STONY MAN

An elite covert special ops team, Stony Man acts only under presidential directive. Backed by a sophisticated unit of cybernetics and weapons experts, Able Team and Phoenix Force fight terror across the globe. They operate with impunity, driven by grit and the instinct of true warriors dedicated to protecting the innocent.

TERROR TRAIL

When Peace Corps volunteers working in the jungles of Paraguay are kidnapped and brutalized by a mysterious new Islamic terrorist group—and political maneuvering fails—Stony Man gets the call. Its dual mission: an under-the-radar jungle rescue and a hunt along the Iranian shores and backstreets of Tehran for the terrorist masterminds. With the enemy’s hard-line agenda poised to fuel the powder keg of Middle East instability, Stony Man moves in against long odds that are only getting longer. Surrounded and outgunned, they’re willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to succeed.

“We’re talking a religious coup of incomprehensible proportions.”

“Do I smell a change in plans, then?” McCarter asked Price.

“Not for you,” she replied. “But we wanted you to have a better idea of what you’re up against. We’ll be taking care of the rest of this through Able Team.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”

“We’re sending them to Tehran to handle the matter personally,” Price said.

“Wait. Let me make sure I just heard you correctly. You’re sending Able Team into Iran?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” McCarter said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Well, the decision’s already been made by the President, and Hal’s in complete agreement. I had my own reservations, but it didn’t seem like the issue was up for debate. Not now anyway.”

“Have you told Able Team yet?”

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

Close Quarters

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Paraguay, South America

Sweat stung his eyes.

The collar of a khaki shirt chafed his sunburned neck.

The stifling, oppressive heat of the jungle threatened to overtake him.

His lungs burned and his legs ached with every stride.

Christopher Harland had been running through the dense jungle for the past half hour as if his life

depended on it—because it did. He didn’t know the identity of his pursuers, but there was no doubt about what would happen if they caught him. That was all the incentive he needed to run this race—giving up was tantamount to a prolonged and painful death. Or worse, even, as his pursuers might actually subject Harland to the same things to which they had subjected his trusted colleagues, his friends, even a woman he loved.

Who the hell knew about their fates? He couldn’t even be sure of his own at this point.

Harland’s lungs threatened to give out on him. He heard the crash of the small armed unit as they closed the distance. He couldn’t keep this pace forever. No amount of track and field at Rutgers could have prepared him for it. He could only thank his coaches now for the training, although the repeated wind sprints at the time hadn’t seemed all that useful to most of the members on his team.

Harland’s flagging endurance ceased to be a concern as he felt something snag his ankle. He stopped and turned to see what it was, but got no further in his inspection—the sensation of his body leaving the ground proved as distracting as it was disconcerting. The world around him seemed to swirl in a haze of reds and blacks, stars popping in front of his eyes from the abrupt change in orientation.

Harland coughed as he fought for air. It felt as if his heart might explode in his chest. Would that be such a bad way to go? Not as bad as the way he’d exit this world at the hands of the figures who emerged from the jungle shadows. Most of them were dark-skinned but not in a mestizo way. These faces implied a more exotic place of origin, most likely somewhere in the Middle East or northern Africa. Harland had learned quite a bit from his ethnic studies in college.

Harland’s head hammered as he dangled helplessly from the tree. As he spun he could see that at least a dozen men had been chasing him. Why? Was he really a target of that importance or was it merely that they didn’t want him to get away? Clearly these men were operating in secret here, although Harland couldn’t imagine who they were or why they’d be interested in him. He’d heard the stories of Americans being kidnapped and held for ransom or missionaries murdered for proselytizing, but this situation seemed much different.

Harland opened his mouth and gulped air. He thought about speaking to them, but before he could decide his body suddenly plummeted to the ground. He cursed as putting out a hand to break his fall sent shooting pains up his wrist, resulting in what was more likely a sprain than a fracture. Either way, it hurt and he wished these men would either kill him outright or let him go instead of toying with him.

It wasn’t to be.

In a minute that seemed more like an hour, two men grabbed Harland and hauled him to his feet. They shoved him against the gnarled trunk of a giant tree, the surface biting into his skin like sandpaper. They pinned his arms behind him, and then Harland felt something thick and smooth being inserted under his right armpit and drawn across his back until it extended out the opposite side under his other armpit. The men then jerked Harland’s arms down, causing a fresh wave of searing pain to travel up his arm from his injured wrist. They bound the stick to him with thick cord at shoulders and forearms and then spun him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, first in English and then in Spanish.

That bought him a slap across the mouth. “Shut up!”

Harland’s face stung and he surmised the striker had left a red welt.

Without another word his captors each grabbed one end of the stick and lifted just enough that Harland had to walk almost on his tiptoes to accompany them. He’d probably managed to make it at least a couple of miles from the Peace Corps encampment—walking all that distance back in this fashion would not be pleasant. Then again, what was pleasant about any of this?

His forced march turned out to be even more grueling than he’d suspected it would be, and Harland was exhausted by the time they reached the volunteer camp. Or what was left of it. The wooden buildings that had been home for the past three months were now smoldering hulks, their insides gutted by fire and the exteriors little more than charred, smoking frames. Only the concrete pads on which they’d been built had managed to survive. Harland noticed an odd, thick haze—a mix of orange and green in the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the jungle canopy overhead—had fallen on the camp. It wasn’t caused by the smoke. This was some sort of natural phenomenon he’d never experienced before and he wondered if it had something to do with the fire.

The men half dragged, half walked Harland across the remains of the encampment until they reached the one building that had remained untouched: the camp mess. A man stood there, dressed in camouflage khakis like the others. A belt with a mixture of shotgun shells and high-velocity rounds encircled his waist in some kind of military webbing. His boots were highly polished and muscular arms bulged taut against the rolled-up sleeves of his uniform shirt. While the other men wore black berets, this one wore a blocked utility cap with gold wreaths braided along the brim and some kind of circular emblem on its crown.

The man turned and studied Harland for a time, his eyes indiscernible behind his sunglasses. A scar ran along his meaty jaw, very faint but evident. It was thin and looked as if it might have been caused by a razor blade or very sharp knife. His breath stank of cigarettes as he leaned in and studied Harland with a steady gaze.

“What is your name?” he asked in English.

That accent! Where the hell had Harland heard it before? He couldn’t remember and it was driving him nuts because it sounded nearly identical to the accent of the one who’d yelled at him. Harland knew it didn’t really matter, however, since his chances of getting out of here were slim. And even if he did manage to escape or they decided to let him go, who would he tell?

“I asked you your name!” the leader said. He tapped Harland’s forehead and said, “Are you stupid, American?”

“Harland,” he said. “My name is Christopher Harland. What’ve you done with my friends?”

“You should be worried for your own future,” the man said with a smile that lacked any warmth.

“Where are you from?” Harland asked. He looked around him at the men busily emptying the trays and silverware and other materials from the camp mess and then affixed his gaze on the man. “You’re not part of any guerrilla outfit I’ve ever seen. And I should tell you that we’re a U.S. Peace Corps group. If we’re out of contact long, you can bet your ass someone will know about it soon enough. They’ll come looking.”

The military leader favored Harland with another flat smile as he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth and turned his head to the side. An aide immediately stepped forward and lit it. The man took a deep drag, let out the smoke slowly through his nostrils and studied Harland, nodding steadily.

“Yes, yes…I’m sure you’re correct. And that is exactly why you have been chosen among your people to walk out of here alive.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying as long as you do what I tell you, your friends will remain alive. Otherwise, they are all dead and so are you.”

Harland considered this for a time, finally realizing he didn’t have any choice. If Dee and the rest of his entourage were to survive then he would have to do exactly as the man said. He couldn’t very well risk their lives. He’d never wanted this responsibility anyway—never asked to be responsible for the safety and welfare of others—so it didn’t make cooperating with this man seem so bad. Whoever he was, it made little difference. Harland was going to come out of this breathing and save a lot of lives in the process. How could that be bad?

“All right, I’ll play the game your way. What do you want me to do?”

And so the man issued Christopher Harland detailed instructions.

CHAPTER TWO

Little Havana, Florida

The stifling humidity had put Carl “Ironman” Lyons in a foul mood.

Only the ice-cold beer served by a smoking-hot waitress with wild brunette hair kept his temper in check. The sweat from the frosty bottle dribbled across

Lyons’s left hand and pooled onto the table. Once in a while, he’d wipe the cool water against his forehead but it didn’t help much. Lyons couldn’t remember the humidity being this bad during his time in Los Angeles when he was a cop with the LAPD.

Watching his Able Team partners stuff their faces with jalapeño nachos washed down by copious amounts of Malta Hatuey soft drinks didn’t improve his disposition. Lyons, leader of the elite covert-action team, sighed as he took in their surroundings for the tenth time in the past half hour. “Once more we’ve been

relegated to doing a job that should be assigned to the federal boys.”

“You know what I think?” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz managed to ask around a giant bite, cheese and sour cream running down his chin. “I think we should order another one of these.”

Rosario “Politician” Blancanales made a concerted effort to chew and swallow his own decadent mouthful before saying, “Cheer up, Ironman. You should make the most of this. Try to think of it as a vacation.”

“A vacation.”

“Sure,” Blancanales said, drawing the word out like a man tempting his grandchildren with a story. “I mean, there are much worse places the Farm could’ve sent us.”

“Oh, yeah? Like where?”

“Well, I—”

“Alaska,” Schwarz said.

Blancanales jerked a thumb at his companion. “There you have it! Alaska. It’s cold there.”

“They also have some of the best fishing this time of year,” Lyons countered.

“They also have polar bears,” Schwarz mused. “You could get eaten alive.”

Blancanales feigned a conspiratorial whisper, cupping his hand to his mouth as he said, “I don’t think they’d find Ironman too palatable.”

Lyons ignored the gibes from his friends as two men escorted a third across the street. They headed straight for Able Team’s table in the cabana-style exterior setting of the lounge. Lyons scowled at them, wondering how they’d managed to escort the guy this far without getting him wasted. Their charge wore khaki shorts and a Hawaiian-style silk shirt; sandals adorned his feet. He had light red hair that protruded in clumpy tufts from beneath his Marlins baseball cap. The man’s dress perfectly blended with the styles worn by the Able Team warriors, but his escorts stood out like highway cones in their government suits.

They stopped at the table, and the taller one in serge blue removed his sunglasses. He looked around, then said, “You Irons?”

“Yeah,” Lyons confirmed. He gestured to Blancanales and Schwarz respectively. “This is Rose and Black.”

“Here’s your man,” they said.

Without a word the pair whirled and made distance back the way they had come.

The man stood there with a somewhat beleaguered expression. Lyons felt a bit of empathy for the guy. The two FBI agents assigned to bring him here were obviously intent on more important things, and Lyons couldn’t imagine what he’d been through. The wrist brace on his right arm and deep scratches on his legs made it obvious he’d been in a recent tussle. Lyons had no doubt this was Christopher Harland.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving Harland into the one vacant chair at their table.

The young man stuck his hands in his pockets and studied their faces in turn—almost as if sizing them up—before he sat.

“You hungry?” Blancanales asked.

Harland inclined his head at the disappearing agents and said, “They got me something when we landed. I’m good.” After a pause he added, “Thanks.”

“How about something to drink? You must be thirsty.”

He nodded and Blancanales signaled the waitress. The young man ordered a beer—a Tecate—and watched the waitress with obvious appreciation as she jiggled away with his order.

Lyons smiled at his two companions. Okay, so maybe he could learn to like the kid, after all.

“How was your flight?” Schwarz asked to break the silence.

“It was okay.”

“Those guys, they treat you okay?” Lyons asked.

“I suppose.”

“You go by Chris?” Blancanales asked.

“I prefer Christopher.”

“Fair enough.”

Schwarz went back to shoveling food into his mouth while Blancanales took another pull at his malt-based soda.

Lyons looked around. He saw only a couple of people nearby, nobody within earshot. Midafternoon and the lunch crowd was gone. It was too early for happy hour. “We’ve been briefed on what happened to you.”

“Okay,” Harland said.

“Anything you want to add?”

“It’s pretty much like I told them.” Harland clammed up as the waitress dropped a napkin on the table, followed by his beer.

Lyons handed her enough cash to cover the entire tab plus a tip that was generous enough to imply they wouldn’t need her again.

Once she’d left, Harland continued. “I barely managed to escape with my life. Those bastards are holding my friends hostage, including a woman I care about.”

“What do they want with your team?” Blancanales asked.

Lyons eyed Harland. “And especially why would they keep the others and release just you?”

Harland pulled off his sunglasses to expose a fresh black eye. Something in his expression seemed hardened, more mature and empowered than the average twenty-eight-year-old college grad. His expression bore witness to untold brutalities and hardships, and Lyons felt a measure of regret.

“I didn’t make any deals, if that’s what you think,” Harland said.

Lyons leaned close. “Hey, asshole, take it easy. We’re on your side.”

Blancanales quickly intervened in a way that had earned him the “Politician” nickname. “Listen, Christopher, we’re not trying to give you a hard time. You can relax with us. Our job’s to keep you alive, but in order to do that we need to know everything. You shoot straight with us and we’ll do the same, no bull. Just tell us everything you can remember about these men.”

Able Team had, of course, already been thoroughly briefed by Stony Man Farm. As soon as word came from channels—specifically a SIGINT analyst from the American embassy in the Paraguayan capital of Asunción—mission controller Barbara Price had called the Stony Man teams into action. The situation, as Harland had laid it out, was that seventeen members from a U.S. Peace Corps contingent along with three missionaries had been brutally assaulted and taken hostage by parties unknown. After they razed the camp and brutalized several of the women, they took them all except Harland. He’d been fortunate or maybe unfortunate enough to get the crap beaten out of him and sent to Asunción with a message: don’t attempt to interfere or the hostages would be slaughtered.

“What were you doing there exactly?” Schwarz asked.

“I was there on a Peace Corps mission,” Harland said.

Lyons said, “We understand that, but what kind of mission? Humanitarian aid, education, what?”

“Take your pick. After I left Rutgers I got selected to go down there and help try to bring modern facilities to their indigenous tribal populations. In some respects, these people have chosen a self-imposed exile. Mostly it’s a social and cultural isolationism but there’s a political play to it, too.”

“What kind of play?” Blancanales asked.

Harland took a long swallow from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “More than sixty percent of the population of Paraguay is urbanized. The rest are content to retire to farming life, particularly since they have the sixth largest soy production in the world. A very small percentage have made their homes deeper in the jungle, traveling to the farms like sharecroppers and then back again at the end of the workday. It’s almost a migratory existence. It’s those people we were sent there to help.”

“So these military men,” Lyons said. “What can you tell us about them specifically?”

“Nothing. I was told that if I so much as breathed a word about what I saw they’d kill my friends. I took a risk just leaving the country. I’m sure they’ll figure I’ve talked.” Harland’s voice cracked when he added, “They’re probably all dead by now and I killed them.”

“You can’t think like that, man,” Schwarz said.

“That’s right, Christopher,” Blancanales added in a gentle tone, squeezing Harland’s shoulder. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. And if we can help it, we’re not going to let anything happen to your friends, either.”

“Get real, dude,” Harland said as he wiped his bloodshot, swollen eyes. “You don’t have any control over what’s going on down there.”

“We have more control than you might think,” Lyons said.

Indeed, even as Harland’s tough facade melted, the Able Team warriors knew something perhaps less than a dozen people in the world knew. Five of the toughest and bravest men alive were touching down in Paraguay at that moment. Few knew their names or places of origin, but the exploits of Phoenix Force were no less mythical than the fiery bird from which they drew their namesake.

“You haven’t seen what these men are capable of,” Harland said.

Blancanales smiled. “They haven’t seen what we’re capable of.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and drink up,” Lyons said. “Sitting here with our derrieres hanging out for just anybody to take a shot at is starting to make me nervous.”

“Remember,” Schwarz quipped. “We were going to try to look at this as a vacation?”

Lyons’s cold blue eyes glinted wickedly in the sunlight as he expressed alert like a terrier on a rabbit’s scent. “I think it just got cut short.”

Even as Schwarz and Blancanales turned to see what had Lyons’s attention, the Able Team warrior was rolling out of his seat and grabbing hold of Harland’s shirtsleeve. He yanked backward as he warned his two companions to take cover, although it seemed pointless since Blancanales and Schwarz were already in motion with the practiced reaction of combat veterans. The four men ate the decorative tile of the patio as young Arab types exited a black sedan, leveled SMGs and opened up on their position.

The report from the weapons drowned a shout of pain from Harland, who got slammed onto his shoulder with some significant force. He wouldn’t realize until later it was a small price to pay in consideration that Lyons had kept his promise to save Harland’s ass. Lyons ordered his charge to stay where he was, then whirled on one knee and reached beneath his loose-fitting shirt. In his fist rode a 6-inch Colt Anaconda, its silver finish brilliant in the afternoon sun. A successor to Lyons’s .357 Colt Python, the pistol had been qualified by Lyons with six rounds in a one-inch shot grouping using 240-grain XTPs at 30 yards—a champion marksman’s score. The Anaconda was deadly in the hands of the Able Team leader.

Lyons snap-aimed the pistol, going for the opponent who had experienced a gun jam, and squeezed the trigger twice. A pair of 300-grain jacketed hollowpoints crossed the gap in milliseconds and caught the intended target as if Lyons had fired point-blank. The first busted the gunner’s chest open and exploded his heart, while the second ripped out a good portion of the left side of his neck. The man did a pirouette as the jammed SMG fell from his fingers and then he toppled to the pavement, bright blood springing from his neck in a geyser.

Lyons went low and pressed his back to the waist-high brick wall lining the dining patio even as a fresh maelstrom of rounds buzzed the air around them. The street and sidewalks had erupted in complete pandemonium, and the few diners who’d been sitting outside had either hit the ground and crawled for cover into the restaurant or simply beaten feet out of there.

Schwarz and Blancanales had produced their own sidearms, a Beretta 92-DS and a SIG-Sauer P-239, respectively. The pair found relatively decent concealment behind a set of potted rubber trees just ahead of the patio wall to the left of where they’d been seated. They took up positions and began dishing out some of what they’d been served.

Lyons took the moment to inspect Harland and make sure the young man was still alive, and then risked breaking cover to assist his companions.

Two of the remaining gunners made a beeline for the cover of an old, beat-up SUV while a third apparently thought he was Superman and tried to take out his quarry single-handedly. For his troubles he got three of Schwarz’s 9 mm slugs to the belly, followed by a head shot courtesy of Blancanales.

The other two opened up from the cover of the SUV parked at the curb, but they didn’t have great position and their attack proved mostly ineffective.

Lyons considered their options and realized they had a better chance of squaring off with the opposition if they didn’t have Harland to worry about. After all, chances were good he was the real target, and their enemy probably considered Able Team little more than collateral damage. They hadn’t obviously thought it through, figuring they had surprise on their side, and now it had cost them half their team.

During a lull in the firing, Lyons said, “It would seem discretion being the better part of valor would apply in these circumstances.”

“Agreed,” Blancanales said. “You have a plan?”

“An idea. Give me covering fire. I’m going to get our lucky boy out of here.”

Schwarz and Blancanales nodded in unison and returned their attention to their attackers. Lyons waited until they started pouring on the heat and then jumped to his feet, ran to Harland and hauled him to his feet. They continued on to the entrance in the restaurant, where Lyons quickly located the waitress.

“You got a freezer?”

She swallowed hard but an impatient scowl from Lyons shook her back to reality. She nodded and jabbed her finger toward a swinging door at the back. Lyons, one hand clamped on Harland’s good arm, made the door in three strides and pushed it open with the muzzle of the Anaconda. He followed the weapon, his eyes tracking where he pointed the muzzle, ready for any sign of trouble. They reached the freezer door unmolested and Lyons yanked it open.

“Inside, little man.”

“What? You ain’t sticking me in no freezer…big man.”

“They always want to argue,” Lyons said before he hurled Harland through the doorway and slammed it shut behind him. He located a mop handle, wedged it against the bar so it couldn’t be opened from the inside and then yelled, “Stay toward the back and keep down! I’ll be back in a minute!”

The Able Team warrior then whirled and began searching the kitchen diligently for what he knew had to be close. It took what seemed like hours but was only actually a few minutes to locate several Sterno cans, the oversize kind designed for catering large parties. Lyons nodded in satisfaction and spun on his heel. He headed through the kitchen and returned to the main restaurant.

“One more thing, miss,” Lyons said calmly amid the continuous exchanges of gunfire echoing on the air. “Any high-content alcohol? Preferably clear?”

Without leaving her position tucked behind the bar, the waitress turned, withdrew a bottle filled with clear liquor from a cabinet nearby and tossed it to him. Lyons set the cans on the counter, quickly inspected the contents and then nodded with satisfaction. He broke away the cap, snatched a wad of paper napkins off the bar and stuffed them into the top.

“Hey, buddy!”

Lyons turned in time to see something small and silver fly through the air. He reached out and snatched it, then noted it was a Zippo lighter with the symbol of the U.S. Army 82nd Airborne, Vietnam era. Lyons looked at the dark-skinned man whose salt-and-pepper beard stood out starkly against that face. The man sat on the floor against a booth and gave Lyons a double thumbs-up. Lyons offered him a wicked grin as he flipped back the lid with a metallic zing and fired up the napkins. He closed the lighter and tossed it back to the man with a nod.

“Airborne,” Lyons said.

“All the way!” the man declared.

Lyons stepped through door and into the courtyard. Blancanales had just opened up with a fresh volley, while Schwarz was slamming home his last cartridge. He noticed Lyons approach and said, “Well, it’s about time. You stop for a potty break or something?”

“Figured we could use a little help,” Lyons replied as he tossed the Sterno cans at his friend.

Lyons then stepped into the clear and tossed the Molotov cocktail. Even as the bottle sailed toward the pair of gunners, they had noticed him and were fixing to turn their weapons in his direction.

That single mistake cost them the end game.

As Lyons dived for cover, the bottle clipped the edge of the SUV and broke open. Flaming liquor doused the two men and immediately ignited their facial hair. They stepped from cover, dropping their weapons as they tried to beat out the flames, but there would be no reprieve. Lyons turned to see Blancanales and Schwarz had the Sterno cans open and ready. Simultaneously, the pair rose and tossed their homemade grenades with unerring accuracy.

The gel substance clung to the pair of terrorists like goo and in moments their clothes had ignited. While it didn’t really burn their skin, the highly flammable gel acting as a mild ignition point, the distraction proved fatal. No longer in danger of taking fire from the SMGs, Able Team doled out justice in a variety of calibers. Their two opponents fell under the heavy fire, and when the smoke cleared there were only two bloodied bodies remaining, the clothes still smoldering from the remnants of the liquor and chafing gel.

“Well, that’s going to make identification a problem,” Blancanales pointed out as sirens wailed in the distance. “You suppose we should stick around?”

“No, we better get scarce,” Lyons said. He looked at Schwarz and said, “Still feel like a vacation to you?”

Schwarz shrugged. “At least we got nachos.”

CHAPTER THREE

Tehran, Iran

Farzad Hemmati made his way through the alleys and back streets of his hometown with practiced ease.

It wasn’t difficult given the fact the route tended toward desertion this time of morning—the Tehran police didn’t feel any particular inclination to enforce the curfew unless someone appeared suspicious. A few of the citizens had work visas to be out during these hours, and Hemmati’s forged papers were enough to pass all but forensic scrutiny.

That’s if anyone bothered to check.

Hemmati had a cover story and had been schooled thoroughly in deception, first by the American CIA and then by his cleric masters. In fact, the head of the Pasdaran had ordered this meeting, summoning him to attend them at their hideaway nestled in the heart of the city’s worst ghetto—as if there could be a worst ghetto. Hemmati didn’t want to break it to his masters, but the fact remained this part of town didn’t exactly have the market cornered on poverty. To call it a ghetto could’ve described about three-quarters of Tehran.

Still, this had been Hemmati’s home for the past thirty years and it had seem him through the toughest times. It had also cost him the lives of his parents when he was ten, turning Hemmati into an orphan since none of his living relatives had either the interest or the money to take care of a growing boy. Hemmati might have ended up another street urchin or dead or even slaving away for the glory of the regime’s war machine. The Pasdaran had spared him that fate, taken him under its wing.

They’d fed him, clothed him, educated and trained him.

And then they’d turned him loose on society and made him earn his way, gaining him the experience he would need to survive. Now he knew in his heart and mind that it was time to repay all he owed them. Hemmati welcomed whatever tasks might befall him with all of the obedience and respect due his masters.

Hemmati reached the rendezvous point and made his way along a very narrow alley that stank of urine and garbage mixed with the occasional whiff of hashish on the air. In the predawn gloom he could make out the hump of a displaced person—there were many throughout the capital—hunkered down and wrapped in whatever tattered cloth they could find to keep warm against the icy nights the prevailed that time of year.

Hemmati reached what appeared to be a wooden door, although it was lined with two inches of lead. He rapped twice—a simple knock, so simple that few would think to duplicate it. A moment later a plate slid aside, a pair of white eyes peered out and then the see-through slammed closed with a thud. The door opened a minute later just enough to allow Hemmati to slide past.

The man attending the door said, “Go right in, Master Hemmati. They await you.”

Hemmati nodded and proceeded down a hallway about half the width of the alley. Only candles provided light. The place had no electricity and for very many good reasons that Hemmati opted not to consider at that moment. There’d be time for daydreaming later. Right now he would need his every wit about him for the task ahead. Hemmati continued to the end of the hallway and then turned to his left. He rapped once on the door before opening it and stepping into a room that was so familiar to him he almost felt as if he were a youth again, kneeling at his master’s knees, studying the Koran and memorizing the fatwas, principles of the jihad.

“Come, Farzad,” a voice called from the shadows on the far side of the room. “You are most welcome.”

“It is good to see you again, Mullah,” Hemmati said as he crossed the room and took a seat on the pillow at the edge of an ornate scarlet carpet covering the wooden floor.

Hemmati heard the rasp of a match against a striker and then a flame flared to life. The flash looked like lightning against the worn, haggard features of his master, but a moment later the wick of the oil lantern the cleric lit cast a glow to his countenance.

Hemmati had no idea how old Hooshmand Shahbazi actually was, as it would’ve been disrespectful to ever inquire of such matters, but the man seemed ancient to his ward. Among Shahbazi’s other students the subject had never been broached, even in private; not that privacy was something they’d ever known. Hemmati and his adopted brothers had eaten together, slept together and defecated alongside each other without shame. They’d never gone anywhere in public, such ventures being rare occasions indeed, without being in the company of at least two others. Shahbazi had insisted on this so they would maintain their purity and not fall victim to the temptations offered by a city out of control.

When they were of age, Shahbazi had brought women into their midst and observed them as they practiced the arts of sexuality. Every part of their lives had been controlled but never by coercion or threat of violence. Hemmati had never seen his master, a man whom he really viewed as his true and only father, lose his temper or even raise his voice. Even his commands were in the softest manner but with an implied imperative that dare not speak of the consequences for disobedience. It just simply was what it was, it always had been, and Hemmati knew fealty and honor to this one man.

“Where are my brothers, Mullah?” Hemmati inquired.

“They are preparing, Farzad,” Shahbazi replied. “The time’s now at hand for us to enact our plans. You’re to lead the way.”

Hemmati’s heart beat a little faster. “Me? I don’t understand.”

“You do,” Shahbazi countered. “You’ve been trained all your life for this. Although I loved each of you in equal portions, it was in you I saw the most promise. You excelled among your brothers, never revealing your superior intellect and skill when you could have flaunted it. This is the mark of a humble man and it’s this humility that makes you the strongest. Do you understand?”

“I think so, Mullah.”

“Then it is well.” Shahbazi smiled, his face wrinkling more. “So now let us talk of what you must do. Are you still in contact with the CIA agents the Americans claim they don’t have operating in the city?”

“I am.”

“You can contact them?”

“I can.”

“You must go to them and tell them you have knowledge of what’s happening in South America.”

“You want me to tell them the truth?”

“It is imperative you do this,” Shahbazi said. “President Ahmadinejad has made a critical error, a misstep in judgment really. We can no longer afford to support him. I’ve spoken with my other brothers in the government, and they agree that the Pasdaran must take control of the city before the president undermines the efforts of our brother Khamenei.”

That didn’t sit well with Hemmati. He’d never trusted Seyyed Ali Khamenei—head of Ahmadinejad’s elite paramilitary forces—despite the fact Khamenei claimed roots as a Basij Islamist. Khamenei had never lifted a finger to help Shahbazi or any of his father’s brothers in government. When Ahmadinejad dismissed a number of high-ranking officials within the Revolutionary Guard for being too “extreme” in their religious views, Khamenei had remained silent, almost stoic, in fact. The thought still burned in Hemmati’s gut.

“Forgive me, Mullah, but I don’t see how revealing our operations in Paraguay will help our cause,” Hemmati said. “Aren’t they still many months from completing the training of the Hezbollah contingent?”

“I received a recent report from Jahanshah,” the cleric said. “If I understood him correctly, they’ve already been discovered. It’s only a matter of time before the Americans learn what’s happened. Jahanshah has bought us some time but it isn’t much. We must act quickly if our plans can succeed.”

“You are planning a diversion.”

Shahbazi emitted a titter of amusement, what passed as the closest thing Hemmati could judge a laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. I’m hoping you can be convincing enough that the Americans will come running here. The local men with the CIA won’t make a move until they’ve consulted with their superiors. Given the unrest in this entire region, the uprisings by our brothers in Egypt and Libya, they’ll see capitulation as only in their best interests. Their leadership is weak and I plan to seize that advantage. I’m confident I can depend on you.”

Hemmati scratched his chin and considered the request, although he already knew he could refuse his mullah nothing. This was an opportunity he’d not considered before, and Hemmati realized that Shahbazi had a side to his personality that hadn’t surfaced until now. Hemmati could only call it as he saw it: his mullah was as devious a bastard as he was wise.

“You can depend on me, Mullah.”

“It’s settled, then. Now I need to discuss with you another matter. One of great importance.”

* * *

HIS PARENTS NAMED HIM Ronald but to his few friends in the Company he went by Jester.

It had little to do with Ron Abney’s sense of humor, as most might have thought; rather it was his way of behaving around others when he felt uncomfortable. As one of his companions at Langley attested, “You start pulling that court-jester routine.” So the name stuck and in some small way Abney didn’t really mind. He only afforded the moniker to others within the Company, however, and they never spoke it in the company of outsiders since it ended up being his code name among the CIA walls of power in Wonderland.

“Hey, Jester,” Stephen Poppas said as he walked through the door of their run-down apartment on Tehran’s west side.

The place didn’t really qualify for the name, being more of a shithole than much else, but it was what Abney and Poppas liked to call home. Both of them had arrived in Tehran about the same time and fast developed a friendship that could only evolve naturally being all but stranded together in a very inhospitable, if somewhat exotic, locale. Abney was new to fieldwork, having only spent about two years abroad, but Poppas—who had to be somewhere on the order of fifteen years Abney’s senior—had been country hopping for the Company since he was “out of diapers” was the expression Poppas favored.

“Yo, Pops,” Abney called back, using Poppas’s nickname, “find anything decent to eat?”

Poppas dropped a greasy paper bag on the small counter that adjoined the kitchenette and replied, “Look for yourself, bro. I ain’t your mother.”

Abney grunted and got up from his position in front of what appeared to be a shortwave radio. The antiquated box was actually a high-tech frequency receiver and transmitter capable of sending encoded voice and data messages to an orbiting Joint Intelligence Task Force satellite. It provided the sole means of communication between the men and their contact they referred to simply as Mother.

“You weren’t followed?” Abney asked as he peeked in the bag and withdrew two paper cartons filled with squared portions of fried dough ladled with a local concoction that was half sweet, half spicy. Really it amounted to little more than a box of greasy bread, but it was better than much of the food served by the vendors on this side of town and a damn sight tastier. It also didn’t have any of the more popular spices in much of the local cuisine.

“You ask me that every time, Jester, and every time I give you the same answer.”

“Okay, don’t be a grump-ass,” Abney said. “You know I have to ask. There’s a system of checks and balances in this business. You taught me that. Remember?”

“That’s only one-way, plebe,” Poppas said. While his expression soured, his tone implied he was doing nothing more than some good-natured ribbing. “We ain’t the frigging Congress here.”

The banter dispensed with, the pair sat at the small table near the silent radio and dug into the food. They ate silently, mechanically, only taking breaks between bites to wash down the Iranian dumplings with bottled water. Nothing but bottled water—that was the rule, and at least one bottle from every grouping had to be sampled for poisons. It was quite a life case officers had to live, particularly in Middle Eastern and African countries, where for the most part they were unwanted. Abney had once asked Poppas, a happily married man of twenty years, if he’d ever told his wife about his experiences, to which Poppas had replied, “Fuck no.”

That had put an end to the conversation and Abney never asked him another personal question.

“So what’s the plan for today, Jester?”

Around a cheek filled with chewy dough, Abney replied, “I haven’t actually checked the book yet but I think—”

A soft rap sounded at the door.

The two men looked at the door, each other and back again before they got to their feet simultaneously and withdrew their pistols. Neither of them said a word. They weren’t accustomed to talking loudly and Abney hoped whoever stood on the other side hadn’t heard them conversing. It wasn’t the landlord. The guy worked a day job and he tended to mind his own business, especially with two Americans who paid rent four times the rate. Frankly, the pair could have been making bombs and the landlord couldn’t have cared less.

Another rap came, this one a bit more insistent.

Poppas made a couple of standard gestures, held his pistol high and level, and then nodded for Abney to open the door. As soon as he did, Poppas reached out, hauled the dark-skinned man inside and tossed him practically the length of the room—not difficult given the size of the place. Before the visitor knew it, he had two pistols trained on him a few inches from his face. He looked frightened at first, holding his hands high, but eventually he smiled and produced a chuckle.

“Damn it, Farzad!” Poppas said. “How many times have I told you never to come here?”

“Sorry, sorry…but it was important.”

“Important enough to break protocol?” Abney said.

“Screw protocol,” Poppas interjected. He waved the muzzle of his pistol skyward and said to Hemmati, “Was it important enough for you to risk getting your head blown off?”

“It may very well be that important, yes.”

Poppas and Abney exchanged surprised glances for the second time that day, then helped Hemmati to his feet. They pushed him onto a dirty, disused couch. It wasn’t outside the rules of the playbook for the Company to recruit local informants if the need arose, and Hemmati had proved useful in the past. If he’d risk coming here, there had to be a pretty good reason for it.

“All right,” Poppas said, taking a chair and fishing a cigarette from his pocket. He offered Hemmati one, who declined. “Sorry. I forgot you’re one of the few Iranians I know who doesn’t smoke.”

While Poppas lit a smoke, Abney asked, “Okay, so what’s going on?”

“I’ve come by information that I think will be of great value to you.”

“It better be,” Poppas said. “Now quit trying to build suspense and spill it already.”

“Recently you had an incident that took place in Paraguay.”

“There a lot of incidents in Paraguay, Farzad, in fact, all over the world. You want to be more specific?”

“I don’t have many details but it’s something about Peace Corps volunteers taken hostage by armed men who could not be identified.”

Poppas looked at Abney, who shrugged. He didn’t have any information about it. In fact, this was first he’d heard of it and the same was true for Poppas, given the older man’s expression. It could’ve been Hemmati was simply looking to dangle a carrot that might not pan out to be anything, but then it might also be the biggest thing to hit the intelligence community since the end of the Cold War. Case officers got junk information all the time from operators on the payroll—many of them working as double agents—which they usually referred to as “soap flakes.” Every so often, however, they hit a gem.

“So what about it?” Poppas said, not willing to let on they knew nothing about what Hemmati was telling them.

Internally, Poppas’s textbook approach amused Abney.

“I know who these men are.”

Poppas took a drag of his smoke before saying, “Who?”

“They are members of the Hezbollah, men being trained by officers in our Guard Corps.”

“You’re full of it!” Abney said. “There’s no way you could possibly know that.”

“There is a way I could know it,” Hemmati said. “I haven’t told you something until now because I needed it as leverage.”

“Why would you need leverage against us?”

“I don’t need leverage against you. I need leverage to get out of Iran, to go to America and never to return this country.”

“That’s a tall order, Farzad,” Poppas said.

“It is something you can do,” Hemmati replied. “Do not pretend that you don’t have the ear of the highest powers in your Washington. I know enough about you to know who you are and who you work for. Let us not pretend that I’m stupid. I went to college in Europe, remember? To be trained to work in the military. I have contacts close to Seyyed Ali Khamenei, you could even call them family. Only because of my bad eyes was I not able to do this. I have told you all this, so I would think my request comes as no surprise to you. Or my price.”

“Your price?” Poppas said.

“Oh, so you not only want us to spend a whole bundle of cash getting you out of here, but you want us to finance your life in the U.S., too,” Abney added.

“You’re a wackadoo if you think this tidbit of gossip you’re handing us is going to buy you a free ride across the pond, joker.”

“I have more,” Hemmati said.

Through a gust of smoke Poppas said, “Okay, tell us your more.”

“A faction within President Ahmadinejad’s officer corps is planning a coup. They plan to move on him soon and establish a new power within Iran. They are seeking the support of the Americans and they’ve sent me to make the offer.”

“Jumping jeebus,” Abney whispered.

Poppas looked at his companion and said, “I think it’s time to call Mother.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Atlantic Ocean

David McCarter stared at the blue-white horizon, the kind that could only look this pure and clean at an altitude of eight thousand feet. The sight liberated him inside, freed his soul and imagination from the cares of the day. Very soon, McCarter knew that feeling would dissipate to be replaced by a range of dangers that most men never experienced.

David McCarter had experienced enough to fill a thousand lives.

The other five men who accompanied him aboard the Stony Man jet could claim very similar circumstances, although none would have boasted about them if given a chance.

McCarter realized the time for introspection was nearly over. According to Jack Grimaldi—Stony Man’s ace pilot—they’d be touching down in Asunción in about ten minutes. McCarter had to consider all the angles of their present mission. Stony Man’s intelligence had been unusually scant. Between the powerful computers overseen by Aaron Kurtzman and the keen intellect of Barbara Price, sending either of the teams into a situation with little intelligence was an exception—a very disconcerting exception at that.

As leader of Phoenix Force, McCarter didn’t like unknowns and he certainly wasn’t big on winging it when it came to missions where vast numbers of angry, armed men were involved. Nevertheless, Phoenix Force was only alerted when the situation was serious, and the absence of hard intel was never reason enough to prevent their deployment.

“You’ll be going in with your eyes wide shut,” Hal Brognola, head of Stony Man Farm, had told them during their briefing nearly fourteen hours earlier.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” McCarter had replied.

* * *

“THE INFORMATION IS sketchy because it’s all we have,” Price said. “Three days ago the American embassy in Asunción, Paraguay, received a request for sanctuary by a volunteer with the U.S. Peace Corps. The man’s name was Christopher Harland. Harland told a story so absurd that at first the secretary to the U.S. Ambassador didn’t believe him. Apparently they had an NSA analyst with the Signal Intelligence Group on staff.”

“They turned him over to the analyst, who immediately realized there may be a bigger problem brewing in Paraguay,” Brognola added.

“A crazy story by this one man has the White House jumping?” asked Gary Manning, disbelief evident in his tone.

“Not just one man,” Brognola told the Canadian demolitions expert.

“There are sixteen other U.S. Peace Corps members who have gone missing,” Price confirmed, “and the atrocities Harland claims to have witnessed against them were confirmed by an investigative team sent to their camp. Or what was left of it.”

“What do mean, what was left of it?” T. J. Hawkins asked.

A native of Texas and the youngest, newest member of the team, Hawkins had served with Delta Force before joining Stony Man. Hawkins may have been a bit unconventional at times and was still an occasional hothead, but he was a good fit with the highly disciplined Phoenix Force operatives. He’d become an integral part of the tight-knit field unit and all of his companions were glad to have him along when the going got tough, which was most of the time in Phoenix Force missions.

“They burned the thing to the ground after plundering everything they could get their hands on that might have had value,” Price replied.

“Word has it they even stole the silverware from the camp mess hall,” Brognola added.

Rafael Encizo, former Cuban refugee and unarmed-combat expert, said, “Mess hall? I thought most Peace Corps volunteers stayed in the homes of native families, not only for safety but translation purposes.”

“This particular mission was somewhat special according to Christopher Harland,” Price said. “A fact we confirmed with their main offices after the initial reports came in from the U.S. Embassy via the State Department.”

“What about the NSA’s investigation?” Calvin James asked. “Did that reveal anything useful?”

Calvin James was a former Navy corpsman and SEAL, who served as the team’s chief medic—and a chief badass, as well.

“It didn’t reveal any identity but we’re guessing they aren’t local dissidents,” Price replied.

“Did you say guessing?” McCarter said. “You, luv?”

“I know,” replied a booming voice from the door of the War Room. “Isn’t it a shocker?”

Though the man who came through the doorway was in a wheelchair, nobody would mistake that for weakness. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman didn’t just fill the role of technical wizard for Stony Man; his intelligence and prowess had literally saved the lives of every team member more times than anybody could count. Kurtzman had a way of pulling off technical feats like a magician pulled a live rabbit out of a hat, and that had paid off many times over.

“You can blame me for our lack of information,” Kurtzman replied. He looked at Price and added, “Sorry I’m late.”

Price nodded. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Nothing definite but some patterns emerged from a software algorithm Akira and I wrote to scan travel documents into and out of South America, particularly around Paraguay. It seems there’s been an increasing number of Muslim visitors. Now supposedly they came in and later left, but there were some inconsistencies we didn’t really like so we’re digging deeper into those patterns. They’re complex, however, so it’s going to take time. For now we can conclude that this paramilitary force, if nothing else, is not comprised of native South Americans.”

“You’re suggesting Muslim terrorists?” Manning asked.

As a former member of the Canadian RCMP and recipient of training with GSG 9—the federal anti-terrorist police unit in Germany—Manning boasted expertise on the many terrorist groups in the world. He also had a clear grasp of their various methods of operation, something that resulted in an almost bloodhound instinct for global terrorist activity.

“We think it’s possible,” Price said.

“And the President agrees with our assessment, which is why we’re sending you down to Paraguay immediately,” Brognola said. “We don’t have much, I know, but we think it’s enough that we want to get in front of this thing. I’d hate to be caught with our pants down because we weren’t being as proactive as we could have been.”

“It surprises me the Man wants to send us this soon,” McCarter said. “But I agree. I’d rather be prepared than wait for further incidents to prove your theory.”

“Do we have any idea which terrorist group might be operating there?” Encizo asked.

“If I had to venture a guess, I’d say either Hezbollah or New Islamic Front,” Manning said.

“Which in any case spells al Qaeda,” Hawkins remarked.

James sighed. “Doesn’t it always seem to spell al Qaeda?”

“Not always,” Hawkins said with a shrug. “Occasionally we get some terrorists who like to be original. Remember the IUA?”

Indeed they did. The Intiqam ut Allah, or Revenge of Allah, had stolen the plans to a new U.S. fast-attack nuclear submarine and built duplicates right under the noses of Americans. The battle to stop them had stretched from South Carolina to Africa and nearly cost the lives of every member on the team.

“Whoever they are, they’re obviously dangerous and whether an Islamic terrorist force or simply a band of Islamic fanatics getting support from other organized groups, they have to be stopped,” Brognola said.

“Your mission is to pick up where the NSA investigation left off,” Price told them. “Your contact in Asunción will be Brad Russell, the SIGINT analyst who conducted the initial inquiry. He’s been instructed to give you his full cooperation and not to ask questions.”

“Hopefully not just another run-of-the-mill spook ruined by political bureaucracy,” McCarter said.

“I’ve spoken with my contacts at the NSA and they tell me he’s top shelf.” Price smiled. “Just be your usually charming and cordial self. Russell’s a hard-line patriot who’ll give you the shirt off his back. He’s also a one-man geekfest so you’ll have every technical advantage at your disposal.” She glanced at Kurtzman with a wink and said, “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Back at you, girlfriend,” Kurtzman said, the reply very uncharacteristic when matched against the masculine bass in his voice.

* * *

MCCARTER SMILED IN RECOLLECTION at Kurtzman’s droll retort before the sudden waver as the engines revved in preparation for landing at a small airfield near Asunción.

“Prepare for landing, boys,” Grimaldi’s voice called over the cabin intercom. “Tray tables up, seat backs in their locked and upright positions…blah, blah, blah.”

This brought a chuckle or two from the roused Phoenix Force members.

They could’ve landed at one of the major airports, but McCarter had opted to go in using more covert means. Any public display would have attracted unwanted attention. Grimaldi had filed a flight plan with the Paraguayan government with a request from the U.S. Embassy to not pay much attention to the flight, a request that they’d chosen to honor in light of the recent events. The last thing they needed was for seventeen missing Peace Corps volunteers, possibly seized by a terrorist group, to leak. The press would eat it up—the situation would turn overnight from a private nightmare into a very public one.

That was the reason they’d decided to keep Harland under the spotlight, as well.

The Gulfstream C-38 had just rolled to a stop when the onboard phone next to McCarter’s seat signaled for attention. The engines whined down even as he picked it up. “Yeah.”

“David,” Price’s voice replied. “We just got notification from Able Team. Somebody tried to kill Harland.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” McCarter said. “I take it Ironman and friends pulled his bacon out of the fire?”

“Barely, but yes. We also just got word from the Man and his morning CIA briefing. Somebody has apparently come forward and identified our mysterious paramilitary group. Looks like Bear’s theory panned out.”

“Who’re we dealing with?” McCarter asked.

“It’s a training contingent of Hezbollah under the leadership of an elite paramilitary unit inside of Iran…the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter mumbled. “Why would the IRGC have any interest training terrorists in South America?”

“For one thing, they’ve had economic and soft power in the region for quite some time. Due to Paraguay’s large production of soybeans, these food exports are vitally important to Iran’s stability more than ever after the embargos, injunctions and other economic sanctions the UN’s leveled against them.”

“Yeah, Ahmadinejad’s not known for his working and playing well with others.”

“That’s only half the news,” Price said. “The other half is that this individual who approached some agents in Tehran indicated the Muslim cleric group of power in Iran, known commonly as Pasdaran, plans to make their move against Ahmadinejad soon. We’re talking a religious coup inside the country of incomprehensible proportions.”

“Do I smell a change in plans?”

“Not for you. Your mission is the same as before but we wanted you to have a better idea of what you’re up against. We’ll be taking care of the rest of this through Able Team.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”

“We’re sending them to Tehran to handle the matter personally,” Price replied.

“Wait. Let me make sure I just heard you correctly. You’re sending Able Team into Iran?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” McCarter said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Well, the decision’s already been made by the President, and Hal’s in complete agreement with it. I had my own reservations but it didn’t seem like the issue was up for debate so I’m going along with it. For now anyway.”

“Have you told them yet?”

“No, we’re still trying to sort out the details regarding Harland and who to hand him off to. This just isn’t a contingency we saw coming until now.”

“All right, then, thanks for keeping me in the loop. And, Barb?”

“Yes, David.”

“Tell Ironman I told him to bring his ass home in one piece. I don’t want to hear about anything like what happened a few years ago aboard the USS Stennis.”

“Will do.”

“Out here.”

McCarter broke the connection and then assembled his gear with the other members of Phoenix Force. Once they were settled in whatever temporary quarters had been arranged, he’d brief the team while they cleaned and double-checked their equipment. This news wouldn’t sit well with his teammates, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Phoenix Force had its mission and now Able Team had theirs. The stakes had gone way up and they couldn’t police everything at once, although they may have liked to.

A fresh-faced man met them outside the Gulfstream C-38. He had dark hair and skin, which would have made him fit in well among the local population save for the blue-gray eyes, which implied a European background. He wore tan slacks, loafers and a midnight-blue silk shirt with a crop collar. The figure looked almost athletic and although he might have been hired by the NSA due to his brains, McCarter could easily identify between men who couldn’t handle themselves versus those who could, and clearly Brad Russell fell into the latter category.

Russell offered McCarter a strong handshake and broad smile. “Mr. Brown, I presume?”

“You presume right.”

“I’m Brad Russell.”

McCarter grinned. “I know that, chap.”

“And I’m sure you know that I know your name isn’t really Brown, but I wasn’t supposed to ask questions, so Brown it is.”

“Touché.”

Russell acknowledged in turn the other Phoenix Force warriors ranged around McCarter’s flanks. “And these are Misters Gray, Gold, Green and White,” he said, referring to Manning, Encizo, Hawkins and James.

“Though not necessarily in that order,” Hawkins said with a laugh.

Russell returned the jest with a good-natured chuckle of his own before saying, “If you’ll come this way, gents, your chariot awaits.”

They hauled their tired butts across the tarmac as a muggy morning wind tugged at their exposed skin and flattened their hair. McCarter hoped they’d get the opportunity to clean up, although no guarantees had been made. Russell led them to what looked like an old airport shuttle converted into a private-use vehicle. The vehicle was beat up and unobtrusive—a good thing since it was similar to most of the vehicles in Paraguay. But thankfully it had air-conditioning and provided a surprisingly decent ride.

As they got under way, the vehicle driven by a man Russell assured them spoke about half a dozen words of English, McCarter said, “You’ve arranged accommodations?”

“Yes, a small place just outside the city as requested by your people. Completely out of the way. This is actually the off-season for tourists so you should have plenty of privacy there.”

“And the staff?”

“Every one of them cleared by my people,” Russell said. “Don’t worry, Brown, I’ve done my homework. I don’t know who exactly it is you work for but I do know how to secure an op. Lots of experience in that area.”

“I understand you’re also quite technically adept.”

Russell smiled. “You could say that.”

“That’s excellent. We’ll need your assistance getting everything set up at our new digs. My people have a decent comprehension of the technical aspects, but we could your expertise to fill in the high-level bit.”

“And leave the fighting to you?”

It was McCarter’s turn to grin. “That’s typically the way we like it.”

“I’ve already informed my people that you’ll have my full cooperation. I’m here to assist you in any way I can. Consider your wish as my command. I’m at your beck and call.”

“I got the picture, thanks.” McCarter fired up a cigarette and said, “What can you tell us about this camp that got overrun?”

“I can tell you a lot about the camp,” Russell said. “It’s the identity of the people that hit it I can’t seem to put my finger on, which is odd.”

“Why odd?” Manning asked.

Russell looked Manning in the eye. “I’ve spent most of my adult life using technology to detect and identify paramilitary and terrorist groups of every make and color. That’s one of the reasons the NSA hired me. I started as a crypto-analyst for the U.S. Navy and that eventually landed me this gig.”

“So you think this is odd because you’ve found a group that can stump you?”

“You’ve heard about the pattern-analyses programs being evaluated in both the commercial and defense contractor sectors that use fractal patterns and algorithms to identify patterns in terrorist activities.” Russell got five blank stares. “Okay look, there have been lots of studies done that prove with the right programming languages and algorithms we can derive detectable patterns in the way terrorists and other paramilitary groups operate based on historical data. We use things like what groups claim credit for what

incidents, weapons signatures, explosives and ordnance composition and so forth.”

“So if a bomb gets detonated in someplace like Israel or Afghanistan or even Europe, you can predict with a fair amount of accuracy who might be responsible,” Encizo said.

“I can go one better than that, sir,” Russell said with an exuberant wave. “I can predict it before it happens, potentially help to save lives and avert a full-blown disaster.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Manning said.

“Agreed,” Hawkins added.

“So we can assume that this pattern you’ve seen is odd because you couldn’t find a predictive analysis capable of identifying the doers,” McCarter said.

“In this case, yes,” Russell said. “It’s almost like the perpetrators did it purposely, as if they knew we had this technology and would try to use it.”

“Maybe they did,” Hawkins said.

Russell expressed puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got some new intelligence just as we landed,” McCarter said. “It looks like—”

The road ahead suddenly lit up like the sun and the windshield of the shuttle bus splintered and fragmented. A heartbeat later a storm of metal, wood, glass and plastic blasted through the forward interior, the driver—whose chair backed against a wide metal panel—took the brunt of the impact. The vehicle shimmied as the explosion shredded both front tires. Another moment and the shuttle bus rode only on its front rims.

“Hang on!” McCarter warned even as the rear end of the vehicle swung around.

With a bang and high-pitched squeal, the shuttle bus flipped onto its left side and continued down the gravel road for a hundred feet before it finally ground to a halt.

CHAPTER FIVE

A cloud of dust—acrid and lung searing with explosive residue—rolled through the interior of the shuttle bus.

Gary Manning knew that scent. The expended cordite stung his nostrils as he worked to extricate his body from beneath the legs tangled with his own. He did a quick physical inventory as he wriggled to freedom; he hadn’t suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. The Phoenix warrior turned to the nearest motionless figure. A quick check of the pulse at Rafael Encizo’s neck revealed a strong and steady rhythm. Manning confirmed rise and fall of the Cuban’s chest before producing a relieved sigh of his own.

“Roll call!” McCarter shouted in a raspy voice.

“Check,” Manning said. “Rafe’s out cold but stable.”

An all-clear came back from the remaining Phoenix Force members, including a quip from Hawkins about who got the license number of the truck. It seemed to take Russell a little longer but eventually he sounded off to indicate he was conscious and mostly in one piece. Even as they began to shift and attempt to right themselves inside the capsized shuttle bus, the first metallic pings against the body of the vehicle reached their ears.

“We’re taking fire!” Manning said.

“Un-ass this AO!” McCarter shouted.

Fortunately the Phoenix warriors had debarked from the plane with concealed pistols so they weren’t entirely unarmed. Hawkins ordered Russell to help him wrestle Encizo from beneath the overturned bags while McCarter, James and Manning broke free of their confines and crawled to the rear and a shattered back window. Manning removed the jagged shards at the edge of the frame with a few swift kicks of his boot before lurching through it feet first, propelled by grabbing the crossbar typically used for standees. Clear of the wreckage, Manning took one knee and produced a .45-caliber Colt Government Model pistol from shoulder leather. He panned the rear flanks with the muzzle of the pistol but didn’t detect any muzzle-flashes. Either the enemy had taken concealment or they were positioned on the opposite side. Their stopping point with the nose of the shuttle bus facing the leeward edge of the road may have well been their only saving grace, and Manning thought it made good sense to take maximum advantage of such good fortune.

James and McCarter followed him out and Manning briefed them.

“You two cut around and head toward those trees,” McCarter directed. “See if you can draw their fire.”

The pair nodded and left the position of safety without hesitation.

The chatter of full-auto reports—some kind of light squad weapon, Manning and James guessed—reached their ears as they dashed for the tree line. Rounds bit at the ground just ahead of their path, churning dust and stone chips from the gravel road as the enemy gunner tried to gauge an appropriate lead. They reached the trees unharmed and dived into the cover of deep grass and thick, gnarled tree trunks.

“That was too close!” James observed.

Manning nodded in agreement and said, “We’re not dealing with novices.”

The Canadian risked a glance through a gap in two ground vines and spotted the winks of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun just a heartbeat before it stopped. Manning pointed in that direction and James nodded. The pair raised their pistols, Manning leveling his .45 and James wielding a 9 mm H&K P-2000. They opened up hot on the enemy position, pumping as much lead as they could downrange. Maybe they wouldn’t hit their target but at least they could keep the heat off their friends long enough to buy them time to get clear of the vehicle.

* * *

AS SOON AS MANNING AND James took off, McCarter turned and headed in the opposite direction with a Browning Hi-Power in hand.

As he ran along the road, hunched to minimize his profile, the Phoenix Force leader listened for the direction of the fire. The targets his friends presented had obviously commanded the full attention of the enemy gunner because McCarter didn’t detect any rounds buzzing over his head or chewing the ground at his feet. He ran toward a large rock near a copse of trees and dived for cover. McCarter grinned when he peered around the rock and got his first look at the enemy position. He had a clear line of sight, and even through the shadows provided by the tree line he could see two of his opponents.

McCarter took careful aim on one of his targets, estimating the distance at fifty yards, and waited until his friends opened up from their position. He stroked the trigger twice. Both 9 mm Parabellums hit their mark and McCarter detected just the faintest hint of spray, confirming once more the reason he’d taken home prize after prize for his pistol marksmanship. The hits took their enemy by surprise, obviously, because McCarter perceived a bit of scrambling among those trees and heard a shout.

Maybe they no longer had the advantage of surprise, but McCarter figured at least this one time he’d made it count for something.

* * *

T. J. HAWKINS PANTED, the muscles in his shoulders bunched like knotted cords as he dragged the unconscious Rafael Encizo through the opening and down the shallow slope of the road that provided a defilade. Russell followed on his heels and dropped to his belly in a cloud of dust.

“You. Stay here and watch him,” Hawkins ordered. He handed Russell his pistol and said, “You don’t leave his side for any reason. Got it?”

Russell took the weapon with unflinching resolve and nodded, his lips pressed into a thin set.

Hawkins slapped his shoulder, then dashed back to the shuttle bus and dived inside. He quickly located the duffel bag he sought. He unsnapped the clips with practiced efficiency, reached inside and came away with exactly what he’d hoped. The M-4 A1/M-203 A1 was the perfect small-arms weapon in Hawkins’s mind. Not only had the weapon proved itself through its parent model, the M-16 A2, but its lighter weight and compact profile made it perfect as a tactical operations alternative to the full-size deal. Hawkins reached into the bag again and withdrew two readied 30-round magazines, one of which he inserted into the well.

A yank of the charging handle brought the weapon into battery. Hawkins searched the wrecked vehicle like a dog mad on a scent until he found the hard box that contained 40 mm HE grenades. He loaded one into the breech of the M-203 A1—a special military variant of the M-203 designed specifically for the M-4 A1—and stuffed two more into the pocket of his khaki trousers.

Hawkins cleared out and rounded the corner of the shuttle bus. He immediately flattened to the ground, avoiding a volley of high-velocity rounds that burned the air just above him. Hawkins had the leaf sight up and in position. He estimated his distance at sixty yards max, settled the stock of the M-4 A1 tight against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The pop and kick from the grenade launcher mimicked that of about a 12-gauge shotgun but the results were much more spectacular. The high-explosive blew on impact, blowing the machine gun position and its owner apart in a fifteen-foot tower of flame.

Hawkins pressed the attack by following with a second grenade before charging the position and triggering short bursts on the run. He looked to his flanks and saw McCarter, James and Manning leave their own positions to provide covering fire. Hawkins produced a rebel war cry as he continued to advance on the

enemy’s position—or what was left it—his M-4 A1 spitting 5.56 mm rounds at anything that appeared to move. The four warriors converged on the tree line simultaneously with weapons blazing, more intent on keeping heads down and shocking the enemy into panic or retreat than on taking viable targets. Hawkins had expended his first magazine by the time they breached the position, and rammed the second one home as he knelt and gestured for the others to continue forward while he provided cover.

The other three Phoenix Force warriors crashed through the trees, careful to circumvent the immediate area seared by superheated gases and what was left in the wake of the twin grenades. They expanded their search and found three bodies. McCarter was certain one of them was the one he’d shot, while the other two were close to one another just behind the smoking, broken shell of a machine gun wedged in the mud.

“The gunner and his spotter, more than likely,” Manning said.

“You think this was it?” Hawkins asked.

“No bloody way to tell, mate. But I’m guessing if there were any others they’re moving away from here as fast as possible.”

James stared into the darkened jungle and said, “That’s okay. We’ll catch up with them later.”

“Bet on it,” McCarter agreed.

The four men retreated to the vehicle and James immediately began to work his magic on Encizo, performing a full assessment and breaking out smelling salts and water. Hawkins and Manning provided a loose

perimeter while Russell helped McCarter salvage whatever equipment and weapons they could find. McCarter only had to look at the body of the driver for a moment to know the guy was long gone.

Yeah, they would catch up to whoever had done this.

And there’ll be bloody hell to pay when we do, David McCarter thought.

Miami, Florida

THE WINDOW AIR-CONDITIONING unit produced a drone as it blasted ice-cold air into the hotel room. Able Team hadn’t picked the choicest place in town to stay but it was large, clean and comfortable. They’d immediately changed their plans with Harland including switching vehicles, accommodations and wardrobe. They now sat ranged around the small coffee table of the suite.

Schwarz sat back on the couch and propped his feet on the table. “Ah, now this is more like a vacation.”

Blancanales had just returned from the kitchen and handed a bottle of water to Harland before cracking the top on his own. As he plopped next to Schwarz on the couch, his friend asked, “Where’s mine?”

“In the fridge,” Blancanales said as he took a long pull and smacked his lips. “Ah, very refreshing.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t get me one.”

“I’m not your mother.”

“Shape it up, you two,” Lyons said, rubbing vigorously at his blond hair, wet from the shower. “We have weapons to clean and decisions to make.”

The cell phone at Lyons’s belt signaled for attention with the theme from Mission Impossible.

“Really?” Schwarz said. “Really, Ironman?”

Lyons’s waggled his eyebrows before he answered, “It’s your nickel.”

He turned and left after listening a moment, retreating to the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

“Must be a new girlfriend,” Blancanales said, although he knew otherwise.

“He’s been so mysterious lately,” Schwarz quipped.

The pair sat and watched television with Harland for about five minutes before Lyons emerged from the bedroom. His face had colored a dark hue. Blancanales and Schwarz realized he hadn’t liked whatever he’d heard, a fact that became even more evident when Lyons stormed across the living area, grabbed Harland by the shirt and hauled the young man out of the overstuffed chair. Lyons dragged Harland into the center of the room, yanked his arm behind his back and shoved him to his knees.

“Ironman, what the hell—” Blancanales began.

“Stay out of this!” Lyons exclaimed with a new flush to his face. He leaned close to Harland’s ear before continuing. “Now listen to me and listen good, you little son of a bitch. I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing but whatever it is you’ve got about five seconds to come clean or I swear I’ll snap your arm in two.”

“What is happening here?” Schwarz said.

Lyons looked at him and replied, “You want to know what’s happening? Our friends down in Paraguay just got hit by Hezbollah terrorists and nearly all of them bought the farm. One of them was injured.”

Lyons turned his attention back to Harland, who could barely talk fast enough, his voice little more than a high-pitched squeal of outrage mixed with pain. “Let…me…go!”

“I’ll let you go,” Lyons said. “I’ll let you go right out that window if you don’t talk and talk now!”

“Hezbollah?” Blancanales inquired.

“Yeah. And there’s a lot more to the story, but I’ll fill you in on the rest of it later. For now our orders are to turn two-face here over to the U.S. Marshals as soon as they arrive. But they weren’t very specific about what condition he has to be in. Only that he’s still breathing.” Lyons directed the last statement to Harland. “And if he doesn’t fess up here in the next few seconds he’s going to be breathing through a straw.”

“Okay! Let me go— You’re breaking my arm!” Harland wailed, and then began sobbing. “Please…”

Lyons released his hold, got Harland to his feet and tossed him into the chair he’d occupied a minute earlier. He then folded his arms. “We’re listening. Spill it, shithead.”

“Yeah, Harland,” Schwarz said. “What’s this all about?”

“I swear I didn’t want to do it!” Harland said, rubbing his arm as he stared daggers at Lyons. The ice-cold blue eyes staring back caused Harland to look at the floor. “They told me if I didn’t play along they’d kill me.”

“Who told you that?” Blancanales asked.

“Those…those bastards,” Harland confessed. He looked at Lyons. “You’re right, they are terrorists. They didn’t tell me which group they were with. The guy who talked to me spoke English but he had an accent. I couldn’t figure it out at first but after talking to him awhile I deduced he had to be Arab, Muslim or something. Somewhere from the Middle East, I was pretty sure of that.”

“How could you tell?” Lyons demanded.

“I hold a Masters Degree in liberal arts. I’ve been to many countries. I know Middle Easterners when I see them.”

“And this story you gave the Embassy about you being blindfolded,” Schwarz said. “About not seeing anything other than the camp and the two men who captured you. Was all of that just bullshit?”

“It was a lie. Part of the story they told me to tell.”

“Oh, Christopher,” Blancanales said in a voice heavy with disappointment. He shook his head. “You should’ve told us the truth from the beginning. This has only made things much more complicated.”

“They said if I didn’t cooperate they’d kill my friends!”

“Your friends may already be dead, genius,” Lyons replied. “Did you ever think about that? Terrorists aren’t typically interested in taking hostages unless it’s distinctly advantageous to their goals.”

“So you’re being tracked?” Schwarz asked.

Harland kept his eyes to the floor as he nodded slowly.

“How?”

Harland reached slowly to the watch on his wrist and removed it. He handed it to Blancanales, who then passed it immediately to Schwarz after a cursory glance. Schwarz reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small leather case. He flipped open the soft lid and after a moment carefully selected a miniature flat-tip screwdriver. He carefully pried the lid off the back and inspected the contents. After a minute and a grunt of satisfaction, Schwarz replaced the screwdriver, withdrew another implement and began working at the innards. He soon came away with a small chip held between the tiny three-pronged extractor.

“Very interesting,” Schwarz said, staring at the chip.

“What is it?” Blancanales asked.

“Microtransmitter, I’d guess. Hard to tell for certain without the proper testing equipment here, but I’d say it probably has about a ten-mile range if it transmits low-band. More likely it’s GPS-enabled, in which case it has an almost limitless range.”

“So they know where we’re at?” Lyons asked.

“Hard to tell,” Schwarz replied. “But I can tell you this is advanced electronics. High-grade stuff, amigo, not something you can get just anywhere.”

“Grand,” Lyons replied.

“What else do you know?” Blancanales asked. “You need to tell us everything you heard and saw. There are other men risking their lives to help your friends. You owe them that much.”

Harland nodded and began to spill it all to them. He told them about how they first encountered the terrorists, described the leader’s mode of dress and the other things he saw. He included every nuance of the conversation he had with the leader and some of the foreign words he’d heard used between the leader and his men. He also gave them the details of the story they had forced him to memorize several times over. When he’d finished, he sat back in the chair with utter exhaustion, the tears streaming down his cheeks unabated.

While Blancanales rose to get Harland a rag for his face, Lyons considered the information. He would wait until they’d dumped Harland on the U.S. Marshals Service before he told them of their new mission parameters.

Lyons had cringed when Price and Brognola informed him Able Team would be taking a trip out of the country. He’d listened with rising anger as they’d relayed the story of how a man named Hemmati had contacted the CIA with an incredible tale of a possible coup at the highest levels of Iranian government. He could remember the anger reaching the boiling point when they’d revealed McCarter and the rest had been ambushed while meeting their NSA contact, and how Rafael Encizo had been injured—although Lyons understood the tough Cuban would be okay.

“I’d normally send Phoenix Force on this,” Brognola had said, “but with what they’re juggling down there, I don’t think it’s tactically sound.”

“I get it,” Lyons had said. “I may not like it but we’re the better choice for this kind of mission. We’re also smaller and better suited for the urban environment.”

Price had directed, “You’ll take a civilian hop to the city of Sulaimaniyah, near the Iran-Iraq border. From there, you’ll have a CIA contact who’ll arrange for a HALO jump into the Elburz Mountains. There’s a deep-cover ops team that will pick you up there and get you into the city.”

“Once you reach Tehran you’ll coordinate with Hemmati,” Brognola’d told him. “He’ll be your guide and sole contact outside of the two Company men. Your job is to take custody, help Hemmati’s people and then get your collective asses out of there with Hemmati in one piece.”

“You know what?” Lyons had replied. “Pol and Gadgets were right. Florida’s looking better all the time.”

CHAPTER SIX

Asunción, Paraguay

Rafael Encizo sat surrounded by his friends at the medical facility attached to the U.S. Embassy. The staff physician had given him a clean bill of health, save for a mild concussion. He’d agreed to waive the standard twenty-four-hour observation window with McCarter’s solemn promise Encizo wouldn’t engage in any “excitement or strenuous physical activity” for the next three days. McCarter hated to be short a team member but it was a promise he intended to keep.

“I feel fine,” Encizo protested after the doctor left the group to arrange for the Cuban’s release.

“You’re grounded, mate,” McCarter said. “Simple as that and we’re not going to argue about it. I can’t bloody well have you suddenly go down in the middle of a hot zone, then we got two more that have to carry you out. It’s too dangerous.”

“I suppose it’s pointless trying to get you to change your mind.”

“It is.”

“Fine, we’ll do it your way,” Encizo said with a frown. “But I don’t know what I can bring to the table sitting around the hotel room.”

“I’m sure Russell could use your help,” Hawkins offered.

“Yeah,” Encizo said. “Great.”

“Cheer up, Rafe,” Manning said. “It could’ve been much worse.”

“Like how?”

“Like we could be standing here around your dead body for one thing,” McCarter replied. “But that’s enough of the chitchat. The subject’s closed. Let’s get out of here so he can get dressed.”

The Phoenix Force warriors vacated the room and five minutes later Encizo emerged attired in a fresh change of clothes. The five men left the Embassy and headed straight to the garage where Russell had managed to acquire a staff van that would transport them to their original quarters outside the city. Every man remained vigilant during their twenty-minute commute, their eyes roving every street corner and building top for potential trouble. Each of them had resolved to be on high alert until they could figure out how the op had gotten blown so soon after they arrived.

As they climbed from the van at their destination, Hawkins whistled at the sweeping courtyard that doubled as entryway into the resort. “Nice digs!”

“It would appear they spared no expense this time,” James added.

The men proceeded inside, each toting the equipment bags salvaged from the shuttle bus. They practically had the place to themselves, true to Russell’s word. Encizo and Russell shared one suite, which they declared to be their makeshift operations center given Russell could set up the high-tech equipment there, while McCarter and James shared a second and Manning and Hawkins the last. Their suites adjoined the ops center on either side.

They would have liked to take a dip in the pool but this wasn’t a vacation and McCarter ordered them to get cleaned up. He did arrange to have dinner catered to the ops center; at least they could share a meal together while they discussed strategy. It was a feast to behold with garlic-roasted prime rib, boiled potatoes and salad. They also enjoyed bowls filled with a variety of tropical fruits, cinnamon pudding, coffee and a well-stocked bar compliments of the management.

When they finished, McCarter said, “All right, chums, we’ve got a lot to talk about. The first thing we should discuss is the latest news from the Farm. You already know about Ironman, the friends and their new mission. Apparently this Christopher Harland bloke confessed that the terrorists had coerced him into duping Russell here with that cockamamie story.”

“I hope they’re planning to lock that piece of crap behind bars,” Russell interjected.

“They’ll do whatever’s in the best interests of the U.S.,” Manning replied. “And it’s good protocol not to interrupt the team leader during the briefing.”

Russell tendered the expression of a puppy who’d just been chided, but he clammed up. Nobody could fault the guy. He’d operated with almost pure autonomy while working the embassy in Paraguay and wasn’t used to being on a team. According to the dossier Price had run down for McCarter, Russell had pretty much kept to himself. That type of introversion wasn’t unusual in people with high IQ levels and technical skills—Kurtzman being an exception to the rule—so McCarter couldn’t fault Russell too much for not observing Phoenix Force protocols.

“No worries, Russell,” McCarter said. “So now we’re certain that the terrorists operating here are probably Hezbollah. We’re also pretty sure that they’re being trained by a contingent of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. What we don’t know is where, and that’s going to be our primary objective. Questions?”

Russell raised his hand and McCarter acknowledged him with a nod.

“I’m happy to help set up a technical station here for you, that we can easily tie into our B-Sat signal intelligence system, as well as allowing you to coordinate with whomever you work for,” Russell said. “But do we have any more intelligence we might be able to use to actually pinpoint these guys? I mean, I’m good, but I’m not clairvoyant.”

“That’s a valid question,” James added.

McCarter scratched his chin and considered it. “I think our first and best option is to get you tied into our systems first. Our man back in the States can guide you on that. Once we have that uplink established, he may be able to send us something you can use.”

“At least Harland’s betrayal explains how we were compromised so soon after being in country,” Encizo said.

“I’m not entirely sure that it does,” Manning countered.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we know they were tracking Harland but that doesn’t explain how they knew we were coming here. Harland didn’t even know that and I’m sure our counterparts in the States didn’t tell him.”

“Or if they did, they wouldn’t have given any specifics,” James observed.

“That’s a good point,” Encizo replied.

“Yeah, it’s obvious there’s a leak somewhere within the Embassy or among one of their contacts,” McCarter said. He looked at Russell and asked, “How many people knew the details of our mission here?”

“Three,” Russell replied. “The ambassador, his first assistant and me. We’re also the only ones who knew the details of Christopher Harland’s encounter with the local IRGC leadership.”

“Any of that end up in your computer systems?”

Harland shook his head. “Absolutely not. We have a pretty solid security system in place, but it would be insane to have put that kind of sensitive information into computers not hardened against intrusion by NSA standards.”

“Emails or phone calls from the others?” Hawkins asked.

“Nope.” Russell shook his head emphatically. “At least not to my knowledge. I personally monitor all electronic traffic in or out of there to make sure that any information that must be encrypted is encrypted. I didn’t note any references in the content to Harland or his transfer.”

“If he was being tracked electronically,” Manning said, “maybe they somehow used that to get their information.”

“Maybe, but that still doesn’t explain how they knew we were here, which is the real question at hand,” McCarter said. “How about the guy who drove us?”

Russell frowned. “I don’t think that’s feasible. He didn’t know the details of our route until after we’d left the Embassy. I can’t see how he would have had an opportunity to inform them far enough in advance to coordinate such an elaborate ambush. I mean, road bombs? That takes some real planning.”

“He makes an awfully good point,” Hawkins said.

“Well, we’re not going to find out sitting around here on our bloody arses chewing the fat about it,” McCarter said. “Mr. Gold will help you get your electronic systems into place as quickly as possible.”

Encizo and Russell looked at each other with mutual nods.

“The rest of us need to do a little recon.”

“Where?” Manning asked with a furrowed brow.

“The Peace Corps west of here,” McCarter replied. “Bring your waterproof bags and mosquito repellent, blokes. We’re taking a trip up the Rio Negro.”

* * *

IT WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN anybody’s first choice to navigate the winding, narrow road that snaked along the Rio Negro in the dead of night, but Phoenix Force had never been known for taking the easy route.

It bothered David McCarter being one man short but he understood all too well the importance of giving the body time to rest after trauma. Besides, Encizo wouldn’t lack things to do back at the hotel if things continued on the course they had to this point.

This mission could’ve been classified as anything but easy, and yet McCarter could only think about the challenges facing Phoenix Force. McCarter had told the Farm in no uncertain terms that he thought sending Able Team into the heart of Iran wasn’t the hottest idea. After all, this was the CIA’s screwup. Why couldn’t they clean up their own messes? Still, he knew orders were orders; they went where they had to and did what they had to. It was this kind of professional ethic that had guided the field teams of Stony Man all of these years, and McCarter wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

It took nearly two hours to reach the destination of the destroyed Peace Corps camp. As Phoenix Force bailed from the SUV—a loaner from the American Embassy—McCarter ordered them to scout the perimeter. It wouldn’t do to get ambushed again. Until they could figure out how the Hezbollah trainees had managed to track their movements, McCarter had told them to assume their every step remained under observation. Manning had also ensured they weren’t followed and during their entire trip to the site he could have counted on one hand the number of vehicles they encountered traveling in the opposite direction.

Once they cleared the perimeter, they began to search the scorched remains of the encampment. Manning and Hawkins teamed up and took one half of the camp while McCarter and James scoured the other side.

As they moved through what remained of the camp mess, the beams from their flashlights sweeping the interior, James said, “So you never really told us what we’re looking for.”

“That’s because I’m not sure myself, mate,” McCarter replied. “I just have a gut instinct that something here could help us.”

“I suppose it’s possible.” James squinted as he searched the gloom and said, “I don’t mind saying, though, this place gives me the creeps. It smells like…death.”

That forced a chuckle from McCarter. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies.”

“Nah, that doesn’t bother me,” James said. “Besides, it’s always the white chick who—”

Something caught James’s eye as it glinted in the flashlight beam. James peered at it for a bit, cocked his head and said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

McCarter stopped searching and turned toward the direction of his friend. “What is it?”

“Come look for yourself.”

McCarter advanced on James’s position and shortly the pair stood directly over a small, tubular object several inches in diameter and a half foot tall. At first it looked like a miniature coffee urn but on closer inspection they could see the remains of what appeared to be an advanced electronic gauge set into its face. The most telling thing about the object was that despite the fire the majority of it had appeared to survive the blaze. One thing was certain, it wasn’t any sort of equipment that would be in possession of a Peace Corps contingent and it sure as hell looked out of place in this environment.

McCarter keyed his radio and ordered the others to join them in the wrecked building. Manning and Hawkins arrived less than a minute later.

“What’d you find?” Hawkins asked. “Buried treasure?”

McCarter pointed at the odd-looking device. “Ever see anything like this before?”

Hawkins gave it a cursory glance and shrugged, but Manning knelt to gain a more detailed appraisal. A few times they heard him grunt to himself as he brushed gently as the soot and ash around the electronic inset. He then looked around the area with his flashlight. After a time, he rose and dusted his hands off.

“It’s not an explosive device—I’m sure of that much,” he told his compatriots.

Hawkins appeared to let off a sigh of relief.

“You think it’s some kind of food processor or something?” James asked.

“Definitely not,” McCarter said. “And definitely not any sort of luxury afforded most Peace Corps volunteers. A lot of them travel with only the most basic necessities because they want to fit in with the natives, as it were.”

“So what are we looking at?” Hawkins asked.

“Well, I’m not expert but I’d say it’s some sort of homing device,” Manning said.

“Pretty odd thing for a bunch of Peace Corps volunteers to have,” James replied.

“There’s no identifying marks on its exterior, but I’m betting if we take it back to HQ for a closer inspection Russell can probably determine exactly what it is,” McCarter observed.

“And likely even who made it,” Manning said.

“Well, it’s not exactly the X-marks-the-spot you were looking for, boss, but it’s a start.”

“Indeed it is, chum,” David McCarter replied.

* * *

“WELL, IT LOOKS LIKE you were right on the money, pal,” Brad Russell told Manning. “It’s definitely a homing beacon.”

Phoenix Force had returned with the device and after a couple of tense hours, Russell and Encizo had managed to get enough of their communications system up that the NSA expert could then turn his attention to their prize. Russell made short work of it, figuring out how to disassemble the device and determining its purpose in no time flat. Whatever else Russell might have been, Price had pegged him well when she’d told McCarter that he was an electronics genius to rival some of the best in the business.

“A homing beacon inside a Peace Corps camp,” James said. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

They had Aaron Kurtzman on speakerphone and it was he who replied, “It does if you consider this in light of what we learned from Christopher Harland.”

“Meaning?” Hawkins said.

“Meaning that they didn’t stumble onto those Peace Corps blokes by accident,” McCarter replied. He scratched at the stubble already forming on his chin. “They had this whole thing planned out. They stalked them and they planned their attack.”

“And they also managed to get someone to plant that beacon inside the camp,” Russell said.

“But who?” James inquired.

“One of the locals. Had to be,” Encizo declared.

“What makes you think so?” Manning said.

“There’s little doubt in my mind now they have folks on the inside working for them. I think they have a lot of natives on the payroll, in fact.”

“Paraguayan citizens helping Hezbollah terrorists?” Russell asked in disbelief. “But why?”

“Maybe the money’s good,” Hawkins said.

“That’s one possibility,” Encizo said. “But the more likely scenario is that they’ve agreed to leave the locals alone. The economy here isn’t exactly stable and since the fact one of this country’s strongest revenue streams comes from farming, it’s not impossible that the Hezbollah might be offering security in exchange for people to look the other way.”

“I don’t know,” McCarter said. “That sounds a bit far-fetched, mate.”

“Not really if you consider the possibility,” Encizo said. “How else can you explain their ability to get this beacon inside the camp without being seen? Hezbollah terrorists couldn’t just waltz in and out unobserved, but local natives were around them constantly. That’s the people they were serving, remember? And let’s consider that the attack on this Peace Corps contingent was obviously part of a larger plan. The terrorists didn’t have to reveal themselves but they chose to risk doing so. Doesn’t that make you stop and ask yourselves why? It sure does me.”

“That’s a good point,” Hawkins said.

“I have to admit that he may be on to something,” Manning agreed.

“Ditto,” James said.

With all of the opinions voiced, McCarter had to consider that majority opinion had merit; it was possible Encizo had just cracked the mystery wide open. “Okay, so let’s just say we’re right and they have the locals helping them. How does exposing their operation help them? I mean, I don’t know about the rest of you but I don’t see how revealing the secret training operation in the middle of bloody South America helps the Hezbollah. Or the people training them, for that matter.”

“What if it’s a diversion?” Russell offered.

“Okay,” Kurtzman interjected via speakerphone, “but a diversion from what?”

“Well, didn’t you say that they found a homing beacon on Harland that had advanced electronics?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Kurtzman replied.

“And now we find this homing beacon—it also has advanced electronics. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d say much of the guts were manufactured in Europe somewhere.”

Kurtzman said in a faraway tone, “If I’m correct in my recollection, Gadgets said the same thing.”

“Gadgets?”

“Don’t ask,” Manning told Russell with a smile.

“So let’s look at what we have,” McCarter said. “Hezbollah terrorists being trained by members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and using highly advanced technology to spin whatever plans they have. They’ve also committed several coordinated strikes, and now we suddenly have Ironman and friends headed into the heart of Tehran to assist some no-name CIA informant who claims all of this part of a plan by a mysterious group high up in Ahmadinejad’s political ranks to overthrow the Iranian government.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell all of that means, exactly,” Russell said, “but it doesn’t sound good.”

“It sounds like terrorists on the verge of implementing a high-tech threat against Americans is what it sounds like,” Manning said.

“Great!” Hawkins said. When they all looked at him in surprise he added sheepishly, “I just mean…it’ll be business as usual.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.