Ramrod intercept, p.7
Ramrod Intercept, page 7
The thunder of the autoshotgun kept swelling the garage, forcing Schwarz to think about his next move. The pillar was taking hits, chunks vanishing in his face, as the shooter kept Schwarz pinned, the Able Team commando unable to get off even a spray and pray if he wanted to keep his face intact.
Schwarz brought up his assault rifle, trying to get a fix on Lake as he tore by on a shriek of rubber. He was just about set to go for the wheels, if nothing else, when the Towncar was shielded by a line of three vehicles. He rode out two anxious seconds, figuring he would get one more shot when…
Schwarz nearly bellowed his outrage. Grogan and Caldwell were down there, hopping away from the van, shouting Lake’s name when the Towncar plowed through them, sent them flying down the garage, broken scarecrow figures in thousand-dollar suits. The Towncar raced on, then Lake hit the brakes, piled out the door. Distance and the fact Lake was blocked from sight next by a minivan kept Schwarz from stopping what he knew was coming next.
“Goddamn it!”
His curse and the stutter of the Uzi was washed away by more SPAS-12 rolling thunder.
LYONS TOOK A READ on the situation, on the run, through the door. The autoshotgun had Gadgets at bay behind a pillar, the shooter running out of rounds, no time to reload. The hardman was digging around inside the Cadillac, coming out with an HK MP-5 subgun when Lyons and Blancanales let him have it.
He also took a few rounds from Schwarz, whose Colt Commando showed around the pillar and flamed out a long fusillade, a stitching burst that drove the hardman down the side of the Cadillac, dousing the wheels with a fresh red paint job. Once again, Lyons bore witness to the sheer toughness and tenacity of the opposition. Even though he was taking hits, up and down his torso, ventilated to red ruins, he shouted in rage, trying but failing to take somebody with him. The SMG was jumping around in his hands, blood spattering his face, as he hopped around, as if wired to high voltage. It took the remaining two rounds in Lyons’s Colt Python, burning up the rest of the clip of his mini-Uzi, but the hardman finally sagged on boneless legs, crumpling to the ground.
Able Team linked up, rolled on for the van. Lyons cursed when he saw the two dead DYSAT executives. He went and checked their pulse, but found they were well on their way to the other side.
“Sorry, Carl. I should have closed the side door.”
“Forget it. I take it Lake’s flown?”
Schwarz was clearly angry that he’d come up short. “Just before you showed up.”
“Let’s roll, guys,” Lyons said. “There’s one left. Looks like we’re going to the beach.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The arrogance of Iranians never failed to amaze General Fateh Arakkhan. It wasn’t so much what they said; rather it was how they said it, and, closer to the point, how they looked when they spoke. Usually—almost without fail—they talked about their own demands and wants, beliefs and intentions.
In short, themselves.
When speaking, they grew fire in the eyes, the voice rising with each passing word, the whole mounting diatribe clearly meant to warn against any denial or defiance of their wishes, any aversion, scathing or otherwise, to the Islamic point of view. In many, perhaps all ways of speaking and acting out, they were like little children to him. They wanted what they wanted when they wanted it. He could understand that kind of thinking, to be frank with himself, but sometimes like personalities could clash, and people of like kind could wake up one morning and discover the block wasn’t big enough to accommodate them both. Or in this case the abandoned but sprawling French villa—now established as his command post—perched just beyond the western wall of the garrison. The longer the Iranian’s sullen silence, the more the study seemed to shrink, swell with rising angry heat by the minute.
The general decided to lean back in the heavy-cushioned leather recliner, sip his French brandy, puff with some degree of apparent contentment on his Cuban cigar. He was relaxed, or trying to give the impression all was sweetness and light, while Bahruz Fhalid chugged down two snifters, gnawed on his own cigar like a man losing all faith and confidence in the situation, the future, himself.
The study, for the most part, was barren, like the rest of the villa, and the general often found himself wishing for more lavish surroundings. The recliner, brandy and black-market Havanas were a personal indulgence, shipped in from his home in Khartoum after he’d fled when the West dropped a bounty on his scalp. He had planned to ease the pain of his fugitive status in advance, before flying on from Khartoum, aware of the primitive conditions he’d find himself plunged into when he landed on Madagascar.
Impoverished hand-to-mouth existence was meant only for those masses to be ruled and serve their master, he believed. Madagascar, he had seen, really wasn’t all that different than any other African country, despite the fact nature had separated the fourth-largest island in the world from the African continent some two hundred million years ago. The few wealthy still ruled the poor wretched masses, fisted the reins of power through violence and intimidation, backed by armed, uneducated thugs who had pretty much, he thought, just fallen out of the trees.
Alleged warlord with a track record of mass murder and genocide or not, he wasn’t about to shuffle around in squalor, deprived of the few things in life he still enjoyed. When the French packed it up in 1973, he knew they took anything of value that wasn’t nailed down from there all the way to the capital city. The Tana government stepped in next, naturally, decided to convert the villa into a radar and tracking station when Communist insurgents and rebels became a little unruly in the countryside and visions of landlocked African countries flying out Russian MiGs pushed fantasy to the shadowy borderland of paranoid delusion. The great African invasion never happened. On the plus side, since things had settled down after communism the equipment had been updated since the French bailed out. Meaning Arakkhan could feel safe and snug from lurking enemies, shadow gunmen skulking in from parts unknown to claim his scalp for the Western bastards.
The general was grateful, if nothing else, that Fhalid hadn’t reminded him how important Iran was to any future ambitions he was dreaming about. The Sudanese general knew all about the Iranian incursion in his homeland anyway. They were everywhere, like mice, scurrying about, scores of soldiers stationed from Port Sudan all the way to the scrub wasteland of the south, where the Iranian agents had set up numerous training camps for “freedom fighters.” It was something of a pact with the devil, he thought, but what could he do, short of telling them to pack up their toys and go home? Iran had roughly seventeen years’ worth of leases left on its bases in the country. They came with smiling faces, full of all manner of flattery and promises for a greater Sudan.
Guile aside, they came bearing gifts of weapons, supplies and hefty sums of cash from oil money siphoned out of Tehran nonetheless. Sudan got weapons and money, while the Iranians staked out chunks of real estate to plan the coming great revolution of their jihad. The Iranians even dumped hefty cash contributions into a radio station in Port Sudan, where, daily, the holy trumpet sounded, that call to arms to the Islamic masses to rise up, strike down the Great Satan wherever he was found. The propaganda was even fed, beamed via satellite, all the way to Sudan’s northern neighbor, Egypt. Since Sudan was just over seventy percent Muslim, the Khartoum government didn’t squawk when the faceless talking heads incited the masses from behind the safety of a microphone. Truth was, the Khartoum powers encouraged the venomous railing against the West. It was, after all, “us” and “them.”
Islam versus the West, death to all infidels.
“I would like a time frame,” Fhalid said, the hint of a fire building in his eyes, as he poured himself another glass of brandy. “My men and I grow weary of this island, just to name one inconvenience, the sitting around, killing time, waiting for something to happen, to get done. I have my people to answer to, and they grow anxious for news. They wish to know when they will see this ‘big’ shipment of your high-tech gold mine.”
“I understand your impatience, but with every crisis there comes an opportunity.”
“Do not patronize me, General.”
Here we go, he thought. Already getting confrontational. Arakkhan smiled around his cigar. “Never. You have men inside my country who have proved invaluable to me. They have been my eyes and my ears. I am grateful to your fellow freedom fighters. Without them,” he said, jerking his cigar toward the garrison, “there is no telling how much damage those three might have caused. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask…”
“Does it disturb me that they are dead? No. They were less than jackal dung.”
“And the manner in which they died?”
“The punishment must fit the crime. I expected no less from you.”
The general chuckled, hoped the anger he felt toward the implied sleight was missing from his voice. “Meaning my reputation preceded me.”
“Back to the future. Your intentions?”
“I had believed they were clear between us.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Very well. I have powerful allies, a coalition of soldiers and officers in Sudan who are paving the road for my return. I have, sad to report, also accepted a degree of help from our common enemies. Sometimes the road to victory is paved even if a man must hold hands with the devil.”
“The CIA?”
The general shrugged, puffed, took a deep swallow of brandy. “Who knows who these men really are? I hear NSA, FBI, CIA, British MI-6. What I know is that they have their own agenda, most likely involving the accumulation of wealth. My money has seen its way into their hands to get some of the weapons, component parts, thus far.”
“And my money, or the money of my sponsors, is tied up with your money.”
“Yes, that much is true.”
“I get the impression you are leaving something out.”
“My own time frame has been carefully arranged. I have my own people inside Sudan who, as we speak, are prepared to hand over a final payment to acquire the technology we agreed on as part of our deal.”
“And you wish to use Iranian agents to help you with your revolution in Khartoum?”
“Yes. A storming of the palace. It gets no more simple than lopping off the heads of my enemies, men who stabbed me in the back. Men,” he said, and realized he was now the one with the fire in the eyes and voice, “who used me as a scapegoat to conceal their own crimes, this so-called genocide against the black Christians in the south, the SPLA thugs who would destroy my country. I understand, I respect your fire, your holy mission to slay the enemy. It, too, burns in my heart. But I am asking for a little more time.”
“How much?”
“Two, three days at most.”
The general could tell the Iranian was about to blow, patience an alien concept to the man, and decided it was time to show some good faith on his part. “I have a shipment of the laser weapons here on the compound.”
The fire was gone now, replaced by a strange glowing light.
“No, I was not holding back. Come,” he said, and stood, snifter in hand. “I will show you just a small portion of all that we have sweated and labored to obtain. I will prove to you I am all that I claim to be.”
“Which is what?”
“A conqueror, a twenty-first-century Napoleon, shamed by traitors, who will return in glory and slay his enemies. No more, no less.”
MCCARTER COULD SENSE the memory of the great beast still clinging to their thoughts, and the Briton could well appreciate even the specter of total grim recall. It kept them moving swift and hard, just the same, weapons and high-tech instruments in hand, the hardware fanning the heavy darkness of the hill country while the small gizmos monitored their surroundings for unwelcome visitors. Their combat harnesses in place, ammo pouches stuffed with spare clips and grenades, with Beretta 93-Rs as side arms, a curious mix of relief, tension and precombat jitters hovered in the muggy air as Phoenix Force marched on, deeper into the high plateau country, steering clear of dense forest, farmland and a smattering of Madagascan villages. Here and there, a few heads of cattle turned up in the green illumination of their NVD goggles, but no sign of any two-legged creatures. Yet.
The pace inland was swift, five armed shadows in the dead of night, hauling it double-time, a sense of urgency mounting with each klick knocked off and bringing them closer to their end game on the island. Encizo, an M-16/M-203 combo in one hand, with the Multiround Projectile Launcher hung and slapping between his shoulder blades, was the pointman. The Cuban moved them ahead, up the rugged hills that spined Madagascar, using the Magellan GPS module to guide the way. Hooked into NAVSTAR, the satellite then beamed its transmission back to Stony Man Farm, where the team there could mark and monitor their progress, alert them via their com satlink to any unforeseen meandering problems. Thanks to Price and Katz, McCarter knew the way was already paved, as they took the easiest route possible, navigating, with NVD goggles in place illuminating the brisk march ahead, through the least populated areas. He gave the Farm crew a mental thumbs-up for making life a tab easier on the way in.
A smooth but adrenalized jaunt.
They had already passed the bullet-shaped huts of Merina tribesmen, the largest and most feared of the Madagascan tribes. Skirted a French Catholic church. Up and down three rice fields terraced into dark volcanic hillsides. No sign of life.
No armed interference.
Manning was next in line behind Encizo, the big Canadian’s com link removed for the time being as he listened to the night, courtesy of a sound-amplifying Game Ear. Basically an earplug, it magnified the slightest noise up to two hundred yards. Manning wasn’t the sort to jump at leaves rustled by a nervous lemur, but he could damn well discern long in advance any approach of human traffic on foot or by vehicle. Calvin James was number three, the ex-SEAL likewise toting the M-16/M-203 combination, checking the infrared heat sensor in one hand, which would show two-legged life up to three hundred yards. While Manning was volunteered by McCarter to pull sniper duty, his HK-33 assault rifle was a reliable piece of hardware in his capable hands. Hawkins claimed the fourth spot in the rolling march, had the task of wielding the big M-60 machine gun. The man-eater was already belted, Hawkins’s chest crossed with bandoliers of 7.62 mm ammo for the squad killer. Hawkins and Encizo also had rope, with fixed grappling iron, curled around their shoulders to get them over the courtyard wall.
Conventional covert wisdom when operating in foreign countries, McCarter knew, either for deep-cover operatives or headhunting commandos, called for the use of weapons that would never indicate a fallen warrior’s origin of state. Dead was still dead the last time he checked his own field manual. And since the President’s hope was they bag a few trophies to take back to the States to stand trial before God and the world, McCarter knew it was pointless to cover up any hint of Western identity. They skipped the black warpaint, too, since there would be nothing stealthy about their attack.
Spectre would lay waste to designated targets. While the sky dropped on the compound, Phoenix would move in and start tagging or bagging.
Nothing cute, nothing tricky.
Basic slaughter circus. And if they wanted to be taken into custody, willingly, that was fine with McCarter. The ex-SAS commando, however, was anticipating the bad guys holding their ground, going out with a roar, to a shooter.
Sounded like a good deal to him. Hell, it was the only game he cared to play, in their face, take them down and out.
Encizo raised a hand, signaled they pull up and gather round. The Cuban was pointing up the rise of the next hill, toward two baobab trees. The so-called upside-down trees had already been marked by sat imagery as the gate to the compound on the other side of the hill. Over the top, from there a descent, then a walk into the valley of death.
McCarter keyed one of three buttons on his com link, patched through to Grimaldi. “Phoenix One to SkyHammer, come in, SkyHammer.”
“SkyHammer here. Go.”
“ETA?”
“Thirteen minutes. I can see shoreline now.”
McCarter knew it was time to ratchet up the pace another notch. They needed to be in position when Spectre started the fireworks.
“We’re in their backyard, SkyHammer, and rolling on. You know what to do.”
“Roger, Phoenix One. We aim to please.”
“See you on the other side, SkyHammer, over and out.”
McCarter lifted and dropped his arm, and the five heavily armed shadows hit the slope. Thirteen minutes and counting, the Briton thought.
Then it was only rock and roll, but he could damn well be sure the blokes on the receiving end weren’t about to like it.
FHALID HADN’T BEEN fully truthful with the Sudanese general. But truth, like beauty, he thought, was in the eye, or on the tongue, of the beholder.
Yes, it disturbed him deeply that men who had served the revolution faithfully up to then had turned traitor. Yes, it angered him greatly the obscene manner in which they had been executed. Well, the general had mentioned something about a man forced to sometimes join hands with the devil to fulfill his own goals, see his enemies eventually trampled in the dust or left standing only to serve the victors. History, he thought, was always meant to be rewritten in the blood of the vanquished. In that light, Fhalid was beginning to think of Arakkhan as the devil. The man was as ambitious, as self-centered and self-serving as any he had ever seen, bloated on ego, indulging himself with his toys flown here from Khartoum while the Iranians ate little more than rice and bread and slept in filth. No, he didn’t trust Arakkhan any farther than he could spit, certainly not now, after witnessing three of his own people getting impaled, as if the general was showing off his blood lust, hoping, he suspected, to make the rest of them cringe, or bow and scrape to his every whim.
On the plus side, Fhalid was in daily contact with his sponsor on the island in the Strait of Hormuz. The satlink came into his hands, thanks to Chinese benefactors, who, of course, monitored every transmission beamed from the island to Qeshm. Yet another bargain struck up with devils.
