War Tides

The knife clattered from numb fingers.

Lyons really went to work. He swung the rifle into the terrorist’s solar plexus, and the air rushed from the man in a whoosh. Lyons followed with a stomp kick to the knee that crushed tissue and ripped tendons. The terrorist emitted a howl of anguish as he folded on himself, and Lyons finished his attack with another kick that smashed the man’s head between the sole of Lyons’s boot and the wall of the factory. The terrorist’s body tumbled down the stairs.

Lyons turned and continued up the stairwell, undaunted in his mission to eradicate every last one of the IUA terrorists.

BLANCANALES AND SCHWARZ were pinned down.

The van provided their only saving grace, as venturing from the shelter of the vehicle would have meant the end for the pair of Able Team commandos. Bullets zinged off the pavement or slammed into the roof. There were no windows on the side of the van facing the terrorist assault line inside the second floor of the warehouse, so the specialized Kevlar body of the van easily repelled the firestorm without compromising structural integrity.

“It would seem they’re not going to make this easy on us,” Blancanales announced.

“No, it sure doesn’t,” Schwarz agreed.

“I wish to hell Ironman would have given one of us time to go with him.”

Schwarz decided the moment had come to even the odds, and in way of response to his comrade he grunted as he flipped a switch on the control panel inside the specially equipped van. A small LCD screen set in the sensitive array flickered to life and a picture of several moving shapes materialized a moment later. The heat of the gun barrels firing on them obscured the targets somewhat, but not enough that Schwarz couldn’t implement an effective firing solution.

“Let’s see if we can’t give Ironman some support in another fashion.” Schwarz stabbed a button on the console and the van came alive with a steady, heavy vibration.

Blancanales gripped the arms of the driver’s seat and looked around the van nervously. “What the hell is that?”

Schwarz apparently hadn’t found time to fully brief his companions on every new on-board feature of the van, since they had taken possession of it only a few days ago. The roof-mounted, electronically controlled and fired .50-caliber machine gun happened to be one of those features.

Schwarz jerked a thumb toward the roof. “A top-ten hit by John Moses Browning and the Fifty Calibers.”

“I’ve heard that tune before,” Blancanales said with a grin. “An oldie but a goody.”

“I do try.”

Chips of concrete marked where the .50-caliber shells struck, raising clouds of dust and debris that obscured the van. Blancanales saw the opportunity to bail and cradled the Beretta SCS-70/90 in a ready position. He crossed the open space and managed to get clear of the front as he sprinted along the side of the building and came up on its rear. Once he reached a safe point, Blancanales stopped to catch his breath and put his back firmly to the wall. There were no terrorists shooting at the rear because there were no windows.

But Blancanales found what he’d hoped to find: a door.

The warrior took several more deep breaths of the chill midday air and then rushed to the door. He tried the handle first. Locked. Blancanales stepped back, held the SCS-70/90 tight and low and squeezed the trigger. The 5.56 mm rounds shredded the flimsy metal of the lock and the door popped from the lock and swung outward.

Blancanales smiled as he edged through the gap, thankful fate had gone easy on him so far. He’d never been the superstitious kind but right now was a time he could believe in it. Lyons had once again opted for the direct approach by charging the building in a frontal assault like a madman. Now Blancanales had to traipse after him, cover his six so he didn’t get it shot off by a horde of well-armed terrorists.

Blancanales spotted a stairwell to his right. The body of a terrorist heaped at the bottom of the steps marked Lyons’s trail. Blancanales hopped over the body and took the steps two at a time. The reports of autofire had faded with the onslaught delivered by the electronic heavy battery being poured out by Schwarz. Blancanales figured it was proving enough to keep terrorist heads down, and that would buy him the time he needed to find his friend.

Blancanales should have known it wouldn’t be difficult. As he reached the top of the steps, he glimpsed Lyons hunkered behind a large steel drum for cover as at least a half dozen terrorists were angling for a clear shot. Blancanales took them by surprise when he rested his Beretta across the railing that lined the opening to the stairwell and, using it as a sort of bipod, strafed them with a sustained barrage of NATO rounds.

Lyons glanced at his friend and then with a wicked smile he popped up from the cover of the steel drum and joined in the offensive. The terrorists were unprepared to have the tables turned on them in such a fashion, and it didn’t take much to cut them to ribbons. Blancanales took out four of the six with bursts that struck heads, chests and stomachs. Lyons implemented a more methodical strategy, taking the time to draw close aim on his targets before squeezing off 3-round bursts in precise kill-zones. Their assault lasted only a matter of seconds and when the dust cleared the Able Team pair couldn’t hear anything but ringing in their ears, didn’t smell anything but spent gunpowder.

A squawk resounded in Blancanales’s ear, a signal from the van com. “What’s up, Gadgets?”

Schwarz’s voice came back. “I got company here!”

Blancanales heard the autofire through the earpiece the same moment he and Lyons heard it echo through the cavernous second floor from outside. He tried to inform Lyons but the Able Team leader already seemed aware of it because he was on the move before Blancanales could utter a word. The two men descended the steps with all speed and made for the front door. They emerged from the semidarkness into the blazing sunlight, the effect nearly blinding them, but caught enough of the scene in front of them to understand.

Three terrorists had entered one of their vans and were trying to make a break for it, shooting at Schwarz as they attempted to flee. Before either Lyons or Blancanales could react, the unoccupied van suddenly exploded in a flaming gas ball. Metal shards rained near them and one missed Lyons by mere inches. The Able Team duo raced for their van as one of the terrorists who had taken advantage of the distraction got behind the wheel and fled with a squeal of tires.

Lyons and Blancanales reached the van, Lyons diving into the back and shutting the door behind him as Blancanales got behind the wheel.

“You all right?” Lyons asked, his eyes shooting to the splotch of blood soaked into Schwarz’s shirt.

Schwarz had been gripping his forearm, and when he pulled his hand away it was slick with more blood. “Minor wing.”

“Don’t look minor.” Lyons groused as he broke out the first-aid kit.

Blancanales put the van in motion and whipped it around with enough force to knock Lyons off balance. Lyons muttered curses under his breath but they weren’t really at Blancanales; he knew the stakes were high here. A lot depended on them catching up to those IUA terror-mongers. If the terrorists escaped, it could mean serious consequences for the entire country.

Lyons finished bandaging Schwarz’s arm and then moved to a spot between the front seats while Schwarz turned his attention to the console. The terrorists had put considerable distance between them but Blancanales managed to gain on them. Considering the head start they had, Lyons was impressed that Blancanales had enough foresight to figure their best direction, and he said as much.

“No sweatski,” Blancanales said. “The highway was the most logical choice for escape.”

“Still…” Lyons said, but he didn’t press it. The warrior looked over his shoulder at Schwarz. “You got any electronic doodads that might be able to disable that thing?”

Schwarz shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Lyons reached down and scooped up his M-16 A-3. He detached the M-203 from it as this model could perform in an attached or stand-alone capacity. The warrior reached into the bag and withdrew a 40 mm round. As he slammed it home and closed the breech with a pronounced movement he declared, “This should do the trick.”

Schwarz expressed horror. “That van’s our only remaining lead. You’re going to blow it up?”

Lyons grinned and his eye took on a fearsome glint. “Watch and learn, my friend. Pol, get up beside that thing.”

“Best possible speed. Aye-aye, skipper.”

Blancanales put pedal to metal and shortly they were gaining on the terrorists’ van. The thing the terrorists had forgotten was that most rental vans had governors on them—not that it would have been any competition against the 8-cylinder Hemi engine beneath the hood of Able Team’s van, which was further enhanced by a Cummins turbocharger. When they rolled up parallel, Lyons opened the side door of the van, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of the M-203. The shotgun-style pop of the weapon drowned out the sound of breaking glass.

The driver’s compartment immediately began to fill with smoke, and the van quickly took on an erratic course. Lyons ordered Blancanales to steer to their right rear quarter even with the front bumper of the enemy van so that they could keep the van from swerving into oncoming traffic. The thick white smoke now permeated the van interior, and the driver had no choice but to pull to the side of the road. He went a little too far and ended up rolling down a shallow, grassy embankment. Fortunately, the van came to halt where it wouldn’t pose any danger to bystanders.

As they came to a stop behind the van, Schwarz slapped Lyons on the shoulder. “Well played, Ironman!”

Lyons nodded acknowledgment before he bailed from the van with Blancanales and approached the enemy vehicle with weapons held at the ready. The rear doors opened and Lyons reached up and hauled out a pair of choking, gagging terrorists without giving them the chance to dismount. They hit the ground hard and Lyons held one down with his foot while he pointed the muzzle of his M-16 at the other.

Blancanales shouted for the driver to surrender, but the guy came out with SMG in hand and left Blancanales no choice. The terrorist triggered several rounds skyward as Blancanales tapped him with two rounds to the chest. The terrorist came off his feet and landed flat on his back in a muddy depression.

Blancanales returned to the prisoners and applied plastic riot cuffs on their wrists while Lyons covered him. He then took over watch duty while Lyons searched the van thoroughly.

The Able Team warrior finally emerged from the van several minutes later and Blancanales noted the puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t get it. What do you mean nothing?”

“Just like I said. There are no plans, no papers, nothing… zip, nada. The thing’s totally empty.”

“You didn’t actually think they were going to leave us the kitchen sink, did you?”

“That’s just it,” Lyons said. “If they didn’t have the plans with them, then that means either they already got rid of them or—”

“They blew them up,” Blancanales finished. “You’re right, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Lyons turned his eyes on their prisoner. Like the other IUA combatants they had encountered, Lyons noticed the burning fanaticism in the man’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose we’d have much chance of coercing this guy—” Lyons kicked the bottom of the terrorist’s heel “—into telling us anything.”

Blancanales studied him. “You’re probably right. And we don’t really have time anyway. If they—”

The roar of an engine and echo of autofire cut his words short. The pair looked in the direction of the van and saw Schwarz battling it out with another van full of IUA goons, this one similar to the others. The terrorists didn’t seem very interested in negotiations. About a half dozen IUA gunners, automatic rifles clutched in their fists, erupted from the side of the van as it skidded to a halt on the loose gravel along the side of the road.

“So that’s how they did it,” Blancanales said.

Lyons nodded quickly as he took off in Schwarz’s direction and called over his shoulder, “That’s our missing link!”

The Able Team leader only got about a half dozen strides before he noticed one of the IUA terrorists lift a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and aim it in the direction of Able Team’s new war wagon. Lyons glanced at Schwarz, who also saw the move, and felt a relief as Schwarz made haste to get clear. Lyons went prone and aligned his M-16 on the launcher-toting terrorist, but he was a moment too late. Milliseconds before his volley of 5.56 mm rounds struck flesh, the rocket left the launcher with a deafening roar. The terrorist’s body fell to the pavement at the same moment Able Team’s high-tech van burst into a fireball with enough force to lift it off the ground.

Flames roiled from the van and vapors shimmered in the air, distorting images surrounding it as heat consumed the combustible fuels. Lyons ignored the destruction, stealing a glance to make sure Schwarz made it away before he turned his rifle on the next terrorist. About the same time he heard Blancanales begin to open fire with the Beretta, and Schwarz joined moments later with another M-16.

The three Able Team warriors hammered the five remaining terrorist gunners with a fusillade of high-velocity rounds. The terrorists danced under the onslaught like marionettes controlled by puppeteers. One terrorist caught a number of slugs to the throat, and blood spurted from the gaping neck wounds as his body slammed against the wall. Two more fell under the unerring fire from Schwarz and tumbled down the slight incline.

The van lurched to life, tires squealing, but the trip came to an abrupt end when Lyons shot out both the front and rear tires on the passenger side, causing the driver to lose control. Seeing any attempt to operate the van as futile, the surviving terrorist bailed from the driver’s seat and used the van to cover his escape. Lyons scrambled to his feet and sprinted off in pursuit.

It took Blancanales some time to figure out Lyons’s intent. “Where the hell are you going, Ironman?”

But the blond warrior was already out of earshot.

CHAPTER FIVE

Namibia, Africa

The chopper crash hadn’t seemed to produce any ill effects on the crew that emerged from her smoking fuselage. Oily clouds vented into a sky colored a dark hue by the desert sunset and initially obscured their numbers. David McCarter counted roughly a dozen men. They toted machine pistols and assault rifles, which meant they were probably trained to use them, but McCarter knew it would take more than that to intimidate the battle-hardened veterans of Phoenix Force.

Behind a nearby rock, Manning had set up his M-60 E-4, and he opened up on their enemies as soon as they broke from the chopper. The steady chug of the heavy-caliber weapon played like music to the Briton’s ears as Manning poured on the heat. Manning wasn’t trying to hit anyone as much as keep heads down and attention away from Encizo and Hawkins, who left McCarter’s side as soon as Manning triggered the first salvo.

McCarter watched the two beat feet across the uneven and treacherous floor of this Namibian desert hellhole. At the moment, the Phoenix Force leader wished to be anywhere but here. He concentrated his thoughts and put all his energies into raising the muzzle of his Fabrique Nationale FAL battle rifle and triggering short bursts on sure targets in support of Manning’s efforts. The plan they put together was almost too simple. Encizo and Hawkins would try to gain a flanking position on the enemy and take them out with ordnance from Hawkins’s M-203 when they had a clear field of fire.

McCarter had ordered Calvin James to take one of the vehicles and escort Dr. Justus Matombo in the opposite direction from their position, not to stop until they hit Lüderitz and could notify the Namibian militia. At first, they had thought they were up against the militia, which served as the country’s national guard, but that seemed unlikely now. Matombo swore the military would never have fired on civilian vehicles—and especially not those with government markings—without ample warning. McCarter tended to believe that from his own experiences, even in a country that had experienced as much strife as Namibia. That left terrorists. Whether they were IUA didn’t matter at that point—staying alive was what counted right now.

McCarter made that point loud and clear as two enemy gunmen fell under his marksmanship. Years in the British SAS and training as a pistol champion had made McCarter a sharpshooter with few equals. The first terrorist he hit took a double-tap to the chest that flipped the man onto his back. The second gunman caught a slug that took out his knee and tripped him up so he landed hands and knees on the ground, sparing him the next shot. McCarter didn’t miss a second time and he finished the terrorist with a burst to the left flank.

McCarter paused to assess the results of Manning’s handiwork, who was no more a stranger to small arms than him. The M-60 E-4 sported a swivel bipod that operated smoothly and featured built-in recoil dampeners that prevented slippage even on smooth surfaces. The heavy weapon boomed a ceaseless, ear-busting tune as Manning swept the firing zone with steady side-to-side motions. The 7.62 x 49 mm NATO rounds pummeled the enemy gunners who were angling for any cover they could find, without much avail. Phoenix Force had claimed the only real protection among these rocks, and the area around the road where the chopper had put down was sparse, affording their adversaries little protection from Manning’s onslaught.

McCarter watched another moment and then took up position and continued firing.

T. J. HAWKINS and Rafael Encizo didn’t waste any time picking their way across the uneven terrain to gain a flanking position.

Not that their enemies weren’t mindful of that fact, as several of them charged the Phoenix Force pair while they were still on the move. Whether an accidental rendezvous or simply dumb luck on the part of the terrorists, Encizo didn’t wait to ponder the point. The Cuban raised his Heckler & Koch MP-5 subgun and triggered a 3-round burst that struck the first man in the upper chest and sent him reeling as the weapon he’d been toting flew from lifeless fingers.

The second terrorist didn’t fare any better as Hawkins fired his M-16 A-3 from the hip. A pair of 5.56 mm zingers punched through the target’s face and blew out most of the back of his skull. The gunner’s body stiffened a moment, the arms and legs making herky-jerky movements, and then he toppled to ground and left a cloud of dust in his wake.

The last of the trio realized the odds were no longer in his favor and smartly decided to find cover. Unfortunately for him, the thought came a moment too late. Encizo caught the man with a well-aimed trio of shots to the midsection. The bullets perforated the stomach and one lung. A crimson geyser erupted from the terrorist’s mouth. He stopped in his tracks a moment, dropped his weapon and then slowly collapsed in a heap.

Encizo shook his head. “That was close.”

“As a razor,” Hawkins added with a nod.

The pair continued toward their destination and in less than a minute they had come around on the enemy’s right flank. Hawkins went prone behind the base of a large tree while Encizo took up a firing position between two branches that would allow him to cover his friend from most any angle. As some of the chopper smoke cleared, Hawkins could see the terrorists were completely preoccupied with McCarter and Manning, and he and Encizo had reached their position undetected. Time to act before their luck changed for the worse.

Hawkins flipped up the leaf sight on the M-203 and quickly figured his range. They couldn’t have been more than half a football field from where the terrorists were cloistered together behind a couple of small boulders about ten yards apart. Hawkins sighted down the rails at his target and squeezed the trigger. The 40 mm HE grenade arced silently across the sky and landed dead-on. The explosion blew apart several of the closest men and disoriented the remaining terrorists.

Hawkins immediately loaded a second grenade, this one a red smoker, and let fly just forward of their position. As soon as it went, he and Encizo were up and moving. Hawkins loaded a third grenade on the run as Encizo sprayed the area ahead with repeated bursts from the MP-5. A couple of the terrorists tried to use the smoke to retreat from McCarter and Manning, completely oblivious to the fact they were trapped between the Phoenix Force warriors. In whatever direction they ventured, Phoenix Force had them covered and they wasted no time taking advantage of that fact.

Encizo dropped two terrorists with the subgun he triggered from the hip, holding low and steady on the run. The Cuban had honed his skills on hell-grounds around the globe, and the first terrorist fell with blood spurting from his side where twin 9 mm rounds had punctured his heart. Encizo’s shots caught the second man through the breastbone with enough force to flip him off his feet. Hawkins and Encizo were careful to keep some distance from the wall of red smoke because they could still hear the steady chop-chop-chop of Manning’s M-60.

It wouldn’t do to get caught up in the Canadian’s fire zone.

Not that it made any difference because a few more seconds elapsed before the machine gun fell silent and the echoes of small-arms fire utterly died away.

The Phoenix warriors converged and met at the center of the battle zone, which for all intents and purposes had become little more than a graveyard. Broken and bleeding bodies were strewed across the rocky desert floor. The odors of spilled blood and spent cordite, the smells of war, pelted their nostrils like the little bits of sand and gravel from a sudden swirl of dust devils around their fatigues.

“Well,” McCarter said, waving at a cluster of gnats buzzing around his nose as he inspected the devastation. “I’d say that’s the bloody lot of them.”

Encizo looked at the carnage and then toward the sky, which had completely reddened. “We’ve got maybe another twenty minutes of daylight before it’s totally dark. What time is it?”

Hawkins glanced at his field watch. “It’s going on 2100 hours.”

“We should do a quick recon on that chopper,” Manning suggested.

“You think it’s safe?” Hawkins said.

McCarter shrugged. “Guess we won’t find that out until we take a look-see.”

The warriors agreed on their approach and moved toward the chopper in a sweep-and-cover maneuver they had practiced hundreds of times before. Much of the smoke had dissipated and they could see the crumpled shape of the chopper clearly as they approached. When they were close enough, Hawkins could make out the emblem of the Namibian flag on the side, a red stripe running diagonally from the left bottom corner, bordered by white with a green triangle in the lower right and blue triangle in the upper left. Within the blue field was the image of a sun.

Encizo checked a pulse at the neck of the pilot, who sat motionless in the cockpit, and then shook his head at McCarter.

Manning made a quick inspection of the chopper, and after a time said, “Sikorsky CH-53G. I remember these babies when I trained with the GSG-9. Probably surplus purchased from the German Bundeswehr after the Cold War ended.”

“That pilot,” McCarter said to Encizo. “What nationality?”

“Hard to tell for sure but he looks Middle Eastern.”

McCarter nodded. “Yeah, they’re bloody IUA, all right. Only question is, how did they get hold of military equipment?”

“Maybe they stole it,” Hawkins offered.

“Would’ve been some kind of report on that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe there was,” Manning said. “Maybe we just didn’t know about it.”