Seconds later, several motorcycles roared into the alley. Damnation. The headlights had found Max, his wife, his daughter.
* * *
Built in 1909 for fishermen and the resident employees of the Wrigley Company, Catalina's Pleasure Pier now serves the tourist trade. From the pier, glass-bottom boats shuttle visitors to view the bay's kelp forests and sea life. Other boats take tourists to view the colonies of California sea lions, to cruise through the splendid isolation of Two Harbors, to watch the nightly phenomenon of flying fish leaping over the sea's surface on silver gossamer wings.
The pier holds rental shops offering motor launches, rubber rafts, and scuba gear. The restaurants there sell what many islanders and tourists swear to be the most delicious shrimp and crab cocktails on the West Coast.
The Harbor Master's office occupies the seaward end of Pleasure Pier. A simple green shack, its unimpressive exterior hides the interior's state-of-the-art electronics. Banks of radar screens, linked by cable to radar scanners on top of Catalina's second highest mountain, Mount Black Jack, monitor all marine and aircraft traffic to the mainland on the north, east, and south, and far into the Pacific Ocean to the west.
Horse pressed the muzzle of his cocked .45 automatic against the head of the duty officer in the Harbor Master's office. The young man, despite himself, shook with fear. Horse grinned as he surveyed the consoles of radar screens. He knew he could spot any police or military attempt to land forces, whether by sea or by air. He could then send his bikers to eliminate the threat.
And if the authorities mounted an overwhelming attack, the Outlaws would simply execute all the hostages, then fight to the death.
"All right!" Horse glanced at Banzai, demon-faced biker of Japanese ancestry. "You see all this? This is ours now. We got early warning!"
Banzai's hand-radio buzzed. "Yeah, what?" He listened and then reported to Horse. "They're bringing in one of the sheriffs. His name's Fletcher."
"Fletcher? Deputy pig Fletcher?" Horse laughed. He took a slip of paper from his jacket and put it in front of the duty officer. "Okay, boy, you wanna stay alive?" The young man nodded. "So I'm the main man now. You do what I say. Call this number — now."
The paper read: "Governor's Hot-line," followed by a line of numbers.
The duty officer's hands shook as he dialed. "It's... it's..." he stuttered, finally getting the words out. "It's ringing."
Horse shoved the young duty officer off the chair and took the phone. He listened to the distant ringing. Once, twice, three times. He watched the spinning green line of the radar scan sweep the screen: green blips marked the positions of stationary ships all around Catalina. Finally, after six rings:
"Hello... " A sleepy voice came from the phone. "This is the Governor... who's calling?"
"Jerry baby! This is the Outlaws' number one talking to you. You listening? I'm going to give it to you fast and only once."
"Is this some kind of joke?" The Governor's voice had come alive. "Who's calling? How'd you get this number?"
"Never mind that crap. You just listen. We got fifteen hundred hostages. We're going to kill them — are you listening?"
"What is it you want?"
"So you're listening. One, I want my three chemists out of jail. The ones you got in jail for manufacturing a bit of PCP. That's number one."
"Goon."
Horse heard a click on the line. That meant the call was now monitored and recorded. "Two, we want twenty million in gold bullion. Twenty million dollars in gold, understand? And three, you got the nuclear submarine Orizaba parked in San Francisco Bay. You put my men, my gold in the sub and bring it here. You've got forty-eight hours. Understand?"
Behind Horse, the door opened. Two bikers half-dragged, half-carried Deputy Sheriff Fletcher into the room.
Most of Fletcher's right hand had been shot away. Two fingers dangled from a mess of blood and exposed-bones. A tourniquet cut from a telephone cord and knotted above his wrist slowed his loss of blood. His other wounds had not been treated. A gaping wound across one thigh poured blood down his slacks. There was a clear imprint of a boot heel on his face.
"How do I know this isn't a hoax?" the Governor shouted. "You'll have to talk to my people..."
"I got a pal here for you to talk to." Horse turned to the deputy. "Hey, Fletcher. Remember me? During the summer? You whipped my head with your stick, remember?"
Fletcher recognized Horse through swollen eyes. But he said nothing.
"What's wrong? You too fucked up to talk? Does it hurt? Don't sweat it, I got something to make the hurt go away. Just for you. Now talk to the Governor." Horse pushed the handset against the deputy's face. "Tell him your name."
"This... is Deputy Sheriff... Joseph Fletcher, of the Avalon Sheriff's Office. We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. We need..."
"Have they really taken all the people hostage?" the Governor barked down the phone.
"I don't know. They're killing people... they..."
Horse raised his .45 to the deputy sheriff's face. "I'm going to take away the hurt now, Fletcher. Say bye-bye to the Governor."
Fletcher closed his eyes. "Hail Mary, mother of grace. Forgive us our sins, now and at the time of our..."
The shot sent blood spewing over the Harbor Master's map of Santa Catalina Island.
4
Mist streaked the Virginia mountains. Defining the eastern ridgelines, the first light of day illuminated the autumn colors of the forest. The valley floor remained in darkness. Carl Lyons ran through bands of shadow and startling brilliance. He pumped his legs as if they were components of an unfeeling machine, disregarding muscle pain and rasping breath. He heard Rosario Blancanales a hundred yards below him on the mountainside. Lyons rounded a bend in the trail, took cover behind a fallen tree, waited.
As Blancanales' running steps approached, Lyons found a fist-sized clod of dirt. He continued to wait. But Blancanales didn't appear. Lyons could hear the rush and flutter of the bird's wings through the air. But he didn't hear Blancanales.
A stick hit the back of his head. Lyons spun and tumbled over. He saw smiling Blancanales squatting uphill from him.
"I thought the race was to the top of the hill." Blancanales stood, stretched. "But if you can't hack it..."
An electronic beep interrupted him. The pagers clipped to their sweatsuit waistbands beeped three times. There was a pause, then three more beeps.
Their grins faded. The morning exercise was over. Three beeps meant no more jokes.
As they sprinted down the trail, they heard overhead the heavy throbbing of a military helicopter.
* * *
April Rose met them at the gate to Stony Man Farm. Her blond hair flashed in the morning light.
"Don't go to your quarters, don't bother with anything," she said. "I've put your overnight bags and equipment cases on the helicopter. Here's your mission authorization from Mack..." she passed a tight roll of teletype paper to Blancanales.
"Where are we going?" Lyons asked.
"California. And I tell you, this one's worse than New York. Good luck."
April watched them as they sprinted the last hundred yards across a landing field to the waiting Huey. The chopper's idling rotor blades accelerated to a shriek. The skids left the ground as Lyons and Blancanales leapt in the side door. Gadgets Schwarz, already strapped in, glanced up, grinned in greeting, went back to reading a teletype printout; he wore only a bathrobe and pajama bottoms.
Hal Brognola was unshaved and his hair uncombed. He gave the three members of Able Team their intercom headsets. "Close those side doors, the briefing starts now." Brognola spoke into his headset's microphone. "Pilots, take off your headphones. Don't put them on until we approach the airport.
"Half an hour ago," Brognola began, "two-thirty California time, a motorcycle gang called 'The Outlaws' seized Santa Catalina Island."
"The Outlaws did what?" gasped Lyons.
"Let me continue. There are about seventy, seve
nty-five of them and as of now they are in control of the island. They have severed all communications to the mainland. They have killed or captured all the law-enforcement officers. Somehow, they took every resident of Avalon hostage. That's about fourteen hundred people, we aren't sure exactly how many. Avalon is a tourist town — there may be as many as a hundred tourists who are spending the weekend there."
Hal Brognola was Able Team's commanding officer, a burly older man answerable by choice to Mack Bolan (a.k.a. Col. John Phoenix) and by duty to the White House. He paused to ensure that his grim news was fully understood by the three men before him.
"The leader of the Outlaws, someone with the name of 'Horse,' called the Governor of California direct, on the Governor's secret hot line. That, in itself, is a significant point. That hot line number is classified. It is known only to the Governor's aides and a few military officials."
Brognola paused to refer to a printout.
"The gang leader made these demands. The release of three of their members now in prison. Twenty million dollars in gold. And a nuclear submarine to deliver the three gang members and the gold. The assumption is that Horse will then force the submarine's crew at gunpoint to transport the gang to some foreign country."
"Has any of this crazy stuff actually been confirmed?" asked the benign Blancanales. "Isn't there any chance it could all be..."
"No chance. It is confirmed. Though officially we're saying it's a prank. A Deputy Sheriff managed to make a shortwave Mayday call. The ships that reported the message have been told it was a loony tune.
"But when a Coast Guard helicopter flew over the town, it was fired on by light and heavy caliber machine guns." Hal sighed.
"The gang leader has threatened to kill ten hostages the next time any ship or aircraft approaches the island. His people control the port's radar station. Anything comes within three miles, he kills ten people.
"He has given the Governor forty-eight hours to deliver the ransom."
Lyons spoke. "How many people have they killed?"
"That's not known. However, he had a captured Deputy Sheriff — apparently the same officer who put out the Mayday — speak to the Governor. As the Governor listened, he heard the officer begin a prayer, then there was a shot."
Lyons closed his eyes for a moment. "That's the Outlaws. That's the way they work. Murder and mutilation," he murmured. "Once, when they were moving in on the East L.A. drug trade, they captured one of our undercover officers. They sent his skin to us in a box. With a cassette tape. They had skinned him alive and recorded the entire procedure.
"And we never got them for that. You know how it is, a case has to be textbook perfect to prosecute."
"The Outlaws' constitutional rights," Brognola commanded, "are hereby suspended..."
"Kayaks!" Gadgets blurted. "We'll take a boat as close as the three-mile limit, then paddle in. Fiberglass or canvas kayaks, with fiberglass paddles, a few inches of plastic foam over the equipment. There won't be any radar bounce off of plastic. And besides, a kayak rides only a few inches above the water. The equipment will actually be below the waterline.
"I was thinking of wind-surfing, but there might not be any wind, so..."
Gadgets' enthusiasm made Lyons grin. He glanced to the others, pointed at Schwarz. "You know, this guy is a wizard. Sometimes I wonder why he isn't a millionaire."
"Government work doesn't pay that good," said Gadgets. "But the benefits are okay. Travel, education, meeting interesting people, a good pension..."
Chances were they'd never collect a pension. Blancanales changed the subject.
"What about the media?"
"It is impossible to keep the press from investigating," Brognola said. "The first reporter who tries to check out the prank story will know something is wrong. We will need to cancel the tourist boat that shuttles back and forth between Los Angeles Harbor and the island. And the Coast Guard will be preventing any private craft from approaching the island. The most we can hope for is a few hours before the questions start. After that... " Brognola shrugged.
"And what happens if we can't break them?" Blancanales continued.
"Ask the Governor."
"That's not going to happen!" Lyons shouted. "I owe those scum from way back. As far as I'm concerned, this is do or die."
Gravity shifted as the helicopter banked. Blue sky filled one side door window. Blancanales glanced down at the concrete runway and parked Air Force jets, to the jet waiting for them. He turned back to Lyons.
"They don't call us unless it's do or die."
Still wearing sweatsuits, Lyons and Blancanales carried their bags into the forward cabin of the Air Force jet that would take them to Los Angeles. A man waited for them at the conference table. Behind him was a stack of aluminum cases in anodized black.
Wide-shouldered, thick-necked, with huge forearms and large hands, his hair clipped to a stubble, this man looked like a Marine Corps drill instructor.
But when he stood to greet them, he first pushed himself up with his arms, then used two forearm-clamp crutches to rise to his full height. His knees locked straight with metallic snaps.
"Andrzej Konzaki," he introduced himself, extending his hand, his right crutch hanging by the forearm clamp.
"Pleased to meet you." Blancanales shook hands with him.
Lyons didn't. "Who are you?"
"You mean, why am I here?" Konzaki smiled. "Is that not correct, Mr. Lyons?"
"Andrzej has clearance," Brognola called. He was struggling up the aisle with one of Gadgets' cases. Gadgets followed with a second case.
Engines shrieked. The jet taxied to take-off position on the runway. Lyons and Gadgets shook hands with Konzaki. They all took seats around the conference table, and strapped themselves in.
"Though we haven't met before," Konzaki told them, "we have worked together. You, Mr. Lyons, spoke with me only a few weeks ago, concerning some very unusual ammunition for a very difficult situation. I am Special Weapons Development, CIA. I viewed the video tapes, and I attended the autopsies of those Puerto Rican terrorists. Did you not think the results remarkable?"
"Yeah. Remarkable."
"And not one of the hostages," Konzaki continued, "suffered wounds from bullets or bullet fragments."
Konzaki eased back into his chair. He opened his attache case. "Before I present the tools for your present mission, let me continue with the briefing, courtesy of some data put together by your Mr. Brognola.
"Here are maps of Santa Catalina Island. Satellite photos. Los Angeles Police Department files on the Outlaws motorcycle gang for the last fifteen years."
The last folder Konzaki distributed to each of the members of Able Team contained a three-inch thick stack of photocopied forms and typewritten pages. Gadgets flipped through the stack he received:
"With this much attention, you'd think the LAPD would have known about the attack on Catalina."
"Don't knock the LAPD," Lyons spoke up, sensitive about his former job. "Five thousand cops for a city of almost four million people. You figure it out."
Brognola flipped through the folder, found a particular section. "Actually, the police were onto it. They have details on the theft of military weapons, the warehousing of civilian weapons and ammunition, and the assembly of all the California Outlaws in the Los Angeles area. They knew something was about to happen."
Konzaki swiveled his chair at that point and opened one of the several cases stacked behind him. He placed a scoped, bolt-action rifle on the conference table.
"This is a Mannlicher SSG in .308 NATO," he announced. "You're familiar with the Starlite scope. You'll notice I have fabricated a mount for the Starlite which will allow the use of the iron sights during the day.
"Here are a hundred 'Accelerator' rounds. With a velocity of over 4000 feet per second, the 'Accelerators' will make long-distance snap shots possible.
"Here are ten rounds like those you used in the New York tower hijacking. They will kill without creating
a through-and-through wound. And, as you remember, a head shot is utterly devastating.
"Here are ten rounds with Teflon-coated steel slugs. They will punch through any vehicle. Almost any wall.
"Here are ten tracers. You might use them as incendiary rounds. I have a hundred rounds of hollow points, if you want them. However, this is not a fire fight weapon. Also, the police file reveals that these criminals have stolen considerable numbers of assault rifles chambered in .308 NATO. Rather than carry additional and perhaps unnecessary ammunition, I say capture the stuff."
He opened another case and brought out an odd-looking pistol with a short suppressor mounted on the barrel. "This is a Beretta Model 93R modified for silence. I have attached the suppressor and changed the springs to cycle sub-sonic 9mm cartridges. It fires single shots or three round bursts..."
"What's the cyclic rate?" Gadgets asked, intrigued.
"Practical rate of fire, approximately 110 rounds per minute. This lever folds down for the left hand and the left thumb slips through the extra large trigger guard. With both hands, short range burst accuracy is excellent.
"Here's a holster and gun belt. The pouches have fifteen magazines, each containing fifteen sub-sonic cartridges.
"In case you expend all that ammunition, this pouch contains the pistol's standard springs. I'll show you how to disassemble the pistol and replace the springs. That will allow the use of full velocity ammunition, though it will no longer be silent."
He opened another case. "Here are some standard weapons, with minor modifications. An Ingram in 9mm. And an Uzi. Both throated to feed hollow-points. I have also added flash hiders. Magazines and ammunition for both.
"Here are some small LAAW rockets, one for armor or barricade penetration, two with antipersonnel warheads.
"I also have this box of grenades for you, fragmentation and white phosphorous. And for Mr. Schwarz, radio-triggered detonators in several frequencies."
Lyons grinned. "All right! Christmas comes early. The odds just took a turn in our favor. But tell me..."
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