Using an EM scanner, Encizo checked to make sure there were no hidden video cameras watching the policemen from the bushes. “We’re clear!” he announced, turning off the device.
The rest of Phoenix Force got out of the vehicle and checked the two cops to make sure they were okay from the aftereffects of the stun gun. They were fine. Then the unconscious men were thoroughly searched, but there was nothing interesting in their clothing aside from the usual items. Taking the wallets and watches, James then administrated a powerful sedative that would keep the men asleep for almost a day. The Stony Man operatives handcuffed the snoring police and locked them inside the trunk of the patrol car.
Snapping the key off in the lock, the men got back into the Hummer and proceeded swiftly into the woods. The numbers were falling. Sooner or later, the police would be found, and the attack would hopefully be attributed to a simple mugging. There was always somebody who hated the local cops, no matter how politely they conducted themselves. But if it wasn’t, then the blood would really hit the fan. Time was short, and the sooner they did a recon on Fort Peron the better.
“Hate to leave the bastards alive,” Hawkins muttered, leaving the side road and taking an old logging trail. “Cops know how to escape from a locked trunk. Even when handcuffed.”
“If they were the police,” McCarter countered. “If they’re innocent, they’ll wake up in twenty-four hours with a bitch of a headache, and one hell of a story to tell their buddies over beer.”
“And if they work for Calvano?”
“Drive faster,” McCarter urged, checking the clip in his MP-5 submachine gun.
Flashing a grin, Hawkins did his best, but the ground was rough and uneven, filled with gaping potholes left behind from the huge trucks hauling trees to the lumber mills. Trained professionals, the members of Phoenix Force remained calm even when their speed slowed to a bumpy crawl.
Thankfully reaching a fire road, Hawkins paused the Hummer while Manning and Encizo hopped out to cut the entry chain blocking unauthorized entry. Killing the headlights, Hawkins continued onward through the thickening gloom wearing a Starlite visor.
THE DAY FADED INTO NIGHT and the stars came out by the time Phoenix Force found the rock quarry. Leaving the Hummer in a cave, the men threw a thermal blanket over the machine to help hide the radiant heat signature. Then they changed into jungle-colored ghillie suits, gathered their backpacks and weapons and took off at an easy lope toward the river. The team was carrying plenty of explosives, including LAW rocket launchers and satchel charges.
The moon had risen above the land, shining down a cold blue light, by the time they found the isolated military base. The glow of the searchlights was distinguishable a mile away.
Leaving the open bank of the river, the six men faded into the greenery. Judiciously, they unleashed the EM scanners to check for hidden video cameras, proximity sensors and land mines. The men found a lot of them and it was slow going having to constantly circle around, zigzag and backtrack to avoid the ample electronic defenses, but eventually Phoenix Force made it around the side of the hillock.
Ever so slowly, David McCarter pushed aside the leaves of a flowering bush and down below was a military compound.
Fort Peron, aka Firebase Alpha, lay before them like a diorama of some famous battle at a military convention. The searchlights were positioned at the opposite ends of the parking lot, far away from everything else in case the beams drew in enemy fire. A double fence encircled the base with dogs running in between, pillboxes and guard towers dotted the compound, and armed guards rode in a Hummer constantly on patrol outside the fence. There were additional sniper posts on the tops of the squat concrete buildings of the base, and two white radar domes resembling golf balls towered above everything. Three MRL trucks were positioned in a triangle formation around a large object covered with a fluttering canvas sheet on the parade ground.
The Stony Man team also noted several armored personnel carriers parked in various locations, not simple transport models, but U.S. Army M-113 Gavin vehicles. The lightweight APC was deadly fast, and while the original models had possessed some serious engineering flaws, those had all been fixed over time. McCarter could see that these were the upgraded versions. The fuel tanks were mounted externally and heavily armored with reactive armor laid over louvered aluminum. Instead of a standard .50 caliber machine gun on top, these boasted a 25 mm Bushmaster rapidfire, plus a 12.7 mm coaxial machine gun.
But what really caught his attention was the cage. Resembling an array of open Venetian blinds, the slat-armor shield completely surrounded each squat vehicle from the middle of the tires to the armored hatch on top. Only very recently developed in the Iraqi war, the outer preshield would detonate an RPG or LAW early and stop the enemy explosives from achieving penetration. The slat-armor shield was dirt cheap, weighed next to nothing and worked like a battlefield dream.
A smooth paved road lead from the main gate to a prefab bridge crossing the deep river valley. There was a guard kiosk on the other side, along with two additional Gavins and a TOW missile launcher capable of stopping an Abrams M-1 battle tank.
“And if the TOW fails, they blow the bridge,” James whispered into his throat mike. “Any of this standard issue for the Argentine army?”
“Not a piece of it,” Hawkins replied, sweeping the base with the passive IR goggles. There were a lot of hot spots—kitchen, generator bunker, garage, shower stalls—but no cold areas to mark the location of any Cray supercomputers. But those could have easily be hidden far underground.
Sweeping the base with a directional microphone, Encizo listened to the idle talk of the guards, soldiers and the officers. The base personnel seemed a lot more friendly than was usual among the military, and suddenly he learned why. These men weren’t part of the Argentine Defense Forces anymore.
“Forge,” Encizo subvocalized in his throat mike, the single word clearly discernable to the other team members in their earphones. “This base hasn’t got anything to do with Argentina anymore. This is Calvano’s personal army for something called Forge. Hell, they’re boasting about the ICBM attacks.”
“Keep talking, assholes,” McCarter whispered, checking the sleek pneumatic pistol nestled in a shoulder holster. There were three additional darts tucked securely into loops on his canvas gun belt. Forge. At least now the enemy had a name.
Adjusting the radio on his belt, James gave a brief report on the recent discovery by the team, along with a picture of the moonlit base, then sent off a squeal.
Continuing a sweep of the firebase, Encizo upped the gain of the parabolic microphone in his grip. “This is odd. The rooftop guards are talking about what they’re going to do after Forge saves the world.”
“Saves it?” McCarter shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Bloody strange way to save the world by causing a bleeding nuclear war.”
“You know, I’ve always wanted to ask,” Hawkins said, focusing his field glasses on something behind the administration building. It was another TOW missile. This place was armed for major combat. “What’s the difference between bloody and bleeding over in jolly old England?”
“Britain,” McCarter corrected automatically, watching the route of the outer guards in the Hummer. “And it’s the difference between golly-shucks and motherfucker.”
“Really? Ain’t that a bitch,” Hawkins said with a hard chuckle. Save the world, eh? Forge sounded like another group of fanatics, similar to Unity or the Brigade. Well, the big Texan knew of a fast cure for their dementia: several doses of subsonic lead delivered directly into the head. Worked every damn time.
“This base should have a battalion strength,” James muttered uneasily. “But there are only thirty civilian cars in the parking lot. There can’t be more than a hundred people here.”
“That’s a long way from battalion strength,” Manning agreed, listening to the rustle of the leaves around them. “Maybe most of the soldiers live on the base, and don’t need cars.” His tone suggest
ed that the man didn’t believe it. There was no sign of a PX, school, day care or playground. This was a military hardsite and nothing else. The code name of Firebase Alpha was making more sense. This had to be where the terrorists planned to ride out the nuclear storm while they…what? Forged a new world? It was a chilling thought, but still circumstantial.
“There’s a satellite dish hidden in that copse of trees across the bridge,” Hawkins noted dourly. “But that’s bullshit. Whoever designed this base wasn’t stupid enough to put the uplink array out in front where it could be easily destroyed.”
Looking at the base through the powerful telescope on the Barrett rifle, Gary Manning grudgingly agreed. That had to be a dummy satellite dish to lure invaders into a trap. The damn thing was probably sitting on top of a ton of high explosives, enough to remove the dish, trees and the invading forces off the face of the planet. The real dish was most likely a hundred miles away connected to the base by hard lines buried deep underground. His respect for Calvano increased, along with his certainty that this was the headquarters for the enemy. Phoenix Force could blow the whole installation off the map, and accomplish nothing.
“Okay, this place looks as suspicious as bloody hell, but we can’t tell a thing from up here,” McCarter said, tucking away the glasses. “We need to get inside and do a hard recon.”
Sitting back from the bushes, Hawkins crouched on his heels, his camouflage-painted face raised toward the sky lost in thought. “Well, there’s no way we’re going to sneak inside,” he declared harshly.
Reaching smoothly over a shoulder, James pulled a LAW rocket into view and extended the tube, the sights popping up into view. “Of course, since they’ve already admitted their part in the ICBM strikes,” the man said, aiming the antitank weapon downward, “then there’s no need for us to be subtle anymore.”
BLOWING A SMOKE RING at the full moon, the Forge soldier walking along the outer perimeter of the firebase smiled contentedly, then frowned as he caught a flash of light from the nearby hillside. Oh no, was it another news reporter? The general would be furious!
Reaching for the radio at his hip, the soldier flinched as something flashed past him to strike the bridge. There came a loud explosion midway across the structure, flames and smoke rising from the impact point.
Turning frantically, the soldier tried to race for safety behind one of the stout pillboxes when thunder filled the night as the entire bridge erupted, the self-destruct charges and hidden land mines all cutting loose together. The concussion hit the running man with stunning force, throwing him pell-mell forward for a dozen yards. He hit the ground hard and lost the radio. He started to rise, but then heard the sharp whine of shrapnel flying by overhead. Dropping low, he hugged the dirt and prayed for deliverance.
An indeterminate amount of time passed and there was only chaos and noise, the roiling crescendo of the annihilating bridge covering the firebase with fiery light like morning thunder.
As the force of the explosion slowly began to dissipate, the Forge soldier weakly rose and saw a dozen men rushing his way carrying assault rifles. From the parking lot, the alarms on the civilian cars began whooping, the headlights flashing for attention.
“What the fuck happened?” Major San Martin demanded, a 9 mm Bersa in his hand. A napkin was tied around his neck, greasy food stains fresh on his chin. “Are we under attack?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the soldier replied, clutching his aching stomach. Contrary to popular belief, the concussion of a big explosion always seemed to hurt a man worst in the gut, not the head. “I saw a flash of light and then the bridge blew up. I…think it was a rocket, sir.”
Rocket? Suddenly alert, the major studied the dark hills for any suspicious movements. A minute passed, then another, and nothing happened. No gunfire, no more rockets, no crashing of tree limbs from armored vehicles forcing a path through the dense foliage.
“You sure it was a rocket?” the major demanded, lowering the weapon. Why would anybody blow the bridge, and then do nothing? That made no sense. Unless this was a diversion. Glancing at the pillboxes, the major saw the soldiers inside the bunkers standing at their guns, ready for trouble. Nobody was getting past them.
Rubbing his aching stomach, the Forge soldier started to speak when the bridge gave the terrible sound of tearing steel, a metallic scream of pain that increased in volume until it was deafening. Tearing loose from the anchors on both ends, the bridge broke apart, the flaming ruins tumbling into the river valley below, the echoing crash throwing a maelstrom of burning sparks into the smoky air, making the valley briefly resemble a portal into hell.
Limping to the crumbling edge of the ravine, the badly bruised Forge private craned his neck to look down. The remains of the bridge lay smashed and burning in the shallow water, the steel support beams still groaning like a giant animal slowly dying.
“A rocket? I don’t know, sir,” he demurred uncertainly. “Maybe it was just lightning.”
“Idiot,” the major growled, and lifted the radio from his belt. He pressed the transmit button and started to speak when he saw a footprint in the churned dirt. A boot print, and not the style used by Forge. It was pointing toward the base. Just one print. But it should not have been there, and it was fresh, the dust not yet settled into the marks obscuring the details. Cold logic said this was impossible, but the combat veteran decided to go with his gut instincts.
“Red alert!” Major San Martin said quickly into the radio, crouching slightly and raising his pistol. “We have intruders on the base. Repeat, the base has been invaded!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Omaha, Nebraska
The Daughters of American Liberty cotillion was in full regalia when the black limousine rolled to a stop at the front doors.
The hall was colossal, with marble columns lining the patio, stained glass windows arching ten feet high and completely surrounded by a manicured lawn and lovingly sculptured hedges in a dazzling array of artistic shapes. The dance music coming from the full orchestra was sprightly, and even the liveried doormen were unconsciously tapping their feet as they approached the limousine.
Then the door opened and Trinity stepped out with guns in hands.
“Hey!” a doorman said in surprise.
Which was as far as he got before Potvin shot the fellow in the throat, red blood spraying across the other two attendants. Both men promptly raised their hands in surrender, but Smith and Sakeda gunned them down without even pausing to check the bodies.
Moving inside, the men of Trinity took out a startled butler and the pretty girl in the coat check room. Sweeping along the hallway, their guns never stopped coughing and a score of people fell to the plush carpeting gasping out their life.
Reaching the main ballroom, Trinity holstered their handguns and pulled out Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns. Everybody dancing on the crowded floor was wearing either a dapper tuxedo or a beautiful taffeta gown. Flowers were everywhere and the air was redolent with the aroma of champagne, expensive perfume and power. The Daughters of American Liberty was the Midwest version of the Daughters of the American Revolution based in Boston. It was a hundred years younger, but just as rich, and possibly even more powerful.
A hundred smiling faces turned to shock at the arrival of Trinity, and the music raggedly ground to a stop as the mercs worked the arming bolts of the deadly weapons.
Instantly, several bodyguards rose from the crowd of people sitting at the tiny tables. They didn’t know these men, but the bodyguards knew the type. Hammers. What the old school would call a hit man. The three strangers radiated death like cold from an iceberg.
As the guards reached inside their tuxedo jackets, the mercs cut loose, gunning down the armed men without qualm or pause.
Now everybody started to scream, but Trinity blocked the main doorway and there was nowhere to run. The throng milled about, seeking escape, but any movement toward the kitchen doors or fire exit only brought another chattering burst from the mach
ine guns.
Dropping the spent clips, Trinity reloaded, and Smith stayed in place at the door, while Potvin and Sakeda moved into the crowd of horrified people like savage machines. Some fool took their picture with a video phone, and Potvin shot the elderly woman in the belly at point-blank range. The rich society matron could only gasp as she fell off her chair to land sprawling on the petal-covered marble floor.
The killers went past the twitching body and grabbed a young woman sitting at the next table, cruelly yanking her to her feet. Terrified, the woman started to ask a question and Smith backhanded her across the face, then did it again. Blood dribbling from a broken nose, the trembling woman burst into tears and started to shake.
Several men sitting at other tables nearby began to rise and Smith, at the door, put a long burst of 9 mm AP rounds into the ceiling. A moment later, metal groaned, and the ornate crystal chandelier violently crashed onto the dance floor. That kept everybody motionless.
Pulling out a cell phone, Potvin tapped in a number, his hard eyes constantly on the move over the squirming crowd of millionaires. These were exactly the types of idiots to try something heroic.
The phone gave a fast series of clicks, then a voice answered.
“Give me Bronson,” Potvin demanded. He waited a second, then grimaced. “What? Don’t gimme that shit, bitch. I know he’s alive, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to go to Condel Hospital. We found wads of paper all over the floor at the club. That asshole was shot with blanks. He may have a few broken bones, and probably a load of bruises, but he isn’t dead, and you’re the best doc in town that handles our kind of people. So put him on, or else.”
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 18