China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  Regan climbed in behind the wheel and opened the glove compartment, which held another pistol, a wallet with more cash and a small leather case that contained his passports, credit cards and a handheld electronic organizer that held coded details of his various worldwide bank and investment accounts. There were a couple of satellite phones, always on full charge, each holding numbers Regan could call day or night if he needed to call in favors.

  He flicked on the power, checking the dash readout. The Hummer was kept in top condition, battery always fully charged, oil and water topped up. He turned the ignition key and the powerful engine rumbled into life. Regan let it warm up, reaching out to pick up the remote that would raise the garage door. He locked his seat belt in place, placed his pistol on the seat beside him, then pressed the remote and watched the garage door slide open on oiled runners.

  The garage faced out across what appeared to be a patch of untended, thick foliage. It was in fact a solid piece of ground that would allow him to drive clear of the hacienda, then make a wide circuit and return to the dirt road leading back to the main highway. Once through Port Cristobal, Regan would head due north, the narrow highway taking him up-country and to a border crossing. Once clear of Santa Lorca he would be able to make his choice of final destinations.

  Regan drove slowly, without lights. He didn’t need them, even in the savage downpour. The storm was working in his favor, covering the sound of the Hummer.

  He reached the dirt road and swung in the direction of the main highway. The all-terrain vehicle had no problems with the muddy trail. Regan was able to increase his speed, and he decided it was safe to switch on the headlights. As the twin beams lanced into the gloom and the sheeting rain, the former CIA agent imagined he saw a dark shape stumble across his path. He thought he had imagined it until the Hummer’s wheels bumped over something solid. Regan rolled on a few yards and braked. He sat for a moment, then reached into the back for a raincoat and struggled into it. A long peaked baseball cap completed his protection against the elements. He picked up his pistol and a flashlight, and climbed out, making his way to the rear of the vehicle.

  The flashlight picked out the hunched figure, half submerged in the greasy mud. Regan used his foot to roll the body over. The Hummer’s heavy wheels had burst the body open like a ripe melon. It was messy. Regan ignored that and turned the flashlight on the face, which was untouched, the rain sluicing away the mud to expose the dead features.

  Joseph Riotta.

  Townsend’s moneyman had been thinking along the same lines—get out before he walked into someone’s line of fire.

  Regan shook his head.

  “You forgot the main thing, bubba,” Regan said out loud. “Forward planning. Never pays to do anything without forward planning.”

  He turned and climbed back in the Hummer, driving off without another look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Regan’s security force, reduced to the final two, tried to move Townsend deeper into the house, exchanging fire with the attackers. In the semidark it had become difficult to select and lock on to a target.

  Townsend resisted their attempts to move him. He had his own weapon, and he had no intention of cowering in some dark corner. He had faced hostile fire before and though he never called himself a hero, he refused to retreat, preferring to make his own decisions. The security men broke away, leaving him to his own devices, and having seen the way matters were going, chose to save themselves.

  They cut through the house, heading for the same door Hawkins had used in his confrontation with Chomski and Brandt.

  The security men saw Hawkins at the last moment. He had pushed through the door, the SPAS tracking ahead of him. The sudden appearance of the two hardmen, their own weapons up and ready, drew a swift reaction from the Phoenix Force commando. He kept moving forward, dropping to the floor, the SPAS’s muzzle angling upward. He heard the crackle of gunfire, the shots cleaving the air above his prone body, drilling into the wall behind him. Hawkins triggered the shotgun, feeling its recoil, then saw the charge rip its way into the closer of the two men. The deadly force picked the guy up and flung him back across the room, trailing a mist of blood. He slammed against a piece of furniture, unable to control his own movements as he toppled backward, landing hard. His left side from the waist up had been reduced to a bleeding mush, ribs poking through the tattered flesh.

  As Hawkins turned his attention to the second guy he heard the crackle of the man’s weapon, felt the slugs hammer into the smooth wood floor. Splinters peppered his sleeve, some digging in deep. Hawkins gasped, twisting the pump gun around and triggering a fast shot that clipped the target’s shoulder. The minor injury didn’t put the guard down but had the effect of making him pause and step back, allowing Hawkins the chance to adjust his aim and fire again before the hardman recovered. This time the commando was on target and his shot hit the guy in the center chest. There was no need for a follow-up.

  THE SOUND OF THE SPAS made Townsend throw a glance over his shoulder, wondering who was triggering the weapon. He knew Chomski had armed himself with a shotgun, but the man had vanished, along with Brandt, and Townsend had no idea where he was at that moment. Come to that, where was Regan? He seemed to have quit the scene, as well.

  Townsend suddenly felt very alone.

  “The hell with this,” Townsend muttered. “If the bastards want me, let them come and try.”

  He raised the pistol, turning in the direction of the main entrance, and in the shadowed confines of the room he made out a dark figure as it detached itself from cover.

  Townsend leaned forward, trying to make out who it was. There wasn’t enough light to distinguish the features, but he did make out blond hair. No one in Regan’s group had hair that color, so Townsend had to take this man as one of the attacking force.

  He didn’t hesitate, though in retrospect he realized he should have taken a little longer to settle his aim. Instead he triggered a shot and gave a grunt of satisfaction when the figure spun halfway around and stumbled.

  Got the mother, he thought.

  Townsend stepped forward, going for the kill shot.

  He missed the second man, who lined up the P-90 he was carrying and triggered a solid burst that took Townsend in the chest, burning pain searing his body. Townsend dropped to his knees, the pistol slipping from nerveless fingers. A second burst hit him and he arced over on his back, spilling his blood across the cool floor tiles. He heard rapid movement around him, the murmur of voices that were becoming dimmer and dimmer. The pain swelled, then the shadows closed in and enveloped him.

  “T.J.?”

  Blancanales held his P-90 on the advancing shape he half recognized.

  “Ease off that damn trigger, Pol.”

  “I think we cleaned the nest in here, but we have more outside.”

  “Hey, did Carl take a hit?”

  “Nice of you to notice.”

  Townsend’s bullet had penetrated Lyons’s upper right arm, lodging in the hard muscle. He was bleeding, his hand clamped over the wound, his P-90 dangling from its neck sling.

  “We need to—” Hawkins began.

  “What we need is to get out of here now that we’re done.”

  “You forgetting the backup squad out there?” Blancanales said.

  “Load up and let’s do it,” Lyons snapped. “I’ve had my fill of this backwater sinkhole.”

  They reloaded every weapon they carried.

  “You going to be okay?” Blancanales asked.

  Lyons snapped a fresh top-load magazine into his P-90.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Worry about those suckers out there.”

  “You’re the boss,” Hawkins said.

  “That’s right. Now let’s haul ass out of here.”

  MANOLO SPREAD HIS MEN as they went EVA from the truck with a sharp sweep of his arm. They all knew the hacienda and the grounds that were thick with greenery. Regan had allowed the vegetation to spread, hiding t
he frontage of the house and providing a natural barrier for anyone trying to take too close of a look. Manolo had pointed out to Regan that the barrier also served to prevent Regan from being able to spot any incoming and unwanted visitors. Regan had considered the point, but had chosen to ignore it as it could work both ways and he had to choose his way.

  This night, with the near jungle around the house and the severe rain, Manolo understood the problems he and his men might face. He had noticed a wind starting to push in from the coast, its force driving the heavy rainfall in solid sheets across the earth. Even now, as Manolo stood partially sheltered by the greenery, the severity of the downpour didn’t go unnoticed. As the reinforcements closed in on the hacienda, they were forced to shield their faces from the impact of the rain.

  Salvanno, one of Manolo’s lieutenants, edged up to him, his M-16 pulled close to his body.

  “This is not good, Mano. It’s hard to see where we’re going let alone watch out for a target.”

  “We have no choice,” Manolo said. “If we take Regan’s money then we are obligated to do his work.”

  “That I understand. But in this?”

  Somewhere off to their right a man shouted. The call was followed by the crackle of autofire. Other weapons replied in kind, the sounds dulled by the falling rain.

  “Now is not the time to discuss the climate,” Manolo said.

  He took off across the sodden ground, in the direction of the gunfire, with Salvanno on his heels.

  “There, there,” a man yelled.

  Weapons followed his pointing finger and gunfire erupted, the bright stab of muzzle-flashes breaking the gloom. The whip and snap of slugs cut through the falling rain, catching soft flesh and spilling men to the sodden ground in ungainly tumbles. On top of the autofire came the harsh crack of a powerful shotgun.

  THE SHADOWS WERE LIT by the savage interchange of hard fire. Manolo’s crew of local hardmen, far from being novices, found themselves face-to-face with three specters from hell.

  The Stony Man trio emerged from the hacienda with weapons up and firing, and cut a bloody swathe through Regan’s crew.

  The 5.7 mm P-90s and Hawkins’s SPAS shotgun returned the fire from Regan’s crew in a hail of death. The Stony Man team emerged from the heavy downpour, seeking and finding targets with skills that were overwhelming in their ferocity. Bodies jerked under the impact of relentless fire. Punctured flesh spouted blood, bone splintered and numbing pain became the overriding factor in the swift decimation of the local hardmen. They crumpled like windblown chaff.

  Hawkins lowered his shotgun, dropped the empty weapon and replaced it with his P-226 pistol. Only now, as the rush of combat began to slowly ebb away, did he feel the pain from the bloody and ragged tear across his left side. Even the sluicing effect of the falling rain failed to erase the warm sensation of free-flowing blood soaking through his clothing.

  Across from Hawkins, blond hair plastered tight against his skull, Carl Lyons had refreshed his P-90 and moved forward to prowl the area in an ever-widening curve. His wounded arm still shed blood and he held it tight against his side, refusing to allow it to hamper his ability to operate.

  Slightly to the rear, unconsciously taking the position, Blancanales made certain no one could take them by surprise.

  The near immobile tableau held for some time, long enough for the Stony Man team to be certain all threats had been dealt with.

  Around them the tall trees swayed under the power of the storm. A wind had arisen and it pushed the rain across the terrain, rattling and slamming it against anything that stood in its way.

  “How do we get out of Santa Lorca?” Hawkins asked.

  “We need to get back up the coast where the Navy dropped us,” Blancanales said. “We hid a signal device. All we need is to activate it and they send in a chopper from the carrier.”

  “Let’s go,” he snapped, and led the way across the grounds to the Renault they had used to trail Hawkins from Port Cristobal.

  Blancanales got behind the wheel, started the vehicle and, after his companions piled in, drove steadily back along the muddy strip of the side road until they hit the main road.

  The coast road was awash, deserted, and they reached the town without seeing anyone. Port Cristobal looked like a ghost town. The entire population had gone to ground to wait out the storm.

  It was a good three miles to the turnoff that overlooked the beach. Blancanales drove the Renault deep into the undergrowth and they abandoned the vehicle, making their way down to the beach. Out beyond the shore, the ocean was a dark swollen mass of restless water, the wind whipping the waves into foam. They walked the beach until they reached the place where the signal device sat jammed beneath rocks. Blancanales activated the signal, then the three of them found a sheltered outcropping to wait for the Navy chopper to fly in and pick them up.

  Less than forty minutes later the chopper arrived. Black and without lights, it swung in over the beach, hovered, then settled.

  Hawkins and Blancanales helped Lyons to the open hatch. His arm was bleeding, despite the crude bandage they had fashioned from a strip of Blancanales’s shirt. Despite his hardman act, Lyons was groggy and surprisingly offered little resistance when crewmen from the helicopter took over and helped him on board. As soon as Hawkins and Blancanales were inside, the hatch was closed and the chopper lifted off for the return to the U.S. Navy carrier out in international waters.

  TWO HOURS LATER Lyons was resting, sedated following the removal of the bullet. He was in the carrier’s sick bay, where Hawkins’s side had been cleaned and stitched. He had been given shots against infection, and his other numerous bruises and gashes treated, too.

  Apart from being wet and cold, Blancanales had come through unscathed so he was the logical choice to make a report to Stony Man.

  Over the secure Navy communication system he updated Barbara Price.

  “We should have code-named this Clean Sweep,” Price said after hearing his field report.

  “It needed doing,” Blancanales told her. “If we don’t make it clear how we view this kind of action, it’ll keep on happening.”

  “Survivors?”

  “We do know Townsend is dead, and so are his top aides, Chomski and Brandt. They were the main Shadow people. As far as we’re aware Jack Regan wasn’t among the casualties.”

  “That’s the second time he’s walked away from us,” Price said. “That man has a charmed life.”

  “T.J. said the Chinese guy, Su Han, was there just before the shooting started, but he seems to have fled the scene.”

  “Like you said, Pol, the main Shadow personnel have been accounted for. I guess we can mark that down as a success for the mission.”

  “T.J. got his hands on a couple of flash drives Han tried to walk away with. Could be we came away with a bonus.”

  “Unless they’re just old family recipes.”

  “Barb, you spend too much time listening to the ramblings of that delinquent Briton, McCarter.”

  “You could be right.”

  “Any news on Phoenix?” Blancanales asked.

  “On route from Bagram.”

  “They do the business?”

  “If you mean did they level half of northern China in the process, then I have to say yes.”

  “Sounds as if we will be getting letters of complaint from Beijing,” the Able Team commando stated.

  “The way Hal tells it, if that happens, the President is going to go ballistic. Once we present him with the evidence Phoenix is bringing back, plus photographs of said illicit deeds, he can tell Beijing where to stick its complaint.”

  “Hey, we’ll see you later,” Blancanales said, and signed off.

  He made his way back to the cabin he’d been assigned, sank down on the bunk and was asleep within minutes.

  THE MANNER OF SU HAN’S departure from the hacienda was far removed from that of his arrival. Recovering from his fall through the window, he had crawled into the undergrowth,
with the increasing din of battle filling his ears, the torrential downpour soaking him through. He dragged himself as deep into the dense foliage as he could and lay in a waterlogged depression, cold and aching and not a little concerned for his own safety.

  Any plan he might have been considering in partnership with Oliver Townsend seemed far from his grasp now. The attack on the hacienda seemed to go on for an eternity, though in retrospect the conflict didn’t last that long. Even when it appeared over and a heavy silence fell over the place Han remained in his place of concealment, not risking showing himself until he was fully convinced he was alone.

  He sank into an exhausted sleep and when he next opened his eyes the first pale slivers of dawn were edging through the thick clouds. It was still raining, though not as hard as earlier.

  Sun Han, former Director of the Second Department, Intelligence, dragged himself out of the muddy water and took stock of his surroundings. The only sound was that of the rain. He moved, with great caution, in the direction of the silent hacienda.

  He began to see bodies around the front of the house. He bent and picked up as discarded handgun, checking to see that the magazine was fully loaded, and held it in his right hand as he approached the house. The main door stood ajar. He moved inside and found more dead. Among them were Chomski and the man named Brandt. He also found Oliver Townsend. There were also Regan’s security team members. Regan himself was not among the dead, nor was Riotta, Townsend’s financial expert.

  Whatever had taken place in and around the house had in effect destroyed Shadow. If this was the work of the Americans, exacting justice against the people who had stolen their secrets, then they had accomplished it fully. This, along with the strike against Guang Lor, showed that the U.S. wouldn’t tolerate such actions. They had their secrets and were willing to reach out wherever needed to protect those secrets. For that, Han understood and respected their dedication. Not that it did anything to solve his own personal position in the aftermath.