Rolling Thunder

“Hey, just a little gallows humor, all right?” Tokaido countered.

“I repeat,” Delahunt said. “It’s not funny. What’s next? Are you going to start making wisecracks about Calvin being a holey man because he took three bullets?”

“Okay, I got it.”

Tokaido shrugged and pitched his bubble gum into a trash receptacle as he made his way to the far corner of the Annex Computer Room, where steam rose from Kurtzman’s legendary coffeepot.

Along with Tokaido and Huntington Wethers, who was due to arrive any moment, Delahunt rounded out Kurtzman’s cybernetics team. The members of the group had never joined Able Team or Phoenix Force on the battlefield, yet within the confines of the Computer Room they played an equally important role in helping to stem the tide of global terrorism and high crime both at home and abroad.

Both Tokaido and Delahunt had been on duty for the past ten hours. Carmen had planned to go on break as soon as Wethers arrived, but in light of recent developments, she figured her usual midday catnap would have to wait. Stifling a yawn, she cursored across her screen, calling up a messaging program that would allow her to stay on top of any communications coming in from the field teams. There was one new message, from Rafael Encizo, under the heading “Med Update.” Delahunt was opening up the message when a cup of coffee suddenly materialized at the edge of her desk.

“Peace offering,” Tokaido said when she glanced up. “You were right. I shouldn’t have been smarting off like that.”

Delahunt picked up the cup and offered a tentative smile. “If this stuff’s fresh, you’re forgiven.”

“The spoon didn’t get stuck when I was stirring the cream,” Tokaido said.

“Close enough.”

Delahunt was taking a sip when the doors behind them opened and in walked a tall, crisply dressed black man with traces of gray in his short-cropped hair.

Huntington Wethers, a former cybernetics professor at Berkeley, had the most analytic mind of anyone working at the Farm, and when it came to sorting through the constant stream of information filtering into the Computer Room, Wethers was more often than not the first to glean the patterns and connections that transformed raw data into useable intelligence.

“I just heard Phoenix Force ran into some difficulties in Spain,” Wethers said to Tokaido and Delahunt as he made his way to his workstation.

“There’s an understatement,” Tokaido said.

Delahunt shot him a warning glance, then quickly told Wethers about the ill-fated mission outside Bilbao.

“Terrible,” Wethers said once Carmen had finished. “What’s everybody’s medical status?”

“I was just working on that,” Delahunt said. “Give me a second.”

Wethers and Tokaido stood by watching as Carmen read through Encizo’s e-mail. “Actually, David’s in the best shape of them all, at least physically,” she reported. “He’s got a mild concussion and needed some scalp stitches where he struck his head. They’ll be giving him a CAT scan soon so they can come up with some kind of prognosis on his amnesia.”

“Hopefully it’ll be only short-term,” Wethers said. “That’s usually the case in situations like this.”

“That’s what we’re banking on,” Delahunt said. “As for Calvin, he’s still in surgery. A field medic managed to stop the bleeding from his gunshot wounds, but they’re going back in for one of the bullets because it’s positioned too close to one of his arteries.”

“But he’s going to pull through, yes?” Wethers asked.

Delahunt skimmed through the rest of Encizo’s note, then said, “Rafe says it’s touch and go. The surgeons told him it was a miracle they were able to bring Cal in alive, given all the blood he’d lost. He got a couple units from two of the guys in that commando outfit that flew in with David and Gary.”

“And Gary? How’s he?”

Delahunt shook her head. “Partial tear in his right hamstring, and a strain in the left. That plus he pulled the muscles in his lower back. He can barely move.

“And with Rafe, the knife nicked a tendon and sliced into his right deltoid. He’ll be in a sling and full-arm cast for at least a few weeks.”

“Bottom line,” Tokaido interjected, “is that they’re all out of commission except for T.J.”

“This is quite a blow,” Wethers said. “First we lose two guys from Able Team, and now this.”

“I know,” Delahunt concurred. “And what’s really upsetting is that it looks like this was just a wild-goose chase.”

“Not entirely,” Tokaido reminded her. “I mean, we did manage to take out an BLM cell that was trying to set up a base in the mountains there.”

“Maybe so,” Delahunt conceded, “but if you ask me, I think the Basques deliberately tried to make it look like they were carting those stolen missiles.”

“Diversionary ploy?” Wethers queried.

“Exactly,” Delahunt replied. “Look at all the manpower that went into that mission. Not just on our part, but Spain, too. With everybody focused on those mountains, it gave the BLM a better chance to smuggle the missiles out of the area. Not to mention this supertank.”

“The needles have left the haystack, you’re saying,” Wethers replied.

“That would be my guess,” Delahunt said. “And the more time that passes without us finding them, the wider the search area’s going to get.”

“And on our part, we’re down to Pol and T.J.,” Tokaido said. “And Pol’s not even expected to reach Spain for another few hours. The trail’s just going to get colder.”

“Fortunately, it’s not up to just us,” Delahunt reminded Tokaido. “The Spanish are pouring as many resources into this whole thing as they can, and they’re getting help from the French and NATO, too.”

“Yeah, but they’re not as good as us,” Tokaido said. “You’re talking boys going out to do a man’s job.”

Delahunt managed a smile. “Do I detect a little home-team prejudice?”

Tokaido grinned back. “Hey, if you can’t root for the home team, what good are you?”

Wethers was in no mood for comic relief. He glanced across the room at one of the monitors depicting a sat-link photo of the mountainous terrain that stretched between Bilbao and Barcelona. He asked the others, “What have Hal and Barbara had to say about all this?”

“The chief’s back in Washington conferring with the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Delahunt responded. “Barbara’s back at the main house. She said she was going to go over the backgrounds on some of the blacksuits and see if we can patch together a backup team to send over.”

“Won’t be the same,” Tokaido said. “There’s no replacing the guys in Phoenix Force or Able Team.”

The cybercrew was interrupted as the door behind them opened a second time. This time, it was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed man who strode purposefully into the room. His face was pale and his forehead glistened with sweat.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he told Tokaido.

“Carl?” Delahunt called out, startled to see the Able Team leader up and on his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Carl Lyons snapped a salute and flashed a menacing grin. “Reporting for duty, what else?”

“You’ve got the flu, for God’s sake,” Delahunt protested. “Look at you, you’re sweating like you just came out of a steam bath.”

“Flu schmoo,” Lyons snarled. “I just got done talking with Barbara. We’ve got work to do, so quit gawking and track me down a jet so I can get my ass to Spain, pronto.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Facaros Pass, near Bilbao, Spain

Luis Manziliqua awoke with a start. He thumbed his wristwatch to light up the LED display. It was almost midnight, when meant he’d dozed off for nearly two hours. With a groan, he slowly rose to his feet. He’d fallen asleep sitting between two large boulders near the peak of Mt. Facaros and he was stiff. He stretched for a moment, then wearily grabbed a pair of binoculars from the ground and trudged a few yards uphill to his post atop the mountain.

Night had fallen over the area. There was a crescent moon overhead, and the cloudless sky was sprinkled with a scattering of bright, winking stars. It was cool up here at the higher elevations, and Manziliqua turned up the collar of his shirt to fend off the chill of a faint breeze. He was stationed thirty miles inland from the Bay of Biscay, and yet he could smell the sea in the air, a briny scent that brought to mind his previous life as a fisherman plying the waters near the coastal town of San Sebastian. How much simpler life was then, he mused. He’d found the daily routine stifling and couldn’t wait to leave it behind, but there were times now when he wished he’d never listened to the prattling of his cousins and got it into his head that there was romance and glamour to be found as a revolutionary. Hah! Where was the romance and glamour in pulling sentry duty night after night, first in the mountains overlooking the Gamuso proving grounds and now here atop the highest and loneliest peak of the San Madrillo Mountains? His job was to stay put and scour his surroundings for any noteworthy activity. Only once—last night at the proving grounds—had there been anything worth reporting. The rest of the time, from dusk to dawn for three weeks running, he’d had little to look at but the activity of wildlife and the occasional traipsing of planes through the heavens. His biggest challenge, night after night, was to stay awake and try to keep from driving himself crazy humming the same songs over and over as he tried to dispel the boredom. Some revolution.

Of course, it could be worse, he figured. He could have been among those who were killed earlier that afternoon twenty miles to the south. He hadn’t heard all the details, but apparently they’d lost nearly twenty men. That put things into perspective. He’d take boredom over death any time.

Yawning, Manziliqua put the binoculars to his eyes and lapsed into the tedious ritual of panning the terrain below. From his position, he had a view of two mountain roads leading inland from Bilbao. There was little to see of the first road; it was almost completely veiled by a blanket of fog, one of several cloudlike pockets obscuring much of the lower elevations. As he shifted his gaze, Manziliqua spotted a herd of elk crossing a dimly lit meadow valley. He wished he were down closer to them. He’d lugged a 50-caliber Barrett SWS up into the mountains with him, and with a rifle like that he could easily take out at least one of the elk once he was within eighteen hundred meters. True, it wouldn’t do much to advance the cause of the BLM, but at least he’d have something to show for his night in the mountains. And roast elk sounded a hell of a lot more appetizing than another ration of hardtack and canned meat.

Manziliqua watched the elk until they disappeared into the fog, then turned his focus to the second mountain road. A sudden curse spilled from his lips.

Nearly a quarter-mile stretch of the winding road was illuminated by headlights and taillights. Several dozen vehicles were idling in place, trailing clouds of exhaust into the night air. He traced the line of cars and trucks with his binoculars, then held his focus on the head of the line. There, two army transport trucks were parked off on the shoulder. Three armed soldiers blocked the road while more than a dozen other men circled the first two vehicles, searching the interiors and scrutinizing its occupants. After a few moments, the vehicles were waved through and the troops closed around the next two cars. Manziliqua was too far away to hear any of the activity, but soon he heard the faint droning of rotors and, glancing up, he saw the lights of a helicopter approaching the roadblock.

Lowering his binoculars, Manziliqua scrambled downhill to the boulders where he’d fallen asleep earlier. Next to the Barrett .50 was an AN/PRC-126 radio. He snatched up the transceiver and hurriedly patched through a call. He was wide awake now, pulse racing. The roadblock had clearly been in place for some time. How was he going to explain not having reported it earlier? Miguel was going to be furious. Manziliqua had seen him pistol-whip men for lesser transgressions. What would happen to him if Miguel figured out he’d fallen asleep at his station?

Think fast, Manziliqua murmured to himself. Think fast….

“IDIOT!” MIGUEL RIGO switched off his microphone and slammed it back on the cradle of a transceiver mounted under the dashboard of the Mack truck he was riding in. “He’ll pay for this!”

Zacharias Brinquel, a rotund Basque in his midfifties, was behind the wheel of the big rig. He’d overheard enough of Miguel’s angry exchange with Luis Manziliqua to know the problem they’d run into.

“We’re headed for a roadblock?” he said without taking his eyes off the narrow mountain road before him.

“Yes. Three miles from here,” Miguel muttered. The clean-shaved, thirty-year-old leader of the Basque Liberation Movement pounded his fist against the dashboard, then popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a well-worn topographical map. “He claims the fog kept him from spotting it earlier. Pah!”

Brinquel took a final drag on his small cigar, then flicked the cheroot out his window. “More likely the only fog was between his ears,” he guessed.

“I’ll teach him to fall asleep at his post!”

Miguel quickly unfolded the map across his lap and shone a small penlight on the area they were driving through.

“Slow down,” he told the driver. “There should be a spot around the next bend where we can turn.”

Brinquel frowned. “Turn? Up here in the mountains? Not with our load.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“I’m not a truck driver, Miguel,” Brinquel protested. “It’s hard enough for me to keep us on the road. I’ve never backed a truck up and turned it around.”

“Now is a good time to learn,” Miguel countered. “Put on your flashers.”

Brinquel shook his head wearily and switched on the emergency lights. He checked his rearview mirror, but it was impossible to see if there was any traffic behind them. The truck was hauling a forty-foot-long prefab trailer home, and the structure extended out more than ten feet on either side of the flatbed it was resting on, blocking Brinquel’s view, as well as taking up a good portion of the oncoming lane. Twice already the trailer had been nearly clipped by traffic coming the other way, and as he slowly rounded the next bend on the mountain road, he again took up both lanes.

As Miguel had predicted, once they’d cleared the bend, they came upon a straightaway where the road was flanked on either side by a good twenty yards of level ground. To their right, just beyond the wide shoulder, a flimsy guardrail marked the edge of a precipitous drop into a deep, narrow gorge. Turning the truck without going over the side would be a chore, even for an experienced driver. Brinquel weighed his predicament and shook his head again.

“I can’t do it, Miguel,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Miguel reached to his side for a 9 mm Walther pistol similar to the one his sister had used earlier in the day to execute the woman who’d been picked up near the BLM’s worksite in Barcelona. He pressed the gun’s barrel to Brinquel’s head and barked, “Try!”

Brinquel didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes went cold, as did his voice.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, Miguel?” he asked calmly.

Miguel held the pistol in place a moment, then slowly pulled it away. He averted his gaze from the driver and busied himself attaching the Walther’s sound-and-flash suppressor.

“I apologize, Zacharias,” he finally murmured.

“You and your brother. Such hotheads.” Zacharias sighed. He managed a faint smile. “Just like your father, rest his soul.”

“Don’t forget Angelica.”

“Yes, your sister, too,” Brinquel said.

“I guess none of the apples have fallen far from the tree.”

His point made, Brinquel dropped his smile and told Rigo, “Your father never pulled a gun on me.”

Miguel was given pause. His father and Brinquel had been best friends since the early years of the ETA, and Zacharias had been at Carlos Rigo’s side the day, just over a year ago, when he’d been gunned down by the Ertzainta. By all rights, Brinquel had been next in line to take over as the head of the Navarra cell, but power held little interest for him and after he’d helped avenge Carlos’s death in an assault against the Ertzainta, he’d turned the organization over to Miguel, his friend’s elder son, who’d promptly broken with the ETA. Still, Miguel continued to rely on Brinquel’s experience and quiet wisdom as a counterpoint to their impatience and hardheadedness. He looked up to the man and the more he thought about it, the more Miguel regretted having taken his frustrations out on him.

“It won’t happen again,” Miguel promised.

“No, it won’t,” Zacharias responded calmly. “Now, are you sure there is no other way around the roadblock? What about San Marcos Pass?”

Miguel inspected the map again and shook his head. “The road is too steep,” he said. “Besides, if the traffic is backed up as far as Luis says, we would be seen. No, we need to turn around.”

Brinquel chuckled. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”

“I have confidence in you, Zacharias,” Miguel assured the driver. “Just take it slow.”

Brinquel nodded. “With this load, I couldn’t take it fast if I wanted to.”

Halfway through the straightaway, the older man eased the semi off onto the shoulder and headed toward the guardrail. Once he was within a few yards of it, Brinquel turned the wheel sharply and headed back toward the road. He’d hoped that by some miracle there would be enough shoulder on the other side of the road for him to turn the truck without having back up, but once he crossed the median, he quickly ran out of room and was forced to put on the brakes just shy of the mountains. The truck was now completely straddling both lanes of the road.

“So far, so good,” he said, putting his foot on the clutch and reaching for the gearshift knob rising up from the floor. “Now is when we need to say our—”

Brinquel’s voice was drowned out by the sudden bleating of a car horn. A pair of headlights switched to high beam and bathed the truck’s cab with a harsh glow.

Miguel squinted past Brinquel and saw a small sports car in the road. He couldn’t tell the make of the car, but from the sound of the horn he guessed it was a Fiat. Its driver continued to work the horn, giving off a series of short blasts, then settling on a prolonged, one-note wail that echoed off through mountains.

Miguel cursed to himself and opened his door. “Back up just a few yards, then turn the wheel and inch forward. Keep doing it until we’re turned around.”

“Where are you going?” Brinquel asked.

“To have a talk with our friend about his horn,” Miguel said.

“Best make it a short talk,” Brinquel said. “They can probably hear that horn all the way from here to the roadblock.”

Miguel got out and circled the front of the truck, holding the gun behind his back as he approached the car. He was right. It was a late-model Fiat. The driver was a man in his forties, wearing a designer shirt and white slacks. He looked to Miguel like some sort of businessman, but when he raised his voice and shouted for the truck to move, the driver cursed at him like a longshoreman. All the while, he kept the heel of his right palm planted against the car’s horn.

“I’m running late, damn you!” he shouted. “Get out of my way or I’ll report you to the—”

The man suddenly fell silent. Miguel had brought his pistol into view. Before the man could react, Miguel pulled the trigger, putting two rounds into the driver’s face. The man’s head snapped back from the force of the rounds, then he slumped to one side.

Miguel holstered his gun, then leaned into the car, reaching past the driver and shifting the Fiat into gear. As the car began to move forward, Miguel turned the steering wheel, then backed away. The Fiat quickly veered off the road and headed for the guardrail.

When the car hit the barrier, there was a dull crash and the sound of snapping wood. The railing’s uprights gave way, and seconds later the Fiat disappeared over the side. A series of small explosions marked its swift descent to the bottom of the gorge.

Miguel turned and headed toward the rear of the truck. Brinquel had already backed the rig up once and moved forward, but he was still nowhere close to completing the turn.

“Back up again!” Miguel called out. “I’ll tell you when to stop!”

As Miguel moved toward the partially collapsed guardrail, one of the trailer home’s windows opened. Two men peered out. Like Miguel and Brinquel, they both wore berets. One of the men brandished an M-14 carbine and bore a close resemblance to Miguel, though he was bearded and wore his hair longer. It was Jacque Rigo, Miguel’s younger brother.

“What’s happening?” he called out.

Miguel quickly explained the situation, then said, “Close the window and stay put.”

“Are you sure we can get around the roadblock?” Jacque asked.

“Let me worry about that,” Miguel snapped.

Jacque was about to retort but thought better of it and withdrew inside the prefab along with the other man.

Miguel moved back to the guardrail, then signaled to Brinquel, who slowly backed up. Once the truck was again within a few yards of the barricade, Miguel waved his arms and shouted for Brinquel to stop. The older man put on the brakes, then shifted gears and pulled forward. He had to repeat the maneuver a second time, but finally he’d managed to complete the turnaround.

“What did I tell you?” Miguel said as he got back in the cab and slapped Brinquel on the shoulder. “You’re more of a truck driver than you thought.”

“Maybe so.” Brinquel’s face had broken out in a sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then pulled a fresh cheroot from his pocket. Miguel lit it for him, then they drove in silence, heading back the way they’d come. Brinquel had to steer wide several times to avoid oncoming cars, then, after a quarter mile, Miguel pointed out the windshield.

“Turn up there.”

Brinquel frowned. “That road dead-ends at Lake Pabal. What is the point of going there?”

“You’ll see,” Miguel told him. “I’ve come up with a better plan. The roadblock wound up working in our favor.”

“Are you sure?” Brinquel sounded skeptical.

“Positive,” Miguel responded. He quickly divulged what he had in mind, concluding, “This way it will be even more difficult for them to realize we’ve pulled a switch on them.”

Zacharias still wasn’t convinced but he wasn’t about to argue. He drove on, and once he reached the turnoff, he guided the rig onto an even narrower dirt road that led down a steep, winding incline. He had to downshift to keep the vehicle under control, and soon there was yet another obstacle to contend with.

They were entering a fog bank.

Brinquel slowed the truck to a crawl and leaned forward in his seat in hopes of getting a better view of the way before him. It helped a little, but soon his visibility had been reduced to less than five feet.

“Maybe Luis was telling the truth about the fog,” Brinquel murmured.

“I doubt it,” Miguel said.

After another few yards, the road straightened and began to level off. Suddenly Miguel held his hand out, motioning for Brinquel to stop.

“Turn off the engine and kill the lights,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

Brinquel obliged, planting his foot on the brakes to keep the truck still. In the wake of the engine’s constant roar, the sudden silence seemed almost deafening. But soon Brinquel was able to make out the sound Miguel had apparently heard moments before. It was a mechanical droning, sounding from overhead.

“A helicopter,” Brinquel whispered.

Miguel nodded, putting a finger to his lips. He had his gun back out, and he reached to the floor of the truck, then handed Brinquel a 30-mm AGS-17 grenade launcher. The weapon, with its thick stock and barrel, had the look of a futuristic rifle out of a science-fiction movie.

As Brinquel cradled the launcher on his lap, a faint beam of light appeared ahead of them, probing into the fog from above. The fog was so dense, however, that the beam was barely able to penetrate it. As the shaft of light swept toward them, Miguel kept an eye on the hood of the trunk. If light reflected off the hood, it would likely mean the truck had been spotted, forcing their hand.