Close Quarters

As leader of Phoenix Force, McCarter didn’t like unknowns and he certainly wasn’t big on winging it when it came to missions where vast numbers of angry, armed men were involved. Nevertheless, Phoenix Force was only alerted when the situation was serious, and the absence of hard intel was never reason enough to prevent their deployment.

“You’ll be going in with your eyes wide shut,” Hal Brognola, head of Stony Man Farm, had told them during their briefing nearly fourteen hours earlier.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” McCarter had replied.

* * *

“THE INFORMATION IS sketchy because it’s all we have,” Price said. “Three days ago the American embassy in Asunción, Paraguay, received a request for sanctuary by a volunteer with the U.S. Peace Corps. The man’s name was Christopher Harland. Harland told a story so absurd that at first the secretary to the U.S. Ambassador didn’t believe him. Apparently they had an NSA analyst with the Signal Intelligence Group on staff.”

“They turned him over to the analyst, who immediately realized there may be a bigger problem brewing in Paraguay,” Brognola added.

“A crazy story by this one man has the White House jumping?” asked Gary Manning, disbelief evident in his tone.

“Not just one man,” Brognola told the Canadian demolitions expert.

“There are sixteen other U.S. Peace Corps members who have gone missing,” Price confirmed, “and the atrocities Harland claims to have witnessed against them were confirmed by an investigative team sent to their camp. Or what was left of it.”

“What do mean, what was left of it?” T. J. Hawkins asked.

A native of Texas and the youngest, newest member of the team, Hawkins had served with Delta Force before joining Stony Man. Hawkins may have been a bit unconventional at times and was still an occasional hothead, but he was a good fit with the highly disciplined Phoenix Force operatives. He’d become an integral part of the tight-knit field unit and all of his companions were glad to have him along when the going got tough, which was most of the time in Phoenix Force missions.

“They burned the thing to the ground after plundering everything they could get their hands on that might have had value,” Price replied.

“Word has it they even stole the silverware from the camp mess hall,” Brognola added.

Rafael Encizo, former Cuban refugee and unarmed-combat expert, said, “Mess hall? I thought most Peace Corps volunteers stayed in the homes of native families, not only for safety but translation purposes.”

“This particular mission was somewhat special according to Christopher Harland,” Price said. “A fact we confirmed with their main offices after the initial reports came in from the U.S. Embassy via the State Department.”

“What about the NSA’s investigation?” Calvin James asked. “Did that reveal anything useful?”

Calvin James was a former Navy corpsman and SEAL, who served as the team’s chief medic—and a chief badass, as well.

“It didn’t reveal any identity but we’re guessing they aren’t local dissidents,” Price replied.

“Did you say guessing?” McCarter said. “You, luv?”

“I know,” replied a booming voice from the door of the War Room. “Isn’t it a shocker?”

Though the man who came through the doorway was in a wheelchair, nobody would mistake that for weakness. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman didn’t just fill the role of technical wizard for Stony Man; his intelligence and prowess had literally saved the lives of every team member more times than anybody could count. Kurtzman had a way of pulling off technical feats like a magician pulled a live rabbit out of a hat, and that had paid off many times over.

“You can blame me for our lack of information,” Kurtzman replied. He looked at Price and added, “Sorry I’m late.”

Price nodded. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Nothing definite but some patterns emerged from a software algorithm Akira and I wrote to scan travel documents into and out of South America, particularly around Paraguay. It seems there’s been an increasing number of Muslim visitors. Now supposedly they came in and later left, but there were some inconsistencies we didn’t really like so we’re digging deeper into those patterns. They’re complex, however, so it’s going to take time. For now we can conclude that this paramilitary force, if nothing else, is not comprised of native South Americans.”

“You’re suggesting Muslim terrorists?” Manning asked.

As a former member of the Canadian RCMP and recipient of training with GSG 9—the federal anti-terrorist police unit in Germany—Manning boasted expertise on the many terrorist groups in the world. He also had a clear grasp of their various methods of operation, something that resulted in an almost bloodhound instinct for global terrorist activity.

“We think it’s possible,” Price said.

“And the President agrees with our assessment, which is why we’re sending you down to Paraguay immediately,” Brognola said. “We don’t have much, I know, but we think it’s enough that we want to get in front of this thing. I’d hate to be caught with our pants down because we weren’t being as proactive as we could have been.”

“It surprises me the Man wants to send us this soon,” McCarter said. “But I agree. I’d rather be prepared than wait for further incidents to prove your theory.”

“Do we have any idea which terrorist group might be operating there?” Encizo asked.

“If I had to venture a guess, I’d say either Hezbollah or New Islamic Front,” Manning said.

“Which in any case spells al Qaeda,” Hawkins remarked.

James sighed. “Doesn’t it always seem to spell al Qaeda?”

“Not always,” Hawkins said with a shrug. “Occasionally we get some terrorists who like to be original. Remember the IUA?”

Indeed they did. The Intiqam ut Allah, or Revenge of Allah, had stolen the plans to a new U.S. fast-attack nuclear submarine and built duplicates right under the noses of Americans. The battle to stop them had stretched from South Carolina to Africa and nearly cost the lives of every member on the team.

“Whoever they are, they’re obviously dangerous and whether an Islamic terrorist force or simply a band of Islamic fanatics getting support from other organized groups, they have to be stopped,” Brognola said.

“Your mission is to pick up where the NSA investigation left off,” Price told them. “Your contact in Asunción will be Brad Russell, the SIGINT analyst who conducted the initial inquiry. He’s been instructed to give you his full cooperation and not to ask questions.”

“Hopefully not just another run-of-the-mill spook ruined by political bureaucracy,” McCarter said.

“I’ve spoken with my contacts at the NSA and they tell me he’s top shelf.” Price smiled. “Just be your usually charming and cordial self. Russell’s a hard-line patriot who’ll give you the shirt off his back. He’s also a one-man geekfest so you’ll have every technical advantage at your disposal.” She glanced at Kurtzman with a wink and said, “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Back at you, girlfriend,” Kurtzman said, the reply very uncharacteristic when matched against the masculine bass in his voice.

* * *

MCCARTER SMILED IN RECOLLECTION at Kurtzman’s droll retort before the sudden waver as the engines revved in preparation for landing at a small airfield near Asunción.

“Prepare for landing, boys,” Grimaldi’s voice called over the cabin intercom. “Tray tables up, seat backs in their locked and upright positions…blah, blah, blah.”

This brought a chuckle or two from the roused Phoenix Force members.

They could’ve landed at one of the major airports, but McCarter had opted to go in using more covert means. Any public display would have attracted unwanted attention. Grimaldi had filed a flight plan with the Paraguayan government with a request from the U.S. Embassy to not pay much attention to the flight, a request that they’d chosen to honor in light of the recent events. The last thing they needed was for seventeen missing Peace Corps volunteers, possibly seized by a terrorist group, to leak. The press would eat it up—the situation would turn overnight from a private nightmare into a very public one.

That was the reason they’d decided to keep Harland under the spotlight, as well.

The Gulfstream C-38 had just rolled to a stop when the onboard phone next to McCarter’s seat signaled for attention. The engines whined down even as he picked it up. “Yeah.”

“David,” Price’s voice replied. “We just got notification from Able Team. Somebody tried to kill Harland.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” McCarter said. “I take it Ironman and friends pulled his bacon out of the fire?”

“Barely, but yes. We also just got word from the Man and his morning CIA briefing. Somebody has apparently come forward and identified our mysterious paramilitary group. Looks like Bear’s theory panned out.”

“Who’re we dealing with?” McCarter asked.

“It’s a training contingent of Hezbollah under the leadership of an elite paramilitary unit inside of Iran…the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter mumbled. “Why would the IRGC have any interest training terrorists in South America?”

“For one thing, they’ve had economic and soft power in the region for quite some time. Due to Paraguay’s large production of soybeans, these food exports are vitally important to Iran’s stability more than ever after the embargos, injunctions and other economic sanctions the UN’s leveled against them.”

“Yeah, Ahmadinejad’s not known for his working and playing well with others.”

“That’s only half the news,” Price said. “The other half is that this individual who approached some agents in Tehran indicated the Muslim cleric group of power in Iran, known commonly as Pasdaran, plans to make their move against Ahmadinejad soon. We’re talking a religious coup inside the country of incomprehensible proportions.”

“Do I smell a change in plans?”

“Not for you. Your mission is the same as before but we wanted you to have a better idea of what you’re up against. We’ll be taking care of the rest of this through Able Team.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”

“We’re sending them to Tehran to handle the matter personally,” Price replied.

“Wait. Let me make sure I just heard you correctly. You’re sending Able Team into Iran?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” McCarter said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Well, the decision’s already been made by the President, and Hal’s in complete agreement with it. I had my own reservations but it didn’t seem like the issue was up for debate so I’m going along with it. For now anyway.”

“Have you told them yet?”

“No, we’re still trying to sort out the details regarding Harland and who to hand him off to. This just isn’t a contingency we saw coming until now.”

“All right, then, thanks for keeping me in the loop. And, Barb?”

“Yes, David.”

“Tell Ironman I told him to bring his ass home in one piece. I don’t want to hear about anything like what happened a few years ago aboard the USS Stennis.”

“Will do.”

“Out here.”

McCarter broke the connection and then assembled his gear with the other members of Phoenix Force. Once they were settled in whatever temporary quarters had been arranged, he’d brief the team while they cleaned and double-checked their equipment. This news wouldn’t sit well with his teammates, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Phoenix Force had its mission and now Able Team had theirs. The stakes had gone way up and they couldn’t police everything at once, although they may have liked to.

A fresh-faced man met them outside the Gulfstream C-38. He had dark hair and skin, which would have made him fit in well among the local population save for the blue-gray eyes, which implied a European background. He wore tan slacks, loafers and a midnight-blue silk shirt with a crop collar. The figure looked almost athletic and although he might have been hired by the NSA due to his brains, McCarter could easily identify between men who couldn’t handle themselves versus those who could, and clearly Brad Russell fell into the latter category.

Russell offered McCarter a strong handshake and broad smile. “Mr. Brown, I presume?”

“You presume right.”

“I’m Brad Russell.”

McCarter grinned. “I know that, chap.”

“And I’m sure you know that I know your name isn’t really Brown, but I wasn’t supposed to ask questions, so Brown it is.”

“Touché.”

Russell acknowledged in turn the other Phoenix Force warriors ranged around McCarter’s flanks. “And these are Misters Gray, Gold, Green and White,” he said, referring to Manning, Encizo, Hawkins and James.

“Though not necessarily in that order,” Hawkins said with a laugh.

Russell returned the jest with a good-natured chuckle of his own before saying, “If you’ll come this way, gents, your chariot awaits.”

They hauled their tired butts across the tarmac as a muggy morning wind tugged at their exposed skin and flattened their hair. McCarter hoped they’d get the opportunity to clean up, although no guarantees had been made. Russell led them to what looked like an old airport shuttle converted into a private-use vehicle. The vehicle was beat up and unobtrusive—a good thing since it was similar to most of the vehicles in Paraguay. But thankfully it had air-conditioning and provided a surprisingly decent ride.

As they got under way, the vehicle driven by a man Russell assured them spoke about half a dozen words of English, McCarter said, “You’ve arranged accommodations?”

“Yes, a small place just outside the city as requested by your people. Completely out of the way. This is actually the off-season for tourists so you should have plenty of privacy there.”

“And the staff?”

“Every one of them cleared by my people,” Russell said. “Don’t worry, Brown, I’ve done my homework. I don’t know who exactly it is you work for but I do know how to secure an op. Lots of experience in that area.”

“I understand you’re also quite technically adept.”

Russell smiled. “You could say that.”

“That’s excellent. We’ll need your assistance getting everything set up at our new digs. My people have a decent comprehension of the technical aspects, but we could your expertise to fill in the high-level bit.”

“And leave the fighting to you?”

It was McCarter’s turn to grin. “That’s typically the way we like it.”

“I’ve already informed my people that you’ll have my full cooperation. I’m here to assist you in any way I can. Consider your wish as my command. I’m at your beck and call.”

“I got the picture, thanks.” McCarter fired up a cigarette and said, “What can you tell us about this camp that got overrun?”

“I can tell you a lot about the camp,” Russell said. “It’s the identity of the people that hit it I can’t seem to put my finger on, which is odd.”

“Why odd?” Manning asked.

Russell looked Manning in the eye. “I’ve spent most of my adult life using technology to detect and identify paramilitary and terrorist groups of every make and color. That’s one of the reasons the NSA hired me. I started as a crypto-analyst for the U.S. Navy and that eventually landed me this gig.”

“So you think this is odd because you’ve found a group that can stump you?”

“You’ve heard about the pattern-analyses programs being evaluated in both the commercial and defense contractor sectors that use fractal patterns and algorithms to identify patterns in terrorist activities.” Russell got five blank stares. “Okay look, there have been lots of studies done that prove with the right programming languages and algorithms we can derive detectable patterns in the way terrorists and other paramilitary groups operate based on historical data. We use things like what groups claim credit for what

incidents, weapons signatures, explosives and ordnance composition and so forth.”

“So if a bomb gets detonated in someplace like Israel or Afghanistan or even Europe, you can predict with a fair amount of accuracy who might be responsible,” Encizo said.

“I can go one better than that, sir,” Russell said with an exuberant wave. “I can predict it before it happens, potentially help to save lives and avert a full-blown disaster.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Manning said.

“Agreed,” Hawkins added.

“So we can assume that this pattern you’ve seen is odd because you couldn’t find a predictive analysis capable of identifying the doers,” McCarter said.

“In this case, yes,” Russell said. “It’s almost like the perpetrators did it purposely, as if they knew we had this technology and would try to use it.”

“Maybe they did,” Hawkins said.

Russell expressed puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got some new intelligence just as we landed,” McCarter said. “It looks like—”

The road ahead suddenly lit up like the sun and the windshield of the shuttle bus splintered and fragmented. A heartbeat later a storm of metal, wood, glass and plastic blasted through the forward interior, the driver—whose chair backed against a wide metal panel—took the brunt of the impact. The vehicle shimmied as the explosion shredded both front tires. Another moment and the shuttle bus rode only on its front rims.

“Hang on!” McCarter warned even as the rear end of the vehicle swung around.

With a bang and high-pitched squeal, the shuttle bus flipped onto its left side and continued down the gravel road for a hundred feet before it finally ground to a halt.

CHAPTER FIVE

A cloud of dust—acrid and lung searing with explosive residue—rolled through the interior of the shuttle bus.

Gary Manning knew that scent. The expended cordite stung his nostrils as he worked to extricate his body from beneath the legs tangled with his own. He did a quick physical inventory as he wriggled to freedom; he hadn’t suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. The Phoenix warrior turned to the nearest motionless figure. A quick check of the pulse at Rafael Encizo’s neck revealed a strong and steady rhythm. Manning confirmed rise and fall of the Cuban’s chest before producing a relieved sigh of his own.

“Roll call!” McCarter shouted in a raspy voice.

“Check,” Manning said. “Rafe’s out cold but stable.”

An all-clear came back from the remaining Phoenix Force members, including a quip from Hawkins about who got the license number of the truck. It seemed to take Russell a little longer but eventually he sounded off to indicate he was conscious and mostly in one piece. Even as they began to shift and attempt to right themselves inside the capsized shuttle bus, the first metallic pings against the body of the vehicle reached their ears.

“We’re taking fire!” Manning said.

“Un-ass this AO!” McCarter shouted.

Fortunately the Phoenix warriors had debarked from the plane with concealed pistols so they weren’t entirely unarmed. Hawkins ordered Russell to help him wrestle Encizo from beneath the overturned bags while McCarter, James and Manning broke free of their confines and crawled to the rear and a shattered back window. Manning removed the jagged shards at the edge of the frame with a few swift kicks of his boot before lurching through it feet first, propelled by grabbing the crossbar typically used for standees. Clear of the wreckage, Manning took one knee and produced a .45-caliber Colt Government Model pistol from shoulder leather. He panned the rear flanks with the muzzle of the pistol but didn’t detect any muzzle-flashes. Either the enemy had taken concealment or they were positioned on the opposite side. Their stopping point with the nose of the shuttle bus facing the leeward edge of the road may have well been their only saving grace, and Manning thought it made good sense to take maximum advantage of such good fortune.

James and McCarter followed him out and Manning briefed them.

“You two cut around and head toward those trees,” McCarter directed. “See if you can draw their fire.”

The pair nodded and left the position of safety without hesitation.

The chatter of full-auto reports—some kind of light squad weapon, Manning and James guessed—reached their ears as they dashed for the tree line. Rounds bit at the ground just ahead of their path, churning dust and stone chips from the gravel road as the enemy gunner tried to gauge an appropriate lead. They reached the trees unharmed and dived into the cover of deep grass and thick, gnarled tree trunks.

“That was too close!” James observed.

Manning nodded in agreement and said, “We’re not dealing with novices.”

The Canadian risked a glance through a gap in two ground vines and spotted the winks of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun just a heartbeat before it stopped. Manning pointed in that direction and James nodded. The pair raised their pistols, Manning leveling his .45 and James wielding a 9 mm H&K P-2000. They opened up hot on the enemy position, pumping as much lead as they could downrange. Maybe they wouldn’t hit their target but at least they could keep the heat off their friends long enough to buy them time to get clear of the vehicle.

* * *

AS SOON AS MANNING AND James took off, McCarter turned and headed in the opposite direction with a Browning Hi-Power in hand.

As he ran along the road, hunched to minimize his profile, the Phoenix Force leader listened for the direction of the fire. The targets his friends presented had obviously commanded the full attention of the enemy gunner because McCarter didn’t detect any rounds buzzing over his head or chewing the ground at his feet. He ran toward a large rock near a copse of trees and dived for cover. McCarter grinned when he peered around the rock and got his first look at the enemy position. He had a clear line of sight, and even through the shadows provided by the tree line he could see two of his opponents.

McCarter took careful aim on one of his targets, estimating the distance at fifty yards, and waited until his friends opened up from their position. He stroked the trigger twice. Both 9 mm Parabellums hit their mark and McCarter detected just the faintest hint of spray, confirming once more the reason he’d taken home prize after prize for his pistol marksmanship. The hits took their enemy by surprise, obviously, because McCarter perceived a bit of scrambling among those trees and heard a shout.

Maybe they no longer had the advantage of surprise, but McCarter figured at least this one time he’d made it count for something.

* * *

T. J. HAWKINS PANTED, the muscles in his shoulders bunched like knotted cords as he dragged the unconscious Rafael Encizo through the opening and down the shallow slope of the road that provided a defilade. Russell followed on his heels and dropped to his belly in a cloud of dust.

“You. Stay here and watch him,” Hawkins ordered. He handed Russell his pistol and said, “You don’t leave his side for any reason. Got it?”

Russell took the weapon with unflinching resolve and nodded, his lips pressed into a thin set.

Hawkins slapped his shoulder, then dashed back to the shuttle bus and dived inside. He quickly located the duffel bag he sought. He unsnapped the clips with practiced efficiency, reached inside and came away with exactly what he’d hoped. The M-4 A1/M-203 A1 was the perfect small-arms weapon in Hawkins’s mind. Not only had the weapon proved itself through its parent model, the M-16 A2, but its lighter weight and compact profile made it perfect as a tactical operations alternative to the full-size deal. Hawkins reached into the bag again and withdrew two readied 30-round magazines, one of which he inserted into the well.

A yank of the charging handle brought the weapon into battery. Hawkins searched the wrecked vehicle like a dog mad on a scent until he found the hard box that contained 40 mm HE grenades. He loaded one into the breech of the M-203 A1—a special military variant of the M-203 designed specifically for the M-4 A1—and stuffed two more into the pocket of his khaki trousers.