The elevator eventually stopped moving and the doors opened with a soft sigh. Briskly exiting the car, the young man strode down a long corridor, passing rows of doors marked with project names. There were no departments in Unity, only goals. Whatever resources were needed for a mission were assembled and unleashed. But the destruction of a single group in no way hurt or hindered the other teams. Each was totally autonomous once activated. This had afforded the terrorist organization safety from the Great Satan, British and the hated Israelis, for decades. It was the secret to their success. Not cells of communication like the Communists, but cells of power. Independent teams with no knowledge of the others. Only the Supreme Council knew everything, and it could never be reached this far down in the middle of nowhere.
Proceeding to the end of a long hallway, the man passed in front of a titanic pair of bronze doors flanked by a set of concrete pillboxes, the sort of fortifications that had been so popular during World War II. Inside the stout redoubts were teams of men who operated the 40 mm Vulcan electric miniguns and twin .50-caliber machine guns. The weapons were chosen for their ability to stop the charge of most armored personnel carriers, or even a light tank. However, it would be impossible for those war machines to make it down the slim elevator shaft. Any team of invaders fast enough to reach the Command Center of Unity wasn’t armored enough to withstand the heavy weaponry of the pillboxes.
Standing in front of the doors, the man waited, knowing that sensors and probes were sweeping over his body for weapons, recording devices or anything else on the long list of contraband material. This was the nerve center of Unity, and no chances would be taken with the safety of the men behind the big doors. If they fell, so did the entire terrorist network across the globe.
A soft click came from the doors and then the massive portals ponderously swung aside with the soft sound of working hydraulics. Stepping inside the conference room, the man felt the breeze of the doors cycling shut, then heard the magnetic bolts thud into place.
“Well?” the leader of Unity demanded from the head of a long table.
A score of other men, and two women, sat in chairs along the table, the smooth, polished surface covered with papers and documents, small computer monitors built flush into the surface for each member of the Supreme Council.
“Hamas failed,” he announced. “Our spy in Forge has informed me that something went wrong in Turkey and the Hamas are all dead from radiation.”
“Then they didn’t steal the bombs,” a man growled angrily, crumpling a sheet of paper in his hand. “We were idiots to trust such an important task to those bombing buffoons!”
“No, Hamas is loyal to the cause,” the leader replied softly, his face an impassive mask of control. “And they did their best. Failure comes to us all in spite of the most detailed planning and expert people.”
“What are your new instructions?” the man asked, clasping both hands respectfully behind his back. He would have liked to sit down, but that honor was reserved only for members of the council, people whose hands could safely be hidden out of sight below the polished mahogany wood inlay.
The old man leaned slightly on his cane, adjusting his position in the soft chair. “In spite of this new development, I think that we should proceed with the planned attack on America.”
The words were said casually, but the result was galvanizing.
“Are you insane?” the representative of Libya shouted, nearly standing. “We have only this one nuke, and you have no idea what our people had to do to get it!”
“On the contrary, I know in precise detail,” the old man snapped, narrowing his dark gaze. “After all, it was my plan that obtained us the nuclear device from the NATO storage facility in Turkey. Plus, it was my Russian and Chinese scientists who modified it from a simple atomic explosive into a powerful hydrogen bomb, a thousand times stronger.”
“But Hamas failed…” Syria rallied.
“Irrelevant,” the leader snorted, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “It would have been best for America to blame Hamas for the coming attack, but no matter. My people assure me that there is no way the strike can be traced back to our launch facility here.”
“But—”
“Enough!” the old man roared, slamming his cane on the table. The crash was louder than a pistol shot. “The time is right, and we finally have the weapons needed to strike hard and deep into America. Not a mere show of force, but hard enough to wound them to the very core!”
“Do we?” the representative of Kuwait murmured, running her long red nails along the surface of the table. A burnoose was draped over the back of her chair, but here in the private chambers she wore Western-style clothing designed for comfort and ease, instead of dehumanizing neutrality. “To the best of my knowledge the kill range of a Class Nine warhead is four city blocks, maybe six under the precisely right circumstances.”
“Six blocks?” Going to a map on the wall, the newcomer took a slim tube from the vest pocket of his suit and played the red dot of the laser pointer across the East Coast of the United States. “This is not some pitiful tactical nuclear weapon,” he stated proudly, as if he had invented the weapon. “This is now a thermonuclear device, boosted by a tritium injector! The fireball alone will be ten blocks wide, and the blast will spread over a hundred miles!”
“That large?” Saudi Arabia whispered, sweat on his thin lips. The tip of a pink tongue licked it off. “Praise be to Allah!”
No known god had anything to do with their plans of destruction, but the leader of Unity nodded in reply. War was a matter of politics, nothing more.
“With a kill zone this large,” the newcomer said, continuing to move the red dot across on the map, “we can easily avoid the impressive air defenses of Washington, and have the missile strike, say…Richmond, or even the farmland outside of Lynchburg. There’s nothing there of any importance to protect, so the defenses will be minimal.”
“Minimal does not equate easy,” Iran warned, furrowing his forehead. His hair was a glistening white, a shocking comparison to his dark skin.
“True,” the newcomer agreed. “But even if antimissiles were to detonate our stolen ICBM high in the air, the shock wave would still kill a million Americans. Maybe twice that number. And if it hits the ground…” He grinned, exposing rows of perfectly white teeth. “The blast wave would destroy every prime target on our kill list—CIA headquarters, FBI headquarters, Dulles Airport, the Pentagon, Congress, the Senate, the White House…Everything from the Atlantic Ocean to Kentucky would be obliterated, reduced to radioactive debris.”
“Show me the figures,” the old man commanded, leaning closer, his eyes alive with excitement.
The young man clicked off the laser pointer and right on cue the wall map receded into the ceiling to reveal a blackboard covered with complex mathematical equations.
All of the men frowned in concentration, struggling to process the staggering figures. Only the leader of Unity leaned back in his chair, slowly smiling in pleasure. The math was far beyond his simple education, but he knew people. If the young man had the figures ready for their inspection, then they had to be true.
“Yes, I see,” the leader said. “Most impressive.”
The young man gave a bow. “Thank you, sir.”
“With this new information, I withdraw my objection,” Libya said. “Let us proceed immediately.”
“But make haste,” Qatar warned, raising a stiff finger. Her hand was badly discolored from acid burns. “The Americans are not fools! We should fire the missile the instant it is ready, give them no time to find us and to stop it from being launched.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table.
“And what should be the target, sir?” the newcomer asked, standing straighter. When America fell, his would be the name attached to the great victory. Who would remember the old men and women who laid the plans? Only the men who did the work would be praised by the people, hailed as heroes from the Arab
ian Sea to the Atlantic Ocean!
“Where indeed?” The leader of Unity looked over the map of the area: West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Washington, Virginia. This was the very heart of their hated enemy. A blow anywhere would do incalculable destruction. Did the exact target really matter? Not in the least. The youngster was merely trying to curry favor with the council. Fair enough. He would accept the meaningless compliment with dignity and grace, even though privately marking the ambitious fool for later execution.
“There,” the leader of Unity declared, pointing with the tip of his cane. “Right there in the middle of a forest, where there are no missiles or interceptors to hinder us in any way whatsoever. We shall strike there, and let the atomic blast roll across the farmlands of Virginia to destroy Washington forever!”
The council erupted in a ragged cheer as the young man pulled out a PDA and marked the kill zone for their thermonuclear ICBM. An unknown forest preserve called the Shenandoah National Park.
Firebase Alpha, Argentina
MOVING STEALTHILY THROUGH the smoky darkness, McCarter finally located the parade ground, and scowled at the sight of the monstrous helicopter. The huge craft was a CH-53 Super Stallion, just about the strongest and largest cargo helicopter in the world. The craft was a hundred feet long, with three colossal turbo engines, and could lift over fifty soldiers, plus a ton of supplies. This was no patch job or old good left over from another war, but pure state-of-the-art and top-of-the-line. Near the prow was the picture of a winged horse painted on the metal with the name Pegasus underneath in a flowing script.
A couple of Forge soldiers were still dragging the canvas sheeting away, and the pilot was in the cockpit flipping switches in a preflight check. The general had to be trying to escape! Which meant the bastard was coming right into the gunsights of McCarter. Perfect.
“Red alert,” McCarter subvocalized into his throat mike, moving deeper into the shadows of some trees edging the parade ground. “There’s a Super Stallion on the parade ground getting ready to leave. Cargo must be Calvano.”
“Can’t see it,” Manning said in annoyance over the radio link. “There’s too much flame and smoke!”
“We’re on the way,” Hawkins replied crisply. “Stay loose and—”
A sudden loud squeal sounded over the earphones and McCarter cut off the radio. Somebody at Forge had detected the radio transmissions and was jamming the airwaves. Took them bloody long enough! he thought. However, the response lag rather confirmed that whoever was running their computers wasn’t located here.
With a low rumble, a dozen Gavins appeared around the mess hall, and McCarter quickly took cover.
The three sets of propellers of the Pegasus were beginning to slowly rotate when the convoy of armored personnel carriers rolled to a halt alongside. General Calvano climbed out of a vehicle closely surrounded by armed troops.
Out of grenades, McCarter could only track the mob of people with the sights of his MP-5, hoping for a shot at the leader of Forge. But the bodyguards knew their business and the general reached the Pegasus safely.
Still trying to maneuver into position to get a clear shot at the general, or to find some way to cripple the huge helicopter, McCarter was forced to take cover again as dozens of armed Forge soldiers began to arrive at the parade ground. In orderly procession, the soldiers climbed inside the colossal helicopter, the overhead props turning ever faster. Desperately, McCarter checked again for even a single grenade. But he was completely out, and the soft lead 9 mm rounds in the MP-5 would do nothing against the armored hull of a Super Stallion.
More troops arrived, then the hatch was closed and the door shut. They were getting ready to leave!
“Come on, guys, where are you?” McCarter muttered, dropping the submachine gun. Drawing the pneumatic pistol from his shoulder holster, McCarter aimed and fired.
The first dart veered off into the night, deflected by the mounting turbulence of the three sets of spinning blades. Reloading, McCarter shot again, then again, finally getting one of the barbed darts lodged into the soft rubber of a landing wheel.
The wash from the blades suddenly increased noticeably as the engines revved in power and the Pegasus lifted gently off the grass. A moment later, Hawkins, Encizo and James appeared out of the darkness.
“Any grenades?” McCarter demanded, but he could see that the others were completely out of high explosives. Damn, damn, damn!
“Check a Gavin! See if you can turn one of the 25 mm Bushmasters on that flying office building!”
Nodding, the men melted into the darkness, but just then the Pegasus lifted high into the nighttime sky above the burning firebase and angled off toward the west.
Suddenly, three of the Gavins came to life, the top hatches flipping up and members of Phoenix Force rising into view to swivel the Bushmasters at the departing airship. The trio of miniguns cut loose in ragged formation, the phosphorescent tracers among the 25 mm HE shells dotting the sky only to strive for the Super Stallion as the huge helicopter continued to rapidly climb higher.
There came the sound of a machine gun from above, and the rear of the Super Stallion sparkled as the aft brace of 12.7 mm rapidfires was brought into action. Blasting hot lead death in every direction, the weapons stitched glowing tracer rounds into the swirling mists covering the base, smacking into the ground and ricocheting harmlessly off the armored Gavins.
Moving behind a flagpole for protection, McCarter rode out the wave of hot lead, then stepped out with his SMG chattering at the dark sky. But if the 9 mm rounds could even reach the helicopter there was no way of knowing.
After the team reloaded, the 25 mm Bushmasters chattered again, the Stony Man operatives expertly moving the weapons in tight circles, but the shaking weapons were impossible to accurately aim at the fleeing helicopter. Then the side of the Pegasus visibly dented, a small window cracked, and there came the telltale sound of the distant Barrett.
Instantly, defensive smoke poured from a series of vents around the Super Stallion, and the three sets of turboprops spun to full power as the chopper angled away from the potential danger, slipping into the clouds of roiling smoke to disappear from sight.
Angling at the maximum height, the men operating the Bushmasters tried again for a kill, and the Barrett spoke again with no result. But after a few moments, the 25 mm rapidfires went silent, and McCarter dropped the empty clip from his MP-5 to shove in another. They had missed killing the general by only a few seconds.
Glancing around the fiery desecration of the military base, McCarter shouldered his weapon and pulled a small device from a cushioned pocket of his ghillie suit. With the press of a thumb, the tiny screen became illuminated with a map of Argentina. Four blinking dots showed on the screen, one of them moving steadily to the west. Touching the controls, he blanked the darts that had missed the Super Stallion, and now there was only one winking icon on the screen. Gotcha.
“All right, let’s move out!” McCarter subvocalized into his throat mike, carefully tucking the tracking device away. “We’re going after the bleeding bastards, so grab any useable weapons from the dead, especially any explosives. We rendezvous with Gary in ten minutes!” Lifting an FN-2000 from the bloody form of a dead Forge soldier on the ground, he checked the clip, then slung the assault rifle.
“And don’t forget fuel,” Hawkins said over the radio. “The tanks on this APC are only half full.”
“Mine are almost dry,” James added. “But there’re plenty of rounds for the Bushmaster.”
“Half full,” Encizo finished, the headlights of a Gavin coming on to shine brightly across the parade ground. Spent brass from the Bushmasters littered the grass like golden dewdrops.
“Then we’ll drain two to fill the one with spare ammo,” McCarter directed. “Gary, any sign of activity?”
“All clear, David,” Manning replied smoothly. “I think that explosion across the river took out all of their reserve personnel.”
“Come again…wh
at explosion?” McCarter asked, the muscles in his stomach tightening.
“The fake satellite dish hidden in the trees across the river,” Manning explained. “It went up a few minutes ago. You probably didn’t hear it among all of the other detonations.”
Sputtering curses, McCarter charged for the nearest Gavin and clawed open the rear hatch to scramble inside. “Full speed, three on three formation!” he barked, striding to the front of the armored vehicle.
“Calvano is crazy, but he wouldn’t mine the whole base,” James said hesitantly, starting the engine of the Gavin. “Aw, what am I saying? Haul ass, people!”
“And stop for nothing!” McCarter added, dropping into the seat alongside Encizo. “Now, move!”
“I’m on point!” Hawkins declared, his Gavin rolling over dead bodies to plow through some hedges and jounce onto the littered street. The other two armored personnel carriers were close behind.
But as the heavy machines began to race through the burning military compound, a powerful blast shook the ground and a distant building broke apart as it rose into the night on a writhing fireball. Then a Quonset hut detonated, closely followed by the armory, the barracks, the laundry, commissary, pillbox and guard tower.
Hammered from every direction, the Gavins brutally rocked back and forth as they desperately charged along the buckling roadway that went directly into the heart of rampaging destruction.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Johannesburg, South Africa
Nobody spoke inside the concrete bunker, all eyes upon the detailed relief map covering the large table like a child’s board game.
The hundreds of cities were black circles, a chalk number showing the population, and little metal bridges spanned painted rivers. Miniature versions of hydroelectric dams, oil derricks and nuclear power plants resembled toys in spite of the amazingly precise details. Tiny plastic ships sat motionless on the painted blue sea, while plastic tanks and artillery dotted the rolling hills and farmlands. Little jet fighters, helicopters and missiles were equipped with folding flags that could be raised to show if the equipment was airborne or still on the ground, and a score of human figures carrying rifles were scattered about the war map, white cards on their backs bearing a number to show how many South African soldiers each represented.
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 24