Following a paper map bought at a gas station, the team found the sheriff’s office.
Standing behind a waist-high wooden divider, the men of Able Team saw a large man sitting at a battered wooden desk, a pair of cowboy boots resting on top. The fellow was dressed in a loose tan uniform, and a shiny sheriff’s badge was pinned to his shirt. A Sam Browne gun belt was wrapped around his waist, the J-frame handle of an old 1930-style revolver jutting from his holster. His black boots were polished to a high shine and had spurs. Completely bald, the man sported a large mustache with just a sprinkling of gray along the edges.
Somewhere a telephone was ringing, which the sheriff ignored. A moment later, the answering machine picked up the call and relayed a message about having no fresh information about the mysterious explosion of the previous night. The caller rang off abruptly.
Surreptitiously, Able Team exchanged glances. A lot of folks had to have been inquiring about the blast. With a nod, the men changed their story from being representatives of an insurance company. Pulling out FBI commission booklets, they opened them up and tucked the booklets into their belts so that the photo ID was clearly showing.
“Good morning,” Lyons said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Sheriff Terrance W. Andrews?”
“That’s me,” said the bald man, lowering the newspaper he’d been reading. “What can I do for you DOD boys today?”
The smiles froze on the faces of the three Stony Man commandos.
Slowly, Blancanales removed his sunglasses. “Sorry, we’re FBI,” he started. But then was cut off by a laugh from the big Texan.
“Shoot, boy, that weird warehouse has been in our backyard for nigh twenty years,” the sheriff said, putting his boots on the floor. The spurs softly jingled. “And the only folks who ever went there were in unmarked vans and wore dark suits.” The big Texan laughed. “Only a damn fool would think it was full of used Army boots. DOD is the best guess down at Charlie’s Bar and Grill. Although, the NSA is running a close second.” His face got serious. “So what was it, a deep storage facility for defunct documents? Or full of dead alien corpses?”
Tucking his sunglasses into a shirt pocket, Lyons said nothing, but immediately raised his opinion of the county sheriff. This was the sort of lawman who had tamed the Wild West. Tough as boiled leather and razor smart. They’d better stick as close to the truth as possible or risk blowing their cover completely.
“No alien bodies were stored here. Just secret documents,” Lyons said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Andrews shrugged, not particularly swayed by the admission.
“We could have been drug smugglers,” Blancanales suggested, resting a hand near his fake FBI identification. The commission booklet was fake only in that Able Team wasn’t working for the FBI. Everything else about them was real, including the identification numbers. A call to the FBI headquarters at Quantico would yield the service records of the three special agents in good standing, along with the matching photographs of the Able Team. The information had been uploaded into the FBI mainframe computers less than an hour earlier by Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber team.
“Smugglers?” Waving that aside, the sheriff walked closer. “Nah, drug dealers dress much nicer than you three, and then always come into town looking for girls. We got girls, but not the kind they want.”
“Girl Scouts?” Schwarz guessed wryly, peeking over the top of his sunglasses.
Stopping on the other side of the wooden barrier, Andrews chuckled. “Them’s the ones. Well, come on, I got the crime-scene report over here.”
Pushing open the gate in the divider, the law enforcement officer let the Stony Man team enter. He escorted them to a desk piled with papers and took the only chair. “Grab a seat, boys, there’s plenty to go around.”
Taking a wooden chair from a nearby desk, Lyons turned it around so that he could sit with both arms resting on top. “Were you the FOS?”
The sheriff arched an eyebrow. “First on scene? Hellfire and damnation, son, I was the only one here.”
“Got any coffee?” Schwarz asked hopefully. The pot at a small table seemed cold and unused.
“Not at the moment. But there’s beer in the fridge,” the sheriff said, jerking a thumb. “Lone Star. Best damn beer in the world.”
“I have a friend named T.J. who would heartily agree,” Schwarz said, pulling four bottles from the small refrigerator. Inside was a lot more beer, several wrapped sandwiches and a dozen or so boxes of ammunition. The cold helped them last longer. Obviously, things were tight in Sonora, in spite of the local banners announcing a forthcoming major restoration and civic pride parade.
Schwarz passed around the bottles.
“That your grandfather’s gun?” Blancanales asked, indicating the S&W revolver.
“Good eye,” Andrews said, opening his beer and taking a pull from the bottle. “Ah, that’s the stuff! But then, you boys have the look of combat soldiers rather than paper pushers from D.C. Y’all gonna tell me what was really in that warehouse?”
The men of the Able Team got comfortable in their chairs and drank some more beer. A minute passed, then another.
“Can we see the report now?” Lyons asked, inspecting the condensation trickling down the side of the dark glass.
“Yeah, thought so.” The sheriff sighed in resignation, pushing over the folder. “Not much in it, really. Everybody in town heard the explosion at roughly midnight. Took me to until twelve-forty-five to get out that way ’cause…” Andrews paused, looking a little embarrassed. “I was with my lady friend, and you know how it is. Once a man is committed to a job, you can’t just leave in the middle.”
Sharing a good-natured laugh with the lawman, Able Team raised their bottles and clinked the glass in solidarity.
“You heard the blast while…romantically engaged,” Blancanales said thoughtfully. “So everybody in town must have heard the explosion.”
“Sure. Sounds travel far on the desert, especially at night. It rattled the china on the wall of the truck-stop diner and damn near gave old Mrs. Coply another heart attack. She thought it was the Rapture and ran outside in her skivvies to meet Jesus.”
“Hallelujah,” Schwarz said, riffling through the photographs of the ruins. “Nice work on the crime shots.” There were a few pieces of what resembled the frame of a large truck mixed with the smashed bricks and smashed electronics. One body was lying on the sand, covered with a sheet. The driver of the tanker had only been recovered in small pieces. An attached note said that human teeth had been recovered twenty yards away.
“Used an old Kodak,” Andrews said proudly. “Works every time. Digital cameras are shit for night work.”
“No argument there,” Schwarz replied.
“Any strangers in town?” Blancanales asked. “Maybe a busload of lost tourists?”
The sheriff said nothing, but slowly raised a single eloquent eyebrow.
“Sorry, had to ask.”
Andrews shrugged. “Be fools if you didn’t.”
“Now, you found only the two bodies?” Lyons asked, leaning forward to rest elbows on his knees.
“Well, yes and no,” the sheriff said, taking a long drink and then placing aside the empty. “There were only those two corpses at the scene, but that throat slash on the guard…” He shook his head. “Damn me for a fool, but that was no accidental piece of flying glass. Oh, it matches the window glass from the tanker, but it just happened to hit the guard exactly in the carotid artery? No way.”
“So you think there was somebody else at the crash site?”
The sheriff stroked his mustache. “You tell me.”
Skimming the reports, the Stony Man team gave no response, which the sheriff seemed to take as acquiescence to the theory.
“Besides, that blast was way too big for just ten thousand gallons of gasoline,” the sheriff continued. “Must have been some explosives inside the warehouse, and from those burn marks, looks like the kind of thermite charg
es we used back in Nam. A paranoid man might think those were self-destruct charges that got triggered by the burning fuel.”
“Any tracks leading away from the crash site?” Lyons asked, feeling slightly foolish. The sheriff had the whole matter nailed, but the man knew how to play the game and would pretend to be fooled until he was let into the case. Which would be never. Andrews was smart, but they were facing people who don’t fight by the rules. Against these kind of terrorists, he would be completely out of his league.
“Tracks? Again, yes and no. Might have found some tire tracks other side of a sand dune that took the brunt of the detonation. That’d be where I would have hidden my escape vehicle. But with this wind, I was lucky to have found anything.”
“Any idea what type of vehicle?” Lyons asked pointedly. “A Hummer or possibly an ATV?”
“My call would be a pair of motorcycles. BMW Explorer, most likely. They’re silent, fast and can take the sand without choking.”
He got all that from tire tracks? Schwarz thought. Placing aside the photographs, he tilted his head. “Okay, what color were they?”
“The name is Andrews, not Sherlock Holmes,” the sheriff said, rising to get another round of beers. “I’m good, but not that fragging good.”
Closing the refrigerator, the sheriff passed out the bottles, and added, “But if you want my guess,” he said, twisting off the cap, “I’d say black, with the trim removed to keep down any stray reflections. Mexican stealth bikes. Illegal immigrants use them all the time to try to outrace the border patrol.”
Laying down the folder, Lyons looked out the window at the gentle breeze blowing dusty outside. Any tracks would have been obliterated in less than an hour. It seemed the man had arrived just in time to get what little there was in the folder. That was a mistake on the part of the terrorists. They probably thought a small-town sheriff would be lazy and take his own sweet time getting there in the morning, and stumble about, ruining everything. But Andrews was as sharp as they came. Lyons glanced at the old 1930-style police revolver. The sheriff was probably the son of a son of a cop, and had crime-scene procedure burned into his bones.
“Any idea where they went?” Schwarz asked, inspecting a photograph of the sand. There was a dim impression of tire tracks, but it was almost impossible to tell for sure. Pulling out a Swiss Army knife, he thumbed out the tiny magnifying glass and squinted hard.
“Can’t say for sure where they went,” Andrews said, looking through the bottle and lost in thought for a moment. “But the most logical thing would be for them to head for the access road and take the highway out of here. They couldn’t fly anywhere last night, what with the ICBM launch over at the military base. Their radar sometimes ruins TV reception. Everybody had to get cable a few years ago or never see Leno again.”
“No planes or helicopters,” Blancanales said thoughtfully. “Might have used a hovercraft.”
“Or a radar jammer,” Schwarz said, thinking out loud. They had encountered one of those before in a matter involving missiles.
The sheriff frowned. “A what? Who did this, the fucking KGB? Or them al Qaeda?”
The Stony Man operatives smiled in casual dismissal. However, the big Texan was closer to the truth than he thought.
“Well, thank you for all the help, Sheriff,” Blancanales said, returning the folder. “I think it’s time that we go check the crime scene now.”
“Just wanted to see how the locals had run the evidence before checking it out firsthand, eh?” Andrews said with a knowing wink. “Make sure we’re not morons taking souvenirs or running around with our dicks swinging in the wind, before you tried to analyze scuff marks and carpet fibers.”
“Something like that,” Lyons admitted honestly. Damn, the man was fast. “No offense meant.”
“None taken. Would have done the same thing myself.” As the sheriff tilted back his head to drain the bottle, a ripple of light passed across the room.
Instantly, the three Stony Man commandos froze their expressions, combat instincts honed in a thousand battles flaring to full awareness.
“Well, well, I’d say that you boys have been made,” the sheriff drawled, rubbing the bottle against a cheek. “Somebody sure as shit seems to be watching us through binoculars.”
Or the telescopic sight of a snipe rifle, Lyons thought.
“Keep smiling, and don’t speak again,” the Able Team leader said, rising laconically from his chair and offering a hand to the sheriff. His back itched from keeping it turned toward the window. “They might have a lip reader on the other end of the scope.”
Giving a crooked grin, the sheriff nodded.
Suddenly, Lyons realized that was why Andrews had put the bottle to his cheek, to hide his mouth. Sharp. The man was icy cool and razor sharp.
“Got any enemies?” Schwarz asked, covering his face with a raised arm as he unnecessarily adjusted his sunglasses.
Bending at the waist, the sheriff dropped an empty into the wastebasket and put his back to the window. “Lots. But nobody with the balls to try to stir up trouble in my town,” he said savagely, then turned around and rose, waving a hand toward the front door.
Moving away from the window, the men paused as the wall blocked any possible view of them from outside. Quickly, they pulled guns and checked the loads, working slides and clicking off safeties.
“Need a hand?” Andrews asked, tucking the S&W revolver back into the holster. “I know you DOD boys don’t like to share the wealth, but I’m a hell of a shot. Got a squirrel once with this blunderbuss and think I can do it again with a man.”
Lyons started to turn down the offer, then reconsidered the matter and slowly smiled. Yeah, maybe the big Texan could help after all.
WATCHING THROUGH THE scope of the FN-2000 assault rifle, Lieutenant Henrietta Caramico saw the front door of the sheriff’s office open and three men walk out. Adjusting their sunglasses and baseball caps, they went to a van parked at the curb, started the engine and drove away toward the south.
“The warehouse is west of here,” Sergeant Roberto Mendoza said through tight lips, an assault rifle cradled in his arms. “Think they’re going to circle around from behind?”
“Only a fool would drive there directly,” the lieutenant said, reluctantly lowering the weapon and turning off the computer-enhanced optics.
It would have been easy to kill the four men inside the building, but that wasn’t the plan. If the general wanted prisoners, then that is what he would get. Once these DOD agents got far enough away from town, they would be taken captive by her team waiting in the sand dunes. So far, the Americans had done nothing clever or unexpected. This mission was a cakewalk. Soon enough, they would be back in the Black Fortress, watching the end of the world on television and preparing for the long journey home to Argentina.
Just then, the front door to the sheriff’s office was flung open and the man dashed outside to a old Jeep in the parking lot. Starting the siren, he took off to the east, the light behind the grill flashing red and blue. Clearly something was happening to the west of here.
“Must be trouble at the airstrip,” Mendoza muttered, shading his face with a raised hand. “Maybe a plane crashed.” There was nothing in sight, no smoke or fire. Then again, it could be a simple bar fight or a stolen car.
Looking down at the brick building, Caramico powered up the optics and checked the office through the window again. The manila folder was lying in plain sight on a desk covered with empty beer bottles.
“Call in the rest of the team,” she ordered, slinging her weapon. “Have them recon the warehouse and watch what the Feds do. I’m going after that file.”
“Ma’am, is that wise?” the sergeant asked with a frown.
“We’re here for information, aren’t we?” Caramico replied, climbing onto her BMW motorcycle. The big engine started with a barely audible purr. “You stay here and watch my back in case that old man comes back.”
“And if he does?”
&nbs
p; “Kill him,” she ordered, pulling on a motorcycle helmet.
The acne-scarred soldier smiled in return, resting a hand on the knife at his hip. As a teenager studying to be a physician, Mendoza had quarreled with a teacher over a test grade, the fight ending with the other man dead and Mendoza on the run from the federal police. A few years later during the Dirty War of ’83, Mendoza had used his detailed knowledge of human anatomy and deadly skills with a knife to aid the winning side and earn a full parole—if he joined the military. General Calvano had found Private Mendoza soon after that and recruited the man into Forge as the covert organization’s unofficial interrogation expert. As word spread of his bloody handiwork, the Communists started to avoid Calvano’s battalion, often canceling missions that had been months in the planning rather than risk being captured alive and given over to the brutal military inquisitor.
“I’ll try to be inventive, Lieutenant,” Mendoza promised, his dark eyes bright with inhuman delight.
“Just be quick.” She grunted impatiently, swinging down the face shield. Her features were completely hidden. “The sooner we’re gone from this wretched land, the better.” Twisting the handlebar controls, Caramico rode away in a cloud of dust, and soon was moving stealthily among the acacia trees and juniper bushes.
With the hot wind ruffling his hair, Mendoza watched the lieutenant ride into the town through the telescopic sights of the FN-2000. Although he was a knife expert, the soldier was very impressed by the bullpup assault rifle.
The brand-new weapon was only part of the Argentinean government’s attempt to try to propel the nation’s military into the twenty-first century. Ten years ago, the army had been armed with whatever they could get their hands on, “grease guns” from WWII, M-1 rifles from the Korean War, Stirlings and so on. But with the abolishment of the South American debt, the nation suddenly had the financial ability to rearm the entire army into a single unified fighting force. The sergeant fondly remembered the last time his company had tangled with the rebels in the hilly Andes Mountains. It had been like stepping on bugs. All the Communists could do was scream and run. He got in a lot of practice with his blades that night, and soon the bodies were stacked like cordwood. It was a special time, and a cherished memory.
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 9