Whispering under his scarf, McCarter spun about.
“Stop your vessel and drop anchor,” he barked at the startled first mate. “Right now!”
“Yes! Of course, sir, at once.” The sailor rushed away to scamper up the stairs for the bridge.
“Okay, this whole thing might be a diversion,” McCarter spoke softly into his throat mike. “So until we know for certain Harrison didn’t pass off the…device to somebody on this vessel, we’re going to tear the ship apart looking for…it.”
“It’s the size of a shoe box,” Manning said over the radio, his voice faintly distorted by a crackle of static. “The device could be anywhere on this ship.”
“Then stop wasting time talking to me,” McCarter growled, touching his throat. “And get on it!”
Something very hard was thrust into the small of McCarter’s back. Small and round and hard. From experience the Stony Man commando could tell it was a gun barrel.
“I do not know who you are, Yankee,” a voice from behind said in heavily accented English. “But if you are special forces, then I am a horse’s ass!”
Snorting in disdain, McCarter started to turn and the gun barrel was shoved harder against his spine. Just below the cover of his NATO body armor. Exactly where he was vulnerable.
“Do not try my patience,” the voice commanded. “Drop your weapon now, or die.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gary, Illinois
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Carl Lyons said as the sign for Gary came into view from around a curve on the highway.
“Agreed,” Schwarz said, holding his M-16/M-203 with one hand and rolling down the rear window with the other. The polluted air streamed into the Cadillac, carrying with it the stink of garbage, industry and despair.
Reaching down, Lyons clicked off the safety of his shotgun. “Get ready. We’ll go for their tires and then—”
“No, wait!” Blancanales cried, holding out a restraining arm. “The Comanches have arrived!”
As the black sedan began to slow and angled in for the off-ramp, a bright yellow convertible raced into view, driving up the ramp, its headlights flashing and horn blazing. The driver of the sedan frantically veered away from the incoming car and slammed against one of his own escort vehicles.
The station wagon looped out of the way as the van skittered across the highway and crashed into the concrete retainer in the middle. Its side windows shattered in a flurry of green glass squares, and the van driver hit the brakes, fighting the vehicle to a shuddering stop.
But by now a pale blue convertible emerged from the off-ramp, the collection of teenagers inside opening fire on the sedan with an assortment of weapons. The black car was peppered with lead and steel, and its headlights blew out, but the windows stayed intact, showing that they were bulletproof.
All around Able Team, the local drivers knew danger when it arrived and were peeling away for the next exit, led by the calm taxicabs.
Fishtailing about, the yellow Oldsmobile cycled up its top to expose a hunched-over driver in a black leather jacket and a shirtless teenager carrying an old M-1 A U.S. Army flamethrower. Both of the teens wore beaded headbands, and their bodies were covered with countless tattoos in a mawkish version of shaman magic symbols. Lyons knew enough about the Plains Indian tribes to see the kids were mixing Apache with Blackfoot, Delaware with Choctaw, and some stuff that simply looked like made-up nonsense.
Hefting the M-16/M-203, Blancanales grunted in disdain. “Comanches, my ass,” he growled. “If there is a single drop of Indian blood in the veins of any of these punks, then I’m a ballerina.”
“At least you got the legs for it,” Schwarz quipped, removing the 40 mm antipersonnel shell of steel slivers from the grenade launcher of his own M-203. The sedan had already proved it was bulletproof, so a change of tactics was in order. Reaching blindly into a canvas bag of ordnance, he pulled out a 40 mm HE shell and thumbed it into the open breech of the grenade launcher.
“Wait for it,” Lyons warned, both hands tight on the steering wheel as a flurry of spent brass rained across the Cadillac from the dueling cars ahead of them. He was trying to maintain a safe distance, but shrapnel and lead were flying everywhere.
“And don’t miss, brother,” Blancanales added grimly.
“Just tell me when,” Schwarz said, sighting his weapon out the window of the Cadillac, concentrating on aiming the assault rifle. He would only get one shot at this.
Accelerating, the battered van moved to cover the sedan. Shouting a war whoop, the standing teen in the yellow Olds raised his ungainly weapon and sent a burning stream of jellied gasoline straight toward the station wagon. But the wind drove it back, and the fire never reached its goal.
However, the pyrotechnic display had the effect of clearing all the other vehicles off the road. Brakes smoking and squealing, cars were squealing to frantic stops along the berm. One suicidal soul started driving backward down the highway, but kept slamming into the concrete divider wall.
Waving machine pistols, the teenagers in the station wagon started to shoot back when the blue convertible came streaking along 55, darting between the two, and cut loose with a raw-throated salvo of shotguns. Teens inside the station wagon were thrown back minus faces, their automatic weapons still chattering as dead hands convulsed on the triggers. The artificial wood siding was blown off the station wagon as hot lead punched out from inside the vehicle and the driver fought to maintain control of his rolling slaughterhouse.
Now the rest of the windows crashed out of the van, and a half-dozen M-16 assault rifles and a Thompson machine gun cut loose at the blue convertible, the thunderous rattle of the .45 Thompson audible over the chatter of the M-16 rifles. Two of the passengers took hits, one flopping sideways and losing his gun over the side. An Ingram machine pistol hit the rushing highway and exploded into pieces, clip, bullets, springs and assorted parts tumbling behind the speeding vehicles.
Dodging a pool of jellied fire on the asphalt from the badly aimed flamethrower, Lyons scowled at the sight of a civilian in a Honda Civic still on the roadway. The idiot behind the wheel of the economy compact seemed fascinated by the battle as if it were on television.
“Rosario!” he shouted over the rushing wind.
“On it,” Blancanales replied, placing aside the assault rifle. Drawing his Colt .380 pistol, he leaned out the side window, steadied the sound-suppressed weapon with both hands and gently squeezed the trigger.
In a strident crash the entire rear window of the Honda shattered, and then the side mirror was blown completely off the car body. Jolted back to reality, the civilian started screaming curses as he went straight through a Police Only break in the concrete divider. With tires squealing, he emerged with the northbound traffic and started building speed.
Lyons nodded at the sight. Good enough. Now they had some proper combat room for the two street gangs to battle it out with each other. But when would the driver of the sedan make his move?
The four battling cars swerved all over the road in a total disregard of safety or sanity. Now the kid with the flamethrower fought to sweep the fiery rod across the van. A professional soldier would have known better than to even try. He would have killed the stream, aimed at the van and then triggered the spray once more. But the street punk wasted huge amounts of fuel as he fought to control the rushing inertia and recoil of the liquid-fueled weapon. Then he recoiled as the pressurized tank on his back was ruptured from a bullet. There was a brief rush of fire, and then the tank and flamethrower both were extinguished as the fuel supply was exhausted.
“Talk about timing,” Schwarz snorted. Then he frowned and touched the receiver in his ear. “Hold it, our guy is finally making a call to his boss.”
“Took him long enough,” Blancanales snarled, as a sign flashed by showing that they were now leaving the city limits of Gary.
“Now it’s our turn,” Lyons growled, and twisted the wheel hard to charge straight for the bla
ck sedan.
As the heavy vehicle came close, Blancanales and Schwarz each unleashed their weapons in an orchestrated sweep. The tires blew, the windows shattered and the rear trunk filled up. Dropping his cell phone, the driver fought to control the sedan as Blancanales sent a thermite shell into the trunk, and Schwarz pumped a high-explosive round into the front seat.
The U.S. Army shells hit and detonated, the combined blast almost tearing the sedan apart. Then the gas tank ignited, flipping the armored vehicle to tumble along the highway, throwing off burning wreckage in every direction.
Down the road, the three battling vehicles seemed to not even notice the destruction of the sedan as they continued their high-velocity combat, blood and brass falling to the asphalt.
Softly in the distance came the howl of police cars.
“Good,” Lyons said, slowing the Cadillac. “Okay, back we go. They’re going to be busy here for quite a while.”
“Yeah. Now Woods will be forced to send people out to check what’s going on with the Bloodhawks, weakening his defenses at their headquarters.”
“Primed for an invasion.”
“But not for long.”
“There’s an exit two miles ahead,” Schwarz said, checking his handheld computer. “We can cut west and reach the factory by coming in from the other side.”
“First we find a hardware store,” Blancanales corrected.
Schwarz frowned at that, then slowly smiled. Oh yeah, of course. How could he have forgotten?
The White Pearl
KEEPING HIS HANDS in plain sight, McCarter stayed very still on the deck of the ship as Carmen Delahunt whispered instructions over the radio in his ear. “Help is coming,” she said calmly. “But stall for as long as you can!”
“Now listen to me,” McCarter started slowly in Russian.
“Shut up!” the man behind him ordered, shoving the gun harder into his back. “Your friend with the little box is long gone, Mafia pig. This must be about drugs for you to dare pose as the military. Tell me, who is your contact for the cocaine and things will go easier for you.”
“Now!” Delahunt said loudly.
Throwing himself to the side, McCarter did a shoulder roll and came up with his pistol out just in time to see a sailor fall limply to the deck with a revolver in his grip. As the cocked weapon hit, it discharged and blew a hole in the gunwale the size of a fist.
“Is he alive?” Hawkins asked, his AK-105 held backward in his hands, the stock forward.
McCarter frowned as excited members of the White Pearl crew started arriving from every direction at the sound the gunshot.
“Keep them back,” McCarter subvocalized into his throat mike to the rest of Phoenix Force. “And Cal, get the hover ready to go. We may need to leave fast.”
“On it, David,” James replied over the radio, and the scarf-wrapped man sprinted away from the assembling crowd to head toward the hovercraft on the rear deck.
Manning and Encizo pushed the more curious of the passengers away from the man sprawled on the deck, while Tokaido reported their translated mutterings. But it wasn’t necessary; McCarter knew the faces of frightened people when he saw them. For most, this was supposed to have been a pleasure cruise, breathing in the fresh salt air, watching the volcanoes and maybe, if they were lucky, spotting a pod of humpback whales in the water. Instead, they got half a dozen murders and an invasion of armed military forces.
“I’d ask for a bleeding refund,” he muttered, kicking the smoking gun out of the twitching fingers. It clattered across the deck and over the side into the sea.
“I don’t think he’s dead,” Hawkins stated, swinging the AK-105 into its proper position. There was a small tuft of hair sticking to the wooden stock of the weapon.
Somebody in the crowd shouted a demand in Japanese, and Manning fired back a staccato burst of the same language and shut them down fast.
“Go back to your rooms!” Encizo ordered loudly. “This is military business! Go back now!”
As the passengers and crew started to move reluctantly away, McCarter knelt and turned over the unconscious man. It was the purser. Exploring the back of the man’s head with gentle fingertips, McCarter saw it was only a scalp wound and nothing serious. Hawkins had moved fast, but not with lethal force, thank God. Searching the purser, McCarter found nothing of importance until discovering something flat taped to the small of his back. Cutting the man’s shirt open, McCarter found a leather booklet securely held in place by crisscrossing strips of duct tape. The Stony Man commando ripped the item free and peeled off the tape to thumb open the booklet.
He already had a bad feeling what it might be, and his suspicions proved to be correct. The contents were in Russian, but the photo and government seal clearly showed the man’s true occupation.
“The goddamn FSB,” McCarter growled, slowly standing. “He’s a member of the Russia FBI. Probably a plant to keep track of all the drug smuggling.”
“And he came out of cover because of Harrison?” Hawkins snorted.
“No,” Encizo said, over the radio. “Because we’re not Russian special forces, and he knew it.”
The FSB agent started to groan just then, so easing out his tranquilizer gun, Manning shot the man once in the side. The Moscow operative jerked slightly from the impact, then fell back.
“He’s gone for hours,” Manning stated, holstering the weapon. “What now, David?”
“Patch that wound,” McCarter directed gruffly.
With James at the hovercraft, Encizo took over the job as medic and started applying a simple pressure bandage to the laceration.
“Our FSB friend here mentioned somebody leaving with the ‘little box,’” McCarter stated, slinging his assault rifle over a shoulder. “He thought it had to be drugs because it was so small, but it must have been the Chameleon.”
“That didn’t have to be Harrison,” Hawkins observed. “But either way, getting the unit back is our top priority.”
“Then we get the dirty little traitor,” McCarter said in a low voice of granite. His hands tightened on the strap of the AK-105 assault rifle, the knuckles turning white.
“Hey, David,” Manning whispered, stepping closer.
McCarter angrily snapped his head at the man, then relaxed slightly. “No problem,” he replied in a more normal voice. “Retrieving the unit comes first. It’s all under control.”
On the flying bridge, the first mate was using binoculars to try to get a better sight of what was happening on his ship, so Hawkins moved to block his view. “Okay,” he said softly. “So we follow the Chameleon.”
“Well, he’s not on Simushir Island,” Encizo commented, packing away his medical gear. The volcanic island was only a few hundred yards to the south of the anchored ship, and they could see completely across its wide flat landscape. Aside from the smoking volcano dominating the middle of the landmass, the emerald-green island was almost devoid of features.
“Hell, son, you couldn’t hide a jackrabbit in the putting green,” Hawkins drawled, “unless it went inside the volcano.” The smoking peak choose the moment to rumble like distant thunder.
“Not likely,” McCarter agreed, looking out to sea. “That leaves three islands in the immediate area.”
“No, two,” Manning countered. The middle island was only jagged black basalt rising straight up from the crystal-clear water. There wasn’t enough flatland there to take a piss on, he knew, much less do anything else.
“We could split up and hit them both,” Hawkins suggested. “Do a fast recon…aw, hell, we only have one hovercraft. Takes hours to row across the distance in a lifeboat.”
“Maybe he was meeting with a sub or a seaplane?” Encizo suggested, watching a handful of crew members loitering close to the hovercraft. “Cal, company.”
James jerked about and snapped off something in Russian. The sailors raggedly saluted and all but ran to the companionway and disappeared from sight.
“What the hell did you say?
” Encizo asked, amused.
Across the ship, James shrugged. “Beats me. Ask Akira. But it sure lit a fire in their shorts, eh?”
“Got that right.”
“Can the chatter,” McCarter demanded, straightening the scarf around his mouth. “How’s the sky?”
“Radar is clear,” James stated from the hovercraft, bending over the small control board. “But then with the Chameleon, Harrison could have met with an aircraft carrier and we’d never know it unless we saw the thing.”
“Enough. Let’s move out,” McCarter said, heading aft. “We’ve extended our welcome here far too long as it is.”
Hawkins jerked a thumb at the unconscious man on the deck. “What about the feeb?” he asked, using the American slang for an FBI agent.
“Bring him along,” McCarter said over the radio link without turning. “We can’t leave him behind to talk to the crew. Once the White Pearl is back under way again, we’ll drop him off on Simushir Island. When he comes to, he can walk to the weather station and call for help.”
“And if there are any more FSB agents about,” Encizo observed, “he’ll act as a hostage and slow them down.”
“The FSB, a kinder, gentler KGB,” Hawkins said, slinging his weapon and lifting the man in a fireman’s carry, the body draped across his shoulders.
“Weather station,” Manning muttered, looking at the volcano. “Hey, David, think our boy may be there? Hiding in plain sight again?”
McCarter stopped and looked hard at the rumbling peak. The weather station was only a tiny white dot on the dark side of the steeply sloping mountain. There was a road, but it was invisible at this range, the trail little more than a cut in the hard basalt and raw stone. Not a single tree grew along the side of the volcano; it was as bare as the lunar landscape.
“Maybe,” McCarter said thoughtfully, rubbing his nose with a fist.
“Nope, he’s on Matua Island,” James said over the radio. “Or, at least, the Chameleon is. Heads up, boys. I’ve been watching the radar screen for MiG fighters, and for a brief couple of seconds that northern island disappeared from the screen.”
The Chameleon Factor Page 18
