. He laid it down, slid it across the table and asked, "You ever seen that before?"
Escobar picked it up and turned the picture into the sunlight streaming through a window. "Can't say as I have. Looks like some sort of writing."
"It's actually an Arabic symbol meaning 'struggle,' and it's been tattooed onto the arm of every member in this operation," Encizo said.
McCarter lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. "Look, Escobar, we're not into all this jurisdictional shit. This is just too serious to play games. We're authorized to do and say whatever we have to in order to thwart al Qaeda's plan. We figure if we scratch your back, you'll scratch ours."
"Not to mention the fact we need the DEA on this," Encizo said. "We know of a drug-smuggling operation already, and that's your area of expertise. You're the ones who will have the connections and resources we need. And if we can get your help shutting down this pipeline, you're welcome to all the credit for both."
Escobar raised an eyebrow. "You guys don't want any credit for a bust."
"We'd prefer to stay behind the camera, if you get our meaning," McCarter replied with a grin.
Escobar sat smoking and staring at them for a long time, probably gauging any possible deception on their parts. While it was sad to think about it, the DEA guy was right about jurisdiction and politics among various U.S. agencies on the international scene. For whatever reasons, they rarely cooperated with each other and if they had to work together they generally tended to provide minimal information. In some cases, this behavior had endangered or even led to the deaths of personnel during operations. Brognola had implemented a policy of nonconfrontation with other agencies whenever possible, citing the importance of working within official channels to accomplish the goals of any given mission.
"Okay," Escobar said. "I'll give this a shot. I'm pretty trusted by my people, so they'll probably be willing to come on board." He sat forward and jabbed a finger at them. "But I'm going to shoot straight with you, boys. You screw us on this, and I can guarantee you'll be buying yourself a whole lot of trouble."
"No worries there," McCarter said.
"In fact, as far as the drug-smuggling op goes it's your show," Encizo added. "We'll let you call the shots and make the plans. As to the terrorists, if there's an encounter with al Qaeda, then you must agree to step back and let us deal with that."
"Right," McCarter said. "We don't need any cowboy heroics, mate."
"You have my word we'll let you handle the terrorists." Escobar sat back with a satisfied smirk and added, "Besides, this sounds like it's going to be fun."
"Great," McCarter replied, extinguishing his cigarette in the half-empty beer bottle. "Where do we start?"
* * *
Manning and Hawkins sat in an ice-cream shop across from Mazatlan police headquarters slurping on orange cream drinks.
The two men could think of worse ways to spend a mission, although they were beginning to feel the effects of the boredom in their vigil. They'd been stuck in this shop for the past two hours watching the station through a very small window and wondering when or even if Geraldo Cortina would return.
"What's on your mind?" Hawkins asked as he tossed his second empty cup into a nearby waste container.
Manning removed his lips from the straw and looked at his teammate. "Just wondering about this Cortina's angle. I think David's right and it's Cortina who had the deal with our friends."
Before Hawkins could reply his cell phone rang. McCarter's voice greeted him on the other end. He quickly ran down their discussion and plan to work with Marty Escobar and company. He also laid out the connection between Tiago Pomona and Geraldo Cortina.
"Well, at least we know we're on the right track," Hawkins replied. "Okay, I'll fill Gary in on the details. We'll see you soon." Hawkins hung up and said to Manning, "Looks like David was right. This Cortina is Pomona's brother-in-law."
Manning nodded. "That's pretty damning evidence."
"Yeah," Hawkins said. "It also makes me wonder if Pomona even knew anything about Cortina's little side operation."
"Probably," Manning said. "Although it doesn't sound like Aguilar did."
"Yeah, I was thinking that myself."
"So what's the plan?"
"We're going to work with the DEA liaison to nail these drug smugglers. He wants us to meet them back at the hotel so we can put the op together. Says this little activity's probably a dead end and Cortina won't come back here. At least not tonight."
The two men rose and left the shop. As they hailed a cab on the street, Hawkins continued. "David figures if we shut down the White Trail we'll also eliminate the al Qaeda operation."
Manning nodded. "Makes sense. Kill two birds with one stone and give DEA all the credit. Won't be looked at too hard if we write the entire thing off as a drug sting rather than a terrorist plot against America."
"Yeah," Hawkins said. "And it has the added advantage of keeping our names out of the newspapers."
* * *
The sun had long since set and it neared 2200 hours by the time Phoenix Force returned to the hotel and Escobar arrived with his team. McCarter and the DEA man now stood over a map of the Mazatlan coastline spread on the table in a meeting room they had reserved from the hotel, and the remainder of Phoenix Force and the DEA men ranged around it.
"All right, let's settle down and get this show started, boys," Escobar said to his men, who were being the most rowdy. "We've narrowed down the list of possibilities and the information we got from Captain Aguilar."
"You mean former captain," said Escobar's right-hand man, Drew Pruett, and this engendered a laugh from the rest of the DEA.
"Stow that crap, Pruett," Escobar chided. "Now, where was I? Yeah, okay, we narrowed down the points where the ship would enter customs and we came up with the main port as its likeliest destination. There are some secondary docks along the southernmost portion of the coastline, inside the bay area, and we believe that's where they're launching the portable boats. I'll turn this over to David, here, and he'll give us the rest."
Escobar nodded at McCarter and said, "It's all yours."
McCarter didn't hesitate. "I'll keep this as brief as possible since I know we're all anxious to get this show on the road, mates. As I'm sure Escobar's already told you, the DEA will be taking full credit for anything you find â€" drugs, paraphernalia or anything else Mexican authorities would consider import contraband. As far as you're concerned, the five of us you see here don't exist and never did. Any encounter with al Qaeda terrorists will be strictly handled by us, and you are not to engage them with physical force unless either to defend yourselves or otherwise ordered by your superiors to do so."
"Hey, Marty," Pruett interjected, "what kind of shit is this? What gives with we can't be part of the bust?"
"You won't be part of the bust," McCarter countered, "you'll be all of it."
"And whether you like it or not," Escobar added, "this was part of our agreement. These men are highly specialized in dealing with terrorists. In fact, I've been told by the Deputy Operations Director in Washington that they're the best, and I'm content to let them handle the nasty stuff. If we cooperate and this turns out to be anything at all, it'll be one of the biggest scores in DEA history. Frankly, I think we could use all the good press we can get down here right now. Morale's for shit and this can only help us with funding and resources."
"Can't hurt much with the ladies, either," one of the agents added, which generated more laughter.
"Okay, okay," McCarter said, although he did it with a grin, "back to this. We figure the drug-runners are sending motor launches from these docks on the south end. Our plan is to take out any of the drug smugglers who show up there and take their place. Then we'll take the powerboats out to meet the ship, neutralize any aggressors and then bring the ship into port and let the harbormaster take over. Then we'll get scarce and you'll move in."
"Move in where?" another DEA agent asked.
"We have intelligence that indicates one or more of these customs officials is on a payroll bankrolled by one Sergeant Geraldo Cortina," Escobar replied.
"Wait a minute," Pruett said. "Do you mean Cortina of the Mexican police?"
"One and the same," Escobar said with a nod.
"That blows. That means that subhuman piece of crap's been feeding us bogus intel for years. No wonder these busts we were doing only came up with a few small-time local dealers with a couple la's of coke or the occasional American sneaking out a half ounce of dope in his underwear."
"Well, now we're about to make the bust of lifetime," Escobar said. "So just keep your pants on and let us get through this briefing. Our job will be to do much of the same thing as our antiterrorist counterparts, although we're going to handle the customs boys at the docks."
"How?" one agent asked.
"Your job will be to get to that ship before customs, board her and find the drugs. We'll try to leave you some indication as to where the drugs might be stowed away and how best to access them."
"That may not be easy," Pruett replied. "The customs officers aren't going to just let us breeze on in and seize their drugs. From what you've said, that's a major source of their income."
"That's why we're going to do it without them noticing us," Escobar countered. "We've been over every inch of that dock and our counterparts here have provided us with plenty of good information. The customs people won't be overly anxious to inspect that boat, so more than likely they'll put it under a one-or two-man guard and wait until tomorrow morning. By that time, we'll have collected all the evidence we need. We'll then make an official discovery report to Mexican authorities at the federal level as well as the media."
"Should prove to be an eye-opener," James cracked.
"And we get the credit?" Pruett said. "You get that in writing?"
"You got our word as men," McCarter said in a tone that implied the very question offended him.
Some of the DEA agents groaned as Pruett said, "We've heard that one before."
"Listen to me, boys," Escobar said. "I know this isn't how we'd prefer to do things. Frankly, I don't give a shit. Now these guys have been cooperative with me every step of the way, so far, as well as traded intelligence freely. I happen to believe them and I think this is going to be the highlight of our careers."
Encizo got to his feet at that moment and cleared his throat. "Marty, you mind?"
Escobar shook his head and folded his arms in an attitude of attention. "Look, men, we're not interested in fame and fortune. In fact, we're taking a chance letting so many of you even see our faces or know we're in-country on an operation but we decided to trust you first when we really didn't have to. I've heard many of you guys say you want to make a difference, actually do something that has meaning. Well, now we're offering you the chance to do just that. It's up to you to decide if you want to take what we're offering here and give it your all. So you think about that. Whether you decide to do this or not, we're going to proceed with our plan. I hope you come along for the ride because we could really use you."
Encizo sat and the room maintained a respectful silence. Finally, Escobar said, "I trust these guys. Now, are you with me?"
Every DEA agent nodded or spoke their affirmation.
McCarter nodded with a cocksure grin and said, "Just dandy."


Chapter Nineteen
Kamesh Razahim kept his promise to contact Cortina within two hours, and delivered the remainder of the money as agreed. Still, he had developed a plan to deal with the situation in the event Cortina decided to renege on their agreement, take the cash and disappear.
Razahim first contacted Bari by untraceable phone and discussed the situation with him. Bari, as cold and unmoved and implacable as ever, suggested that Razahim satisfy Cortina's request but program some contingencies into the deal in the event things didn't go as planned. In no uncertain terms, Bari had been clear about one thing: their remaining complement of jihad fighters needed to make the designated pickup point and on time. Without fail. He'd stressed that last point with an implicit threat that death would be the penalty if Razahim failed.
Hence, Razahim understood it was in his best interest to make sure he could respond to any potential treachery on Cortina's part. First, he assembled the workers he'd been using as liaisons and advised them of the importance of this mission, how imperative it was they succeed and that all other considerations â€" including preservation of their own lives â€" had become secondary. Next, he put a tracking device on the suitcase containing the money so that he and his bodyguard could follow Cortina wherever he went.
Once the plan was set, Razahim contacted Cortina at the designated rendezvous point where he delivered the money and the message that failure wasn't an option. He'd measured Cortina's response as cavalier, at best, and Razahim had to wonder if he was making a mistake. He wondered what wisdom there had been in ever acquiring Cortina's services with which to begin, although he couldn't complain to this point. Thus far, Cortina had delivered on time and faithfully. The crew of thirteen he was to smuggle in at midnight would be the last. From this point they would truck them up the coastal highways and deliver them to the mountain base by the following midday.
As to the loss of the one man at the warehouse, Razahim did not worry. He had a number of faithful men in his own cell who had volunteered to take the man's place. He would have no trouble providing substitutes when or if it became necessary, although he couldn't be sure the men he sent would possess the same expertise as those Bari had selected for their operations. Well, he could worry about that another time.
"Take good care of that," Razahim said, nodding at the money. "Not only is it the last of the resources we shall provide, but it is your restitution. What you don't use for the operation, in other words what you choose to keep for yourself, is your business. But you will accomplish what you promised. Even I will not be able to spare you the consequences if you fail."
"I told you before that threatening me wasn't healthy," Cortina said. "And anyway, there's not much you can say to frighten me. I've done well for you to this point, no? And I will complete my part. But understand this. Once these men are delivered to the trucks and leave Mazatlan, it is no longer my problem."
Razahim nodded. "It is agreed, then."
* * *
Meeting with Razahim had left nothing but a sour taste in Cortina's mouth. He didn't like the guy, had never really liked him, and he didn't trust him. What bothered him more was that despite conducting a diligent search of the city, talking to friends and family â€" he even put out a statewide alert â€" he still hadn't located Captain Aguilar.
Cortina took the briefcase filled with cash to his house. He loaded his personal take into another satchel, which he hid beneath a floor panel in his bedroom, and then took the remainder with him to one of the wharfs near the docks on the north end of central port.
Cortina walked along a sidewalk comprised from hundreds, thousands even, of handcrafted tiles of varying colors and designs. They were the work of the female artisans of this community who stayed home, reared their kids and tended to their own business. Here the wives and daughters helped one another, did their best to make nice homes for their families while the men and older boys went to eke out a living any way they could.
Some of those men turned when Cortina entered the pub in full police uniform. It wasn't that he really had to dress as such, since nearly every soul in the place knew the name and person of Geraldo Cortina and what he did on the side to make some extra money. The roar of conversation died to a buzz for a moment and then steadily resumed to its former state.
Cortina waved at the bartender. "Hector, I need about a dozen hands. Strong and brave hands to help me with a job tonight. One job and I shall pay five thousand pesos each when it is complete."
There was a murmur among the closest men who eavesdropped on the conversation. That was nearly five hundred U.S. dollars a head, practically a small fortune for these men; they could live like kings on that amount for a year, three if they scrimped.
Within less than a minute, Cortina was able to handpick the dozen choice workers. He appointed two fore-men, paid one-quarter of the money as an advance to be divvied up between the workers and instructed them to be at the south dock at a quarter to twelve. Yes, they had people who could operate boats with outboard motors, and they all looked young and strong. No, they weren't really interested in the details of the job; they would just wait for their instructions once they got there.
* * *
Bari felt his stomach sour when he heard the news that their attack on the WIPP facility had failed.
On the surface, he didn't allow his men to see the disappointment. This was hardly the time to feel sorry for himself or to be discouraged by the fact his plans seemed to be tearing apart at their very seams. The disturbing news he'd received from Kamesh Razahim hadn't helped his mood much. He couldn't believe the Americans had picked up the trail so quickly and uncovered their smuggling operation. To Bari, the entire plot to smuggle his men using the endless drug pipeline had been nothing less than a master stroke of genius. Even the leader of al Qaeda had personally congratulated him on the ingenuity of exploiting this particular device. Little had they known the Americans would prove smarter than they had originally predicted.
Bari considered their other recent defeat, this one a smaller setback, in the capture of Sarah Boggs-Hamud. His plan to spread biological contaminants across the United States by using the very security system America had put in place to protect them from the jihad had also been commended by his master and fellow freedom fighters. That the Americans managed to thwart that plan, as well, didn't disturb him as much as the fact his spies indicated the same three men who had eliminated their teams in LAX and New York and uncovered Rajish Hamud's treachery were the ones he now faced.
"They are obviously some sort of covert operations team, Fadil," Jainal Hapilon briefed him as they traveled along Interstate 10 bound for the American border city of Nogales.
Bari nodded. "Delta Force, perhaps."
"I thought military units were not permitted to operate within the U.S."
"There is nothing to say they are a part of the military," Bari replied. "In fact, I'm convinced they are quite the opposite. I think they may be attached to the FBI or NSA, maybe troubleshooters working directly under the oversight of Homeland Security. Whoever they are, they will be of no consequence."
"But what of our failure in Carlsbad?"
"What of it? Our entire activities here have led us up to this point. We attempted to create a diversion that would tie the hands of the Americans, and we have done so. Maybe it is to a lesser degree than we may have liked, but I still would not look upon it as an utter failure."
"And the capture of Boggs-Hamud?"
"I was just thinking of her," Bari said. "I do not think she'll tell them anything. And even if she does, by the time they break her, our operation will have been completed. Take heart, Jainal. In less than twenty-four hours, we will complete our mission and be bound for home. Our wives shall await us, our children at our knees, and they will adorn us with flowers and kisses and great celebration."
Hapilon allowed himself a brief smile. "It will be a time of great rejoicing."
"More than that," Bari replied. "It will be a time of victory."
* * *
"Follow the yellow brick road," Carl Lyons said as he traced the red line marking Interstate 25 to where it intersected Interstate 10 on the map. Yellow highlighter covered the section of road from Carlsbad to Tucson, then dipped south on Highway 15 to Nogales on the Mexico-Arizona border.
Schwarz and Blancanales, the latter having arrived about thirty minutes before, leaned over his shoulder and looked where Lyons directed.
"Hmm," Schwarz said. "Now the only question is whether that indicates where our little killing team came from or where they were supposed to go when they finished the operation."
"I'm sure al Qaeda wasn't planning a one-way trip," Lyons replied. "Since they've reported an all clear here and there's no leak, I have a hard time believing they were intent on this facility as a real target."
"Which means a diversion," Blancanales concluded.
Lyons nodded and frowned. "Right. And with any one of a number of potential targets still up in the air and the fact these shipments are scheduled to leave for this location tomorrow at about noon, we're running out of options. This may be just the break we're looking for."
"Carl's right," Schwarz said. "Whether we like it or not, we don't have too many options left. Phoenix Force is making its way north toward the border."
"And they're close to shutting down this smuggling operation," Lyons said. "Real close."
"So where does that leave us?" Blancanales asked.
"It would only make sense al Qaeda would head toward another border town," Lyons said. "They're probably headed there to pick up their final complement of men."
"And why can't we just hold these shipments off until we find them?"
"Containment protocols," Lyons said.
"These facilities aren't capable of storing TRU waste on a long-term basis," Schwarz provided by way of further explanation. "That's why the DOE initiated the WIPP program to start with. Any delay could prove as catastrophic to daily nuclear engineering operations as transporting the stuff under the high probability terrorists might attack it."
Blancanales let out a moan and rubbed his face. "Somebody tell me this isn't a government operation."
"Either way," Lyons said, "it's a good bet Bari plans to use this route to fill his quota and get back here."
"Okay, so let's say you're right. It's got to be â€" what? At least five hundred miles to Nogales from here."
"A little over eight hours with no stops and doing the speed limit," Schwarz said.
Blancanales laughed as he looked at his watch. "Well, then, we're hosed because Bari has surely made it there by now. We'd never catch him."
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," Lyons said matter-of-factly. "In fact, we need to pack it up and get a move on. Jack hates it when we're late."
"You guys managed to get Jack back here?" Blancanales asked with surprise as they packed the remainder of their weapons and headed out the door.
"Of course," Schwarz said. "Nothing but first class all the way."
"Anyway," Lyons said as they headed out of the VIP quarters and climbed into their van, "he should be sitting on the tarmac at Carlsbad City Airport. He'll be able to fly us straight into Santa Cruz County Airport in Nogales."
"And the Farm already has a rental arranged if we find ourselves having to cross into Mexico," Schwarz added.
"Shucks, you guys are just too good to me," Blancanales said.
"We told you not to worry your pretty little head about anything."
'"Pretty little' is right," Lyons cracked.
"Takes one to know one, Ironman," Blancanales shot back in good humor.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Schwarz said from behind the wheel, anxious to get in on the act while simultaneously glad to have all three of them together again. "Must I send you to counseling?"
"He started it," Blancanales replied.
They rode in comfortable silence the remainder of their trip. True to Lyons's word, Jack Grimaldi was waiting for them at the airport. The pilot shook hands with each man in turn and then helped them load their equipment, including the sensitive electronics interfacing with End Zone, before climbing into the cockpit and powering the engines. After a few minutes of waiting while another plane took off, Grimaldi got his clearance from the tower and they were airborne in no time.
Schwarz withdrew some of the documentation on the shipment containers and other intelligence gleaned from DOE and shoved them under Blancanales's nose. "What's this?"
"Take a look for yourself," Schwarz replied. "I've done a thorough look-see into it, and neither one of us can figure out how they plan to take out the shipments. Once we knew Sarah Boggs wasn't going to talk, we had all the containers scheduled to leave Idaho National Labs and Rocky Flats tomorrow inspected."
"They didn't find anything wrong?" Blancanales asked as he skimmed the information.
"Nada."
"We talked to experts from both DOE and DOT, and in every case we could think of they were able to provide us with proof-positive al Qaeda wouldn't succeed," Lyons said.
"We covered everything," Schwarz continued. "Grenade launchers, shoulder-fired rockets."
"We even hypothesized they might use some sort of vehicle to ram the shipments. The DOT guy told us that those containers could easily take thirty times the stress-ors of any reasonably foreseeable traffic collision."
After reading some of the material, Blancanales said, "Maybe we're thinking about this all wrong."
Lyons frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well, up to this point we've assumed Bari's plan is to destroy one of these shipments using explosives or causing an accident. Whatever."
"You don't think he's interested in the shipments?"
"No, I'm pretty sure he is interested in them. But what surprised me was that none of the information we got off the computers back at their Mt. Riley headquarters appeared to perform any sort of weakness analyses on the containers. They had only hacked into the TRANSCOM system. Plus, we didn't find any evidence of weaponry capable of actually stopping those trucks or sufficient enough to penetrate the holding facility at the WIPP."
"So what are you saying?" Schwarz asked.
"I'm saying that however we may look at this, we don't have a shred of physical evidence to lead us to conclude they plan to destroy these shipments."
"And?" Lyons said. "I still don't get where you're going, Pol."
"Where I'm going is this. I don't think they're interested in destroying those containers. I think they plan to steal them."


Chapter Twenty
David McCarter peered at the luminous, digital readout of his watch: 2352.
They were running this one really close, and the Briton had to wonder if they had been mistaken. It was possible, however unlikely, that Aguilar had fed them a line and the smuggling ring had no intention of launching from the docks here. McCarter couldn't fathom Cortina would change plans on such short notice. He'd barely have time to find a crew to replace the one eradicated at the warehouse, not to mention his al Qaeda masters might not be too happy if he'd reneged on their deal. McCarter wondered what all that deal might have entailed and was still kicking himself a bit for killing their only lead.
A hand squeezing McCarter's shoulder broke his contemplation.
"You awake?" James asked.
The fox-faced Briton nodded, chewed on his lower lip. "I'm just wondering if we're right about this. If these guys don't show soon, we'll have to scramble with an alternate plan."
"They'll show," James said. He stared at the deserted docks with grim determination. "I can feel it."
As if on cue, the headlights of several pickups swung into the parking area west of the docks. Men disembarked from the beds of the trucks and headed straight for the small boats with outboard motors moored at the docks. Working with a special team inside Mexico, which had liaisons to local law-enforcement officials, the DEA had gleaned intelligence on the motorboats and informed Phoenix Force that they belonged to the same company that owned the warehouse. A detailed examination by Stony Man revealed it was nothing more than a paper company with dissimilar trails that all led to the same dead end.
McCarter watched from their position atop the roof of a wharf building for a minute longer, then keyed up the headset nestled in his right ear. "Okay, chums, get ready. It's just about showtime."
The Phoenix Force leader received a burst of static in response, a quick push of the sender's radio transmit switch to indicate an affirmative response.
McCarter told Encizo, Manning and Hawkins, "Stand fast till we can identify Cortina, mates. He's our ace in the hole."
Another squelch acknowledging his instructions.
The Phoenix Force leader felt a tap on his arm and looked to see James point to a sedan as it pulled into the lot. When the sedan crossed under the one remaining functional light, McCarter could make out the markings of a police vehicle, see the lights on top of the car.
"Look at this cat," James whispered. "He's got the balls to actually show up in his squad car."
McCarter nodded but didn't say anything. He lifted the NVDs to his eyes again and scanned the parking lot. Through the illumination McCarter was close enough to make out the details of the occupant's face as he climbed from the vehicle. The man matched the description and photograph they had of Geraldo Cortina to the last detail.
McCarter spoke into the headset. "All right, team, that's our guy. Move in."
McCarter and James rose and headed toward the rooftop exit in a crouched run and descended the stairs in the shadows cast by a single bare bulb. The echo of their boots slapping against the concrete steps seemed to drown all other sounds, but McCarter pushed it from his mind as a distraction. It wasn't likely the men they were about to face were armed, save for Cortina, but McCarter had lasted this long by not taking stupid chances and he wasn't about to start changing policy now.
McCarter and James burst through the door and charged the group still clustered around Cortina. The Briton glanced to his right on the run and saw Encizo pick up a perfect flank position on Cortina's left side just as Manning and Hawkins broke off the charge and headed in the direction of the men preparing the boats. Cortina and the men encircling him didn't even take note of Phoenix Force's presence until the trio of warriors was on top of them.
"Hold it right there!" Encizo barked. "Get your hands against the truck."
McCarter and James came to a halt a respectful distance from the group and pointed the muzzles of their SMGs at the surprised workers. Nobody made a move to resist except for Cortina, who obviously felt he had some sort of advantage as the only armed one among them. Encizo stepped forward and delivered a neat karate chop to Cortina's hand before the guy could fully clear his pistol from the holster. Cortina lost his grip on the .357 Magnum revolver and it skittered across the pavement out of reach.
Cortina started to turn toward Encizo, but the Cuban shoved him against the pickup, slamming the guy's chest against the bed. The man emitted a grunt and turned his head from side to side, struggling to regain his balance to try to slip away from Encizo. Unfortunately, Encizo had caught Cortina off balance and by keeping one hand pressed against the center of Cortina's back he could continue to exert control.
"Settle down," McCarter said. "You're not going anywhere, Cortina. It's over."
Encizo translated just in case the guy didn't speak English, although he could hardly believe it. At least this way he couldn't claim ignorance while he was interrogated.
"What are you doing here?" Encizo demanded.
"I don't have to speak to you," Cortina said in English, acting surprised to see Encizo. "I think the bigger question is who are you? And what have you done with Captain Aguilar?"
"You can stow the surprise, chum," McCarter replied. "We know all about Aguilar and his dope-smuggling operation, and your deal with al Qaeda to smuggle terrorists."
"And about your brother-in-law, Tiago Pomona," Encizo added.
Cortina didn't have to say anything â€" his expression at the mention of Pomona's name said it all. "I won't talk to you. You can do what you like with me, kill me if you want, but I will not say anything to you."
"We have no reason to kill you," McCarter replied.
"Yeah, we'll derive a whole lot more satisfaction from knowing you'll rot in one of your own country's prisons for the next thirty years," James said over his shoulder while he covered the workers with his M-16/M-203.
"Though we might put in a good word for you if you tell us about the boat," Encizo said. "What kind of resistance will we encounter there? Huh? How many guns?"
Cortina kept quiet, traded looks with McCarter while he maintained an expression of resolute silence. The Phoenix Force leader knew immediately from the look in Cortina's eye that he wouldn't tell them anything. Like Aguilar, he didn't have time to attempt more assured methods of extracting information. They would have to play this one by ear.
"He's not going to talk," McCarter finally stated.
He turned to Encizo. "Let's go ahead and package him up then send word to DEA and the federates that we'll leave him for them to pick up."
"What about the workers?"
"Let them go," McCarter replied. "They look like common folk just trying to feed their families. I'm sure they have no real interest in the drug-smuggling operation, and if they were already paid then they..."
The stutter of weapons fire cut him short and they ducked reflexively. At first, McCarter thought Manning and Hawkins had run into trouble on the docks but a moment later he realized the fire came from several sedans approaching at top speed from across the parking lot. The first of the rounds buzzed over their heads or ricocheted off the pavement, although a couple managed to strike the pickup they had Cortina spread against.
"Cover!" McCarter ordered.
The three men rushed for the safety of the pickup as the newcomers settled into their range. McCarter and Encizo took up firing positions behind the front tires of the pickup, one to each side, while James dropped to one knee behind a large barricade that bordered the parking area.
Sparks flew from the sedans as they occasionally struck potholes or speed bumps and scraped their under-carriages. The workers made a valiant effort to get clear of the fire zone and some even made it, although a couple could not escape the heavy onslaught of auto fire and fell under the marksmanship of the attackers. One took several slugs to the spine, spun in place and collapsed to the pavement. Another caught two rounds to the chest, the impact slamming him against the tailgate of one of the pickups.
McCarter stopped returning fire and glanced in the direction of the docks. Manning and Hawkins had seen what was happening and charged up the old, wooden planks in their direction. Each man had his SMG up, triggering short bursts at the sedans although with minimal effect since they were in motion. Still, it gave McCarter a good feeling to know the pair had their backs.
The Phoenix Force leader glanced in the opposite direction in time to see James pop a 40 mm grenade into the breech of his M-203 and lock back the casing. He snap-aimed the weapon, paused to estimate the required lead time and squeezed the trigger. The M-203 cracked with the report of a shotgun and sent the high-explosive bomb on a near horizontal path toward the closest sedan. Less than two seconds elapsed before the grenade impacted the parking lot and exploded. The grenade didn't land straight-on, but the heat and shock wave did a crack job of disabling the sedan. Tires melted to slag by the intense heat, the driver lost all ability to steer the vehicle and the drivers of the trailing sedans had to swerve to avoid the trail of flame left by a gas leak.
One of the sedans veered into a path that sent it on a collision course with a light post. The driver jammed on the brakes, but the sedan struck the pole with enough force to smash its grille, effectively disabling it. The men that burst from the wreck were dark-skinned and attired in various modes of local dress.
McCarter didn't get the impression they were more hired hands. These men moved with a speed and efficiency that could only have originated with formalized training in combat techniques, the kind that might be employed by paramilitary units or terrorists. He had no doubts they were faced with al Qaeda terrorists, probably sent by a local agent to protect their assets.
The former SAS commando steadied the MP-5/40 he'd switched for his Ingram and triggered a burst of .40 S&W rounds while slowly weaving the barrel in a sweeping pattern for maximum kill effect. A stream of rounds chopped one terrorist across the thighs as he charged their position. The man staggered a few extra steps before his legs gave under the assault and he tumbled to the pavement. He screamed in pain but the sounds died as the rounds had hit both femoral arteries and he bled to death within a matter of seconds.
Encizo used his MP-5 SD-3 to make short work of another pair of terrorists as they emerged from their disabled vehicle. The first gunner caught twin 9 mm Parabellum rounds in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the side of the sedan. The second man never got clear of his door. The rounds punched through the glass and proceeded to rip through the terrorist's midsection, his head and body jerking in reaction to each round that struck him. The man finally toppled from view as Encizo eased off the trigger.
* * *
Manning and Hawkins were only a moment from commandeering the three boats when the roar of car engines and autofire reached their ears. The Phoenix Force pair turned to see a convoy of sedans bearing down on their teammates' last known position. The surprised Mexicans in the boats kept their hands in the air even as Manning and Hawkins spun on their heels and charged up the dock.
"Those boats won't be here when we get back," Hawkins said.
"Maybe not, but we have bigger problems right now."
The pair noticed the muzzle-flashes from the sedans and looked in the direction of McCarter and crew. Manning accounted for Encizo and McCarter, but he didn't see James. A flood of relief washed over him a moment later when an explosion derailed the charge of one sedan, a blast that could only have come from James's M-203. He watched the sedan fishtail as the driver lost control and allowed himself a grin of satisfaction. That would keep heads down long enough for him and Hawkins to get in better position.
Both men triggered their weapons on the run until they reached the shoreline and split for cover. A number of thick, waist-high posts of wood protruded from the ground and ran a snakelike pattern between the rock-and-sand shore and an asphalt bike path. Manning knelt behind one of them and took careful aim with his MP-5. He locked the butt to his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock and peered through the fixed sights. When he had a good target picture, Manning squeezed off several volleys in 3-round-burst mode. One of those bursts cut through the ribs of a gunner occupied with shooting at his friends and apparently oblivious to this new threat. The slugs left cracked ribs and punctured lungs in their wake before lodging in the heart. The impact slammed the terrorist against an open window and dumped him on the ground.
Hawkins didn't even flinch with the recoil of his own weapon, an M-16 A-2 identical to James's save the special telescopic sight mounted to the top and the absence of an M-203. Hawkins lay prone with the foregrips of the rifle atop a smooth rock. He carefully sighted on the nearest sedan through the 8x30 power scope, took a deep breath, let out half and squeezed the trigger. Hawkins watched with satisfaction as his target's head exploded under the 5.56 mm slug that entered the man's skull at a velocity of 3,000 fps. The explosion splashed blood and flesh across the roof of the car and the terrorist's body toppled from view of the scope a moment later.
Manning fired on another terrorist but missed as his target ducked from sight a millisecond before the Canadian opened fire. One sedan swerved and slammed into a light pole. Manning swung the muzzle of his weapon on the crash, looking for targets, but his colleagues were already on it. The terrorists died under the marksmanship of Encizo and McCarter.
* * *
Whether by conscious choice or not, McCarter and Encizo left the remaining sedan that squealed to a halt maybe fifty yards from them to Calvin James. He had another 40 mm in place and took time to aim the grenade launcher via the leaf sight as the terrorists used their vehicle for cover and traded shots with both Phoenix Force fire teams. James sent a few M-16 rounds downrange, as well, before wrapping his finger around the trigger of the M-203. With the aim of a first-class grenadier, James delivered the 40 mm WP grenade right on target. The superheated thermate filler immediately ignited most of the sedan interior on impact.
The rest of Phoenix Force continued to trade shots with the remaining terrorists as James loaded up with another HE grenade. This time he aimed so the grenade would land just forward of the burning car. The explosion lit the night with a red-orange cast and a massive whump followed when the gas tank ignited. Most of the terrorists could not escape the violent blast of hot gases that seared off their flesh. The body of one terrorist came apart at shoulders and hips with the concussion.
A lone terrorist tried to escape but he covered only twenty yards or so before Hawkins brought him down with a single shot from his makeshift sniper rifle. The terrorist hit the pavement with a smack audible even above the crackle of flames from the sedan. Hot gases roiled into the black sky and permeated the air with the acrid smell of fuel-fed combustion and spent munitions.
As the members of Phoenix Force broke cover, they searched for the workers but not a single man could be found. It took several minutes for Encizo to locate the body of Geraldo Cortina, which he found lying face-down in the mud. The Cuban toed the body for signs of life but didn't find any.
"Looks like he took several rounds in the back," Encizo said.
McCarter grimaced. "Died running like the coward he was. No great loss."
"We didn't get any information from him," James remarked.
As Manning jogged up to his teammates, McCarter replied, "We got all the information we needed." He nodded in the direction of the flaming shell of the sedan and said, "Those weren't bloody locals who attacked us. Al Qaeda knows we're onto them and they probably sent that crew to protect their investment." He looked at Manning. "What's the status of the boats?"
"Two are still here," Manning said. "T.J.'s securing them now. Looks like the workers all piled into the third one and hightailed it out of here."
"Can't say as I blame them," Encizo replied.
"You know what?" James said. "If these cats are onto us they may be onto the DEA, too."
McCarter nodded. "Can't argue that, mate. We'll contact them on our way out. Now let's rally up. We got ourselves a boat to catch."


Chapter Twenty-One
When they were within a hundred yards of the ship, the steely outline of its hull visible in the vanilla light cast by a full moon, Phoenix Force cut the outboard motors of their launch craft. The swells were with them, pushing their boats in the direction of the target. They estimated at their present speed they would reach the ship in no more than five minutes.
"Weapons check," McCarter said to the crews as he lifted the NVDs to his eyes.
He knelt at the prow of the motor launch and scanned the top deck. McCarter didn't detect any movement, much to his surprise, and he wondered if someone had tipped off the crew. Maybe they were hiding in wait for Phoenix Force and would spring their trap at the most convenient time. McCarter could feel the hairs stand up on his neck as he made another pass with NVDs. It was like looking at a ghost ship.
"Something bloody well isn't right," McCarter muttered. "I can feel it."
From the rear of the boat Encizo said, "No sentries?"
McCarter shook his head. "Not a one."
Encizo and McCarter had stowed the equipment they would need to actually make entry to the ship and the remainder of the team was in the other boat. They had traded all their weapons for MP-5 SD-3s, except for Hawkins, who would cover them with a night scope mounted atop his M-16 A-2 from the conning tower. They would need someone to back their play and watch their flanks as they had to clear the bridge and topside first before extending their assault belowdecks. McCarter had figured Hawkins was the best man for the job.
James had concerns about his leg but decided to wrap it tight enough with an elastic bandage so as to support the thigh muscles, yet not so much it would restrict movement, particularly during their climb up the side of the ship.
As the boats nudged alongside the starboard bow, the Phoenix Force warriors took up position. McCarter had already assigned order: Encizo on point, followed by James, Hawkins and Manning with McCarter on rear. As soon as they were aboard, Hawkins and James would head to the tower and commandeer the bridge while the remainder of the team dealt with any resistance on the top deck. Hawkins would then hold position while they went below to find their terrorists.
Manning triggered the ladder-deployment system. A design of Stony Man's premier armorer, John "Cowboy" Kissinger, the system consisted of a M72A2 LAW rocket launcher tube converted to ignite a small propellant charge that pushed a tightly packed nylon rope ladder up to a vertical distance of thirty yards. The two ends were equipped with lightweight, aluminum grapplers designed to catch the rail hull of most ships. After significant test runs, Kissinger had put the device into the field with the teams as part of their standard equipment.
True to form, the anodized aluminum grapplers, coated with rubber bottoms to muffle sound, latched on to the railing on the first try. Manning tested the security with his weight and then tied the bottom of it to the boat, cinching it tightly with rope and tying nonslip knots to riggings along the hull of the motor launch. With a nod from McCarter, Encizo began his climb, followed by James after an adequate delay. The rope ladder's tensile strength could support up to fifteen hundred pounds, but Phoenix Force had trained never to put more than one or two personnel on it at any given moment since it was during the climb they were most vulnerable. By staggering their deployment they could better watch one another's back.
Encizo reached the deck and after looking both directions swung his legs over the railing. He crouched as he unslung his MP-5 and swept the deck with the muzzle while James completed his ascent. James came over the railing a moment later and Hawkins followed shortly behind him. They fanned out, James and Hawkins in the direction of the external stairwell that led to the bridge tower and Encizo heading astern.
Manning reached the deck and then gave support to McCarter with one arm as he kept the muzzle of his MP-5 level with the other. Once aboard, McCarter took an inventory of his men. He crouched at the railing and watched for a minute as James and Hawkins made their ascent toward the bridge, and then leaned close to Manning's ear.
"Head aft and cover Rafe's flank."
Manning nodded and set off after his comrade while McCarter maintained a vigil on the bow. All was quiet, but McCarter still didn't like it. Not one damn bit.
Somewhere along the way he believed al Qaeda's contacts onshore had managed to get word to the ship. For all they knew, this entire thing could be a bust, including the DEA's hand in the operation. McCarter didn't want to believe it but it had loomed as a possibility from the beginning. They had managed to take Aguilar by surprise, but Cortina'd had plenty of time to warn the terrorists. Then again, it was possible they had no means of ship-to-shore communications. Still, they should have been expecting the boats by now. Maybe there had been some arranged signal or other type of contact so those aboard would know to expect them.
There were a lot of maybes, McCarter reminded himself. He couldn't account for every possibility. All he could do was plan the mission to the last detail and hope for the best. If he let himself get caught up in all the variables, they would never accomplish anything. However, it didn't really matter anymore. They were now committed and David McCarter was forced to do the only two things he could.
So he watched and waited.
* * *
Hawkins and James ascended the metal steps adjacent to the conning tower that led to the bridge. At each landing one covered the other and they made the three stories in similar leapfrog fashion until they reached the bridge. The haze of red lights was now visible and they could see a few people moving inside. It bothered the pair, as it had McCarter, that they hadn't encountered resistance as soon as they came aboard.
They crouched and moved into position to the right of the bridge entrance, keeping beneath the sight line of the crew. James, closest to the door, reached up and tried the L-shaped handle. It moved smoothly and quietly under his hand. He nodded, indicating it was insecure, and Hawkins frowned. Now this was just too easy. Not only had they made it onto the ship unscathed, but now they were going to take the bridge without the enemy putting up so much as a fight.
Like sheep to the slaughter, Hawkins thought as he nodded in return.
James mouthed a count to three, then yanked on the handle and whipped the door open. The pair pushed inside, James on the bridge officer before the man even saw them. He clubbed the guy out cold with a blow from the butt of his MP-5 and the man slumped immediately to the floor. Simultaneously, Hawkins took out the helmsman with a rock-hard uppercut to the chin. The impact knocked the guy from his seat and he struck his head against a heavy, wooden cabinet recessed into the back wall. The impact instantly rendered him unconscious.
Hawkins quickly frisked the crewmen. He found identification on all of them and showed them to James, then went to study the boat's instrumentation.
"All three of these guys are Mexican citizens, according to their IDs," James said.
"Makes sense," James replied. "They would draw less suspicion than foreigners."
James nodded. "Red Leader, bridge is secure," he said into his radio.
A squelch signaled McCarter's acknowledgment of the transmission.
"We're not moving," Hawkins said as he looked up from the instruments.
James furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"I assumed maybe they were traveling a few knots," Hawkins said. "But not according to these readings. We're sitting here, completely anchored, and have been for the past couple hours."
"But the operation was scheduled to happen by now," James said. "If anything, they should have turned around and headed back out to sea when we didn't show on time."
"Right, except..."
"They weren't expecting us," James replied.
"Yeah."
The two men exchanged glances and knew exactly what the other was thinking. If the ship had been anchored at this particular spot, it meant this had been the assigned rendezvous point for the pickup. The deck should have had dozens of men topside to assist with the operations and the bridge fully staffed. Instead they had a skeleton bridge crew on duty and there wasn't a soul on deck, not even a roving patrol.
"So they're anchored here but nobody's really waiting for the motorboats," James said. "Which means either there was nothing to be off-loaded or..."
"It already was," Hawkins finished.
James nodded and keyed his microphone. "Bridge to all teams, proceed with caution. We believe no hostiles aboard at this time. Repeat, no hostiles."
* * *
Manning and Encizo stopped halfway down the stairs and eyed each other with surprise. It didn't make much sense to them, but they knew James wouldn't have issued such a warning without a damn good reason. The last thing they wanted to do was to cut a boatload full of innocent crew to ribbons. Although they knew these people were drug-runners, Phoenix Force wasn't into wholesale murder and they would not slaughter unarmed men, even if those men were criminals.
"What do you suppose that means?" Manning whispered.
"Not sure I want to know," Encizo said.
The pair continued to the first subdeck. They moved down the hallway quickly and quietly, MP-5s held at the ready. Occasionally they would look behind them just to cover their flanks although they knew McCarter and James wouldn't be far behind now that Hawkins had the bridge secured. That follow-up sweep would take care of any stragglers Manning and Encizo had missed.
They cleared the first deck without incident and proceeded to the hull deck, where they found at least a dozen men or more in the forward berth, in their bunks and in varying states of rigor mortis. At least they had an answer to why the crew had been completely oblivious to Phoenix Force's presence aboard the ship. Encizo thought at first about inspecting each body but he decided against it. If one of them was dead, then they were all dead.
He studied the faces of a couple, then caught just the slightest scent in the air, a scent he'd smelled once before. Finally the odor jogged his memory:
almonds. The crew had been poisoned with cyanide of some kind, probably gas pumped into the quarters. But then, why hadn't they been sealed?
As soon as Encizo informed Manning the pair hastily made their exit and reconnoitered the hallway until they met up with McCarter and James.
"What's up?" McCarter asked with an expression that said he was puzzled to see them back so soon.
"We found the crew. They're all dead in their bunks."
"You sure they're dead?" James asked.
"They're stiff, and I could smell cyanide. Looks like a mass execution."
McCarter rubbed his jaw. "I knew something about this whole thing smelled rotten."
"You think Aguilar fed us a story?"
The Briton shook his head. "Nope. I think al Qaeda bloody well got here before we could."
Encizo picked up McCarter's train of thought. "The attack at the docks. A stall tactic?"
McCarter nodded.
"Well, it sure as hell looks like it worked," James said.
"Let's search the rest of the ship," McCarter ordered. "But watch yourselves. We got enough dead men on board. I don't need any more, and especially not my own mates."
The men spread out and continued through the remaining areas, paying particular attention to the cargo holds. They cracked open crate after crate but they didn't find terrorists. They did eventually come upon the drugs they sought, a fact that would make Escobar and his DEA people happy as larks, but there were no terrorists and no sign that they had ever been on board.
"I don't get it," James said when they congregated on the bridge. "Why would they transport the terrorists but not the drugs?"
"Because they weren't worried about the drugs," Encizo said. "Whoever off-loaded this boat had one thing on their minds. Able bodies. They didn't give a rat's backside for the drugs or the crew. They probably killed them to keep them quiet."
"That sounds like something we could expect from al Qaeda," Hawkins replied.
"So that's it," Manning said. "We've hit a dead end."
"Let's hope not," McCarter said. "We got lots of reasons to bring this puppy into port at Mazatlan and let Escobar's men take charge, not the least of which is to take a whole bunch of drugs out of circulation that might otherwise have wound up in the States. Plus, we may just pick up a lead on where our terrorists may be headed next."
"How do you figure?" James asked.
"Think about it," McCarter replied. "If al Qaeda managed to get their people off this boat, then it wasn't that long ago. We've already figured they sent that crew back at the docks to delay us, and I'd say we're spot-on as to the reason why. That means they won't get too far heading out of Mazatlan in the middle of the night, and nobody's going to know that route better than the DEA."
"You think Escobar can point us in the right direction," Hawkins concluded.
"He hasn't steered us wrong so far," McCarter said. "And we're likely to get all the cooperation we can handle once he sees how we came through with this drug cache here. Every one of those blokes will probably get a medal."
"You know, I don't understand something," James said. "Why would they kill all the rest of the crew but leave these two alive?"
"Who knows?" James said. "They're terrorists. Does anything they do really make any sense?"
"Maybe these poor bastards were hiding out, trying to decide what to do when we showed up."
"Well, we're not getting anywhere fast standing around guessing," Encizo said.
To McCarter he added, "What do you want to do?"
"We'd best make another pass through the ship and make sure there are no other survivors stowed away. I don't feel like taking a chance of getting a bullet in the back by some lone Mexican national holed up somewhere with a pistol and a rage to use it."
"Okay," James said. "But that leaves just one problem."
"What's that?"
"Anybody here know how to pilot one of these things?"
"No," Hawkins replied quickly. He pointed at the unconscious men on the floor and said, "But I'll bet they do."
* * *
Kamesh Razahim stood with arms crossed and watched with smug satisfaction as his men were led off the boats. He knew he shouldn't have trusted Cortina, and he was now glad he'd listened to his instincts. Of course, he couldn't take all the credit. He owed a considerable debt to Fadil Bari for suggesting he devise an alternate plan in case Cortina failed them. In this case, it paid off as they recovered most of the money and managed to rescue all thirteen of their comrades intact.
Razahim wasn't necessarily pleased about having to kill the drug smugglers, but they could not risk a betrayal at this late stage of the game, and with the ship anchored several miles off the coastline in the dark of night, it would be some time before someone came upon them and a rescue operation was put in motion. Even if the crew who had escaped at the docks managed to locate the ship, they would still have to get it to port and notify authorities. By any measure, he and his men would be well gone by then.
As they loaded on the trucks, Razahim dialed the special number he'd been given. Bari answered on the first ring.
"We have them," Razahim said. "All are safe."
"Are you headed to our base camp now?"
"We leave in the next few minutes," he said. "I'm personally going to oversee the final transfer to you."
"Excellent," Bari replied. "I look forward to it. What about the Americans?"
"They will no longer be a problem."
"You've done well. I am anxious to see you again."
"And so you shall. You will be there tomorrow morning?"
"I should arrive well ahead of you. I must stop in town first, take care of business, but I should still make the camp long before you get there."
"We shall see you then. May God be with you."
"And with you."


Chapter Twenty-Two
As soon as Able Team touched down at Santa Cruz County Airport on the fringes of Nogales, Arizona, they transferred their equipment into a plain van painted midnight-blue. Lyons agreed to take the wheel so Schwarz and Blancanales had time to set up the End Zone interface they would use to track al Qaeda's movements before they reached the border checkpoint.
As he drove, Lyons contacted Stony Man through a secure cellular-to-satellite uplink by using the driver assistance system that came with the rental. Aaron Kurtzman answered on the first ring.
"Bear, you clever devil you," Lyons said by way of greeting.
"How so?"
"Using this commercial system to establish a secure satellite communications uplink by hacking into their computers. You're such a sly devil."
"Hey, any port in a storm."
"Is Hal there?"
"Yep, hold on."
Brognola's voice came on a minute later with enough echo and distortion to tell Lyons he'd been awaiting their call from the Annex. "Status report."
"Well, we missed you, too," Lyons said. "And yes, we're all fine here, thank you."
Brognola sighed. " Sorry. I'm a little punchy. I've been up most of the night and I just sent Barbara off to Wonderland on an inquiry."
"Of what sort?"
"I'll get into that later," Brognola said. "What's happening?"
Lyons updated the Stony Man chief on their current status and their intent to pursue the terrorists. "We'll chase them across the border if we have to. Gadgets and Pol are in back setting up equipment, and I'm headed to the port of entry now."
"You make any headway on the WIPP issues?"
"Whatever reason they had for that bogus attack on the plant is still a mystery to us. The DOE inspectors went over every inch of that facility and they found no evidence of major radiation leaks or container tampering. Al Qaeda generated false alarms, somehow. They're still looking into how they hacked the system but I don't know how much that information will help us. It's obvious they were creating a diversion so they could get their people over the fence, but they sure as hell didn't try very hard."
"What do you mean?" Brognola asked.
"They could easily have sent twice the crew they did. It's as if they weren't really interested in getting inside the facility. More like they were just there to make noise."
"Maybe a stall tactic."
"Okay, we considered that possibility. But for what purpose, Hal?"
"I'm not sure. But I can tell you that I just got off the phone with Phoenix Force and they've been having very similar experiences to yours. Random attacks out of nowhere, disorganized and without any real goal in mind. In one case, however, they figured out al Qaeda was stalling them so they could get their team off the boat belonging to drug smugglers. They left the entire crew for dead, except for a couple of survivors who were probably hiding at the time. Gassed them with cyanide, we think."
Lyons let out a long, low whistle. "Wholesale genocide. Not a good sign."
"No," Brognola said. "It means whatever they're planning is close to fruition and they're getting desperate. They've also killed any contacts they had, except for one we managed to keep alive, a Mexican police captain. He's in the custody of federal authorities in his country, but apparently he wasn't privy to the terrorist smuggling operation happening right under his nose."
"I'm not sure I'd buy that if I was David," Lyons remarked.
"Maybe not, but there's no evidence this police captain knew anything about it. In fact, it looks like maybe one of his cronies struck a deal with al Qaeda behind his back. Now Phoenix has a whole ship of dead Mexican nationals and cocaine to deal with, not to mention al Qaeda managed to slip through."
"They have any hard leads left?"
"No," Brognola said.
Lyons detected the grim tone in his voice. "You going to pull them?"
"I mentioned it, but David's convinced they still have some possible angles to work. In fact, I believe you may be trailing one of them right at the moment."
"Yeah, that thought had just occurred to me, too."
"I'm betting that's Bari's tail you're on," Brognola said. "So stay on it, and whatever you do, don't lose him."
"Understood. We'll touch base as soon as we have more information worth your while. Now what's this about Barb?"
"She did some digging into the connection between Boggs's husband and the JI. There's a strong possibility that Hamud was working for Bari when you guys took him out. Barb thinks if she can prove to Boggs that al Qaeda has done nothing but manipulate her from the beginning, and it was actually Bari's design that her husband not survive, maybe she can bring her around to our way of thinking."
"To what end?"
"Well, if your theory about her sabotaging the containers is correct, it might give us a better idea of what Bari has in mind."
"Yeah, well, it would sure make it a lot easier for us to plan a counteroffensive if we knew the real target. Pol came up with the possibility al Qaeda may be planning to steal the containers rather than destroy them. It's just a theory, though. We don't have any proof."
Brognola grunted. "Maybe so, but it's not a half-bad thought. I'll have Bear run it through his new probabilities and statistics system."
"Oh, yeah," Lyons said with a grin. "We've all been itching to try that out."
"Bear's easy to please."
"Well, we await the results with bated breath. Out, here." Lyons disconnected the call and then directed his attention to his teammates in back via the rearview mirror. "We got two minutes to the border. You ready?"
"Putting the last of the false panels in place now," Blancanales said.
Eyes fixed on the road ahead, Lyons whispered, "All right then. Here we go."
A few phone calls to official resources could have gotten them across the border without so much as a second glance, but Lyons had elected to keep a low profile. First, Bari seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, and they didn't want to risk tipping him off. Second, while the men of Able Team were "officially" sanctioned within the United States, operations they conducted in other countries often were not. The Oval Office had to maintain a semblance of innocence if Stony Man's covert nature were to remain intact. On occasion, that meant Able Team might have to break the rules and, as such, absorb all liability if it didn't produce the desired results. That's why Lyons and his teammates made sure they had a solid plan going into it, and their foray at the Dennis DeConcini Port of Entry would be no exception.
Lyons slowed and purposefully swerved into a lane with the most cars. After having to check one vehicle after another, the inspectors would be more lax and seemingly less interested. It wasn't their discovery of the electronic equipment that worried Lyons as much as what would happen if they found their weapons. Blancanales had secured them in a special area secreted in the roof of their van, which was statistically the most unlikely place for police inspectors to look.
"Okay," Lyons said as they drew closer. "Put on your we're-just-headed-down-south-for-a-good-time faces."
"Ironman," Blancanales said as he climbed into the front passenger seat. "I've never known you to be so skittish."
"Not skittish, careful," Lyons countered.
The border agents quickly scanned a sedan decorated with Just Married all over it, did a cursory inspection of its trunk and then waved the young honeymooners through without ceremony. Lyons eased up to the line, put the van in Park and engaged the power window.
"Evening," he said with his best smile.
The Mexican police officers took up position on either side of the van, which had also drawn the interest of a pair of U.S. Border Patrol agents.
"Hello," the officer said pleasantly enough. "May I see your driver's license, vehicle insurance card and passports please?"
Lyons handed all of the requested information to the officer, every bit of it forged except for the rental van paperwork that had been legitimately leased to them in Lyons's cover name. He also produced the required vehicle import permit, tourist permit and other documents Stony Man had created on the fly with legitimate numbers, photographs and signatures. Just past the entry port he could see the lights of vehicles crossing International Street. Dawn was still several hours away, and Lyons could already feel the effects of exhaustion beginning to wear on him.
The Mexican police inspector returned their documentations. "Your paperwork appears to be in order. Would you kindly step from the vehicle so we may inspect it?"
The Able Team trio did so and stood nearby as they searched the undercarriage, went through the back with a dope dog and ran a special camera into the gas tank. As they conducted the search, the officer asked Lyons standard questions about the purpose of their visit, expected length of stay and other general details. Lyons knew the process was as much a chance for the man to gauge their personalities and behavior as it was whether they really wanted to know, and so he kept his answers succinct enough to present reasonability without becoming a chatterbox, the latter a sure sign of wrongdoing.
After a thorough but run-of-the-mill search, the officer returned their documentation and waved them through.
Once they were a reasonable distance away, Schwarz called from the back, "Hey, I'm getting the system powered up now but I need you to pull over a minute. Can you find some nice, quiet side street for a bit?"
"No problem," Lyons replied. "If this town has anything, it's plenty of nice quiet side streets."
"Especially this time of morning."
"That'll probably be a good time to switch out and let you drive. You know the area better than I do."
Blancanales smiled and replied, "Undoubtedly."
* * *
Barbara Price sat outside the briefing room and awaited the summons. A plane had arrived at Andrews AFB just a few hours before with Sarah Boggs aboard, and U.S. marshals immediately whisked her away to this location â€" undisclosed to anyone else â€" as soon as the plane taxied to the private hangar Stony Man had arranged. Once they arrived, they turned Boggs over to a military guard. While this remained a civilian matter in many regards, Boggs was still an employee of the Department of Defense by her affiliation with Sandia Laboratories, and as such was subject to DOD regulations. Her involvement with the nuclear energy program alone bore her status as a VIP and granted such resources to protect her safety.
Of course, Price knew in many respects it was more about guarding the secrets of the country from al Qaeda than the surety of Boggs's life. Boggs would know it, too, so when the guards finally called in Price to meet with the woman, she didn't have to pretend it was anything more than simply a way of protecting American interests.
Price noticed Boggs watched her with dull interest as she entered the conference room. The scientist maintained a placid expression, yet Price also recognized her haughty posture. This wouldn't prove easy; then again, nobody had promised Price it would. At this point, Price viewed this more as a challenge of her skills, a test of one strong woman's will against another, than anything else. She enjoyed a challenge and never turned one down when she saw the opportunity.
Price sat at the table and smiled. "Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?"
Boggs shook her head.
Price cleared her throat and said, "As I sat outside and waited, I thought about what I might say to convince you I'm on your side. Then I realized it wouldn't do much good, since you're an educated woman and wouldn't fall for any shenanigans."
When Boggs held her silence, Price asked, "You have nothing to say to that?"
"What would you like me to say?" Boggs replied with a shrug.
"Let's try again," Price said after a moment of silence. "My name is Barbara. I work for an agency in the U.S. government you don't ever read about in the newspapers."
"There's a surprise."
Price battled the temptation to respond and continued. "I work with the man you almost got killed back there in New Mexico. We investigated your background, the death of your husband. We know all about his affiliation with the Jemaah Islamiyah."
"You don't know anything about his affiliations."
Price inclined her head, kept her tone even. "Maybe you think I don't, but I have information here that contradicts that assumption. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here. I thought it might be important for you to know a little bit about the men you're protecting."
Price opened the folder she'd brought with her and removed a photograph. As she slid it across the table, she said, "Meet Fadil Bari."
"Who?" Boggs said, making no move to look carefully at the picture.
"Fadil Bari, the real person responsible for the death of Rajish Hamud, along with dozens, perhaps even hundreds of others just like him."
"You're going to try to sell me on some bogus story about how it was the terrorists who killed Rajish?"
"I never said that." She tapped the photograph and said, "Take a good look at that face. Memorize it, lady, because you'll want to be able to recall it instantly when you're sitting in a federal pen and thinking about where it all went wrong."
"I won't be thinking that," Boggs said. "In fact, I'm not even sure I'll go to prison. You can't prove I did anything wrong."
"Yes, we can." Price removed another sheet from the folder. "That's a copy of the submission itinerary for every safety-analysis report you delivered to the Department of Energy on the TRU waste containers. When we match those submissions against the actual reports, we believe we'll find those containers are actually substandard and could not have passed their safety ratings by any small margin."
"You think I sabotaged the containers?"
"No, we think you simply made it easy for Bari and his minions to sabotage them by permitting issuance of certificates to substandard containers. It's only a matter of time before we can prove it."
"So what you're saying is that you have no proof other than that my husband was murdered in cold blood by his own government."
"You still don't get it, do you?"
Boggs sat back in her chair, folded her arms and shook her head. "Why don't you explain it to me?"
"You know, you can be hoity-toity and smug all you wish when you're sitting in Fort Leavenworth," Price said, changing tack. "I'm trying to give you a chance to help yourself while also telling you the truth about your husband's demise. He died because Fadil Bari arranged for him to die, to take the fall for their cause. That's what terrorists do, you know, in case September 11, 2001, didn't quite hit home for you. They spread terror and chaos through the death of others, and in the meantime they're already planning their next attack and the next group of innocents they plan to manipulate, maim and murder. I know the men who killed Rajish Hamud, I read their mission reports, and believe me when I say that they weren't left with any choice. They were under heavy attack by Arab men toting automatic weapons and they weren't bothering to stop and count who was armed and who wasn't. Fadil Bari put your husband there purposely that day, because he knew ahead of time his plans had been uncovered by people with whom I work every day."
"You're sounding a bit preachy."
Price cocked an eyebrow. "Am I? Well, then, maybe I'll clue you in on something you don't know, since you seem omnipotent as it regards everything else. Bari's plan, whatever it is, isn't likely to succeed. We already have an idea that the WIPP shipments are his target and we pretty much think we know which ones. Whether he survives or not, there will be a trial and you'll stand judgment for your crimes, which I'm quite confident will include treason.
"So now you have a chance to help yourself. You can either reclaim some self-respect by telling us what you know and stop protecting some scumbag terrorist who cares nothing for you, or you can bank on the very remote possibility your lawyer might slip you through a legal loophole that won't get you execution or life in prison."
"Are you offering me a deal?"
Price shook her head. "I don't have the authority to deal, particularly without legal representation present and in light of the fact you've already invoked your right to counsel. I'm here, well, let's just say this is an unofficial visit. If you don't choose to talk to me, that's your prerogative. I can't threaten you or make you talk. You choose not to cooperate with me, then I walk away and you never saw me, the conversation never took place and we can arrange for fifty witnesses to say you were alone until your attorney arrived. But please understand I'm here to try to make things easier for you, and if you do talk to me then we'll do everything we can to get you a lighter sentence, maybe even get your status changed to that of a protected witness by telling the courts that al Qaeda coerced you through the death of Rajish Hamud."
Boggs snorted. "Why would you want to help me? A traitor? You just said it yourself, they want to see someone hang for this."
"I think I know why you did what you did, Sarah."
"You do, huh? And it's 'Dr. Boggs' to you."
Price didn't bat an eyelash. "Okay, so you don't want to be my pal. Fine. We can skip any talk of being bosom buddies. But that doesn't change the fact that al Qaeda used you and they killed your husband to make the deal juicier, then left you to rot in a federal prison when they no longer needed you."
"You don't know anything about these people."
"There's where you're wrong. Why do you think they showed up on the highway and then later at the safe house? You don't honestly think they planned to leave you alive, do you? Please tell me a woman of your background and education didn't fall for that. Please tell me you understand that Bari's men weren't planning to be discriminatory in their killing. If you believe that, then you're not as smart as I gave you credit for being."
"You're saying they would have killed me, too?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," she said. "Why do you think my higher-ups pulled strings to have you moved here to Washington, D.C.? It wasn't out of convenience, that's for sure. We could have easily left you right there in New Mexico until we got past this. Instead, I convinced them you might actually cooperate when I told you the truth of what happened to your husband. Whatever al Qaeda's planning here, you've become a liability to them and their operations solely because of what you know.
"So one more time I'm going to give you a chance to do something to save your country from another devastating terrorist attack that could potentially kill hundreds of thousands of people, maybe millions, and help yourself. Are you going to take my offer? Or are you going to throw it back in my face and take your chances and protect a man you don't know and who I can prove beyond any reasonable doubt was responsible for sending your husband to his death?"
Price crossed her legs and relaxed. She watched Boggs, could see the wheels turning and her expression soften. So it had finally sunk in that the men she was helping had actually caused the death of her husband. Price could understand that kind of devotion to a man, one that bordered on fanaticism. She wondered how far she might go in a similar situation.
"All right," Boggs said. "I'll cooperate. Ask me anything."


Chapter Twenty-Three
"Brilliant," Carl Lyons said. "A masterful stroke if I ever heard one. Tell Barb nice job, Hal. Real nice job. We'll be in touch as soon as we know something. Out, here."
Lyons clapped shut his cell phone.
Blancanales looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he drove. "What was that about?"
"Barb got Boggs to talk," Lyons said.
"Really? What did she have to say?"
"They're sending us all the intelligence, but it looks like you were right on the money." Lyons grinned at Blancanales. "The safety reports she sent on the containers weren't forged because they were trying to make them substandard so they were vulnerable to a breach by conventional attack of the shipments."
"So what's the story?" Schwarz inquired from the back of the van.
"It's just like Politician here figured," Lyons said. "The containers Boggs falsified the reports about were designed in such a way as they could steal them and then use the materials internally to create a nuclear bomb."
"Did she identify which containers they were?"
Lyons shook his head. "No, she couldn't be sure, but something she mentioned about overpacking in their bogus reports rang all sorts of bells with me when I heard the term."
"Overpacking?" Blancanales shook his head. "I don't get it."
"I do," Schwarz said.
Lyons nodded in affirmation. "You weren't in on that one. We had a conversation with the head of the DOT while you were vacationing up at Elephant Butte."
"He told us that certain materials are contained within overpacking drums so there's no chance of a spontaneous fission or other type of accident," Schwarz added. "It's basically designed to provide a safe transport mechanism that would otherwise be quite unstable if it leaked or somehow got mixed."
"But if these overpacked drums were inside faulty containers and al Qaeda managed to successfully steal one of them," Blancanales replied, "they might have enough raw material to fashion a crude but working fission bomb."
"Or several," Lyons said. "At minimum, they could make dirty bombs from such material."
Blancanales whistled. "Spontaneous and uncontrolled fission bombs. Basically we're talking about splitting atoms on the fly. What will these bastards think up next?"
"I don't know," Lyons replied with a grimace, "but it makes the case and point we need to find Bari and make sure to hell this guy doesn't leave Mexico alive. If he manages to successfully smuggle his crew back over the border before we're able to locate and neutralize him, our goose is cooked."
'"Our goose is cooked?'" Schwarz echoed. "Uh-oh, we'd better look out, Pol. He's starting to use those arcane idioms again."
The pair chuckled at Lyons's expense but the Able Team leader laughed along with them. They hadn't seen much of a break since the start of the mission so the levity provided a welcome diversion. All three men were getting punchy, Schwarz and Lyons especially since they were lacking the sleep of their more rested partner. Another good reason why Blancanales longed to get behind the wheel.
"So where to?" Blancanales asked.
"That depends. I think it makes sense given the timing of this thing that whatever Bari's over here in Mexico doing, it's something that can't take long and he won't have to go far. I'd say that means he'll stay within the borders of Sonora."
Lyons glanced back at Schwarz and said, "Boggs did give up a phone number she believed went to Bari's assistant, a guy by the name of Sahrout Dahabi. They're running it through the GPS database now, and Bear said he'd send the results along as soon as possible. What have you found on your contraption there?"
"Well, Bear managed to tap into the camera system at the DeConcini port. We're running everyone who's crossed over the border in the last twenty-four hours through the facial recognition software. That takes a lot of time."
"Okay, so that will help us verify Bari and his people came through," Blancanales said. "But how does it help us locate him?"
"Once we know the time he came through, and the lane, we can then use End Zone to track the infrared signatures left by the vehicle based on the time stamp. In all likelihood they came through sometime late last night or early this morning, which means there won't be many vehicles having crossed at that time. We should be able to pick up a distinct trail and calculate his probable destination from that. Basically, we got lucky. If they had chosen to cross the border in the middle of the day, we'd be screwed."
A low, steady beep from the console in the van sounded for attention and Schwarz let go with a war whoop as he donned the headset. The other Able Team warriors knew that sound, the indicator that Schwarz had pulled a hit from the system. He began to talk quietly and steadily into the microphone via a secure, wireless hookup with Kurtzman at Stony Man.
While he didn't understand any of it, Lyons had to admit the whole End Zone system impressed him. Not only had they been able to use it to pinpoint al Qaeda's initial location at Mt. Riley, it also appeared they would be able to determine, at least with some degree of accuracy, the likely direction of Bari and his terror army.
"You know, something just occurred to me," Blancanales said. "Even if Bari's here to hook up his men, smuggle them across the border, he wouldn't bring the entourage to do it. I mean, he'd only have a select few handpicked for the extraction team."
"So?"
"That still leaves a whole lot of terrorists back in the States, probably just waiting for him to return so they can execute their plan."
"And you think even if he doesn't come back, they still might go forward anyway."
"They'll have nothing to lose."
Lyons nodded. "That's a good point."
Schwarz leaned forward and said, "All right, we found the time stamp where Bari came through DeConcini port of entry. It was this morning at approximately 0107."
Lyons looked at the dash clock, which had been preset to the local time zone. "And it's a quarter to five now, so we're about four hours or so behind them. Can you still pick up their trail on that kind of gap?"
"The computers are working on it now, but I think I already have a pretty good guess. Based on their direction and speed, and on the fact that we got the trace on a last-known good signal with this Dahabi's cell phone, my best guess is they're heading to a town called Hermosillo."
"I've heard of it," Lyons said with a nod. "About a two-and-half or three-hour drive from here."
"That's going to be like trying to find needles in a haystack," Blancanales said. "You're talking a city of over a half million people, not to mention an airport, sports stadiums. It's comparable in size and geography to say, like, well, Albuquerque is one good example."
"Nobody said it would be easy," Schwarz reminded his friend.
"One thing's for sure," Lyons said. "We can't let them get away, at least not with the remainder of their little team intact. So we think we have a solid trail on Dahabi and we've confirmed Bari's with him. That means we have an opportunity to take out the number one and number two guy at the same time. We might not get this kind of chance again."
"Good enough for me," Blancanales said as he started the engine.
* * *
Marty Escobar stepped from the bowels of the berthing quarters and pulled the handkerchief from his nose. The stench of death had begun to permeate the entire area and when Escobar could no longer take it he had to get away from there and get some air. There were also the hazards of the cyanide gas to consider, and it wasn't exactly good for them to suck up a bunch of toxins before the biohazardous materials team had cleared the area of human occupation.
"Jesus," Escobar hissed. "It's like a sewer of death in there."
"That's one way of putting it," Encizo replied.
McCarter and Encizo accompanied Escobar to the upper deck. The DEA guy's pace quickened as they walked and he barely made it to the railing in time to heave his guts over the side. McCarter and Encizo stood there in respectful silence, warding off observers with dangerous looks to protect at least a modicum of Escobar's dignity.
After he finished, Escobar wiped his mouth with the handkerchief and then pocketed it and muttered thickly, "Sorry. I'm not usually so queasy."
"Don't sweat it," McCarter replied. "It made my stomach seesaw a bit, too."
Escobar nodded, then took one of the cigarettes McCarter fished from his pack and lit it before saying, "Listen, guys, I know this didn't turn out how any of us wanted it. But we took a lot of dope off American streets today whether you know it or not. I just want to say thanks for the hand. I owe you guys."
"No problem," Encizo said. "And we need to actually cash in on the favor immediately, if we can."
Escobar splayed his hands flat out in front of him. "Name it."
"Well, for starters we're going to need some decent wheels," McCarter said. "A couple of SUVs would be sweet."
"I can arrange that easy. Anything else?"
McCarter and Encizo exchanged glances before the Briton replied, "We need all the information you have on the drug pipeline routes out of here. We know that information is highly classified, and that even you might not be able to get your hands on it."
"I think I can swing that," he said. "I'm a section chief, so it wouldn't raise any suspicions if I asked for the intelligence from our field guys."
Encizo made a face. "You don't get that from your headquarters?"
"You kidding me?" Escobar asked with a laugh. "The suits back in Washington don't know any of that stuff. Neither does the intelligence division. Hell, they don't want to know because then they might actually have to do something about it."
"Plausible deniability," Encizo said.
"Exactly."
McCarter arched a brow and eyed Encizo. "We sure know about that, eh, mate?"
Encizo nodded.
"The reason we don't generally keep any written records of things like that down here is because of the risk the locals might place a mole inside the DEA. It wouldn't be hard. As you can see, the Mexican police force is about as secure as a Juarez chicken ranch on a Saturday night. All of that kind of intelligence comes from our guys heavy in the field, the ones who do undercover work for anywhere from six months to three years with the pipeline teams. The problem's never usually finding out where the dope's going, it's keeping our men alive long enough to extract them and update our information."
McCarter nodded. "Because once you pull them for the intelligence there's no sending them back inside."
"Right again." Escobar finished his cigarette, flicked it away and said, "It's a bit early to run our locals from out of Mazatlan, but with the bust of this size we just made it possible their lives are forfeit anyway. You see, dope mules keep changing their routes but eventually when we get a major shipment they realize there's probably somebody on the inside. That's when the deep-jungle inquisitions begin and they lie low. Someone always talks. These guys have had a lot of practice in the torture business."
Encizo shook his head. "It never ceases to amaze me what new atrocities these bastards can think up for their fellow man."
"I try not to be that philosophical about it," Escobar said. "No offense, but if I thought like you do, it would drive me insane."
"Too late," McCarter said with a grin. He jerked a thumb in Encizo's direction. "He's already past insane."
Escobar chuckled. "In that case, I know what I have to look forward to."
As they walked toward the gangplank Escobar asked, "You guys mind if I ask why exactly you want this information about likely routes out of Mazatlan?"
"We think local operators at al Qaeda picked up their men ahead of time," McCarter replied. "The same operators who killed the men aboard this ship. If they were using routes already established by the drug smugglers, we think it makes sense they won't deviate from that path. As far as they probably know, we haven't made any connection between them and the drug-running."
"So they think you're strictly after the drugs."
"Unless Cortina managed to get to them and say otherwise," Encizo said.
"Even if they did," McCarter added, "it's not likely they'd deviate from their original plans. Too many variables. Remember that wherever they're headed, someone's waiting to receive them."
Encizo nodded, having to admit he hadn't thought of it in those terms. The fact remained their odds of successfully tracking the terrorists were slim at best. Even if they could pick up the trail, their quarry had at least a two-hour head start, possibly more, and it was a damn big country. It wouldn't be difficult for them to get lost real quick.
"All right," Escobar said. "I can't promise instant results. It's going to take a while to get our two agents out."
"What's a while?" McCarter asked.
"At least a couple of hours," Escobar said, "maybe longer. I've seen it take as much as a day."
"We don't have that kind of time."
"I know, but it's the best I can do on short notice. This is going to be risky, at best. And if they're deep in country, it might even take several days."
McCarter sighed, the aggravation obvious in his face, but Encizo picked it up quickly. "Anything you can do will help, Marty. Thanks."
* * *
Escobar proved as good as his word. Within three hours they had managed to pull one of their undercover men from his field op and get him safely to Mazatlan. The DEA op, a guy who went by the name of Juanito, entered the briefing room at the hotel still dressed in the dirty camouflage fatigue pants, green T-shirt and bandanna he'd been wearing when out with the smugglers.
Juanito didn't smell great, but McCarter and team did their best to ignore it. There weren't a whole lot of chances to bathe out there, and it wasn't difficult to get wrapped up in the lifestyle of the crews when it really counted. To be successful in any undercover work took a keen sense of role play and the ability to read a situation and react appropriately to it. It wasn't just a matter of being good at undercover work; it was also a matter of staying alive and every man there damn well knew it.
"Juanito," Escobar said. The two men embraced. "I'm sorry we had to bring you out, brother, but these guys did us a righteous one and they really need our help."
Juafiito smiled. "It's okay with me, dude. Word had already reached our camp about the bust on that freighter, and there was talk of a cleansing."
They all knew what he meant, the process of taking the entire group into the deep jungle and questioning each man until somebody confessed to being the mole. In some cases, men had broken down while others simply shot themselves before they could be interrogated. Squashing the drug trade along the White Trail was anything but child's play â€" it was a harsh and brutal existence, and many good men in the DEA had fallen for their dedication to battling the drug-smuggling business.
"We need all the intelligence you can give us on the current frails," McCarter said. "Particularly any running north."
Juanito nodded and looked at the map spread out in front of him. "That's easy enough. They did some changes with just this last shipment. You see this road here?"
The men of Phoenix Force nodded.
"This road leads all the way north into Sonora State. It's a rough frail at times, dirt and mud through the Sierra Madre, but it's mostly a two-to four-lane hardball. There've been some heavy rains lately, so there may be recent washouts. You'll want to be careful if you drive this thing."
"Where's it lead?"
Juafiito shrugged and scratched his beard. "Well, a lot of that depends on whether you stay on the main road or branch off."
"Assume you were going to run dope into the U.S.," Hawkins prompted. "What then?"
"Oh, that's easy. Hermosillo."
"Hermosillo," Encizo echoed. "You're sure?"
"Positive." Juanito directed them along the path of the highway. "They take the Sonora Highway through the Sierra Madre and along until they hit this point, about ten kilometers outside of Hermosillo. Basically it becomes a rough road, unmaintained. There are several checkpoints along this trail to the base camp. They're infrequent and unmarked, but they're there, my friends, and they're monitored by heavily armed sentries."
Hawkins produced a lopsided grin. "Shouldn't be too difficult, boys."
"My arse," McCarter replied. "I wouldn't be so cocky, mate, especially in light of the fact that this latest fiasco with the boat makes three times al Qaeda's gotten the upper hand on us.
"Juanito, about how far is Hermosillo by vehicle from here?"
"At least eight hours, and that depends much on how fast you're going, amigos."
McCarter turned to Escobar. "You have that transportation ready?"
Escobar nodded. "They're waiting downstairs. I managed to swing an SUV and 4x4 pickup. Best I could do."
"It'll be more than enough, mate."
McCarter turned to his crew and said, "Saddle up, gents. We got a whole bloody load of catching up to do."


Chapter Twenty-Four
"This is psychotic," Hawkins said as he got behind the wheel of the pickup. Encizo took shotgun as the Texan continued. "Even if we could find al Qaeda, they've still got a good jump on us. For that matter, they might already be at this base camp."
"That'd be the case no matter when we picked up their trail," Encizo chided.
"I suppose."
Driving the SUV, Manning took lead of their mini-convoy. Hawkins checked his side mirror before pulling into traffic. He'd taken it a bit personally when McCarter chastised him for his comment about al Qaeda, although he couldn't really say he didn't have it coming. He'd learned long ago, even before joining Phoenix Force, that underestimating the enemy could rapidly buy a soldier a flag-draped casket and a twenty-one-gun salute.
In this case, the entire mission had stymied him to a point. The sheer gall of al Qaeda to use dope smugglers to move a terrorist horde across the U.S.Mexican border had seemed crazy enough at the outset, but now that he saw how well they had done with it â€" coupled with the knowledge the operation had been in full swing for more than a year â€" he could see McCarter had a good point. At every turn al Qaeda had outfoxed them, managed to stay just one step ahead.
Encizo's cell phone rang. "Yeah?" Encizo said. "Sure, hold on." The Cuban pressed a button on the phone and then held it up in front of the dash between them. "Okay, we're both listening now."
"Roger," McCarter said. "Hang tight for a conference with the Farm."
There were loud clicks and beeps as McCarter connected the secure satellite feed to both phones for the conference call. Hawkins reached down and engaged the five-button code that would tie his phone to the rest, and then drew the retracting earpiece and stuck it in his ear so he could hear better over the drone of the engine.
"You guys there?" McCarter's voice asked a minute later.
"We read you," Encizo said.
"Hal and Barb, you guys on, too?"
"We're here," Brognola said.
"Okay, we're all listening. Go ahead with your info."
"Hello, team," Price said. "I wanted to make sure we got this to all of you simultaneously. We understand you're headed for Hermosillo, which we were encouraged to hear. I want to be the first to say you're right on target. Able Team has advised they're in Hermosillo now and doing a reconnaissance. They'll be waiting for you when you arrive."
"Well, it's good to hear we're on track," McCarter interjected. "Only problem is, we don't think al Qaeda's in Hermosillo. We have it from a reliable source that these buggers are holed up in some training camp in the Sierra Madre about fifty klicks southeast of the city."
"That doesn't sound like it jives with what Able Team's discovered at all."
"Who is it they're after in Hermosillo?"
"Bari and his lieutenant, one Sahrout Dahabi."
Hawkins considered the name and felt a cold chill come over him. "Guys, wait a minute. I know that name."
"From where?"
"Desert Storm," Hawkins replied.
"Sahrout Dahabi," Hawkins repeated as he searched his memory. He didn't have to search far. "He was known as Dahabi the Destroyer by locals in Kuwait, although I don't think the name was well-earned. Guy was a mercenary working with the Iraqi army, although in my mind he was little more than a hired thug. Not very competent, either. Mostly he did the lazy hits, small-time village leaders whose profiles said they were likely to betray Saddam Hussein if CIA advisers among special operations units came and offered them a deal to give him up. Others he just plain killed in cold blood because he collected money for every body he could produce with proof of treachery against the Iraqi regime. If that coward's actually working with Bari now, you can bet al Qaeda's leadership forced Dahabi on him. Guy's a rat and a weasel."
"Don't hold back, mate," James cut in. "Tell us how you really feel."
"Well, we didn't have much intelligence on Dahabi, so that fills in a few gaps," Brognola said. "But it doesn't change the fact that Able Team's reported they're in Hermosillo and they think they're close to wrapping this up. When or if they make contact with Bari, I've instructed them to advise you forthwith."
"That said," Price continued, "here's the plan. You guys will continue making hot toward Hermosillo. In the meantime, we'll see if we can verify this information of an encampment at the location and coordinates designated to you by DEA. We'll notify you as soon as we find something."
"Understood," McCarter replied. "You can let Ironman know we should be in his area of operation by evening, I'd guess about 1800 if we don't run into anything to slow us down."
"I'd suggest you hold off on that little trip," Brognola said. "We're going to send Jack down to pick you up."
"You sure about that?" McCarter replied. "By the time he gets down here we could be well on our way to just about being there."
"We've got your location pegged," Kurtzman said. "Hal, why don't we let them continue on and arrange for Jack to pick them up somewhere along the way?"
"An even better idea," Brognola said. "That will get them there all the sooner. You heard that, David?"
"Roger that," McCarter said. "Have him signal when he's in range and we'll find a place to rendezvous. I'm sure Escobar can send someone after these vehicles he loaned us."
"Good luck," Brognola replied.
As they disconnected the call, Hawkins whispered, "Yeah. 'Cause I think we're going to need it."
* * *
"Come on, Gadgets!" Lyons snapped. "Is this the place or not?"
"Stop your squawking," Schwarz replied with as much patience as he could muster. "You don't want me to get this wrong, do you?"
"He's right, you know," Blancanales said with much more calm. "We wouldn't want to break in on some poor locals who are just congregating at their favorite watering hole and having a good time."
"Favorite watering hole?" Lyons echoed. He gestured toward the building with his chin and added, "Here?"
Able Team had been lucky enough that Schwarz's system proved relatively decent in tracking Bari and his men. Between the technology utilized by End Zone and its interface with Stony Man's dedicated satellite link, plus the occasional GPS signals they retrieved from points where Dahabi's cell phone got a signal, Schwarz had managed to pinpoint Bari's final destination within just a few miles of his probable location. That description didn't really give Carl Lyons a warm fuzzy, but he knew it was the best to go on.
Most of the structures in the area were residences with the occasional restaurant, but when they rolled past a dilapidated building with a tavern sign, the men of Able Team knew they'd found a most likely mark. Blancanales pulled their van to a curb a half block from the rundown tavern so they could keep an eye on the entrance. They looked for Bari's vehicle but didn't see one.
"Doesn't mean a thing," Lyons said. "He could have changed cars at any time along the way."
So the men sat in the van, roasting in the hot sun with their windows up, determined to wait it out. At one point Schwarz convinced Blancanales, the one of all of them who would look least out of place in this neighborhood, to get a directional microphone down the street and position it so it pointed directly at the open door of the tavern. So far, they had spent the past two hours or so while Schwarz and Blancanales listened to conversations in Spanish for any hint Bari might be inside.
Eventually, Blancanales pointed at two figures as they emerged from the tavern. There was no mistaking, even from that distance, the striking features of Fadil Bari and Sahrout Dahabi as they started down the sidewalk, away from Able Team.
"Let's take them," Lyons said. "Right now."
"Don't have to tell me twice," Blancanales said, starting the van's engine.
As Blancanales dropped the gearshift into Drive, Lyons heard the ratcheting sound of a rifle bolt being drawn to the rear. He turned just in time to see Schwarz release the bolt on his Beretta SCS70/90 and chamber a round with the finality of metal snapping against metal.
"Gadgets, you'll cover us from the rear when we get up on them."
"Roger," Schwarz replied.
Blancanales eased the van away from the curb and headed down the street at a leisurely pace. He already knew the idea here would be stealth. It didn't make any sense to have waited this long, staking out the place with high-tech equipment, only to come barreling down the street with smoking rubber and tip off their quarry before they could get within striking distance. Blancanales kept it at a cool twenty-five miles per hour as Lyons drew the Colt Python from his shoulder holster and rolled down the window. Just as they drove past the entrance of the bar, two Mexicans with long hair, beer guts and bulky arms scored with tattoos emerged. They immediately saw Lyons in the van, pistol leveled out the window in the direction of Bari and Dahabi. The men looked surprised and one of them emitted a shout of surprise just loud enough to alert the terrorist pair.
Dahabi turned first and his eyes locked on Lyons's just as the Able Team leader sighted down the barrel. With the hammer back, Lyons had only to squeeze and he'd started back on the trigger when Schwarz called a warning from the back. A millisecond later something slammed Lyons forward in the seat and jarred the pistol from his grasp. His knees struck the dashboard and even through the pain he could hear the clatter of his pistol as it bounced off the external running board and onto the pavement.
Blancanales jammed on the brakes followed by a tromp on the accelerator, a move that threw Lyons back into the plush captain's seat. A moment later the smell of spent gun powder immediately filled the interior of the van as Schwarz began to rock and roll with the Beretta. Lyons turned in his seat and swung the door of the van wide open. A dark, four-door sedan was right on their tail and Schwarz was sweeping the windshield with a sustained burst of auto fire.
Ignoring the pain in his knees, Lyons jumped toward the back and scooped up an MP-5. He spun his body to face the side door, yanked the handle and jerked the door back with his right hand as he leveled the subgun in his left and squeezed off a short burst directed at Bari and Dahabi, who were now running down the street and looking wildly for some cover. They found shelter, however temporary, by ducking down an alleyway between two residences.
"Keep in radio contact!" Lyons ordered as he burst from the van to give chase.
Blancanales practically stood on the brakes, tossing Schwarz to and fro, although the warrior had made short work of the sedan that had rammed into the back of them. Only one man inside had appeared to survive. He leaned into the front seat and whipped the wheel to the right so the vehicle, which was now crawling along on a bullet-shattered frame, bounced onto the curb and came to a stop. The terrorist then bailed from the back only to step directly into Blancanales's line of fire. The al Qaeda gunner toppled to the pavement, his head blown apart by two .357 Magnum slugs.
As Blancanales came around to the back, Schwarz was in the process of reloading. "Where the hell did Ironman go?"
"He went off chasing Bari and Dahabi."
Schwarz nodded and keyed up the microphone on his headset. "Gadgets to Ironman. Where away?"
No answer.
"Ironman, this is Gadgets. What's your situ?"
After another long moment of silence, Blancanales said, "Oh boy, Ironman. What have you gone and done now?"
* * *
Lyons cursed when he heard the burst of static and pop in his ear. He ripped out the earpiece as he set off in pursuit of his quarry. They continued through the alleyway for about three blocks before Dahabi and Bari split off, each taking a different direction. Lyons decided to stay on Bari. He knew his teammates would eventually make it to him, and hoped the damage from the rear-ender hadn't completely taken their van out of commission.
As Lyons rounded the corner, he poured on the speed. The terrorist leader only stopped to look back once during the pursuit, a move that cost him as Lyons started to gain. Bari hadn't bothered to fire at him, obviously bent on simply trying to get away at this point. Lyons grinned as he got within tagging distance, but the sense of victory was short-lived as he noticed an early-model Chevy rocket around the corner of the street. The vehicle thundered up the road directly toward them, clouds of blue-black smoke pouring from twin tailpipes that roared with glass-packs modifications. The earsplitting howl from the vehicle muffled the cacophony of autofire that spit from the muzzles of terrorist weapons protruding from the rear windows.
Lyons shoulder-rolled as the rounds buzzed past his legs, burning the air around him. The former LAPD detective came clear of the roll unscathed, landing on a knee. Pain from the impact in the van lanced up his thigh but he ignored it, focusing his energies on a counteroffensive. He snap-aimed the MP-5, steadying it with stock against shoulder, and triggered controlled bursts at the driver's side of the vehicle. The windows shattered on impact, and Lyons managed to nail one terrorist in the back with two rounds that split the man's skull open.
Apparently realizing they were up against a skilled opponent with enough courage to stand and fight, the driver hit the accelerator and the vehicle jumped forward. The Chevy proceeded about fifty yards, then skidded sideways to an angle in the middle of the street, nose facing Lyons. Doors opened and terrorists bailed to take firing positions behind the cover of their doors. Before Lyons could find cover, squealing tires drew the attention of all the combatants. Able Team's van rounded the corner at the opposite end of the street and roared on a direct path toward the terrorist vehicle.
Lyons grinned.


Chapter Twenty-Five
While perched on the running board of the van, Schwarz triggered the SCS70/90 from the hip. A multitude of 5.56 mm slugs bombarded the terrorists, causing them to scatter. Schwarz instructed Blancanales to slow as he gained better control on the sweeping motion of the Beretta. Several slugs caught a retreating terrorist in the spine and pitched the guy onto the pavement face-first.
The electronics wizard scanned the battleground until he settled on Carl Lyons's familiar form. He appeared to be alive and well, and with the support of his comrades he delivered a merciless onslaught of his own against the terrorist horde. Schwarz had to admit surprise in their numbers â€" he hadn't expected them to be operating at this count in Mexico. Obviously, the Mexican government hadn't been keeping up on its terrorism protocols because it seemed not only was Hermosillo infested with them, but they appeared to operate with relative impunity. They could walk into taverns or down streets unmolested.
Well, Able Team had plenty to say and they were doing their talking with hot lead. Schwarz swung the muzzle of the SCS70/90 onto another terrorist and squeezed off a fresh salvo. Several M855 hardball rounds punched through the terrorist's chest, flipped him off his feet and dumped him on his back. His corpse rolled several times and came to rest prone against the curb.
Blancanales brought the van to a rolling stop. He went EVA, using the driver's door as cover, and sighted on the last terrorist with his SIG P-239. Blancanales triggered a double-tap, rounds punching through the terrorist's sternum. The man flipped sideways at an awkward angle, his finger curling reflexively on the trigger. A volley of rounds stuttered harmlessly into the pavement in front of him. The terrorist crumpled to the street in a heap as the weapon clattered from his grasp.
Schwarz looked to see Lyons charging them. "Move! We still have a chance to get Bari!"
"Probably not," Blancanales said as he got behind the wheel and Schwarz rolled the side door shut. As Lyons jumped into the front seat, he added, "But we can definitely get Dahabi."
"Bari's the more important, Pol," Lyons said.
"Yeah, but he's probably got a good lead on us. Dahabi we can nab without much trouble at all."
"What do you mean?"
Blancanales had put the van in gear and was whipping the wheel into a U-turn as Schwarz continued. "We passed him lying on the sidewalk, holding his right leg. Looks like maybe he either twisted his ankle, or possibly even broke it. He's out of commission. No way could he make any distance in this short period of time."
"Why didn't you nab him on the way?" Lyons demanded.
Blancanales looked at his partner in disbelief. "What? And let the terrorists shoot you into Swiss cheese?"
Lyons shrugged. "Yeah, guess you got a point there."
They found Dahabi hobbling down the sidewalk at a snail's pace. Blancanales drove onto the curb â€" the van bounced and the engine roared â€" and Schwarz and Lyons leaped from the vehicle at the last moment to nab him. Dahabi tried to clear his pistol from a holster concealed on his left hip in cross-draw fashion, but Lyons beat him to it with a rock-hard punch to the chin. Dahabi's pistol jarred loose from his grip and Blancanales had possession of it before Dahabi's body hit the sandy patch of dirt between the curb and the sidewalk.
The terrorist looked up at Lyons, the fire of hatred and fanaticism smoldering in his eyes. He wiped with the back of his hand at the trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his lower lip and dribbled down his chin. Lyons took a small measure of comfort seeing the man lie there in the dirt before he bent, grabbed a fistful of Dahabi's shirt and hauled him to his feet.
"I tell you nothing." Dahabi spit. "I no speak to you."
Lyons yanked him close so they were practically touching noses. "Oh, you'll talk. I guarantee it."
* * *
Fade. Bari could feel his heart thud dully against his chest, the blood rush through his ears with the sound of gusty winds. He stopped running long enough to catch his breath and then started again, determined to reach his final destination at any cost.
Things hadn't turned out as he might have hoped. He couldn't understand how the Americans had even tracked them to Hermosillo, let alone found them so quickly once they did. Obviously either he or Dahabi had made some type of critical error in judgment. Maybe their vehicle had been bugged or perhaps someone had betrayed their destination. The disaster at the WIPP facility came to mind, but he could hardly believe one of his men would have betrayed them. They had been trained to kill themselves if they were captured rather than succumb to interrogation.
The thought that his men might have been captured and questioned by the Americans burned his gut like a hot poker. On the exterior the members of organizations like Homeland Security and the FBI were clean and shiny in the public eye. What was the term the Westerners liked to use? Oh yes. "Squeaky clean." But inside they were filthy and corrupt, moribund souls to the last that were destined for hell. Yet they still had the audacity to get on televisions and radios around the world and point fingers at the al Qaeda movement, to denounce the fatwahs of their jihad and declare his people's efforts to rid the Earth of the corrupt and disobedient as acts of murder.
Indeed, Bari respected the sanctity of life. He prized it above all else, in fact, and he'd never been focused on the idea of genocide being the best tool to win this war. Nonetheless, it seemed to be the only kind of language the depraved Westerners understood, and if he had to commit self-sacrifice by setting aside his value system for the greater good of all, then he would do that.
By the time Bari reached his base of operations six kilometers from where the American had broken off pursuit, he was soaked with sweat.
He made his way around to the back of the house and entered through the rear porch door. Two men sat at a small, dirty table with patches of grease paper spread across it. Assorted 20-and 30-round banana clips were stacked on the paper and the pair were loading them with 7.62 mm slugs. He greeted them curtly as he passed and continued into a cramped front room where several of his unit leaders were huddled over a map of the southwestern United States.
One of the men, a particularly harsh and brutal veteran named Bahrua, looked up and said, "Fadil, where have you been? We are waiting to finalize our plans..."
"Our plans have changed," Bari cut in.
"What? What do mean? We don't..."
"Just shut up and listen! Somehow the Americans managed to track us here. They might also know what it is we're planning, since our attempts to divert them with a direct attack on their waste facility obviously failed. This very house may be bugged. We must collect our things and get out of here. Where is Sahrout?"
"What do mean, where is he?" Bahrua asked. "He is not with you?"
Bari felt the pit of his stomach knot as the large beads of sweat on his forehead, still fresh from the exertion, felt suddenly chill against his skin. Dahabi was younger and in far better shape than Bari, and there was no reason he wouldn't have been able to make it back at the same time if not ahead of him.
"He is either delayed for some reason or dead," Bari said. "In either case, he knows of the alternate rendezvous site with the rest of our men. We must pack our things and leave now. If he's in the custody of the same Americans I escaped from, it won't be long before they break him and come looking for us. Prepare for departure to the camp. Immediately!"
* * *
Price joined Brognola and Kurtzman in the makeshift briefing room nestled within the Communications Center. It had taken her a considerable amount of time to compile all the data Boggs provided her, and then cross-reference that information to what they already knew. She could feel the eyes of both men settle on her with rapt attention as she took her seat at the glass-and-metal table.
Price passed out copies of the documents as she said, "This contains a full transcript and debrief of my interrogation of Sarah Boggs. I'm afraid it's not good news."
Brognola's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"
"Before you get concerned, let me quantify what I mean by that. The information she provided us is relatively accurate, except for some details I'd chalk up to simply memory inconsistencies. It would appear we're way off on our assessment of al Qaeda's potentially attacking the shipments. Neither of the containers leaving Rocky Flats or Idaho National Labs contains faulty drums. To add another enigma, neither of those shipments contains overpacked drums."
"So let me get this straight," Brognola interjected. "We originally believed al Qaeda planned to attack shipments that had faulty containers because Sarah Boggs was sending false safety reports to NRC. Then we get it straight from the horse's mouth that it's not that they want to destroy the shipments but steal the faulty containers so they could easily break into them to obtain the raw materials needed to construct bombs. That narrows the playing field considerably, but now we find out that neither shipment contains overpacked containers. That about sum it up?"
Price nodded. "In a nutshell."
Kurtzman produced a laugh of disbelief and said, "Well, then, where does that leave us?"
"Well, according to Sarah Boggs, those faulty reports were sent to the NRC all within the same week. That means the likelihood of those containers all going to the same place is quite good. Just a few minutes ago, we got the actual container information back from the search programs Bear's team has been running for the past seventy-two hours. I believe we now have a confirmed target."
"Which is?" Brognola asked.
"The National Nuclear Safety Administration's Nevada Test Site."
Brognola leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes and said, "Oh, I feel a headache coming on."
"I think Barb may have just turned mine into a full-blown migraine."
"So," Brognola said, "how bad could this get?"
"Very bad," Price replied. "Bad enough to make Chernobyl look like a minor incident. The Nevada Test Site is unparalleled in its capabilities. Its primary job is to support nuclear weapon stockpiling, diversification in technology and management and response of emergency situations. It is, without a doubt, one of the most well-equipped facilities in the world with hundreds of highly trained personnel who oversee daily operations."
Price turned to Kurtzman and nodded. The computer expert's hands flew across the keyboard as he typed in the information she'd delivered to him by arranged signal. He pulled the data directly from streaming media files she'd sent prior to the briefing, stored on one of the hundreds of shared computer drives, and the lights dimmed automatically as the screen lit up with pictures.
"These are just a few images we managed to glean from our friends at the NRC," Price said. "I can tell you it took nearly an act of Congress to get these. They're very tight-lipped about everything that goes on there."
Brognola nodded. "I imagine so."
"The Nevada Test Site is massive, Hal. It's comprised of roughly 5,470 square miles of land area, with gunnery ranges and wildlife areas surrounding the actual outdoor laboratory and experiment center at its core. That central part is the actual test site itself, which is larger than Rhode Island. While there was a moratorium on nuclear weapons testing enacted in 1992, this area is still utterly restricted from access by the public and continues conducting other testing programs such as hazardous material and pollution spill studies, conventional weapons testing and emergency response training."
" So what you're saying is that if al Qaeda managed to get personnel inside this place..." Brognola's voice trailed off, knowing that he didn't have to finish the statement.
"Yes, we're all thinking the exact same thing now. And it explains quite nicely why Bari's tactical planning called for smuggling so many terrorist operatives into the country."
Brognola could hardly find his voice as he said, "It's unthinkable. A place like that could be a terrorist playground if they know where to look."
"And they do," Price said. "That's why they were monitoring all the sites, particularly the I-25 corridor. They weren't interested in attacking those shipments. They wanted to know when would be the busiest times, when the eyes of most personnel would be focused elsewhere so they would have basically a golden opportunity to make their move."
"All right," Brognola said. "Let's get both teams on the horn immediately and apprise them of the situation. Phoenix Force may be out of reach, so relay the message through Jack if you have to, Bear."
"Right," Kurtzman replied, reaching for a phone that connected directly to their secure satellite uplink.
"And when you're done there," Brognola added, "get me the President."


Chapter Twenty-Six
"Am I glad to see you, mate," McCarter told Jack Grimaldi as the remaining members of Phoenix Force moved their equipment from the land vehicles to Stony Man's Learjet 35C.
"Ditto," Grimaldi replied.
"I wish we had time for more chitchat, but we've got some serious business that needs attending. You briefed?"
Grimaldi nodded. "Yeah, and I have some information for you once we get airborne. They had to pull teeth to get the permits from the Mexican government for this flight."
"All right, let's shape it up. Once we're off the ground it won't be long to ground zero." McCarter looked questioningly at Grimaldi.
"Twenty, twenty-five minutes tops," the pilot replied with a shrug.
"Hear that? So let's get a weapons and gear check started immediately." McCarter gave Grimaldi his attention once more. "We haven't been able to raise Carl yet, but the plan we've put together has us going in hard and fast."
Grimaldi nodded. "I've already reviewed the coordinates you sent to the Farm. It's pretty thick and dense forestry there, not too conducive to landing an aircraft. What open areas that are stable or large enough for me to put down on would have you so far off target it would take you several hours to negotiate it."
"Several hours we don't have," McCarter said. "We're running out of light quick. Okay, then, looks like we'll be parachuting in."
Grimaldi jerked a thumb at the door to where pulleys and bunched static lines dangled from the roof of the cabin. "I already figured as much so I hooked up the equipment."
"Tally-ho."
Grimaldi fired a smart salute at McCarter, turned and headed for the cockpit. The remainder of the men had already taken their seats. McCarter selected an open one and then ordered Manning to fire up all of the sensor and high-tech electronics packages they would need to brief them on the assault plan. He would have preferred to have Able Team on the horn with them, but Brognola had already assured them that Lyons would follow his lead on the op.
"All right," McCarter said. "I've come up with a plan. Everybody take a look at the map on the screen."
The men swiveled in their chairs and all eyes settled on the LCD panel mounted to the aft wall of the cabin. It displayed a grid map of the topographical region in the Sierra Madre where Juanito had identified the best possible guess as to the location of the drug smuggler's camp. The display showed those coordinates with the latitude and longitude numerics, and marked the cross-point with a large green X.
"This is the target site," McCarter said. "At least we think it is. Now, because we can't be bloody well certain about that, we've built some fudge factor and contingencies into the plan. Our mission will be to hit this place in a direct-on assault. No soft probe on this one, mates. I'm looking for the numbers to fall just like they did on the job in Nicaragua. We go in hard and fast, and assume everyone's a bad guy until the hostilities are over."
"What he really means by that is when all the bad guys are dead," James cracked.
"Then it'll be time for a long-neck and a steak," Hawkins added, and banged fists with James.
"Back to this," McCarter said over the murmurs of assent. "I haven't been able to reach anyone from Able Team, but Hal passed the word along and they're going to let this be our show. They'll provide backup. I'm going to have them move up the private road leading to the camp, and plow it along the way for any resistance we might encounter should we have to beat a quick retreat."
"Sounds like a good plan, David," Encizo said. "But if we can't talk to Able Team, how we going to coordinate this thing once we're on the ground?"
"I laid out the basics with Hal, and Carl advised they would be there. They'll make contact once they've arrived and are in position. Their fire and maneuver action will coincide with our assault on the camp proper."
"Smart," Manning said with a grin. "Give al Qaeda two fronts to worry about, rather than one."
"Well, sort of," McCarter said. "Remember that according to Juanito, it's the drug smugglers who operate perimeter security. Al Qaeda's team is only waiting for a rendezvous with Bari. Or at least that's what we're hoping is going on here. That's where our contingency falls into place. I'm assigning each of you to a specific task. Gary, you'll handle all of the ordnance work. I want shock and awe out there. Jack has some extra goodies aboard, so you'll be packing those along with you."
Manning nodded in understanding.
"Cal, you're going to provide perimeter security with the M-60. We'll need lots of covering fire, and plenty of tracers. Especially if we end up having to do this thing in the dark.
"Rafe, you and T.J. will do the door-to-door. We go one unit at a time, straightforward and simple. I'll be providing a rear-guard action for that effort, covering the flanks with interlocking fields of fire to Calvin's work with the .60-cal. Any questions?"
"That's all well and good," James said. "But what about this situation back home with the Nevada Test Site? Are the DOE and whoever else planning to secure their area from an attack?"
"We don't know yet," McCarter replied. "According to Barb, it's going to take quite a bit of finagling and hand-holding to get them to respond to this, let alone address it, since we don't really have more than the word of a traitor and some fudged safety reports."
"That sounds like a bureaucratic way of saying they aren't going to do a damn thing," Hawkins replied.
McCarter shrugged. "They may not. But we can't let that be our worry right now. Keep in mind, mates, that Bari's the mastermind behind this. They may have a plan to go forward with their operation in the States even if he's not there, but we can't cross that bridge until we come to it."
"Okay," Hawkins said, "but I think we probably need to at least keep this in the backs of our minds. I mean, we're talking about nuclear weapons here. Dirty bombs, fission material. That's pretty scary stuff when you think about it. And I don't necessarily think hitting this base camp in the hopes of taking out a few terrorists is going to answer to that bigger problem."
"I think the most important thing to remember here," Encizo offered, "is that we don't let Bari or any of his leadership leave Mexico alive. If we can chop off the al Qaeda operation from the top, the rest of it may just unravel on its own."
"I think that's what Hal and Barb believe, too," McCarter said. "Which makes it all the more important for us to be at the top of our game. This has to go off without a hitch if there's any hope of thwarting al Qaeda's plans. Whatever in bloody hell those might be."
"Even if al Qaeda does decide to go forward with whatever they're planning in the States," Manning said, "we're pretty confident the attack wasn't supposed to be until tomorrow. That buys us a little time."
"Very little time," Encizo reminded them. "Much of this depends on how soon we find the base camp."
"Doesn't look like we'll have much of a choice but to find it quickly," Hawkins said.
"I'm trusting Juanito's information is probably spot-on," McCarter continued. "Those DEA guys were pretty accurate with everything we got from them, and they certainly wouldn't have walked us down a wrong path on purpose. They want the same thing we want, and our operating this far north to shut down a drug pipeline is just a bonus in their eyes."
"So," James said, clapping his hands and rubbing them. "It sounds like business as usual."
"Indeed it does," Manning replied quietly.
* * *
"Just let me talk to him," Lyons said. "I'll get the information we're looking for."
"No way, Ironman," Schwarz said, shaking his head. "Uh-uh, no way in hell are we going to let you near him. How are those knees feeling?"
Lyons sat in the rear of the van, back propped against the wall, knees crooked with an ice pack atop each one. He'd begun to experience a fair amount of pain after the adrenaline rush wore off and they had some downtime. They sat in the van, concealed by the tinted windows, parked outside a substation of the Hermosillo police department. When they had questioned Dahabi and the man refused to give them any information, Schwarz concocted a brilliant plan to turn the terrorist over to the custody of locals and complain that it was him who had run into the back of their van and then tried to leave the scene of the accident.
"When they pull that guy's record," Blancanales had said in response to Schwarz's suggestion, "they're going to have a field day. They'll love getting their names in the paper with this big feature story about how they captured a big-time al Qaeda terrorist."
It would also get the locals off Able Team's trail, since they'd figure Blancanales wasn't connected to the gun battles that had taken place. All witnesses would remember, if they could even find any, would be seeing a blue van. An al Qaeda terrorist in the area of major shooting would be all the evidence they needed in a judicial system like that of Mexico's.
Despite the fact Mexico had never really been a direct target of al Qaeda operations, the Mexican government had no more love for them than their North American neighbors. They would especially take offense when they heard terrorists were actually bold enough to operate within the borders of their country.
"Damn, I wish to hell Pol would hurry up!" Lyons said. The Able Team leader looked at his watch. "What's taking that guy so long?"
"Relax," Schwarz said. "The wheels of Mexican justice grind hard, but they grind slow."
Before either man could say another word the driver's door opened and Blancanales climbed in. He closed the door, looked out the passenger window to make sure no one observed him and then turned in his seat and flashed a grin. He then turned his attention to starting the engine, putting the van in gear and driving away from the police station.
They traveled about three blocks before Lyons could no longer take the silence. "Well? What happened?"
"I'm pleased to report that our friends on the Mexican police force were more than happy to set up first-class accommodations for one Sahrout Dahabi."
"Did they buy your story?"
"Buy it? Buy it?" Blancanales chuckled. "They hung on every word like bees on a honeycomb."
"Ah," Schwarz said. "Well, then, we know it must have gone well. Politician has begun to wax poetic."
"Whatever," Lyons groused. "So what are they going to do?"
"They didn't say," Blancanales replied. "Remember, I'm just a harmless American down here vacationing in the family van."
"Uh-huh. Now that we've moved past the bullshit, why don't you give us the real story?"
"Well, for one thing I didn't advertise the fact I spoke Spanish. I knew I couldn't get away with acting completely dumb given my accent. They would have picked me out instantly. So I told them I spoke a wee bit, and I stuttered and smiled and managed to act like a bumbling, fumbling tourist."
"Then what?" Lyons demanded.
"Well, they started rapping with each other in their high-speed way, thinking I couldn't understand. They pulled him up on the Teletype within just a few minutes. Things sure have come up here since I was a kid. Anyway, I heard them talking about how lucky they were to have a terrorist right here in their own backyard."
"But what did they say, Pol?" Schwarz pressed.
"Well, they apparently tried to question him about it and, just like with us, he refused to say a word."
"And then the ass-beating began?" Lyons inquired, doing nothing to hide the glee in his voice.
"I don't know," Blancanales said. "I can't be sure. But they did decide to move him to a different cell block, one they said was for VIP prisoners, which I understood to be in the basement of the station."
"Is that significant?"
Blancanales nodded. "Yeah. They stopped using basement cells years ago because of the unsanitary conditions, not to mention it seemed like too many prisoners were getting either forgotten or disappearing altogether when they stuck them in what I can attest isn't much more than a filthy, rat-infested, dark, smelly hole."
Lyons grinned. "It gets juicier all the time."
"Whatever they plan to do with him," Blancanales said, "I can just about guarantee that Sahrout Dahabi will no longer be any threat to us, America... or anybody else for that matter."
Lyons beamed at Schwarz. "You know, I think I might just take my next vacation in Mexico. I like it here!"
Schwarz started to speak and then a beeping began to issue from the headphones dangling from his neck. He raised a finger for silence and then wrapped the oversize earpieces around his head and struck a key on the wireless keyboard to engage the communications system.
"Go, Bear," Schwarz said. A pause, then, "Hold up a minute, we're all here. I'll put you on speaker."
Schwarz tapped another key and Kurtzman's voice filled the van. "Patching through now, guys. Hold for David."
"Hey, mates," McCarter said a moment later. "How's your bum for warts?"
"I'm not even gonna ask what the hell that means," Lyons said. "What do you know?"
"I put together a tactical scenario at Hal's request, and I wanted to run it by you before we execute. What's your status?"
"We're headed out of Hermosillo and in the direction of the site coordinates the Farm originally gave us. Any change of plans?"
"Not a bit," McCarter said. "We're on target and on schedule, then. Just wanted to synchronize in case we can't make contact once we're on the ground."
"Well, I'm only one guy talking here," Lyons said, "but I got to tell you that we're quite looking forward to this."
"As are we. What's the scoop on Bari? Did you get him?"
Lyons frowned. "No, sorry about that. But we just finished taking Dahabi out of the loop, so we don't have to worry about him being a problem anymore."
"Sounds plenty good to me. So here's the plan."
And for the next few minutes, McCarter ran it down for them, with the members of Able Team only occasionally inserting a question or a comment. When they were finished, Lyons read the faces of his two friends to get the silent cue they were on board with the plan and then directed his voice back toward the ceiling.
"Sounds like you got things hooked up pretty well there, David. My guys are A-OK with your plan." He looked at his watch. "I got 1447, now. We're maybe..." he looked toward Blancanales, who held up three fingers, then one "...thirty-one minutes from where the highway cuts onto the private road. Can you be in position by then?"
"It'll be close, but I think we can swing that."
"We can hold off a bit if need be, buddy," Lyons teased, adding, "I know you need more time now that you're getting older."
"Up your arse," McCarter shot back with equal brevity. "Jack just told me we bail in three, so I'm going to cut loose. I call it thirty minutes from now should be perfect. Just listen for the boom."
"Roger that. You guys take it easy."
"Ditto. And I hope you're ready for some more action."
"Are you kidding?" Lyons shot back with a snort. "We were born ready."


Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gary Manning squeezed his thighs tightly against each other in preparation for landing. The big Canadian scanned the terrain below, bracing for the bone-jarring impact he knew would come upon landing. Even with the parachute, he still dropped at an average of thirty feet per second, or thereabouts, which was more than enough impact to break an ankle or leg if he didn't land as he'd been trained. His angle of descent wasn't quite vertical, but that didn't concern him as much as ensuring he came down in the clearing he'd spotted.
A minute before final touchdown, Manning looked in all directions to obtain a quick head count of his teammates. All were falling at about the same speed and would land within a hundred yards of each other. As luck would have it, Manning's particular landing spot was also what McCarter had assigned as their rendezvous point. That would give him time to inspect his equipment.
Manning snapped the release line on his ordnance pack and the padded canvas detached and dropped from his belt to a point about ten feet below him. A moment later, Manning followed its path. He relaxed his thigh muscles and kept his feet together and level. As soon as he struck ground, Manning tucked his body and rolled so that he made contact with each designated point in the landing: feet, calf, thigh and buttock. He completed his landing by rolling up the curve of his back, over his shoulder with chin tucked to chest. He came to a stop on his knees and immediately slapped the quick-release buckles on his chute harness.
Manning climbed to his feet and dragged the chute lines down by advancing on the canopy as he rolled the risers over his arms in a figure-eight motion. That task completed, he dragged the chute into nearby brush and then returned to his pack. He drew the Glock 21 from shoulder leather and laid it next to his right foot. Manning then opened the pack and began to inventory the explosives to make sure nothing had been damaged during the jump.
The contents of his pack were comprehensive, to be sure. They included ten quarter-pound sticks of C-4 plastique, a dozen blasting caps, twenty-five yards each of detonation cord and M700 safety fuse and a trio of M-60 fuse igniters. He also had half a dozen DM51 grenades.
Completing the pack were ten high-velocity HE M383 40 mm grenades for the M-16/M-203 Manning had selected for the mission. These would allow him to provide plenty of shock and awe during the assault as McCarter had requested, along with generating additional confusion and evening the odds some between Phoenix Force and the potentially large number of personnel they would face.
Manning nodded in satisfaction upon completing his inspection and packed the materials carefully into the satchel before sealing it. He then grabbed his pistol and pointed it toward the sound of movement ten yards to his left. The familiar figure of Calvin James came through the brush a moment later. The warrior waved a recognition signal and Manning lowered his pistol.
"Nervous?" James asked with a smile.
"Cautious," Manning countered.
"Hear, hear."
The two men began to look over the sliver of map each one carried, copies they had printed during the flight. They hadn't made any notations on it, standard practice in the event they were captured by the enemy, and quickly pinpointed their location as they knew it in relation to the purported site of the smugglers' base camp. Less than two minutes passed before they were joined simultaneously by McCarter, Encizo and Hawkins.
"Everybody in one piece?" the Briton asked.
They nodded and McCarter turned and headed toward a tree line northwest of their position without another word. From this point they would have to practically double-time to make it to their target in sync with Able Team's ETA to where the private road intersected with the highway. They had built an extra few minutes into the timetable for the unknowns, but when Manning considered the mission he knew that didn't amount to all that much.
The team moved through the towering trees of the Sierra Madre with the swiftness and verve of the seasoned fighting force they were. McCarter had opted to take point, since they weren't expecting any resistance along the way, and he'd been diligent to memorize the terrain they had to cross to reach the encampment. Manning continued to check his watch as they progressed, worried at the time crunch but confident in the tenacity and strength of their leader.
As they neared the target zone, McCarter raised a hand and the team crouched. The fox-faced Briton turned, pointed to Manning and gestured for him to come forward. The Canadian got to his feet and made haste to McCarter's position. He knelt beside him and then looked to an area where McCarter gestured. At first, he didn't see anything and then his eyes locked on the reason for McCarter's concern: a small, rectangular fixture attached to the base of a thick tree, maybe two feet off the ground.
Booby trap.
Manning nodded and kept low as he moved over to the tree in a crouch, careful to keep on the leeward side of the device until he could get close enough to make a positive identification. Sure enough, Manning found a taut segment of what looked like fishing line running from the base of a plain, metal box camouflaged with matte-brown spray paint overlaid by vertical, black stripes that looked hand-painted. Up front it was obvious but from a distance it blended well into the frees.
Only McCarter's razor-sharp eyesight had pegged the thing.
Manning got lower, looked under the box to see that the trip wire went into a hole in its base, then studied the face of it to see a large hole cut in the center and covered with what looked like rice paper. Manning reached carefully to where the door met with a protrusion designed for a lock and used wire snips from his ordnance pouch to cut away the plastic lock. He then swung the front plate aside to find a thick, plastic tube from which protruded at least a couple dozen darts, each a little thicker than a toothpick, made of fiberglass. The pinpoint ends of the darts appeared to be coated with something red and sticky.
Poison, Manning thought.
Crude but effective. For a moment, Manning mused they had stumbled onto some kind of ancient, Peruvian temple given the odd nature of this particular choice in perimeter defense. But then he reconsidered. It was actually brilliant because it was obviously fashioned to take out multiple personnel breaching the camp's perimeter without making a lot of noise. If the enemy was expecting a multipronged attack, they could take out infiltrators quietly without alerting the other teams, thus lessening the chance of a successful breach in numbers and reduction in plans requiring a coordinated effort. Obviously, the enemy had gone into great thought about its defenses, and Manning had to wonder what other deadly snares they might encounter.
Now assured in what he was facing, Manning went about the precarious task of disabling the trap. When he'd finished his job, he returned to McCarter and leaned close to his ear. "It's disarmed. Silent one, though, which is clever if you think about it. We should be very cautious going forward."
McCarter nodded and Manning returned to his previous position of third in the line. With a signal from the Briton the group continued onward until they reached a draw in the terrain. The frees began to thin here, both in numbers and in foliage density, a natural change for the topography. As they reached the bottom of the draw, the land flattened and spread in front of them to form a shallow depression. They proceeded another forty yards or so and came to a second stop with a signal from McCarter.
This time, the Phoenix Force leader gestured for Encizo and Hawkins. He pointed straight ahead, and through the frees Manning could see what had demanded McCarter's attention. A pair of armed men were walking some kind of fence. Phoenix Force appeared to be on a flanking position and Manning had to squint to make them out. They were attired in forest camouflage pants and green T-shirts, very similar dress to what Juanito had been wearing when they called him out of the field and brought him straight to the hotel.
Well, no doubt remained in Manning's mind they had reached their destination. McCarter said something to Encizo and Hawkins that the men acknowledged with nods before they split off and began to circle the far side of the camp perimeter away from the guards. McCarter then moved back to where Manning had crouched and gestured for James to join them.
"See them?" McCarter said, pointing to the same men he'd indicated to the first pair. Both nodded after a second look, and McCarter continued. "I'm betting that's the front gate. That's where I want you to set up coverage, Cal."
James gave him a thumbs-up gesture.
McCarter faced Manning. "I can't see it from here, but from what Juanito told me they have barbed-wire fencing there. We'll need to find a place to breach that fencing on the back end. Once that's done, I want you to take out the front gate. After that, it's destruct-o city all the way. Got it, mates?"
Manning and James nodded again and McCarter ordered them into action. Manning touched fists with James before he turned and headed in the same direction as Encizo and Hawkins. He found the men lying in some brush, gave them a signal he knew their location and then moved forward cautiously until he reached the fence line. True to McCarter's words, the fence was barbed wire, six strands spanning a total height of eight feet.
The Canadian located the two fence poles, performed a quick inspection to clear the area of any more booby traps, then went to work with the C-4. He used a pencil to make impressions in the end of two sticks and then primed them with blasting caps. He attached the C-4 to the posts before wrapping them with det cord and intertwining it in the section of fence he planned to blow. Manning then ran two lengths of fuse from the C-4 sticks back to a thick tree for cover. After plugging one each into an M-60 fuse igniter, Manning checked his watch, estimated the distance-to-time ratio it would take the M-l to melt the fuse line, and then keyed up his wireless communications device.
"Phoenix Three to Phoenix One."
McCarter's voice came back. "Go."
"Noisemakers set, six-minute delay."
"Understood. Stand by on my mark... and... mark."
"Roger." Manning pulled the pin and yanked the plunger on one igniter, then repeated those actions for the second. The M700 fuse contained a black-powder core that burned at about one foot every forty seconds, effectively, which would take just over six minutes to make. Based on McCarter's verbal mark, that meant he was expecting Able Team to begin their run in seven minutes, give or take.
While Phoenix Force had a margin of error, it wasn't much. Timing was a big part of McCarter's plan. If Able Team was delayed for any reason, and Phoenix Force couldn't successfully overrun the encampment, the enemy could seize the advantage by turning the hunters into the hunted. Darkness approached rapidly and they wouldn't get another chance like this to put al Qaeda to bed.
Manning could smell fumes from the fiber wrapping and waterproofing exterior sheaths as they melted under the heat of the black-powder ignition. His heart began to thump in his chest in eager anticipation of the blast. He considered breaking cover and getting a jump start on the breach of the front gate, but he didn't want to risk leaving Encizo and Hawkins to deal with potential problems if something in his ordnance didn't go off right. It didn't happen often, but it did happen, and there was no way Manning wanted the responsibility of sacrificing the lives of two friends on his conscience just because he was in a hurry.
Manning watched as the second hand of his watch swept past the mark signaling less than half of the six minutes remained. It had seemed like the longest six minutes of his career. He could feel the chill of the afternoon coming on as evening drew closer, and he realized it was actually the wind â€" which had picked up slightly now â€" dissipating the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead.
Two minutes.
Manning changed position behind the tree and took the time for a couple deep breaths. His nerves calmed some, the Canadian broke the breech of his M-203 and loaded one of the grenades from his satchel.
Sixty seconds.
Manning checked his watch again and the sudden burst of static startled him. It was the signal from McCarter they had been waiting for. Able Team had finally arrived! Even as the echo of autofire reached his ears, a signal the battle was joined, Manning couldn't repress a grin of relief at the thought of his friends showing up like the cavalry. For the first time in a while, all eight men of the Stony Man's elite fighting teams were together and bringing it to al Qaeda like never before.
It wouldn't be mere shock and awe.
This was going to be thunder and lightning, and the enemy would experience hell on Earth.


Chapter Twenty-Eight
One heartbeat after Able Team opened up on the road sentries, Calvin James delivered his own brand of shock and awe with the M-60 E-4. The short, heavy barrel bucked and the bolt chugged like an engine, and James laid down a maelstrom of 7.62 mm fire on the pair of guards at the front gate of the encampment. The enemy danced under the impact of the heavy-caliber machine gun as hot brass spit from the breech with every ratchet of the extractor.
James leaped to his feet and charged the gate, taking cover behind a large rock as four more men appeared from a nearby hut and opened fire on his position. Hot lead pummeled the stones around him or buzzed overhead but he managed to avoid being hit. The Phoenix Force warrior set his firing position per McCarter's instructions and engaged his new opponents with all the spirit and fire he could muster.
Although the heavy barrel could support long bouts of sustained fire, James chose a strategy of quality over quantity. Like a surgeon excising a tumor, James squeezed the trigger to deliver shorter, controlled bursts, intent on making the most of his ammunition. The strategy paid off as James took down the first terrorist with a 3-round burst that laid the man's chest wide open.
James swung on the second pair, triggering a triplet of successive bursts. One of those bursts split through the first target's skull and drove him backward. His comrade fared no better when he took fire from two separate fusillades, one that chewed up his lower leg while the second passed through his stomach and shattered his spine.
The last man made cover but not before he took a round that ripped through his shoulder and nearly took his arm off. James heard him emit a scream even as the reports died out. Another type of shouting, this one more a warning, caught his attention. He turned to see Manning charge toward him, waving him to get clear of the gate.
James didn't need further coaxing. He yanked the bipod of the M-60 clear of the mud and raced for the wood line at the edge of the road. Manning hit the dirt on one knee, affixed several sticks of C-4 plastique to the pole of the rolling, chain-link gate on one side and then laid a duplicate charge to the other. Manning barely dropped to a cover position next to James before he flipped the safety switch on a remote detonator.
He looked at James, smiled and said calmly, "Fire in the hole."
The whump of superheated air rushed past them on either side of the tree. James detected the sounds of shrapnel as fragments from the gate whizzed past their ears at near-sonic speeds, propelled by the combustion of explosive gases. The men waited nearly a minute for the remaining dirt and debris to finish hitting the ground and then peered around the trunk of the tree they had used for shelter. Nothing remained of the gate but smoking holes where the poles had been and some fragments of the gate frame.
* * *
As soon as Manning took out the fence and the Canadian got clear, Hawkins and Encizo went to work.
The pair came through the shattered fencing, cautious not to catch their clothing on the still-red-hot ends of what remained of the barbed wire. Encizo rushed to the nearest cover point, a tree with a trunk so large the camp builders had obviously felt it simply easier to fence around it then try to cut the thing down. He swept the muzzle of his MP-5 across the firing field, looking for targets, as his peripheral vision caught the glimpse of Hawkins dashing past him. The two continued along that path, leapfrogging in a standard fire and maneuver tactic to keep heads down while the runner was vulnerable.
They reached the first structure in under a minute. The building measured maybe ten yards wide and twice as long. It was constructed from corrugated tin, much like the kind used on the massive ditch culverts, but had a scallop-shaped roof constructed out of what looked like clay tiles. Windows were set in the building in only two places, but it did have both front and side wooden doors.
Encizo reached the door on his last charge and kicked it in. He stepped inside and immediately faced off with two Mexican dope runners he'd obviously interrupted as they were making a hasty exit. Encizo cut down the pair with a merciless storm of 9 mm slugs.
The Cuban looked down the long hall and saw a few more gunmen as they clamored for weapons in footlockers at the end of a row of bunks. They'd lucked out on the first try as this was obviously the main billet for the camp hardforce. The dope smugglers showed little fear, the anger evident in their eyes as they leveled their SMGs at Encizo and opened fire while charging his position.
Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on Encizo bringing a friend.
Hawkins crashed through the side door the terrorists had just rushed past and brought his own M-16 into action. Encizo knelt into a defensive role and triggered several bursts from his weapon at the same moment as Hawkins opened with sustained full-auto. Caught in the cross fire, the Mexican gunmen never stood a chance.
Bullets suddenly chewed at the door frame near Hawkins, and he had to leap inside to avoid being ventilated by a torrent of autofire. He twisted and began firing out the door at targets not visible to Encizo. The Cuban leaped to his feet and charged out the door, rounding the barracks to a position where he could offer support.
McCarter had already beaten him to it. A quintet of gunners was charging from another building, this one smaller and oval in shape, obviously the source of the assault on Hawkins. These men were not dope smugglers but highly trained terrorists who moved with the fanaticism and training that confirmed Encizo's assessment. Unfortunately, the al Qaeda gunners had not counted on the ferocity and professionalism of Phoenix Force's leader. Wherever there was action to be had, McCarter didn't hesitate for a moment to get right into the thick of it.
Yeah, the former British SAS commando lived for moments like this.
McCarter delivered a swathing blanket of fire with his FAL battle rifle. The terrorists ran into one another attempting to escape from the onslaught but realized too late they had nowhere to go. The FAL rocked in McCarter's hands as he spelled out their certain doom in 7.62 mm slugs. Round after round punched through organs like they were little more than tissue paper. He had emptied a full clip and loaded another before Encizo realized he had no targets left to shoot at.
Only a moment of silence elapsed before the explosion of the front gate going up reached his ears. An ear-to-ear grin split McCarter's face as he turned to Encizo and waved him toward the one building that remained in the camp. The Cuban charged toward the building, keying his radio long enough to verify Hawkins had not been hit in the brief tumult.
"I'm good," Hawkins replied. "Thanks to the boss. Much obliged, pardner."
"Always a pleasure," McCarter said.
* * *
Had he not been prepared for this possibility, Fadil Bari would have lost every man he had.
As it was, he'd watched helplessly from the cracked window of what worked as their support building as the Americans cut by nearly half the force delivered less than an hour before by Kamesh Razahim. He looked behind him as the remainder of their force considered their options. He didn't see they had many. Bari searched the crowd of faces peering at him, their eyes questioning, probing their leader for answers.
"Where is Bahrua?" he finally demanded.
"Over here!"
Bari turned to see Bahrua crouched at another window on the opposite side of the quarters. He'd immediately ordered lowering of the shades and windows when the first sounds of battle reached them, insistent that they could defend better if their attackers could not see into the building. It made sense.
"We must defend ourselves!" Bari roared. "What do you recommend we do?"
Bahrua turned a surprised glance at his master. "You are our leader. You mean you do not have any suggestions?"
Bari would have liked to aim his pistol at this insolent commander and blow his head off. Unfortunately, he needed every capable leader he could get. While he never would have admitted it openly, Bari had never actually been in any type of real combat. He was a strategist, an intellect, not a common soldier. What could he possibly know about soldiering? Those were for the common among his people, the ones who did not come from a privileged background.
"I'm asking you, you dolt! Are you a coward?"
"I would shoot any other man for saying that," Bahrua snapped.
"Stop it!" another cell leader shouted. "The enemy is out there, brothers. We must not fight amongst ourselves. There is no honor in that! No reward!"
"We must get clear of this building," Bahrua said. "We cannot mount any sort of defense here. Most of our heavy weaponry is still in the vehicles."
"You're saying we should expose ourselves?" Bari asked with a scowl.
Another boom resounded nearby, vibrating the walls of their meager shelter.
"Do you hear that, Fadil?" Bahrua demanded. "They have explosives. If we sit here and do nothing, it will be only a small matter for them to blanket this building with heavy ordnance until the fires of this structure consume us to ashes. Then we are dead. And what is to happen with your great plans to attack America if we are not there to lead our people?"
"We're beyond that at this point," Bari replied, scarcely able to believe his own words even as he spoke them.
"Then we must make our fight here," Bahrua replied easily. "This is most important if any of us are to survive."
"So we fight here, then," Bari repeated, and all of the men muttered their agreement. "Fine."
"I suggest we split into two groups," Bahrua said. "One half will maintain suppressive fire from the cover of the building while the other half makes for our vehicles. With luck, we will reach them. We have explosives there, fresh supplies and ammunition. This may be enough to counter the Americans."
"It is a good plan," Razahim agreed from his place hunkered among what remained of their men.
"Then let us prepare," Bari replied. "For this is the day, today, that some of us shall be in paradise."


Chapter Twenty-Nine
As soon as the terrorists emerged from the building, James opened up with the M-60 E-4.
A majority of his firing proved ineffective as gunners still inside the building had obviously marked his position and were pouring on their own steady stream of bullets with considerable effect. Rounds from what had to be a half dozen automatic weapons zinged past their heads, some thwacking into the frees behind James's head while others chewed up earth around the boulder he used for cover.
James tried to zero in on the muzzle-flashes, but the terrorists had obviously been trained to fire very short bursts, a tactic that made it extremely difficult to find a viable target when there were that many guns firing on a single position at the same time. One round came so close it chipped a piece of stone that glanced off his face very near the corner of his eye, leaving a smear of blood and flap of loose skin in its place.
"Son of a..." he began but clenched his teeth over the remainder. James turned to Manning, who was doing his best to take out as many of the terrorists running from the building as possible, without much more luck than James was having against the enemy gunners providing their cover fire.
"Why don't you light them up?" James asked with a nod toward the M-203.
"Because I can't verify the position of our other three men. They were doing a building sweep. I don't want to blow up friendlies."
"Well, they're obviously not in that building," James pointed out. "And if they are, they're not alive."
Manning nodded with the realization that James had a point. Yeah, he should have seen that fact earlier, saved them some time. Maybe he was getting a little punchy â€" James couldn't blame him. He was feeling the fatigue of battle and the fact they had been pushing themselves for nearly forty-eight hours straight. In fact, they were both taking time to chitchat about the situation instead of keeping their minds on business.
James poured on a fresh, sustained burst to cover Manning as his friend rammed an M-383 home and sighted on the encampment. James heard the irregular blast of the M-203, noted in his peripheral vision the weapon recoil against Manning's shoulder. A moment later a massive blast erupted just short of the group making its way toward a section of the encampment shrouded by brush not visible from James and Manning's vantage point.
"They're making a run for it!" Manning shouted as he hammered another 40 mm grenade into the M-203.
Manning sighted once more, this time more judicious in his aim, and delivered an explosive punch that blew a hole in the building just beneath one of the windows, effectively taking out any resistance that had been in the window. James sent another group of slugs downrange, and Manning jumped to his feet and sprinted across the road for cover, hopeful he could get a better fix on where the terrorist crew that left the building had taken refuge. Manning found position behind a tree, but even from that side of the road he couldn't see the frail as it ended in brush.
James keyed his microphone. "Phoenix Four to Phoenix Leader, we're trying a fire mission. Need your locale."
Only a burst of static came at first, then Encizo's voice followed a minute later. "Phoenix Two to Phoenix Four, Leader's on a delay. We're pinned down by fire from a covered building."
"Phoenix Four here, understood. That's the one we're talking about. Stand by for a hot one. Watch your flanks, also, we have stragglers."
"Phoenix Two acknowledges. Out."
Manning gave James an okay signal with thumb and forefinger and then loaded another grenade, this one a P. The placement would have to be picture-perfect. The only way they could take out the resistance inside the building and breach the camp in pursuit of the remaining terrorists would be to take out the personnel from inside, and a thermate-mixture grenade still remained the ideal way to do it. Manning flipped the leaf site into acquisition and settled the weapon onto the hole below the window created by the first grenade. Estimating range and wind speed, Manning took a deep breath and prepared to deliver an inferno of death and terror on the heads of the al Qaeda terror brokers.
* * *
It felt as the heat and concussion had ripped the air from Kamesh Razahim's lungs. The blast occurred less than thirty seconds after Bari and Bahrua departed with half of their strike squad. Razahim perfectly trusted the skills of both men, but he had to wonder whether this entire operation hadn't become an exercise in futility. Without question, the Americans seemed intent on making sure none of them left the encampment alive.
What bothered Razahim most, however, was how those bastards had ever managed to track them here to begin with. Nobody had allegedly known about this place. Had someone betrayed them? Or had Bari simply made a mistake in judgment and they figured out some way to track him to the camp? He'd heard of Sahrout Dahabi's capture, but he could hardly believe a man with Dahabi's training would have succumbed so quickly to torture tactics.
Razahim wondered for one horrible second if it was he who had brought this hell down on all of them. He quickly dismissed the notion. They'd had many hours' head start on the American commando team, and none of them had been carrying anything that could be traced. It couldn't have been a bug because he'd arranged to get the team off the boat before the Americans could reach it and foil their plans to smuggle the last of their personnel.
However they managed to do it was hardly important now. The most important thing was that they not fail to secure the safe departure of the team that had just left. Among those men were the two nuclear scientists who could provide the necessary knowledge to create the bombs from the fission material â€" one of the reasons it had been so important that Razahim personally see to their safe delivery to this point.
Well, he'd done his job and despite the diligence the Western dogs had somehow outwitted them. Razahim knew there was little use in pointing a finger of blame at anyone. It didn't matter at this point how they had been discovered, but only that they give their people every chance to escape by resisting as long and hard as they could.
The blast that disabled two of his men and left a significant hole in the building didn't help their situation. They were in a precarious position right now. Razahim wasn't really an expert in combat tactics, but he did have training surviving in a war zone, the result of running for months through the mountains of Afghanistan avoiding coalition forces at every turn.
He directed the remaining eight men to stay away from the smoking hole left by the rocket-propelled grenade and ordered them to maintain position. One man began to shout and scream, and Razahim had to squint in the dim light before he could make out what had affected the man so traumatically. Part of a leg had been blown off one of the two men who'd taken the majority of the blast.
Razahim stepped over and slapped the man across the back of the head. "Shut up! Shut up, you coward! Where is your honor? Your courage? Quit screaming like a woman and fight for God. You shall be rewarded!"
The man looked at Razahim with eyes wide, the whites visible even in the gloom, but he kept his silence and went back to firing his rifle out one of the rear windows. Razahim considered their situation and the fear began to crawl up his spine like the icy fingers of a skeleton. He could see they were near death, but he would not be afraid. Razahim remembered what Bari had said. "You will hold at any costs, for if we should fail in getting away it will be upon your head."
Yes, all else depended on them to prevent the Americans from advancing any farther into the compound than they already had. Razahim didn't stop to wonder why there weren't more smugglers on hand to protect this site. The critical nature of this particular operation would have warranted such a force as the Americans would have been overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
The head of one of the rear guard snapped backward with the impact of rounds. The window shattered, permitting more light to filter through, and blood sprayed onto Razahim as the man's body shot up and then toppled onto the floor. Razahim cursed and then, with no other choices before him, he reached down and retrieved the rifle. He made a quick study of the action on the AK-47 and then took the man's position and began to return fire. He watched for movement and tried to get a lock on a particular position. One of the Americans â€" a dark-haired, dark-skinned man whom Razahim recognized from one of the descriptions Cortina had given him â€" broke cover from behind a large, fifty-five-gallon drum empty of its diesel fuel and rushed for the corner of an adjacent building. Razahim tracked on him and fired. The AK-47 chattered in his hands as hot brass flew backward, a few of the shells catching Razahim in the chin. The terrorist ignored the irritant and continued to fire but to no avail. The American made his cover.
Razahim forgot about that one and focused on another position where he saw muzzle-flashes coming from the doorway of the barracks. He waited this time, watching for his opportunity, and when he saw a break in the firing he aimed for right below where the muzzle-flashes had been and triggered a sustained burst. Razahim couldn't be sure he'd hit anything but no firing started up again after nearly a minute elapsed.
He smiled with satisfaction and searched for another target.
* * *
"Phoenix Five to group, I'm hit!" Hawkins declared.
McCarter frowned but kept his cool. If he attempted to break position now, there was a pretty good chance he'd lose his life in the process. McCarter had learned during his early days with the SAS that the enemy did better to wound as many as possible than kill them. For each man who suffered a nonfatal injury on the battlefield meant two personnel would be required to extricate the wounded man. That added up pretty quick. The Briton didn't know if al Qaeda realized that or not, given much of this had been a stalemate to this point, but it didn't make it any less difficult to hold his position and wait.
The Phoenix Force leader stopped firing on the building that sheltered the terrorist holdouts and said, "How bad?"
Static broke through at first, causing McCarter's stomach to leap into his throat, his heartbeat quickening, but then Hawkins said, "Not bad. Through-and-through on my shoulder. Bastard got me when I was reloading."
"Sit tight and hold fast," McCarter ordered. "We'll get to you. Break. Phoenix Leader to Phoenix Three."
"Go, Leader," Manning said immediately.
"What's the stat with those fireworks, mate?"
"Going... now!"
For just the briefest moment it seemed like there was a lull in the firing, probably because all the Phoenix Force warriors had done what McCarter had, stopping to watch Manning's handiwork firsthand. It didn't take long for the show to start as the white phosphorous grenade arced through the air and came down somewhere near the front of the building. McCarter was guessing Manning probably had the perfect target to lob that baby.
In a few seconds, he'd know for sure.
* * *
Razahim had become so occupied with the stress that he never thought the hole left by the American demolitions could have been used for other tactical purposes. It wasn't until the bomb or grenade â€" or whatever they had fired â€" passed through the gap and struck the floor that he realized his horrific error in judgment.
By then, of course, it was too late.
The grenade exploded with a ferocity and concussion Razahim had never before experienced in his life. Had he been a bit closer to that area he wouldn't even have needed to worry about it. But what Razahim did recognize was the smell of wood as the area around the explosion seemed to spontaneously combust. The walls burst into flame, and several men nearby began to scream as the flesh was literally incinerated off their bones. Razahim looked on with shock and terror as the charred skin fell from the man's face and the chemical ironite heated at more than four thousand degrees by the thermate mixture that was most effective when exposed to oxygen.
Razahim had been trained to survive such brutal attacks by covering burned areas with mud or other non-flammable substances to deprive the ironite of oxygen, but in this case no amount of mud would help his distressed man. The guy let go a ghastly scream that Razahim knew he would never forget should he survive the assault. The other two men's clothing ignited instantly, and they stood and dropped their weapons as they lit up like a pair of human torches.
One ran around in circles, screaming, while the second maintained enough calm to drop and roll. Instead of smothering the flames, however, the thermate mixture leaped off his body in sparks and began to ignite other parts of the building, papers and any furniture in the immediate area. Dazed but still purposeful in thought, Razahim stood and gunned down all three men before they could spread the fire farther. As the echo of his fire died in the confines of the building, he noticed the looks of the remaining quartet. He fixed each with a hardened gaze before speaking.
"Why do you look at me like that?" he yelled. "It was the most merciful thing I could do!"
The four men gave him another moment of hateful stares before they returned to their original positions. Razahim rushed to the hole left by the first grenade, careful not to make contact with the smoldering bodies or the small puddles of flame on the ground. He dragged a table over to the opening and turned it over on its side so that the top covered the hole. Razahim knew one unfortunate side effect of blocking the hole would be the buildup of a potentially toxic level of smoke, but that was the least of their worries. At least they wouldn't die by having the flesh burned off their bones.
Razahim returned to the window and took up his vigil with the others.
"Come, Americans," he muttered. "Come and taste the vengeance of God for the final time."
* * *
"Give it to them again, mate," McCarter ordered Manning. "And let's go full bore this time."
"Acknowledged," came the Canadian's reply.
The al Qaeda gunners had stopped firing, but McCarter knew better than to trust that. They were waiting for Phoenix Force to make the mistake of exposing themselves by becoming impatient. Either that or they assumed McCarter and his men would figure that last P had done the trick and approach with utter disregard.
"Nothing doing, assholes," McCarter said just a moment before he heard the shotgunlike retort of the M-203.
The grenade, this one HE, hit the roof and exploded. It wasn't enough to bring it down, but it would rain a whole ton of debris on them. Manning followed with a second close by, then a third. It was after the fourth one struck that the doors opened and several terrorists emerged, sweeping the muzzles of the weapons in a wild show of fanaticism.
McCarter saw it was nothing more than a last stand. And it didn't bode any better for the crew when Manning dropped another pair of grenades through the holes he'd created, both WPs. The explosions that ensued drowned out some of the autofire from the terrorists outside who were pounding their position but as they died McCarter could hear the screams of the men who had been left inside.
Lips pressed tightly together, McCarter lifted the FAL to his shoulder, got in touch with the cadence of his breathing and squeezed the trigger. The weapon seemed to roar like a lion in McCarter's ears as, along with supporting fire from Encizo, they dispatched the remaining terrorists. The al Qaeda gunners fell like paper targets in a shooting gallery. The heavy-caliber, high-velocity rounds punched through their bodies, blew out vital organs and bone fragments and generally chopped their flesh into mincemeat.
McCarter heard it then, the roars of vehicle engines coming from somewhere near the camp. The sounds faded and then increased, as if the vehicles were coming toward the perimeter of the camp and then edging away. McCarter's eyes scanned the frees to the right at the edge of the camp. The brush suddenly erupted in a fireworks display of brown, green and red. Chunks of wild fruit flew in every direction as a pair of SUVs emerged from the wood line and fishtailed their way through the camp.
They were headed for the front gate!
"Phoenix Leader to Able, you still on this freq?" Nothing. "Phoenix Leader to Able, do you copy?"
"Got you loud and clear, Phoenix Leader."
McCarter recognized Schwarz's voice. "Two enemy vehicles headed your way. Stop at all costs. We'll start that way for backup."
A burst of static was followed by Schwarz's reply. "Your wish is our command, Phoenix Leader."
* * *
Bari cursed as he slammed his head on the roof of the SUV. He wanted to shout a reproach at his driver but decided against it. The man would need all his attention fixed on the job of getting them safely away from the camp and the American fighting force that was undoubtedly about to overrun the place. There would be plenty of time later to affix blame on someone else for everything that went wrong.
After all, Bari wouldn't have to answer for the miserable failure this day. Everything in his plan would have worked if the others had just met their responsibilities and made sure the additional personnel and nuclear scientists made it unmolested to his base in the States. Now they didn't even have the Mt. Riley facility in which to hold out until they could execute their plans.
Well, none of that really mattered since they would be launching their operation in less than twenty-four hours. That's when they would know true victory.
As they passed through the opening of what remained of the decimated gates, Bari saw the wink of muzzle-flashes from either side of the dirt road. He ducked in his seat in hopes of lessening his profile as a target. He heard the ting of the metal body as a few rounds connected, but it didn't sound as if any of them hit close to him. He had to wonder at the sanity of this. They wouldn't be able to use these vehicles again; they would have to trade them for different ones as the Mexican police would be looking for them.
Bahrua already had an alternate crossing point in mind, as well, although he wasn't sure how much confidence he had in the man's "alternatives," as he hadn't demonstrated his brilliance all that much.
With an abruptness to which he could not respond in time, the driver in the lead SUV jammed on his brakes. Bari could only throw his hands in front of his face, but that didn't stop his body from lurching forward. He slammed his chest on the dash and his lungs immediately felt as if they were on fire because he got the wind knocked out of him.
While he was still fighting to catch his breath, the area around him turned into sheer pandemonium as tracer rounds lit up the dusky surroundings of late afternoon in mountain jungles. Although the reports were muffled inside the nearly soundproof SUV, Bari could make out the sound of a heavy machine gun. Simultaneously, other weapons resounded, breaking the steady rhythm of their more effective companion. The sounds of the bullets striking the vehicle this time were definitely not those of minor small-arms fire.
Bari had barely caught his breath when the windshield exploded in front of him coupled by the passenger-side window shattering. With the flying glass came bits of wet flesh along with a generous amount of blood and gray matter. All these elements ended up down the front of Bari's shirt in one form or another.
And the al Qaeda mastermind suddenly knew what it was like to experience the hellfire of ultimate warfare.
* * *
Able Team was ready when the SUVs barreled around the corner and skidded to a halt in an attempt to avoid smashing into several logs the men had rolled into their path. The surface of the road, littered with rock and sand and recently fed by rains, was unforgiving for vehicles traveling at a high rate of speed. The driver of the lead SUV found this out when he jammed on his brakes. Lyons estimated they still had to have hit the log at a considerable speed â€" enough speed, anyway, to send the driver's body crashing through the front window and across the hood until it rolled off the end and thumped to the ground.
The surprised face of the passenger in the sights of Blancanales's MP-5 disappeared a moment later under a short burst of autofire. The man's head exploded in all directions and painted a gory collage over the interior at the same moment as the trailing SUV slammed into the back of it.
That was Schwarz's signal to open up with the SCS70/90. He swept the passenger side of the SUV with the weapon, punching through the fiberglass body and metal frame of the vehicle. The windshield collapsed under the assault.
Lyons would be approaching from the opposite side so Blancanales was cautious about his field of fire. He could see his friend and leader step up to the driver's window and trigger several rounds from his Colt Python to take the driver out of commission for good. Able Team was playing for keeps on this one. The instruction had been to let no one escape, and Able Team not only intended to meet that objective, they were willing to use everything they had to do it.
The man in the front passenger's seat tried to bail from the vehicle but only made it about a step. Schwarz shot him across the belly with enough rounds to nearly cut the terrorist in two. The man staggered back, blood and intestines protruding from his fingers as he looked down in shock. A moment later, a round â€" probably fired by Lyons â€" struck him in the back of the head and pitched him onto what remained of his face.
Two minutes later, it was over. Schwarz turned to see the men of Phoenix Force rushing down the makeshift road on foot, weapons held at the ready. He climbed to his feet and stepped out of the brush and waved an all-clear sign. The team congregated at the back of the rear SUV less than a minute after that. There were a few high fives, a couple banging of fists and all the men seemed to be in generally good spirits.
McCarter looked over the mutilated SUVs and let out a whistle. He said to Lyons, "You chaps were busy. Much obliged for your help."
"No sweat," Lyons replied. "Just remember, we don't do windows."


Epilogue
"Nice show, men," Hal Brognola announced. He sat in the War Room with all the members of Phoenix Force at the table, along with Price and Kurtzman. "Mighty nice show. The President asked me to commend each of you personally."
"Can I have a raise?" James asked.
"No," Price replied and, without missing a beat, continued. "Able Team couldn't make the debriefing in time. They're still in New Mexico, mopping up remnants of al Qaeda terrorists."
"Looks like the attack didn't go off after all," Encizo noted.
Price shook her head and replied, "Apparently, they were waiting for a check-in from Bari."
"At least, near as we can tell," Brognola added.
"That was quite an operation they had planned," Price stated. "From some of the information we're getting from the prisoners who decided to talk, the group you took out in Mexico was critical to the operation. Among them were nuclear scientists who would have been performing the actual fission work in building the dirty bombs from the material they planned to lift at the Nevada Test Site."
"I hope," Hawkins cut in, his bandaged leg propped on the table, "that their testimony was enough to get the DOE off their lazy tenderloins and beef up the security."
"More than enough," Brognola said. "They've been ordered by Homeland Security to remain at Threat Level Red until the end of this month, and then drop to Orange for the next six. The Pentagon has also gone to DefCon 3 for the remainder of the month."
"That ought to keep al Qaeda quiet for, oh, at least a week or two," Manning quipped.
"What about Sarah Boggs?" Encizo asked. "What's her fate?"
"She'll most probably be tried and convicted of treason, but the circumstances mitigate her release into the Witness Protection Program based on her testimony against al Qaeda."
"It's a damn shame," McCarter said. "I think they ought to drop her into the nearest dungeon until she bloody well rots."
"Not our call," Brognola said. "Or our worry."
"The important thing is that we're back to a relatively quiet and secure state," Price said, "and all of you are remanded to ninety-six hours of mandatory R&R."
"Great!" James piped in. "If we're lucky, we'll get to enjoy at least forty-eight of those ninety-six hours before some other crisis rears its ugly head."
"Amen, bro," Hawkins said. "Amen."