China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  They had been waiting only for a few minutes when Calvera’s stretch limousine rolled into the building.

  Luis Calvera considered himself a big man. He didn’t walk. He swaggered. It was the only word Hawkins could apply to him. The thing that took the edge off that for the Phoenix Force warrior was the fact that Calvera was big in size only. He had to have weighed in at more than four hundred pounds. None of it was muscle. Hawkins watched as the man levered himself out of the Cadillac’s rear door and stood adjusting his rumpled clothing. He dressed the part, in a silk shirt and a pale cream suit that had to have been custom made. Hawkins figured there was no off-the-peg in that size. The clothing flapped and billowed over Calvera’s soft body. Even the generous cut of the suit failed to conceal the man’s bulk and the stomach that sagged loosely over his belt.

  “Hey, man, don’t let him get too close,” Hawkins said. “He passes out and falls on us, we are goners, Vic.”

  “No comments about his size,” Lerner said. “Regan says he’s a little touchy about it.”

  Calvera stood beside his car and waited for them to approach him. As Hawkins got closer, he could see that Calvera was sweating. His dark skin was covered with a light sheen of perspiration. His dark hair, worn long, was clinging damply to the sides of his face. When he moved his head, his drooping triple chins quivered gently.

  A couple of armed men accompanied Calvera, MP-5s hanging from shoulder straps. They made no attempt to conceal who or what they were. Hawkins noticed that the Cadillac’s driver was still at the wheel of the vehicle. The engine was running and Calvera’s rear door remained open. He was either overly cautious or a little edgy. Hawkins wondered why. The Mexican had everything going for him. They were on his home ground, and he had the advantage.

  So why the extremes?

  Jack Regan pushed his way between Hawkins and Lerner, holding out a hand toward Calvera.

  “On time as usual.”

  Hawkins scanned the area. He was starting to feel cautious himself. Something was off center. He began to sense a setup.

  “Vic,” he said softly, nudging Lerner’s side. “Eyes open, buddy. I think we’re in deep shit.”

  To his credit Lerner didn’t react overtly.

  “What?”

  “I think Calvera is playing us for suckers here.”

  Lerner took a slow look around, managing to keep it low key. “Son of a bitch has a spotter with a scoped rifle up on that catwalk. Your eleven o’clock.”

  “I see him. Hell, Vic, this guy has a lot of artillery for what’s supposed to be a simple shakedown.”

  Calvera wore a wide, false smile on his glistening face. He spoke to Regan in condescending tones, gesturing with his pudgy hands. Regan looked over his shoulder and pointed to Hawkins and Lerner.

  “They represent my supplier,” he told the Mexican.

  Calvera smiled. “Maybe I should make them pay a premium, too,” he said. His English was clear and well pronounced.

  “Your choice,” Regan told him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you shouldn’t exceed your authority, Señor Calvera,” Vic Lerner said.

  “Here, my authority is absolute.”

  “Things change, hombre. You know. Big man one day, cut down to size the next.”

  Calvera’s flushed face darkened a shade as he stung from Lerner’s words.

  “Regan, I do not like your…”

  Hawkins saw the slight turn of Calvera’s head, the flick of a hand in the direction of the sniper up on the walkway.

  The numbers had reached zero.

  Hawkins spoke into the microphone clipped to his jacket.

  “Now would be a good time, boys.”

  Lerner caught the words and broke into action. He powered himself forward, slamming his shoulder into Regan’s back, driving the man to the dusty floor and hauling his autopistol from his shoulder rig as he went down.

  As Hawkins followed suit, he heard the crack of a high-powered rifle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Calvera’s sniper stretch up, then topple from the catwalk.

  There was a brief, hot silence and then the whole place erupted in a rattle of gunfire. Bullets clanged off metal and gouged spouts of dirt from the floor of the workshop.

  Hawkins rolled, pulling his own weapon and caught a glimpse of Calvera heading for his limousine, his bodyguards hustling his immense bulk at a surprising speed. Dropping the muzzle, Hawkins placed a couple of shots into the front tire. It blew in a spray of black specks, the wheel sinking on its rim.

  Regan and Lerner had scrambled for cover behind the limo.

  One of the bodyguards swung his MP-5 in Hawkins’s direction. Lerner leaned out and put the guy down with a pair of 9 mm slugs from his SIG-Sauer P-226. The Mexican slumped back against the limo.

  From their places of concealment, the four Townsend gunners poured a constant rain of fire at Calvera’s surprised soldiers. It was obvious they hadn’t been expecting such defiance. Townsend’s team cut down the hardmen in quick time.

  Pushing to his feet, Hawkins faced off the second bodyguard as the man pushed his employer in through the rear door of the limo, yelling orders at the driver, then bringing his weapon to bear on the Phoenix Force pro. Hawkins didn’t hesitate. He put two quick shots through the man’s chest, laying him out on the floor of the workshop.

  The limo lurched forward as the driver floored the gas pedal. There was a scream of fright from Calvera. The man was still only partway in the vehicle and as it began to move his lower half was dragged behind it.

  Lerner rolled to his feet, his pistol in a two-handed grip. He began to fire at the driver, drilling him a couple of times. The limo swerved violently, throwing Calvera from the rear door. The Mexican hit the floor, rolling, still mouthing a wild torrent of abuse.

  The limo, out of control, smashed into a steel support girder and came to a sudden halt.

  “Now that wasn’t as bad—” Lerner began.

  The sound of a shot from Calvera’s pistol blanked out his words. The single slug hit Lerner in the left shoulder, spinning him off his feet.

  Before the echo had faded Calvera’s body shuddered under the impact of two slugs from the rifle of Townsend’s sharpshooter still at his high position in the roof girders. The expensive suit erupted with bloody spurts at the impact points.

  “Mission accomplished,” the man’s voice said through Hawkins’s earpiece.

  It was Ralph Chomski. And he sounded as if he had really enjoyed his part in the proceeding.

  Townsend Ranch

  “AFTER THAT LITTLE firefight, buddy, you still want the job?” Lerner asked.

  He was lying in his bed, bandaged up after having the bullet removed by Townsend’s doctor. Drugs to ease the pain had left him a little high.

  “That was nothing after Somalia,” Hawkins reminded him.

  “You aren’t wrong there.”

  Hawkins picked up movement behind him as someone entered the room.

  “You take it easy, Vic,” he said. “Catching that slug is going to keep you confined to quarters for a while. Come to think of it, you always were quick when it came to getting out of work.”

  Lerner grinned amiably.

  “Then it looks like you’re going to have to double up for your buddy.”

  Hawkins recognized Ralph Chomski’s voice and turned to face the man. Chomski leaned against the door frame, smiling easily.

  Standing just inside the door was Townsend himself. He moved quickly to stand beside Lerner’s bed.

  “How is it, Vic?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “It usually does,” Chomski said.

  “You took one sometime?” Hawkins asked casually.

  “Me? Never. I stay out of their way.”

  “Just wonderin’ how you knew what it felt like then,” Hawkins said, and turned back to Townsend. “You heard from Regan yet, sir? He get to his contact?”

  Townsend nodded. “Called a while back
. Made his connection with no more trouble.” Townsend slapped Hawkins on the shoulder. “That little arrangement you and Vic organized paid off. Regan got his consignment. We showed those idiots over the border it doesn’t pay to fuck around with us. Good day all around. Right, Ralph?”

  Hawkins glanced across at the man. Chomski struggled for a moment to hold back his anger. Hawkins’s remark had bruised his ego. The Phoenix Force pro reminded himself to watch his back. Ralph Chomski wasn’t the kind to let something like that go.

  “Sure,” Chomski said. “Good day…” A slight pause, no more than a heartbeat, then, “For some.”

  “Calvera?” Townsend chuckled. “He paid his dues, all right.”

  Hawkins smiled inwardly. He knew Chomski hadn’t been thinking about Calvera. He had been staring directly at Hawkins as he spoke.

  After Townsend and Chomski had gone, Hawkins stayed with Lerner until the man drifted off, then made his way back to his own room.

  While Townsend and his main team stayed in the big house, the crew lived in a bunkhouse. As far as Hawkins was concerned it was simply a barracks hut. The main difference was that it had been divided into single rooms for each man. There was a large room at the front where the men could watch TV, play pool and generally lounge around when they weren’t on assignment. Hawkins had noted there was no telephone in the building. He had mentioned that to Lerner.

  “Boss man doesn’t like us making outside calls in case somebody says something that might be picked up. You understand what I mean, pal? Kind of operation Townsend is running wouldn’t sit too well with certain parties. He doesn’t want to take the chance the phones might be tapped.”

  “Like we took a vow of silence? I mean, come on, Vic, are we celibate, too?”

  That had made Lerner laugh out loud.

  “Hell, no. We can shoot on down to Landry Flats. I know a few nice ladies we can spend some time with.”

  Hawkins hadn’t pressed the matter. Though he would have liked the opportunity to pass information to Able Team, or directly to Stony Man, he was going to have to tread softly until Townsend felt safe with him around. Being the new boy meant he had to play it cool.

  The incident with Calvera added some good points in Hawkins’s favor. Even so, he maintain his low profile. One person he would have to stay wary of was Ralph Chomski. Townsend’s SIC was no fool, and Hawkins sensed the man was keeping a close eye on him. He was sure Chomski didn’t trust him. For that matter, how genuine was Townsend? It was no easy judgment to make. Until he was certain of his ground, Hawkins would need to stay on his toes.

  In his room he flopped on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  Jack Regan showing up as a player was interesting. How deeply involved was he with Townsend’s organization? Simply a go-between? Or did his association go deeper than that? Hawkins knew that Regan had global connections. Did they reach as far as China? The consignment of weapons and ammunition Townsend had pushed through Regan was destined for some antigovernment group in Central America. Most probably small stuff compared to Townsend’s major league dealing with Beijing. But Townsend was shrewd enough to keep his smaller contracts ongoing in case the big stuff dried up.

  Then there were the two names Hawkins had learned on his first day at the ranch.

  Mark Kibble. He had only caught snatches of Townsend’s conversation with the man, but it appeared that Kibble was part of the technology feed.

  The second man held even more interest.

  Tilman. The scant fragments of conversation Hawkins had picked up had given him the man’s name. A reference about the CIA. Tilman saying something about checking into Agency involvement.

  His overhearing these scattered pieces of conversation had been random, pure luck, on Hawkins’s part as he had been familiarizing himself with the house while Lerner had left him to do some other chore. He hadn’t tried to elicit further information about the two men from Lerner, deciding to keep what he had heard to himself. But he did need to get it to Stony Man. Once Kurtzman had the names, he would run checks, far and wide, and if there was anything in the information he would trawl it out of cyberspace. Until Hawkins found the opportunity, he was going to have to sit on the information.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING he was summoned to the house, and Townsend told him he was going to Landry Flats with Chomski and one of the other men to pick up supplies. It was a preferred way of doing things. Rather than have deliveries to the ranch, which always left them open to curious visitors, Townsend felt safer to have what they needed picked up by his own people. Landry Flats, a crossroads for the outlying community, was used to this kind of dealing so there were few questions asked. And as Townsend always settled his accounts in cash, visits to the small town were always welcome by the local businesses.

  They took one of the 4x4s. It had an extended body capable of carrying a lot of cargo. Chomski climbed into the passenger seat, the third man, a heavyset, hard-looking individual who Hawkins knew only as Brandt, sat in the rear cab seat. Chomski leaned out his window and tossed the keys to Hawkins.

  “You can drive, hotshot. See if you’re good at that as well as everything else.”

  Hawkins got behind the wheel and switched on the powerful engine. He swung the 4x4 around and along the dusty track that led to the main highway a couple of miles away.

  Brandt settled himself and closed his eyes. Hawkins didn’t believe he was going to go to sleep for a minute. He drove steadily, aware of Chomski’s close scrutiny. As he swung the 4x4 onto the blacktop he spoke for the first time.

  “You mind if I have the radio on?”

  “Yes, I do,” Chomski said.

  Hawkins allowed a smile to edge his mouth. “That mean I can expect some scintillating conversation then?”

  “You got a real smart mouth, Hawkins.”

  “People are always telling me that. Gets me into trouble all the damn time.”

  “And you like sailing close to the wind, too.”

  “Scintillating conversation,” Brandt said from the rear seat. “He uses big words. I don’t like asswipes that use big words.”

  “I can understand that, Brandt,” Hawkins said. “Are you two a double act? Like Dumb and Dumber?”

  “I read your file, Hawkins. Rangers. Delta Force. Doesn’t mean shit to me. I put a 9 mm in your skull right now, and all those fancy badges won’t protect your ass.”

  “Won’t prevent you from getting your asses scraped off the highway when this rig turns over, either.” Hawkins planted his foot hard on the gas pedal, pushing the 4x4 above 60 mph. “Now we got us a quandary, Chomski.”

  Chomski held his gaze for a moment longer, then relaxed. He forced a grin, holding up both hands in mock surrender.

  “Okay, Hawkins, we both proved we’re hardasses. You really think I’d be stupid enough to shoot you out here on the highway?”

  “I’ll be able to answer that if I can feel the breeze going through my head.”

  WHEN THEY ROLLED INTO Landry Flats, Chomski directed Hawkins to the general store. Hawkins glanced around the quiet street. There were only a few vehicles present, most of them pickups from outlying businesses. The car Rosario Blancanales was driving stood outside the town’s only restaurant. Blancanales wasn’t behind the wheel. Lyons and Schwarz were nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around. Hawkins turned and followed Chomski and Brandt into the store. Chomski went to the counter and handed his order to the clerk. Brandt located a slot machine and began to feed coins into it, working the lever with his powerful arm. Hawkins moved around the cluttered store, checking the layout.

  “Hawkins,” Chomski called.

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to take a walk over to the gun shop and pick up this order? Personal stuff for the boss.”

  He handed over a folded invoice and a thick wad of cash. Hawkins nodded and turned to go. As he passed in front of the store window, he saw Chomski’s reflection nod at Brandt. The big man eased away from the slot machine and f
ell in behind Hawkins.

  Hawkins headed on out of the store and strolled across the street. The gun shop was a few buildings up from the restaurant. Hawkins strode straight inside, not even looking in through the window. He walked by the racks of rifles and shotguns, pausing at the counter until the owner came to serve him.

  “Here to pick up an order for Mr. Townsend,” he said, handing over the invoice.

  “Sure thing,” the clerk said. He checked the invoice. “Oh, yeah, that came in the other day.” He peered over the top of his eyeglasses at Hawkins. “Can’t say I seen you before.”

  “Only signed on couple of days ago.”

  “You sound local.”

  “El Paso.”

  The man smiled. “Local enough. Now I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Got that item out in back. Just need to make sure it’s packed well.”

  “No rush,” Hawkins said.

  He leaned against the counter, checking out the glass case on the wall. A selection of handguns was displayed on pegs. And Hawkins could also see Brandt’s image showing. He was outside the store, watching Hawkins through the front window. It took a great deal of effort for Hawkins not to lift his hand and wave.

  He did see Blancanales walk into view, step around Brandt and enter the store. Hawkins turned around, leaned against the counter and made eye contact with Brandt. His move caught Brandt slightly off guard. Hawkins sensed Blancanales moving around the store, but kept his attention on Brandt, who didn’t seem to know what to do. After a time the big man moved away and stopped on the edge of the sidewalk, seeming to decide that the street was more interesting.

  Blancanales strolled up to the counter, examining the handguns in the wall cabinet.

  “Check out a Mark Kibble and a possible CIA guy called Tilman,” Hawkins said quickly. “And Jack Regan is in the loop.”

  Blancanales made no indication he had heard. He raised a hand and pointed at a particular piece in the display cabinet.

  “You know if that’s a collector’s item or a reproduction?”

  “Hard to tell from here,” Hawkins said.