Silent Arsenal

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“Who?”

“I’m getting to that.”

Brognola scowled. “What’s the agent?”

“That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Some sort of bioengineered virus is the educated guess, and which appears nearly one hundred percent fatal. It would appear to make a Level Four virus—the worst—like catching the flu in comparison to this Bio-Agent X. We have CIA, DEA in the Golden Triangle, contract agents—mostly rebels—but Yangon is keeping a tight lid on this particular boiling pot. We can’t get any of our operatives close enough to the hot zone. Word of this disaster has leaked out to the UN, Red Cross, and so on, all manner of aid and assistance being offered to the SLORC from the world community.”

“I take it that’s not going to happen, not if Yangon thinks there’s a coming foreign invasion to burn down their poppy fields.”

“Channels of communication are open, but it will be a tough sale. It gets worse.” Another pause for dramatic effect, then Sunglasses continued. “We parked a spy spacecraft over the area in question. It was attacked at 1000 EST by a roving military spacecraft trailing in the same high-altitude geosynchronous—east to west—orbit. An anti- or hunter-killer robotic spacecraft completely destroyed it. The measured blast radius picked up by our command and control data handling systems at the NRO, NSA and CIA was big enough to vaporize several city blocks. Whether its platform is also loaded with nuclear capability…we don’t know.

“The political powers here in town are anxious to keep this from going public, since a number of key players were allowed to walk around with their agenda right under our noses. These, uh, key players, have been ‘marked,’ shall we say, in keeping with the new conventional wisdom that enemies to national security are fair game for hunting.

“Keep flipping. There’s another situation—one, it is believed, that is related to the Kachin incident and the shoot-down of our spy spacecraft.”

Brognola thumbed through the pile until he came to the high-resolution imagery of more corpses being tossed into fires. There was a shot of a silver transport plane with an emblem of what looked like a mailed fist on the fuselage, shots of men, white and black, and all of them armed, standing on a ridge overlooking a large camp on a barren plain. It was another scene of mass death and corpse incineration.

“You’re looking at a Somali warlord and his cutthroats,” Sunglasses said. “The corpses being burned are Ethiopian refugees fleeing a major civil war in their own country. We received initial reports with some degree of skepticism, but the CIA confirmed this incident with the flyover of a Predator drone. They were following up after an Ethiopian man and woman—the only survivors—managed to cross into Kenya to tell the story. This Somali warlord received a shipment, it is believed, of biotech food from the westerners you see. Only this food was deliberately poisoned. The symptoms of the outbreak are nearly identical to the Burmese guinea pigs.”

“A killer virus spawned in…what, microyeast?”

“You have many of the pertinent details, the access codes for the CD-ROMs written down, some good leads. No one has all the answers, but I gathered from my briefing by the President you might know how to proceed.”

“You never answered my original question of who?”

“Germans.”

Brognola blinked. “Yes, our good friends and allies. It is a cabal called EuroDef, run by German businessmen and military contractors who have contacts here in the United States. The workforce, technicians and scientists come from a number of different countries, including Russian and American microbiologists, virologists, scientists and so on, looking to sell their wisdom to the highest bidder.”

“Am I hearing conspiracy?”

“One so dark and potentially embarrassing…well, I get the impression this will be handled in an unofficial capacity.”

It was a lot to digest, but Brognola knew what the President was asking. The green light was flashed for Stony Man to cut loose its dogs of covert war.

The big Fed judged the spook’s long silence for dismissal. “If that’s all…”

“For now. Good luck, Mr. Brognola.”

Without another word or look back, Brognola was out the door.

THE ONLY IMMEDIATE questions in his mind were how much pain he would be forced to inflict by way of multiple contusions, abrasions and broken bones, and how much collateral damage he would wreak before he walked out with the answer he wanted. Lyons mulled the possibilities, racked his brain for a peaceful solution.

As covert operatives, the Farm had a way of frowning on extracurricular melees that tended to bring police attention to Brognola’s doorstep. Sure, the big Fed could always cut through red tape, and he could be on his merry black ops way, any charges vanishing into cyber limbo, even as he was aware he would be forced to endure sufficient and justified rebuke from Brognola. Okay, then consider the predicament with mature judgment and acute detail to responsibility.

Schwarz and Blancanales were in the War Wagon, staking out the door and the street. A quick call on his tac radio and Lyons could marshal up a little help from his friends, maybe they would play some conciliatory role as negotiators, usher him quiet and nice into the night, with all forgiven. He could have bobbed his head to the threatening noise the Perm was making, meek as a lamb, shuffled off, sorry if he’d caused any disturbance, bowing and scraping all the way out the door. He wondered if he was growing soft or getting too old to go on the muscle to thrash a guy who clearly deserved a can of whup-ass rammed into his throat or some other orifice.

Nah. Only in a perfect world, he decided, where there was peace and love and goodwill toward all men, and the young and the innocent weren’t preyed upon by adult savages. The mature, responsible Carl Lyons, then, would have to wait for another day.

“You listening to me, sport?”

Lyons had his head cocked toward a booth where a quartet of new arrivals were in a serious discussion with two of the Perm’s SS. Three looked like muscle, big and broad, clearly packing cannons beneath their sport jackets, while number four, decked out in a cashmere coat, wearing sunglasses, the goatee and ax face…

Wait a second, Lyons thought. He was sure he’d seen van Gogh somewhere before. Where? Take off the facial hair, the shades…

He would have sworn he’d seen him on TV, one of those cable talking-head shows where everyone was such an expert they could have told all the little people the mysteries of the universe. No doubt in his mind they were the VIPs, as Lyons saw Susie materialize in a mink coat, before she was led away, van Gogh wrapping a hand around the furry arm.

The Perm, snapping his fingers now, snippy. “Hey, sport. I’m the one you need to be worried about. I asked you a question.”

Lyons faced the Perm. “I heard you. All this ‘you know people,’ telling me you’ve got clout in this town. Outfit muscle, I’m guessing.”

“I’m telling you, sport, you can leave here standing or I can have you wheeled out, dump your body in the Potomac and nobody would ever know. One look at you, I don’t think you’d rate much attention.”

“What if I told you I was a special agent with the Justice Department?”

“The kind of people I know own Feds, have half the politicians in their pocket, whistling to their tune. If I don’t squash you like the insect you are, I know people who can get your badge yanked and pinned to your ass.”

“You’re a big man, is that it?”

“Bigger than you really want to find out, sport.” Lyons chuckled, nodded and grinned. “I’ve got it now. I know who you remind me of.” The Perm froze, Lyons glancing over his shoulder, found the bulldogs still on their leash. “‘The Gong Show,’ that’s it. You look like that guy, the host, the one with the frizzy hairdo, shirt always unbuttoned to his navel, you know, showing off a chest I’ve seen with more muscle and meat on a starving Kurd refugee. Loved that show. I especially got a kick out of Gene-Gene the Dancing Machine. Remember that guy? Hey, maybe it’s really you, that silly guy, you know, career change… What the hell was his name? Can you still mimic those Gene-Gene moves?”

The moment was sealed now and Lyons knew what had to be done. It was way beyond hope, mature or responsible.

“That’s it…”

The Perm was rising when Lyons grabbed him by the earlobe, squeezing, twisting, lifting him to his feet. Funny what pain did to get the other guy’s attention. The Perm’s squeal was cutting through the rock music when Lyons clamped a hand over his throat.

And the SS was coming.

There was a general paralysis among the patrons, Lyons saw, catching a couple of scantily clad females mirrored in the wall glass as they scurried for cover. Lyons had the pair of goons marked in the mirror, as he spun the “Gong Show” clone around, gauging range to target number one. The foot shot out. Lyons rewarded by a whoof and eyeballs rolling back in the head as he scored a home run to testicles. Number two faltered, watching as his comrade folded at his feet. The .45 was out next, whipping sideways, slamming off number two’s scalp. So much 250 pounds of bulging pecs and biceps, but Lyons liked the way he hit the floor, out cold, the odds cut by half. The dancer on stage screamed and grabbed up her clothes. Lyons adjusted his aim as goons three and four bulled their way through the crowd.

“Freeze!” Lyons shouted, the sight of the .45 thrust at their faces freezing SS Three and Four in their tracks. “Eat the deck, facedown!”

“Mr. Greer, do you want us to call the cops?”

“I am the cops, asshole. Last chance!”

“Do what he says…no cops,” Greer sputtered.

When they stretched out, Lyons flung the Perm to the edge of the stage, the .45’s muzzle pressed between his eyes. “One time. Where is Dee-Dee?” Lyons saw the Perm had trouble finding a tongue he was on the verge of swallowing, released some pressure. “What was that?”

“You don’t know…who you’re fucking with, Miami.”

Lyons cocked the hammer to another shrill cry from somewhere near the stage.

“Room…”

Lyons bent closer, caught the number of the hotel suite. Time to exit stage left, but Lyons spotted a few wannabe heroes in the crowd, eyes angry, jaws working, shadows shuffling in the mirrors. He pulled the Perm to his feet, sweeping around the .45, barking at a suit to sit. He was halfway to the front door when he came to a table of three guys who looked set to throw up a barricade of muscle, twitching around in their seats, mouthing words Lyons couldn’t make out.

“Here,” Lyons told them, flinging the Perm over the table. A tumble through bottles and ashtrays, and the Perm flopped down, pinning them to their seats. “You three look like you could use a lap dance.”

HERMANN SCHWARZ was getting antsy. He was sitting at the bank of monitors in the War Wagon, surveying M Street and the door to the bar, the picture piped in through a minicam, no larger than a pinhead, fixed to an antenna. A twist of the dial and he could monitor the entire street for several blocks, the high-tech eye doubling as an instant camera, able to take night snapshots, infrared lens capable of coming on with the flick of a switch.

“I don’t like it, Pol. Our fearless leader’s been in there too long. You know Carl, some places tend to bring out the beast in him, and that’s saying something.”

Blancanales had the wheel, his head rolling side to side as he surveyed the street. “He can give new meaning to bull in a china shop, I’ll grant you that.”

The whole setup was screwy, but they had already killed enough time hashing it over until they both knew it began to sound like a bunch of bellyaching. Still, that didn’t mean they had to like it.

A former cop partner of Ironman’s, Schwarz thought, dropping out of the sky, smelling and looking like he needed detox more than walking around in public, hunting down his runaway daughter. This Evans guy back in their suite, drinking their booze, watching 3000 Miles to Graceland, when that should have been them. They were on R and R, sure enough, but Schwarz was waiting for the phone with secured line to start ringing off the hook any second, Brognola or the Farm’s mission controller, Barbara Price, wondering why they had absconded with the supertech War Wagon to go tooling around downtown D.C. What would he tell them, provided, of course, he could even bleat out a word during the ass-chewing?

“Gadgets, I think there might be a problem. Start shooting pics.”

After all of two seconds, watching as bodies began streaming out the door, suits harried and hustling off into the night, Schwarz read the body language, loud and clear. They were fleeing from a human wrecking ball.

“Pol, how come I get the weird feeling Carl made contact and the words ‘please and thank you’ weren’t part of his vocabulary?”

“Gadgets, Pol!”

Tac radio in hand, Schwarz punched on, in sync with Pol’s, “Yeah!”

“Get your fingers out of your asses and your heads out of Graceland. Four assholes and a chippy in a mink coat should be out front by now!”

Schwarz spied the party in question as they swung away from the front door, began marching down the sidewalk toward a waiting limo. Schwarz began snapping pictures even as Lyons barked for him to do just that. “I’m on it!”

“I’m especially interested in the guy who looks like van Gogh. You see him?”

“I’ve got him,” Schwarz answered.

“What’s the situation?” Blancanales needed to know.

Schwarz heard the name of the hotel and the suite number.

“You know where it is?”

“It’s in Crystal City,” Blancanales answered.

“I’ll follow in my car, but you get there first, you wait,” Lyons growled. “We just went tactical, so get yourselves strapped in to some serious hardware. On the ride, Gadgets, you can stay busy giving me a computer sketch of van Gogh sans the goatee and shades. You copy?”

“Roger.”

Schwarz took one final shot of the limo’s plates as the vehicle lurched ahead, gathered speed and shot past them. Blancanales was cranking on the engine, dropping it into gear when Schwarz spotted Lyons bulling his way out onto the sidewalk. “Hey, Carl. You want me to take a shot of you for our scrapbook?” Schwarz cut off their leader’s voice just as he launched into a tirade.

Blancanales was throwing the rig into a hard turn to give pursuit when Schwarz said, “Hey, Pol, I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“When we write our memoirs I think I’ll call it, 3000 Miles to the Farm. What do you think?”

“We’re both going to be 3000 miles to nowhere if we don’t do what Carl wants.”

Just then the red line beeped. Schwarz stared at it as though it were a viper coiled to bite, said, “I think no truer words were ever spoken.”

“Are you going to answer that?”

Schwarz slowly punched on, attempted his best winning, innocent voice. “Yes?”

“You three want to explain yourselves?”

It wasn’t real hard to read the tone. Schwarz knew Barbara Price wasn’t asking how they were feeling.

“THEY WHAT? They’re doing what?”

After so many years in the same office at the Justice Department and climbing the ranks, certain perks now came with the job. Brognola’s spacious office was soundproof, bugproof, with recently installed bullet-and-bomb-reinforced windows. There was a small conference table, a couch for sleeping, a personal workstation, a giant TV built into the wall. All things considered, they were the creature comforts necessary for a man who spent most of his professional hours on his feet and on the edge.

With perks, however, came more responsibility and worries. Translate added worry to the human factor.

He wasn’t thirty seconds on the satellite link to the Farm, catching the sitrep from Price, when he was chomping on half a pack of Rolaids. He heard how Gadgets, with his infinite knowledge of high-tech, had most likely accessed the code panel in the barn where the War Wagon was housed. He heard about the task for a friend Lyons had undertaken, how the leader of Able Team needed a few more hours, they might be on to something big. Working at light speed to relay the data handed off by Sunglasses, Brognola feared a long night ahead for all of them.

“This isn’t the first time they’ve pulled some bull-headed nonsense like this,” Brognola noted. “Goddammit! Those three could test the patience of the Virgin Mary. I tell you what. If I end up having to bail them out of some police problem, they can bet their black bank accounts their next vacation will be in North Korea.”

“That might be worth some serious consideration.”

“I need them front and center in the War Room when I land at the Farm—no more than three hours from now. If that vehicle doesn’t return in the same condition they took it, they will rue the day they pulled this stunt. I mean, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth, and it won’t be from either of us.”

“I’ll pass that on.”

“Are you getting this?”

“It’s coming through. We’ll get right on it. Can you give me a quick rundown on what we’re looking at, Hal?”

“The way it was told to me, we might be looking at the beginning of Armageddon.”

“That’s quick enough.”

CHAPTER THREE

Their tail of the limo to Crystal City was a jagged blur of white light and angry noise for Rosario Blancanales. Even with radar jammer and GPS monitor guiding the way, it was a miracle of sorts, he thought, no cops had roared up their bumper. The limo’s driver set the pace, however, flying along, whipping past other vehicles, oblivious or indifferent to potential speed traps. It left Blancanales to wonder if they’d been made, where they were really going, what, if anything, they had to hide. Somehow the Stony Man warrior maintained a quarter-mile distance to their target.

It was a juggling act, no mistake, manning the wheel, shooting through town on I-395, rocketing next down Route 1, needle pushing eighty, slipping on the custom-webbed rigging to carry the mini-Uzi, wondering which asp would bite first. There was Lyons on the tac radio, snarling out the game plan, which was about as simple and crazy as it came; crash the suite’s door, bull-rush inside, no fix on numbers, but if it was armed, it went down.

Then there was Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, someone they didn’t want on their ass if this night went to hell. Her calm but cold voice still chimed its potential death knell in his head as she laid down the law in no uncertain terms—back to the Farm in three hours sharp, not even bug splatter on the windshield, do not get nabbed by police. She left the threat of consequences—regarding their AWOL status and return of the War Wagon in mint condition—open to the imagination. This, as bizarre coincidence had it, as he shot them past Arlington National Cemetery.