Rogue Force

by Don Pendleton

  In this case, though, instead of whittling away at rotten toes and fingers, butchering the body piecemeal, Mike McNerney would be starting at the top.

  By half past four, the general had given up on news from San Felipe. Something had gone drastically, irrevocably wrong. He knew that much at least; his field commander would have reported on his progress, otherwise. In reality, he didn't care what had befallen Fletcher Crane and company. There were a handful of scenarios available, and all of them spelled trouble.

  Evacuation was the only answer, with a fallback to his secondary plan. He had devised this one alone, without assistance from the "brains" at Langley and the Pentagon. His backers had no inkling of his scheme. For all their patriotic posturing, the noises that they made behind closed doors, they were a stinking pack of hypocrites, afraid to go the extra mile, incur the added risks involved in modern warfare. Everything was fine as long as they were safe within their lavish offices, dictating orders to some flunky in the field, but it was something else entirely when they were required to sacrifice and put their asses on the line.

  McNerney had been using them, their pull, their cash, from the beginning. In ignorance, they had imagined he was under their control, but he would shortly disabuse them of that notion, with a vengeance. If he fell, he didn't plan to go alone. And if he pulled it off… well, they would soon be sniffing after him, attempting to ingratiate themselves with his administration. Let them try. It would be humorous to watch them play their scenes before he brought the curtain down.

  McNerney had a list of traitors, armchair patriots who talked a mighty battle on the golf links at the country club, but who were nowhere to be seen on D-Day. He knew who they were: military officers who hedged their bets against a possible defeat, withdrawing critical support in time of direst need; assorted federal spooks who played both ends against the middle, juggling the action and competing on behalf of their respective interests; "patriotic" businessmen, more interested in money than in ideology, who dealt with enemies and friends alike until they could no longer tell the difference.

  McNerney's list was long, and growing longer by the day. Once he was in the driver's seat, there were some changes to be made, and heads would roll. He liked the mental imagery, and wondered if it might not be a good idea to find himself a guillotine. Public executions had a sobering effect; he knew that much from Nam, and what could be more public than a televised decapitation on the White House lawn?

  The thought appealed to him… but it would have to wait. He was a long way from the Oval Office, and there was business to be taken care of in the meantime.

  Fletcher Crane and his Berets had slipped beyond McNerney's grasp. With any luck at all, they would be dead in San Felipe, permanently silenced by whomever or whatever had derailed the mission. Travers would be dealt with by his own team, if they had their wits about them; if they missed him first time out, he could be counted on to save himself and disappear. That left one problem for McNerney to eliminate, and even as the thought took shape, the problem stuck his head through Mike McNerney's open door.

  "Excuse me, General," said Major Anthony Falcone, "but your duty officer is out."

  Of course he was. McNerney had insisted on it, shutting down the office early with a lame excuse the sergeant had been happy to accept. The brigadier put on a plastic smile and said, "Come in."

  Falcone's face was deeply etched with worry lines. "I'm sorry, sir. There's still no word."

  "It's not your fault. Sit down."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We have to face the music, Major. Something has gone wrong. It's time to cut our losses."

  "Sir?"

  "Beginning now."

  Falcone's mouth dropped open when he saw the silenced Walther, and McNerney put his first round through those oval lips, the impact puffing out Falcone's cheeks. Rounds two and three punched the major's chest, dark crimson blossoming beneath his campaign ribbons, pooling in his lap.

  McNerney set the automatic on safety, put it in his briefcase and closed and locked the office door behind him when he left. Falcone would be waiting for the duty officer in the morning, a little something extra to begin the day, and by the time he was discovered, Mike McNerney would be stateside, making preparations for the activation of his backup plan.

  No one could stop him now.

  * * *

  From his position in the blacksmith's shop, Rafael Encizo had a field of fire including roughly half the plaza. It was infinitely preferable to his first position in the market stalls, where the incessant cross fire had cut through flimsy wood as if through paper, but the Phoenix warrior feared he might have moved too late.

  Encizo had sustained two hits while sprinting from the stalls to relative security behind the stout adobe walls and brickwork of the blacksmith's forge. One of them was a graze beneath his arm, but he wasn't concerned about it despite the smear of blood that stained his peasant shirt. The other round had gone right through his thigh, with damage to the fat femoral artery, and while he had used his web belt as a tourniquet, he had only slowed the bleeding. At the present rate, he thought he might lose consciousness within an hour.

  In relative security he scanned the village square. The quickest route to medical evacuation was through annihilation of the enemy, and so he searched for targets, ready with his autorifle as he searched the shadows, double-checking the dead and dying on the field of battle. Any movement might betray an enemy in hiding, but the last three "targets" had been friendly: David McCarter limping with a leg wound, and two Honduran troopers dodging for cover near the church. The firing had abated temporarily, and Rafael was conscious of the distant throbbing in his leg, aware that any great delay in mopping up might cost him his life.

  Assuming that it would be the friendly troops who did that mopping up. Thus far Encizo had no evidence that they were winning. OD uniforms were numerous among the dead, but there had been more gunners in the strike force to begin with. Rafael could draw no conclusions from a random body count, and the behavior of the scattered friendlies he had seen, intent on diving for cover, gave no cause for optimism.

  If the enemy was winning it, his leg no longer mattered. They would come for him in time, and whether he was comatose or conscious, it would make no difference if the odds were on the other side. The blacksmith's shop was San Felipe's most secure facility, but it wasn't designed for armed defense, and they could take him if they tried.

  A head appeared around one corner of the village store, ducked back and reappeared to make a second scan. Another moment passed before three members of the raiding party broke from cover, darting toward the market stalls in single file. Encizo followed them with his M-16 as they came closer to their destruction.

  His first round took the leader low and side to side, above his belt line, drilling vital organs as it tumbled through resistant flesh. The runner stumbled, tried to make a go of it on hands and knees, but found his legs wouldn't respond. Before he had a chance to scream, round two ripped through his face and silenced him forever.

  Hurdling his fallen comrade, runner number two had almost reached the safety of the stalls, but Rafael squeezed off and brought him down. The guy thrashed like a mackerel out of water, and Encizo left him to it, tracking after number three. A round between the shoulder blades propelled the next guy into impact with the bullet-punctured siding of the nearest stall. Rebounding, he toppled backward, sprawling lifeless in the dust.

  Encizo swept his rifle back to number two and found the guy inert, no longer struggling with death. On the far side of the plaza, firing had intensified, as if in answer to his own. Some of the rounds chipped brickwork overhead and ricocheted around the shop before they spent their force. He spotted muzzle-flashes in the shadows, but held his fire. He was afraid of wasting ammunition and endangering his comrades if he indiscriminately sprayed the plaza.

  But his time was running out. The trouser leg below his wound was saturated with blood. Already Rafael could feel a creeping dizziness be
traying his determination to remain alert.

  A slender figure blundered through the entrance to the blacksmith's shop, out of breath from running. In a heartbeat, Rafael picked out the OD uniform, the Hispanic features so much like his own, and then the enemy was hauling up his AK-47, startled by the presence of another in his would-be sanctuary.

  Holding down the trigger of his M-16, Encizo nearly cut the guy in two. His enemy was crucified by armor-piercing rounds, propped upright by the stunning impact. When Encizo let the trigger go, his lifeless adversary toppled slowly forward.

  And it could be that easy. Any gunner from the plaza might come waltzing in, overrunning his position. In his present state there was damned little Rafael could do to keep them out.

  But he could kill them, sure, while energy and ammunition still remained. When he ran out of cartridges… well, he would ponder that one when it happened. In the meantime, he was still alive, still in the middle of the fight. And anything the bastards wanted from him, they would have to take by force.

  * * *

  "You sure I look all right?"

  "You're fine."

  Carl Lyons checked the rental's mirror once again and made some adjustments to his bogus uniform. According to the emblems on his collar, he was now a colonel in the U.S. Army; campaign ribbons on his jacket indicated that he had enjoyed an active and industrious career. The slacks weren't a perfect fit, but he could live with it for any length of time required to close McNerney's case.

  "I don't like going in unarmed."

  "You're not unarmed," Schwarz said. "Your piece is in the attaché, right next to mine."

  "I feel unarmed."

  "You'll live."

  "Let's hope so."

  Finally satisfied with his appearance, Ironman Lyons climbed behind the wheel again and put the car in motion, powering along the narrow access road to reach the highway, turning south, in the direction of the army base and Brigadier General McNerney. It was time to roll the bastard up, and Lyons had been looking forward to this moment for a week. He wasn't about to be distracted by the throbbing of his wound or the relatively small discomfort of his too-tight slacks.

  McNerney and his various subordinates should still be waiting for some word from San Felipe. In the worst scenario, with someone on the strike force sounding an alarm, it still would take some time for news to reach the base, allowing Schwarz and Lyons room to make their tag before the general and his cronies could pursue evasive action.

  That had been the theory, but Lane Travers, the Company agent, had been running when they'd taken him out, and McNerney might have taken some precautions on his own. The thought made Lyons nervous, and he goosed the rental, suddenly intent on making better time. They had too many problems now without him dawdling.

  Too many unknown variables, for instance. Going in, they still had no fix on any possible subordinates involved. It stood to reason that the brigadier would have his buffers, but Lyons didn't know if there were two or twenty men between McNerney and the firing line in San Felipe. One thing was apparent: they couldn't take on the whole damned base, regardless of the Ironman's sudden yen to do precisely that.

  McNerney was the key, the mover, and they had their orders. Basically the plan required them to identify the players, but they were still to make the tag, even if McNerney failed to play along. The guy was dead no matter what, and he would know it going in, which automatically reduced the chances of securing his cooperation. And it stood to reason; if you were positive some asshole planned to blow your brains out, why on earth should you provide him with the names of other targets from among your friends? The more he thought about it, Lyons was convinced that it would be impossible to close the net airtight around McNerney and his pals. Unless some names could be secured in Washington.

  The sentry on the gate was courteous as he requested their ID and thorough as he studied it. You couldn't fault the kid for being taken in by forgeries from Stony Man. They were the real thing, after all, prepared from blanks supplied by DOD for use in covert missions. If he tried to back-check, they were covered all the way to Hal Brognola's allies among the joint chiefs of staff.

  The sentry handed back their bogus paper and passed them through. Signs showed the way from there, and in another moment they were parked outside McNerney's command post, double-checking hardware prior to tagging their man. Aware that stealth might be essential, Lyons opted for a mate of Schwarz's Beretta 93-R, equipped with silencer. Discarding the attaché case, both Able warriors tucked their hardware under military jackets, patting down the bulges as they made the short walk to McNerney's office.

  It was empty.

  The reception room was vacant, though the lights still burned. Beretta in hand, the Ironman tried McNerney's private door and found it locked. Without a moment's hesitation, he applied his boot heel to the lock and followed through immediately, his weapon out and tracking.

  In the general's private office they were greeted by the dead. He was — had been — a major, and his polished nameplate bore the name Falcone. Lyons didn't know the guy, but he realized that he was looking at a late and lamented member of McNerney's team. The brigadier wouldn't be dropping officers at random, not unless his mind had snapped completely, but he might be shutting down his pipeline to the Contras, covering his tracks in such a way that no one would be left to testify against him.

  Except that leaving bodies in your private office was an awkward way to prove your innocence. More likely, he was trimming out deadwood, ensuring silence with regard to some escape route. Falcone had become a liability with the snafu at San Felipe, and the price had been his life.

  "We're late," Schwarz said unnecessarily.

  "One down," the Ironman answered, moving toward the office door.

  "We've lost him."

  "Maybe not."

  The two Able warriors found McNerney's quarters after stopping once to ask directions. They marched directly to his door. There was no answer to the chimes, and Gadgets held the fort while Lyons circled, found a window left unlocked and wormed his way inside. Together, pistols drawn, they searched the general's rooms and found them tidy, Spartan, empty.

  "Shit."

  "The airport?"

  "Christ, who knows?"

  "We'd better check it out."

  "I guess."

  But they had lost him. Schwarz was right, and Lyons knew it in his gut as they retreated to the waiting car. The bird had flown, and there was nothing they could do to bring him back again.

  "Goddamn it!"

  Gadgets frowned. "I know exactly what you mean."

  * * *

  His shoulder throbbed — in fact, it hurt like hell — but Blancanales had stopped the bleeding with a compress tucked inside the wound. The effort had necessitated stripping off his shirt, and he was covered by McCarter's poncho, intent on looking like a friendly if he could. The AK-47 was a problem, but if no one looked too closely, Blancanales thought he might survive.

  Emerging from the shelter of his doorway, glancing rapidly in each direction, Pol decided on his move. He had observed four Contras moving cautiously as they had disappeared inside the village's sole two-story structure. On the second floor, Calvin James was manning a machine gun, visible from time to time as he leaned out to reassess the battleground, and Blancanales reasoned that the enemy was bent on closing out his game. Another team had tried it earlier, and they had bought the farm, but Calvin was busy now, engaged in pinning down a rifle squad while Katz and Manning tried to flank on the far side of the plaza near the church.

  Pol made his break, ignoring angry protests from his shoulder, dodging in and out of doorways as he ran. Along the way assorted riflemen threw rounds in his direction, but he had no way of telling if his change in "uniform" had made a difference. In any case, there would be enough time to check it out upon arrival at his destination.

  Another twenty yards to go. He stumbled once, but saved it with an outstretched hand, hot slivers knifing through his shoulder do
wn into his chest. Ten yards, and he was concentrating on the doorway now, prepared for anything as he burst through into sudden shade.

  Three of his enemies were halfway up the stairs, the fourth apparently detailed to stay behind and watch their backs. But he wasn't doing very well at it. He was still gazing after his retreating comrades when Politician staggered in and took him unaware. The AK-47 stuttered, blowing him away, the muzzle climbing, tracking, almost of its own accord, as Blancanales raked the staircase. Twisting, falling, trying to return fire as they died, the Contra troopers came down in a tangled heap, their bodies piled on others bunched around the bottom of the stairs.

  Above him there was a sudden, ringing silence from the sniper's nest. A shadow filled the doorway there, stretched out across the landing, and Calvin James ducked into view, prepared to hose the floor with his M-60 if a hostile presence was revealed. The Phoenix warrior visibly relaxed when he recognized Blancanales.

  "Guess I owe you one," he said.

  "Forget it. I was thinking I might hang out there awhile."

  Above him, James was smiling. "Welcome to the Y."

  He disappeared, returning to his window and the field of death below. Alone again, Politician stripped the nearest body of its ammunition belt and found himself a place from which he could command the door and windows simultaneously. If the end was coming, he would meet it here.

  * * *

  Mack Bolan lobbed his last grenade in the direction of the market stalls and saw two Contras airborne, arms and legs flailing before they struck the ground dead. A third man staggered from the smoking wreckage, both hands clasped against his face, and Bolan cut him down before he took a dozen strides.

  He had located Vince DiSalvo moments earlier and had scratched him off the list. A burst of automatic fire had riddled the traitorous soldier from knees to eyebrows. And that left Broderick.