Power Grab

CHAPTER TWO

Ithaca, New York

The twin rotors of the massive Boeing MH-47G Chinook helicopter flattened the grass of the field in which ace pilot Jack Grimaldi brought the big bird down. With a top speed of close to 200 miles per hour, the heavy chopper was overkill for ferrying Able Team around—the helicopter could lift and transport a bulldozer or an M-198 howitzer—but it had been readily available while time was of the essence. The chopper had a 450-mile range, and with the Warlock network and U.S. intelligence projecting their targets to be clustered in the New England area, this Special Operations Aviation version of the Chinook would serve well to hop them from site to site. The chopper boasted an advanced avionics system, a fast-rope rappelling system and was no slouch as an assault chopper. A single Chinook so equipped could, Grimaldi had told Able Team enthusiastically, replace multiple UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters.

Carl Lyons just wished the damned thing was a little smaller.

It was no small feat to land a chopper somewhere other than an airstrip or helipad, that much he knew. The wires and telephone poles, not to mention the trees, that dotted their landing zone made Lyons decidedly nervous as Grimaldi deftly fitted the machine into the space available.

The members of Able Team filed out of the chopper, weapons at the ready. There was no attempt at subtlety here, and there would be no hiding in plain sight in civilian clothes, trying to keep those around them from seeing what they were doing. No, there was no time for niceties of that kind. The Warlock network indicated that one of the Iranian bombs was online in the area, and Carl Lyons could see why terrorists might have selected this location.

Men and women dressed for spring gasped and backed up as Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales approached. All were dressed in combat boots and black BDUs, although Lyons had foregone the BDU blouse for a brown leather bomber jacket over a black T-shirt. Each man carried web gear or, in Lyons’s case, a canvas shoulder bag bearing extra magazines and other weaponry. Lyons’s bag was stuffed with 20-round polymer drum magazines for the Daewoo USAS-12 select-fire 12-gauge assault weapon he favored. In a leather shoulder holster under his left arm, he carried his .357 Magnum Colt Python. Schwarz and Blancanales both carried M-16 rifles, although Schwarz also had his Beretta 93-R machine pistol in shoulder leather, and Blancanales had a Beretta M-9 in a dropped thigh rig.

Each member of Able Team wore a microtransceiver earbud in his ear. The processors in the little devices cut the sound of gunfire but transmitted even a whisper from the owner, amplifying such sounds so that each member of the audio network could hear them. The effective range of the little earbuds wasn’t very great, but it was more than enough for the typical combat ranges in which the team typically fought.

Schwarz moved out in front as Blancanales and Lyons flanked him, weapons at the ready. Somebody in the crowd screamed. The three men of Able Team found themselves among the hedgerow parking lot of the Ithaca Farmer’s Market, which would have been a peaceful scene if not for the roar of the Chinook’s rotors, the artificial windstorm caused by its presence and the rushing crowds hurrying to avoid the armed men now approaching them.

Lyons wasn’t happy about terrifying civilians in this way, and he was keenly aware of the danger presented by a spooked crowd. As the three advanced, each one of them shouted, “Government agents. Remain calm. We are authorized Justice Department agents. Do not panic.”

He wondered if an armed man shouting “Do not panic” was likely to produce the desired effect. He doubted it.

Still, there was nothing they could do about it. There was a job to do, and Schwarz, in front with his whiz-bang techno-remote, was following some sort of sine-wave graphic on its tiny LCD screen. Carl Lyons didn’t care how it worked; the device was the domain of Gadgets Schwarz. As long as the device kept them from exploding when they got near the bomb, he was satisfied.

Someone shouted to call the police, and Lyons shot the woman a baleful glare. “We are the police,” he said.

She just stared at him, then repeated her appeal to call the police.

Well, that figured, and some part of him was proud of her for not simply bowing to asserted authority. Too many people could be fooled into doing what they were told by people who meant them harm, simply because the predators of the world counted on bullying their victims into submission.

The farmer’s market was an open-air covered pavilion that stretched in two different directions, forming an L-shape. It was quite large, and secondary sections containing booths and display tables jutted out at different points along the building. There was food for sale, some of it obviously still cooking as those preparing it fled their posts. There was also a ton of flea-market-style junk. Everything from garage-sale electronics to new, Chinese-made tourist-trap merchandise was arrayed for sale on line after line of folding tables.

“Have you got it?” Lyons asked.

“Tracking a firm trace signal,” Schwarz reported.

Blancanales shooed an attractive young woman in a halter top out of his way, somehow managing to be charming while doing it, and Lyons shook his head. Blancanales could get lucky in the strangest places.

They searched up and down each aisle. All the crap on the tables was starting to look the same, as far as Carl Lyons was concerned. Then, suddenly, the device in Schwarz’s hands seemed to light up like a Christmas tree. He stopped, examining a table covered in old, obsolete video game consoles that looked like they had been rolled down a hill and then run through a rock tumbler.

“Here!” Schwarz said. “It’s right here!”

Lyons realized then that he was pointing with the scanner at a gunmetal-gray box on the table that he had first thought to be one of the console games. It was, on closer inspection, one of the Iranian smart bombs.

Blancanales and Lyons took up stations on either side of Schwarz, covering a flank. The three men had worked and fought together for so long that very few words needed to pass between them; they knew their jobs, and they knew how to protect their own.

“Leave the area immediately,” Lyons ordered the few brave souls who still stood and watched, milling around nearby. “You won’t be in any danger if you leave immediately, but this device could produce noxious fumes. You don’t want to inhale them.”

The crowd moved off. Schwarz shot Lyons a look. “‘Noxious fumes’? Underselling the whole nerve-gas thing, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Gadgets,” Lyons said. He smiled, though. This was an old game they played. Both men knew they didn’t want to create a panic—or any more of a panic than they had already caused with their arrival. Already he could hear police sirens in the distance. If Price was doing her job, and she of course would be, the Farm would even now be relaying orders to the local authorities, instructing them to maintain a cordon around the target site but not to interfere with the government agents operating within it.

The locals always hated that, and Lyons didn’t blame them. He’d worn the badge and been part of the thin blue line himself. Nobody liked the jurisdictional crap from the Feds. There was simply no other way, and this was going to play out again and again as Jack Grimaldi ferried them into and out of one municipality and then the next. They were going to stomp a lot of feet before this was over. The alternative was wading through the usual bureaucratic red tape, and he was not going to allow that. People would die before the folks keeping chairs warm with their asses figured out what had to be done to keep the populace safe from Ovan’s terror network. He supposed he couldn’t blame the local law enforcement for not understanding the threat of a network they didn’t know about; Ovan and his terrorists were classified government information, their existence a closely guarded U.S. intelligence secret at this point.

By the time Able and Phoenix were done with Ovan, it was Lyons’s hope that no American civilian would ever need to hear of Ovan’s network. The men in it, and perhaps Ovan himself, would be extinct.

Schwarz, careful to keep the scanner device trained on the box as he approached it, was already holding down a switch, and Lyons thought he could hear a high-pitched whine coming from the scanner. Schwarz then placed the unit in contact with the smart bomb and pressed several more buttons. Lights began to cycle in a definite pattern.

“This bomb,” Schwarz said, “is fully active. According to the scanner it hasn’t completed its acclimation algorithm.”

“It’s what now?” Lyons asked absently. He was watching for threats over the barrel of his Daewoo.

“The bomb has to do a bunch of computer sampling,” Schwarz said, still holding the scanner in contact with the device. “The CIA first told us about it, and Akira and I verified in testing with devices not carrying explosive charges. When it’s placed, it has to go through an orientation phase, if you want to call it that, so its computer brain can get its bearings. It can’t be moved during the orientation or the calibration is all screwy and it just goes off at a random interval.”

“That what happened to the three puddles they pulled out of that shopping mall?”

“No way to tell,” Schwarz said, “but it’s the most likely explanation. Of course, we don’t know for certain that trying to deactivate the bomb like this won’t set it off.”

“We don’t?” Lyons asked. He caught the wink that Schwarz shot Blancanales, though.

“How long does it take?” Blancanales asked. He waved off a pair of women in shorts and tank tops who were starting to edge closer from the hedgerow parking lot. “Please, ladies,” he ordered. “Move along.”

“Still pulling the chicks, eh?” Schwarz said without looking up from his work.

“You know it,” Blancanales said smoothly.

The status LEDs on Schwarz’s scanner suddenly turned green. There was a metal clicking noise from inside the bomb casing. Schwarz looked at Lyons, then to Blancanales, and placed the scanner back in a padded pouch on his web gear.

“What are you—?” Lyons started to say.

Schwarz reached out and pressed the buttons on either side of the case. He opened the bomb like a suitcase and let the top rest against the table, revealing the inset spheres of the explosives.

Blancanales whistled.

Schwarz reached inside and, as Lyons winced, pressed a catch that released each of the spheres. Then he removed them. A contact wire trailed from each sphere. Schwarz produced a multitool from his web gear and used the wire cutters to snip the wires just aft of the connection to each sphere. Then he placed the spheres gently back in their receptacles.

The Able Team electronics genius pointed to the bomb case.

“The bouncing betty balls here,” he said, “have simple contact switches connecting their fuses to the computer’s brain. When they’re expelled from the bomb through breakaway hatches in the outer casing, they pull free from the fuses, and that’s what causes them to go off. They’re harmless now.”

“Really?” Lyons asked.

“Well, as harmless as a sphere of plastic explosive laced with solidified nerve toxin ever gets. I’m not saying I’d leave them out for the neighborhood kids to play with.”

“Good call,” Lyons said. “Let’s collect those and get the hell out of here.” He was grateful for the chopper still beating the air in the field nearby, its rotor thrum a heartbeat to the action here in the market. Getting on that chopper and flying away meant they wouldn’t have to deal with any awkward questions from the local law enforcement.

“Wait!” Schwarz said. He pulled the scanner from his web gear; it was beeping. “I’m getting…yes, I’m getting another localized signal. It’s not a full trace, just back-scatter, but it’s strong. The profile fits that of a device that’s online but not activated.”

“Another device…here?” Lyons asked.

“Yes, somewhere close.” Schwarz nodded.

“Go,” Lyons ordered. “Find it.”

Schwarz was off again, the scanner in his hands pointed in front of him. His M-16 was still slung and he used his free hand to pull the Beretta 93-R to allow him to track and shoot at the same time.

“This way,” Schwarz directed.

They followed the electronics expert as he made his way into the hedgerow parking lot. Here, winding rows of man-tall shrubbery separated each curving dirt path. Cars were parked on either side of the paths, and to exit the market, drivers would have to take a circuitous route through the twisting rows and back around the rear of the market to reach the nearest paved road.

Schwarz began moving back and forth among the rows of parked cars, spooking even more civilians. Lyons and Blancanales urged them to get back beyond the police cordon, the flashing lights of which he could see beyond the hedgerows.

“Get out of here!” Lyons snarled at one group of teenagers.

Schwarz moved like a dog following a scent, this way and that, watching the telltales of the scanner unit rise and fall. At the end of the furthest hedgerow, Lyons put a hand on Schwarz’s shoulder and told him to stop.

“What?” Schwarz asked.

“There,” Lyons said. He pointed.

Sitting at the end of the parking lane was a battered black cargo van. The windows were tinted, darker than was probably legal, and a cardboard sun screen bearing the cartoon image of a giant pair of sunglasses obscured the front windshield.

The van rocked slightly to the left, then the right.

“Signal’s coming from there,” Schwarz confirmed. “And obviously there’s someone in there.”

“Or a lot of someones,” Lyons said. He nodded to Blancanales, who nodded back and broke away, moving around to cover the rear right quarter of the vehicle. “Now for the part I hate.”

“What part is that?” Schwarz asked from his position at the front of the van.

“The part where they start shooting after I demand they come out,” Lyons said. “You in the van!” he roared at full volume.

Lyons was hitting the dirt even before the shots came, but they came. The hollow metallic clatter of a Kalashnikov beat the interior of the van like a drum. Bullets sprayed from the rear windows and even blindly through the body of the vehicle. The engine started.

“Go for the tires,” Lyons ordered.

Blancanales and Schwarz immediately fired into the front and rear tires of the vehicle, which was already moving. The dirt and gravel beneath the shredded wheels flew up in great plumes as the vehicle’s powerful engine urged it forward. Lyons pushed himself to his feet and jogged ahead; the van might be moving, but it wasn’t doing so very quickly. Lining up his shot carefully to prevent catching his partners’ positions, he lowered the barrel of the USAS-12, flicked the weapon’s selector switch to full-auto and held back the trigger.

Heavy 12-gauge slugs poured from the barrel of the weapon. Lyons rode out the tremendous muzzle-rise of the weapon, firing from the hip, watching the heavy slugs tear apart the grille of the van. The hood was blown up on its hinges as the engine screamed in torment. The van shuddered to a halt.

The sliding door was shoved aside, as the rear doors were thrown open.

“Here they come,” Lyons said, his words carried to Able Team by his transceiver.

“Got it,” Blancanales said.

“Let ’er rip,” Schwarz said.

The terrorists spilled out, almost falling over each other. There were three of them. The one who scrambled out the side door was easy pickings; he tried to level his Kalashnikov at Lyons. The big cop let his USAS-12 fall to the end of its single-point sling and withdrew his Colt Python with deadly speed, pulling through double-action to send a Magnum round punching through the man’s face.

Schwarz and Blancanales fired short, measured bursts of their own, dropping their adversaries. Lyons holstered his Python and reloaded a new drum magazine in his shotgun. He advanced on the van.

“Check them!” Lyons said. “If anybody’s still alive we need medical attention rolling.” A live prisoner might mean valuable intelligence about the terrorist network Ovan was fielding. Lyons didn’t like the idea that technology was their only lead in this mission. The cop in him told him they needed something else, some human element, some information that would give them an edge over their enemies. With only an electronic leash to lead them around, they were vulnerable. If they lost the initiative he wasn’t sure they’d be able to get it back, and that worried him. Too many lives were riding on this…and the terrorist attack on the mall was already all over the news, cycling through the twenty-four-hour cable networks. More attacks would raise public response to the level of panic. Nobody wanted that…and Able Team, thanks to their one-of-a-kind gizmo and the Warlock network, were the three men standing between Ovan’s terrorists and complete chaos in the United States.

No, he didn’t like the idea at all. But he would do his job, and so would Blancanales and Schwarz. They always did.

“Nothing here,” Schwarz said.

“Mine’s dead,” Blancanales reported.

Lyons didn’t bother to look at his man; there was no surviving the head shot that gunner had suffered.

Inside the van, he found another one.

The gunman was slumped in a corner of the cargo area, a Makarov pistol on the floor beside him. There was a bullet hole in his temple and a spray of blood on the interior of the van above and behind him.

In his free hand was a cell phone. A voice on the other end was still speaking.

Lyons picked it up and listened. He handed it to Schwarz, who listened. The connection was terminated from the other end.

“Probably Turkmen,” Schwarz guessed. “Not in my repertoire.”

Lyons pocketed the phone. “Jack,” he said. “Are you reading us?”

“Loud and clear,” Grimaldi answered from the chopper.

“Have a courier detailed to meet us, soonest,” he said. “Coordinate with your flight plan, however we can work it out. I’ve got a cell phone here that I want analyzed.”

“Will do.”

Lyons glanced into the back of the van. Two of the suitcase-size bombs were inside. “They’re not active?” he asked.

“Not according to this,” Schwarz said, pointing the scanner at the bombs.

“Then let’s pack them up and get back on the chopper,” Lyons said, looking around. “We’re only just getting started.”

CHAPTER THREE

Tehran, Iran

The Volkswagen diesel microbus pulled up to the curb as the men of Phoenix Force, completely unarmed and traveling under the false papers of Canadian reporters from a fictional news outlet, left Imam Khomeini International Airport. Named for the leader of the 1979 Iranian revolution, the airport had been closed and reopened several times in the scuffle over whether or not the facility was run by foreign contractors. David McCarter remembered reading some years back that the airport’s runway had supposedly been built over ancient subterranean waterways and was therefore somehow unstable. Nothing had given way when their Kish Air flight from Dubai had landed, however. McCarter was grateful for that, and grateful that they were done bouncing around all over the globe to complete their successful transit into hostile territory. He grew tired of the secret-agent games and sometimes wondered if they ever truly fooled anyone for long.

Unarmed as he was, McCarter knew a moment’s concern when he sat in the passenger seat of the van. If the man meeting them wasn’t who he was supposed to be, there would be little they could do about it.

“Hello,” the man behind the wheel said as he guided the van away from the loading and unloading area. “My name is Ghaem Ahmadi. I am officially a well-placed operative within the Iranian Internal Security force.”

“Officially?” McCarter asked.

“Unofficially, Uncle Sam asks me to extend his greetings on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency.” Ahmadi smiled. He had a gap-toothed grin set wide in a smooth, olive-skinned face. His dark eyes and round face gave him an almost somber look, as if he was in mourning, and the smile that creased his features seemed incongruous. He wore nondescript civilian clothing and a light windbreaker, much as the members of Phoenix Force did.

“Pleased to meet you,” McCarter said. “A little birdie tells me the weather here’s doing okay lately.”

“It is hotter than Texas but drier than Arizona,” Ahmadi said, and grimaced at the awkward code phrases. “You are satisfied?”

“I am,” McCarter said. “I imagine you’d be hauling us to a dungeon somewhere if you weren’t.”

“I imagine as much, as well,” Ahmadi said.

They traveled in silence for a time. It was a relatively clear day in a city known for its cloying smog. Mc Carter could see Milad Tower in the distance, and beyond that, the Alborz mountains were visible. As they moved through the city he was struck by how modern and cosmopolitan it looked and felt. It wasn’t at all the type of backward, repressive society he knew it to be, not from the outside. Of course, you didn’t have to look far to see the fear in people’s eyes whenever one of the uniformed paramilitary Iranian Internal Security goons neared. The IIS had been one of the innovations Magham’s government had brought to an already oppressed people. The paramilitary IIS squads strutted through the streets of the city as if they owned it—which, for all intents and purposes, they did.

The city was home to some eight million people, thirteen million if you included the surrounding metro area. It was also the governmental capital and economic hub of Iran, although McCarter thought he remembered reading that the government was still mulling over moving the seat of government to another location. He didn’t suppose that would make too much difference in terms of the mission ahead of them. He was, however, only too aware that he and his men were deep in a country that was no friend to the United States, with very little recourse should things go awry. They were heavily dependent on the extensive network the CIA had developed covertly in Iran.

“You are fidgeting in your seat,” Ahmadi said. “I believe I know why.” His round face again crinkled into something like a smile as he gestured to the men in the rear bench seats. His accent was pronounced, but he was clearly fluent in English.

“Let’s just say I am very attuned to our situation,” McCarter said.

Ahmadi laughed. “I like how this is put. Yes. I like it.” He gestured again. “Very discreetly, look under your seats. I received a special request for you, Mister…?”

“David,” McCarter said. The team would use their first names only in a covert situation like this.

“Mr. David.” Ahmadi smiled again. “I received a special request for the leader of my guests, and I did what I could to provide for the others.”

McCarter reached under his seat and felt a familiar shape: the grip of a Browning Hi-Power, as it turned out. He checked the weapon as best he could, keeping it low near the floor to prevent it from being seen by pedestrians and other drivers. There was a clip-on holster that he affixed inside his waistband, under his windbreaker, and a small mountain of extra magazines that he placed in his pockets.