The Chameleon Factor
With a strong whine of hydraulics, the rear of the C-130 Hercules transport disengaged, and cycled down to the ground to form a ramp. Deep inside the mammoth plane, headlights flashed on, and soon a civilian SUV rolled into view and bumped down the ramp to reach the tarmac.
Driving a few yards away from the aircraft, Carl “Ironman” Lyons parked the SUV and waited for the rest of the team to drive out. The vehicle was a dark green in color, so dark it appeared to be black. The windows were tinted, and the license plates carried government numbers.
What couldn’t be seen was the composite armor lining the SUV, and its hidden arsenal of weaponry in the ceiling, walls and seats.
Suddenly the massive engines of the Hercules coughed into life, the four great propellers rotating in spurts and then accelerating into a steady blur. Then the rear hatch began to cycle upward as the airplane prepared for takeoff.
Setting the parking brake, Lyons scowled. What the hell was going on now?
The side door near the tail swung open and a pair of duffel bags was tossed onto the tarmac, closely followed by Blancanales and Schwarz. Even as the two men grabbed their bags, the C-130 released its brakes and started to taxi forward, heading for an empty runway. The two men walked toward the SUV, and by the time they arrived, the Hercules was airborne and disappearing into the clouds.
“Trouble?” Lyons asked from behind the wheel.
Blancanales opened the rear hatch and tossed in his bag. “Yes and no,” he replied. “We caught the squawk from the Farm that a China Air 747 has crashed in the Koryak Mountains of Russia only an hour ago.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Lyons said with a grunt. “What has that got to do with us?”
“Its destination was New Delhi,” Schwarz said, adding his duffel to the pile of equipment and packs in the rear of the SUV. “And it left Ted Stevens Airport in Anchorage two hours after the attack on Quiller Labs, about six hours ago.”
As the men climbed into the vehicle, Lyons did some fast mental math. “So it’s hundreds of miles off course. And how did it penetrate that deep into Russian airspace without being challenged or shot down?”
“Only one way that Barb can guess,” Blancanales said, snapping on his seat belt.
“The Chameleon,” Lyons growled. “Our ape must have hijacked the plane, then killed the crew, jumped out and let it crash to hide that he was ever there.”
“Or it could be a diversion,” Schwarz offered, pulling the 9 mm Beretta from his shoulder holster and dropping the clip to check the load before reinserting the clip. “But I don’t read our ape that way.”
Adjusting his DOD identification badge on his suit jacket, Blancanales nodded. “Agree. Our boy is fast and furious. Not really into fancy tricks. He’s more the lead-pipe type.”
“Anything from the pilot, or civilian cell phones?” Lyons asked, starting the engine again. The big V8 purred into life, and he slipped the shift to start driving for an access road.
“Not a peep,” Schwarz replied. “And the emergency beacon didn’t activate until the plane was already tumbling out of the sky.”
“You mean once it was out of range of the jamming field of the Chameleon,” Lyons said grimly.
“That’s the idea, yes.”
“Gadgets, could the ape have used the Chameleon to mask itself and smuggle it on board past airport security?” Blancanales asked frowning.
“He could have smuggled an Abrams tank past security with that thing,” he answered. “But it would have to be operating at very low power. Full force it would interfere with the operation of the controls regulating the jet engines, and the plane would—”
“Crash,” Blancanales interrupted. “Goddamn it, maybe the passengers rushed the bastard and that’s exactly what happened!”
Pennsylvania all over again. Conversation stopped as only a few hundred yards away, a 707 roared into the sky. Even as it ascended, a small two-seater Cessna daintily arrived to touch the ground on another landing strip. In spite of the fact that it was so close to the Arctic Circle, the Nome airport was always busy with the combined civilian and military traffic, but its safety record was equaled by few other airports.
“So unless we can find the backup files here, this is going to be a race between McCarter and the Russian air rescue service,” Lyons stated as the SUV bumped over a small crack in the road. There had been an earthquake in November 2002 that rocked all of Alaska, and the damage was still being repaired on a priority basis.
“Which is why they took off with us still on the field,” Blancanales agreed.
“Jack isn’t going to try to fly Phoenix Force there, is he?” Lyons demanded. “He’d never get past the Russian radar.”
“Damn right he couldn’t. Their EM umbrella is tight,” Schwarz stated with conviction. “Without the Chameleon, there’s no way to fly into Russian national airspace without getting a SAM up your ass. Maybe two.
“Unless you do it at a height of six inches,” he added.
Slowing down at a locked gate, Lyons waited for the armed TSA guards to leave the kiosk. He showed the woman his ID. She gave no reaction, but spoke into her radio, and then waved them past.
Taking a turn onto an access road, Lyons raised an eyebrow at that. “They’re going to try a deadman’s run?”
“Only way to get there fast enough,” Blancanales said, pulling an M-16/M-203 combo from his duffel. “Our ape might not have jumped, and the damaged Chameleon could still be on the plane. They have to get there first, at any cost.”
Damn. Then Grimaldi would be taking McCarter to Ketchikan Island. The Coast Guard should have what the team needed. If not…
“Check your equipment,” Lyons directed. “We’ll be going to the testing area first. That’s the last place where anybody would hide their backup files.”
“Then why are we going?” Blancanales asked, puzzled, slapping in a clip. Then his face brightened. “Because it’s the best place for them to ambush us.”
“This crazy son of a bitch is trying to take the pressure off Phoenix Force,” Schwarz snorted, thumbing a fat 40 mm round into the breech of his M-203 grenade launcher. He closed the breech with a solid metallic snap. “Fair enough. Let’s rattle the trees, Carl, we got your six.”
Merging with the outgoing traffic, Lyons said nothing as he checked the .357 Colt Python under his jacket and sent the SUV heading for the coastal highway outside of Nome.
CHAPTER SIX
International Waters, North Pacific Ocean
The white Coast Guard cutter pitched and tossed in the churning ocean, waves crashing over the bow with drumming force. The evening sky was pitch-black, a cold rain pelting sideways through the fog.
Visibility was near zero. Off in the distance, the powerful beam of a Russian lighthouse was only a ghostly glow, and if there was a warning horn, its plaintive cry was swallowed whole by the near deafening crash of the endless waves.
“This weather couldn’t be any better!” David McCarter shouted in frank approval over the wild storm.
“God loves the infantry.” Hawkins chuckled as the cutter dropped five feet into a wave trench. “But I think He hates the Navy tonight. Hold on, here comes another big one!”
The men gripped the chain railing tight, bracing for the crash. For a full second the ship was in free fall, then it hit hard, the jolting impact almost tearing their hands away. Riding the recoil of the watery landing, Phoenix Force watched and listened to the rampaging storm, getting a feel for its tempo and rhythm. The unexpected squall was helping to mask the approach of the USCGC Mellon. That was the good part.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard cutter was also falling way behind schedule and the team felt the pressure of the lost time bearing down upon them. The numbers were falling and not in their favor. Too many battles to count had been lost because of arriving late. However, they couldn’t afford for this to join those ignoble ranks.
“We’re going to have to leave early,” McCarter stated, wiping the water from his face with a palm. “Got no choice!”
“In for a penny, in for a pounding, eh, David?” Gary Manning joked, bracing himself as a giant wave swept across the lower deck to crash against the hull just below their boots.
“Pity we had to leave Ketchikan Island before seeing the Panama Guns,” Encizo said, casting a glance back toward the coast of North America, only a hundred miles away, but in this storm it might as well have been in other dimension.
“Not much left of those cannons anyway,” James replied loudly, squinting into the maelstrom. “Hey, I think the squall is easing some!”
“Good!” Hawkins yelled. “Still, they would have been nice to see! The Panamas were designed to stop the Russian navy from taking Alaska. Sort of the American version of the Guns of Navarone!”
“How big were they again?” Encizo asked, swaying to the pitch of the rolling deck.
“A whopping 155 mm!” Then he added with a grin, “Just about the size of decent T-bone steak in Texas!”
“You mean a deep-dish pizza in Chicago!” James shot back.
Whipped by the wind and sea, Phoenix Force shared a brief laugh as the men battled the squall and continued their vigil. Time was short, but professional soldiers knew how to wait until just the right moment, and then explode into action. It was all timing.
Inside the wheelhouse of the USCGC Mellon, a young helmsman turned from the joystick-style yoke and gave a scowl at the strangers below on the forward deck. Alaska had been clear sailing, but only fifty miles off the coast they hit this squall. Now cold rain was coming down in sheets, and the triple-blade window wipers fought to keep the bulletproof glass clear. But the raging sea and rain were mightier than the technology of man, and the wipers gave only brief slices of visibility, strobing glimpses of the churning sea and the rocky shore they were heading toward at full speed.
“Look at them out there,” the helmsman muttered in disapproval, involuntarily flinching as a wave slammed against the starboard windows. “Standing on the open deck! Crazy bastards.”
“Peterson, why are you talking to yourself?” Captain Tyson asked, hands clasped behind his back. In spite of the inclement weather, the officer was neatly dressed in a crisp uniform, his shoes shiny with polish and his hair freshly cut.
On the wall behind the officer was a line of yellow rain slicks, Veri pistol flare guns, fire extinguishers, a medical kit and a dozen lifejackets.
“What was that, Skipper?” the helmsman asked, checking the course and heading on the dashboard instruments.
“You know the standing orders,” Tyson stated. “There is nobody on the deck, not a soul in sight but you and me.” The captain paused. “And you sure as hell didn’t just call your CO crazy, now, did you?”
The helmsman swallowed hard and turned his face to the rampaging storm again. “Sir, no, sir!” he chanted, tightening both hands on the joystick.
“Didn’t think so,” Tyson muttered, moving to the motion of his cutter. Sonar showed the sea below was clear of Russian submarines, but the radar screen was filled with the storm, the computer unable to recognize a few small dots moving in from the west. They could just be St. Elmo’s fire; there was a lot of that out here. Or it could be MiG fighters moving just above the storm on a recon run.
“Maintain course and speed,” Captain Tyson said, looking out the windows at the squall.
“Aye, sir.” Concentrating on his job, the helmsman switched hands on the joystick to wipe the first one dry on a pant leg. Equipped with autofeedback, the computerized yoke wasn’t loose under his grip, but pushed back at him this way and another as the currents slapped the rudder about. It was exactly like holding a wheel and steering a windjammer. In spite of the mechanical interfacing, the joystick gave a man the feel of the water, and that was sometimes even more important than maps and sonar readings. Sailing was a science, but one that was ruled by art. The poetry of the wind was more than a clever saying; it was a way of life burned into the bones of every sailor.
Especially on this combination rescue vessel and warship. The USCGC Mellon was the pride of the Coast Guard. A Hamilton-class cutter, the craft was 378 feet long, with a crew of eighteen officers and 143 sailors. She boasted both gasoline and diesel engines, along with a flat bottom for faster speeds and the ability to go into amazingly shallow water without damage. The hull was composite armor over an aluminum frame, making the Mellon strong but lightweight. The windows were shatterproof glass, every door a watertight hatchway, and each deck was railed for safety in even the roughest storms. The Mellon could sail through a hurricane and come out fighting back, its crew and passengers alive and safe.
As was standard in the Coast Guard, the cutter came with a 76 mm cannon in a small pillbox at the bow, designed to put a whistling warning shot across the deck of other vessels to make them come about for inspection. However, if the warning failed, the Mellon also boasted two 25 mm Bofors Autocannons, four .50-caliber machine guns and side-launching Mk49 torpedoes.
OUTSIDE AT THE RAILING, McCarter noted the addition of Harpoon missiles to the cutter’s impressive arsenal. Back in 1992 the torpedoes and the missiles had been removed because of budget cuts. After 9/11, the Coast Guard got a massive boost in spending and quickly reinstalled the heavy weapon systems. Basically, it was a pocket battleship. More accurately, the cutter was a PT boat for the twenty-first century.
“David, how many of these does the Coast Guard have?” Manning asked, his face into the wind, hair slicked back from the wash so that he resembled a tango instructor or Mafia capo.
“Twelve!” McCarter shouted in reply. “But they should have a bloody hundred!”
“Preaching to the choir, friend!”
“Rocks!” Encizo shouted, pointing at black shapes looming in the storm. Jagged peaks of stone, the broken cliffs stood defiant in the crashing waves, the pinnacles rising higher than the radio antenna of the listing Mellon.
McCarter grunted, “About damn time.”
“HALF SPEED!” Captain Tyson barked. “Hard to port, two degrees!”
“Aye, sir!”
Shapes rose from the squall, black and imposing.
“Quarter speed! Hard to starboard!” Damnation, the rocks were everywhere! He glanced at the instruments, but they were useless. Too much conflicting data from the storm, rocks and muddy surf.
“Half speed! Hard to port!” More rocks appeared from the rain. “Quarter speed!” A wave crashed across the bow of the turning cutter, and there appeared a wall of black rock straight ahead of them.
“Full speed ahead!” Captain Tyson commanded, his hands clenched white behind his back, but his expression was cool and calm.
“Aye, sir!” the helmsman cried, fighting the joystick. A wave slammed them on the port side, then there came a metallic shriek as something under the water scraped along their hull. The mountain of stone seemed to expand before the cutter as the ship fought the waves. A crash seemed imminent, and then the Mellon entered a calm in the storm, the sections of tumbled-down cliffs forming the imposing breakers soon in their wake.
On this side of the barrier, the force of the storm was noticeably less and visibility was greatly increased. The shoreline of mother Russia was barely visible about four miles ahead. No lights showed along the shore, or in the wooded hills beyond. But that was why this section of the coast had been chosen. Near total isolation. Not even smugglers used the deserted cover because of the deadly breakers and underwater boulders that could rip open the keel of a ship like a soda can being crushed in your fist. And if not for his special passengers, Captain Tyson would never have come to this special little slice of Russian hell.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the captain checked the GPS and the navigational chart, and then the compass just to make sure. Okay, the Mellon was now in the national waters of Russia and most certainly on their radar screens. The storm should kill visual, but at the first sign of anything suspicious, the Russian navy would hit the Coast Guard cutter with infrared, UV and anything else the local boys had. And if those were indeed MiG fighters in the sky…
“Okay, son, full stop. We now have engine trouble,” the captain announced, checking his wristwatch. “Shut her down, and drop the main anchor.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the helmsman acknowledged crisply, and worked the controls on the joystick, slowing the huge craft with surprising ease until it was relatively still in the choppy North Pacific waters. Overriding the automatics, he gunned the gasoline engines a few times, making them turn over but refuse to catch.
“Keep doing that until further notice,” Captain Tyson said, turning to leave. “But keep the diesels hot in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
“Sir?” the helmsman asked hesitantly. “Do you think that this might be a good time to run a gun drill with the crew?”
The captain nodded at that in appreciation. He liked sailors who thought fast. Smugglers were tough and clever, and only touch and clever CGs could do the job of guarding the shores of America.
“This close to the Bear,” Tyson said, meaning Russia, “that is generally a good idea, but not tonight. We have engine trouble, the crew will all be down in the hold banging on hatchways and pipes with hammers to make as much noise as possible. So that for the Russian sonar can hear us doing, ahem, repairs.”
“Understood, Skipper,” the helmsman said, setting his shoulders as he gunned the flooded engines again. “We’re dead in the water, but in spite of the storm, we don’t need any assistance yet.”
“That’s what the radio operator will be reporting to Ketchikan base right at this moment,” Tyson said, pulling out a cell phone and tapping in a memorized number. “Carry on.”
“Aye, aye, skipper!”
THE PAGER in McCarter’s breast pocket vibrated, and he hit the pager to turn it off. That was the signal. If they were in the vicinity, the Russians would be monitoring the military channels for transmission, and not be paying much attention to the civilian bands. Unless there was a lot of traffic. So all messages were being sent over pagers and cell phones, and consisted of a yes or no.
“Let’s move,” McCarter said, starting along the railing toward the stern of the huge cutter.
The deck was wet, but the rubberized covering made their footing secure, and Phoenix Force easily reached the aft helipad.
Two crafts were there, lashed down tight under sheets of canvas by a web of ropes. Pulling knives, the men slashed the ropes free and hauled off the canvas to reveal two rather lumpy-looking rubber dinghies. Each was equipped with a set of tandem motors and filled with bags of supplies.
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