War Tides

Blancanales called for the Beretta SCS-70/90. This weapon only differed from the assault rifle version by sporting a folding, tubular metal butt and slightly shorter barrel. Blancanales preferred it for these features in addition to the fact it fired 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds at a cyclic rate of six hundred rounds per minute with a muzzle velocity exceeding 900 meters per second.

Lyons decided a combat shotgun would not do this time, and opted for a trusted M-16 A-3/M-203 combo. He’d grown accustomed to earlier variants of this weapon while serving on the LAPD, and come to appreciate it over the years for its reliability and accuracy. Not to mention that if they were going up against some terrorist hardasses, the Able Team leader wanted some extra oomph in his arsenal, which the M-203 grenade launcher promised to provide.

Each of the Able Team warriors also carried his preferred sidearm and plenty of extra ammo. They weren’t expecting trouble—assuming the terrorists had done what they came to do and were probably long gone—but they were damn sure ready for it.

When they pulled up in front of the address where the vehicles had been registered, Lyons took shotgun position and looked out the window. The darkened structure loomed in the hazy afternoon light. The crumbling facade of the factory didn’t surprise Lyons in the least since he’d already convinced himself and his colleagues that the place would probably be abandoned. Neither did it surprise him to see the many broken windows, with glass strewed across the rutted parking lot. What really frosted Lyons was the audacity of the terrorists to have parked their vans out front in broad daylight. It was as if they were saying, “You moronic Americans are too stupid to track us down, so we aren’t even going to bother trying to hide our transportation.”

Well, Able Team had a message for them.

“Ballsy of them to just park right out front,” Blancanales said as if he could read his friend’s mind.

“Think they’re not expecting company?” Schwarz asked.

“No,” Lyons said. “I can’t buy that.”

“I smell a trap,” Blancanales offered.

“Me, too,” Schwarz said.

“Well, we’re not going to find out sitting around out here,” Lyons said.

Blancanales grunted and then put the van in gear and turned into the parking lot. He increased speed when he passed between the once stately chain-link gates that now dangled uselessly from their fence poles. Immediately the air came alive with autofire, and muzzle-flashes issued from the darkened interior of windows on the second floor. Most of the rounds missed but those that did hit ricocheted off the reinforced Kevlar and stamped-steel body of Able Team’s customized van—the latest in bulletproof technology being tested by Stony Man.

Lyons jacked the charging handle of his assault rifle and said, “Let’s play ball.”

CHAPTER THREE

Namibia, Africa

The road from Walvis Bay to Windhoek, national capital of Namibia, had seen its share of world history, and if the pain in David McCarter’s backside was any indication, it had seen more history than repairs in certain parts.

Windhoek, on the other hand, sported all the conveniences of most modern cities. Not that this had been McCarter’s first visit to the region. It had taken the South-West Africa People’s Organization, aka SWAPO, twenty-two years to bring independence to this area and another two within the United Nations to convince South Africa to end its regional administration. Since 1990, the country had been governed under a democratic constitution headed by a president and national assembly. And while McCarter spoke a little Afrikaans, very little, the official language thankfully remained English.

“Dr. Brown, let me be the first to welcome you to the Republic of Namibia,” said Dr. Justus Matombo, chief medical adviser to the national assembly.

“It’s our pleasure, Doctor,” McCarter replied, shaking Matombo’s hand.

Matombo wasn’t a terribly large man, although he had unusually thick forearms. The black skin of his forehead glistened only slightly with sweat in spite of the air-conditioned offices within the government building on Lossen Street in downtown Windhoek. His eyes were an unusual shade, almost slate blue, a testament to the mixed ethnicity that ran throughout the entire population. The ancestry in Namibia traced its roots to Dutch rule hundreds of years ago, so such ethnic mixes were the norm rather than the exception.

McCarter introduced the men accompanying him as his “medical colleagues” in turn; not all were physicians like himself. The only other “doctor” among them was a tall, lanky black man with a pencil-thin mustache who specialized in hematology. Calvin James nodded in greeting as he shook Matombo’s hand. The remaining three men were “scientists” with varying specialties in different areas. “Biologist” Rafael Encizo, “nuclear radiation specialist” Thomas Jackson Hawkins and finally “geologist” Gary Manning rounded out the five-man team.

The cover and credentials for the Phoenix Force operatives implied they worked for the World Health Organization. Matombo didn’t have a clue he faced five of the most dangerous combat veterans in the world. Dangerous to the thugs and criminals who terrorized nations and oppressed the innocent, that is. To those who could not protect themselves from the animals that preyed on the helpless, the five men of Phoenix Force were beacons of hope, justice and protection in a world filled with injustice and violence.

“I cannot tell you,” Matombo continued, “how very grateful we are for your assistance.”

“The details were sketchy,” McCarter said as Matombo escorted them to a meeting room. “We sort of got just a small understanding of your problem as they rushed us onto a plane. Could you elaborate more on the current situation, mate?”

After Matombo had shown them into the room, arranged for refreshments and they were comfortably seated at a conference table, he related the story.

“About two weeks ago, a local medical facility in the city of Lüderitz received three patients with radiation sickness. All in the same day.”

A weighty silence fell on the group as they briefly exchanged looks that ranged from surprise to genuine concern. The gravity of Matombo’s tone got attention from every man at the table.

“The story was written off originally as some kind of accident with a medical device, but given the compelling nature of the radiation poisoning, the medical center alerted my office,” Matombo continued.

“What did you do?” James asked.

“I sent a team down there immediately,” Matombo replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “The data they began to send back gave me and the entire presidential cabinet cause for concern, not to mention the medical community of specialists. Then one of the members of the team mysteriously disappeared. He hasn’t been heard from since. It was at that point I decided to recall them.”

“Only they didn’t make the return trip,” McCarter interjected.

That much Stony Man had alerted Phoenix Force about when they diverted their return from another mission and sent them straight to Namibia. When a CIA officer working inside the country got wind of the incident, he made notification to his handler, who in turn notified the South African section chief. Before long, the information had come before the eyes of the most powerful individual in the free world, and Harold Brognola had been ordered to send Phoenix Force to investigate.

“You said it was the nature of the radiation poisoning that compelled your investigation,” Hawkins said. “Why is that?”

Matombo sighed. “Because their signs and symptoms were not those of the type of radiation exposure they claimed it to be. They had all been exposed to raw ore, U-92 ore to be specific, and that could only happen in one of two places.”

“The Langer Heinrich or Rössing?” Manning inquired.

Matombo looked genuinely surprised. “You know your geography, sir.”

“No more than any other geologist,” Manning said easily.

In fact, Phoenix Force’s chief explosives expert knew quite a bit that would have surprised Matombo. His background in fighting terrorism coupled with the knowledge gleaned of terrain while serving with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had become areas of keen interest to Manning, much more as a hobby than profession. The Canadian had been over plenty of rugged country and he could read maps like nobody’s business. His knowledge of explosives also implied a peculiar sense of what types of explosives would work on what types of topography.

“For those of you who may not be as familiar,” Matombo said, “the Langer Heinrich calcrete uranium deposit and the Rössing Mining Properties are located in the Namib Desert, approximately twenty kilometers apart. They are both owned predominantly by the Rio Tinto Group out of Australia.”

McCarter noticed Matombo had failed to mention that Iran also had a partial-ownership interest of fifteen percent in the Rössing. For a long time now, the Namibian government had sworn up and down to the world community that Iran had neither purchased nor absconded with any of the U-92 ore from the mine, the key ingredient required to make weapons-grade plutonium.

“These mines have grown to become the fifth largest producer of uranium ore in the world, gentlemen,” Matombo continued. “And I can assure you that the operation is well secured. If individuals that far south are experiencing radiation sickness, it is highly unlikely they were exposed to either of those sources.”

“You think that someone may have discovered a new source?” Rafael Encizo asked pointedly.

“I believe it is a strong possibility we must consider at this point.”

“What about your team?” McCarter asked. “You said they didn’t return.”

Matombo nodded emphatically. “They sent me an e-mail advising they had completed all of the research they could there and they were going to leave Lüderitz the next morning. They never showed up and they were not found along any of the usual routes, even after a considerable search by our national rescue teams and a military detachment.”

“Could you confirm they even left Lüderitz?” McCarter replied.

“We cannot confirm or deny anything at this point.” Matombo’s eyes narrowed. “And that is a very unusual question coming from a physician. You almost sound as if you’re more interested in the disappearance of the team than in the medical situation. I thought you were sent here by the World Health Organization.”

The Phoenix Force leader could see that Matombo was nobody’s fool, and he knew if he tried to lie his way through it that the doctor might just challenge his medical knowledge. That wouldn’t bode well for any of them, in spite of the fact they were there at the behest of Ombarta Nandago, the Namibian prime minister. Stony Man granted some leeway of judgment to McCarter in these matters and it was his discretion as to how far to take their cover.

“Look, guv,” McCarter said, “you’re obviously an educated man. Let me come to the point. We are here in a bit more of a capacity than your government led you to believe. But trust me when I say we’re here to help.”

“And we’re interested in finding your people, yes,” James said. “If you want our help.”

Matombo’s expression remained impassive during this time, but when James extended the offer, the physician visibly relaxed. “Finding my team and seeing them returned safely is my number-one priority. Of course, finding out how these citizens protracted radiation sickness is also of great concern to me. I appreciate your candor, gentlemen. You shall have my full cooperation and the resources of my office. No questions asked.”

“Thank you,” Encizo said.

“Yeah, the ‘no questions asked’ part will be especially nice,” Hawkins added.

McCarter lent him a sour eye as he said, “We’ll need to know everything you can tell us about your team, dossiers on its members…everything. It would also help if you could give us some idea of when someone last saw them.”

“At least an eyewitness who can confirm or deny they left Lüderitz when they were supposed to,” James added.

“You think one of my people could be involved in this?” Matombo asked with incredulity.

“Involved in what?” McCarter asked with a shrug. “We aren’t even sure what’s going on here yet, mate.”

“We simply want to know whether or not they left so we know where to start looking,” Encizo added.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well,” McCarter explained, “it already seems obvious whoever grabbed up your chums are operating out of Lüderitz. Knowing whether they met their fate in the city before they left or if they were ambushed after leaving will give us a better idea of who to look for.”

Matombo shook his head. “I trust what you tell me, Doc…er, I mean, Mr. Brown. But what I do not understand is how you can help just by knowing this.”

“Simple. We’ll know if those behind the team’s disappearance are operating within the city or if they’re being fed intelligence.”

“In other words, we know the search needs to start in Lüderitz,” James said. “We just need to be certain if it will end there.”

Hawkins grinned broadly. “You see, we generally like to terminate problems at the source. Hitting lackeys isn’t usually a permanent solution to a problem like yours.”

“I understand now,” Matombo said. “I will see what I can do to get this information for you.”

McCarter nodded. “Right-o. In the meantime, we’re going to head straight for Lüderitz.”

“Would you like me to arrange an escort?”

“That won’t be necessary. But some decent transportation would be helpful.”

Matombo stood as he replied, “We have a fleet of various vehicles at our disposal. I believe we can find something appropriate.”

DR. JUSTUS MATOMBO was true to his word, and before long Phoenix Force was headed southeast out of the city and bound for the port city of Lüderitz in a pair of matching, late-model Dodge Nitro SUVs. They split the equipment between the two vehicles. McCarter and Hawkins rode with Encizo behind the wheel in the lead vehicle, followed by James, Manning and Matombo in the second. McCarter had tried to discourage Matombo from tagging along but the man wouldn’t hear of it, citing his required oversight of their transportation, as well as his cooperation as the official representative of his government. McCarter decided not to fight the guy about it. Matombo still had plenty of juice and could make it very difficult for them if he really wanted to, and McCarter figured it better to err on the side of cooperation.

That didn’t stop them from having Matombo ride in the tail vehicle. That afforded the Phoenix Force leader some privacy when he contacted Stony Man with his update. Brognola and Price listened while McCarter gave his report, telling them everything including how he felt compelled to reveal they weren’t exactly as the U.S. government had initially represented them.

“You think he’s trustworthy enough to stay quiet?” Brognola asked.

“For now,” McCarter said. “I think he’ll keep still as long as we cooperate with him. I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot off his mouth if he thought we were holding back.”

“This complicates things,” Price said.

“But we know you did what you thought was best,” Brognola added. “I have complete confidence in your decision. It’s probably for the better, anyway, since Able Team is stepping into the thick of it here.”

“They’re on a mission you think is related?”

“We don’t have any doubts at this point,” Price said. “What’s happened there coupled with the events here in Washington is too proximal to be mere coincidence.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never been much for coincidence, either, love.”

“Right.” Price filled him in on their discovery of the traffic video and the IUA. She concluded with, “Able Team has a lead they’re following up even as we speak.”

“So this is a new terrorist cell.”

“Pretty much,” Brognola said. “They only recently were identified by Israeli MOSSAD as a group who has grown large enough that they could pose a significant threat to the security of the U.S. and her allies. You are to assume they are fully trained and equipped, and you are to deal with them by S.O.P.”

McCarter didn’t have to ask what that meant; a rookie could’ve figured it out. “Acknowledged. As soon as we know more, we’ll get in touch.”

After they signed off, McCarter lit a cigarette and groaned. He reached back toward Hawkins, who in turn responded by pressing a sweaty can of soda into his palm. McCarter yanked the top and took a long pull from it, draining nearly half the contents. The dry, dusty air and afternoon sun beating through the windshield had left him parched.

“What’s the scoop, boss?” Hawkins finally asked.

“Either of you ever heard of the ‘the Revenge of Allah’?”

They shook their heads.

“Me, either. Until Barb and Hal just told me about them. They’re a new terrorist group, up-and-coming, and a case Able Team is working might just be related to what we’re doing here.”

“In what way?”

“Somebody lifted the plans to a nuclear-powered sub and left the designer and some federal agents dead. Took them out in bloody broad daylight, no less.”

“Sounds lovely,” Hawkins said.

“So plans go missing for a nuclear-powered device, and parties unknown suddenly show up here with radiation poisoning,” Encizo said.

“Right,” McCarter said. “Go figure.”

They rode a couple more miles in silence and then something cast a shadow over their vehicle. McCarter leaned forward and strained his eyes to see beyond the limits of the roof. He caught the first glimpse of the helicopter before they actually heard the sound of the rotors chopping the air, felt their vibration through the vehicle. They were flying awfully low and McCarter felt something prick his sixth sense. Before he could react, the shortwave radio clipped to his belt squawked for attention. He removed the earpiece from the clip holder on the lapel of his shirt and inserted it into his right ear.

Keeping one eye on the chopper, he answered, “Go.”

Manning’s voice came back. “We just talked to Matombo and he said that bird above you has markings of the Namibian national guard. It looks like maybe someone let the cat out of the bag.”

“What does he think they want?”

“Most likely they know about our little excursion here and they want us to stop. Apparently, official trips into Lüderitz have to be authorized.”

“Funny how that slipped Matombo’s mind.”

“He started apologizing as soon as he saw the bird,” Manning said in a quieter tone. “I don’t think it was purposeful.”

“Tell that to them?”

Before the Canadian could reply, the ground ahead of the lead vehicle churned with dust and the pattern that emerged could only have been produced by automatic weapons fire. Then the road erupted in a red-orange blast and left a crater three feet deep in its wake.

Encizo leaned on the brake pedal.

“Go off-road!” McCarter ordered. “Don’t stop.”

Encizo nodded and tromped the accelerator even as McCarter shouted at Manning to have James do the same. Both vehicles barely had all four wheels on the soft, sandy ground when heavy sparks followed by black smoke poured from the chopper hovering just above them. The whirlybird began to spin—lazily at first and then with increasing frenzy—before the pilot finally lost control and had to set it down. Hard. The smoke and dust left in its wake made it impossible to see in the mirrors of their SUV.

“There’s some cover,” Hawkins said as he gestured toward a rocky outcropping.

Encizo nodded and whipped the wheel to put the SUV in that direction while he expertly controlled the vehicle as it fishtailed in the loose sand of the Namibian wilderness. McCarter signaled Manning, who indicated they saw it, as well, and were right on their tail. Within a half minute they had reached the cover of the large rocks, although not without the cost of a few bullet holes in the frames of their SUVs.

As they bailed from the vehicle into the chill desert air, they could hear the reports of autofire, detect the whine of ricochets or the buzz of rounds burning the air just above their heads.

“Boy, oh boy,” James said as they converged on the cover of the rocks. “We have walked right smack-dab into a stinger’s nest.”

“What is happening?” Matombo demanded, fear evident in his voice. “Who are these men?”

“They aren’t friendly, whoever they are,” McCarter stated. He exchanged glances with the faces of his teammates. “Options.”

“I got us some heavy thunder, boss,” Hawkins said, patting the M-203 grenade launcher mounted beneath his M-16 A-2.

Manning hefted the M-60 E-4 heavy-barreled machine gun. “And I can bring some.”

“Good,” McCarter said. “That should give us the covering fire we need.”

“Need for what?” Matombo asked.

“To crash their bloody party,” the Phoenix Force leader replied with a wicked grin.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Let me off here!” Lyons ordered.

Blancanales pumped the brakes and Lyons went EVA with the vehicle still moving at better than twenty miles per hour. The Able Team leader didn’t lose stride as he touched the pavement and rushed the front doors of the broken-down factory. The terrorist gunners, firing from positions on the upper floor, tried to cut him down but they didn’t have fields of fire that close to the building. Lyons made it through the rickety doorway unscathed and into the cold, dusty interior.

His breath was visible by the only light in the factory, shafts of sunbeams streaming through cracks and holes in the darkened windows. The shadows nearly obscured a pair of terrorist gunmen save for the light reflecting off their machine pistols. Lyons swung his M-16 A-3 into acquisition and triggered it from the hip. The weapon chattered a 3-round burst that took the first terrorist in the guts before it flipped him onto his back. Lyons had the second gunman targeted before the body of the first hit the stripped concrete floor. Lyons’s rounds struck the terrorist even as the man fired his own weapon and sent bullets into the ground. The man dropped to his knees as blood poured from his chest wounds. The light faded from his eyes before he toppled face-first to the concrete.

Lyons tracked a 360-degree arc with the muzzle of the M-16 A-3 before rushing to a metal stairwell. The fact the enemy had only left a defense of two men on the lower level bothered the warrior enough to pause and consider that he might be walking into a trap. Then again, what did it matter? They had to stay on mission and make sure the terrorists didn’t get away from them, irrespective of the risks. Springing the trap would accomplish the same thing as planning a stealth assault.

Lyons shot up the steps and made it about three-quarters of the way to the second floor before another pair of terrorists emerged from the darkness above. The men hadn’t seen Lyons and he hadn’t seen them, so they nearly collided save for the Able Team warrior’s reflexes. Too close to engage with the business end of his assault rifle, Lyons spun the weapon so the butt came up and caught the terrorist to his right under the chin. He followed through and a crack echoed along the stairwell as the impact flipped the man over the metal railing. The shout of surprise died in the man’s throat when he landed head-first on the concrete.

The other terrorist realized the proximity made any use of his rifle useless and he whipped out a combat knife. He leaped toward Lyons, knife blade pointed down and away from his body. Years of Shotokan training screamed at Lyons and he reacted by stepping inside the entry point of attack that would put the knife wielder’s blade as far from its intended target as possible. As he leaped aside, Lyons delivered an elbow to the side of the terrorist’s jaw while simultaneously checking the nerve in the forearm with the butt of his rifle. He followed with a hammer fist to the man that crushed his nose against his face. The swiftness and efficiency of the attack bought Lyons the time he needed to follow up with a disarm maneuver.