“Heads up,” Lyons subvocalized in warning. “Trinity is here and they’re packing flamethrowers and a minigun.”
“Flamethrowers?” Schwarz’s voice crackled in his earphone. “In a field of green plants? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“But the minigun does,” Blancanales retorted. “Any more mercs about?”
“Not a sign,” Lyons replied, tracking the shrouded men with the Atchisson. “But they could be in hiding.”
“They usually are, brother.”
Leveling their weapons, two of the men took aim at the thick fields of corn. The third man turned around to watch their backs, one gloved hand tight on the support handle, the other on the joystick. He pressed the trigger to the first click and the six barrels softly whined as they began to rotate to operational speed.
“Here it comes,” Lyons warned.
Steadfast, the two men with flamethrowers pulled the triggers and moved the vented barrels around, sweeping back and forth as if spraying insecticide, but nothing seemed to happen.
Then Lyons saw some crows flutter from the sky to land hard on the ground. Squawking angrily, the black birds flapped their wings madly, constantly bumping into each other.
“Turn around fast!” Lyons whispered hoarsely, shoving his face into the dirt. “Don’t look at the farmhouse! Those aren’t flamethrowers, but laser rifles!”
“Fuck! How the hell do we fight an enemy we can’t look at?” Blancanales demanded, annoyance strong in his voice. “Shoot randomly and hope for a lucky strike?”
“Gadgets, will the smoke protect us?” Lyons demanded.
“No.”
The single-word response told the other members of Able Team all they needed to know. In the movies, the hero would use smoke to block the laser beam, or don mirror sunglasses, but Hollywood often got weapons wrong. In the real world, neither of those ploys would do a damn thing to stop the lasing ultraviolet beam.
“Okay, those aren’t fuel tanks on their backs, but power generators,” Schwarz theorized. “Probably NASA hydrogen cells. Those supply plenty of power for a really long time. The minigun uses the same thing.”
“Don’t tell us how it flipping works,” Blancanales snapped. “Tell us what to do, boy genius.”
“Yeah, well, I’m working on it. Give me a minute.”
Barely daring to breathe, Lyons risked a fast peek. Two of the men were starting to move into the rows of corn, separating as they began a hunt for Able Team. The third stayed near the edge of the trimmed grass, the XM-214 still spinning, ready to unleash a hellstorm of lead at the touch of a finger.
Mentally, Lyons reviewed his ammunition supply. He was out of grenades and fléchette rounds. There were plenty of aluminum drums of double-aught buckshot cartridges for the autoshotgun, but he would have to get a lot closer to be sure of an instant kill. That meant charging across the flat lawn toward the minigun, which discharged 166 rounds a second. Not a good idea.
“How many shells do you have left?” Lyons demanded curtly, slowly easing the Atchisson into position. A quick move could reveal his position, and then he’d be fighting blind, to keep from going blind. There was the gritty feel of dirt in his mouth and he tried not to imagine that it might be the last thing he ever tasted in this life before they shoveled him under the grass.
Suddenly the two mercs began firing their MP-5 submachine guns into the corn in an effort to draw out their hidden foes, the twin lasers constantly sweeping the plants. The third man braced the minigun, taking a half step forward in his eagerness to start the one-sided battle.
“I’ve got…two HE shells and one Willie Peter,” Schwarz replied.
“Two AP rounds and one HE,” Blancanales added. “That’s enough to do the job, but how do we aim?”
“You don’t, I do,” Lyons said, closing one eye and sneaking a peek at the sky, then at the three members of Trinity. “Keep facing the billboard. Now check the position of the Volvo on the highway, see the smoke plume? Track fifteen degrees toward the burning combine. Note the bend of the smoke from the breeze. Take that into account. Gadgets, aim for two o’clock high. Pol, four o’clock, and add ten degrees toward the highway. That should do it.” The man knew the triangulation was purely guesswork, but when there was no other choice, a soldier took a gamble and hoped for the best.
“If we miss, we’ll hit you,” Schwarz said in a monotone. “I’d rather risk a charge with my eyes closed.”
“And that minigun would cut you down in a nanosecond,” the Able Team leader reminded him harshly. “Take it easy, and stay loose. You’ve got plenty of time…fire.”
Dull thumps from the M-203 grenade launchers sounded from the field, and Trinity instantly replied with everything it had—lasers, MP-5 subguns—before the XM-214 minigun burst into action. A stuttering flame extended from the top barrel as the deadly superfire vomited a maelstrom of high-velocity lead. The corn stalks didn’t fall, they disintegrated as the .223 rounds plowed through the growth, searching for the hidden men.
Then a whistle came from above, and the shells arrived, landing alongside one of the mercs and hitting the other directly. The men screamed as the 40 mm rounds cut loose, blowing them into fiery chunks. The double blast was still ringing in his ears when Lyons stood and charged the last member of Trinity, holding back the Atchisson until he reached point-blank range.
The minigun was still vomiting hot lead, the merc trying to track toward the new foe, but the inertia of the massive seventy-two pounds of spinning metal resisted any quick movements. Chewing a path of destruction along the ground, the .223 rounds almost reached Lyons when he triggered the Atchisson, all seven 12-gauge cartridges firing in under a second. The merc was cut in two, the minigun tracking high as his torso fell away. The monster gun went silent as the dead hand released the trigger on the joystick.
Dropping the exhausted Atchisson, Lyons drew his .357 Colt Python and shot the bisected man in the shocked face, then did the same to the other mercenaries. This was no mercy shot to ease their pain. The grim warrior was just making sure that Trinity was truly dead.
“All clear,” Lyons said, pulling air into his lungs. The whole fight lasted only a few moments, yet it seemed as if it had taken hours. Turning, he hawked and spit the taste of dirt from his mouth. Not in the grave yet, he thought.
Less than a minute later, his teammates appeared from out of the cornfield at opposite ends of the lawn. Checking to make sure the combat zone was secure, the Stony Man operatives rejoined their friend, easing tense fingers off the triggers of their hot weapons.
Removing the gore-splattered hoods, Lyons revealed the faces of Trinity. Smith and Sakeda had their eyes closed, death softening their features until it appeared that they were merely asleep. Only Potvin still glared hatefully at the universe, his teeth fully exposed in a feral rictus of fury.
“I’ll check with Bear to make sure these are them,” Blancanales said, sliding a cell phone from a pocket. Tapping in a memorized number, he waited a few seconds, then flipped the phone closed. “Goddamn it, the Farm is still off-line.”
“Expected as much.” Schwarz sighed. “It takes a while to realign a satellite.”
“Much less all of them,” Lyons agreed, dropping the thermal hood over the angry face of the insane merc. Looking over the battlefield, he saw that the lasers were smashed and the XM-214 minigun was reduced to a pile of twisted metal. There was nothing here to salvage, except the bodies. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
Lacking the usual protective latex gloves, they knelt on the grass and used their bare hands to start searching through the blood-splattered pockets of the dead men. They unearthed a huge amount of cash, several 10 mm derringers, a lot of knives, cell phones, a couple of maps of South Dakota and a GPS unit. Schwarz took the electronics. The redial on the cell phones yielded nothing, which wasn’t surprising. Only a rank beginner would leave an important number live on his telephone. However, the recall button on the GPS brought up the state map of North
Dakota.
“Let’s see how smart these assholes were,” Schwarz said with a humorless grin, and breathed on the tiny screen. The plastic fogged, revealing a couple of smudges near the border, as if somebody had tapped the screen with a finger to show the location to others.
“That’s probably the dropoff point for Caramico and Mendoza,” Blancanales said, rubbing the scar on his cheek. Irritably, he started to yank it off, but then stopped his hand. “So why don’t we?”
“What, deliver corpses?” Schwarz asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That might just work,” Lyons muttered thoughtfully, running a hand over his bald scalp.
Schwarz got the idea. “I see. How could Forge possibly know that their people, or that any of the mercs, are dead? None of the cell phones are working.”
“Exactly,” Blancanales said, resting the stock of his assault rifle on a hip. Then the man scowled. “Damn, we got company.”
Turning toward the highway, Lyons grunted at the sight of several cars and a Mack truck parked near the crash site, excited people moving among the smoky debris, obviously checking for survivors. There was no sign of the police yet, but they would arrive pretty soon. Route 29 was the main highway in the state and regularly patrolled by helicopters.
“Rosario, get those civilians out of there,” Lyons said brusquely. “Tell them we’re the FBI and this was a terrorist attack.”
“No problem,” Blancanales said over a shoulder, starting for the highway. “I’ll say they were smuggling anthrax. This is farming country, and that’ll put the fear of God in them.”
“It always does for me,” Lyons agreed with a snort.
“Gadgets, go blow the last of those landmines. I’ll find the car, truck, whatever Trinity used to get here, and load up the least damaged of the bodies.”
“See you in five,” Schwarz said, taking off at a run.
Standing alone amid the destruction, Lyons studied the grisly remains of the mercenaries. If we put enough bandages on the faces of the dead men, he thought, nobody would be able to tell that the people were actually corpses. At least for a few minutes, and that was all the edge my team would need to get close to the terrorists. But after that, the Stony Man team might need a bargaining chip to make the Forge terrorists talk.
With a dour expression, Lyons nudged one of the laser rifles lying on the grass with his shoe, then savagely crushed the delicate focusing lens under a heel. It shattered with a splintering crackle.
Turning away from the cornfield, Lyons headed toward the makeshift garage. His duty was clear. A soldier killed the enemy. Period. Using torture only reduced a man to the level of a beast. There were other ways to extract needed information: bribery, intimidation, psychological warfare, recruitment, amnesty, drugs…. If they had to fight fire with fire to save the nation, then America had already lost the war on terrorism.
Reclaiming the Atchisson, Lyons reloaded the weapon before going into the garage. A nebulous plan was already forming in his mind. Of course, to make it work, Able Team would require some specialty equipment. Trinity had a rendezvous set with Forge on the border of North Dakota, which gave Able Team very little time and distance to acquire the needed equipment.
Working the slide to chamber a cartridge, the Able Team leader briefly wondered how difficult it would be to rob the Homeland Security field office in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Firebase Alpha
In an explosion of glass, the searchlight on top of the administration building winked out and darkness covered the western side of the military compound. A single moment later, the lolling boom of a large-caliber rifle rolled down from the woody hillside.
“Snipers!” a Forge soldier yelled, pointing at the dark trees.
Firing their assault rifles, the soldiers boldly charged for the forest when there came a soft thump from the darkness.
Recognizing the muffled sound, Major San Martin cursed and sprinted away. But the rest of the soldiers paused for a moment in indecision. Had that been a grenade or…
In strident fury, the ground near the front gate loudly erupted into flames. Ragged pieces of men and metal went flying. Another deadly blast closely followed a few yards to the right, then a third detonation occurred several yards to the left in a classic bracketing pattern.
“Mortars!” Major San Martin shouted, banging away at the woods with his Bersa pistol. But if the copper-jacketed 9 mm rounds hit anything it wasn’t readily discernable.
The dull thumping of the hidden ordnance continued unabated, the remains of the front gate and the concrete pillboxes becoming wreathed in flames. Shrapnel filled the night air, humming past the soldiers who weren’t torn to pieces.
The other searchlight crashed and went out. A second boom echoed from the hills. Now the firebase was shrouded in blackness, the deep gloom illuminated only by the glow of a few windows, the reflected light from the bottom of the ravine and the flickering flames of burning fuel on top of the concrete buildings. The dancing shadows distorted the familiar structures of the military compound into a nightmarish appearance. Covered with fire, a howling sniper raced off the edge of the barracks roof to fall from sight, his weapon discharging at the meaty impact.
Unsure of where the enemy was coming from, the remaining Forge soldiers charged in every direction, unleashing controlled bursts from their FN-2000 assault rifles into the treetops.
Unexpectedly, the softly thumping mortar paused, and soldiers raced to take cover. Then the deadly rounds came down again in exactly the same locations as before. A dozen soldiers were blown into horrid gobbets of ragged flesh having foolishly taken refuge in the earlier blast craters under the mistaken notion that incoming shells never hit the same spot twice.
An alarm started howling from atop a tall pole, and lights came on in a score of windows. Doors were flung open and soldiers appeared in various stages of undress, their hair tousled from sleep, but deadly Bersa pistols and assault rifles tightly held in calloused fists.
Scrambling into the cabs of trucks, other men started the engines and the MRL honeycombs raised into firing positions. Stuttering irregularly, the honeycombs spit fat rockets into the starry sky, their radar desperately searching for enemy helicopters or jet fighters.
In dark harmony, a corner of the perimeter fence erupted into a lambent geyser, the concertina wire shattering into a million pieces as the metal support posts toppled over, creating a ragged opening in the barrier.
Crouching on the open ground, Major San Martin snarled as he identified the sound of M-2 plastic explosives. Forge stocked only C-4 satchel in the armory, so nobody was trying to escape. But the front gate was already down, so why make another entry point? Then his blood ran cold. Could the attack on the fence be another trap?
“Back! Keep back!” the major bellowed in warning, starting that way. “It’s a trick!” But it was too late.
A handful of Forge soldiers was standing at the breech, assembling a .50-caliber machine gun to repel any possible invasion when they vanished in stentorian hellfire.
Aghast, the major stopped in his tracks, unable to believe the amount of death and destruction done to the vaunted base in only a few minutes. Half of his troops had to be dead by now. Who the hell was attacking them, the entire U.S. Army?
TOSSING SMOKE GRENADES and flash-bangs everywhere, Phoenix Force moved low and fast through the shadowy darkness, darting from building to building, shooting anybody they encountered that was wearing the uniform of Forge.
Supremely confident that the secret base would never actually see any combat, the Forge soldiers were totally surprised by the attack. Pandemonium filled the night, with rockets brightly streaking into the sky overhead. Clouds of smoke and acrid fumes floated along the streets of the base, somewhere a man screamed in pain, and assault rifles were chattering nonstop, although exactly what the soldiers were shooting at wasn’t very clear.
Dedicated to a seek-and-destroy mission, the Stony Man commandos we
re taking total advantage of the situation and penetrating deep into the heart of the terrorist camp. All they had to do was to find the uplink array and blow it apart, or at least smash the operating computers. A simple enough task, but every building they checked that registered a cold blue on the thermal scanners of their IR goggles proved to be a fake. Somebody in Forge had expected a night attack, and liquid nitrogen containers were all over the base, the frigid exhaust masking the location of the real supercomputers. And worse, with every tick of the clock, the shock was wearing off the Forge soldiers. Soon there would be organized resistance. The clock was ticking, and the Phoenix Force team had only a few minutes of protective confusion remaining before they were pushed back into the forest. After that, they would be running for their lives, and there would be nobody to stop Calvano from wreaking untold destruction upon the helpless world.
“Firebird to Rock Garden,” McCarter tersely subvocalized into his throat mike. “Come in, Rock Garden!” But there was still only crackling static on the radio transceiver. Either there was trouble with the Stony Man Comsat or the Farm no longer existed.
“Anything?” Hawkins asked, firing down a dark alleyway. An answering cry told of a mortal hit.
“Nothing,” McCarter replied with a snarl, shooting through a closed window. The glass shattered and a Forge soldier inside fell away from the wall rack holding an XM-214 minigun. James fired again, blowing the backpack generator into rubbish. Without power for the electric motor, the minigun was useless.
Pausing at an intersection, Encizo lifted his IR goggles to read a signpost when a soldier on a rooftop chattered a long burst from his FN-2000. The 5.56 mm rounds stitched Encizo across the chest, and the man staggered from the hammering blows on his NATO body armor. Then he sent back a hail of 9 mm rounds from the deadly MP-5 SMG, moving in a tight figure-eight pattern. With a strangled cry, the Forge soldier dropped from sight clutching his ruined neck.
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 21