by Dick Stivers
An RPG had punched through the wall, shredding books and filing cabinets. Grabbing the boy, keeping him in front of them, Lyons and Blancanales searched the demolished room. They found no one.
As they left the office, the boy spoke quickly with Abdul. “He says he will take us to the commander’s office. The commander will know.”
“Great. Our punk just might live through this…”
Shoving the boy along, crouchwalking beneath windows, dodging past doors, they went directly to the main offices. Again, Abdul called out for surrender.
A voice answered. “I give up. I am only a technician. I can help. I am not a fighter…”
“Come out! Hands up if you want to live.”
The Libyan radio operator walked from the offices of the commander. “I am only a technician, only a technician…”
Sweeping the Libyan’s feet from under him, Lyons spread him flat on the tiles. He searched him, found a .25-caliber Beretta in his boot top.
“You’re not a fighter? What’s this for?”
“It is the only gun I have.”
“Shut up.” Lyons kicked him over onto his back and searched him some more. “Where’s the American prisoner? Tell us and we’ll let you live.”
“Prisoner? I do not know. I only operate radio.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gadgets asked. “Where is your equipment?”
“In there. I can tell you where Commander Omar hides. He knows where prisoner is.”
“Show me.”
The radio operator got to his feet. Lyons grabbed the guy’s collar and shoved the man ahead of him.
“Any tricks and I will kill you.”
“Not me — I only technician.”
They went through the outer offices. The Libyan pointed to a door. “He is in there.”
“Open it.”
“No! He will shoot.”
“Tough.”
Shouting in Arabic, the Libyan opened the office door. Lyons heard the word Americans.
Blancanales shone the flashlight into the office. They saw Persian rugs, hand-carved furniture, but no officer. Lyons jabbed the Libyan with the Atchisson. “Tell him to come out if he wants to live.”
The words had no effect. Lyons grabbed the Libyan by the collar again and forced him to another door.
“Open it.”
They saw a white-tiled bathroom with modern European fixtures. “Now that other door.”
As the closet door opened, Lyons heard an elbow strike the door, smelled excrement. A piece of metal flipped free. Lyons saw it was a grenade lever.
Slamming the radio operator against the door, Lyons jammed it closed. A scream came from inside the closet. Hands grabbed the doorknob, shook it. The Libyan struggled against Lyons’s grip, finally twisted away.
Bits of steel wire punched a hundred holes in the closet door. The man inside screamed, fell out of the shattered door, rolled across the floor, his body in shreds, the front of it punctured.
He still lived only because the grenade had exploded below waist level.
Blancanales whipped cords from his pocket and looped fast tourniquets around the Egyptian’s legs at the crotch. He reached into the tangle of shredded clothes and shoes inside the closet to find a wooden clothes hanger. He snapped the hanger apart and used two lengths to twist the cord loops tight. The blood flow from the commander’s legs slowed.
“Where’s the American?” Lyons shouted into the moaning man’s face.
Commander Omar shook his head. Lyons shouted again, “Tell us and you live.”
Ashen with shock, the commander looked up at the black-clad Americans who questioned him and tended his wounds. Finally he answered.
“He is alive. Alive. In the small room… below the stairs…”
“Who else is there? Any of your soldiers?”
“No one… he is alive… have mercy on me.”
Blancanales looked up to Lyons. “The Agency will want this one.”
“Then keep him alive.”
Shoving the Libyan ahead of him, Lyons went back to the smoky walkway in front of the offices. The sky was light with day.
“Keep this one, Wizard. Talk tech with him. Abdul, come. Where are Mohammed and Zaki?”
“There… and there.” Abdul pointed to opposite sides of the courtyard. The other two taxi drivers were crouched low, watching the walls and courtyards for movement.
“Good. Come on.”
Lyons moved fast, crabbing under windows, sprinting past doors, down stone steps. He saw nothing down there. Holding the Atchisson ready, he followed the stairs around into a room.
Twisted bodies sprawled everywhere on the bricks of the floor. One clutched an AK as Lyons approached, struggled to lift the muzzle. A shot from the Atchisson destroyed the terrorist’s throat and turned him into a dead man. Continuing, Lyons searched for the door. An autoburst from Abdul killed a wounded Arab.
Fearing a booby trap, Lyons jerked the door open and dashed to one side. He waited to the count of ten, then looked in.
The American lay in his blood, his hands and feet bound behind him. Lyons glanced at the interior of the room, actually a janitor’s closet with sink and cabinets for cleaning supplies. Going to one knee, Lyons felt the prisoner’s throat for a pulse; he found it.
Blood was clotting at the captive’s mouth. The Agency man still breathed. Lyons examined his wounds by the glow of a penlight and saw huge bruises. He saw cuts and broken teeth and eyes, swollen shut. He saw the marks of shoes and boots on the man’s face.
Lyons cut the ropes and carefully unwound them around the man’s blue hands. Lyons laid the American on his back and checked his body all over. Boot marks and the ovals of AK butts marked the man’s chest and back.
“You’re okay now,” Lyons whispered. “Just hold on. We’ll get you out of here. Can you talk? Can you hear me? I’m an American, we’ve come to get you out.”
Jake Newton struggled to open his eyes. Lyons continued speaking quietly, soothingly. “You’ll be all right; you look okay; we’re getting you out of here.”
Turning on his side, Newton vomited blood, retched again and again.
Lyons keyed his hand radio. “Wizard, get on your radio, call the embassy, the Air Force, whoever. Our man’s alive, but he’s bleeding inside. He’s been kicked and beaten all to bits.”
One of Newton’s bloody hands gripped Lyons’s arm. A tortured voice croaked, “Thanks… thanks…”
“We got help on the way.” Lyons turned to Abdul. “Stay with him.”
Running up the stone steps, Lyons saw the Libyan radio operator tied hand and foot on the walkway. Inside the office, Gadgets had set up his radio and autorecorder beside the terrorists’ American equipment.
“I got the leader,” Gadgets laughed. “It worked. He radioed here, I recorded it…”
“You got the medics coming?” Lyons demanded.
“On their way. And the colonel’s got the news on…”
“Tell me later.” Lyons rushed to the commander’s office.
Blancanales was working on the Egyptian’s wounds, packing a field dressing against the ripped and punctured flesh of the terror leader’s gut. His partner looked up as Lyons entered.
“Is the Agency man okay?”
“He’s alive.” Lyons stooped down to examine the tips of Commander Omar’s mirror-polished boots.
“What’re you doing?”
Clotted blood and some flesh clung to the boot tips. Lyons wiped his finger across the crevice where the boot’s upper joined the sole. Flesh came away. Lyons’s voice went cold. “Those tourniquets tight?”
“Tight, man. He’ll make it.”
20
Striding from the United States Embassy, Katz paced to his limousine. A light wind blew dust and diesel smoke from the boulevards, which were already crowded. The limo driver slept behind the wheel. Across the grounds, guards at the gates saw Katz and watched as the diplomat knocked on the driver’s window.
The driver was
startled awake. He pressed the button powering down the window. “Yes, Mr. Steiner?”
“Airport!”
“Yes, sir.”
Parks ran from the embassy and jerked at one of the limo’s doors. The driver pressed another button to unlock the doors for Katz and Parks.
In seconds, the limousine raced through the gates and accelerated into the morning traffic.
Snapping open his briefcase, Katz keyed the code for Gadgets’s radio. “Mr. Wizard! Sadek’s running for the airport. There’s a Syrian plane there waiting for him.”
Gadgets’s voice answered. Auto weapons popped in the background. “That’s your problem.”
“What’s the firing?”
“We’re defending the fortress of the National Liberation Front. Some squads out there know where we are.”
“You need help?”
“Nan. We got minefields, barbed wire, ten-foot-high walls. We got a few prisoners for you, but don’t count on many. Mr. Allah in the sky better start some expansion plans, ‘cause there’s gonna be a crowd arriving in Paradise today. You going to get that Sadek dude or what?”
“I’ll ask Mr. Parks.” Katz turned to the Agency executive. “Can we stop him? Your friend Sadek?”
“Keep your sarcasm. I was wrong. I admit it. He fooled the Egyptians and he fooled the embassy. It took him ten years to gain the position he held. He must have had a total fanatical devotion to his cause.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
Parks shook his head. “That’s not a question I can answer. It’s up to the Egyptians. We’ve called the officials who can order the flight stopped, but it’s too early in the morning — they’re not at their offices. Their aides will need to call their homes, and you know how the Cairo phone system is. I don’t think we’ll get the authorization. However, we will start negotiations for his extradition from Syria. We have, unfortunately, very limited diplomatic influence with that government.”
Katz interrupted Parks by pressing the radio’s transmit. “The Agency says they can’t do anything,” he told Schwarz. “Maybe I can arrange a solution.”
“Like what?” Parks demanded. “Call your men to shoot up the airport? Assault the plane? Haven’t they created enough chaos?”
“I heard that,” Gadgets butt in. “Ask that goof which side he works for.”
Katz laughed. “You know who he works for. How much damage did you do? Is the group gone?”
“Not really. We didn’t get all of them in the city. And we didn’t get all of them out here. If you want to do us a favor, arrange a ship to take us out of Cairo — we don’t want to risk an Air Force plane; still too many of those crazies out there with SAM-7s. And when’s that helicopter gonna get here? Jake Newton here is hurting. And the number one terrorist is hurting even worse. Ironman did a number on that dude.”
“The helicopter has already left,” Parks told Katz.
“On its way, Wizard.”
“And so is Sadek, I guess,” Gadgets commented. “Too bad that big one got away.”
“Not yet,” Katz told him. “Not yet.”
Hurtling along the highway at a hundred miles an hour, Katz’s car sped past the few cars and trucks leaving the city. Parks used the limo’s radio phone to communicate with agents at the airport.
“They’ve delayed the Syrians,” Parks told Katz. “But it’s up to the Egyptian government to stop them.”
“Will they stop the flight?”
“There’s been no response to our requests yet. Sadek usually handled those things…”
As the limousine screeched to a smoking-tire stop, Katz and Parks threw open the doors and dashed into the international airport’s drab terminal, Parks ahead of the limping Katz. Shoving through tourists and porters, they crossed the reception area. At the door leading to the administrative and technical areas, a guard stopped them.
Katz told the guard in Arabic that terrorists threatened the jets in the air over the airport. The guard called a supervisor.
Taking his hand radio from his jacket, Parks issued a call to all the agents.
The supervisor arrived. He saw Parks, smiled. “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”
“Terrorists,” Katz told the supervisor in English. “The American Embassy received a threat against the international flights.”
“Oh! Why weren’t we told? Why haven’t…”
“Take us to the control tower immediately!” Katz slipped past the Egyptians and strode toward the elevator.
Parks nodded to the supervisor and the two men followed Katz.
“Of course! Of course!” the supervisor was saying. “Should we call the police? I must notify my superiors.”
As the elevator went up, Katz asked the Egyptian, “Is the third shift of flight controllers still here?”
“Yes. For another…” he glanced at his watch “…half-hour.”
Katz left the elevator and shoved through the doors that led to the control tower. Employees in the lounge stared at the stiffly running man in the conservative gray suit of a diplomat.
Katz took the flight of stairs into the tower flight center. As he burst into the room, every controller turned and stared even as they continued speaking into microphones, reading information to waiting airliner captains. Katz scanned the personnel and saw the man who wore a pager. He went up to him.
He asked him in Arabic, “Are you Aziz Shawan?”
Fear flashed in the eyes of the controller. He bolted for the door. Katz tripped him.
He snatched the microtransmitter disguised as a pager from the Muslim’s belt. Parks and the supervisor shoved through the door, caught Shawan as he attempted to crawl past them. In Arabic, Katz asked the other controllers, “Where is the Syrian flight?”
A controller pointed.
Streaking along the runway, the Syrian air force jet lifted away. Katz turned to the controller and shouted in Arabic, “Terrorists say they will hit all the jets with rockets. Reroute all the jets immediately. Hundreds of lives could be lost.”
“Fortunately,” the supervisor gasped, “traffic is very light. We have flights on the way, but several flights landed only a few minutes ago.”
Glancing at a radar screen, Katz confirmed the absence of other flights in the sky above Cairo.
He pressed the button on the microtransmitter.
*
In the luxurious cabin of the Syrian air force jet, Sadek lounged in his velvet seat and accepted a crystal glass bubbling with champagne from a steward. The Syrian and Soviet officers gathered around him raised their glasses.
“To the Jihad!”
“To the Islamic Masses!”
“To the death of America!”
Flame flashed into the left-wing engine. Shock paralyzed the gathered men as the wing ripped away, tearing away the side of the fuselage.
Now it was a Syrian plane that was a flying coffin.
*
CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET
***SCRAMBLE VIA NSC***
FROM JOHN PHOENIX/ITALY
TO KONZAKI/STONYMAN***IMMEDIATE
ATTENTION***
BT
CORRAL CARL LYONS FOR ME WHEN HE RETURNS FROM EGYPT X LYONS AND ABLE TEAM IDEAL FOR ACTION AGAINST GUATEMALAN MUNITIONS SMUGGLER X RECENT MURDERS CLIMAX LONG MULTI-AGENCY INVEST IGATION X MUST SMASH NOW X LYONS HAS ENERGY AND SKILLS TO DEFEAT THESE KINDS OF MURDEROUS BUTCHERS X SUPPORT HIM ALL THE WAY X CERTAIN TACTICS USED BY ABLE IN CAIRO NAMELY TORTURE THREAT AND RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT CONFIRMED BY KATZ X SQUARES WITH YOUR NEWS RE CARL REJECTS BERETTA TO GO HIS OWN WAY X KATZ DEFENDS SAYS TEAM COMBAT SHIMMERS WITH SACRED FIRE X AND STONYMAN ONE ALWAYS COULD HANDLE SMM BETTER THAN CARL X BUT I MUST HAVE SERIOUS TALK WITH MR LYONS X FOREWARN HIM PLEASE PENDING MY RETURN X GOOD TO BE COMING BACK
BT
EOM
FB2 document info
Document ID: de5fb036-4514-48bd-a6fc-c166dbf5d7e5
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2005-06-18
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