Deathbites at-12

by Dick Stivers

  He hung up without waiting for an answer and dialed another three-digit number.

  “Aaron, Ti’s lab as quickly as you can make it. Find Pol and Gadgets. They’re somewhere in the building. Bring them along.”

  Brognola pushed his chair back and stood up, but made no move toward the door. “Perhaps you’d better reintroduce us,” he told Lyons.

  “Hal, this is Deborah Devine, state cop. Deborah, this is Hal Brognola, head Fed.”

  Deborah gave Brognola a firm handshake.

  Brognola headed for the door. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder. “I want to hear what happened, but you might as well tell it to everybody at once.”

  When they filed into Ti’s lab, the Bear, Pol and Gadgets were already there.

  Ti looked furious. “Mr. Brognola,” she said formally, “you hung up on me before I could give my report — I also have bad news.”

  Brognola just shook his head. “Report,” he sighed.

  “About twenty minutes ago, there was a long-distance collect call from Boston to the computer center in Santa Clara. The computer recorded it. I was listening to it when you called. Now, there has been a sudden burst of computer activity. They’re using the interface with the smaller computers in their major cities to send the messages.”

  Brognola held up his hand to stop Ti at that point. “Let me tell everyone what happened in Boston. Then the rest of your report will make more sense.”

  Ti nodded.

  “You and your computer had already determined that Jishin’s most probable target was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the lab where they’re doing work on supercooled, superspeed computers. We rushed Manning and McCarter there just in case. They set up an ambush and sprang it as soon as they made a positive identification of the terrorists. Unfortunately Jishin was able to sacrifice her homegrown terrorists and get away with the hard-core international killers, ones that were Moscow trained.

  “They had already wiped out the driver and six passengers when they commandeered a bus. They used the bus to drive back to Logan International Airport. There they simply killed passengers for their tickets and bookings and climbed onto domestic flights where they wouldn’t have to show identification. That left twenty-two more bodies at the airport. Manning and McCarter are having the destinations of the victims checked out, and are standing by for further instructions.”

  Ti did not give them time to discuss the tragedy in Boston. Her fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Suddenly Jishin’s hoarse voice rasped from a speaker.

  “This is Commander Jishin. I wish orders sent out to all branches immediately.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Condition red. All base commanders are to destroy their targets tomorrow at twelve hundred hours. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Then send it immediately. I’ll call in a few hours for acknowledgments.”

  The line went dead. Over the dial tone, the man in Santa Clara said, “Yes, Commander.”

  The group sat in silence. Brognola stood up. “I have a telephone call to make. Everyone please wait for a couple of minutes.” Then he strode out of the lab.

  By the time Lyons had introduced Deborah to the rest of the Stony Man crew, Brognola was back. He sat behind the desk and sighed.

  “It’s up to us,” he announced. “As I said at the top of this mission, this is an election year. The President will not use the army, the FBI nor the Justice Department against HIT. He seems worried that it’ll appear that he’s attacking the unemployed.”

  “Politics,” Gadgets spat. He said it as a dirty word.

  No one else said a thing.

  “So we have only ourselves and a strike planned from each of the HIT training centers,” Brognola said. His voice was heavy.

  “Not quite,” Ti corrected. “Our computer is holding the command. It hasn’t passed it on to the branches yet. I thought we might just not pass it along, but give phony acknowledgments.”

  “Do you know the acknowledgment routine?” Brognola asked.

  Ti shook her head.

  “Then let’s pass the command along but stagger the orders. One city every two days. That will give us time to cope.”

  Deborah spoke up. “It won’t work. There’s a daily log. The change in orders will be discovered by five o’clock tonight.”

  “Let’s figure the minimum time spread we need,” Gadgets said. “We’ll send the first order to strike on schedule and spread the rest. That will give us some acknowledgments. We can use those to fake the rest.”

  “What cities do we have to cover?” Brognola asked Ti.

  “Atlanta, Boston, Houston, Kansas City, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Salt Lake City and Seattle.”

  “All those. Start by eliminating Boston. We’re standing by there already.”

  Ti’s fingers flew over the keys. “Done,” she reported.

  “I think we’d better get Yakov to Seattle right away,” Pol suggested. “He’s the only one close enough to do anything if we don’t manage a decent delay.”

  Brognola turned to Kurtzman. “Run me a package of all the information we have on the Seattle branch of HIT. I’ll give it to Yakov as soon as I can get him to the telephone.

  “The rest of you work out a schedule for covering these various branches. We can’t afford to lose more computer people.”

  Brognola picked up a telephone and began the tedious process of placing a secure call to the head of Phoenix Force, who was a guest of the Canadian government at an antiterrorist conference somewhere in or near Vancouver.

  Kurtzman wheeled up to the desk with a few sheets of printout before the call was through. The call took nineteen minutes to place and six minutes to transact, including relaying all the information that Kurtzman had summed up.

  Brognola hung up the telephone, then spent another six minutes arranging arms and transportation for the Israeli terror fighter. When he was finished, he leaned back and | looked at his team.

  “What have you come up with?”

  “First, while you were on the telephone, the acknowledgment came back from Boston,” Ti said. “It was negative. Apparently the Boston commander feels that he’s already lost all those with enough training to conduct a raid.”

  “I’m in favor of letting the message go through and seeing what the reaction is,” Brognola said.

  “Can’t hurt,” Politician said.

  Ti picked up the report on the group discussion. “We can rule out an attack here in Atlanta. There’s no one to do it. We think the command should go through to sit in the untended computer in case Jishin returns.”

  Politician took up the report while Ti worked. “The next most difficult place for us to reach in decent time is Minneapolis. My guess is that some of those professional terrorists are going to each destination to back up the local HIT teams.

  “Gadgets and I have a business there. My sister, Torn, runs it. We suggest that you arrange for the FBI to take Toni along and meet the next couple of flights from Boston. The idea is to try to find a reason to hold the terrorists and prevent them from beefing up the locals. If we schedule things correctly, Gadgets, Carl and I can take care of Kansas City and have Jack fly us to Minneapolis, and later, on to Salt Lake City. If we put a four-or-five-hour time differential in their attack orders, we should be able to handle all three cities ourselves.”

  “Besides,” Gadgets added, “we’ll have Toni keeping an eye on things in case they break wrong.”

  “Sounds okay,” Brognola agreed. “I could get the FBI to help on a watchdog basis — as long as they weren’t involved in the actual fighting. That leaves Texas and California. I can reach Texas easily enough, but California is a long way away.”

  “So you go straight there by military jet,” Pol said. “We’ll schedule it about last to give you the most time. Babette can keep an eye on the activity in their office in Santa Clara and alert you if something goes off schedule.”

  “What abou
t Houston?”

  “We thought you could bring Manning and McCarter down from Boston. That will leave Stony Man without a temporary commander. We suggest that Aaron get there as quickly as possible to coordinate all our activities,” Ti said.

  “What about keeping this place running?” Brognola asked.

  “Deborah and I will just have to manage somehow. With the Atlanta office wiped out, it’s unlikely we’ll have an attack to deal with. I’ll stay in touch with Aaron and help with the coordination.”

  Brognola thought for a few seconds before deciding. “With only ourselves to rely on, you’ve come up with the most workable plan. Get those messages out and let’s go to work. I just hope we can…”

  He was interrupted by the telephone. He scooped it up and growled, “Brognola.” Then he sat and listened. “Good work,” he said, finally. “Stay at the airport. I’m arranging for you to be flown to Houston to stop a raid there. Stand by, Kurtzman will give you the intel.”

  The Bear wheeled over to the computer terminal, taking the telephone with him.

  Brognola updated the rest of the group.

  “Your analysis is depressingly correct. By identifying most of the bodies and finding out where they were booked to fly, we know that professional terrorists are on their way to Minneapolis-St. Paul, Los Angeles, Houston, Salt Lake City, Kansas City and Seattle.”

  *

  July 13, 1602 hours, St. Paul, Minnesota

  FBI agent Tim Williams looked at his partner Carlos Sanchez. Sanchez shrugged. Neither of them liked the assignment, but orders were orders. They would delay the flights from Boston and try to question the passengers. That was routine, but why was a civilian keeping an eye on them? A licensed private detective at that. It was degrading. Williams glanced at the detective. Not hard to glance at.

  She was a small woman. She looked as though she was in her early twenties, but there was a poise, a sense of experience. She wore her hair long, and brushed until it gleamed. The makeup was subtle. It could afford to be; she had big dark eyes that could drive a man wild. A good figure, too. Williams tore his eyes away to get his mind back to the unpleasant assignment.

  “Miss Blancanales,” Sanchez said to the woman.

  “Friends call me Toni,” she said.

  “Miss Blancanales,” Sanchez continued, “we can’t stop every passenger from these flights and say ‘Are you a terrorist?’ What do you expect us to do?”

  “Well, Mr. Sanchez, you might pay special attention to anyone who doesn’t wait for his or her luggage, or whohas to read tag numbers in order to identify it,” Toni said.

  Williams reflected that it was a solid suggestion. If the terrorists killed for the airline tickets and bookings, they would have no use for any luggage thatwas checked. He hastened to agree with the woman and save Sanchez from having to do so.

  “A good suggestion, Miss Blancanales. We’ll do that.”

  “Thank you,” she answered. Then she spun on her heels and walked away, later standing far enough from the agents not to be associated with them, but close enough to observe. The location was not lost on Sanchez.

  “Fink dame,” he muttered under his breath.

  There was no more time to simmer. The flight they wanted was in and the first passengers were trickling into the terminal building. Of the first half dozen, two men and a woman headed straight for the exit. With an uneasy glance at Toni Blancanales, the two FBI men moved to intercept the three.

  All three were calm. Too calm. Each asked if they were under arrest. Each insisted that they had an important appointment and could not be delayed. Finally, each insisted that they be charged or released. Williams glanced at Sanchez.

  “Do we hold them?” Williams asked.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Come off it, Sanchez. You know we can always dream up a reason. These three are too smooth for my taste.”

  Sanchez shrugged. “Let’s lay it on the queen and let her decide.” He glanced at where the female detective had been watching. She was no longer there. “Hell, she doesn’t even care enough to stick around. We’ve got no grounds to hold them.”

  Sanchez turned back to the three. “Go ahead,” he told them. “Sorry to have had to delay you.”

  The trio hurried out of the terminal. Just as the doors closed behind them, Toni came from the other direction.

  “I managed to look into the baggage that’s supposed to belong to two of them,” she told the FBI agent. “The clothing couldn’t possibly fit.”

  Sanchez turned dull red. “You can’t search baggage without a warrant,” he bellowed at her.

  People stopped to stare at them.

  “For Christ’s sake. Cool it,” Williams warned his partner.

  “Where are they?” Toni demanded.

  “We had no reason to hold them. I let them go,” Sanchez said in a lower tone of voice.

  “You did what!”

  “Listen, lady,” Sanchez said, obviously deciding the best defense was an offense. “If you went into luggage without a warrant, I’m arresting you right now.”

  Toni ignored the threat. “You’ll never find a witness,” she told Sanchez. “My firm supplies the security here. When I read about innocent people being killed by those terrorists, I’ll be thinking of you.”

  She turned and stalked away.

  Sanchez watched her go, before leading the way to the agency car. He threw the keys to Williams, and then hunched himself low in the passenger seat.

  “So will I,” he muttered to himself. “So will I.”

  14

  July 13, 1738 hours, Kansas City, Kansas

  Carl Lyons watched the twelve men come out of the terminal building and divide into three taxis. The drivers stowed the heavy dunnage bags, two per cab, in the trunks and the cars pulled out in procession.

  Lyons spoke into a microphone. “That’s our boys. Let’s follow them.”

  From a van farther along the road, Gadgets acknowledged. “We have them in our rearview mirror.”

  Lyons pulled his rented T-bird in behind the three cabs. He could see the van ahead, innocently leading the way. Pol would be driving, Gadgets keeping track of the quarry and the communications.

  After a few miles the cavalcade turned into a doughnut-shop parking lot. Terrorists clambered out of all three taxis and went inside. Lyons saw the van pull over to the curb, three blocks ahead.

  “Keep a parallel track,” he told Gadgets over his radio. “If you stop and then pull back into the parade, they’ll spot you for sure. It shouldn’t be too hard. We know where they’re headed.”

  “We know where we thinkthey’re headed,” Gadgets answered.

  “That’ll have to do. Hold position until you see them start up. Then get out of sight. Something smells here. I’m going to go in.”

  Lyons pulled into the parking lot and went in. He noticed that only some of the terrorists were buying coffee and doughnuts. Those who were were getting them to go. One man was at the pay phone.

  Lyons bought some doughnuts to go. About that moment, the guy on the telephone finished his call and headed for the door. Immediately the other eleven followed.

  Lyons wandered back to his car and continued the pursuit. The base of his neck was tingling. He did not like that telephone call.

  Lyons spoke into the microphone. “Gadgets?”

  “Running one block south.”

  “Cut in the afterburners and get there fast. Got EVA two or three blocks away. I think one or both of us is being led down the garden path.”

  “We’re gone.”

  Lyons slapped his jacket, checking the positioning of the big Python. It rode comfortably in the custom breakaway clip under his left arm. He then reached over the seat, dragged a large salesman’s sample case into the front seat, and undid the catches.

  At the next traffic light, he slipped on a bandolier filled with clips. He also had time to strap a thigh holster and Ingram to his left leg. The light changed and he hurried to close the gap
with the three taxis. At one point he held the car straight while he jammed a clip into the Atchisson Assault shotgun. He levered a round into the chamber and set the piece back down within the case.

  Ahead, the caravan had sped up. If Lyons’s figured the map correctly, they were five minutes from the old, four-story department store that WAR used as a barracks and training center.

  When the cars ahead picked up speed once more, Lyons knew he had been spotted for sure. He began to close the gap. Rush-hour traffic was starting to thin out and the Thunderbird was more maneuverable than the taxis. Lyons felt it was better to push them than let them get away too easily.

  The cars turned into an alley that ran along the side of the HIT headquarters. Lyons turned in after them, hoping to use the car to bottle them in a dead end.

  Just as he committed himself. Gadgets squawked over the radio. “Don’t go into the alley beside the building. It’s a set.”

  Lyons jammed on the brakes and thumbed the radio button at the same time.

  “Too late. I’m in.”

  “Try to make it into the building,” Gadgets said as Lyons dropped the microphone.

  Lyons grabbed the Atchisson and put it on full auto. He jumped from the car and raked the sky with a six-shot clip. The sky was suddenly filled with four hundred pieces of lead, all looking for someone to rip open. The snipers who were leaning over the edges of the building to strafe Lyons’s car with their M-16s never got a chance to pull the trigger. Three were killed. Three were unhit, but had jerked back and were in no position to fire.

  Lyons leaped to the top of the T-bird. From there he crashed headfirst through a second-floor window of the HIT headquarters.

  Behind him, he heard the snipers firing too late at nothing at all. He found himself alone in a barracks room. He slapped a new clip into the Atchisson and headed for the door.

  Lyons crouched low and swung the door open. Automatic fire raked the doorway. He tumbled back and waited, but no one charged.

  There was suddenly the sound of firing somewhere else in the building — Pol and Gadgets were on their way. Lyons pulled a mattress from one of the bunks and tossed it out the door. It stopped about three clips worth of ammunition. The next mattress landed on top of the remains of the first. It attracted even less lead. The third mattress collected one short burst. The fourth and fifth landed on top of the pile undamaged.