Rogue Force

by Don Pendleton

  "Watch that dude."

  "Got him."

  There was thirty feet between them when the backup gunner dropped his paper, rising from the easy chair and digging for the automatic hidden in his waistband. He wasn't even close when Schwarz and Lyons gave him three rounds each, the impact toppling the man and chair together, leaving their assailant on his back. The desk clerk dropped from sight as if he himself had stopped a round.

  Holstering his Python, Lyons pushed ahead of Gadgets through the swinging doors. "No class," he growled when they were on the street. "I hate these fucking amateurs."

  "Let's not be disrespectful of the dead."

  It was the living that concerned Schwarz now, and Blancanales in particular. If they were blown, it stood to reason that their inside man had been identified and marked for termination. He might be done already, but if there was any chance at all, they had to try to pull him out.

  That was the catch, of course: if there was any chance at all.

  The Able warriors might be out of chances, out of time. Unless they touched base with Katzenelenbogen and found someplace to shelter while they put their feelers out to Pol, they were as good as dead themselves.

  And dead, in Schwarz's mind, was no damned good at all.

  22

  Lane Travers slammed the telephone receiver back into its cradle, cursing under his breath. The late returns were in, and it was obvious that he had blown it. Ruiz had bagged the woman, Esperanza, but he had missed Briones, getting dusted in the process. That was bad enough, but Travers's "professionals," the hit team he had sent to mop up "Eric Larsen" and his sidekick in their hotel suite, had bought the farm. All five of them were stretched out in the morgue downtown, and there was no sign of the marks. No frigging sign at all.

  Travers wasn't looking forward to delivering the news. McNerney would be livid, and the man from Langley wondered if the days of killing messengers who brought bad news were truly past. God knows the old man had his heart set on proceeding with the plan, on schedule, but if they were penetrated, it was tantamount to suicide. The raiding force might be destroyed. The federales might be waiting to spring a lethal trap on all concerned.

  It struck him suddenly that Mike McNerney wouldn't care. It didn't matter in the slightest if his expeditionary force was cut to ribbons. The Contra troopers and their mercenary backup would be dressed as Sandinista regulars; the four or five Americans involved were going in as Soviet commandos, spetsnaz shock troops. They would certainly be missed, and someone — at the base or in the media — was bound to put the pieces back together, but in the interim there would be time for Congress and the White House to react effectively. The doves in Washington would all be pregnant by the time they realized they had been screwed.

  It barely hung together, but a suicide mission hadn't been what the man from Langley had in mind when he'd signed on. He had imagined a deception utilizing some finesse and style, and if a few stray Nicaraguans bought the farm… well, that was life. Anticipating dead Americans was something else entirely. Travers had no moral qualms in that regard — the idiots were volunteers — but it was so damned risky. Dead Green Berets in spetsnaz uniforms would raise a hellish stink in Washington, and there would be calls for a congressional investigation once the smoke finally cleared. If it came down to that, his ass was in a sling, and he couldn't depend on Mike McNerney for relief. He knew the old man well enough by now to realize that he was looking out for number one exclusively.

  Or was he?

  Was McNerney mad enough to still believe that it could work? Did he imagine that congressional investigators would ignore his role in the fiasco, finding scapegoats in the lower ranks? It was a possibility, of course — they had employed the usual buffers, blinds, and proxies — but Travers didn't intend to bet his life on Mike McNerney's instinct or his ability to bluff the whole damned world.

  The more he thought about it, Travers was convinced McNerney didn't care what happened after they were finished sorting out the dead. By then, if everybody took the bait, there would be troops en route to Nicaragua, and with victory as an accomplished fact, the congressmen who made it happen might be loath to wave their dirty laundry in the headlines. He was stretching it, of course, but Travers thought he had finally begun to see the operation through McNerney's eyes. Security was less important than success. You didn't have to hide your tracks unless you planned to lose.

  And if they blew it? How would McNerney's clique react to failure, or if Washington refused to press the issue with Ortega, even in the face of massive provocation? Were the turks at the CIA prepared to climb out farther on their limb, then saw it off behind themselves? It worried Travers when he found he couldn't answer any of those questions. Suddenly it seemed that he had bet his life on strangers, risking everything on behalf of men who might be suicidal in their zeal.

  The hard-core team at the CIA were true believers; Travers knew that much. For all of their maneuvering, for all their special interests, they believed that Daniel Ortega was a menace to American society, if not the Antichrist. They believed that Sandinista forces would eventually capture all of South America if they weren't destroyed in a preemptive strike, that history would finally absolve them, prove them heroes in the struggle to preserve civilization.

  McNerney, likewise, was a true believer. He was dangerous specifically because of his commitment to an ideal. McNerney's perfect world would be devoid of Communists and socialists and "pinks," a vision Travers had been able to appreciate before he'd realized the cost. He could recall the Tet offensive in 1968, when Charlie's screaming legions had entrenched themselves in Hue outside Saigon. Artillery was used to root them out with the result that Hue was leveled and turned into a common grave. Before the smoke had settled, newshawks had aired an interview with one of the artillery commanders in the field, and Travers still recalled the soldier's chilling words: "It was necessary to destroy the town in order to save it."

  And that, he surmised, was McNerney's vision of the world at large. The Sandinistas were a menace to their neighbors, to the very people of their homeland. If it took a bloodbath to eliminate the threat, then so be it. If it was necessary to destroy the Nicaraguan populace — in their defense, of course — McNerney and his troops would do what was required. They were prepared to leave scorched earth and carnage in their wake, annihilating friend and enemy alike in the pursuit of their ideal.

  It was too late to call off the operation, and in any case Travers didn't have the necessary pull. He might have thrown a roadblock in the way, delayed McNerney from achieving his objective, but it would have cost his life, and he wasn't prepared yet to pay that kind of tab. Desertion was a possibility, but it was premature to think of bailing out just yet. No groundwork had been laid for his escape, and if he disappeared before the strike, McNerney's hitters would be after him before the sun went down. The Agency would offer nothing in the way of sanctuary if he broke and ran; there were too many rogues, too well concealed, for Travers to have faith in any of them.

  If he ran, he would be on his own, and that knowledge kept the man from Langley at his desk when every basic instinct told him he should be en route to the Tegucigalpa airport. He was trapped, and he would have to see the operation underway, at least, before he made his break. Once the battle had been joined, there was a chance that he could take advantage of the general confusion and slip away unnoticed.

  But first things first. And number one was carrying the news of failure to McNerney. There was still an outside chance that the old man might panic and call off the operation when hostile penetration of the Contra forces was confirmed. It was a futile hope, Travers realized… but at the moment it was all he had.

  In his rookie days, when he was fresh out of Camp Peary, Travers had believed that he, the Company, could handle any given situation that arose. He would be one of the manipulators, writing history behind the scenes, directing lives so subtly that the players never even realized that they were being used. In retrospect, Lane
Travers saw that he was little better than a puppet. They had put him through his paces, played upon his limited ideals, and suckered him into a box from which there seemed to be no exit. He was at their mercy now, and they were seldom merciful.

  He didn't have to think about the consequences if this operation blew up in his face. McNerney and the Agency would cast about for scapegoats, losers who could take the heat while those above walked out unscathed. McNerney's subordinates, Crane and Falcone, were naturals to fill a scapegoat's role, but they wouldn't be going down alone. The Company would need its share of sacrificial lambs as well, and Travers could already feel the bull's-eye painted on his back. The men at Langley would discard him like a worn-out pair of shoes to save themselves… provided he let it happen.

  There were ways of taking out insurance, though, and Travers knew them all. His journal, in a safe deposit box with copies stateside, spelled out details of the mission, complete with places, dates and names. Whenever feasible, he had recorded conversations with the principals involved: McNerney, Crane, Falcone, intermediaries for the Company. The diary would be opened and excerpts published in the case of any sudden accident to Travers. His attorney was instructed to provide the media with copies of the tapes in the event of Travers's death. Nobody knew of his insurance policy — not yet — but if they took it in their heads to rub him out, the man from Langley wasn't going down alone.

  Revenge was one thing, but it couldn't hold a candle to survival. Travers knew his business well enough to trust his own abilities, and he was a survivor. If he continued taking care of business in the usual way, as a professional, he just might survive.

  Still, McNerney would be furious at the snafu. But there was nothing to be done. He couldn't turn back the clock. If it wasn't too late already, he might be able to launch another strike against the targets, provided he could discover where they were of course. And that, he knew, would be no easy task.

  He had no further contacts in the local Contra movement, and he dared not tap the Company's files to see if there were any other men in place. There was no time to turn a working mole at this late date; he would be forced to make the best of an atrocious situation with his people on the street.

  And he would have to deal with Mike McNerney. Now. The longer he delayed, the worse it looked, and bad news should be broken quickly, just like ripping off a Band-Aid. Any longer, and the old man might suspect that Travers was covering for someone, possibly considering a break, betrayal. That would never do, not if the man from Langley planned on living out the night.

  He would rely on his insurance, try to make the old man understand that it wasn't his fault. And, in the meantime, he would do his best to make it right.

  The enemy would still be somewhere in Tegucigalpa. All he had to do was find them and pin them down before they had a chance to blow the game sky-high. There were only half a million people in the city; how long could it take?

  Lane Travers didn't plan to be among the casualties when the smoke cleared. Reaching for the telephone again, he started marshaling his troops for battle. If the man from Langley went, it wouldn't be without a fight.

  * * *

  "I'd like to have the medics take a look at that," Katz said again.

  The Ironman waved him off. "It's fine. The bleeding's stopped already. Let it go."

  With the exception of Blancanales, who still hadn't touched base with members of either team, they were huddled in a room secured by Katzenelenbogen after he'd received the call from Schwarz. The rooms already occupied by Phoenix Force were two floors up and empty at the moment. Lyons's wound was fresh in everybody's mind as they discussed what had happened and Pol's failure to appear.

  "Could be the shooters muffed it," said David McCarter. "They get overanxious, go in blasting. Bingo! Two for one. It's bargain night."

  Lyons shook his head. "It doesn't wash. I believe Pol was tailed."

  "And if you're right," Katz said, "then what?"

  "Then you all have a fifty-fifty chance of being free and clear," the Ironman answered. "It led the shooters back to us and maybe got Pol killed. You had no contact with him after he went under, am I right? And I can guarantee nobody followed us tonight."

  "You hope."

  "I'd bet my life."

  "You have," McCarter said. "And now you're betting ours."

  "So, what's the problem," Lyons growled. "Are you on board to break this thing or just take notes?"

  "Goddamn it…"

  "That's enough!" Katz snapped. "We have no time for juvenile distractions. Pol may be alive. We'll have to wait and see. The mission stands unchanged. Our top priority now is touching base with Striker, warning him that Able's net has broken down. Suggestions?"

  "Yeah, I've got one." All eyes turned toward Calvin James, who had been silent until now. "Somebody fix me with a uniform, and I'll tell Striker anything he needs to know."

  "Why you?" Schwarz asked.

  "Hey, look around. You're blown, compadre. Show your face around McNerney's playpen, and somebody's bound to shoot it off. Your partner's blown and wounded. David and Katz would be conspicuous, you follow? No one really notices a black man on a military base these days. Hell, we're like furniture."

  "Makes sense to me," the Ironman grudgingly conceded. "Anyway, I hate to argue with a coffee table."

  "You're too kind."

  "I'm working on it."

  "If we can put the vaudeville routine on hold," Katz interrupted, "I agree that Calvin should make the touch with Striker. Be damned careful, though. You've got no solid cover if you draw attention to yourself."

  "I'm the soul of discretion."

  "That anything like soul food, Cal?"

  "I've got your soul food right here, Ironman."

  Katz continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "I'd advise a touch off-base, if possible. Too late this evening, but I'll have your uniform and basic paperwork first thing tomorrow. You can check the night spots first and fall back to the post as a last resort."

  "I'll handle it."

  "You know we're running out of time," Schwarz said to no one in particular.

  "Did Pol come up with something on the deadline?"

  "No, I would've passed it if he had. It's just a feeling that I can't get rid of."

  Katzenelenbogen knew the feeling. It had been haunting him for days. Without a single shred of solitary evidence to back it up, he knew the hostile operation must be coming to a head, and soon. With recent setbacks, most especially with the latest violence, Mike McNerney and his team couldn't afford to postpone zero hour any longer than was absolutely necessary. If McNerney knew that operatives were breathing down his neck, he had two choices: scuttle, or proceed with deliberate speed. Katz knew what he would do if he was in McNerney's place, and he assumed the rogue commander's zeal was equal to his own.

  The enemy would be redoubling its efforts, working toward a deadline that was still unknown to Phoenix Force. When it came down to that, the plan itself was still unknown. McNerney's team might strike at any target, any time. They had no choice but to pursue surveillance on Machado's group and hope that Calvin James could find the answers they so desperately needed.

  If he failed to contact Bolan — worse, if Bolan had been tagged by hostiles — then the Phoenix team would be required to act on instinct, moving to preempt a strike that they couldn't predict with any accuracy. If Machado's people were involved, as Able's late misfortune seemed to indicate, a forceful move against their base of operations might derail the secret operation, or at least demand postponement while McNerney went in search of reinforcements. On the other hand, he might be using mercenary troops or relying on the Contras as a backup.

  There were far too many questions still unanswered for the gruff Israeli to pretend that he had matters well in hand.

  Right now they needed who, what, where and when. Without the basics, they were groping in the dark, compelled to wait and mount an unprepared reaction to the enemy's eventual assault. It was a situa
tion Katzenelenbogen didn't relish, and he knew that it was troubling the other members of his team as well.

  There had been no word of Bolan in five days. If he had run into a major obstacle, the warrior would have been in touch by now, assuming he hadn't been tagged already by the enemy. They could only wait and hope, while taking every possible precaution in the meantime, drawing meager consolation from the fact that it couldn't go on much longer.

  And either way it played, Katz knew that they were bound to have the answer soon. He only hoped it was an answer he could live with. Otherwise, Tegucigalpa should be gearing up to face the firestorm of a lifetime.

  23

  Dawn found Bolan wide awake. A fitful bid for sleep had gotten nowhere, and the Executioner had used the quiet hours to best advantage, laying out contingencies and making rudimentary battle plans. So much depended on the enemy at this point; there was so much that he didn't know about the coming strike. They would be keeping him deliberately in the dark, of course, but perhaps he knew enough to bring the operation down without the final details. Zero hour was a closely guarded secret, but he knew the day, and he was privy to the target.

  They were rolling out tomorrow against an unarmed village twenty klicks south of Tegucigalpa. San Felipe was a trading center for surrounding settlements, and Fletcher Crane — or his superiors — had timed their move for Saturday when business would be at its best, with peasant farmers and their families collected in the central marketplace. Crane's team would be flying in from the south, and making certain that their choppers were observed — too late — on radar screens. A strike force armed with automatic weapons and grenades would turn the festive afternoon into a bloodbath, wreaking havoc on San Felipe's hapless population.

  Bolan realized that he had to connect with his backup team soon, but it wouldn't be easy. He knew that Rafferty and friends would be observing him with extra care while they counted down to zero hour. He couldn't risk any phone calls from the post, and with his allies spread too thin already, they wouldn't be sitting by the telephone. Somehow he had to get off-base before the final call-up, find a way to contact Able Team or Phoenix Force. The passing of intelligence would only take a moment, but the intervening hours might constitute a lifetime. And if McNerney's raiders caught him at it, it could be the end of Bolan's life.