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“Whoever installed this here was watching through the camera until activating the jammer,” Schwarz said, swinging around his laptop. “They waited until those poor folks back there were in the proper position, and then killed each one, making sure the bodies fell behind cover to not warn anybody pulling into the parking lot.”
“Ruthless,” Blancanales muttered in open disgust.
“Monstrous,” Lyons amended, resting the hot barrel of the Atchisson on a broad shoulder. “They were watching the cemetery through that video camera, until we arrived. Then they put the Sentry on automatic, and activated the radio jammers.”
“And burned out the transponder,” Schwarz added glumly, lifting a piece of melted electronics. “There’s no way we can track them through this.”
“Wait a second. Those are blocks of C-4 inside the Sentry,” Blancanales said with a frown. “If this thing was designed to explode and destroy any possible evidence if somebody captured it, then why didn’t it?” Slowly he smiled. “Oh, right.”
“Exactly,” Schwarz agreed, patting the laptop. “They were jamming us, but we were also jamming them.”
Lyons almost smiled. “You’re a devious man, Gadgets.”
Blancanales snorted. “Never saw an Auto-Sentry equipped with multiple weapon systems before. That also something new, Gadgets?”
Attaching some wires to an exposed circuit board, the man shrugged. “Nothing I ever heard about. Must be a modification they did. Clever idea, though.”
“Yeah, clever as hell,” Blancanales muttered, glancing back at the dead people sprawled in the ruined shrubbery. From this angle, he could see that the team had missed several corpses scattered around the hillock.
Typing some commands into the laptop, Schwarz grinned in satisfaction. Reaching past the twitching Barrett, the man yanked out some wiring, and the Sentry went dark and still. Instantly, the jamming field went off the air.
“Sky King to Rock Hounds. ETA, four minutes.” Grimaldi’s voice blared in their earbuds. “Repeat, ETA three minutes.”
“Sky King, this is Hollywood,” Lyons said quickly into his throat mike. “The party is over. Return to base. We’ll—” He glanced down at the van in the gravel parking lot. The chassis was dented, but still serviceable. Even the Lexan plastic windows were intact. However, all four of the tires were flat. “We’ll grab a cab, and be there soon.”
“What happened to your roller skate?”
Lyons grimaced. “Somebody brought a firecracker to the party.”
“Ah, understood, Hollywood,” Grimaldi continued smoothly. “I’ll have Bear call off the local cops, and send a couple of blacksuits to recover what’s left of the van.”
“Much appreciated,” Lyons said, listening to the howl of sirens growing steadily louder.
“All a part of the service, Hollywood.” Grimaldi chuckled. “This is Sky King, returning to blacktop. See you soon. Out.”
“Over and out,” Lyons said, brushing back his blond hair.
The three men waited expectantly for a few minutes until the police sirens abruptly stopped. In the ringing silence, the decimation of the cemetery somehow seemed even worse than before.
Loosening the clips and wires, Schwarz returned the laptop to his shoulder bag, then began ripping out the circuit boards from the Sentry.
“All right, anybody feel like checking the grave of the Russian janitor?” Lyons asked, clicking the safety on the Atchisson.
“I’ll do it,” Blancanales snorted, swinging up the M-16 assault rifle. Sweeping the rows of headstones, he found a fresh mound of dirt, checked the name on the headstone and then fired a single round. Instantly the grave exploded, blowing a geyser of dirt and rocks toward the clouds.
“Yeah, thought so,” the man muttered, lowering the assault rifle. “You would have to be a fool to booby trap an entire cemetery, but not the main reason we came here.”
“And whatever else these people are, they’re not fools,” Lyons agreed dourly, bending to recover one of the empty 25 mm rounds for the big Barrett.
Inspecting the bottom, the man was not surprised to see there was no lot number on the brass. There was no way to trace the ammunition. The Stony Man team used something similar in their weapons, as did the CIA, Navy SEALs, Homeland Security, British MI-5, the Mossad, a lot of folks who wanted to keep their involvement in clandestine operations out of the public scrutiny.
“Then again, maybe they are,” Schwarz muttered in a measured tone, extracting a tiny microprocessor from the morass of wiring and holding it triumphantly to the noon sunlight.
FIVE MILES AWAY in nearby Boca Raton, an armed man on the roof of the tallest downtown building released the telescope. When the transponder signal of the Auto-Sentry stopped broadcasting, that meant the jammer was in operation, which meant the balloon had gone up at the Bonaventure Cemetery. However, he was safe. No matter what sort of advanced military opticals the invaders might have with them, there was no way for anybody to find him this far away without astronomical-grade equipment, the kind that could not be transported without a hundred men and a fleet of trucks.
Pulling a PDA from his belt, the man thumbed in a coded text message, then sent it out over the Internet as a microsecond T-burst. The message was simple and concise. “Package delivered, goods en route.”
Tucking away the device, the man wiped his prints off the big telescope and headed for the elevator. Time to go home. Briefly, the mercenary wondered if the three men were with the FBI, CIA, NSA or more of those triple-damn Homeland Security agents. Those were very hard boys, and mighty hard to stop. Then again, it really didn’t make a difference. Once Westmore had them strapped down to a surgical table and then began to remove pieces of their internal anatomy, they’d talk.
Everybody always did.
CHAPTER FOUR
Podbanske Base, Slovakia
When the Communist government fell, the Russian soldiers assigned to the Czechoslovakian missile base simply turned off the equipment and went home. Naturally, they took along everything they could in lieu of pay, but all of the big machinery stayed intact and fully operational—including a mainframe computer and all of the big thermonuclear weapons. Only the tactical nukes had been carried away, which was why General Novostk had been forced to trade a Euro-Russian hydrogen bomb for a Chinese tactical nuke. That trade was the key to get the much more useful T-bombs.
In every way possible, the Soviet missile base was superior to the old headquarters of Saris Castle in the badlands of the Carpathian Mountains where even the goats found nothing to eat. Easily half of the crumbling ruins were inhabitable during the winter, with the water pipes freezing solid, the toilets backing up and the electricity fading away for no apparent reason. Then the soldiers had been forced to become extremely proficient with their handguns to eliminate the staggering rat population. One section of the cellar they had declared a demilitarized zone, and simply nailed the door shut in surrender.
But here at Missile Base Nine, the Slovakians had lights, heat, food, weapons, vehicles, everything needed to wage war on the hated Russians. Of course, the general had known about the base for decades, but even when it had been abandoned, there was no way to get past the massive armored door at the entrance. Then, like a gift from God, some crazy American billionaire had hired them to steal a T-bomb, and offered full technical support, including an American criminal who was an expert at opening bank vaults. Once the Slovakians got past the door, the general discovered the nuclear weapons in storage, and a bold new plan was made, with Lindquist eagerly on board from the very beginning.
Prompted by a blast of the Russian truck’s horn, a dozen soldiers rushed out of a tinted-glass office on the loading dock to assist with the unloading of the T-bomb.
Masking his impatience, General Novostk waited for the unloading to commence. On their way to Slovakia, Colonel Lindquist and Lieutenant Vladislav had been dropped off at a small island in the Black Sea to proceed on their individual assignments, recruitment and misdirection. This would allow the general to concentrate on the real mission: revenge and mass destruction.
“Good to have you back, sir,” a corporal shouted to Novostk, giving a stiff salute. “May I take it that the mission went well?”
“More than well. We have acquired seven of the weapons,” Novostk replied, returning the salute. Normally, soldiers did not salute a superior officer while inside a building, but the entire Red Army base was underground, and so technically inside, so he accepted one if offered, but did not push the matter. These were patriots, ready to die to serve their nation. Novostk would not begrudge them some minor blurring of the rules of military etiquette.
“Seven,” the corporal gasped. The word was repeated several times by the unloading crew. “That’s grand news, sir. We’ll smash the Russians for sure now.”
Did that mean he had harbored doubts before? Novostk wondered privately. That was disquieting, but then soldiers always grumbled, even patriots.
Just then, an electric crane rumbled into life, the arm swinging out over the truck, heavy chains jingling as they descended. The soldiers were scurrying to attach the chains to the precious T-bomb.
“Handle them carefully, gentlemen!” the general bellowed in his best parade-ground voice. “If you set one off, I will be most displeased.”
That made the soldiers crack smiles, and they redoubled the work efforts, the previous tension massively eased.
“I’m always impressed how you do that, sir,” the corporal said in clear envy, resting a hand on the Rex pistol holster at his side. “I’ll never make much of an officer until I learn how.”
“You will learn in time,” General Novostk said, walking out of the way of the busy workers. “Now, is there anything to report on your end? How is the house cleaning progressing?”
The corporal flashed a toothy grin. “Complete victory, sir. We got rid of all the bats by using a flamethrower and roasting the little bastards alive.”
Slowly, the general raised an eloquent eyebrow. The hull of an ICBM was just strong enough to withstand launch, and keep the fuel tanks attached to the engines long enough to reach the target halfway around the world. There had been ten missiles snug in their silos. All of them had been damaged in some way from sheer neglect, but by cannibalizing parts for one to fix another, he had hoped to get three, maybe four of them, into working order.
“Son, did you just tell me,” the general asked in a measure voice, “that you used a flamethrower to clean out the colony of bats inside the launch tube of a thermonuclear ICBM?”
That caught the corporal off guard. “Why…yes sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean…”
With a gentle thump, the first decahedron was placed on the loading dock, and men swarmed to remove the chains to go for the next.
“Were the missiles damaged in any way?” Novostk demanded, every trace of humor and patience gone from his demeanor. Suddenly the friendly old man in a uniform was gone, replaced with “Iron Ivan,” the terror of the Carpathian Mountains.
“No, sir,” the corporal replied hastily, giving another fast salute. “Well, a little, but during the course of fighting the blaze we found a sealed tunnel that led to a cave on the surface. It holds ten SS-25 Sickle missile trucks, sir. Each of them in prime condition, with no work needed at all to make them ready for combat. Well, aside from charging the truck batteries.”
The general squinted. “Ten of them?”
“Yes, sir, ten.”
The second bomb was placed alongside the first.
“Indeed,” the general murmured, deep in thought.
The quartermaster records had only listed one such truck on the premises, and the soldiers had never been able to find the vehicle. The natural assumption was that it had been stolen along with so much other equipment when the staff departed. But now the general could see that report had meant one wing of the deadly missiles. True, they had nowhere near the range of the monster ICBMs in the silos, but those needed a lot of work to get working once more, while the SS-25 Sickles were ready to go. As the old saying went, a copper in your hand was better than a bag of gold in your dreams.
Ten missiles and seven bombs, with one of those held back as a reserve and Colonel Lindquist using another to divert the world’s attention. If the technicians could not crack the defenses of the weapons, he would launch all ten missiles, one live and a dummy toward every target. That would double the chances of the T-bomb getting through the air defenses of each city chosen: Beijing, Paris, London, New Delhi and Washington. Millions would die in the volley, quite possibly a lot more. Which would guarantee the start of World War III, and the end of Russia. The war might spread to other nations, but the Slovakians would be fine, and that was all that mattered.
“That is excellent news, Corporal,” Novostk said, repeating the man’s rank to let him know he could keep it, for now. “Make me a list of every major city they can reach, along with flight times.”
“Here you are, sir,” the corporal said, thrusting out an envelope. “Population numbers, size of military, any known antimissile defenses, distance in kilometers and miles and estimated flight times. Once we install the bombs in the warheads we can launch in five minutes.”
Waving the fellow away, Novostk read the report while the rest of the bombs were laid down as gently as Christmas eggs.
“Sir, the six bombs are unloaded,” Sergeant Melori reported with a casual salute. “I already have some men hauling one down to the basement to be attached to the self-destruct circuits.” He knew there used to be a big hydrogen bomb hardwired there, but they had traded it at Milan in exchange for the NBC suits, the VX nerve gas and many miscellaneous items needed to bring the base back to a full war status, including several tons of food. Trading bombs for corned beef—the technician wasn’t quite sure who got the better of that deal.
“Very good,” the general said, folding the report to tuck it away inside his jacket. “Now, I fear that I must speak to you on a most delicate matter.” He paused. “A private matter.”
“Of course, sir,” Melori replied, wondering what his oafish friend Vladislav had done now. Killed someone or broken another piece of irreplaceable equipment? Soon the general would decide the man was a menace to the mission, and ask to have a quiet word with him somewhere in private. Just the two of them, on the end of the cliff, and a gun containing a single bullet.
Joining the general at the end of the loading dock, the sergeant warily kept his back to the wall.
Noticing the surreptitious maneuver, Novostk smiled. “No, Sergeant, I am not here to deliver some gun-barrel justice. Instead, I need to ask you a very personal question.”
“Sir?” Sergeant Melori asked, also not liking the direction this new line was heading.
Clearly unsure of how to proceed, the general fumbled for the correct words, not wishing to insult the man he needed for an important favor.
“I think I know what you’re trying to ask, sir,” Sergeant Melori whispered softly. “And I would admit this to nobody else, but the answer is yes, I do not care for the intimate company of women.” Even as the man said the words, his stomach tightened. Back in the hill country, such a declaration would get you killed. But Melori had taken a solemn oath to die for the general, so at the very least he should tell the man the plain, unvarnished truth.
“Thank God.” General Novostk exhaled in relief. “Sergeant, I need you to return to our headquarters at Saris Castle and oversee the safety of a prisoner. The professor will most likely be…uncooperative…and may need to be forced to do as we wish, and unlock the secrets of the T-bombs. She is also supposed to be a very beautiful woman, and I do not want the men at the castle to, shall we say, lose sight of our real goal. We need her to remove the antipersonnel hardware defending the bombs, not set one off early to end her unbearable sexual torture.”
“Or to replace the traps with new ones of her own,” Melori finished in sudden understanding. “And with my knowledge of electronics, I’ll also be able to stop her from doing any unwanted augmentation of the weapons.” He blinked. “This is why you’re having her work at the castle, and not here. Just in case.”
The general was pleased to see his choice had been the correct one. “Exactly. Our work is too important to risk being derailed by a madwoman defending her honor.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take ten men as an escort, have them load a T-bomb into a half-track and leave immediately.”
“Make it fifty, and bring along some motorcycles, and the Soviet tank. It is a hard journey through rough country, and nothing must get in your way. I want you there long before Lieutenant Vladislav arrives.”
So let the men have time to get used to me being in charge. Smart. The old man didn’t miss a trick. Then an unpleasant thought occurred. “Sir, what if…what if she cannot be convinced to help us?”
“She must,” the general said flatly, turning away. “There is no other option.”
Slowly comprehension dawned and the sergeant nodded in grim understanding. They would attempt to do this honorably, but as the hated KGB had taught the entire nation, the end always justified the means. The prisoner would be made to comply, end of discussion. And may God have mercy on our souls.
Milan, Italy
A GLOSSY BLACK Hummer drove slowly along the street as it meandered through a series of low hills. At a fork, the vehicle waited as liveried guards swung an ornate iron gate aside. Rolling through the barrier, the people inside the Hummer saw the gate close behind them. The gate meant nothing; it was merely a social courtesy to deter outsiders from taking this particular road. However, it also served as a line of disembarkation, clearly showing the local police where their jurisdiction ended. Technically the land beyond the flimsy fence was still Italy, but in reality it was a world as unreachable as Mars. The mansion and surrounding grounds were privately owned by the Norel Corporation, the biggest arms dealers in the world.
Carefully moving along the private street, the driver of the Hummer stopped for a security check at a brick kiosk where the guards carried holstered pistols. Everything was in order, and the Hummer proceeded up a steeply sloping road into the rugged mountains. On the beautiful azure sea below, sailboats moved in the far distance, along with an unusually high concentration of yachts, and a couple of cargo carriers flying the flag of either the politically neutral Switzerland or Luxembourg.
Privately owned helicopters flitted back and forth from the vessels, steadily conveying passengers to the heliport of the mansion sprawled on top of the craggy mountain. All of the vessels were moored just past the twelve-mile mark from the coast, and thus were in international waters and safe from any unwanted intrusion by the federal police, the Italian navy or even NATO.
Once more, the driver of the black Hummer stopped at a kiosk for a security check. This deep into Norel territory, the kiosk more resembled a concrete pillbox. The guards were carrying AK-105 assault rifles, each one equipped with a 30 mm grenade launcher. Off to the side was a sandbag nest where guards were manning several of the new MANPAD rocket launchers, powerful enough to blow a hole through even a U.S. Army Abrams M-1 tank or an Apache gunship.
The security guards found the people in the Hummer acceptable and waved them through. Sheikh Abdul Ben Hassan was a regular customer here, although he always seemed to send different representatives. But that was the prerogative of a customer; the only person a man could trust was himself, and the only safe place on Earth was the grave.
Following the road to the crest of the mountain, the driver of the Hummer stopped the vehicle in a spacious parking lot nearly filled with luxury vehicles.
“You can almost taste the money,” David McCarter muttered, running a finger along his stiff collar. He was wearing a designer suit, a blue cravat of raw silk held in place by a gold stickpin. His shoes were Italian loafers and a Rolex Supreme glinted on his wrist. As a former member of the elite British SAS, the lanky man felt about as uncomfortable as a nun in a whorehouse on coupon night.
“Smell the blood money, you mean,” muttered T. J. Hawkins, maintaining a neutral demeanor as he set the brake. Born Thomas Jefferson Hawkins, the combat veteran was called T.J. by his family, and Hawk by his fellow soldiers. A sleek Beretta machine pistol was holstered at his side, spare clips thrusting up from an ammo pouch like ancient Japanese samurai swords.
Stepping out of the Hummer, the two men coolly studied the high stone wall separating the parking lot from the Norel estate on the other side. There were no coils of concertina wire, electrical wires or even video cameras edging the defenses of the mountaintop mansion. But the former member of Delta Force knew that the plain-looking wall was jammed full of reactive tank armor, antipersonnel mines, EM scanners and more proximity sensors than the west wing of the White House. There was nothing crude or slapdash about the Norel operations, but then the international weapons merchants were richer than most small nations. Every weekend, the Norel exposition was open for business, and as old saying goes, business was good.
As with many aspects of life in Italy, the operators had an understanding with the law, along with an uneasy truce. No deaths occurred here, and no weapons were sold to anybody who lived within a hundred miles. If the federal police or the military ever did arrive, they could arrest many of the customers, but the next day Milan, Rome and Venice would be flooded with advanced weaponry sold at discount prices, the Norel cartel practically giving the guns away as revenge.
Both of the Stony Man operatives knew that there were no actual weapons at the exposition. Only brochures and smiling salesmen. A customer perused the merchandise, made selections and paid a hefty deposit, with the rest of the money upon delivery, which was always very far away from Milan. It was a genuine den of thieves that operated on the honor system.
After a moment McCarter snapped his fingers and the remaining three members of Phoenix Force climbed from the Hummer as if they had been waiting for permission. They were all well dressed, freshly scrubbed, yet carried the unmistakable aura of controlled violence, the calling card of every mercenary alive.
“Man, I hate doing this naked,” Gary Manning muttered. The burly Canadian brushed a callused hand over his slicked-down hair. He felt like a damn fool in the tailored clothing, with a small diamond clipped to his left earlobe. There was a bulky Desert Eagle automatic holstered under his jacket, two spare clips attached to the straps. An expert sniper, his preferred weapon was a Barrett .50 rifle, but that had to be left behind for this particular mission.
“At least you have that popgun,” Rafael Encizo countered, adjusting his glasses. “I only have my winning smile.”
The eyewear was fake, merely sheets of clear glass, but they served as a vital part of his disguise as the money. The Stony Man operative was wearing a dark business suit of only moderate price range, but the attaché case handcuffed to his wrist was sheathed in the finest Moroccan leather. The lock was a biometric sensor plate, and the hinges glistened like solid gold. The stocky Puerto Rican had a quick smile, and even faster hands, and was considered one of the best underwater demolitions experts in the world.
“No guns allowed, brother,” Calvin James said in a thick Chicago accent. The former U.S. Navy SEAL was wearing a yachting outfit, including white deck shoes and a jaunty cap. He was also armed with a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum, the big-bore automatic carefully fired a dozen times to take the clean sheen off the brand-new weapon.
“Rather ironic for a weapons market, don’t you think?” Encizo asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t think they know what the word means,” McCarter replied, striding for the front gate.
Leaving the Hummer unlocked, the other men followed close behind as befitting their place as his staff. At the gate, the Stony Man operatives showed their identification once more to the guards. These men were wearing Level Five body armor, the so-called Dragonskin, and carrying MP-5 submachine guns slung on their shoulders. Grudgingly, McCarter approved of the choice of weapons. The Heckler & Koch MP-5 was what his team regularly used on combat missions, and in his opinion was the best all-purpose weapon in existence.
“Welcome to Norel, gentlemen,” a bald guard said, waving a hand toward the plastic arch of a weapon scanner. “Step this way, please.”
