Not looking at the part that had been a face before the accelerator got to it, Lyons stripped off the jacket. He dumped the body in the bushes. He found a chromed Nazi helmet, flipped it on, then sat on a Harley to wait, nonchalantly wiping bits of human tissue from the denim jacket.
Escorted by three low-slung motorcycles, a Lincoln Continental fishtailed into the parking lot and came to a tire-smoking stop. The Harleys swung in a wide loop, coming to a slower stop. Lyons waited.
A hoodlum resplendent in chrome-studded black leather jacket and pants stepped out of the Lincoln. He wore a western holster with a nickel-plated, pearl-handled six-gun. He looked at Lyons, lifted his sunglasses. "Who the fuck..."
"Surprise!"
* * *
Leaving the gravel road behind them, Able Team followed a rutted, four-wheel drive track several hundred yards into the hills on their captured Harleys. Blancanales pointed to a grassy area shaded by a sheer hillside. They coasted to a stop and propped the motorcycles against the embankment. Lyons looked back. They could not be seen from the main road.
"So, gentlemen, what's the plan? Where do we hit next?"
"I don't think our next engagement will be so easy," Blancanales said. He spread out his map of Catalina Island on the grass.
"Able Team eight, Outlaws zero," Lyons said without emotion.
"...but now they know we're here."
"I want you guys to hear something." Gadgets took the scanner/auto-recorder from his pack and rewound the cassette. "The name of the Outlaws' leader is Horse. That's what the LAPD file said, and all the calls I've heard, the name of the man giving the orders is Horse. But listen to this."
He touched the play button. "Horse, this is your friend. Answer."
"Yessir! This is Horse. Is there anything you need?"
"No, everything's fine. I'm quite comfortable. Brief me..."
Gadgets played the conversation through. "That went out on a different frequency. What does it sound like to you?"
"Sounds like this isn't all Horse's game," Lyons replied. "He's just the front man."
"Is he talking with someone off the island?" Blancanales was fieldstripping the Beretta, spreading out the components on the plastic map. When the Outlaws had captured him, they had experimented with the weapon. He was checking it thoroughly, cleaning it like it had been violated.
"Maybe on a boat," Gadgets pondered. "But hardly the mainland. No way."
"So we have some mastermind floating offshore directing this horror show..." Lyons said. "You think all this could be a grab at those six scientists? By commies, terrorists? Except that that guy speaks perfect English. He couldn't be foreign."
"Too perfect," Blancanales said. "Remember, those eggheads are here by chance. They wanted a quiet place, this was close. They could've gone to Lake Tahoe. The man talked about 'the seizure of the island, and about money. If he only wanted those six, why not grab just them? Why take everyone on the island?"
"Yeah, very curious." Gadgets fast-forwarded the tape, stopping to listen to snatches of conversation.
"What else you got?" Lyons asked.
"I don't know. Been kind of busy, haven't had a chance to listen..."
He caught another snatch of the calm, educated voice. "...I can't help you there, Horse. Do what you think is necessary."
Gadgets rewound the tape and found the beginning of this later conversation. "Any developments, Horse?"
"Yeah, more trouble with heroes. I've lost a couple of men to local crazies."
"Your men can eliminate the opposition. Has there been any attempt yet to land security forces?"
"I don't know. There was nothing on the radar, but one of my men says they've got a commando over on the other side of the island."
"Is that in fact true? If the authorities have ignored your stipulations..."
"We'll know soon enough. I'm going to, ah, put the questions to him myself. I've sent some men to bring him here. If he's a cop..."
"You will need to impress the authorities. If he is one of these local residents, I suggest you make an example of him."
"Oh, yeah!"
"I'll call you again..."
"Wait, sir. I need to be able to call you."
"Please don't. There is no privacy here. You could compromise me."
"Yessir, I'm sorry sir."
"Speak with you again in an hour."
They heard Horse again: "Blackie. Come in! You got that commando? Blackie!"
Lyons now wore the biker's black leather jacket. "Sorry, Horse. Blackie is Missing In Action," he said under his breath.
Finished with the Beretta, Blancanales field-stripped and cleaned the captured Heckler and Koch G-3. "As long as they don't identify us," Blancanales reasoned, "we don't have to worry about the bikers taking it out on the hostages."
"What do you make of what he said?" Gadgets asked suddenly. "He said, 'There is no privacy here. You could compromise me.'"
Lyons counted off the points on his fingers. "One, he isn't alone. Two, the people he's with don't know what he's doing. Three, he isn't a resident. He used the words, 'one of these local residents,' right? He said it like he thought they were a lower life form. Four, we don't have time for a mystery. I say we hit the airport, the radio station, and every Outlaw patrol and outpost we can find. What do you two think?"
"Why the airport?" Blancanales asked. "He's got the place radar tight, nothing can come in."
"It gives the Feds and the LAPD an option. If we don't make it, they could land assault squads if things got desperate..."
"If we took out the radar!" Gadgets pointed to Mount Black Jack on Blancanales' map. "Right there. The radar station's in town, but the actual scanning equipment's up on top of this mountain. We hit that equipment, he's blind."
"Can't do it." Lyons shook his head. "Assault units would be a desperate, last-chance gamble. And hitting the radar wouldn't help. He'd pull in his men, kill the hostages before the assault teams got into town.
"And another problem. We are not making informed decisions. We won't be able to devise a real plan until we know what's out there. Time to move."
"Time to forward all this information to Brognola," Gadgets added. "Maybe Stonyman and the LAPD can work out a plan."
Lyons paced the dirt road while Gadgets prepared his transmission. Dictating into the recorder, Gadgets detailed what Able Team had seen and heard. He summarized their discussion on a possible coordinated assault. Then, plugging in the scrambler module and speeding up the tape to ten times normal, he transmitted the information. Anyone intercepting Gadgets' transmission would hear only a shriek of electronic noise. Finally Gadgets packed his equipment: "Ready to go."
Blancanales gave the captured G-3 a last wipe, snapped in a magazine. "Loaded."
Lyons stared out at the dry hills rolling west to the Pacific. Steadily, a wide grin grew on his face: "Gentlemen, I have the perfect plan. Simple, straightforward, very effective."
"What's that?" Gadgets asked.
"We kill them all."
8
Crowning the mountainous interior of Catalina, the Airport in the Sky equalled its name. The engineers who had created this marvel of beauty and utility leveled the peaks of a mountain range to sculpt an artificial plateau high above the island. The airfield viewed the surrounding island, the vast Pacific to the west, the San Pedro Channel to the east, and when the winds blew away the smog of Los Angeles, the hundred miles of coast where the metropolis met the ocean.
Resident commuters, regardless of how often they flew in and out, enjoyed every flight. To the islanders returning from the concrete and glass maze of Los Angeles, the landing field seemed to be a platform floating between the blue-domed heaven of the sky and the primitive paradise of their isolated home. To the uninitiated tourist arriving from the mainland, their flight's descent to the field provided the first thrilling vision of an island wonderland known for its unique natural beauty.
Even those tourists who come to the island by bo
at often included the Airport in the Sky in their schedule, leaving the island's only town in buses and rented cars and following the winding, back-switching road through canyons and hills to the high airfield.
Able Team followed the same road, but did not continue to the man-made plateau of the airport. They stopped short. After studying their topographical maps of the island, they concealed their commandeered motorcycles and hiked up a steep gorge to the flat mountain crest.
At the top, on their bellies in the dry brush, they saw the Early California-style airport facilities two hundred yards to the north. They scanned the exteriors and the windows and doorways of the buildings with binoculars and the eight-power scope of the Mannlicher sniper rifle.
They saw silhouetted movements within the glass-walled controller's booth in the three-story tower.
"Three bikes outside," Lyons told the others. He raised the Mannlicher slightly. "Only two Outlaws in the tower."
"Outlaw number three," Gadgets said, "is in the chair on the restaurant patio."
Lyons scanned the parking lot, the restaurant, the control tower. "I say we go straight through the front door."
"Second the motion," Blancanales agreed. He chambered a round in the Beretta.
Staying below the edge of the plateau, they followed the contour of the mountain until they were downslope from the parking lot. Staying flat as they crawled up, they peered through the decorative bushes and flowers of the landscaping. Unlike the mountainsides, the restaurant landscaping was watered and tended through all the seasons, and it stayed spring green. The lush growth provided cover.
The sentry, his walkie-talkie on the patio bricks beside him, sat only a hundred feet away. Lyons pointed to himself and Gadgets, then pointed to the airport buildings. He pointed to Blancanales, then pointed to the sentry and pulled an imaginary trigger. Blancanales nodded.
Holding the Beretta in both hands, Blancanales extended the pistol in front of him at arm's length, resting both his elbows and the butt of the pistol on the ground. He sighted on the biker's chest as Lyons and Gadgets pushed up into sprinter's starting stance.
A voice cracked from the walkie-talkie. As Blancanales fired, the sentry leaned down to pick up the hand-radio. The sub-sonic 9mm slug slapped into his jacket sleeve. Forgetting the radio, he looked at the small hole, watched blood run from his arm. Then he saw Lyons and Gadgets charging at him.
He reached through scorching pain for the pistol at his belt, then he jerked back in the chair, a three-round burst punching a pattern into his chest. But he still moved, half rising from the chair as he groped for his pistol with his left hand. A final silent bullet hit him in the forehead. He sat back, his face slack, his three eyes open. The radio squawked again:
"Hey, goofball. Answer the radio. This is Eagle."
Lyons picked up the hand-radio and pressed the talk button. "Yeah?"
Gadgets pressed himself against the restaurant's stucco wall, looked for Lyons, saw him listening to the hand-radio as he rearranged the dead biker's body. He was positioning the dead man to look like he had fallen asleep, his face resting on his shoulder.
"I want you down where you can watch that road, you hear me?" the radio voice continued. "I don't want you in the restaurant drinking the beer, I don't want you wandering around smoking dope, I want you watching that road. Horse said..."
"Horse said shit," Lyons sneered into the radio. He saw Gadgets watching wide-eyed. Lyons grinned. "You don't tell me nothing."
"What? What did you say? You want me to come down there and kick your ass right off this island?"
"Waiting for you."
"You piece of..." The voice cut off.
Lyons left the radio in the dead man's hands, then ran over to the stucco wall. He stood on the other side of the restaurant's door from Gadgets. Gadgets grinned, shook his head. Lyons waved his arms to get Blancanales' attention, then pointed at the restaurant door. They waited.
Thirty seconds later, the plate glass door flew open, slamming into Lyons where he stood against the wall. His Ingram banged the glass.
Looking at the biker who stomped out, they knew why he was called Eagle. His nose stuck out two inches from his face, the bridge of it almost perpendicular to his forehead, the end hooking down. And like an eagle, people looked up to him. He stood six-foot-eight.
Hearing the metallic clang of Lyons' Ingram on the plate glass, he glanced behind the door. For a big man, he moved fast, whipping the door aside, then driving a kick at Lyons' groin.
Both hands braced on the small weapon, Lyons blocked the kick with his Ingram. The kick bounced him off the wall. Eagle lunged for him.
A slug zipped past Eagle and smashed the glass door. Lyons' throat in one hand, his fist drawn back to smash this blond stranger in an Outlaws jacket, Eagle saw Gadgets bringing up his Uzi.
Eagle bashed Gadgets with Lyons. Gadgets sprawled on the bricks, the Uzi flying from his hand. Still holding Lyons by the throat, Eagle whipped an eighteen-inch machete from his belt.
Jamming the Ingram's stubby barrel against the biker's gut, Lyons fired a burst, five 9mm Parabellum slugs ripping through the man. They exited from his back and side.
Eagle didn't let go of Lyons. He raised the heavy blade to hack away the ex-cop's head. Lyons fired again, then again, swinging the muzzle back and forth as if he fought with a chain saw. He emptied the Ingram through the biker. Thirty slugs cut huge red slashes through his gut and chest.
The machete slipped from his hand finally, as he toppled backward and died.
A pair of boots in panic ran across the roof of the restaurant. Lyons fell back against the wall, gasping. He dropped the magazine out of the Ingram. He struggled to fit in another. A dazed Gadgets snatched up his Uzi, aimed up. But he had no target.
"Eagle! What's that shooting?" a voice above them demanded. "Hey, man! Move your ass! Someone's shooting..."
The G-3 boomed from the parking lot's flowering hedge. The body of a biker tumbled from the roof, fell to the bricks.
Lyons leaned against the restaurant wall, sucking breaths through his aching throat; Gadgets straightened his Outlaws jacket, checked his Uzi for damage. That all was close. It left them both really pissed off.
* * *
Following Forest Service roads and firebreaks, the three warriors on their Outlaw Harley 1200s weaved their way through the interior of the island. From time to time they could see the antennas of Radio Station KCAT on Mount Black Jack, where KCAT shared the peak with the Harbor Master's radar installation. A final bumpy motorcycle climb up a canyon's dry stream bed took them halfway up Mount Black Jack, to within a thousand feet of the station. They could go no farther on the bikes without risking observation.
Lyons sprinted to a ridge crest and watched the station through the scope of the Mannlicher. While the ex-cop was gone, Gadgets conferred with Blancanales:
"You know why that mess happened at the airport?"
Blancanales nodded.
Gadgets continued. "We've got to come to an agreement with Lyons about improvising. He's taking a lot of long, long chances. He's going to run out of luck. You stand with me?"
"If he goes down, we lose a very good man."
Lyons came toward them, returning from the ridge. "One man on the roof with binoculars. He's smoking dope and throwing beer cans. Ready to go?"
"No," Gadgets told him. "I declare a 'Severe Self-Criticism Session.' You came within a second of dying back there at the airport. If super-creep had come out with a weapon in his hands, you'd be dead. From now on, we plan it, then we do it. No more improvising."
Thinking only a moment, Lyons nodded. "At the time it seemed the right thing to do, faking him out on the hand-radio. It wasn't. I'm sorry. I was grandstanding. I am self-criticized. Now we go?"
Able Team proceeded to the peak of Mount Black Jack along narrow slashes of erosion, the overfolding brush obscuring the sky and the possible observation of the sentry above them.
Creeping to the edge of the fire
-clearing around the station, they saw the cinder block buildings with open balconies that housed the offices and transmitter of KCAT, and a few hundred yards farther along a dirt road there was a steel tower supporting the constantly rotating scanners of the Harbor Master's radar. Outside the door of the radio offices, a hundred-yards away, were two Honda Cross Country Cruisers.
"I don't want to try a hundred-yard shot with the Beretta," Blancanales said. "Next time the sentry wanders over to the other side, I'll sprint for the door. You guys cover me, then the three of us bust in. Agreed? Enough of a plan?"
The others nodded, smiling. Blancanales waited, then ran. At the door, he pressed against the wall. The door hung ajar. It had been shot open. Above him, he heard the crunch of motorcycle boots.
A beer can fell, rolled on the concrete of the balcony, foam and beer gushing from the top. "Goddamn it," the biker muttered. Then he called out as he leaned over the edge. "Vito. Throw up another beer..."
"Coming up." Blancanales called, a single slug suddenly punching into the biker's nose. He collapsed, his hand and head twitching as they hung over the edge of the parapet. Lyons and Gadgets joined Blancanales.
Blancanales pointed to himself, then pointed inside. Lyons shielded himself with the Ingram as they stepped into the office.
The room was empty. Blancanales continued to the next door, Lyons a step behind him.
In front of a television, a very pale biker nodded off. He wore only undershirt and jeans. In one hand he was holding a length of surgical tubing. A needle and syringe hung from his other arm. He didn't wake from his heroin stupor as Blancanales slipped up to him, put the Beretta to his temple. The junkie would never wake.
They returned to the door. "It's all over."
"Now we go put this..." Gadgets held up a small charge of C-4 explosive with a radio detonator, "...on the radar."
"I'll do the clean-up here," Lyons offered. "I'll be watching the road down the hill until you get back."
The Hostaged Island at-2 Page 6
