Ramrod intercept, p.23
Ramrod Intercept, page 23
Encizo slid into the periphery of his vision, his M-16 joining the full-auto shooting match.
A few fanatics rose right away, but wheeled straight into the faces of doom, their AK-47s flaming skyward in death grips as Manning and Encizo dropped the double lead hammer down.
The sheer crush of numbers saved maybe six or seven out of the gate. Long enough for a few AK-47s to seek out the enemy, a human shield of sorts, able to launch a few rabbits on the run.
Return fire started snapping the lead over Manning’s scalp, divots of sand spitting in the face. Realizing that Encizo was likewise catching hell, Manning decided tactical good sense called for a wide split.
The problem was, by the time he had sidled a good ten yards from Encizo, back in position, two rabbits were almost out of range. One of them turned back, capping off a burst of autofire for effect, or maybe hoping to get lucky. For a second, the face shone against the inferno. Manning bit down the curse, as the Iranian he memorized from the photo lineup vanished into a deep cut between two dunes.
“Rafe! That was Ruballah!”
Manning burned through a clip, after nailing a few more trying to escape his reach. Then he slapped home another 30-round mag just as the cavalry hit the dune. Five M-16s chattered on, drilling runners, any fanatic reckless or foolish enough to hold his ground. Ten-strike, and perhaps then some, as gunmen toppled, this way and that, piling up below.
McCarter gave the word, and the other Phoenix Force commandos headed down, the smoking muzzles of assault rifles raking the carnage, ready to nail any wounded or Iranians looking to play Lazarus.
Clear.
Until they reached the maw of the back exit.
It was a distant rumble, at first, as Manning crouched beside the concrete well, finding the exit burrowed into the side of the dune. James and Hawkins bounded over the top, flanked the other side as shouting echoed from somewhere deep in the bunker. McCarter took a perch above the concrete housing, M-16 pointed down, ready to add fury to what would prove devastating interlocking fields of fire. Sporadic bursts of autofire peppered the stone housing, voices now hollering in Farsi, before the real, and bone-chilling waiting erupted in decibels that assaulted Manning’s eardrums.
The way the explosions came thundering from the bowels of the bunker, Manning had to figure some fuel depot or ammo housing was touched off by any gush of fire blown around by the incendiary grenades. He lurched back as a gust of air, hot as burning coals, surged out the exit hatch, the devil’s breath.
They were cooking down there, Manning knew, the screams of men burning alive fading, muted altogether in the next few moments as more explosions rumbled out the well.
“They’re toast,” James said.
“What the hell is Rafe doing?”
They followed Hawkins, who was gesturing up the dune ahead where Encizo was crouched at the top, milking short bursts at some phantom target.
“Rafe!” McCarter shouted. “What in bloody hell is going on?”
“Ruballah,” Manning told the es-SAS commando. “He made it out.”
“He’s gone,” Encizo hollered back. “He’s heading for the harbor. He’s got a two-, maybe three-hundred-yard jump!”
McCarter keyed the button on the com link that patched him through to Grimaldi. “X Squad to Mr. G., come in!”
“Mr. G. here! Problems?”
“You could damn well say that. What’s your position?”
“Island hopping, one door down.”
“Turn it around!”
RUBALLAH PRAISED God on the run, the AK-47 seeming to add momentum to his sprint, like a baton in hand. He was alive, when so many lives had been sacrificed in the cowardly attack, he thought, by the infidels. He needed to exact retribution, right away, even if that meant sailing clear across the Gulf until he found a thriving port, ram whatever was available, maybe drive it up into a city block by the sea.
Two kilometers at least, since he’d cleared the site where his brothers in jihad had offered up their lives to get him this far, and he could see the gunboat, intact, anchored in the inlet.
He was going to make it, fulfill his destiny, even if that meant riding out the great ball of fire, all the way to the sky.
To paradise.
Once he was in the boat, at the helm, he figured full speed was somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty knots. It could be a little less than that now, factoring in six hundred pounds of explosives, six or seven fifty-five-gallon fuel drums for longer seagoing patrols. It was foresight, or simple master planning, he thought, that the whole package was already wired up, tied in to a remote switch beside the wheel. When moving the boat, he’d checked the box, to be certain the package was ready. A flick of a switch, and he was in the red-light zone.
He turned, saw them, the five commandos, rolling up over a dune, far away. Too far to hope they could cut him down with a lucky bullet. Figure he’d gained five hundred yards before they fell in for the chase.
Whoever they were—American commandos, most likely—he hoped they caught the show. The first boat, ship, and Ruballah would ram it, right down the center line, amidships.
BITTER FRUSTRATION would have seen Phoenix Force firing off shots and grenades as they hit the beach, nothing more than a hope and a prayer. A sorry waste of ammunition, without a doubt, since the gunboat was already cutting across the water, a quarter mile out, and surging along at top speed.
As it stood, McCarter had turned the show over to Grimaldi. All they had to do was stand by, and wait for the Spectre’s hammer to come down.
Ruballah, McCarter knew, was minutes away from getting the ride of his life, on the way to hell.
McCarter judged Ruballah’s course due southwest, figuring the architect of the mass suicide-boat scheme would straighten it out once he hit the Gulf waters. The gunboat, like the great fish of Madagascar, would then go hunting for the first available prey.
James and Encizo were searching the skies to the east, wavering in bands of multicolored light, a rainbow of firelight cast out across the Strait of Hormuz from the furnace that was Qeshm.
“Come on, Jack, come on!” Manning urged the skies. They didn’t have much longer to wait. The familiar rumble first, then a collective sense of relief dropped over the five commandos.
Curtain call, with the Spectre the encore performance.
And the Spectre, maybe three hundred feet up, swooped down for the water a little more, straightened, then flew on. Grimaldi and crew, McCarter envisioned, manning the guns, lining up Ruballah off to port. The Briton stifled the chuckle, wishing, just the same, he could see the fanatic’s face when the aircraft unloaded the works. Combo howitzer, Vulcans and Bofors opened up, with a sound and fury, McCarter had to believe, they might have heard all the way to Bahrain. The end result, the light show, was spectacular.
“Whoa.” Encizo whooped as a volcano flashed out to sea, cleaving part of the sky, it appeared, with a mushroom cap that went on and up, taking whatever was left of Ruballah with it.
Finished.
They listened to the thunder, rolling in from a great distance, the Spectre aglow in the fire wash as the war bird sailed on.
McCarter heard Sabol patching through. “Yes, Major.”
“What the hell is going on? You want to tell me why you pulled your ace out?”
“A little problem involving a suicide boat that all of us somehow missed.”
“How’s that?”
“Ruballah.”
“What about him?”
McCarter turned away from the firestorm out to sea. “Shit happened.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
THE EARLY RETURNS WERE in from what was simply tagged, “the strike,” from the White House all the way to Langley. On the surface, the strike was a winner.
As for the future, well, Brognola knew, like the song said, it was always in doubt. In the world where he, the Farm and the Stony Man warriors lived, it was simply always in jeopardy.
Brognola was taking a time out from the Computer Room, wishing, for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, to sit alone.
Reflecting.
Worried still about Striker’s safe passage home.
It looked as if the strike was all it was intended to be, and then some. Ruballah was out of the picture, all suicide boats accounted for, nothing more than some wreckage floating out to sea. Phoenix Force was in one piece, nothing left but a walk-through of the island in fire, waiting for a chopper ride out and back to the Saudi air base. Major Sabol’s people had sustained a few minor casualties, having gone head-to-head with a contingent of Iranian soldiers bunkered on the east end of the island before burning them down.
A clean wrap, for the most part.
So, why didn’t he feel like tap dancing, throwing a party? Brognola wondered.
One item of concern was the fallout, all those consequences and repercussions from the strike. Sure, the United States had launched some smart bombs into terrorist camps in Afghanistan in the past, hoping, but failing to nail bin Laden. Sure, there was that obliterating strike against the so-called “pharmaceutical” company in Sudan, which, every American intelligence agency knew, had been creating and housing chemical and biological weapons. And now, a clear and present danger in the Gulf had been eliminated.
So, what the hell was bugging him?
He knew, and as soon as Barbara Price walked into the War Room, she read the look.
“Striker called from Jiddah. He’s at a CIA safehouse.”
Brognola showed the lady a tired smile. Good news, for a change.
“DYSAT’s smuggling operation was burned down. A clean sweep. Striker came through.”
There was never any doubt, just a few of the usual anxiety attacks along the way.”
“I’m arranging for him to fly to JFK on the next flight out of Jiddah.”
Brognola smiled as the lady took a chair. “First class, I hope.”
“Nothing but.”
She paused, Brognola feeling the weight of her probing stare.
“What’s wrong, Hal?”
Brognola gave that some thought, heaved a breath and said, “I was just wondering, Barbara.”
“About what?”
“If what just happened over there…if we cleaned up a mess or opened the door for a future round of horror.”
“That’s always a possibility. That’s why we’re here.”
“Indeed. Where does it all end? Does the madness ever stop?”
She smiled, and Brognola could read the grim weight on her own shoulders, in the momentary downcast stare. “It doesn’t. But we both know that. The President made the right, the only call. What can I say? Evil doesn’t sleep.”
“I hear you.”
And they sat in silence for a moment, sharing the relief, as temporary as it was, of a job well done.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Brognola shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Well, let’s go see what’s in the kitchen, shall we?”
It sounded like a plan to Brognola, the best one he’d heard in days. There would always be another war on the horizon, more Ruballahs out there, ready to rise up and savage whomever and whatever they could.
And Stony Man, he knew, rising from his chair, would be there, ready to slay the next dragon.
It was what they did.
“We still have Able’s situation,” Brognola said.
“I know. Let’s eat first. There’s been a development.”
“I look at you, and I see Carl straining at the chain.”
“Let’s just say Carl’s making some headway.”
“Oh, God,” Brognola muttered, but couldn’t suppress one last weary smile as he followed Price out of the War Room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Idaho
“These guys are really starting to piss me off.”
Jim Lake couldn’t decide if it felt like hours or days since he’d flown from Los Angeles. Time felt strangely frozen in place, since he’d circled the wagons once he’d landed at the DYSAT research-and-production facility in Idaho.
He supposed time didn’t matter in the final analysis, other than the few hours he’d need to fly away from the States, the classified military flight already paved for his next destination.
Now three human monkey wrenches thrown into his plans, threatening to grind it down before he was wheels up.
He sure didn’t much feel like laughing, either, since all the callers from overseas, from his man in Sudan, and the captain of the Thai Princess were sounding off the SOS every time they called in.
And his bulldogs had landed, in his face.
“Look at that guy,” Lake growled, gripping his uzi subgun so tight he heard a knuckle pop.
It was damn sure time to move on, he knew, but three loose ends had suddenly reared up out of the woods. One of them, the so-called G-man passing off his alias as Lemmon, was standing at the south gate. Smiling into the cameras, waving, then showing two middle fingers, mouthing, “Hi, Jim. Will you come out and play?”
Yes, he’d thrown out the challenge back in L.A., but he didn’t think they had the stones or the smarts to get this far.
Life was full of surprises lately, he thought.
Well, the walls were closing in, Lake knew, swiveling some in his chair, checking the other monitors for some phantom force in the nearby wooded foothills. Clear on all points, he found, no one out there, except to the south. Lemmon’s buddies, he saw, were hunched shadows, thinking they were concealed in the fir, pine and ponderosa, watching their pal play games.
Lake had already called in the security force, scrambling sixteen black ops from Nevada while in the air for Idaho. They were on hand when he landed, loaded down with weapons, with orders to shoot to kill the first individual who walked up to the gate, and he didn’t give a damn if it was some rancher looking for his wayward steer.
About an hour earlier, though, he changed the plan, ordering all personnel into the compound. Give the whole complex a desolate look, leave the three bulldogs out there wondering if anyone was home, freezing in their sheepskin or bomber jackets.
Psywar.
Mr. Cheerful was now pulling back his sheepskin, showing off the .357 Colt Python in shoulder rigging. Mouthing more challenges, everything but pulling down his fly, but Lake figured with the wind shipping the way it was, the guy didn’t want to risk pissing on his foot.
“Monroe,” Lake said over his shoulder, “how much C-4 did you say we have?”
“Two hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
“And the Herc?”
“Loaded up with fifty barrels of the laser guns, plus component parts, tech manuals.”
“And the microchips for the Ramrod Intercept?”
“Just delivered to me, about an hour ago.”
“Okay, here’s the plan. All work personnel is to be ordered to their quarters. Cite some, I don’t know, leak in a seal on the uranium reprocessor. Once that’s done, begin spreading the plastique around.”
“Detonators?”
“I have the box. The radio frequency will be tuned in to my personal touch.”
“And those three?”
“Send Marshal out to have a chat with Mr. Cheerful. A little mind probe, feel him out. I’ve got something in mind, but I want to see if he has some backup.”
“Word is he’s been hanging around the local watering hole, asking all kinds of questions about the complex. Throwing your name around.”
Lake chuckled now. He could see the showdown coming. Hell, he was looking forward to it. “Have Marshal take his handheld, leave the line open. I want to hear the exchange.”
“The general still hasn’t returned your calls from the Pentagon.”
“I know. Problems. Sudan went to hell. I don’t know what happened, but we need to bail. I’ve made arrangements to get us as far as Thailand. I figure something like twenty million in high-tech toys, someone will cough up with the cash. Let me know when you’re finished mining the store.”
Monroe left to plant the farewell touch. Time to fly soon, Lake thought, but not before he nailed three pieces of unfinished business to the wall of the compound.
“Okay, Lemmon, you want to play games, I’m up for a little more fun.”
“THIS IS NOT GOING to be good, Gadgets.”
Blancanales repeated that two more times, turned to see if Schwarz was even still with him. Since taking the military flight from L.A. to Boise, then rounding up their SUV rental ride, delivered courtesy of the Farm, Blancanales had seen the strange look in his friend’s eyes. It was troublesome, he decided, to the point of spooky, that thousand-yard stare never leaving his friend’s face. He wasn’t sure what was bugging Gadgets, but guessed it could have been any number of items. Such as the weather, the wind gusts hurtling down from the mountains, eighty-sixing Gadget’s hang-gliding plans. If there was something else, he couldn’t say, but Blancanales sensed his comrade was nursing a time bomb in his belly.
And it was cold out there, no mistake, as they crouched in the trees. The thermal underwear went a long way in keeping the shiver out of their bones, as did the black turtlenecks, matching corduroys and bomber jackets. But the way Gadgets was cradling the HK MP-5 SD-3 subgun…eyes shining now, a human wolf sizing up the prey.
Then there was Lyons. The local tavern, the Moosehead Inn, had become the Able Team commander’s personal interrogation central. The idea was to make some noise, inquiries about the installation, spook the locals into revealing what they knew or believed about the DYSAT complex. No luck. Just the cold shoulder. That alone, Blancanales hoped, could work. Say Lake had a pair of eyes and ears, tuned in for any paranoid talk, running back to the crazy colonel, describing Lyons. Get the bad guys nervous, have them come gunning.
Not the best-laid plan, but Lyons was a live grenade himself, looking for a place to go off.
“Gadgets?” Blancanales said, his M-16/M-203 combo watching Lyons back. “Can I ask you something?”
