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“Rolling down the sand dune did the same thing?”
“Apparently so.”
“Shit!”
“My word exactly.”
“What can we do?” Blancanales said, leveling his M-16 at the shell. It was standard U.S. Army procedure that in case of a nuclear emergency, shoot the bomb. Once the uranium sphere was distorted, even slightly, the device could no longer detonate. One shot and the artillery shell would be dead. The same as Able Team after about ten days of slow dying by radiation poisoning.
“Your call, Hermann,” Lyons said, aiming the .357 Colt Python at the red-and-green-striped shell.
“Make me a hole,” Schwarz ordered, sorting through the tools.
Blancanales fired a burst from the M-16 at the beach, chewing a depression into the sand. Schwarz gently placed the shell into the hole and packed the loose sand around it.
Sitting on the damp ground, the electronics wizard wrapped his legs around the bomb to hold it tight and started working in the recessed side bolts.
“Thought you were supposed to go in through the top,” Lyons said, watching his friend work on the nuclear charge. An explosion on the beach would boil the ocean for a hundred feet, the radioactive steam contaminating a hundred miles of New Jersey, killing thousands of people. There couldn’t be a worse place to set off a nuke than the sea! His hand tightened on the checkered grip of his revolver. Three die, or three thousand. Hell, that was an easy choice. Another ounce of pressure on the trigger was all it would take to get the job done.
“The top? Not this model,” Schwarz said, both hands busy. A sharp snap of breaking metal and Lyons and Blancanales both jumped slightly. The men held their breath as their teammate slid the casing off the nose of the bomb, exposing the complex internal mechanism.
“All the wires are the same color,” Blancanales said with a scowl. “How the hell will you know which one to cut?”
Jamming his knife deep into the device, Schwarz stopped a tiny flywheel from spinning, then ripped out a handful of wires.
“Just got to know what you’re doing,” he said, casting away the circuits. “Whew, that was close!”
“Too close, brother.” Blancanales sighed, raising the assault rifle. “You sure it’s dead?”
“Oh, yeah. Deader than disco.”
“Good.”
“I happen to like disco.” Lyons chuckled in relief. Touching his throat, the big man activated the radio link. “Stony Bird to Nest, all clear. We found a hot egg, but it will not hatch. Repeat, the egg is dead. What was that?” He frowned. “Roger, on the way.”
“Take the bomb, we’ll store it in our lead safe on the van,” Lyons directed, startling briskly for the parking lot.
“We’ve been recalled to the Farm,” Schwarz stated, lifting the core of the bomb out of the shell. It wasn’t a question.
“Yep.” Softly in the background, police sirens could be heard coming this way. The covert team paid no attention. Then the noise abruptly stopped.
“Sounds like they were also recalled,” Blancanales said, glancing at the exposed workings on the mechanism swinging in his friend’s bare hand. But Blancanales wasn’t worried. If Hermann thought it was okay for them to travel with the nuke this way, that was good enough. He trusted the electronics expert with his life in battle, so why not now?
“Just a little diversion by Bear.” Lyons grinned, hoisting the Atchisson to a more comfortable position. “As soon as we’re gone, they’ll be directed right back here, along with the FBI and Homeland.”
“More Red Star?” Schwarz asked.
“Not this time,” Lyons said, avoiding the civilian bodies. “We’ll be briefed on the way to Bethlehem.”
Schwarz balked. “We’re going to Israel?”
“No, Phoenix Force is. We’re going to see some Nazis in Pennsylvania.”
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Steel Town U.S.A. Check. “Who’s in trouble?” Blancanales asked, going around one of his own blast craters, misty smoke still moving along the ground.
Pausing at the entrance to the historic site, Lyons glanced at the clear blue sky. “Who’s in trouble?” he repeated with a growl. “Hell, everybody is, this time.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Edwards Air Force Base
The red Corvette hummed along the empty highway of the California desert. Dark clouds blanketed the early morning sky and heat lightning sizzled now and then. But no rain. Not yet, anyway.
Yawning behind the wheel, Mike Toddel was alternating sips of hot chocolate from a travel mug and bites of a cheese sandwich.
Taking a turnoff, he continued for a couple more miles until reaching the outer perimeter of Edwards. Glowing like a pearl against the rosy dawn, the air base was brightly illuminated by halogen lamps just inside the electrified fence.
Add a couple of Falcons and this would make a great postcard, Toddel thought with a chuckle.
Shifting gears, he slowed at the front gate and drove up to the guard kiosk. This separate section of the AFB was under maximum security, with armed men on station, guard towers, dogs patrolling the fence, gunship helicopters moving in the dim air and more SAM batteries hidden under concrete bunkers than even Toddel knew about. And he repaired their radar!
Stopping at the wooden bar blocking the entrance, he flashed the guard his access badge. “Hey, Harold.” He smiled. “Looks like a hell of a storm coming, eh?”
“Sir, would you please show me you pass again,” Sergeant Harold Adler demanded crisply, one hand resting on the holstered 9 mm pistol at his side.
He called me “sir”? That was when Toddel noticed another guard inside the kiosk wearing body armor and holding a massive M-60 machine gun, pointed his way. As the corporal in the kiosk worked the arming bolt, the linked brass dangling from the deadly weapon tinkled like distant wind chimes.
“Ah, sure thing, Sarge,” Toddel muttered, doing as requested. “Something wrong? President here or something?”
Checking the pass against a list on a clipboard, the sergeant returned it and gave a salute. “Thank you, sir. Proceed to Hangar 19. They’re waiting for you, sir.”
Without comment, Toddel worked the clutch to shift gears and drove away, wary of the speed bump just inside the fence. What was going on here?
The base was full of airman, technicians and officers rushing around. A light burned in every window and there was a circle of black cars parked around the flight tower on the airfield.
Turning past a dark PX, Toddel headed toward Hangar 19 when lightning flashed, very bright and without thunder.
Suddenly a violent explosion obscured the hangar. Stunned, Toddel watched as a column of black smoke rose to form a spreading mushroom cloud. He panicked for a moment, then remembered that any large explosion would create that formation.
What the hell had happened? It looked as though lightning had struck the fuel storage tanks or maybe the munitions depot. He hoped everybody in the hangar was all right. The windows were bulletproof glass and the thick walls were solid concrete with brick on both sides. A bazooka couldn’t dent that hangar.
Braking to a halt so hard it stalled the engine, Toddel could only stare agape as the desert wind moved the smoke to show the fiery hole in the ground. The hangar was gone. Completely gone! Along with all of the experimental F-22 Raptor antisatellite fighters stored there.
Yellow Sea, North Korea
GREASY WATER SLAPPED listlessly against the hull of the Sargasso Queen. Anchored five miles offshore, the vessel was large, a monster of its kind. Old, but still serviceable. She rested low in the ocean, clearly loaded down with goods to be delivered. However, the vessel was anchored into position with four chains, any one of which would have been sufficient for an oil tanker twice its size. The registry listed the Sargasso Queen as a cargo ship, but it was going nowhere. Ever.
Watching from the shore, David McCarter nodded with satisfaction that while the vessel was covered with rust spots, there wasn’t a barnacle on the hull. Why remove one, but not the other? Maybe so that the ship was in good shape, but didn’t look that way? Seemed likely.
While his team got the equipment in order, McCarter counted six machine-gun nests along the deck, the weapon emplacements disguised with canvas sheeting to try to resemble lashed-down packing crates. The radar was brand-new, and there were depth-charge launchers, rocket batteries and a lot of searchlights. The ship was a fortress. During the day, McCarter had counted more than a hundred men on board, three times what a craft of that size needed, and all of them armed with AK-47 assault rifles. Not exactly standard issue for the merchant traders, even in Communist North Korea.
Just then a passing cloud blocked the moonlight and the Stony Man commandos quickly came out of hiding to slide into the waves. Adjusting their rebreathers, the team started swimming with the currents, slowly approaching the vessel. Visibility was only a few feet, but they knew from orbital photographs taken by NSA spy satellites that the underwater defenses were impressive. The sea floor around the ship was studded with sonar sensors, along with hundreds of chained mines. A submarine might be able to blow a path through those with torpedoes, but no enemy warship could possibly approach without being detected and destroyed. Only men could do that job.
Checking a GPD, McCarter stopped the team a safe distance from the mines, and Calvin James activated a box on his chest harness. The device vibrated against his ribs as it generated the sounds of a large school of tuna. That should fool the sonar, but now came the hard part. Switching on scooters, the Stony Man team started into the minefield, the small military waterjets in their hands pulling them along as silent as ghosts.
Slowly the murky depths resolved into a forest of mines, the huge metallic balls chained at different heights to form an imposing barrier. Up close, the spheres were festooned with seaweed that hung off them like Spanish moss on a tree. The dull surfaces of the mines were covered with trigger studs, and they swayed slightly to the motion of the ocean currents. Two of them clanged together, the noise unnaturally loud in the water. The men tensed, but then relaxed when there was no detonation. Obviously the mines were safe from contact with each other.
Something large flashed by them and McCarter bit back a curse at the sight of a pair of dolphins. The damn things had come hunting for tuna! Pickings had to be very slim in the sea for them to come this close to land. McCarter started to turn off the sound generator, but stayed his hand. If he did, that would expose them to the sonar. Damned if they did, and damned if they didn’t. Only one chance, go faster!
Playfully swimming all around the team, the dolphins kept searching for the elusive tuna and bumped into the humans several times. Thankfully there was no explosion. Pulled along by the whispering waterjets, the men of Phoenix Force tried not to think about what would happen it they did that to a mine.
A last array of mines formed a dotted wall in front of the team, the spheres packed almost too close together for the scooters to traverse. Turning sideways, the Stony Man team shot through at full speed and reached clear water. A moment later the dolphins arrived, happily chattering to each other in their incomprehensible language.
James killed the generator and the dolphins paused in confusion, then rose to the surface for a breath of air and came back down to disappear into the minefield.
Ahead of the team loomed the cargo ship, the thick anchor chains extending into the dark depths.
Turning off their waterjets, the men let the scooters float in place as they climbed aboard and proceeded to the belly of the ship. Stopping there for only a moment, the men moved on to the rear of the ship. No video cameras were discernable; the zone was clear.
Reaching the propellers, Phoenix Force removed its swim fins and attached them to their belts. Swimming slowly upward, they moved among the huge propellers. If the blades started turning, the five would be chopped to pieces, chum for the sharks. But the propellers stayed motionless, and soon the team reached the hull of the vessel.
Opening bags at their sides, the men donned sophisticated climbing gloves. Slow and silent, the five shapes moved along the thickest part of the hull where the soft pats of the gloves wouldn’t be heard by anybody in the engine room. Soon the surface shimmered above, the waves dancing with moonlight, and they rose like ghosts from the bay, moving hand-over-hand up the flat stern of the enormous vessel. Their wet suits were camouflage-colored orange, red and brown in irregular patterns. From a distance they should appear as just more rust spots. The effect was heightened by irregularly shaped backpacks and satchels that each man had strapped to his body.
The five men reached the gunwale, then paused as a sailor walked by smoking a cigarette. Pulling on night-vision goggles, McCarter turned on the Starlite function and clearly saw that the man was dressed in civilian clothing. But his boots were regular North Korean army, and an AK-47 was strapped to his back. As the disguised soldier threw the butt of the cigarette overboard, T. J. Hawkins gave a low whistle, the kind men use to get the attention a pretty girl.
Curious, the North Korean soldier glanced over the railing and looked down. Instantly Rafael Encizo rammed a Tanto combat knife directly into the man’s jaw, pinning his mouth shut so that no possible cry of warning could be given. Drowning in his own blood, the North Korean flailed, clawing at his throat, then went limp. Carefully, he was dragged over the railing and tied with ropes to be lowered into the water without a splash. As the corpse reached the sea, the rope was released and the body sank from the weight of his boots and assault rifle.
Easing over the railing, Phoenix Force reached the deck and crouched, listening for any potential source of trouble. But the great vessel was silent; there was only the sound of the waves below. Everything else was still.
Staying in a bunch to keep a low profile, the team donned dry sneakers from their packs and opened watertight bags to remove Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns, each barrel tipped with an acoustical sound suppressor. The weapons carried a flip clip, bound together with the service man’s best friend, duct tape. Warily, the men made sure that the clip carrying the half-load rounds was inserted into the machine guns. The reduced charge seriously lowered the firepower, but helped the suppressors do their job. The other side of the flip clip was standard ammo, armor-piercing, full charges. Just in case the suppressors failed.
The sound of soft footsteps came from around the housing and Phoenix Force dropped behind the canvas sheet covering a machine-gun nest.
Lightly resting a finger on the trigger of his MP-5, McCarter tracked the sailor strolling along the deck, an AK-47 on his back, both hands shoved into the pockets of his peacoat for warmth. It was obvious to the former SAS commando that the North Koreans weren’t expecting any trouble this night. Too bad for them.
It had been known for some time that Kim Jong-il, the dictator of North Korea, had been trying to manufacture biological weapons to use against the democratic people of South Korea and the hated United States. Several labs had been found by the CIA and blown out of existence by NATO. But Kim kept trying to duplicate his success with a nuclear weapons program. Half of the trapped population of impoverished nation subsisted on starvation rations, but their “glorious leader” spent billions on creating weapons that might never be used, for a war that only he wanted.
“Which way?” McCarter whispered, staying low.
Pulling a personal computer from a pocket on his thigh, Encizo checked the glowing map of the boat. It was a compilation made from the structural blueprints of the dockyard where it had been constructed and a lot of guesswork based upon orbital photos and passive thermographic readings from shore.
“Left,” the little Cuban said, starting forward.
Proceeding along the deck, the five-man team kept close to the painted metal walls, pausing every now and then as somebody walked along the gunwale. The guards expected that any trouble would come from outside, and kept watching the sea, the sky and the distant shoreline, the small fishing villages and military slave camps twinkling patterns in the night.
Soft light came from a series of portholes and the Stony Man operatives ducked low beneath them. Faintly, they could hear soldiers laughing and a television set blaring with a translated American sitcom.
Maneuvering past the cargo hold, Phoenix Force passed a couple of guards on patrol and a pair of soldiers out on errands, one of them carrying a silver tray covered with spotless white linen. The delicious aroma of roasted duck wafted behind the steward, lingering in his wake. Weapons poised, Phoenix Force watched the fellow cross the deck and disappear into the main salon a hundred feet away.
“That wasn’t spam on a shingle like they feed the troops,” Calvin James observed, easing his gun hand. “Guess it’s good be to the king.”
“Pity the general in charge is awake,” Hawking quipped, checking the rigging on the cargo hoist for any suspicious motions. “But at least we now know that Le-Wan isn’t belowdecks. That had to be for him.”
James nodded in reply. Good point. Where ever Le-Wan was located, that’s where Kim Jong-il would have the bulk of the troops to protect his nephew.
“Be nice if Yi was belowdecks.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
“Gary, over here,” McCarter said, tapping an access panel in the wall.
Sliding the panel back, Manning found a fuse box, well protected from the corrosive salty air. Jimmying the lock, he swung the door aside. A bank of circuit breakers was inside, all of them clearly marked as to function. Opening the electrical panel, Manning exposed a complex nest of wiring. Checking the breakers, Manning clipped thin gauge wires to their backs, then snipped the bypassed circuits. The master console in the control room would still read the lines as live, but they would die the first time they were turned on and resetting the circuit breaker would do nothing to help. Manning pressed a gray-colored wad of C-4 to the back of the breakers and slid in a radio detonator. The whole ship might be protected by the Faraday Cage effect running through the hull, but this was located out in the open. Closing the board, he swung the door shut and pushed the access panel back into place.
Phoenix Force proceeded to the lower deck. Down here the air was much warmer, the smell of the sea was gone and there was the continuous sound of some sort of machine. Large steel gates were folded back against the walls, and arms lockers were everywhere. James and Manning hid more C-4 charges behind the weapons dumps as Encizo rigged a couple of the gates. Just a little insurance for the future. Hopefully, getting off the vessel was going to be just as quiet as it was getting on. But a wise soldier always planned for what an enemy could do, not for what he might do.
Loosening the light bulbs in the ceiling as they went along the hallway, Phoenix Force left darkness in its wake. That would be suspicious to a passing soldier, but far less revealing than actually spotting the team.
Hawkins took point while James read off the signs on each door. He was fairly proficient in Vietnamese, but only knew a few halting phrases in idiomatic Korean. However, it was enough. Sterile Room. Animals. Contaminate. Storage. Supplies. Laboratory.
Bingo!
Bending, McCarter softly scratched at the bottom of the lab door. After a few minutes, a grumbling person stomped over and threw it wide. The angry soldier was armed with a broom, clearly prepared to do battle with a rat. His face registered shock at the sight of the five intruders, and McCarter rose to hit him in the throat with an open-handed blow. The soldier dropped the broom and back away, hacking for air.
Moving fast, Phoenix Force stepped into the room and Manning closed the door while Encizo fired a single round from his MP-5. The weapon gave a chuff sound and the choking man crumpled into the corner.
Spreading out, the team secured the room, then did a fast search. The room was an office of some kind, containing desks, papers, computers, printers and tall green file cabinets. Double doors marked with warning signs in Korean filled the left wall and the air carried the antiseptic smell of a hospital.
Going to the desk, Manning checked, but every drawer was locked. Accepting that, he fixed a couple more blocks of C-4 from his dwindling supply onto the file cabinets and set the timers for twenty minutes.
“Make it fifteen,” McCarter directed, stuffing some papers from the Out basket into a watertight pouch strapped to his chest.
Manning did as requested, as Encizo and James kept watch on the corridor and Hawkins checked out the double door at the far end. Through the round glass windows, he could see another set of doors. Past those he could vaguely discern some sort of a laboratory, but the angle was wrong for any details. Could be empty, could have a hundred armed troops inside. There was only one way to know for sure.
“Okay, it’s showtime,” McCarter declared, closing the pouch. “Let’s find the professor.”
Walking through the double set of doors, Phoenix Force found the inner room was indeed a full biological weapons laboratory. Two large tables were covered with bubbling experiments, the complex array of gurgling glassware reaching several feet high. Locked cabinets covered the walls, aside from the life-size portrait of Kim Jong-il. There was an autoclave, centrifuge, lots of cages for the test subjects and an Oriental man eating a sandwich. But no guards. The old man was tall and slim, with white hair and glasses. He wore a gold wedding ring. It looked like their target from behind, but could be a trick.
“Yi,” McCarter said, announcing their presence.
The professor looked up from his meager repast and went pale. “No. No! I am loyal to our glorious leader!” he cried, dropping the sandwich and raising both hands. “Don’t kill me! I love North Korean! Death to the Americans!”
“We are Americans,” McCarter said, removing the night-vision goggles to expose his face.
The terror vanished to be replaced with joy. “Then get me the hell out of here, cobber,” Yi stated, switching to English as he slid off the lab stool. “These people are bloody insane.” He started their way, beaming a smile.
“Lift your shirt, please, Professor,” Hawkins urged politely, aiming his MP-5 at the man.
Stopping in his tracks, Yi sighed and did as requested. The man’s chest was marred by a large area of puckered scars, a gift from an early experiment in chemistry gone bad back at Perth University in Australia.
