Oceans of Fire

by Don Pendleton

  There was a long pause on the other side of the line. “Please repeat, Phoenix One. Did you say four packages?”

  David McCarter’s stomach went cold. He knew it had been too easy. “Affirmative, Base. Four packages. One special guest.”

  Several moments passed before Barbara Price spoke again. “Phoenix One, we have a problem.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

  “Six nukes?” The President of the United States wasn’t pleased.

  “Nuclear demolition charges, sir,” Hal Brognola corrected. He wasn’t happy, either.

  “Demolition charges?” The President frowned. “You mean, backpack nukes.”

  “No, sir.” General Jack Harper Hayes was the top military man on the President’s cabinet. The wiry little man seemed almost too short to be a general, but he had started his military career as a combat engineer and he knew a few things about blowing stuff sky-high. “He means nuclear demolition charges. They’re used to blowing things up.”

  The President raised a droll eyebrow. “So I gathered.”

  “What I mean is, sir, a nuclear demolition charge is not strictly a weapon. Its yield is low, generally between three to ten kilotons. No one has ever used one in combat but its typical purpose would be to destroy a very large or hard target, like a dam or an underground bunker or even to dig a giant hole if you needed one. We contemplated using them in Afghanistan to drop the tunnel complexes in Tora Bora, but the Joint Chiefs decided that although the nuclear fallout would have been nil, the political fallout of the United States being perceived to be using nukes would have been disastrous. So we went in the old-fashioned way.”

  General Hayes gazed off into the middle distance a moment. “The old-fashioned way” had changed over the years. In Vietnam the then Private Hayes had been the smallest man in his platoon and been “volunteered” to crawl down into the Vietcong tunnels and clear them out.

  In Afghanistan they had lit up the tunnel entrances with fuel-air explosives that sent massive blast waves down the tunnels and then hit them from above with deep-penetrating guided bombs before heavily armed and armored Army Rangers had gone in wearing night-vision equipment and hurling tear gas ahead of them.

  In Vietnam, Hayes had been sent down alone with a flashlight, a .45 and a knife.

  The President nodded. “So you’re saying it’s a giant satchel charge.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the general agreed. “An excellent metaphor.”

  “But a ten-kiloton satchel charge, nevertheless, and two of them seem to be missing.”

  “That does seem to be the situation.” Hayes gazed at Brognola as he said it. The general clearly thought Delta Force could have wrapped things up quite nicely, and like a number of military men before him, he was extremely curious as to why there was a man from the Justice Department in the room, much less why the big Fed seemed to be one of the key people in control of the operation.

  The President shrugged at Brognola. “Hal?”

  “We got the word from British MI-6 two hours ago. They have a contact in one of the Russian arsenals. He confirms the count is now six. We retrieved four of them in the Zervashan Mountains forty-five minutes ago. We have to assume the other two are taking a different route out of Tajikistan.”

  “And we have no idea as to that route?”

  “No, sir, we don’t. However, the team took a high-priority prisoner and they have hopes of getting some useful intelligence out of him.”

  The President scowled deeply. Both rightly and wrongly, the United States reputation for fair and humane treatment of prisoners had been tarnished in recent times. “That had better be done by the book or not all, Hal.”

  General Hayes chewed his lip. “I hate to suggest this, Mr. President, but we don’t have time to ship this guy to Guantanamo and go through normal procedures.”

  The President stared at Hayes bluntly. “You’re suggesting torture.”

  “I’m suggesting, sir, that while the yield is low and the fallout minimal, a nuclear demolition detonated above ground in an urban center would result in thousands of casualties.” Hayes let out a heavy sigh. “And I’m suggesting we have contacts in that region. Allies with less scruples than ourselves.”

  “So…” The President steepled his fingers and looked into a very ugly place. “We wash our hands and let someone else do our dirty work.”

  Brognola met the President’s gaze. “Sir, the team currently has the man in custody. They have been in this situation before and produced results in manners your predecessors found acceptable. Give them an hour.”

  “An hour?” Both the President and the general stared at Brognola in shock.

  The Justice man nodded. “They have very…forceful personalities.”

  Dushanbe, Tajikistan

  GOTRON KHAN WAS nervous. He had every right to be. The warlord was tied to a chair in a cellar, facing five of the most dangerous men on Earth. Khan sat beneath the single bare bulb and sweated while Phoenix Force stared at him, as silent as headstones. The criminal swallowed with difficulty and screwed up his courage. “I want a lawyer.”

  The men of Phoenix Force regarded him like a bug.

  “I have been exposed to illegal war gas and wish medical treatment…and an interview with Red Cross representative.”

  Calvin James leaned against the wall with his arms folded. “You hungry, Khan?”

  “I…” Gotron winced. His body had detoxified the CN/DM gas in his bloodstream, but he was still green around the gills and the violent stomach spasms he’d endured left him hunched and beaten as if he’d gone ten rounds out of his weight class. “I think n—”

  “How about a nice, cold, greasy pork sandwich?” James suggested.

  Khan paled.

  “Mmm, tallowy.” James Calvin sighed. “With a nice, tall, cool glass of olive oil with a butter floater to wash it down and—”

  The sweat sheening Khan’s brow began to run in bullets.

  Hawkins shook his head at Calvin. “You are one sick dude.”

  Gotron Khan was the man who was sick. The warlord was as white as a sheet.

  McCarter gazed down at Khan condemningly. “Where are the rest of the nukes?”

  “I…don’t…” Khan gasped.

  McCarter pulled a spent grenade casing out of a ditty bag and wafted it in front of Khan. A hint of apple blossom and pepper was discernable in the close confines of the cellar. Khan made a gobbling noise as his stomach spasmed in recognition of the scent. It was said that fatigue made cowards out of all men, but pain and fatigue could be endured through training, personal toughness and willpower.

  Chemically induced nausea leveled the playing field, and Adamsite gas would bring Superman to his knees.

  Gotron Khan shook like a man who had spent a bad eight days sailing the North Sea in winter and had been told he was going back out.

  “No…” Khan gasped. “N-no, please, I…”

  McCarter held the spent casing a little closer to Khan’s nose. “Where.”

  “I…cannot tell you.”

  McCarter spun on his heel. “Gas him again.”

  Gary Manning slipped a grenade out of his jacket and pulled the pin.

  Khan shrieked. “No!”

  The big Canadian kept his thumb on the cotter lever and raised an eyebrow at McCarter. The Englishman turned and stared down at Khan implacably. “Where?”

  “I do not know, but—”

  “But you might know someone who does?” McCarter suggested helpfully.

  Khan’s eyes were riveted in horror at the cylindrical grenade in Manning’s hand. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps you’re about to puke so hard you’re going to bring up your bloody shoes.”

  “No!” Khan’s eyes rolled in revulsion and terror.

  “Or perhaps not.” McCarter shrugged noncommittally. “It’s up to you.”

  “I—” Khan scuttled back as far as his restraints would let him as the Englishman loomed over him.<
br />
  “Khan.” McCarter peered deeply into the man eyes. “I really want you to get this right.”

  U.S. Embassy, Dushanbe

  PHOENIX FORCE SAT in an arc around a titanium laptop attached to a satellite link. David McCarter checked his watch. “The lad’s late.”

  T.J. Hawkins walked in on cue. He held an ice bucket loaded with drinks and set them on the table with a frown. “Explain to me how I became manservant for this chickenshit outfit, again?”

  “Because you’re the youngest.” Calvin James reached over and snagged a beer. The lanky black man grinned. “And it would be politically incorrect for me or Rafe to do it.”

  Hawkins considered for a half second suggesting Manning get up off his dead ass, but the big Canadian had put his feet up on the table and apparently was waiting for it with a smile on his face. Hawkins let that one die on the vine.

  “T.J.?” McCarter pulled a bottle out of the bucket and frowned. “What is this?”

  “Uh…a Coke?” Hawkins pointed at the wasp-waisted, fluted-glass bottle defiantly. “Look at that shape.”

  McCarter stared at Hawkins unblinkingly. “It’s diet.”

  Hawkins stared at the bottle. Aside from the Coca-Cola logo it was covered with incomprehensible scrawl. “You read Tajikistani?”

  “No, Tajikistan doesn’t bottle Coke. They import from bottlers in Russia and the former Soviet states. This is Ukrainian, and diet. You can tell by the gold cap and the Cyrillic writing.”

  Hawkins blinked. “You need an intervention.”

  McCarter shoved the offending soft drink back into the bucket and pulled out a beer.

  “Man…” Hawkins dropped into a chair and cracked himself a Russian brew. “How do I get transferred to Able Team?”

  McCarter hit some keys on the computer. “Khan gave us two names.”A picture of a bullet-headed man appeared. His shaved head and his face had uniform-length stubble. His flat black eyes lived up to his nickname. “Here we have Sharypa ‘The Shark’ Sharkov. He’s Russian mafiya, and represents Moscow organized crime interests in Tajikistan. Interpol has a rap sheet on him as long as your arm. Standard provincial mafyia scumbag. He breaks legs, extorts, runs guns and prostitutes, and sends a piece to Moscow.”

  “First we get ‘The Goat’ and now ‘The Shark’?” Rafe snorted in amusement. “All we need are Camelboy and the Limpet and we’ll have our own bad-guy petting zoo.”

  McCarter hit another key. A disturbingly handsome man appeared on the screen. His black wavy hair was pulled into a short ponytail and his Vandyke made him look like Satan in an Armani suit. “This is Aidar Zhol, our local boy. He doesn’t have an animal nickname. He is an animal. Name a law of nature and he’s broken it. He likes the high life, likes gambling and spends a lot of time in Moscow. If you’re a Russian general or high-ranking politician and you want a beautiful, virgin Tajik girl fresh from the hills for your rape room, Zhol’s the man you see. He also owns a piece of any Afghani heroin that comes through the capital and owns the only casino in town. If you’re transporting nukes through Tajikistan, it’s a good bet Sharkov and Zhol at least know about it if they aren’t actually extracting a safe-passage fee. We have two devices unaccounted for. I’m betting either one or both of them have them or at least know which way they went.”

  James took a long pull on his beer. “Russian nukes don’t just go missing. Someone has to deliberately misplace them.”

  McCarter nodded. “MI-6 has an informant who broke the news about the nukes. There’s no doubt a Russian general had to be involved. The question is, which one? If these were actually nuclear warheads, we could narrow the selection down to officers of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces, but these are nuclear demolition charges. They aren’t governed by any treaty and several Russian military branches have their own small stockpiles, so tracking our wayward general is going to be tough on the Farm’s end.”

  Hawkins leaned back in his chair. “So we’re going to have to find him starting from the gutter up. Typical.”

  James echoed the sentiment. “Tell me we have some kind of in with these guys.”

  “We just might,” McCarter stated.

  James didn’t like the smile on the Englishman’s face. “Shit…”

  “That’s right. Our in just might be you.” McCarter clicked more keys. A black man with a shaved head appeared on the screen. His powerful physique strained his immaculately tailored blue-silk suit. To the trained eye it was clear that he was wearing a pistol beneath his jacket. He sat at a table with a beautiful, grinning blonde under his left arm while a second leaned over his shoulder laughing. A massive diamond adorned one ear. Dozens more glittered on the gold rings on his fingers and the custom Rolex Submariner on his wrist.

  Sitting next to him was Aidar Zhol. They both had their arms over each other’s shoulders and were smiling happily into the camera.

  “That is Clayborne Forbes.” McCarter hit another button and the same man appeared staring forward, iron-jawed and stern, wearing the dress white cap and blue jacket of the United States Navy. Service ribbons adorned his chest. “Lieutenant Clayborne Forbes. Former United States Navy SEAL. A year ago he was on operations in Afghanistan. His tour was up and he declined to reenlist. Honorably discharged. The last that was heard of him was that he was an independent contractor in Afghanistan for one of the stateside security companies.”

  “And now the brother is dripping in blondes and bling in Tajikistan.” James shook his head. “Bodyguard?”

  “Ostensibly. The name Navy SEAL has a hell of a lot of cache. Having a man like Forbes for a bodyguard would certainly enhance Zhol’s reputation,” McCarter stated. “But the Farm figures he’s probably a hell of a lot more than that. In the past year most of Zhol’s competition has wound up dead. Now, I’ll grant you, what with the civil wars, ethnic in-fighting, separatist movements, Russian mafiya and Muslim extremists, the former Soviet South Asian states are the wild, wild west. But Zhol’s enemies aren’t dying in the usual drive-by bloodbaths or car bombings, they’re—”

  “They’re getting ghosted,” James concluded. “SEAL style.”

  “That is the current conclusion we’re working with.”

  “I don’t like pulling the race card, David.” James’s eyes went hard. “But I don’t like being sent to hunt my own, know what I’m saying?”

  “I can understand that, but we’re talking about a man aiding and abetting in heroin trafficking and selling little girls. There’s also the matter of two loose nuclear demolition charges. And if his name was Nigel Ian Smythe and former SAS, I’d be the one going in.”

  James let out a long breath. “I hear you.”

  “Zhol’s casino is called the Silk Road. When he’s in town he lives in the penthouse. Intelligence says Zhol is in town. It’s Friday night, so he’ll probably be in the house and Forbes should be with him. We need to arrange a meet-and-greet.”

  McCarter gazed around the table. “Any suggestions?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The game was Texas Hold’em. Calvin James was winning, and winning big. He stared coolly into the smoldering eyes of his remaining opponent. Everyone else had folded and it was James’s deal. The man in front of him was heavy-shouldered and wore a poorly tailored suit of local manufacture, and a short turban.

  The man was a maniac.

  In poker a maniac was a hyperaggressive player who raised, bet and bluffed big pots whether he had a great hand or nothing at all. A genuine maniac wasn’t a good player, though he or she could often dominate a timid table. Players who occasionally played maniac to confuse their opponents were quite dangerous.

  James’s opponent was positively psycho.

  The game had attracted a crowd. The Silk Road mostly attracted Russian businessmen and local women who were ready to be relieved of their hard-earned currency. A smattering of diplomats and ex-patriots rounded out the clientele. Onlookers gasped as the man in the turban shoved chips forward to the tune of ten thousand dollars. He le
aned in and thrust out his jaw, daring James to match it. It was a form of tell, or a habit that gave away the strength of another player’s hand. The most amateur forms of tells involved leaning. People unconsciously leaned forward and projected aggressiveness when they were bluffing. By the same token they leaned back with unconscious relief when they were dealt a strong hand.

  Psycho Boy might as well have put a neon sign over his head.

  James’s piles of chips tinkled and spilled as he shoved ten thousand dollars forward. “Call.”

  The maniac turned over his cards to reveal two pair, aces and eights, the Dead Man’s Hand.

  James turned over his cards. “Four ducks.”

  The man in the turban started stupidly at the four deuces on the table. James had cleaned him out, and reached for the pot. “Nice playing with y—”

  “Cheat.”

  The immediate environment around the table went dead silent. The man looked up from the cards with murder in his eyes. “You cheat.”

  “Listen.” James held up both hands in peace. “I—”

  “Blackie…cheat.” The man was literally vibrating with rage. “Every time you deal, you win.”

  James took a calming breath. “Friend, you—”

  “Cheating negro,” the man declared.

  A mountainous pair of bouncers began moving toward the table.

  James’s fist closed around his drink. “You know, not my country, not my house, not my cards. I don’t speak the language. Hell, I’m not even that good a player. I’m just lucky.”

  “Luck!” The man spit the word.

  “Yeah.” James leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Lucky to be sitting across from a loser like you.”

  The man froze.

  James took a dainty sip of his gin and waggled his eyebrows over his glass insultingly.

  “Bismillah!” The man erupted from his seat. He screamed incoherently and grabbed the edge of the table. The crowd screamed as he heaved the poker table upward, flipping it over and sending chips and cards flying. “I kill!” the man shrieked. “Kill you!”

  The bouncers descended, trying to smother the irate gambler with shear weight. The man in the turban seemed awkward, but his fist flew into one bouncer’s jaw and dropped him like he’d been shot. The other bouncer reached to grab the frothing man and was scooped up into a fireman’s carry, airplane spun and sent flying across the craps table. Furniture shattered and patrons ran screaming in all directions.