War Tactic

by Don Pendleton

  “Got it,” the electronics expert said.

  Lyons slung his shotgun and took out his Colt Python. With his tactical flashlight in his support hand, he led the way, checking every shadow, every corner. The crates had very obviously been stacked to create a winding pathway through the storage area. The ceiling tiles had been spray-painted black to absorb light. He didn’t like that, either. There could be pinhole cameras up there watching their every move through the maze, and they would have no way of knowing.

  The path began to widen. The crates had been stacked in a pattern that formed a kind of canyon in front of them. The upper edges of the formation were very close to the ceiling, but there was a gap. Lyons looked up and saw something move.

  “Down!” he shouted. “Contact high, contact high, at the edges above!”

  Schwarz and Blancanales pressed themselves against opposite edges of the “canyon” walls, aiming up at the top tier of crates. They both began firing; Schwarz with his SMG, Blancanales with his M-4. Shells began to bounce and jingle on the concrete warehouse floor. The return fire from the enemy, shrouded by that top tier of crates, rained down on them.

  Fortunately the angle was bad for the ambushers as long as Able Team stayed pressed up against the crate walls. Whoever had designed this ambush had tried to be too clever for his own good. The layout kept Able Team pinned, but made it impossible for them to be shot down as long as they stayed where they were.

  That meant, though, that their forward progress was arrested. They couldn’t keep going, couldn’t either escape this maze or clear the building, if they were pinned into position. The enemy had all the time in the world, because as long as Able Team was pinned down under fire, no effective action was being taken against RhemCorp.

  “Fitzpatrick!” Lyons yelled. He had taken up a position next to Blancanales, still holding his Python ready. He would need to take long-distance shots, not lay down a cloud of fire with the USAS-12. Picking off enemies one at a time at distance, that was what the long-barreled revolver was good for. He gritted his teeth. “I want Jason Fitzpatrick! Show yourself, you son of a—”

  A single grenade bounced down the steps of the crate walls until it landed on the floor near Lyons.

  “I’d call that a ‘no,’” Blancanales said.

  “You’re getting,” Lyons said, scooping up the grenade and throwing it back with all his might, “just as bad as Gadgets.”

  The grenade exploded about halfway up the wooden canyon wall. Pieces of crate burned through the air, wooden shrapnel that embedded itself in Lyons’s forearm as he covered his face. He allowed himself a brief, angry roar. It stung like a mother.

  Twice more, the men above them tried to throw grenades, and twice more, the men of Able Team managed to toss them back. Lyons got the second one and Schwarz got the third one. Finally, one of the shooters up above tried to get tricky and wait out a count before throwing his grenade. He waited too long and the grenade exploded a fraction of a second after leaving his hand, shredding another section of crates and spraying them with the blood of whatever hapless enemy had thrown the bomb.

  “That probably ends the high-explosive portion of tonight’s program,” Schwarz said. “If they’re smart, that is. I wouldn’t want any more of that.”

  “We’re still pinned down,” Blancanales noted.

  “I have a plan,” Lyons said. “Get ready to pour your fire into the opposite tier.”

  “You’re not… You’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing, are you?”

  Lyons grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Uh-oh.” Blancanales switched magazines in his M-4. Schwarz did the same with his Colt SMG.

  “On my three,” said Lyons. “One, two… Three!”

  As Schwarz and Blancanales opened fire, leveling a withering stream of fire at the top of the opposite crate wall, Lyons began to slither his way up the wall closest to him. He had to stay low, hugging the crates, so that the angle of fire was simply too tight for the men at the top to effectively target him. The higher he got, the easier it would be for the shooters on the opposite tier to see him. That was why the covering fire provided by Blancanales and Schwarz was so critical to the maneuver…and why it was so risky.

  Enemy fire ripped furrows into the wooden surfaces around him. A nearby shot drove splinters into his face, causing Lyons to flinch back and swear. He was able to brush the worst of them out with his arm, but it was a near thing. A few inches to the right and those fragments might have blinded him.

  He kept climbing, staying low, making progress as quickly as he dared. Once or twice the men on the opposite wall tried to shoot at him, but his teammates were doing a good job of keeping the bad guys off him. He was maybe two-thirds of the way up the “wall” when he saw one of the shooters on his side stick his head out.

  “So long, buttercup,” grumbled Lyons. In a single, fluid motion, he cocked back the Python’s hammer, extended his arm, lined up the sights on the enemy gunner’s forehead and squeezed the trigger. The shot broke free and the hand cannon bucked in his fist, sending a .357 Magnum hollowpoint rocketing away and through the doomed man’s skull. He fell as if pole-axed.

  Wait for it, Lyons thought.

  Sure enough, the man next to the dead shooter got curious and broke cover to check on his friend. The moment Lyons saw the man’s face in profile, he squeezed off a shot double-action, working the trigger through its paces as the cylinder rotated, the weapon cocked and the hammer fell. The side of the enemy gunner’s face exploded and he, too, dropped. For the slightest fraction of a second Lyons had time to consider the closed-casket funeral that dumb bastard was going to require.

  He kept going.

  Terrified now, the gunmen began panic-firing in all directions. As Lyons watched in disbelief, they managed a few panic shots into the ceiling. Below him, his teammates were sniping away a few shots every few seconds, conserving ammo while keeping the opposite number of enemy pinned.

  Lyons shoved his Python back into its holster, pushed the USAS-12 forward on its sling and pumped his big legs for all he was worth. He had to suppress the urge to let out a war cry as he reached the top of the crate wall and threw himself over the ridge formed by the crate pile.

  He landed on top of one of the gunmen.

  The poor bastard underneath him was wearing a Blackstar uniform, as were all of the other shooters who had been hiding at the top of the crate canyon. Lyons drove an elbow, hard, into the back of the man’s neck. Whether the blow killed him or only knocked him unconscious wasn’t important. The man beneath Lyons became very still and all the tension went out of him. That was all the big ex-cop needed. The other Blackstar gunners stared at Lyons in disbelief, suddenly very aware that their guns were pointing up and over the crate wall protecting them from below…while Lyons’s weapon was pointed directly at them. The big automatic shotgun was very intimidating at close range.

  The Blackstar shooter closest to Lyons looked as if he wanted to say something. His jaw was hanging open.

  “Seriously?” Lyons said. “What is this, frigging amateur night?”

  “Don’t shoot!” said one of three men. The trio was looking down at the man Lyons was still crouching on.

  “Throw your guns down,” Lyons ordered. “Do it slowly.” He heard a sudden flurry of activity. There was more gunfire down below. He didn’t dare turn to look, but he was pretty sure he understood what was happening. Now that he had the shooters on this side occupied, Schwarz and Blancanales were climbing up the opposite side and taking on the men over there. It made perfect sense.

  “We’re civilians,” said the most nervous of the trio, the one who had asked Lyons not to shoot. “We have rights. We demand a lawyer.”

  “Buddy,” Lyons said, “I’m having kind of a bad day. My face hurts. My arm hurts. And, honestly, I’m really sick and tired of you jerks. Unless one of you can tell me where Jason Fitzpatrick is, I’m really not interested in having anything else come outta your pie
holes.”

  “He’s not here,” said the Blackstar shooter. “He helped us set everything up, but then he took the chopper back.”

  “Back where?” said Lyons.

  “Back to headquarters,” said the man. “The RhemCorp facility in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta,” said Lyons. “All right. Now all three of you lay down on the ground so I can tie your wrists. And don’t think I don’t see you fidgeting there, Shifty Eyes,” Lyons said, directing his comment to the man on the talker’s right. The nervous spokesman’s fellow Blackstar operative had been reaching for something behind his back, very slowly, hoping that Lyons was too slow or too stupid to catch the action.

  “Don’t shoot,” said the spokesman again. “Don’t shoot. I swear we don’t want any trouble.”

  The shifty-eyed man went for the gun he was hiding. Lyons squeezed the trigger of the USAS-12. Shifty Eyes turned into so much shredded meat as the buckshot and slug rounds tore through him. The other two were reaching for weapons of their own, but they never had time to manage it. Lyons swung the barrel of his weapon left, then right, before their pistols ever cleared their concealment holsters.

  Lyons, from long habit, ducked back, aware that all the racket he had just made might attract enemy fire.

  “Ironman? Ironman,” came Blancanales’s voice in his transceiver. “Ironman, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  Lying on his back, holding the shotgun against his chest, Lyons, looked up at the blacked-out ceiling tiles. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. What’s the sit rep over there?”

  “We took out the opposition on this side,” Blancanales said. “All Blackstar men, in company uniform. No sign of Fitzpatrick.”

  “I had one joker claim the guy was here and then left,” Lyons said. “Said the fallback was a RhemCorp headquarters in Atlanta.”

  “Noted,” Blancanales said.

  “Gadgets,” Lyons directed, “get on the satellite phone to Barb and let her know about Atlanta. I’m coming down. Be careful when you head back down. There are way too many places to be hiding booby traps here.”

  “You didn’t seem that worried when you were charging up the wall like a Viking,” Schwarz said.

  “I was excited about the idea I might never have to hear about your stupid candy monster game again,” said Lyons. “Now watch yourself.”

  The Able Team leader picked his way down the crate wall, avoiding the areas of destruction where the grenades had torn everything to pieces. They had effectively neutralized opposition in this part of the maze, but they weren’t nearly through it yet. Not by a long shot.

  This whole deal was a deliberate attempt to trap and kill Able Team. Fitzpatrick, Blackstar and RhemCorp had taken note of what Able Team was doing to their assets and had apparently decided to counter it. Chances were that the men behind RhemCorp had seen to it that this facility was discovered just when it was. That was only logical. It was what Lyons might do in the same situation.

  Well, they were going to regret trapping Able Team.

  The first rule of trapping was that you didn’t want to catch anything nastier than the trap. It was like trapping a groundhog then finding out you didn’t have a groundhog at all but a badger in your box. Badgers were nasty when they were cornered. They were nothing to mess with.

  “Badger, badger, badger,” Lyons called quietly.

  “What’s that, Ironman?” Blancanales said.

  “Mushroom, mushroom,” Schwarz said, completing the joke. “Ironman…I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Don’t tell anybody,” Lyons said.

  All three members of Able Team converged at the bottom of the crate canyon and moved out, still covering each other. Schwarz was reloading again. There was smoke rising from the truncated barrel of his Colt SMG. The weapon had a built-in suppressor that managed some of the furious muzzle-blast from so short a barrel and the drive of such a high rate of fire.

  “What did Barb have to say?” Lyons asked.

  “She said the Farm would have the coordinates for us as soon as we were clear of Hilton Head,” Schwarz reported. “Now that Bear knows where to look, he’ll be able to give us that guy’s address, phone records and internet browsing history before you know it.”

  “I don’t want to know what kind of pornography he downloads,” Blancanales said.

  Schwarz looked at Blancanales. “Don’t steal my lines,” he said.

  At the other end of the crate canyon, the path began to narrow. The ceiling seemed lower, too. Sheets of plywood had been erected and braced with metal support struts. From the looks of it, everything had been hastily nail-gunned into place. It looked very heavy, very sturdy, and was also getting smaller by the foot.

  “A fatal funnel,” Lyons growled. He looked at the panels facing them and the sheets of hinged plywood. He was sure of it. Rapping on the plywood with his fist, he said, “If we can get on the other side of this, we can open it up. This is probably how the work crews got out. Whatever group of guys put this together didn’t exit through that little tunnel.” He pointed to the entrance of the funnel, which looked small enough to be a laundry chute. It extended forward instead of down.

  “Those wires…” Blancanales pointed to the leads attached to the hinges. “If we try to blow this, it might set off a bigger explosion.”

  “Or they could just be guy wires,” Schwarz said. “All this wood is heavy. It’s bound to be braced for weight. This was put together very quickly, in time to have it ready for us, I’d bet.”

  “I like none of these options,” Lyons commented.

  “I’m skinny enough,” Schwarz said. “I’ll crawl through.” He handed his SMG to Blancanales, drew his Beretta 93-R and took his tactical flashlight from his gear. “I’ll play tunnel rat. Once I get to the other side, I can unlock this.”

  “Be careful,” Lyons warned. “You know that’s what they want us to do. Go through there.”

  “Lucky us,” Schwarz said. “Get ready, boys. I’m going in.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Must have been some kind of satchel charge,” Calvin James speculated. He had narrowly avoided the worst of the explosion. The blast had sealed the entrance on that side of the boat, though, so the members of Phoenix Force had worked their way around the deck to the other side. They were now contemplating the one remaining hatchway that would take them belowdecks to where the hostages were being held.

  “Well,” McCarter said, “they may not be Chinese military, but they’re smart enough to know that one entrance is easier to defend than two.” They probably also grasped that the very hostages whose lives they had threatened were now the only leverage they had while they were being boarded. That would not save the hostages if their captors started to get nervous, but it was a start.

  “Gary, post up here with T.J. Rafe, you take the bow, and keep an eye out for any stragglers. Calvin and I will form a two-man team to take this party downstairs. Quarters will be narrow and the five of us will just get in each other’s way.”

  There was a chorus of assent from the men of Phoenix Force. McCarter took the lead, with James behind, as the pair made their way below. The manway was clear, and the chamber they found themselves in below had hatches leading fore and aft. James tried them both. The aft hatch was dogged shut somehow from the other side, but the forward hatch spun when he turned it.

  “Forward it is, then,” McCarter said. “If we can circle back around we can try to go aft, as well.”

  “Wish we had Jack on overwatch,” James said.

  “You and me both, mate,” McCarter said. Grimaldi was back at the airfield the Filipinos had designated for him, making sure the chopper was properly repaired after its brush with small-arms fire.

  They entered the forward hatchway. The corridor that extended ahead bore several hatches on either side. The hostages, and the remainder of the invaders, could be anywhere here.

  “You want left or right, man?” James asked.

  “Take the lef
t,” McCarter directed. “I’ll take the right. Eyes open, Cal. Eyes open.”

  James nodded and threw open the first of the hatches. He was almost immediately rewarded with gunfire. Several shots ricocheted through the corridor, narrowly avoiding McCarter and James both, before James managed to shut the hatch again.

  “Three…” James said. “Two…”

  “You toss a gren in there?” McCarter asked.

  James had time to nod before the sound of a detonation rang inside the closed quarters beyond the hatch. This was followed by horrific screaming. “Willy Pete,” said James, as if that explained everything…because it did. Willy Pete, or white phosphorous, could burn a man down to the bone. It was an ugly way to die…but here, aboard ship, that was the best alternative to a high explosive or fragmentation grenade. There was much less risk of putting a hole in the boat.

  McCarter nodded, feeling grim. He threw open his hatch, but the quarters within were empty.

  The pair kept going. They quickly realized that this section of the freighter was devoted to living quarters. Each hatch revealed a compartment that boasted anywhere from two to six bunks, depending on the size of the individual compartment. The smell was, at times, very strong.

  Twice more, James used WP grenades to eliminate gunmen in Chinese uniforms. The invaders had Kalashnikov-patterned rifles, which in and of itself was not remarkable. The weapon was the most copied assault rifle in the world, available on the international arms market for the equivalent of a twenty-dollar bill per rifle if you were buying in quantity. A detailed examination of the proof marks on the rifles might tell them if the weapons were made in China or not, but even that wouldn’t really tell them anything. The Chinese exported a great number of small arms, including to the civilian market in the United States. Among the more unusual weapons they sold were reproductions for the Cowboy Action Shooting market, like period pump-guns, double-barreled coach guns.

  It was a weird world, no doubt about it.

  The corridor widened and soon the two Phoenix Force men found themselves in the ship’s galley. The tables were stainless steel, bolted down to keep them from moving in rough seas. The cooking and food-prep area was in an alcove beyond, with plenty of enclosed racks for stores and other foodstuffs. There was blood here, but no bodies. What there was of the blood was not extensive, just a few spatters here or there. If McCarter had to guess, he would imagine that the pirate boarders had roughed up the crew as they made their way through here. There was still no sign of the hostages, if in fact there were hostages.