Armed Resistance

CHAPTER FOUR

The crunch of impact and screech of metal tearing fiberglass blasted the ears of the Able Team warriors.

All senses came alive for the trio as their sedan glanced off the van—the torsion created by the forces of the spinning vehicle caused their hearts to bottom out in their stomachs, or at least it felt that way. Blancanales gritted his teeth as he worked the steering wheel to keep some control. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best plan they’d ever come up with but at least it hadn’t ended in disaster for Shubin. Now all Blancanales had to do was to get the sedan stopped or at least to ditch it in a place that wouldn’t put any bystanders at risk. He waited until the sedan spun 180 degrees and then slammed the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. The increased speed and sudden change of direction brought them neatly out of the spin that would have occurred had a trained stunt driver not been at the wheel.

Blancanales checked the rearview mirror, found his saving grace in a fire hydrant and jammed on the brakes just before hitting it. The rear bumper collided with the hydrant, shearing off the top portion as the breakaway safety cells locked into place to prevent water from bursting out of the pipe. The valves were not intended to completely block water flow; they merely reduced the amount of water that leaked out and diffused the pressure generated from the hydrant’s direct connection to a water main. The result was a bubbling fountain that came aboveground with enough pressure to pool around the vehicle and christen it to a stop.

Lyons took several deep breaths and then barked, “Report status!”

“Nothing broken,” Schwarz said from the backseat. “I’m good.”

“Pol?” Lyons didn’t get an answer and looked in the direction of his friend. Blancanales stared through the windshield and although he seemed unharmed, his skin had blanched somewhat. “Blancanales, snap out of it! Are you okay?”

“I’ll need new shorts but I’m good.” He waved out the window and added, “I think we’re just getting started.”

All three watched as the rear doors of the van, now on its side with the front wheels still turning, burst open and armed men staggered out. The scene was almost surreal as if the van was some great creation machine vomiting human offspring. They numbered six in all and appeared to be Caucasians save for one with dark skin and black curly hair. They wore camouflage fatigue pants, black T-shirts and combat boots. Their weapons were mostly SMGs with one or two full-profile assault rifles in the mix. At first they didn’t appear hostile toward Able Team or Shubin but that changed quickly enough.

Lyons noticed they were gaining their senses and a few began to sweep the area with the muzzles of their weapons for threats. Shubin had somehow managed to steer his sedan onto a sidewalk and smash into the exterior wall of a PX building. The senior noncom was trying to get his door open, kicking at it while uttering what were probably curses although Lyons couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Hostiles. Let’s hit it,” Lyons said.

The trio went EVA and drew their pistols.

Lyons carried his trusty Colt revolver—this time a .44 Magnum Anaconda with 240-grain jacketed hollowpoints. Blancanales produced his SIG-Sauer P-226 chambered for .357 Magnum. The standard of combat handguns carried by federal law enforcement, Texas Rangers and Navy SEALs, the SIG had proved itself a formidable ally and Blancanales favored it for close-quarters combat. Schwarz had selected a Model 92—a military variant of the Beretta 92-SB—that Stony Man’s crackerjack armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had modified to withstand a hotter 9 mm load and an 18-round magazine.

While the pistols might not have been much good against the autoweapons carried by their enemy, they were effective tools in the hands of these veterans, who weren’t shy about demonstrating that fact as they left the sedan and set down a steady stream of fire.

Lyons’s handcannon boomed its first report as the Able Team leader took one of the gunners with a clean shot to the head. The heavy slug busted the man’s skull open and showered his stunned companions with blood and gray matter. Lyons sighted on the second target but Blancanales beat him to the punch with a double tap from his SIG. Both .357 Magnum rounds cut through the man’s breastbone and lodged deep in his lungs. Pink, frothy sputum erupted from his mouth and his weapon flew from numb fingers.

The remaining four realized they had suddenly become targets, their ranks reduced by a third in just seconds. Each man scrambled for cover but realized he was in a poor position for it. They realized the best they could do was split up, each man for himself, and try to keep the heads of the Able Team warriors down while they broke for some kind of shelter from the assault.

“Pol, trunk!” Schwarz shouted as he snapped off three rounds of his own.

Blancanales ceased firing long enough from his position behind the door to reach in and stab at the switch for the trunk release. Schwarz urged his friends to get behind the rear doors, all knowing the thin skin of the fiberglass and metal in the modern sedan wouldn’t do much to stop the heavy-caliber rounds. At least the rear doors, both which Schwarz had opened for them, would add additional shielding. Lyons and Blancanales made their dash for the failsafe retreat position even as the enemy began to reach cover and return fire. A maelstrom of rounds peppered the front doors and windshield, a couple tearing through the front doors and exiting the other side in the empty space vacated by the Able Team warriors milliseconds before.

Schwarz reached the trunk, unzipped a long bag and came away with his prize. The M-16 A-3/M-203 sported the classic combination of effective small-arms features. Built with a carbine-style profile, it chambered 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds. The tubular style grenade launcher running beneath the foregrips fired a variant of the 40 mm grenades of the grenadier’s choosing. Schwarz settled for a high-explosive round this time around, retrieving a satchel of HEs as he ratcheted the breech forward with one hand.

Schwarz popped a shell into the breech, jacked the tube home with a click and flipped the leaf sight into action. He knelt, locked the stock against his shoulder, quick-sighted and squeezed the launcher trigger. The weapon kicked against his shoulder with the force of a 12-gauge shotgun, which paled in comparison to the impact of the blast that came a second later. The shell struck the van center mass and exploded on impact. A fireball erupted from the vehicle, followed by a roiling black cloud of smoke. A secondary explosion signaled the ignition of the gas tank. The blast didn’t engulf their enemies but a good number of them were knocked off their feet by the concussion.

Schwarz didn’t relent, rocking the tube forward to eject the inert shell and popping a fresh one into the breech.

Blancanales called for Schwarz to surrender his Beretta, which he did reluctantly, but also understanding when his friend gestured in Shubin’s direction. He tossed the pistol underhanded and Blancanales caught it one-handed. Schwarz then aimed the grenade launcher and triggered the second 40 mm HE shell. This one he adjusted to land a little farther aft of the van but with no less a devastating effect. Two more of the hostiles died on their feet as the blast separated appendages from torsos and the superheated gases incinerated flesh.

Blancanales used the distraction of the explosion to break cover and beeline for Shubin’s sedan. He reached the car unscathed and wrenched on the door with all his might. It came open enough to allow Shubin to squeak out. Blancanales handed the Beretta to the Army noncom and then urged them to get cover behind the sedan. They took no fire during the time, as the enemy had its hands full between the explosions, autofire from Schwarz’s M-16 A-3 and the sheer, violent will of Lyons and his Anaconda.

Blancanales and Shubin did manage to pick off a gunner who had adequate protection from Lyons’s and Schwarz’s position but could not defend his flank. They triggered shots simultaneously, two rounds from Shubin’s 9 mm punching into the guy’s ribs while Blancanales’s .357 clipped his skull enough to tear away the top of his brain. The corpse teetered and then collapsed, twitching a moment before going still.

That left one man who must have realized his opponents had him outgunned because he emerged from cover, threw down his weapons and raised his arms high.

None of the Able Team warriors moved at first, suspecting a potential trick. They could wait it out as long as necessary now that they had the advantages of position and numbers. After some time passed without the appearance of additional hostiles, Lyons broke cover and moved in to secure the prisoner with a pair of plastic riot cuffs sent with him courtesy of Schwarz. Within a few minutes they had the enemy combatant secured. Lyons counted at least five confirmed kills and he suspected at least one or two more never made it out of the van.

The warriors gathered around Shubin’s government sedan, a safe distance from the flames and thick, acrid smoke that marked what remained of the enemy vehicle. Their prisoner said nothing—he looked American enough but acted as if either mute or non-English-speaking. Either way, the men of Able Team were careful not to say anything classified around the guy in case he was playing possum, a reflex of their training and experience.

The wail of military police sirens drew nearer by the moment.

Schwarz jerked a thumb at their prisoner and said, “We can turn sunshine here over to the MPs when they arrive.”

“Don’t you think we ought to interrogate him?” Shubin asked not without surprise.

“We don’t have the facilities or a secure location to keep him on ice until we can get to that,” Lyons said. “We need to report back to Washington first.”

Shubin expressed confusion.

“This changes things, Sergeant Major,” Blancanales explained. “We’re on a time-critical mission here. That mission just got bumped up.”

Shubin eyed each of the men in turn with skepticism. “There’s no way in hell I’m buying you guys are actually with CID. Not even for a second. So who are you…really?”

“What makes you think we’re not CID?” Blancanales asked.

“You’re kidding, right? I was in the MP Corps for about the first half of my career, then I moved to light infantry. I’ve met many CID and not one of them would have ever responded the way you guys did. You saw that attack coming, you deterred it—saving my ass in the process by the way, for which I’m real grateful—then took those guys down like you’d done it a thousand times before. I’m guessing you probably have.” Shubin jutted his chin toward the M-16 A-3/M-203 slung across Schwarz’s shoulder. “And don’t tell me that over-and-under is standard CID issue. The sixteen I could see, but no way they issue M-203s to just anybody.”

Lyons smiled. “We’re the good guys—that’s about all we can tell you.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be grateful enough to us that we might keep this between ourselves for now?”

Shubin shrugged. “I can keep a secret but I still have to make a full report to General Saroyan. He’ll have questions. Lots of them.”

“Yeah,” Lyons half said, half grunted. “Can’t wait.”

“WHAT IN THE holy crapping hell did you guys think you were doing?” Major General Anthony Saroyan’s expression bore unchecked apoplexy. “This is a fucking nightmare! I’ll have Congressional inquiries running through here for the next goddamn year!”

“Sir,” Blancanales began with buttery humility, “if you could just listen—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Chief Rose!” Saroyan countered. “I’m the MMFIC on this post, not to mention I outrank all of you! So you’d do well to shut up until you have permission to speak.”

Blancanales closed his yap, erring on the side of discretion being the better part of valor. Not that it mattered, because before Saroyan could continue his tirade the phone jingled on his desk for attention. The officer bristled, stopping in midstride the pacing he’d been doing while chewing out the collective asses of the three CID officers. He looked at first as if he might throw the phone across the room, but then appeared to think better of it and swiped up the receiver in one meaty hand.

“Yes?” he barked. A pause and then he looked almost dazed as wrinkles formed in his forehead. “Who is on the line?”

A longer pause ensued during which he looked warily at the three men still standing at attention in front of him. He waved at them to indicate they could stand at ease and they complied.

At least the guy wasn’t a complete tool, Lyons thought.

“Of course, put him through,” Saroyan said.

For the next five minutes Saroyan practically stood at attention himself, saying very little except for an occasional “yes, sir” or “of course, sir” and even one “I understand perfectly, sir.” After nearly five minutes Saroyan gently placed the receiver into the cradle, looked over the three warriors and scratched his chin. His previous hardness had melted from his body language and he finally waved Able Team into seats.

“Sit down, boys,” Saroyan said. “It would seem that I’ve been a bit hasty.”

“Perfectly understandable, sir,” Blancanales said, and Schwarz nodded as if in complete agreement.

Lyons didn’t react beyond a smirk.

Saroyan sat and rubbed at his temples, obviously feeling a headache coming on. He said, “Okay, I guess we can cut through the bullshit. You guys obviously aren’t CID and from what I just heard it would seem I no longer have any authority over your actions.” He looked out the window of his office absently and added, “But I do want to remind you that you’re still guests of the United States Army while on this post. I’d prefer you avoid any further firefights or other hostile actions while here.”

“It’s not like we had a lot of choice,” Lyons muttered.

“Ironman,” Blancanales cut in easily.

Saroyan looked at the men. “You can understand why this is going to make things very difficult for me. Fortunately, it’s Sunday and that means a good number of the civilian DOA and DOD workers are off post. Most permanent party is gone, as well, since this isn’t an active training weekend.”

“It does help that you maintain the largest Army reservist post in the country,” Schwarz agreed.

“It means we can keep this quiet and hopefully the press won’t get wind,” Saroyan replied. “Washington has assured me they’ll do everything possible to spin this right when it goes public. They’re going to call it an accident.”

“That might wash for a while but it won’t keep long,” Lyons said.

“And it’ll definitely squeeze our mission objectives against the wall,” Schwarz pointed out.

Saroyan cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could help you with that if I knew more about your actual mission here.”

“You could start by leveling with us about Colonel Scott,” Lyons said.

Saroyan’s expression made it apparent he had hoped to avoid that discussion, but at this point they all knew he didn’t have a choice. Someone, maybe even the President himself, had just handed the base commander his ass, and maintaining the coy routine wouldn’t be a great career move. Lyons could understand the man’s position—he didn’t give a shit, but he understood.

“Colonel Scott isn’t on a family emergency. He’s missing and all attempts to reach him have proved unsuccessful.” Saroyan reached into the drawer of his desk, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and fired one up. Smoking inside a government building was forbidden but being Saroyan was the MMFIC, who was going to argue?

“How long?” Lyons asked.

“Going on forty-eight hours,” Shubin answered.

“You’ve reported him AWOL, I assume?” Blancanales inquired.

Saroyan shook his head as he dragged on the cigarette.

“You’re trying to keep it quiet.”

“Yes, but I can’t hold out much longer,” Saroyan replied through a cloud of smoke. “It’s my discretion to consider him merely absent from appointed place of duty for up to three days. After that, I have to notify the base provost marshal and Washington that he’s AWOL due to his rank and security clearances.”

“You should have reported his absence immediately,” Lyons said. He raised a hand to ward off any defensive posture.

“But that’s spilled milk,” Blancanales added quickly to minimize the risk Saroyan would go on the defensive. “So you’ve leveled with us and we at least owe you that much in return, General. In short, guerrillas in Sudan friendly to U.S. interests stumbled onto a small cache of weapons in the possession of terrorists with the Lord’s Resistance Army. The serial numbers of those arms were traced to inventory held in the main armory here on this base.”

Saroyan stopped with the cigarette midway to his lips and his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” Shubin muttered.

“Indeed,” Blancanales said with a nod.

“So you think Colonel Scott’s disappearance is related,” Saroyan said.

“Seems little doubt of that now,” Lyons said. “We have some others headed to Sudan now to check out this story personally, since it’s a good bet those aren’t the only U.S. armaments that might be in the country. Not even every weapon they found had been accounted for.”

“So you’re suggesting Colonel Scott’s in on it.”

“We’re not suggesting anything of the sort…yet. But there’s no doubt his disappearance is more than coincidence. He might be a hostage, maybe even taken by those who were behind what went down this morning.”

“Okay, so obviously we’ve confirmed these weapons are from here at Camp Shelby,” Shubin said. “That still doesn’t explain how they managed to get them out of the country and into Sudan, never mind getting them off this base.”

“It’s possible the LRA has a network inside the country,” Lyons said.

“And that they’ve been here for a while, giving them the time and opportunity to build resources,” Schwarz added.

“You’re suggesting a conspiracy?” Saroyan asked.

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” Lyons fired back. “If memory serves, it wasn’t that long ago Nadil Hasan opened up with a pistol at the largest military installation in the free world, an act ultimately tied to terrorist conspirators. And he was an American citizen. How implausible is it that foreigners could penetrate this country and set up an arms-smuggling pipeline?”

The room fell silent for a time.

“Would it help if I gave you the address of Colonel Scott’s off-post housing?” Saroyan eventually said.

“It’s a start,” Blancanales said. “You never know what we might find.”

“And that’s exactly what worries me,” Saroyan replied.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kampala, Uganda

It was late afternoon when traffic control cleared Jack Grimaldi to land at the airport and directed him to a private hangar—at least that’s what Ugandan air traffic officials called it. A half dozen uniformed security officers with SMGs slung at their sides waited. They wore brown khaki uniforms with utility caps but the weapons made them look more like military troops than police.

As Grimaldi taxied the Stony Man Gulfstream C21 to a halt, McCarter stepped to the main door and disengaged the locks. The engines had barely wound down when the Phoenix Force leader pushed the door out, letting it fall into debarking position. He then stepped aside and gestured for Hawkins to go first since it was Hawkins who could most convincingly act like a Texas oil baron.

As soon as Hawkins’s feet hit the tarmac, a man wearing black epaulettes with a circle and diamond on them—the rank insignia for an inspector—stepped forward smartly and extended his hand.

“Good day, sir.” The man had very dark skin and an impenetrable expression. “I am Captain Bukenya of the Ugandan Police Force. Please note until I have cleared you that you are not free to leave this area, and that your persons and aircraft are subject to inspection now or at any time that you are in Uganda or its airspace. Before I begin my inspection, have you anything to declare?”

“I have something to declare, all right!” Hawkins said in good-old-boy fashion while pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his neck. “It is blessed hot in this country here and I mean hot, boy! We don’t get anywhere near this kind of humidity in Texas. You hear what I’m saying?”

Bukenya appeared unaffected and instead directed his men to begin their inspection. They fanned out, two covering Hawkins and his entourage with their weapons held loosely at the ready while three more headed for the plane. The inspector nodded to the remaining officer, who ordered them to line up and patted down each man in turn.

Phoenix Force took the entire parade in stride, confident the more cooperative they acted the quicker they could move past this. The men who went aboard the plane cleared Grimaldi from the cockpit first but the pilot gestured toward McCarter to indicate he had a close eye on them. They had no reason to worry since the armory aboard their plane was well concealed in the fuselage and boasted electronic scanning countermeasures developed by Stony Man’s resident cybernetics wizard, Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman. Short of tearing the plane apart, the inspection team wouldn’t even know it existed.

The inspection took less than five minutes—something McCarter noted with interest. He wondered if there hadn’t been a little influence wielded by the Oval Office but dismissed the idea as quickly. It wouldn’t be in their best interest for the U.S. to alert Ugandan officials that Phoenix Force was anything other than who they declared: oil tycoons with a Texas-based petroleum company. The cover seemed adequate considering the large number of such interests in Uganda. The country was a gold mine for trade with U.S. refineries, in particular, and trading continued free of a good many restrictions. Of course the companies that dealt with Uganda paid a premium for that access, so the inspector’s relaxed search of their plane had likely been at the behest of his own government.