Pulling her chair in tight under the console, Sabot deftly worked the controls for a while, releasing the deadly gas. She also sent an emergency message to the general.
“Done,” she reported, swiveling away from the console. “Shall you kill me now? Or is it to be rape?”
“Never on the first date,” Blancanales said dryly. “Just show me what’s actually happening.”
Confused by the cavalier remark, Sabot went back to the console and flipped several switches. Soon, the computer screen was filled with a dozen frames, each of them showing Forge personnel stumbling about drunkenly. Several people tried to don gas masks, but were never successful, their faces turning blue first, and they fell off screen.
“Monsters,” Sabot whispered, a tear trickling down her quivering cheek. “You are monsters!”
“No, we’re soldiers, and you’re a terrorist,” Schwarz corrected, nudging her with the M-16. “So shut up.”
The woman scowled darkly, but obeyed. These American killers would never understand that they were trying to save the human race from itself. There was no other choice. Hopefully her message got to Calvano and he would respond soon. She didn’t know how long she could last under torture. The very idea made her feel sick.
Repulsed by the scenes of death, Blancanales and Schwarz forced themselves to watch the monitors closely to make sure the deadly gas was reaching every level, every room, until there were only motionless forms sprawled on the rock floors.
“Good enough,” Blancanales decided. “Okay, go join your buddies over in the corner. Stay quiet, and you’ll probably live through the day.”
“And then?” Sabot demanded.
“Jail,” Schwarz replied bluntly. “If you’re lucky.”
“I see,” the woman demurred. Reaching up to take a pencil from behind her ear, she looked at it thoughtfully, then bit down hard on the wood. There was a sharp crack; she went stiff, then slumped limply in the chair.
Jerking her around, Schwarz yanked the broken pencil from her slack mouth, but it was too late. The body was limp, and there was a strong smell of bitter almonds on her breath.
“Cyanide,” Blancanales said. “A suicide pencil. These people are insane!”
“Were insane, you mean,” Schwarz said softly, looking off to the side.
The screaming and wailing from the rest of the staff had ceased a couple of minutes ago, and now they were all lying prone on the floor, broken pencils clenched between their teeth.
“Sweet Jesus.” Schwarz exhaled, resting the stock of the M-16 assault rifle on a hip. “Okay, now what?”
Blancanales wasn’t sure. There was no way of telling if the gas used was the same stuff that had nearly killed them before, and they were out of antitoxin. Until they got the word to leave from the Farm, their job was to stay right safe inside the command and control room and guard the computers.
“We hold our position,” Blancanales said stoically, looking at a tiny picture of Lyons on the computer. The big man had toppled over onto the dirty floor, a pool of dark blood slowly spreading around his still form.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Firebase Omega, Argentina
The hammering barrage of 9 mm rounds hit the thick Plexiglas window and buried themselves in the resilient material, hanging suspended like flies in amber.
Mesmerized by the sight, Mongoose didn’t seem able to move a muscle. The window was eight inches thick, and the armor-piercing rounds were almost six inches deep into the material. If he had chosen a slimmer window, the commandos would have blown him into pieces.
Just then, the armored door clicked and swung open, James holding a keywire gun in one hand and an MP-5 machine gun in the other.
“Hiya, buddy,” the Stony Man operative said sardonically. “Long time no see.”
Swallowing hard, Mongoose tried to smile. “Well, I—”
“Shut up, moron,” Hawkins snarled, entering next. “Just move away from those controls.” There was an FN-2000 balanced in his hands, the heat coming off the barrel visible in the cold air.
Licking dry lips, Mongoose wanted to order them to stop letting in the warm air, but wisely refrained. Moving with exaggerated slowness, the hacker raised both hands and used his sneakers to push the wheeled chair away from the console.
Entering the cold room, the rest of Phoenix Force checked for hidden guards and video cameras, but found the area clean.
“T.J., more smoke. Rafe, close the door,” McCarter said, studying the array of blade servers filling the rear of the room. “We want the Cray nice and cold. At least for another few minutes.”
Wisps of fog seeped from a ceiling vent above the Cray, and in the corner was a small tank of liquid nitrogen, the metal container painted a brilliant yellow.
Pulling a smoke grenade from the bag at his side, Hawkins pulled the pin, dropped the spoon and tossed the bomb outside into the corridor. Fresh smoke rose to mask the bodies and brass on the floor. Resting his MP-5 on a shoulder, Encizo gave a nod and shut the door, the jimmied lock reengaging with a sharp click.
“Are you the new prison soldiers?” Mongoose asked, trying to sound pitiful. He gave a little shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Cute. But cut the shit,” McCarter said, putting the barrel of his machine gun to the side of the hacker’s head. “You’re the chief hacker for Forge, so don’t waste my time trying to pretend you’re a prisoner forced into working for these assholes.”
An arsenal of lies coming to mind, Mongoose started to speak when the silenced gun pressed harder into his soft skin. Dumbly, he simply nodded.
Slinging his weapon, Manning expertly frisked the hacker. In spite of the multiple layers of sweaters and thermal underwear, the Stony Man operative retrieved a small collection of knives, derringers and a trick pen. Pressing the button on top, Manning scowled as a steel needle jutted from the bottom, some sort of greenish fluid dribbling onto the floor. He dropped the pen on the tiles and crushed the weapon under his boot.
Forcing himself to stay silent, Mongoose cast a fast glance at the console, his sight resting on the red alarm button. Press that once and troops would arrive in force. Press it twice, and poison gas would flood the room. He was immune, but doubted highly that these commandos would survive the experience.
“Clean,” Manning reported, stepping away, making sure his holstered pistol was out of reach.
“All right, do as you’re told, and I may let you live,” McCarter said. “Close every blast door below this level.”
Without comment, Mongoose nodded and rolled closer to the console, to begin typing on the keyboard. The alarm button was only inches away. Overriding the security protocols was easy, since he had written them for the South Americans, and always left a back door that only he could find. Unexpectedly, an icon appeared on the bottom of the computer screen as an emergency call arrived from Black Rock, but he ignored it and continued activating programs. It wasn’t his problem anymore.
Leaning on the console, James used a combat knife to pry open a panel, and reached inside to clip some wires. Beaming a smile at the bust, the Stony Man operative pressed the alarm button several times. Nothing happened.
“You seemed overly concerned,” James said with a humorless smile. “Is this better?”
Hunching his shoulders as if receiving a beating, Mongoose stopped stalling for time and finished the task. On the main screen, several pictures within pictures appeared, showing the heavy blast doors sliding across the corridors and hallways, firmly locking into place.
“Done, sir,” Mongoose announced wearily, a bead of sweat trickling down his back in spite of the frigid air in the computer room. “But it is too late. General Calvano and ten troopers have just entered the elevator and are on the way to this level.”
“They’re not on the video screens,” Hawkins said, swinging his FN-2000 assault rifle to point directly at the man. “Care to tell us how you know that?”
Mongoose pointed a finger at the Plexigla
s window. “The elevator is coming down from the top level,” he said calmly. “Who else could it be?”
“The bastards got past my Claymore,” Encizo cursed. “These guys are assholes, but not stupid.”
Rubbing an old wound on his right shoulder, McCarter agreed with the assessment, and quickly reviewed the tactical situation. A stand-up fight with Forge would almost certainly destroy the computers. They couldn’t risk that. Okay, they had to do this the hard way.
“Calvin, hot link the Cray to our friends in the north,” McCarter ordered. “Everybody else, we’re taking down the general right here!”
“But the Cray…” Mongoose began, unable to stop himself.
Nudging the hacker with his gun, James pushed him in the wheeled chair over into a corner, far from the computer and door. McCarter stood guard while the others used the last of the smoke grenades inside the computer room, the cold air seeming to augment the dark chemical fumes. Visibility was reduced to only a few feet.
As the men took positions, they heard the muted ding of the elevator and humanoid shapes began moving through the thinning white BZ gas. Inside the computer room, the fresh gray smoke swirled along the air currents, ebbing and flowing like a cloudy river.
“These men are dead, sir,” somebody announced from the floor.
“More nines,” another soldier added. “Not our caliber.”
“What’s that sweet smell?” a soldier said, sniffing hard.
“Sleep gas! Use your masks!” a stern voice commanded. “Our antitoxins may not be enough.” There came the sound of opening Velcro, and some murky movements.
Slowly, a shadowy figure walked closer to the window, then the intercom buzzed. “Snake Eater, are you alive?” the voice demanded. “What happened to my men? Did a nitrogen tank explode? Are we being attacked?”
When there was no reply, after a moment the door latch rattled.
“Check it!” the voice demanded.
Carrying assault rifles, several men pressed their faces to the Plexiglas window. “I think the Cray is on fire, sir,” a corporal said hesitantly. “There’s a lot of smoke in there.”
“But the fire alarm hasn’t activated,” the unseen man replied. “It’s a trap! Attack!”
Instantly the Forge soldiers opened fire, the FN-2000 assault rifles deafening in the corridor, the rounds slamming deep into the eight-inch slab of Plexiglas but failing to achieve penetration.
“Everybody, raise your guns threateningly, but do not fire,” McCarter subvocalized into his throat mike. “Then look worried and pretend to search for spare ammo clips.”
“Make them think we’re out,” Hawkins said, rummaging in an ammo bag full of loaded clips, his hand coming out empty. “That’s not too far from the truth.”
The hammering fusillade in the external corridor continued unabated, chips flying off the window from the endless barrage of hot lead. A small crack appeared in the corner.
Backing away from the hammering noise, McCarter knew the truth of the matter. Locked inside the room, their plan to take clips from the dead terrorists’ stolen FN-2000 assault riles was moot. “Okay, they’ve noticed we’re not returning fire. Now drop your weapons and start using handguns.”
Doing as they were instructed, the team began to pull back from the Plexiglas shield, moving deeper into the thick smoke, their pistols banging away constantly.
“They’re out of ammo, sir!” a sergeant announced, slapping in a fresh clip. “Down to handguns, and some of our weapons!”
“Cease fire!” the voice bellowed.
As the barrage raggedly stopped, a large man appeared at the window. He had grizzled hair, and the uniform bore the insignia of a general. A gas mask covered his features.
The Stony Man operatives did nothing, suspecting another trick, when the general leaned in close and lifted his mask for a good look into the smoky room.
“Take him,” McCarter ordered calmly, feeling a rush of adrenaline to his stomach.
Rising into view from behind a humming server, Gary Manning rested the .50-caliber Barrett rifle on top of the machine, aimed and fired the last bullet. The Plexiglas window seemed to bulge outward for a prolonged microsecond before shattering into a million pieces. The explosion of plastic threw the startled Forge soldiers backward, their primed weapons firing wildly.
As the thick barrier fell away, McCarter raised his MP-5 and stitched the general across the torso, then kept firing, the 9 mm rounds forcing the man flat against the wall, the soft lead slugs ricocheting off his body armor.
Then Hawkins triggered the grenade launcher. The distance was too short to arm the warhead, but the 40 mm round hit Calvano between the eyes, and his head smashed apart like a dropped pumpkin.
Instantly, the Forge soldiers cut loose with their assault rifles, the 5.56 mm rounds hitting the Stony Man warriors and bouncing off their body armor as they returned fire with their 9 mm machine guns. The terrorists fell, blood pumping from a dozen holes in their arms, legs and throats.
“Check the dead for fakes,” McCarter barked, advancing to the console. He brushed off the sparkling pieces of Plexiglas with a gloved hand. “Cal, give me a status report!”
Kneeling at the console, James saw that the Cray was still working; no ricochets had damaged the delicate circuitry. But clean air was flooding in through the ruined window, dispelling the military smoke. Warm air.
“She’s overheating!” James snapped, looking at the temperature gauge. Yanking off his gloves, the man frantically worked the controls. “Block that window, and somebody turn the liquid nitrogen up all the way!”
“Is it still operational?” McCarter demanded, walking closer.
“Tell you in a second,” James shot back, pressing the transmit button on the powerful military radio.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“HOT DAMN, WE HAVE THE SOUTHERN uplink!” Kurtzman boomed. “Move with a purpose, people!”
Flashing into action, the cybernetics team activated macro files by the score, their fingers flashing along the keyboards.
In heart-pounding anticipation, Brognola and Price watched anxiously as the wall screen flickered into a vector graphic map of the world, the military status of every nation indicated by a color bar. Almost all of them were in the red: war.
A slow minute passed, then in ragged formation the superpowers stepped down from red going all the way to green. The nations weren’t at peace, but nobody was holding a finger on the nuclear button anymore.
“We did it.” Price sighed in relief.
“Alert. Incoming missile,” Tokaido reported, slaving his console to the master war computer at Cheyenne Mountain. “Six, no, five hundred miles off the Eastern Seaboard and heading for D.C.” Then the young hacker paused. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the thing was coming directly at the Farm!
“How in hell…” Price asked, then shook the question off and grabbed her cell phone. “Chief, we have a possible incoming nuke! Seal the base and ready the SAM launchers! Repeat, incoming nuke!”
“Mr. President, there’s an incoming ICBM,” Brognola said, speaking in a clipped tone. “Get into the bunker right now, sir!”
“No need for that,” Kurtzman announced with a sense of pride as a bright flash lit up on the wall map and the incoming triangle vanished.
“Did it detonate early?” Price asked, the cell phone still tight in her hand.
“Negative. That was a conventional explosion,” Delahunt said, gratefully removing her helmet. Laying it aside, she ran stiff fingers through her damp hair. “The Navy shot it down with a flight of antimissiles from…” She paused to smile weakly. “Actually, they launched antimissiles from every damn ship berthed at Virginia Beach. About two hundred of them.”
“Thank God.” Price then thumbed the cell phone. “Stand down, Chief, the danger is over.”
“Where did it come from?” Brognola demanded, hanging up the telephone. His fingers opened stiffly, almost unwilling to let go after bein
g clenched for so long a time. “Who sent it? Are there any more on the way?”
“Unknown at the moment,” Kurtzman said slowly, reading an incoming transmission from Argentina. “No, correct that. David captured the Forge hacker alive, and he says it came from our old friends Unity.”
“Mongoose?” Wethers said, taking an educated guess.
“Right the first time.”
The professor thought he had recognized the man’s handiwork. “Any chance he knows where their headquarters is located?” Wethers asked, sticking the cold pipe back into his mouth.
Turning in his wheelchair, Kurtzman gave a smile that came straight from hell. “Actually, he does.”
EPILOGUE
Walter Reed Hospital
Opening his eyes, Carl Lyons looked about the white room in confusion. Then the man slowly relaxed as he realized he was in a hospital room.
“Damn, you are a hard man to kill,” Brognola said, hitching closer on a metal stool. “Nice to see you back among the living, Carl.”
Lyons said nothing, letting his mind clear for another minute. Hanging from a stand, an IV dripped fluids into a tube that went into the back of his hand, and his shoulder was uncomfortably stiff. A sensation he knew all too well. Recent surgery and stitches. Bandages around his chest hinted at possible broken ribs, too.
“Mission…” was as far as Lyons got before his voice failed, dwindling into a croak.
“Everything is fine,” Brognola said, taking a plastic tumbler of ice water off a table and proffering the flexible straw to the man.
Knowing it was going to hurt, Lyons took a tiny sip and grimaced from the razor-blade feeling flowing down his throat. Then he took another sip, waited for the discomfort to ease, then drank freely for a minute before finally relinquishing the straw.
“Thanks.”
Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Page 29