Maelstrom

And the trio shook on it.

CHAPTER THREE

Brooklyn Heights, New York

Carl “Ironman” Lyons was angry, and with good reason.

Yeah, it bothered him when innocent people died, but when they died because of their skin color, that really riled him. In fact, it put him in a damn foul mood, and when he got feeling like this, not even his long-time friends and brothers-in-arms liked being around him. Still, neither Hermann Schwarz nor Rosario Blancanales would have thought even a moment of abandoning Lyons—not in a million years.

So Lyons decided to hold his temper in check until they could get the gist from New York City’s finest. In fact, he was all smiles as he questioned the lead detective while Schwarz and Blancanales maneuvered their way through the broken glass and twisted metal of storefronts, stooping to look into the faces of the Arabic victims who owned the variety of shops and eateries along Atlantic Avenue.

“So explain this to me again,” Lyons said.

“It’s just like I said, sir,” the detective replied. “Everything you’re seeing here is corroborated by the stories we’ve gotten so far from witnesses. We’re still canvassing, but I don’t think anyone we talk to from here out will have much to add. It just happened too damned fast.”

The detective was a guy from the neighborhood, a third-generation Lebanese assigned to one of the local boroughs. He’d introduced himself as Elmore Nuri. Lyons didn’t know if that was his given name, but it didn’t much matter. The guy seemed pretty knowledgeable about the area, and he was acting as though the devastation now before them was nothing new. Nothing behind Nuri’s dark eyes betrayed he was the least bit surprised by the carnage. It was a whole new world.

Lyons looked around him again. The scene was gruesome.

At approximately 1545 local time, a school bus stopped in front of a group of shops on Atlantic Avenue where it borders Cobble Hill. Witnesses claim at least fifteen men and women, dressed in combat fatigues and armbands emblazoned with the Star of David, and toting assault rifles, jumped off the bus and lined up in front of the shops. Moments later, they simultaneously opened fire on the commercial area that was chock-full of citizens from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, although predominately Middle Easterners and Asians. The butchery continued for nearly a full minute as the terrorists periodically reloaded their weapons and each delivered at least two full magazines worth of wanton violence and destruction.

It had all occurred less than two hours earlier, and apparently it hadn’t ended there. A pair of transit cops who had just emerged from a subway station apparently tried to evacuate nearby citizens in an orderly fashion when the terrorists spotted them. Several members of the terror group turned their weapons on the officers—the transit cops never stood a chance. Several witnesses also said that they watched helplessly from alleyways or behind cars as the heavily armed assailants then entered several of the shops and polished off any possible survivors of the barbaric attack. Less than two minutes had elapsed when the terrorists got back on the bus and it fled the scene well before the first squads arrived.

As soon as the first of it went out over the airwaves, computers at Stony Man Farm alerted Kurtzman and his team. Able Team had been on its way back from a mission via chopper when Price called and ordered them to detour to JFK. The details had been sketchy at that point, and even now they didn’t know much more than they had when they arrived. Nonetheless, Price had told them they had authorization from the highest levels and to use their standing credentials as a special task force of U.S. Deputy Marshals with the Department of Homeland Security.

“What can you tell me about this area?” Lyons asked, turning his attention back to Nuri.

The detective shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the neighborhood. Is it mostly Arabic?”

Nuri half coughed, half snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Look, Detective, I don’t have any time for games,” Lyons replied with a scowl. “So let’s cut this small-talk shit and stick to facts.”

“Yes, sir…sorry, sir. Mostly, it’s a pretty mixed neighborhood. This part of the Heights is older and we’ve got a pretty good mix. There’s a section of Russians, French and even Hispanics, but it’s primarily Arabic.”

“Any Jewish population?”

“You bet,” he replied with a nod. “In fact, the population concentration in this part is Middle Eastern. I’m talking Iraqis, Iranians, Pakistanis, Jews, Indians. Hell, there’s practically every known representation of the Fertile Crescent here. And for the most part, everyone’s always gotten along. Brooklyn Heights just isn’t known for these kinds of hate crimes. I mean, this was some serious shit.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around lately, guy,” Lyons told him. “Thanks for your help. I’m going to go take a look-see with my partners now. I may have some more questions, so don’t get lost.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nuri replied. “I’ve got the feeling I’m going to be around here for quite a while.”

Lyons nodded and then turned on his heel and went off in search of his comrades. The Able Team warrior found “Gadgets” Schwarz first inside one of the small Mediterranean restaurants. He was kneeling over the body of a little, dark-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. There was a large, gaping wound in her forehead, and the prone corpse of woman—the back of her bloody coat shredded—covered the better part of the girl’s frail form.

“Probably her mother,” Lyons said quietly. “Looks like she was running for cover with the girl when the shooting started. She bought it, girl got pinned beneath her and then one of the bastards came in and finished the job.” Lyons pointed to his forehead for emphasis.

Schwarz looked at him with a gaunt expression and Lyons saw something dangerous in the man’s brown eyes.

“Easy there, pal. You look like maybe you want to lose control.”

Schwarz stood and took one lasting look at the girl. “I’m cool, Ironman. We need to find these bastards—and quick.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, stepping forward and clapping a firm hand on his warrior friend’s shoulder. “But let’s find Pol first.”

They found Blancanales in a nearby clothing shop, where there was more glass on the threadbare carpet than blood. Most of the blood spatter had soaked into the many garments hanging on the crowded racks, some of which were now in cockeyed positions. Obviously the place had been flooded with autofire, just as the other shops and eateries. The decimation and horror of it was almost surreal.

Rosario Blancanales, known as the “Politician” for his amazing ability to remain suave, cool and diplomatic under even the worst conditions, put his hands on hips and shook his head.

“I don’t know about you guys, but this was no ordinary terrorist attack.”

“Since when is any terrorist attack ordinary?” Schwarz asked.

“That’s not what I meant,” Blancanales replied quietly, fixing his teammate with a level but questioning gaze. He then looked at Lyons and continued. “Look, there was something much more behind this. Call it another purpose, an ulterior motive, or whatever, but I’m telling you there’s something real funky going on here.”

“Explain,” Lyons said, stepping closer to his friend.

“Well, for one thing, it seems strange that all of the players in this were wearing Jewish symbols. I mean, come on, the usual mode of operation for most terrorist groups is to claim credit after the fact, and Jewish terrorists are no exception. If this were the Kach-Kahane Chai or a violent offshoot of the Anti-Defamation League, we’d be standing here with our thumbs up our collective asses, wondering who the actual perpetrators were.”

“And we’d finally hear two or three days from now who was actually responsible,” Schwarz interjected.

Lyons nodded in agreement. “That never occurred to me. That’s insightful thinking, Pol.”

“I won’t expect any medals,” Blancanales replied, waving the compliment away and grinning his usual, disarming grin. “But thanks for noticing.”

Lyons sighed deeply. “Okay, so if these weren’t Jewish terrorists, who were they?”

“I’m not saying they weren’t Jewish terrorists,” Blancanales reminded him. “I’m just saying that there must be a reason they made it so obvious. I think if we figure that out, we’ll also figure out who’s behind it and—”

“Excuse me. Deputy Irons?”

The threesome turned to see Nuri standing in the doorway of the shop.

“What is it?” Lyons asked.

“A report just came over the radio. Apparently that bus was sighted and there’s a chase on.”

“Where’s it headed?” Gadgets asked.

“Uptown Manhattan.”

The trio exchanged looks and each could tell he’d reached the same conclusion as the others.

“Let’s move!” Lyons ordered.

Able Team left the shop and sprinted for their government SUV. Blancanales got behind the wheel, Lyons took shotgun and Schwarz jumped into the back seat. Seconds later they were speeding away from the crime scene and headed for the posh, uptown section of one of New York City’s nicest districts.

Schwarz reached behind the back seat and retrieved a bag of toys that Stony Man had arranged to be waiting at JFK when they landed. They were already wearing shoulder holsters with pistols—Blancanales a Glock Model 19, Lyons a .357 Magnum Colt Python Elite and Schwarz a silenced Beretta 93-R—but those would hardly be enough against a dozen or more terrorists armed with assault rifles and machine pistols. It was time for heavier hardware.

Schwarz loaded a 10-shell box magazine into the well of an S&W Assault Shotgun and passed it to Lyons. It was an AS-3, an automatic shotgun originally developed for the U.S. military’s Joint Service Small Arms Program. Similar to the Atchisson, the more modern AS-3 could easily fire 3-inch Magnum 12-gauge shells of Lyons’s favorite combo of No. 2 and double-aught shot in single, 3-round burst, or full-auto modes. Its cyclic rate of fire was about 375 rounds per minute at an effective range of nearly a hundred meters, and it was a room broom in the hands of an experienced user.

Schwarz next turned his attention to an MP-5 A-3, a variant of one of the most efficient and widely used submachine guns in the world. Manufactured by Heckler & Koch, the MP-5 A-3 had an extending metal stock that could reduce or increase the overall length of the weapon in a heartbeat. It was chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds and considered one of the most precise weapons of its kind.

After passing the MP-5 A-3 to Blancanales, Schwarz procured his own weapon of choice, a 5.56 mm FNC manufactured by Fabrique Nationale Herstal SA. He had grown fond of it for its durability and versatility. While classified as an assault rifle, the FNC was a compact and powerful weapon, built on the popular rotating-bolt standards of its H&K competitor. It had a folding stock, a 30-round detachable box magazine, and fired about 700 rounds per minute, but it was still as light and manageable as nearly any submachine gun.

Schwarz reached into the bag and withdrew a police scanner equipped with an earpiece. He turned it on, punched in the UHF channel range of the New York City police department’s bandwidth and then donned the ultrasensitive earpiece. He reported the situation to his comrades as they raced toward uptown Manhattan.

“Doesn’t sound like the situation’s all that good,” Schwarz said. “The bus was spotted by a police chopper. Apparently the cops thought it suspicious that a bus that should be taking children home from school was instead sitting in a forest preserve on the edge of the city.”

Lyons couldn’t argue with that, and he hoped that NYC would see to it the cops in that chopper were decorated for being so sharp and alert. Having been a cop in Los Angeles for many years before joining Stony Man, Lyons had nothing but respect for the men and women in blue. They had a tough job, and most of them performed admirably in the line of duty—especially those serving in this city.

“What’s happening now?” Blancanales asked.

“They apparently converged on the bus, the driver panicked, and they’re chasing him through Manhattan. In fact, right now they’re trying to clear the road ahead. I guess the driver’s not being too careful about what he hits and doesn’t hit, and there are already half a dozen injured bystanders. I’m also hearing there’s a foot pursuit and sporadic shootouts between the cops and those that managed to get off the bus before it split.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, “I think what’s going down in Manhattan should take the priority.”

“Agreed,” Blancanales said, keeping his eyes on the road. “More bystanders.”

“And more potential for it to get out of hand.”

“May have already,” Schwarz replied. “Just got word the chase has stopped and they’ve got the bus trapped between their squads and a street closure.”

“Sounds like our terrorist friends are planning to make their last stand right there,” Blancanales said, casting a sideways glance at Lyons.

“Sounds like your ‘sounds like’ is right,” the Able Team leader quipped.

“How far away are we?” Blancanales asked, his gaze flicking to Schwarz’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“I’d say another five or ten minutes unless traffic gets backed up,” Schwarz replied.

Minutes later the trio emerged from the SUV and double-timed it in the direction of the standoff.

WHEN ABLE TEAM finally arrived, they found the police had the entire block cordoned off, and a wall of blue was the only thing keeping back a pressing crowd of curious onlookers.

“Come on, folks,” one cop was telling them. “Just move along. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Lyons could tell the cop was about to lose his cool and he decided to redirect the man’s attention by shoving his forged Homeland Security credentials under the man’s nose.

“Irons, U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No, but you should watch your mouth,” Lyons growled. “What’s going on down there?”

The cop eyed Lyons suspiciously for a moment, but the ice-cold blue eyes, grim stare and amount of heavy-duty hardware seemed to put him in a suddenly more cooperative and respectful mood.

“We’ve got about eight or nine terrorists pinned down on a bus. We think a few of them have managed to get off. It had been a vehicle pursuit, but I guess the bus took a turn a bit too wide and flipped onto its side. Beyond that, I don’t know much, sir.”

Lyons nodded, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the line of flashing lights where the police had parked their cruisers nose-to-tail to block access to that part of the city. “Who’s in charge down there?”

“That would be Captain Roberson, sir,” the cop replied.

The policemen let Able Team past the barricade and then went on about his business of keeping back the growing crowd.

The trio was jogging down the center of the street when the sound of automatic weapons fire suddenly erupted. The cordon of police vehicles shielded the SWAT team and patrol officers as they returned the fire with a volley of their own. Able Team reduced its exposure to possible stray fire by moving to the sidewalk under Lyons’s lead, and continuing toward the police line. They were within about ten yards of where a group of officers were cloistered behind one of the SWAT vehicles when someone noticed them and raised a shout.

Lyons managed to produce his badge just as a half dozen of the rear security members from the SWAT team trained AR-15s on the Able Team warriors.

“U.S. Marshals!” Lyons replied.

A tall, dark-haired N.Y.P.D. policeman wearing the rank insignia of a captain raised his arms and called, “Stand down!”

Once Lyons had verified it was safe to approach, Able Team joined the small crew huddled around a makeshift field table set up behind the SWAT truck. The officer who had called off the SWAT team wore a nametag that read I. Roberson. Decorations and meritorious service ribbons galore donned the left breast of the uniform, including the Medal for Valor, one of the highest awards rendered in the department. Lyons offered his hand and the Roberson took it.

“Now what the hell brings the U.S. Marshals Service to the Big Apple?” Roberson asked.

“We’re a special detachment from the Office of Homeland Security,” Lyons recited. “We’re here to assist you.”

“No offense, Deputy—?”

“Irons.”

“Yeah, Irons. Okay…no offense but I think we got this pretty much under control,” Roberson said.

“And no offense to you, sir,” Blancanales said, stepping forward. He knew Lyons would explode if he didn’t intervene, and Lyons knew that he knew, so he let Blancanales take the wheel on this one. “But exactly what control?”

“Complete control,” Roberson replied. “There are about six terrorists inside that bus, and we think some of them are wounded. We’ve got them pinned down to no more than one city bus, and I have two SWAT detachments clearing civilians out right now. They’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Blancanales replied. “But what intelligence do you actually have? Do you know, in fact, whom you’re dealing with? You have any idea who these people are, or what they want?”

“Well, er, ah—”

“That’s what I thought,” Lyons muttered.

Blancanales threw his teammate a cautioning look, then returned his attention to Roberson with the friendliest grin and calmest tone he could muster. “Listen, Captain, we’re not here to step on your turf.”

Roberson looked at his men, his face flushing, then said, “My people here agree that they’re either militants or religious fanatics. One of them tried to escape from the bus when it flipped, and we shot him dead.” Roberson turned and picked up a bloody armband from the table. He held it up and added, “The suspect didn’t have any ID on him, but he was wearing this.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re here. We don’t think these are either militants or religious fanatics. We don’t have any solid evidence yet, but we do have experience, and we think maybe we have some information you might not have.”

Roberson’s expression hardened some. “And just what is that? You guys just got here. How could you possibly know more about this than we do?”

“You’d be surprised what we know,” Schwarz said.

“Look, we just came from that slaughterhouse over in Brooklyn Heights,” Lyons interjected. “From what we saw there, we have reason to believe these are terrorists trying to make it look like some nut-group’s behind all of this.”

“Now what the hell reason would they have for doing that?” Roberson said, cocking back his hat and scratching his head.

Lyons jacked the slide on the AS-3. “Let’s go ask them.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rosario Blancanales converged on the bus in a cover-and-maneuver drill he’d practiced countless times before. He’d act as point while Lyons and Schwarz covered him by taking firing positions at the corners of opposing rooftops. The rest they could only watch play out and react accordingly. While it was possible Roberson’s intelligence was sound, and the good guys did in fact have the upper hand on the terrorist group, Able Team had no intention of taking unnecessary risks. They planned to play this one by the book, and they also had to account for maintaining appearances. Their alleged “covers” as U.S. Marshals had to hold up to any scrutiny.

Blancanales reached the rear of the school bus and knelt with his back to its belly. He yanked an AN-M83-HC smoker from the satchel on his hip, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb overhand in front of him. He retrieved a second one and let it fly.

Lyons couldn’t see the grenades from where he laid—the fixed sights of the AS-3 trained on the area just above Blancanales’s head—but he heard them clank and clatter along the side of the bus. A moment later he could barely pick up the faint sounds of them dropping through the open windows and the subsequent shouts of the occupants. Those last sounds caused him to smile. Naturally the terrorists wouldn’t know whether they were dealing with smoke or CS; for all they knew, it was poison gas. Regardless of what might be going through the terrorists’ minds, the grenades produced the desired effect.

Only a few moments elapsed before bodies emerged from the windows of the bus. Lyons and Schwarz began shouting for the terrorists to surrender. The group apparently figured it was better to stand and fight than to risk capture and interrogation. Only a couple of the terrorists went prone on top of the bus, others not bothering to get cover of any kind, and all of them began to spray the area with gunfire.

Lyons ducked behind full cover and quickly keyed his microphone. “Guys, we need to take at least one of them alive!”

The Able Team leader couldn’t tell if either of his teammates had received the response over the sudden cacophony of weapons reports, both that of the terrorists and the SWAT teams. Lyons cursed under his breath—this was no good! Roberson had promised he’d show restraint, but the guy’s word apparently meant nothing. Instead, he was letting his people shoot at will, and every round meant one less chance of taking a prisoner.

Lyons switched channels and cut into the N.Y.P.D. frequency. “Dammit, Roberson, tell your people to shut it down! Now!”

He got no reply, but after a few more seconds, weapons reports coming from their AO went silent. There were some scattered shots from the terrorists now on the bus, but there were no more return shots from the SWAT team members.

Lyons had a perfect view of the terrorists that had exposed themselves, and took a quick head count: seven. Okay, so that wasn’t too bad at all. He leveled the shotgun sights on the closest terrorist, took a deep breath, braced the shotgun tightly against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The AS-3 roared as the first specialty load rocketed from the muzzle and took one of the terrorist’s full in chest. The terrorist dropped the AK-47 as the heavy shell flipped him off his feet. The force of the blast landed him on his back and his butt crashed through one of the few unbroken windows.

Schwarz got the terrorist next to Lyons’s target a few moments later with a well-placed 3-round burst from his FNC. Two of the 5.56 mm NATO rounds punched through the terrorist’s throat and the last split his skull wide open. The guy’s head exploded in a grisly spray of blood and gray matter, and his body spun awkwardly. He dropped off the edge of the bus and disappeared from view.

The terrorists turned their attention in every direction above their heads, probably in realization they were no longer taking their fire from ground level. They began spraying the area with fresh autofire, and Lyons moved back as a few of the rounds chipped away plaster and stone from the edge of the parapet. As soon as there was a lull in the firing, Lyons returned to his position, sighted the next target and delivered another shell blast. This time, though, Lyons was gunning for a prisoner. The special shotgun load did a number on one terrorist, blowing out a large chunk of the guy’s knee. The terrorist dropped with a scream that sounded like combined pain and surprise to find he was suddenly unsupported by both of his legs.

BLANCANALES KNEW his chances of staying alive in this environment wouldn’t last. His mission had been to smoke the terrorists into the open, and he’d done that. Now it was time to get the hell out of the line of fire before the terrorists realized he was immediately below them and posed an easy target. The Able Team warrior yanked the Glock Model 19 from his shoulder holster, jumped to his feet and rushed for a corner drugstore with a square, brick support in front of it. He made it to the thick support just in time to avoid a hail of slugs fired at him by several of the terrorist goons. Blancanales waited until the firing stopped, then risked exposure in tracking for a target, pistol held in a Weaver’s grip, forearms braced against the support.