Triplecross
McCarter pushed until he was on top of the enemy. He smashed the Hi-Power against the man’s face once more and grabbed the ax, twisting it out of the other soldier’s grip. Only then did he see the soldier pulling a combat knife from a sheath at his waist. There was nothing else McCarter could do. If he hesitated, that knife would be in his guts and he would be a dead man.
He brought the heavy blade of the ax down on top of the enemy soldier’s head.
There was a sickening crunch. The packed snow around the two men was suddenly red with blood. McCarter bent, retrieved the Hi-Power he had been forced to release and reloaded it. Adrenaline dump coursed through him, familiar and powerful.
“David,” James said as McCarter checked his six o’clock and saw his teammates closing on his position. The camp was suddenly quiet. The gunfire had ceased. They had neutralized all the opposition.
An engine roared to life.
The covered troop truck was rolling slowly through the snow, the tires digging for traction, the vehicle picking up speed. McCarter turned, spotted the vehicle and ran for it, shoving his Hi-Power in his belt and raising his Tavor as he did so. He wanted to line up the truck for a shot, but it was already out of range.
“David,” Manning warned. “Get down.”
McCarter knew instantly what the stolid Canadian had in mind. He flattened himself into the snow, feeling the chill of the crystals against his clothing. Half a moment later the distinctive sound of a rocket-propelled grenade sailing overhead caused him to put both hands on top of his insulated skull cap.
As if that gesture would save me if the RPG wasn’t precisely on target, he had time to think.
The RPG round struck the rear of the troop truck, blew apart the canvas-covered bed and physically shoved the truck through the snow. It was a very precise shot...but the RPG had detonated against the flimsiest portion of the vehicle, short of the cab. The truck, now a pillar of orange-yellow fire from behind the cab to the rear of its troop area, continued to plow through the snow. The engine raced harder.
“I don’t believe it,” McCarter muttered to himself.
The other four members of Phoenix Force joined him, flanking him as they came up from behind. Manning began to load another RPG round, but the truck was out of range.
“We could let them go,” Encizo said.
“Chances are,” said McCarter, “when Gera’s men home in on this area, they’re going to be drawn straight to that.”
“A flaming troop truck moving through a frozen, desolate wasteland?” James asked. “Who’d notice that?”
McCarter shot James a look. He gestured. “We can go back to where we stashed the MRAPs,” he said, “or we can run them down on foot. So let’s do both. Calvin, you’re with me and Gary. Rafe, T.J., you go get the trucks and bring up the rear. They aren’t moving fast and they’re heavily damaged.”
“Not to mention glow-in-the-dark,” Encizo said.
“That, too,” McCarter said. “We’ll catch up, circle the wagons and make ready to intercept whatever diplomatic overtures Gera’s forces are likely to make.”
“On it,” Encizo said.
“You got it,” Hawkins drawled.
As the two men traced their approach back to the armored vehicles, McCarter, Manning and James set out after the burning truck, trotting through the snow at a brisk pace. McCarter was grateful for the activity. It was damned cold out here, even though the weather was calm at the moment. It felt good to put some blood back in his extremities.
“I don’t know, man,” James said as they moved. “I mean, I’m no Native American tracker or anything. We might lose them.”
Ahead of them, the trail made by the truck through the fresh coating of snow was as clear as a highway. Not that much farther ahead, the still-burning truck was impossible to miss, like the light at the end of a train tunnel.
“Somehow,” Manning said quietly, “I think we’ll manage.”
They had not gone far when the sound of the two MRAPs was audible at their backs. The troop truck was growing larger, too; they were gaining on it.
Something didn’t feel right.
“Slow it up, lads,” McCarter said quietly. The transceivers Phoenix Force wore made it possible for him to issue quiet verbal commands where he might otherwise have used hand signals. He did not have to speak loudly enough to be heard; he only had to speak loud enough that his transceiver picked it up. His amplified voice was then run through the earbuds of the other team members. The transceivers had smart algorithms for screening noise, too, which was why they did not transmit the sounds of gunfire and explosions.
“Yeah, I don’t like it,” James said. “Seems just a little too easy.”
“Let’s get down in the cold white again,” McCarter suggested. “Gary, join me down here. You’re from north of the States. It will be like home.” He looked to James. “Calvin, circle them, low and quiet. Take the right side of the truck. It’s flaming more than the left. Should obscure their vision.”
“Got it.” James loped off across the snow, silent as a panther.
“Somehow,” Manning said, going prone in the snow with his RPG at the ready and his Tavor slung, “it’s just not the same.”
McCarter judged the distance from Manning and gave himself a little more space to stay clear of the backblast from the RPG. He aimed with his Tavor and prepared to fire a targeted burst. Through the futuristic assault weapon’s sights, he watched as men began moving in and around the cab of the flaming truck, first jumping down from it, then climbing back in, then exiting again. A quick survey of the surrounding snowy ground, dotted by rocky outcroppings and scarred by natural trenches carved by the wind, showed him that James was nowhere in sight.
“They spotted something,” Manning said, speculating. “They saw Calvin but they’re not sure. They’re probably arguing among themselves. Trying to figure out if what they saw is what they saw.”
“Get ready, mate,” McCarter said. “I think they were laying for us. Using the vehicle and the fire as cover and distraction. They were hoping we’d walk right into their bullets. When we stopped, it ruined their plans.”
Manning had no response for that. The range was extreme for the RPG, and with James not visible, a shot would be unwise. But there would be no denying the explosive power of the RPG when it came time to light up their foes. McCarter spared Manning’s pack a glance. The big Canadian still had plenty of firepower for the rocket launcher, and there was more loaded in the cargo areas of the MRAPs.
The gunfire McCarter had been waiting for, the gunfire James, too, had sensed was coming, finally exploded from the truck. There were more shooters than McCarter had anticipated. He judged at least half a dozen men, possibly as many as eight. They must have been crammed pretty tightly in the cab and toward the front of the big truck, because there couldn’t have been many survivors of the blast at the back.
A muzzle-flash on their ten o’clock gave away James’s position for just an instant. Silhouetted by the guttering flames of the troop truck, a figure fell into the snow.
Score one for Calvin, thought McCarter. He waited. There was another flash, this time at eleven o’clock. James was on the move, shooting and then changing position. A second body fell from the truck.
That’s two, the Phoenix Force leader thought to himself.
McCarter waited long enough to verify that, when James’s third shot rang out, he was farther away from the vehicle, not closer. It was then that McCarter reached out and tapped Manning on the shoulder.
“Fire in the hole, Gary,” he said.
Manning pulled the trigger of the RPG. The rocket blazed from the tube, made its deceptively lazy way to the target and struck just to the rear of the cab, blowing a hole in the sheet metal and knocking the truck over on its side. A singed door, ripped free of its hinges, flew through the air and landed in the snow between the doomed vehicle and where McCarter and Manning were stationed.
“Rafe, T.J., bring it in. Put yourselves on either side of the truck and get those turrets manned. If the Farm has done its part we won’t be lonely for long. Rafe, what’s the latest satellite tracking update?”
“They’re headed to us, all right,” Encizo said through the transceiver link. “I estimate eight minutes, maybe ten, before we’ve got all the Gera we could ever want.”
“Then let’s make sure we wrap up the party here first,” said McCarter. He got to his feet and offered Manning a hand up. Given Manning’s size, the Briton had to put his weight into it.
“You’re not getting any lighter, mate,” McCarter noted.
“But you’re as charming as ever, David,” Manning retorted with a grin. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” the Phoenix Force leader said. He brought his weapon to his shoulder and stalked toward what was left of the troop truck.
Nothing moved in the wreckage until the two men were practically on top of it. McCarter didn’t see the man who climbed out of the “top” of the truck. With the vehicle on its side, what had been the driver’s window was now the only egress through the hole where the door had been. A single Pakistani gunman, his bloody uniform bearing Jamali’s modified military crest, half jumped, half fell directly on top of McCarter.
The Briton went down under the weight of the other man. Just as quickly, he surged to his feet, carrying the smaller, lighter Pakistani with him, smashing the man against the burned-out hulk of the troop truck.
As McCarter was slamming the butt of his Tavor down on the skull of his enemy, he was aware of the gunfire around him. Manning was engaging a contact at close range, and while McCarter dealt with his own enemy, he saw James appear in his peripheral vision. The lanky James sauntered up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Steam escaped from the neckline of his cold-weather fatigues. He had been pushing hard. His assault rifle was still in his hands.
“You all right, David?” James asked.
McCarter looked down where he knelt. The Pakistani was dead. He checked his rifle for damage, but there was none that he could perceive. He took the time to eject the magazine, check it, seat it and make sure a round was chambered. Then he stood.
“You couldn’t find something a little more unique?” James said.
“What, mate?” McCarter asked, momentarily confused.
“You know, like a garden hoe or maybe a rake.”
“What are you on about, Calvin?”
“Dude, you killed a guy with an ax a little while ago.”
It was then that McCarter realized that, no matter what else happened on this mission, he was never going to live that down.
CHAPTER FIVE
Twin Forks, Utah
Shouting a battle cry that Lyons swore was in Chinese, the gunmen began hurling themselves down the hallway, seemingly heedless of the return fire that would greet them. Lyons unleashed a new barrage from his shotgun, but for every man he cut down, another two emerged from the darkened corridor. With nowhere to go and no options, the Able Team leader decided he would have to take the only obvious exit.
“Gadgets,” he said, throwing his shotgun over his shoulder on its sling, “come here.”
Schwarz had time to turn and throw the duffel bag on his back before Lyons bent down, grabbed the slimmer man by his belt and one ankle and threw Schwarz bodily into the ceiling. The Stony Man electronics expert squawked as he was thrown, but he got the idea, grabbing on to the drop ceiling struts and clambering into the darkened crawl space.
Blancanales did not need to be prompted. He took a running start and, as Lyons held his hands low as an improvised stirrup, Blancanales didn’t so much climb as jump up into the crawl space, using the boost that Lyons gave him by standing suddenly. The two smaller men, in turn, groaned under the strain of hauling Lyons up after them.
“Go,” Lyons urged. “Go, go, go!”
Bullets chased them into the crawl space. As they pulled themselves along the metal lattice framing the drop ceiling, the shooters in the corridor below moved into position to spray upward. Raking the tiles fore and aft of Able Team’s position, they began punching holes that tracked toward the three men from front and back.
“This is bad!” Blancanales shouted.
“Gadgets!” Lyons called. “Give me CS!” He pointed toward the gap in the tiles behind them.
Schwarz nodded. From the duffel bag he produced several CS gas canisters, pulled the pins and lobbed the gas grenades through the opening. Lyons’s nose twitched as the familiar smell hit him. He had never particularly liked tear gas. Which was the point of the stuff, he supposed.
“Keep moving,” Lyons directed the other team members. “Backtrack until we get near the end of the building.”
The feedback in his ear told him his transceiver was still being jammed. Whatever was going on here at the EarthGard mine, it spoke worlds that the gunmen guarding the place had active jamming equipment readily available. What would justify so much hardware? Assuming the shooters believed Able Team represented the federal government, the guards had been awfully quick to shoot down agents whose deaths could bring a world of trouble down onto the mine.
Not that Lyons intended to die here today.
They reached a split in the crawl space where two prefabricated sections were joined. The connection formed a T-shape that led left and right. If Lyons’s bearings were correct, they were headed to the opposite end of the building, with the hub behind them. That put the left turn north and the right turn south. He took the left and glanced back over his shoulder to make sure his men were following.
“Gadgets!” he called.
Schwarz came up alongside him with Blancanales trailing. As they crawled through the ceiling, the footing beneath them became more firm. Lyons looked down and realized the drop ceiling frame had given way to plywood. The terminus of the wing they were navigating had been reinforced. There was no immediate exit.
“Ironman?” Schwarz asked.
“In a minute,” Lyons answered. He withdrew the folding combat dagger from the pocket of his jacket and snapped it open. “Dig!”
“Should have made that left turn at Albuquerque,” Schwarz muttered. He snapped open his own blade while Blancanales did likewise. All three men began stabbing at the plywood, taking large chunks out of the wood. Soon they had created a hole large enough for the three of them to slip through, although Lyons’s broad shoulders would be a tight fit.
“Down?”
“Not until they get closer,” Lyons answered. “Did you text the Farm?”
“You thought of that, too?” Schwarz asked, grinning. More seriously he said, “Yes. They’re relaying our request for air support to Jack.”
“Then we just have to try not to get dead until the air cavalry arrives,” Lyons said.
Rays of light from the fixtures below punched through the darkness of their space just short of the exit they’d created. The three men of Able Team rolled aside, pressing themselves against the sides of the upper walls. Schwarz groaned as Lyons’s bulk practically crushed him against the vertical boards of the trailer.
“Thanks, Ironman,” he gasped. “I didn’t know you cared enough to shield me from bullets.”
“Shaddap, Gadgets,” Lyons said. “And hand me a flashbang.”
Schwarz handed over the grenade. Lyons pulled the pin, released the spoon and dropped the weapon through the hole, making sure to put some spin on it to get it rolling toward the enemy. All three Able Team members closed their eyes, covered their ears and opened their mouths to equalize pressure.
The vibration of the powerful flash-bang grenade shook the plywood beneath them and set Lyons’s ears to ringing. The explosion was Able Team’s cue to act. They dropped down to floor level, Lyons first, his two teammates following.
Several uniformed guards struggled to bring their weapons up. At least one man’s ears were bleeding. All were squinting hard, trying to see through the blinding flashes that had been left in their vision. Blancanales brought his M-4 to his shoulder and snapped off two rounds into the head of each one. He moved like a machine, firing and swiveling, until all the hostiles were down.
“Let’s take this party outside,” Lyons said. He turned, knelt and emptied the drum of his USAS-12, dropped it, reloaded and repeated the process. The ringing in his ears was worse now, but not so bad that it would stop him from fighting. He threw kick after powerful kick at the ravaged wall until it gave way, creating a hole the men of Able Team could simply walk through.
Lyons’s boots hit the arid soil outside.
Behind the modular headquarters building was a mine structure of some kind. Enclosed shafts of wood radiated from the configuration. Lyons assumed there were conveyors inside. He knew little about the actual mechanics of a beryllium mining operation and, insofar as none of those specifics interfered with his mission, he didn’t care. But the shafts above were shifting now and he could hear footsteps on the wood.
“They’re on the roof line!” Lyons called. “They’re using those conveyors!”
Able Team scrambled to position themselves as much directly below the enclosed shafts above as they could. Gunfire began to rain down on them from the shooters on the roof. Lyons cursed under his breath. That was probably how they’d gotten into the drop ceiling in the first place. The firebomb entrance had driven the security forces to some roof access and they’d circled back around under cover of the building’s false ceiling.
All of that added up to something not on the level. Ignoring the fact that these guys were armed to screw all and completely okay with murdering a quantity of unknown law-enforcement agents, there was no way the sheer volume of security here was part of any legitimate operation. Lyons didn’t know how valuable beryllium was on the open market, but he had to assume you didn’t need a private army to protect it from all comers.
So what was going on here?
They were just scratching the surface of this mission and he didn’t like where they were going. He didn’t like it one bit.
It was time to take it to the bad guys. “Pol,” he said, “give me a rifle grenade into the center of the nearest walkway. My eleven o’clock.”
Schwarz reached into the duffel, found the rocket-shaped weapon and tossed it to Blancanales, who affixed the STANAG Type 22 mm rifle grenade to the flash-hider of his M-4. Then he brought the weapon up, aimed and pulled the trigger.
The grenade exploded on impact, shredding the wooden slats of the covered walkway, sending debris and dead men falling from the sky. Lyons barely moved out of the way fast enough. A corpse hit the dirt only feet from his previous position.
Renewed fire began from the remainder of the roof line. Lyons signaled his partners to follow him and then took up position behind a support leg that was nothing so much as a stacked wood-and-reinforced-concrete column. The column was just what the doctor ordered when it came to cover and concealment. The angle, for the roof gunners, was a poor one, while the concrete and wood absorbed bullets nicely.
“Cozy,” Blancanales said as the three men put their backs to the column. Gunfire ate away at the opposite side, but it was much wilder now, less focused and directed. There were shouts of outrage mixed in, too, which would be expected from any group of men, even paid mercenaries, who had lost so many comrades in so short a time.
“I swear that’s Chinese,” Blancanales said.
“There’s English mixed in, too,” Schwarz said. “One of those voices is as Southern as Southern gets. He sounds like an angry version of that big rooster from the cartoons.”
“I say, I say,” Blancanales said. “You-all are gonna pay for shootin’ my friends.”
“Yeah,” Schwarz said. “Just like that.”
“There are times when I hate both of you,” Lyons said.
“We know,” Schwarz said. “It’s part of your charm.”
The next voice they heard, however, was amplified by an electric bullhorn.
“You down there,” the bullhorn’s operator shouted. “Surrender and you will not be harmed.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Lyons said. “I guess they top out with warning shots around three or four thousand.”
“Some people hold on to resentment,” Schwarz said.
“So help me, if you’re quoting movies at me again,” Lyons said.
“No,” Schwarz said, managing to look unconvincing. “I really cherish these firefight moments we have.”
“Hate,” Lyons said. “Seething, white-hot hate.”
“You don’t mean that,” Schwarz said.
“Oh, yeah?” Lyons started. He stopped when the metal sphere of a grenade bounced to a stop a couple of feet from his right boot.
Schwarz shoved Lyons sideways, into the column. Lyons had time to look down and recognize the threat. Schwarz, meanwhile, had shoved Lyons to “clear the road” for a massive, swing-through kick. He nailed the grenade with his toe and sent it flying from their position. It exploded, throwing clods of soil everywhere, spraying dust on Able Team.
“Thanks, Gadgets,” Lyons started to say. “I take back everything bad I just said.”
“No, don’t!” Schwarz shouted.
“Huh?” Lyons had time to say before another grenade, then another, then a third, rolled to a stop by their feet.
This time it was Lyons’s turn to act. He grabbed both Schwarz and Blancanales by their collars and shoved them forward, around the other side of the column. This put them in the line of fire from the roof above. As Lyons propelled them, his partners took the cue and ran for their lives. Bullets were biting at their heels when the three grenades blew, tearing large chunks out of the support column with their trebled destructive power.
Something cracked high above.
Lyons looked up and back as they ran, trying to find an angle at the corner of the headquarters that would make it harder for the roof gunners to track Able Team. What he saw caused him to reach out and grab Schwarz and Blancanales again.
“It jinxes us when you’re nice to me!” Schwarz blurted.
“Shaddap, Gadgets!” Lyons yelled again. He dragged his teammates against the wall of the headquarters building as the shaft behind them snapped in two, falling toward them like a redwood before an army of lumberjacks. Concrete shrapnel flew everywhere. The crash of the column was followed by the staccato pings of nails from the walkway overhead. They were being wrenched out under tension as the walkway tore itself apart on the way down. Half the walkway struck the dirt below, bringing with it whatever machinery was being housed inside. This raised a sudden sandstorm of dust and grit and billowed over the Utah war zone and forced Able Team to crouch more tightly against the building.
“You there!” came the voice from the bullhorn.
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