Perilous Skies (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  “It doesn’t match the profile of the jets we’ve seen,” Gary Manning said, staring closely at the image from China. “It’s configured like a fighter jet.”

  “With stealth capability,” David McCarter added.

  “Yes. We think so. That started a flurry of activity,” Barbara Price said. “This woman was within one hundred miles of the known Chinese air force testing facility, and where the United States happens to have drone activity—offshore, so we’re not violating Chinese airspace. But we do have radar monitoring of the skies in that area. We put eyes on the ground in the vicinity, and simultaneously monitored the radar. In the past several hours we’ve had sixteen sightings of virtually silent aircraft, all of them slow-and-low jets, and at least three of them marked as Chinese air force. None of them appeared on our radar.”

  “The Chinese bought the technology,” McCarter said. “They’re creating their own stealth air force.”

  “With a significant tactical advantage over the United States, or any other adversary,” Price added.

  “The United States wouldn’t fly such an aircraft,” Manning said. “If the only way to keep this aircraft stealthy is to keep it extremely lightweight and inherently dangerous, the U.S. wouldn’t do it.”

  “China would,” Price said. “Ethical or not, it gives them a military edge.”

  Youngstown, Ohio

  THERE WAS NOTHING WORSE than being in the middle of the mission with nothing to do. Sitting around Stony Man Farm, watching all the activity but with no opportunity to be a part of it, was maddening to Hermann Schwarz. He was glad when Barbara Price dispatched Able Team to the western edge of Ohio.

  Half a day later he wasn’t so thrilled.

  They had been sitting on what was essentially a low-grade stakeout, in front of the rented townhome of a man named Noah Brezius. The man may or may not have been instrumental in the development of the material that was being used on the stealth aircraft. He was a special sort of crystalline-ceramic-engineering genius.

  “Being a crystalline-ceramic-engineering genius must not pay too well,” Schwarz commented as they sat in their blacked-out Toyota Highlander, watching a pair of working girls stroll down the street, unsteady on their high heels. It looked like a rough night for the girls, in a seedy neighborhood. And Noah Brezius lived in a run-down townhome, with a view of a pawn shop and a liquor store. It was a neighborhood that had an air of desperation about it.

  Brezius wasn’t at home and had not been all day. Schwarz had let himself in through the back door and taken a look around the townhome. The man was still living there, as evidenced by recent food purchases in the fridge and recently dirtied dishes in the sink.

  It was after 10:00 p.m. when Able Team saw a figure pausing in the darkness of a sidewalk-wide alley alongside the townhome. The figure poked his head out just long enough to check up and down the street before he hurried to the front door, unlocked it with nervous energy and slipped inside. A minute later one dim light appeared on the second floor behind the heavy curtains.

  “I don’t know if he’s interested in having company this evening,” Schwarz said.

  Lyons grunted. “I think he’ll see us.”

  “Wait,” Blancanales said. “What the hell?”

  He pointed out the windshield, at the same dark passage from which Noah Brezius had emerged. Two more figures were now crouched there, in a state of high alert. They were in black, and they were armed. Seriously armed, judging from the glimpses of the weapon profiles that Able Team could see from their vehicle.

  “And up there,” Schwarz said, indicating the balcony of a townhome on the other side of Brezius’s house. Another man in black, also with what appeared to be an automatic weapon in hand, was crouched on the balcony. He was watching the street and seemed to be satisfied that there was no one observing the movements of his hardmen. He gave a hand signal, which was quickly acknowledged by the pair down below. They waved to the rear, to someone else out of sight, then disappeared into the passage.

  “The Youngstown street gangs,” Schwarz said, “are getting pretty sophisticated in their techniques.”

  “Those look like Special Forces,” Lyons said as he triggered his headset. “Stony, I don’t think we’re the only black ops with a line on Mr. Brezius. There appears to be an insertion team here right now. Can you check that out?”

  Barbara Price sounded doubtful. “Even if Brezius is the target of multiple investigations, what are the chances of two blacksuit teams coming for him on the same evening? Hold on, Able.”

  She came back a minute later. “Able, from what I can tell, there is no FBI activity in your area—but there’s no clearinghouse of such operations, either. Even the local law enforcement wouldn’t post plainclothes operations to some central database.”

  “Understood, Stony. But I’m not going to go in at the same time these guys are on-site and risk taking or delivering friendly fire.”

  “Understood,” Price said.

  Seconds later Lyons advised, “Change of plans, Stony. We are on the move.”

  * * *

  AT THAT MOMENT, the figure that they assumed was Brezius had opened his front second-story window and climbed out onto the roof covering his front door. He held on tightly, and inched backward toward the edge. At that moment the man in black crouched on the nearby balcony shot at him.

  Brezius had the good luck of scooting off the roof at the moment the man fired, but the round struck where he had just been, and where his hands were still gripping roof shingles. The shingles were shredded and Brezius fell with a cry. He landed on his back on the concrete stoop, then rolled quickly onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet, leaving bloody prints on the concrete. The handprints were decimated by a quick burst of automatic rifle fire. Once again, moving fast had saved his life.

  By then Carl Lyons had stepped out of the SUV and lain across the hood, targeting the man on the balcony with his own weapon.

  “Hands up,” he commanded.

  The figure on the balcony turned his weapon on Carl Lyons, unleashing a burst into the hood of the Highlander. Lyons dropped out of the burst and peered around the front of the vehicle. It was entirely unethical for any SWAT or Special Ops team to try to shoot a man in cold blood—and that’s exactly what these men were doing to Noah Brezius. Lyons nevertheless gave it one more try.

  “We’re law enforcement. We’re on your side.”

  In answer, the hardman on the balcony squeezed on the trigger of his weapon and held it there, emptying the magazine into the Highlander. The rounds bounced off the armor and cracked against the bullet-resistant windows.

  Schwarz was on the ground alongside Lyons.

  “Ironman, I just don’t think he’s on our side.”

  “Yeah.” Lyons lifted himself over the hood of the Highlander and targeted the black-suited shooter on the balcony. He triggered a brief, far more efficient burst than his adversary. It cut through the wooden railing on the balcony and into the legs of the crouched hardman. He sagged, moaning.

  * * *

  BLANCANALES BOLTED AWAY in pursuit of Brezius, closing the distance rapidly. Brezius was wavering on his feet, weeping blood from his hands, and could well be suffering other damage from his fall—and he wasn’t a fit man. Blancanales closed in on him fast.

  “Noah, I’m a Fed,” he called. “I can get you to safety.”

  Brezius looked over his shoulder with terrified eyes, and veered between buildings. Blancanales pursued him and found himself in a dark, junk-filled alley. He tried to find Brezius in all the clutter, but there were a handful of places the man could have hidden himself. Harsh white light mounted high above on the side of the building created a number of deep shadows.

  Behind him came the sound of gunfire.

  * * *

  THE FRONT DOOR OF BREZIUS’S townhome was yanked open and a pair of gunners emerged in a big hurry. They looked right, left, and one of them shouted at the man on the balcony. He only got a groan in respo
nse, and then, from directly in front of them, came trouble. The two hardmen faced two new, unfamiliar blacksuits emerging from behind a parked Toyota SUV.

  One of them was nothing but a pair of baleful, murderous eyes in the blackness. The second one, by comparison, looked almost harmless—thin, with wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Don’t move,” said the one in the glasses.

  They responded like well-trained, no-surrender-at-any-cost commandos, turning their weapons immediately on Hermann Schwarz and Carl Lyons. Schwarz and Lyons triggered their weapons before the pair had their targets. Rounds slammed into both hardmen, sending them toppling to the ground. One of them met the concrete step with his temple. Something went crack, and the body went limp.

  The second man rolled, managed to get to his feet and attempted to bring his weapon to bear. Schwarz was already on top of him. He snatched the gun, knocked it solidly against the man’s forehead and tossed it away. The man sank to the ground, his eyes going glassy. The hardmen were bound in plastic cuffs in seconds, and Lyons searched the unconscious man for some sort of identification. There was none. He did find body armor, which explained why the two weren’t dead from the gunshots. He also removed a Beretta 9 mm handgun and a combat knife.

  Schwarz got up close to the face of his own prisoner. “Who are you? FBI?”

  The man with the glassy eyes managed to focus on Schwarz, and laughed at him bitterly.

  “Forget them,” Lyons snapped. “Let’s go.”

  They didn’t go. Instead, Schwarz grabbed Lyons by the belt and yanked him aside as another gunner emerged from the dark alley and triggered an Uzi. The rounds flew wide of the Able Team warriors but the unconscious hardman took the hits and grunted.

  The man with the Uzi wasn’t concerned about wounding his own men. He pulled back into the passage and ducked out a moment later to deliver another long burst. At the moment his top half emerged from cover, Schwarz and Lyons fired simultaneously, aiming for the unarmored neckline, and nearly decapitated the man with twin bursts. The body slumped, half in darkness and half out.

  “What the hell?” Schwarz demanded.

  “I wish I knew,” Lyons said. They heard gunfire ahead, in the darkness up the street, where Blancanales pursued Brezius.

  “Christ, Pol.” Lyons bolted to his feet. “Come on.”

  * * *

  BLANCANALES HEARD the gunfire at the townhome become intense. Able Team had met more resistance than it had bargained for in the act of taking Noah Brezius into custody. Not that they couldn’t handle it.

  Blancanales couldn’t worry about his teammates or the nature of the unidentified gunmen. His one priority was to get Brezius to safety.

  “Noah, are you still here?” he called into the alley.

  There was no response, but he heard something creak, like old metal. Maybe a trash can that Noah was hiding behind.

  You couldn’t blame the guy for wanting to keep quiet. Somebody was after him, and they wanted him in the worst way.

  “Noah,” Blancanales called, “you have to believe me. I’m here to protect you and to get you somewhere safe. I don’t know who is after you, but I’m going to try to get you away from them. Trust me.”

  Blancanales thought he heard a faint, derisive snort from far deeper in the alley.

  A shadow shifted at the opening at the far end of the alley. One hundred feet away, where only the faintest gleam of the overhead light could reach, it was a human, all in black.

  At that moment, Lyons spoke into his headset. “Pol?”

  “Stay out of the alley until I give the word,” Blancanales responded under his breath, hoping Lyons could hear him.

  “Understood,” responded Lyons.

  With his eyes shaded by his hand from the overhead light, Blancanales began to get a better feeling for the layout of the alley. After many seconds a dark shadow separated itself from the blackness at the end of the alley and began to move carefully, slowly, against the wall. It picked its way around some rubble and its foot nudged a piece of trash lightly, enough to make a clink, and the figure froze in place. By then Blancanales had spotted the profile of a second figure, standing guard at the far end of the alley.

  The shadow announced, loudly, “Your friends are all dead now, Noah. We killed them. You come with us, and everything will be okay.”

  The hardman was answered with silence.

  “You come out,” the man insisted. “You come out, or I might just start shooting my way around this alley until I flush you out. It’s that simple a choice.”

  Now Blancanales could hear the faintest movement very close to him. A slight scraping sound. The rubbing of fabric against the greasy pavement. From a shadowy place against a trash bin something emerged on all fours. It was a bleeding, tattered-looking man trying to make a surreptitious escape.

  But he wasn’t good at it. His foot nudged a discarded beer bottle, which rolled a foot and a half and tapped against the brick wall of the building, and in the blackness it sounded as if it was amplified over loudspeakers.

  The hardman trudged forward, clearly blind to Blancanales’s presence.

  “You little shit,” he said, and bent to grab Brezius by the collar. Instead he took a snap kick from Blancanales to the kidneys. It sent him tumbling against the wall himself. Another kick rocketed his skull against the wall and sent him into blackness.

  Brezius yelped and tried to push himself to his feet, even as the new shadow at the far end of the alley detached itself and strode forward. Blancanales tackled Noah to the ground and shouted into his mike.

  “One gun, far end of the alley. I need cover!”

  There was a burst of gunfire from the far end of the alley and Blancanales fought to keep Brezius from getting up; the man was trying to leap directly into the gunner’s limited line of sight. Blancanales twisted awkwardly, aimed through the clutter at the distant gunman and triggered his M-16. The figure dropped away, but there was another hardman there in a flash, blasting blindly into the alley with a combat shotgun.

  Lyons and Schwarz stepped around the corner and fired over Blancanales and Noah Brezius and cut down the gunner before he could pump his shotgun.

  * * *

  BLANCANALES HUSTLED Noah Brezius into the backseat of the Highlander, then stayed there with him as Lyons and Schwarz lugged one of the men from the alley and one of the men from the front yard of the townhome. The others were corpses. The two gunmen were manhandled into the rear of the Highlander. There was no time to go for the man on the balcony, who may or may not still be among the living, or to collect the bodies of the other gunners. The sirens were already wailing and the first squad car skidded around the corner, lights blazing, even as Schwarz drove the Able Team Highlander away from the scene at an unhurried pace.

  Lyons contacted Stony Man Farm. “Barb, we’re leaving behind a hell of a mess in Youngstown.”

  “We have to let the locals deal with it,” Price said. “Any idea who these people are?”

  “Not a clue,” Lyons said. “No ID.”

  “The one who was talking in the alley was an American,” Blancanales said.

  “But these were definitely not friendlies?” Price emphasized.

  “No,” Lyons said. “U.S. friendlies don’t shoot each other.” He explained to her how one of the dead men resulted from friendly fire from another black-suited hardman.

  “And how is Brezius?” Price asked.

  Lyons turned to the man in the seat behind him. “How are you, Noah?”

  The man glared at him. “Scared shitless. Who are you? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Don’t worry,” Blancanales said. “We really are harmless.”

  Brezius nodded, but his eyes were drawn to the battered, unconscious men piled in the rear of the Highlander.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ali Zordun sold his aircraft as a package deal. This package included the aircraft and an intensive week-long training program. He guaranteed that anyone who drove a car could learn to fly
his aircraft in just a week of lessons.

  He used the lessons to emphasize the dangers inherent in flying—and the special limitations of his own aircraft. Because the aircraft was so inexpensive there were necessarily some compromises required in the aircraft’s function.

  For one, the cockpit did not pressurize well. For that reason, his aircraft were not meant for long-distance transport so much as they were meant for special-purpose missions.

  The fact was that the substrates used in the fuselage of the aircraft, while providing the stealth capability, also give the aircraft a number of inherent shortcomings. Aside from the inability to pressurize, there was less overall structural integrity of the craft. It could simply not stand some of the higher forces another jet would typically endure. Because the engines of the jet were designed for short missions, and didn’t have the thrust of some other small jet engines, Zordun’s jets wouldn’t achieve the speeds that would produce those forces. Particularly on the wings. Still the training sessions taught users what maneuvers were inadvisable.

  And users were instructed to trust the aircraft’s operating system at all times. It monitored stresses and wing flex and interior-exterior pressures, and its automatic flying routines specifically altered performance to keep all the measures in the safe zone.

  The jets were also inherently vulnerable to impact with other airborne objects. Because they were quiet, because they blended in visually, because they were equipped with emergency-only exterior lighting, it was quite possible for another aircraft to simply fly into them without ever knowing they were there.

  These were the kinds of things that Zordun instructed his buyers to be aware of.