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“Better us than someone who can’t handle a worm or logic bomb,” Kurtzman explained. “We can cordon off any infection. The FBI or CIA get hit, and there’s a chance we lose half the intel that Homeland Security somehow managed to gather.”
“Half of nothing, you mean?” Delahunt asked. “I fail to see how bloating the intelligence-gathering process does anything for securing our national security.”
“Don’t say that too loud,” Kurtzman replied. “There are still types who’d rather trade their freedom for security up the road.”
Delahunt made a face. “You’d have thought after eight years of that kind of ineptitude, we’d be done with it by now.”
“Promises made are just pillow talk. Politics is still the Greek term for many blood-sucking insects, not many truth speakers,” Kurtzman growled.
“Back to work?” Delahunt asked.
Kurtzman sighed. “The bad guys aren’t going to find themselves for us, are they?”
“Nope,” Delahunt answered.
The two computer experts returned to their workstations, toiling on in the search for any link to the robot masters.
D ARRIN H OMM LOOKED OVER the UAV footage from Egypt. Though the images were grainy due to the lack of finesse inherent to night vision, he still had height and weight estimations thanks to computerized parallax analysis relating the images to known objects on the ground around them. He entered the data into a search program that contained dossiers for known current and past agents of a half-dozen governments.
With that particular information, the computer mastermind turned to his partner, Mischa Shenck, putting the pictures down in front of the engineer. Shenck looked at the printed photos, then raised an eyebrow.
“An African in Africa?” the Russian-born cyberneticist asked.
“African-American,” Homm replied. “But black Americans are usually tourists, and Egypt doesn’t let tourists run around with state-of-the-art assault rifles.”
Shenck looked at the picture. “So, he’d be an American CIA agent? Special Forces?”
“Special Forces is straight Army. Get the facts straight,” Homm growled.
Shenck sighed, knowing the computer expert’s obsessive-compulsive disdain for improper terminology. “Sorry. Special operations.”
“Likely special operations. I put that face through recognition software, but it’s come back as a null return,” Homm said. “That marks him as a sanitized operative since he doesn’t even register on recognition patterns.”
“So, you want me to help you figure out who he is?” Shenck asked. “He’s been sanitized by professionals if he’s a nonentity in your recognition program. Whoever wiped him out of the database would have been thorough.”
Homm nodded. “If anything, they are working closely with the Egyptian authorities. Their driver is a member of Unit 777.”
“It’s not much to go on,” Shenck said.
“Bullshit it’s not. Somehow, two Americans brought their own personal weapons, because SIG-Sauer is not standard Egyptian gear, even for their high-speed, low-drag units,” Homm said. “And they were on watch for our robots.”
“Which means we’re not talking about a large agency here,” Shenck said. “The Americans at the Department of Energy had only encountered the other robot a few hours ago. Intelligence agencies take days to get word to units in other cities, let alone other countries.”
“Hence the logic of a small agency or a tightly knit department,” Homm suggested.
“Something around twenty people,” Shenck mused. “Half in the field, half working cyber support. They undoubtedly have an efficient and secure communications network, as well, so tapping them will be nearly impossible.”
“They might be hard to trace, but they have their own contacts and allies abroad,” Homm stated. “So we should be able to tap whomever they’re working with.”
“Breaking the DoE and Egyptian military intelligence networks to figure out who they’re interfacing with will be your job, but this group does sound sort of familiar,” Shenck said. “Did you only get a picture of the black man?”
“There was an Israeli woman. I managed to pry her identity from Mossad’s computers,” Homm said. “And she was with another man.”
“Did you run him through?” Shenck asked.
“He also had a zero response,” Homm answered. “He was of average height and build, though.”
Shenck looked at the second American’s photo. He smiled. “Just what I expected.”
“Who did you think you would find?” Homm asked.
“The Latino member of the team,” Shenck answered.
“One black. One Latino. And three sort of average white men as partners?” Homm suggested.
“Exactly,” Shenck replied. “We’ve come up against the urban legend known as Phoenix Force.”
Homm punched the desk between them. “Damn! That means the big blond guy who didn’t even stop when we hit him with the Taser must have been from their so-called sister team, Able.”
“Presumably the same Mr. Stone who my former friends in the KGB despised so deeply,” Shenck said. “Stone or iron or some such invulnerable material fits the description of a man who shrugged off twenty thousand volts through a Taser.”
“So those two groups are allied?” Homm asked.
“Considering that they are aspects of the same myth, it is a likelihood,” Shenck said.
“These groups aren’t myths. We have photographs of them,” Homm growled.
“We’ve seen the basis for the mythology,” Shenck countered. “But the facts are not so clear in regard to what the nature of their organization is.”
“Their agency is large enough to operate in Washington, D.C., and outside of Inshas, Egypt, but they are still small enough to quickly communicate across the Atlantic Ocean. They also have their pulse on things, because Hirtenberg was investigating our touches on the DoE’s security system and they hooked up with the Mossad after the Negev near-incident,” Homm speculated.
“So they know all about our infiltration, the nature of the attack robots and our deal with local terror groups,” Shenck mused.
“They also know that we have Global Hawk UAV drones,” Homm said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have excellent face shots if they weren’t looking directly at the drone.”
“How screwed are we?” Shenck asked.
“It all depends on operations in France,” Homm replied. “And if they have their teams granulated enough to have a presence in Europe, as well.”
“You believe the teams have split?” Shenck asked.
“There’s only two visible in Egypt. We can’t discount the remainder of Phoenix Force being elsewhere, especially in the wake of the violence committed in Paris,” Homm sighed.
“What do we do?” Shenck asked.
“Adapt. Which means I call in some extra help on my side, and you utilize some of those upgrades which I thought would be too flashy,” Homm replied.
“What about Inshas?” Shenck asked.
“It gets hit with upgraded robots, but only once we’ve made certain that everyone is locked into Washington, D.C., and France,” Homm told him.
“So the Middle East will start suffering meltdowns, while our efforts in the U.S. and France are blunted?” Shenck asked.
“The U.S. operation is too widespread to be easily stopped, and France right now is on high alert. They’re not accepting help from the U.S.,” Homm said. “France might just be pulled off, and we have the flexibility in the States to do whatever we want.”
“Just have to know what we’re dealing with,” Shenck said. “All right. I’ve got some quick module ideas that we can send out.”
Homm smiled. After this, the panic against nuclear power would paralyze alternative power technology around the world.
The nightmare would only make them the most influential men in future technologies. If they somehow managed to survive the effort.
CHAPTER FIVE
David McCarter watched T. J. Hawkins finish scrubbing down and lubricating every bit of mechanism of the high-tech, polymer-composite Steyr AUG A-3 rifle in his possession. When the Southern Phoenix Force pro was concentrating on his weapons maintenance, there were few things that could distract the young man from his task.
Gary Manning turned off his cell phone and removed the wireless headset from his ear. “The Security Directorate isn’t aware of any outside investigation occuring within Paris at this moment. We’re pretty much in the clear.”
“Wouldn’t asking about their awareness put them on alert?” Hawkins asked as he reassembled his rifle.
“There is that worry, but don’t forget, not every organization is Stony Man,” Manning returned. “By the time they send through memos and requests for recognition, it will have been two or three days before we encounter any official interference.”
“That’s from the authorities themselves,” McCarter mused. “The DoE is the same kind of bloated, fragmented beauracracy as the new French internal security agency, but our opponents discovered the agent looking into their backtrail fast enough to send a killer robot snake after her.”
Manning nodded. “Which is why I routed the phone call through my cabin outside of Toronto. Whoever the opposition is, they might be genuinely misdirected for a few hours.”
McCarter watched the mechanical precision with which Hawkins worked on the AUG A-3 carbine. “I wouldn’t underestimate them. If Stony Man could catch a whiff of their interest in Europe’s nuclear reactor programs, then there’s a strong possibility that we’re going to have some drama on our end here.”
“So why are you looking at Hawkins’s rifle like it were some long-lost lover?” Manning asked.
“’Cause I cleaned it so well that it shines like a diamond,” Hawkins answered.
“No. I’m worried that according to Rafe and Cal, a 5.56 mm doesn’t have enough immediate punch to slow down one of those robots. The round’s fine for antipersonnel use at close range, but we’re dealing with small, tough-skinned mechanisms which contain redundant systems,” McCarter corrected.
Manning nodded. “Which is why you’re not the only one here who has friends in France with access to powerful guns.”
McCarter raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking of?”
“We want a big, metal-crunching punch, so I arranged for a friend of mine to drop off something,” Manning said.
There was a knock at the back door and McCarter glanced toward it. Manning rose and went to answer. Over the big Canadian’s shoulder, the Briton could see a pretty woman with long, sable dark hair and glimmering blue eyes hand him a rectangular, gift-wrapped box.
Manning greeted her in French, and McCarter could hear enough to know that the brawny Canadian was telling her sweet nothings. Whatever compliments that Manning had for the woman could hardly be classified as lies, judging from the brief glimpses he caught of her. Manning gave the woman a kiss on her cheek, and closed the door.
“How do I arrange a delivery like that?” Hawkins asked.
“You know a beautiful, intelligent woman? Shame that you can’t find those with your looks and manners,” Manning responded.
“Southern charm mean anything to y’all?” Hawkins asked.
“You’ve never shown it,” Manning said with a wink.
McCarter grinned at the jab as Hawkins waved off the Canadian’s verbal barb. “We going to give the robots flowers and hope they contract hay fever?”
Manning sighed. “You know, that’s a good idea. Too bad my plan was more pedestrian.”
He opened the box and McCarter looked at the pistol-grip, folding-stock pump shotgun within and nodded. The Briton picked up a box of ammunition that was sitting next to the weapon in the gift-wrapped container. “Twelve-gauge slugs. Innocuous for deer hunting, but it’s also strong enough to smash what passes for engines in European automobiles.”
“Or smashing the self-destruct charge out of a killer snake robot,” Hawkins noted.
“Really?” Manning asked. “I never would have thought of that.”
Hawkins rolled his eyes. “Did you ever do this to James when he was still the youngest member of the team?”
“No. But then, Cal’s laid-back, experienced and worldly,” McCarter replied.
“Plus, we’re jealous of Gadgets and Pol and all the piss they take out of Carl,” Manning added.
“That, too,” McCarter agreed. “Can’t let the Yanks have all the fun.”
Hawkins rolled his eyes and went back to fieldstripping his SIG. “Pistol-grip pump?”
“With a Knoxx Comp-stock and a folding shoulder stock,” Manning said. “It can be fired like a handgun if need be. Lyons thinks the world of his Remington with the Comp.”
“Lyons also has been known to break coconuts in two with his bare hands,” Hawkins grumbled.
“Can’t everyone?” Manning asked.
“I forgot. You’ve got more muscles than Paul Bunyan. You just dress to hide ’em,” Hawkins said.
“All right. Enough chin wag.” McCarter cut his friends off. “We’ve got leads to run down and people to beat up.”
C ARL L YONS LET THE BEAST out, and right now the rage he felt against the conspiracy that murdered a fellow investigator came down in concentrated agony on the shoulder and elbow of Darius Morrison. The chicken-wing armlock applied to him bent the two joints at angles they could barely support, tendons stretched to the snapping point.
“I know you have something to say to me, Darius,” Lyons growled, his gas mask distorting his voice to make it even more animalistic. “The only question is whether you’ll ever be able to use your arm again after your rotator cuff is permanently torn.”
“You didn’t even ask a question!” Morrison howled in pain. Tears and mucus ran from his eyes and nose as capsaicin burned the tender tissues of his face. He coughed and sputtered, suffering from the effects of riot control gas and feeling the ache from where a neoprene baton had battered several ribs.
Lyons looked toward Schwarz and Blancanales, also disguised and concealed behind their own gas masks protecting them from the remaining wisps of burning chemical smoke. “I didn’t ask him anything?”
“Nope,” Schwarz answered.
“Well, you did say hit the floor when we poured tear gas, flash-bangs and riot batons into this bunch,” Blancanales pointed out. “But you haven’t asked a question since you crippled Mickey Giardelli.”
“Giardelli?” Morrison asked. “But he has an army—”
“Had an army,” Lyons snarled, the gas mask turning the response into a gutteral reply from a ferocious beast. “They’re being hosed off the concrete, along with Giardelli’s arms and legs. Pol, you have the rubber tubing?”
Blancanales held up the pale yellow tourniquets. Morrison saw Schwarz stroke the blade of a blood-crusted saw.
