Extinction Crisis

“If we get a shot, we’ll be taking fire, too, and this car’s already more collander than transportation,” Farkas countered.

Encizo glanced back up the road. “Then drive back to where we jousted with the Brotherhood. One of them dropped their rifle.”

Farkas looked doubtful for the space of a heartbeat, but threw the Peugeot into gear and spun to where Encizo had pointed. Clouds of road dust and loose sand kicked up as the wagon fought for traction, providing the Egyptian-Israeli-Phoenix Force alliance with a smoke screen.

The Cuban commando opened the door and hung his hand down to almost road level to scoop up the Kalashnikov, but Farkas drove too quickly for Encizo to snag the AK on the first pass. The Brotherhood radical in the van took that moment to step out onto the street and open fire. The Peugeot’s back tires exploded as rifle slugs smashed into them. Farkas found himself battling against a wild spinout that hurled Encizo into the road through the open car door.

“Rafe!” James’s voice cut through Encizo’s awareness. The stocky Cuban tucked his chin down to his chest and hit the dirt on his shoulders, rather than his neck or head, sparing him a spine-crushing impact. The powerful muscles of his well-toned swimmer’s body cushioned his landing as he rolled in a somersault that bled off the momentum of his launch. Though he was not nearly as powerful as his Phoenix Force partner Gary Manning or the leader of Able Team, Carl Lyons, he was still possessed of a phenomenal musculature that shielded his body from crippling injury, and the added agility of his smaller size enabled him to recover from the rough landing. He saw that he was close to the fallen Kalashnikov carbine. Encizo’s powerful legs kicked hard and threw him the ten feet to the equalizing weapon he’d sought. A deft scoop and Encizo swung the AK onto the Egyptian Brotherhood gunman. Kalashnikov steel-cored slugs tore into the violent radical, ripping him from crotch to throat, and the horrendous gash of autofire spilled out ropey intestines that looped down around his thighs. The gunman staggered for a moment, looking down at entrails pouring out of his torn-open torso. It took a few moments, but finally his strength gave out and he collapsed in a puddle of guts and gore.

James, Kristopoulos and Farkas scrambled to Encizo’s side, finally armed with their rifles, recovered from the station wagon’s hidden compartment.

“You all right, Rafe?” James asked.

“I’ll be good, Farrow,” Encizo answered, accepting the SIG 551 carbine from his partner. He didn’t have to check to see that a magazine was in place and a round chambered. Phoenix Force operatives rarely went anywhere without a weapon ready for instant action. A sanitized rifle was as useful as a blunt-edged sword.

“Their driver isn’t moving,” Farkas reported. “We made a clean sweep of the scumbags, but that leaves us with nothing in terms of intelligence.”

“There’s always the crates inside the can,” Kristopoulos said. “If you’re willing to deal with a self-destruct mechanism that’s killed at least two members of this robot conspiracy.”

James sighed. “Stay here. I’ll check the van out.”

“Alone?” Kristopoulos asked.

“Alone,” James emphasized. He glanced over to Encizo. “Rey took a nasty tumble, and I seriously do not want to piss off the Israeli or Egyptian governments by losing either of you two to a booby trap. That just leaves me.”

Encizo patted his SIG carbine. “We’ll provide cover fire for you if the robots wake up, or if our eyes in the sky takes more than a passive role in this bit.”

James smirked. “Well, I was hoping you’d say that. I’m risking my life, not throwing it away.”

“I’ve got your back,” the Cuban said.

Farkas gave his rifle a pat in silent agreement with the Phoenix Force veteran.

James looked at Kristopoulos, who fumed but eventually nodded her assent that his plan held merit.

James kept his SIG 551 carbine at low ready, and made the approach to the wrecked enemy van. The driver looked as if he was out of the fight, but he could have been playing possum in the wake of his comrades’ deaths. There was also Lyons’s warning of the lethal antipersonnel capabilities of the infiltrator robots. At least one American was dead because of the weaponry bristling within the deadly little automaton’s form. James glanced skyward and saw a dim flicker of movement in the night overhead.

The Unmanned Aerial Vehicle stalking in the dark, starless velvet of night cover was another risk that James added to the dangers on this quiet Egyptian road. The unmanned drone in the sky was visible, but only barely. James knew from experience that the converse was vastly different, thanks to built-in infrared and light-amplification optics that transmitted even in the darkest pitch of night. James had seen UAV camera footage and he knew that to the machine’s operator, he was a glowing, bright target, easily followed and destroyed, especially if the drone was armed. The warriors of Stony Man had gone against too many UAVs with weapons ranging from machine guns and antitank missiles to payloads of nerve gas and even nuclear warheads. The drone, nearly invisible and totally silent, maintained its ghostly watch on James and his companions, not drawing closer to the grounded prey.

A clatter resounded from the cargo compartment of the van, and James snapped his rifle to his shoulder, his eyes and muzzle covering the same space. He checked the driver’s seat first, but the Brotherhood wheelman was only just stirring, dazed and confused. He was in no position to do anything that would have precipitated the metallic sound James had heard. James crab-walked sideways to get a better angle on the open rear doors. He paused and stepped back to avoid tripping over the gory mass of twisted flesh and bone that used to be a hostile enemy rifleman. The man who had caused them so much trouble was nothing more than a messy puddle now. As James moved past the corpse, something slithered out of the back of the van.

James searched for the source of the burst of movement, but the robot had disappeared beneath the undercarriage of the van. He checked his hands-free radio to reach the others left behind, but had to endure the screech of static that blasted out of his earphone. The former SEAL was alone against a hostile mechanism with the power to kill, thanks to the enemy’s ability to jam electronic signals.

A gunshot rang out and James felt the impact of a 9 mm slug against his upper chest. He collapsed to the dirt, but rolled to avoid further fire from the hostile robot. He was glad that he wore his Kevlar body armor under his shirt, despite the oppressive Egyptian heat. The armored material had stopped a bullet meant for his heart, fired with deadly accuracy by the stealthy infiltration automaton. James triggered his SIG from where he had landed on his back, 5.56 mm rounds kicking up dirt where the muzzle-flash had originated.

James was rewarded for his efforts by a bullet glancing off of his carbine. The impact rammed the receiver into his cheek, dazing him for a moment, but Encizo, Farkas and Kristopoulos opened up to give the stunned Stony Man medic a chance to recover his senses. The only problem was that a robot operating via remote control was not intimidated by incoming rifle fire. It had no need to flinch, even if it was operated by someone on the other side of its camera feed. The undercarriage lit up as the automaton turned its attention to the trio of human operatives who dared to attack it.

James dumped the magazine on his SIG, working the action by hand. There seemed to be no interference, but considering that this was a life-or-death battle, the Phoenix pro wasn’t about to take any half measures with his survival. He fed in a new load, chambered a round effortlessly and cut loose on the gap beneath the van. Sparks flew as 5.56 mm rounds impacted on the segmented robot. The curved steel compartments of the machine’s body readily deflected the 5.56 mm rounds that struck it.

James saw a flare light and he knew that a ricochet had punctured the gas tank. Dripping gas was ignited, and the robot was now lost in a roaring cauldron of fire. If this had been a movie, the van would have rocketed skyward on a column of blossoming fire, but that usually occurred with the assistance of several pounds of plastic explosives and hydraulic rams. The reality was that there weren’t enough fumes inside the van’s gas tank to cause an explosive situation as the liquid fuel poured and kept the enflamed gasoline from detonating. As the gas burned in open air, it had room to expand without increased pressure.

James had hoped that the blazing heat would have hindered the enemy robot, but another gunshot hammered into the dirt close to him. The rebounding slug clipped him across the collarbone, only striking the Kevlar vest’s shoulder strap. It was a stunning blow regardless, and his rifle dropped into the dirt. He rolled away from the fallen weapon, another round only missing by inches, plucking the cloth of his pant leg.

Cut off from communications with his partner and under fire from an enemy robot obscured by a wreath of flame, James rolled, scurrying out of the path of the hostile mounted weapon. Somewhere in the crackling blaze beneath the van, the robot swiveled and turned to keep its aim directed at the prone Phoenix Force fighter.

It wasn’t much better than the rifle at this range, but the former Navy SEAL pulled his Glock and cut loose with it. The wide-mouthed hollowpoints, however, would have a better chance to snag on the smooth, curved skin of the enemy mechanism and cut into its electronic guts. James grimaced as he realized that he was no better than shooting blind into the harsh glow of the burning gasoline, but he emptied a half-dozen shots, cranking the trigger as fast as it reset against his finger.

A burning figure scurried out from under the van. James swung his point of aim to pursue the fiery mechanism when a second round of gunfire burst out of the van. Two robots were applying pressure on the Phoenix commando now, and this one had been shielded from the flames by the interior of the van. He pushed himself to his feet and charged out of view of the back of the vehicle. Bullets kicked up sand at his heels as the second infiltration mechanism cranked off rounds at him. Encizo, in the distance, opened up with his SIG carbine, 5.56 mm rounds able to pass through the skin of the van as if it was made of paper. James skidded to a halt to avoid crossing his partner’s line of fire. The full magazine tore a precision burst through the vehicle, and a limping, floppy mechanism crashed out of the rear doors into the dirt.

James swung his Glock toward it when a bullet hit him just above the solar plexus. Fortunately, the Kevlar prevented a catastrophic injury again, but the impact knocked the wind out of James’s lungs. Farkas and Kristopoulos turned their rifles against the muzzle-flash, which originated from a flaming copse of grass where the first robot had escaped. The two robots swung and cut loose with their weapons. Kristopoulos jerked as she took a round in the thigh, outside of the protection of her body armor. The bullet only struck muscle, not bone or artery, and she somehow managed to find the strength to continue to stand and fire. Farkas slipped his arm around her waist and triggered his AK from the hip. James whirled back to the machine that Encizo had damaged. It writhed in an effort to target the closer Phoenix Force commando. Together James and Encizo concentrated their fire on the machine as its operator struggled to choose between the two Phoenix targets.

A storm of 9 mm and 5.56 mm slugs tore into the silvery form and chewed it into confetti, knocking segments apart. James had reloaded his 17-round magazine twice in rapid succession and Encizo had fed a new magazine into his carbine.

“The other one’s still moving!” Encizo relayed across from the pair of Farkas and Kristopoulos. “How much punishment can these things take?”

“Not that much when you can concentrate fire on them,” James said. “But it’s not like shooting an animal or a human. These things probably have redundant motors and electronic systems that make them harder to incapacitate. Throw in their metal covering and the fact that they don’t have the breath—”

“Enough lecture! Get your rifle!” Encizo snapped. He reloaded his spent SIG’s magazine and ripped off a full automatic fusillade against the burning shrubbery. James scooped up his weapon and added his firepower to the final knockout. Four people with automatic weapons had expended almost 500 rounds in unison against a pair of these mechanisms, and had unhindered fields of fire against them.

James knew that any attempt to hunt these down in the confines of a nuclear facility would be a nightmarish struggle, even if they could manage to spot such robots in ventilation ducts and access pipes. The Chicago Phoenix Force warrior continued to pound out the contents of a second magazine into the writhing mass of machinery until it stopped twitching. He held his distance, not wanting to be caught in a self-destruct mechanism blast radius, but since the robot had been torn to shredded metal, he wondered if any detonator would have been still in operation after such a hammering.

“Farkas, are you and Atalanta all right?” James called.

“We’ll be fine,” the Egyptian said. “I’m applying first aid to her leg. She only took it in the meat, nothing structural or circulatory harmed.”

James nodded. “Let me handle that. We need a bomb team here, just to be certain.”

Encizo walked closer to the robot that he and James had poured nearly a hundred bullets into. “How many times did we have to hit the other one, after you’d lit it on fire?”

James looked up from Kristopoulos, medical kit in one hand. He looked at the Greek Israeli woman. “How many magazines from you?”

“Only one from my rifle before that bastard smacked me in the leg,” Kristopoulos growled. “Then I transitioned to my SIG-Sauer.”

“Farkas?” James asked.

“Two magazines from my AK. Then what you two threw at it,” the Egyptian said.

Encizo held up his hand to cut off James’s estimation. None was needed. “We’re looking at devices that possess a remarkable amount of durability. If it takes at least ninety rounds of 5.56 mm, not counting the stuff that managed to hit with Farkas firing his AK from the hip, these things require the same kind of firepower that’s reserved for anti-aircraft or anti-matériel purposes.”

James frowned. “Then again, Carl did disable some of its mechanism with a .357 SIG round.”

“He disabled the Taser,” Encizo countered. “One component in an arsenal. And that was a high-pressure, near-Magnum round at a range of less than five feet.”

“So we utilize more appropriate weaponry,” James said.

“Like what?” Farkas asked.

“Shotgun saboted slugs?” Kristopoulos suggested.

“You read my mind,” James returned. “Then I’ve also seen bomb disposal robots which utilized a .44 Magnum Redhawk.”

“That’s old school,” Kristopoulos said. “How old are you again?”

James looked at the Greek woman, then smiled. “I’d tell you, but it’d depress me.”

“Give me some credit, Mr. Farrow,” Kristopoulos replied.

Farkas was on the phone to his allies in Unit 777. Encizo scanned the air overhead, frowning.

“Is the UAV still up there?” James asked.

“It’s moved on,” Encizo replied. “Just the same, I wouldn’t go close to the robots until the bomb squad has dealt with them.”

“At least it wasn’t armed,” James returned.

“No, but now whoever is in control of these machines knows what we look like,” Encizo said.

James frowned. “General appearance.”

“So how many tall African-Americans and stocky Hispanics have you seen running around with weaponry in Egypt?” Encizo asked.

James sighed. “I’ll get back on the horn to Barb to see if we can get some sanitization of our identities.”

“Paranoid much?” Kristopoulos asked.

“Says the woman using a code name plucked from mythology,” James said. “I thought Mossad and Unit 777 trusted each other and didn’t have to hide behind fake identities.”

Kristopoulos wrinkled her nose. “Point taken.”

“A demolitions team will be by to deal with the carcasses,” Farkas announced. “And an ambulance if our Israeli visitor is inclined to go to the doctor.”

“It was far from my heart,” Kristopoulos answered. “I’ll deal with the pain.”

“Stubborn as one of us,” Farkas sighed.

“Help me up, Farrow,” Kristopoulos said. “I don’t want to look hurt in front of our hosts.”

James nodded and assisted her to her feet.

Encizo continued to watch the night skies, as if he could penetrate the gloom and his sense of dread to find the mysterious foes who had caused so much mayhem on this quiet Egyptian street.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Paris bakery was run by a friend of one of David McCarter’s friends. A network of people around the globe could give the Briton access to weaponry when he needed it. Sure, there was a long streak where Phoenix Force had military flights or passes through customs with huge suitcases of rifles and grenade launchers, but the truth was, such free rides weren’t always reliable. More than once across the long and storied career of the team, they’d had to rely on utensils found on-site.

Daniel Mittner was one such supplier of wares in McCarter’s network of European contacts. In Europe, it was becoming more difficult to find reliable, decent arms dealers with access to the kind of gear Phoenix Force required in the field due simply to harsher regulations. Not that the less scrupulous dealers had such qualms, but when it came to gun runners that McCarter could trust with quality equipment and privacy, Mittner was a rare deal for the team.

Mittner glanced up from his counter in the nearly empty bakery, his bleary eyes recognizing McCarter instantly. “Oy. Three unsavory chaps like you blowing through my door? It’s a bloody good wager someone would think you’d come looking for guns. Lord knows you’d draw a touch of interest from John Law.”

McCarter looked around the bakery and saw a lone man, disheveled with a jaw covered in stubble, take a sip of coffee. The reaction on his face told the Briton that whatever he had just drank ranked with Aaron Kurtzman’s worst pots of brew. The coffee drinker was a local Frenchman, and from his state, McCarter could tell that he was an armed, undercover police officer. McCarter glared at Mittner, making his look as dirty as he possibly could.

The Frenchman took a bite of a scone that crunched as if it were made of plaster.

“What? Just because we came in here with a dumb American Southerner…” McCarter began.

Manning tapped McCarter on the arm. “You’re being redundant.”

Hawkins nodded. “And wrong. I might have been born in the dirty South, but I was raised in Texas. There’s the South, and then there’s Texas. Never the twain shall meet, got it, hoss?”

McCarter rolled his eyes at the interruptions. “Sorry. Just because we have a redneck idiot—”

“Redundancy,” Manning interrupted again.

McCarter gave Manning a scowl. He looked at Hawkins, who merely nodded in approval over the latest appelation the Briton had given him. Presumably after the faux pas with stereotyping the French, he was accepting pennance for his Texas cliché.

“Just because we have a Texan with us does not mean we’re gun-obsessed morons with no sense of awe and wonder,” McCarter finished. “Can’t a bloke walk into a bakery for biscuits and tea?”

Mittner nodded at the lone patron, who nodded in return as he stood. “If you will excuse me, I must retire to the men’s room. This coffee runs through a man as if it were a flood tide.”

“You know where to go, Bertrand,” Mittner stated.

Bertrand nodded to the counter man and walked down a hallway.

“We don’t have much time,” Mittner said. “He’s paid well to ignore certain things, and he doesn’t agree with the current administration of intelligence services in this country.”

“So he knows, but he can’t say what we’re doing here if he’s in the loo for the bulk of our conversation,” McCarter concluded.

“Makes things a little simpler,” Hawkins said, standing in the hallway leading to the washroom. “You know him, David?”

“No real names, Texan,” McCarter cut him off.

Mittner nodded in agreement. “He knows the type. A no-bullshit officer. You’ll want locker FP5.”

Mittner slid a key onto the counter that McCarter took, exchanging it for euro notes with numbers written into the margins. Mittner looked them over. “You’ll inform me of the replacement code when you’re satisfied?”

“I’ll be satisfied with combat Tupperware?” McCarter challenged.

“I told you, finding a Hi-Power in France at this time is like trying to find a public official who takes a shower,” Mittner returned.

Hawkins stifled a snort of laughter at Mittner’s comment.

“Which package did you provide?” McCarter asked.

“Your first option,” Mittner told the Phoenix Force commander.

“Well, can’t be too bad, then,” Manning said. “If it’s your first choice—”

“It’s not locked and cocked and made of steel, but it’ll do,” McCarter cut him off. “Thanks, Mittner.”

“Whatever you do, don’t get caught. It’s all well and good being an outlaw to do the right thing, but the French government doesn’t have much patience for outlaws,” Mittner warned.

“I promise not to kick their asses too badly,” McCarter replied.

Mittner handed the trio a small plate of almond croissants and three lattes. “On the house.”

“Thanks,” McCarter replied.

Hawkins took a bite of his pastry reluctantly, after remembering the condemnation Bertrand had given to Mittner’s cooking. He was surprised at the flavor and freshness of the croissant. “Where does Bertrand get off insulting his cooking?”

“Bertrand is on a budget, and he can’t justify spending money on Mittner’s good cooking, so he’s forced to eat the day-old baked goods,” Manning said. “Besides, if Mittner were to start making good stuff for the French agent hanging out at his shop, watching for arms deals, his supervisors would think that there was some form of collusion between them.”

McCarter took a sip of his latte. “Which there is, but the appearance of propriety makes up for a lot in terms of French collaboration.”

“Collaboration sounds pretty negative,” Hawkins noted.

“Not in this case,” McCarter said. “Mittner informed us directly that Bertrand was on our side. If we do happen to get nicked by the gendarmerie, we can call on him for a voucher. Though, if that does happen, we’re shit out of luck.”

“In other words, since we’re cheating, we better not get caught,” Hawkins mused.

“Precisely,” McCarter said. “We scored pretty well. I had Mittner pull a set of Steyr AUG A-3 rifles with Aimpoint scopes and a selection of alternate barrels. For side arms, we have SIG-Sauer SP-2022 pistols.”

“Ah. Plastic pistols with hammers.” Hawkins spoke up. “Why not a Heckler & Koch USP?”

“The French don’t like German guns,” McCarter said.

“But SIG-Sauer is…” Hawkins began.

“Once more, the image of propriety,” McCarter returned. “Plus, the SP-2022 is the new side arm of choice of French law enforcement. We can score ammunition and magazines easily if we have to.”

“Point taken,” Hawins affirmed.

“Now, we’ve got leads to check out,” McCarter continued.

“You’ve been getting updates from Barb?” Hawkins asked.

McCarter tapped his phone. “Of course. Plus, Gary used to do business with some chaps in France’s nuclear power security back when he owned his own company. We’ll tap them, as well.”

Hawkins looked at Manning. “Man, I wish they’d picked someone with more real world contacts than a silk jumper and ground pounder like me.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Manning replied. “Stick with us, and you’ll get a real education.”

Phoenix Force hit the streets to pick up their weapons.

A ARON K URTZMAN PINCHED THE flesh between his eyebrows, tired of looking into the depths of the Department of Energy database for signs of electronic penetration by hackers. Lyons had been adamant that there was the possibility that the infiltrator robot had also been capable of introducing either a tap on the DoE’s files or planted some form of logic bomb that would cause problems with the emergency protocols intended to prevent a hacker from endangering a nuclear power plant by remote control.