Critical Effect

“Times change,” Brognola countered. “Although I think this development fell more out of some type of research in radio-magnetism. When CERN couldn’t make any use of the things, NATO stepped in and agreed to buy the research and prototypes to pursue the military aspects.”

“Correct,” Price added helpfully. “Originally, we understood the M in LAMP stood for magnetic. ”

“Whatever the bloody things are,” McCarter said, “it sounds like the Man’s right. We can’t afford for something like this to come under hostile control. What’s the bottom line here?”

“Find the aircraft, rescue any survivors and secure the cargo until we can send in a multinational extraction team for salvage operations. If for any reason you do encounter a threat, you’re authorized to use whatever force necessary to neutralize the aggression.” Brognola tapped the table. “But don’t go overboard, boys. This one’s very political.”

McCarter waved it off. “Yeah, yeah, isn’t it always.”

“Excuse me if I sound a bit paranoid here,” Calvin James said, “but do we have some reason to think there’s the possibility of a terrorist organization at work behind this plane going down?”

“We don’t know,” Price said. “But we’re taking every precaution given the circumstances under which it disappeared, plus the cargo aboard. My contact with the NSA tells me that plane could have maintained altitude even in the event of an engine failure.”

“So we’re figuring either more than one engine crapped out or someone shot the thing out of the sky,” James concluded with a nod. “Gotcha.”

Encizo sighed. “We also have to consider the possibility of a midair explosion. Maybe a bomb on board.”

“It’s another possibility,” Price admitted, “but we figure less so because of the value of its cargo. If a terrorist organization or other criminal element were involved, one would think they wouldn’t expend that much effort to simply destroy the plane. There are plenty of easier, nonmilitary targets that would work just as well in attracting attention and result in a higher body count.”

McCarter shook his head. “No point in theorizing to death. We’ll make contact as soon as we know something. Anything else?”

“Be careful,” Price said. “You’ll be low-altitude parachuting on this one.”

W ITHIN THE HOUR , Phoenix Force received a signal from the cockpit they had reached the coordinates sent to their navigation systems by Stony Man’s secure satellite downlink. The warriors collected their weapons and equipment, donned their jumpsuits and awaited the all clear to indicate they could proceed with the operation. Hawkins’s parachuting experience nominated him for jumpmaster.

The beacon light went from red to amber, the signal for Phoenix Force to test their static lines in prep for the jump while Hawkins opened the door. They’d gone through this same exercise countless times—in training as well as live missions—to the point they could do it in their sleep.

The light went green and Hawkins pointed to James, who was first in line. James stepped up, slid the line to the jumpmaster and went out the plane without a moment’s hesitation. Encizo followed behind him, just as planned. As soon as they reached ground zero, the pair would set up a perimeter. Hawkins slapped the buzzer on the wall to signal the pilots they should continue on for a minute and then perform a 180 so the rest of Phoenix Force could jump.

Phoenix Force’s commander couldn’t have asked for a more perfect timetable. As he neared the ground at a peak speed of thirty-three feet per second, McCarter could see Encizo and James had established their secure perimeter. Both men knelt behind massive trees on opposing sides of the target zone, watchful for any potential threats. McCarter sucked in a breath and let half out as his feet hit the ground, then he rolled, coming to a standing position in time to watch his chute waft lazily to the ground.

The Briton quickly gathered the parachutes. He could hear Manning and Hawkins hit the ground near him, but he didn’t bother to check on them. If they had suffered any injuries, he knew he’d have heard about it right there and then.

Less than five minutes later, all five men were reunited near the edge of the clearing.

“Fall in on me, mates,” McCarter ordered.

They gathered around him as he knelt and spread a topographical map on the ground. McCarter whipped a compass from a pouch secured to the strap of his equipment harness. He shot a quick azimuth and calculated the approximate distance to the crash site based on the coordinates he’d committed to memory.

“We’re about here,” he finally said, pointing to a spot on the map. “That puts us a fair distance from the crash site, if there even bloody is one.”

“There is,” Hawkins said. “I can feel it.”

“Over this terrain, I figure it’ll take us about an hour to get there,” Manning said after an expert look around.

“Agreed,” McCarter said as he stowed the map and compass. He checked his watch. “We should be able to reach it before 1200 hours.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” James said. “Let’s do it.”

CHAPTER TWO

A jangling telephone roused him into semiconsciousness. The second and third rings seemed no less shrill as he turned his face into the mattress and pulled the pillow over his head, intent on ignoring the irritating device. By the sixth ring, he knew whoever had intruded on his slumber didn’t plan to give up. He removed the pillow, lifted his head and glared at the clock.

Blurry green numbers stared back at him.

Dr. Simon Delmico, associate professor of microbiology at Washington University St. Louis, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, sat up and yanked the phone from the receiver. The coiled cord had become entangled with Delmico’s ceaseless habit of talking and pacing, and he nearly dumped the base onto the floor. He caught it one-handed and dropped it onto the bed as he barked into the receiver.

“Yeah. What? Who the hell is it?”

“Not a very pleasant way to answer the phone,” the caller replied. “Where are your manners?”

Delmico immediately recognized the voice of Choldwig Burke, leader of the Germanic Freedom Railroad. The GFR had a short history, being only a few years old, but it had already built notoriety as one of the finest smuggling operations in all of Europe. Burke didn’t discriminate when it came to his clientele, either. He had a reputation as an intelligent and educated man, and possessed a criminal mastery for aiding and abetting the very worst terrorists in the world. Thus far, Burke’s unit of highly specialized mercenary commandos had smuggled or hidden more than a hundred terrorist members from al Qaeda to the Qa’idat al Jihad.

“What do you want?”

“I’m simply calling to check on an old friend,” Burke replied.

Delmico knew that was crap. “How touching. Now, what do you really want?”

“I thought it might be a good idea to call and advise you of our latest acquisition. We succeeded in liberating the platforms, just as I had hoped. That only leaves me to solicit what you’ve promised me so I may go forward with my plans.”

“That couldn’t have waited until a more civilized hour?” Delmico asked, now able to actually see the time on his clock-radio. “I have to get up and teach this morning, you know.”

Delmico heard something become dark, even ominous, in Burke’s intonation. “Do not presume insolence and belligerence are acceptable to me, Doctor. I would have no qualms about boarding the earliest flight solely for the purpose of coming there and cutting out your tongue. We had an agreement. I’ve proved I can satisfy my end of the bargain. The time grows short for you to capitulate.”

“You don’t have to act like a thug and threaten me,” Delmico recanted, adjusting his glasses on his nose unnecessarily. “I’m merely trying to say I’m still waiting on the final test results. I want to be absolutely certain you’re getting what you’ve paid for.”

Burke sounded more congenial. “Well then, I guess I cannot fault you for a desire to be thorough. Honesty is, after all, the mainstay of our type of work. If we don’t have honor, what do we have? A man without honor cannot even call himself a man, can he?”

“If you say so,” Delmico replied. “By my estimates, I have seventy-two hours before the deadline. You will have the material by then, if not before, assuming the tests are positive. Is that satisfactory?”

“Of course, Doctor. I am a reasonable man.”

“Yeah? Well then, try calling me at a more reasonable hour next time.” He slammed down the receiver. “Fucking kraut.”

Delmico whipped back the sheet covering his nude body and swung his legs to the floor. He stood and then carefully limped his way through the semidarkness to the bathroom. Practically every time he walked, Delmico thought of his impairment. The skin on the nub of his left leg—the only remaining evidence of his foot—had grown callused with use. Delmico had undergone complete amputation after the accident in Washington, D.C.

Yes, once upon a time, he’d been a respected microbiologist with the U.S. Department of Defense, BioChem Counter Warfare section. A single mistake had cost him a foot as well as his job. That pompous board of safety directors hadn’t even bothered to look at all the evidence. They only took into account Delmico’s decision to disobey the orders of his supervisor, and terminated him for violations of a half dozen safety regulations. While Delmico had been the only one injured, the character references from half a dozen colleagues saved him from permanent exile. Instead those arrogant assholes at the Pentagon, he recalled, decided they would make his infraction part of his sealed file, call the loss of the limb an accident—although he would receive no federal disability for it—and recommend him to a teaching post in some out-of-the-way school.

The salary he received being an associate professor at Washington U had proved little more than a meager stipend for the bare necessities of life. To a man who had made nearly $150,000 a year working for the government, his present rate amounted to a pittance. And then during a guest lecture in Bonn, an impressionable giant of a man approached and offered to buy him a drink. That’s when fortune struck him like a blow to the back of the head. What Simon Delmico didn’t know at the time was he’d be selling his soul to Satan’s archangel.

Delmico agreed to hold up his end of the bargain only after making Burke promise not to use the chemical agent against American targets. Burke agreed, a bit too readily Delmico thought, but the deal got made. Through the course of the past year, Burke had funded Delmico’s research and the microbiologist’s efforts finally came to fruition. He christened his formula Shangri-La Lady, a mnemonic of sorts for the compound’s chemical makeup: solanine-lithium liposome.

Now the only task remaining would be a test on live subjects; Delmico had already chosen them. He’d agreed to let three of his present Chemistry I students—obnoxious jocks who wanted nothing more than a free ride through college simply because of their athletic prowess—improve their failing grades by conducting experiments at the campus after hours. Delmico had given them enough information that they’d actually created the delivery mechanism for Shangri-La Lady. The microbiological spores did the rest.

Already, he’d noticed the youths begin to look increasingly unwell when they arrived at class. Their condition began to worsen on almost a daily basis, and Delmico had even heard talk of one of them collapsed in the locker room after evening practice. A visit to the team nurse left everyone assured their star linebacker had merely suffered from a case of dehydration and exhaustion coupled with a lack of adequate rest. Delmico had lied to Burke. He had more than enough positive results to know the poison would work. At the moment, he simply took satisfaction in making the pedantic bastard wait as long as possible. Wake him up at this fucking time of the morning and expect Delmico to act like Susie Sunshine….

Two of the boys had been taken away by ambulance and admitted to the infectious ward of a local hospital. The third had taken a sudden leave of absence to attend his sister’s funeral, so the scientist had no idea of the youth’s present condition. Delmico hadn’t told anyone about the extra-credit project at their request. After all, such publicity would not only threaten their scholarships but it might make their coaches consider suspension of activities until they got their grades up. Nearly a week had passed since the original experiments and Delmico doubted the boys would draw any connection between the two.

That was, of course, if they lived long enough to tell anyone at all. Delmico took great satisfaction in thinking about the shocking repercussions that would soon come. He chuckled at the thought, in fact, as he relieved himself and then returned to bed. He removed his glasses, fluffed his pillow and lay down. He still had a few hours before having to rise again.

Within minutes the world around him faded to black and he drifted into peaceful slumber.

CHAPTER THREE

Carl Lyons wiped the sweat from his brow with a white towel that encircled his neck and picked up the pace. He turned to check the progress of the two men behind him, surprised to see they had fallen back a bit. Lyons wanted to shout a jibe at them, but he reconsidered. It was better to not pick on the ladies.

The sudden incline of the road signaled the final stretch to Stony Man Farm. Lyons had made this trip more times than he could count. The Farm served as haven and headquarters for the Stony Man operations, but through the years Lyons had also come to call it home. When he or one of his partners said they wanted to go home, the others knew it really meant Stony Man Farm. The farmhouse, Annex and grounds lay deep in the conifer-thick terrain of the Blue Ridge Mountains, approximately eighty miles from Washington, D.C., by chopper. Lyons couldn’t think of a nicer place to rest, as little as he got, but he took more stock in the bonds forged with his colleagues. Those relationships built from fighting side by side with others sworn to the same call of duty had grown stronger than most family ties.

Lyons really poured it on at a final bend in the road, which opened onto the Stony Man property. Directly ahead, the two-story farmhouse greeted him. The warm earth tones of its wood-and-brick exterior seemed to reach out to him as if extending arms of welcome. Lyons slowed to a walk when he reached the perimeter of the front lawn, and breathed deeply to slow his heart rate and allow his body to cool down. He walked in circles a bit, hands extended to his sides to permit maximum expansion of his chest. The “Ironman” moniker—earned by not only his record in that event but also his personality—fit him well. He’d proved a formidable ally for Stony Man through the years, and a capable leader in spite of his flammable temperament and sarcastic humor.

Neither of the men who had lagged behind and now joined him would have traded Lyons for the ten best commandos in the world, primarily because that wouldn’t have been enough.

“Looks like Ironman has been eating his Wheaties,” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz remarked.

Droplets of sweat rolled from his hairline, traveling down Schwarz’s swarthy face and glistening like rain dew on his mustache. He broke into a grin when Lyons flipped him the bird, but he didn’t take a bit of the ribbing personally. He’d come to know his teammate too well.

“I would just like to die,” said the other man, hardly able to respond through all of his heavy breathing.

Rosario Blancanales had always carried a slight paunch—many a foe had underestimated him for that, much to their dismay. Not that it mattered. They called him “Politician” due to his gregarious mannerism and ability to charm his way out of just about any confrontation. Only hostilities against the enemies of America were nonnegotiable, and Blancanales minded his business well.

The men of Able Team turned toward a voice calling them from the farmhouse. Sun rays danced off the golden highlights of Barbara Price’s hair. She beckoned to them with a wave, and the three men immediately double-timed it to where she stood on the front porch.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling as they filtered past her and through the open doorway. “We’ve got a situation and Hal needs you guys to hoof it over to the Annex ASAP.”

“We got time to clean up?” Blancanales asked.

“After.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, “but I don’t want to hear any complaints about how we left the place smelling like a used gym sock.”

“I’ve been told you do that without P.T.,” Schwarz cracked.

“Up yours,” Lyons grumbled.

The three men made their way through the farmhouse to the elevator, then stood and waited expectantly for Price to join them.

Price flashed a wicked grin as the door began to close. “Um, I’ll wait for the next one.”

They rode the elevator to the basement in silence, crossed through the War Room to the hallway, and continued on to the end until they reached a wide corridor perpendicular to it. A walkway ran parallel to an electric rail car that could take them the 250 yards to the Annex, but Able Team opted to walk. They reached the end of the tunnel in no time flat and gained entry to the Annex via a coded access panel. Built beneath a wood-chipping facility, the Annex had become Stony Man’s operational nexus. It warehoused the most advanced cybernetic and communications systems available—under constant monitor and upgrade by Aaron Kurtzman’s unit—as well as an operations center for Stony Man Farm security.

Able Team took concrete stairs to the Computer Center, where they found Brognola and Kurtzman staring at a screen. The Stony Man chief turned at their arrival, greeted them with a nod and a grunt, and then returned to perusing the data on the screen.

“What’s up?” Lyons asked.

“Whew!” Brognola said, whipping an unlit cigar from his mouth and wrinkling his nose. “Couldn’t you guys have showered first?”

Lyons tossed a bland look at his cohorts, who shrugged, and then returned his attention to Brognola.

“Never mind,” the big Fed stated, directing their attention to a large screen that spanned an entire wall of the center. “Bring it up there for them, will you, Bear?”

Kurtzman nodded and punched a couple of keys.

As the three Able Team warriors turned, a man’s face filled the screen. He had pale skin and wide blue eyes that looked magnified behind his large glasses. A hawk’s-beak nose protruded from between puffy red cheeks. Lettering below his named read: U.S. Department of Defense, CL: Q, DoDID#: 176243-SD.

Lyons emitted a low whistle and remarked, “Geek city, gents.”

“Maybe,” Brognola replied, “but I wouldn’t underestimate him for a moment. His name is Simon Delmico. Age, forty-three. He was one of the youngest and brightest in his graduating class from Stanford. He holds a doctorate in medicine with a specialty in microbiology. Up until five years ago, he’d served with the DOD as a specialist in countering biochemical warfare agents. Since then, he’s worked as an associate professor with Washington University in St. Louis.”

“He left voluntarily?” Blancanales asked.

Brognola snorted. “Hardly. Against orders from a superior, he violated experimental protocols and damn near blew up part of ST-2 at the Pentagon. As it was, he lost a foot. To keep things quiet, the government decided not to charge him criminally. They set him up at WU and that was that.”

Schwarz raised his eyebrows. “Until now?”

“Precisely,” Brognola said. “A few hours ago we had to divert Phoenix Force to search for a plane that went down somewhere over the Federal Republic of Germany. We’re still waiting for them to report back. But before that, there were some interesting outbreaks of a mysterious illness in St. Louis, which has local physicians puzzled enough to call the CDC. That sent off all kinds of alarms for us, given Delmico’s background in microbiology.”

Schwarz chuckled and looked at Kurtzman. “Why, I’d say your new program’s doing a heck of a job, Bear.”

“I can’t take all the credit for it,” Kurtzman replied in his deep, booming voice. “My crew certainly did their part. It’s amazing what they’ve accomplished in these few short years.”

Lyons knew the men were referring to Kurtzman’s new cyberscanning application, codenamed Postulate. The Able Team leader didn’t even begin to pretend he understood it all, but he did have some idea of how it worked. Rather than query specific data sets through the use of keywords, Postulate would search for situations based on an incalculable number of different scenarios, partly through the use of key phrases, partly through mathematical theorems and hypotheses. In short, Kurtzman and his team had spent years programming different scenarios based on everything from mission reports and briefs to the core intelligence of foreign nations. Then, Postulate had begun to rework the scenarios on its own and built a dictionary database with millions of terabytes of information.

During a briefing of the entire Stony Man group, Kurtzman had explained it this way: “For the most part, the data remains static until Postulate acts on it. Then it becomes dynamic, the computers start to hum and it starts to search around the world for incidents that could fit that scenario. This information might be anything from newswires and insurance claims up to police reports and military statistics. Whatever the information, Postulate will use it if she can, and over a period of time she grows smarter by dismissing what seems irrelevant in place of facts that fit the highest degrees of probability.”

The door opened and Price strode into the room.

Lyons shook his head. “Okay, I’m still not following. What the hell do sick students and one-footed scientists have to do with Phoenix Force?”

“Less than an hour ago, we logged a call placed to Delmico’s home from a public phone in Wiesbaden. The call was too long to be a wrong number. And twelve months ago, Delmico was in Germany as a guest lecturer on microbiology.”

“Too much to be coincidence, maybe,” Blancanales admitted. “But it’s hardly enough proof of collusion with terrorists by Delmico.”

“I’m with Pol on this one, guys,” Lyons said. “It sounds like you’re grasping at straws.”

“Are we, now?” Brognola asked. “You may not think so when you hear what was on that plane.”

“The information just came through,” Kurtzman said. “The plane that went down was a special operations cargo plane carrying six large dishes with magnets attached to them.”

Lyons made a show of yawning. “Magnets, eh? That’s what has our panties in a bunch? Magnets?”

Kurtzman shook his head. “I know magnets don’t sound like any great threats to you, Ironman, but given they’re attached to what the British are calling Low Altitude Military Platforms, you might want to reconsider. These dishes were being shipped from the CERN Particle Physics Laboratory in Switzerland. The magnets were remnants of pieces being assembled for their flagship project, the Large Hadron Collider.

“You see, elementary particles of matter are typically studied through the use of magnetism. The larger the magnet, the deeper the matter and energy can be probed. These magnets are particularly important because they operate under the magnetism between Earth’s polar opposites.”

“Basically,” Brognola cut in, “it means they can operate under self-propulsion for the most part. We now have evidence the plane that went down with these things aboard might have been sabotaged. Moreover, we think it wouldn’t be unlikely for a terrorist organization or other element to use these platforms to deliver chemical or biological contaminants to a large populace.”

“Or at least threaten to do so if their obligatory list of demands isn’t met,” Price said.

Schwarz looked at Blancanales and Lyons. His furrowed eyebrows chiseled lines of seriousness across his face. “What they’re proposing sounds damn plausible, guys. I think we ought to check it out.”