The Chameleon Factor Read online

  Finding a break in the canopy, Lyons fired twice in the wrong direction, trying to make the gunner think his position was still unknown. More gunfire sounded as his teammates did the same thing. Good men. Lyons charged into the bushes again, trying to disturb the foliage as little as possible and betray his own approach.

  The gunner wouldn’t be at the very crest of the hill. The moonlight coming from behind would silhouette the man and make him a perfect target. Okay, but not too low, either, or else he wouldn’t have been able to see the target range as well as the ruined lab. Lyons paused at the sight of a creek flowing down the hillside. He studied it for a heartbeat and then moved onward. The creek was a natural and fast route to the top of the hill. So if that wasn’t mined, then the gunner was a complete fool.

  A metallic belch sounded once more, louder than before, and without warning a bright light filled the sky. Lyons froze as a Starshell slowly parachuted toward the ground, the terrain and valley brightly illuminated by the sizzling magnesium flare.

  The moment it died away and darkness returned, Blancanales and Schwarz both fired their weapons, but Lyons didn’t. This high up the hill, the gunner might be able to track the sound and start lobbing in more phosphorous grenades. Stay low, go fast—that was the rule this night. Then came the unexpected chatter of an Uzi machine pistol. The burst went on and on, then abruptly stopped, and the 30 mm weapon belched again, followed by two loud explosions.

  He’s shooting blind, trying to force us into cover, Lyons thought with a grimace. So, either the gunner was an amateur, or else he thought they were. Which made no sense. The ape was highly trained, so why would he team up with a fool? Something very odd was going on here, and Lyons was starting to smell a rat.

  Zigzaging up the steep grade, he caught a movement in the bushes and spun with his blaster at the ready. But at the last moment, the Stony Man commando held fire and allowed himself a small smile. It was only a red ribbon tied to a bush. Excellent. That was an old hunter’s trick to mark the area for other hunters that this was a good area filled with game. It also meant there would be a hunter’s platform hidden in a tall tree somewhere close. The ideal spot for a sniper.

  The Uzi spoke again for a full clip and then the 30 mm, but with a pause between the two. That meant there was only the one gunner, with no backup, or else the weapons would overlap. More bad news. Anybody they found had to be taken alive. There could be no blind firing on their part.

  Taking a position behind a wide tree, Lyons pulled out his cell phone and plugged in an earphone, then hit a programmed number. There was a buzz, followed by a soft click.

  “Ethel?” Schwarz asked.

  “No, this is Lucy, Fred,” Lyons whispered back. “What’s your twenty?”

  “We’re ghosting the creek. Found a couple of trip wires. Our boy was expecting trouble.”

  An explosion shook the night.

  “He’s dug in tight,” Lyons said, ducking his head as more dirt and leaves fell from the sky. “However, I think I know where Ricky is located.”

  “So do I. He’s in a hunter’s platform.”

  “Found a ribbon, eh? Me, too.”

  “Lazy bastard.”

  “Confirm.” There came a violent explosion and a fireball rose from the trees, sending broken branches outward in an umbrella of destruction.

  “Heard that? I’m ten yards northwest,” Lyons stated, knowing that Schwarz would translate that into twenty yards southeast. There was no scramble function on civilian cell phones, so the team would only use coded phrases.

  “Got a plan?”

  “See the big rock ledge to the east? Concentrate your guns there. I’ll flush him out.”

  The Uzi split the night once more. But the big-bore MM-1 grenade launcher didn’t cut loose. Unless Lyons lost count, the gunner still had two more rounds to go. So he was either holding them in reserve, or was reloading. Both of which were bad news.

  “Our boy is getting smart,” Schwarz warned.

  “Roger on that.”

  In rapid succession, the MM-1 fired six times and several trees in the sloping forest violently disintegrated under the assault of the antipersonnel rounds. Slowly bending over, a massive oak dipped lower and lower until its branches snapped off as the trunk hit the ground with a strident crash. Twice more the gunner fired into the forest, leaving patches of destruction.

  “Son of a bitch reloaded,” Blancanales remarked calmly.

  “Think our pals from down the road might come to investigate?” Schwarz growled.

  Lyons cast a glance in the direction of the military cordon. “The cops would want to, yes. But the troops know better. We’re on our own,” he stated with conviction. Then he added, “But just in case, stay alert for friendlies. We move in six.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Ten-four, Lucy.”

  Lyons removed the earplug and tucked away the device. Okay, he had three minutes to get closer before they cut loose.

  Going down a hill a little ways, Lyons found a thick clump of blackberry bushes. He knew from past experience that animals often left tunnels through dense bushes, paths actually, as they tried to reach the juicy berries in the middle of the bushes. He didn’t know how high up the hill it might go, but the tunnel would offer excellent coverage. That was, as long as he didn’t meet a bear coming down the hill. But the gunfire should have frightened away any wildlife.

  Going on hands and knees, the Stony Man commando crawled through the thorny darkness as fast as he could, staying alert as the sound of the grenade launcher and then the Uzi got steadily louder.

  Slowly kneeling, he waited for an explosion before spreading some of the prickly bush for a better view. The thick cloud cover kept out most of the moonlight, but Lyons could vaguely make out a dim figure standing in a crouch. The gunner or a cop come to help, he couldn’t tell. Then the Uzi chattered once more, and in the strobing light of the muzzle-flash, the Able Team leader could see it was their quarry.

  Dressed in dark clothing and hiking boots, the man was sweeping the hillside with the Uzi. An MM-1 hung at his side from a canvas strap, and a pistol rested at his hip in an oddly shaped holster. A dirt bike leaned against the rock face of a small cliff behind the man, the outcropping neatly blocking off any chance of sneaking up behind him. A stone-filled gully cut sideways across the hill in front of him, and beyond that was a sharply angled open field. Certain death for anybody trying a frontal assault. That was what he had been trying to force Able Team into. The position was good, but like all amateurs, the gunner hadn’t properly checked his flanks and had missed the bear tunnel.

  Moving slowly to avoid making any noise, Lyons tucked the Colt Python into a forking branch of the bush and retrieved the grenade out of his pocket. Pulling the pin, he released the arming handle and placed the bomb on the ground, ignoring the thorns cutting into his skin. Any moment now…

  Gunfire exploded from the other side of the hill, and as the gunner pivoted toward the noise, Lyons rolled the grenade through the small opening in the bushes. It moved along the ground heading for the gunner as he discharged round after round into the night. Then Lyons bit back a curse as it started to angle away, following the natural incline of the ground. It rolled into the gully before igniting.

  With a strident roar, the stun grenade cut loose, the light flash washing across the open field. But the cant of the gully shielded the gunner from the effect, and he stayed masked in relative darkness.

  “Jesus Christ!” he screamed, blindly firing the MM-1 in every direction.

  A clump of bushes near Lyons was completely blown away by a barrage of the steel buckshot from the 30 mm round, and he involuntarily grunted as some thorns raked his face. The gunner’s eyes went wide at that, and as he swung the wide maw of the deadly weapon toward Lyons, the Stony Man commando stood amid the prickly thorns and fired. The roar of the .357 Magnum Colt Python was matched by the scream of the gunner as his right elbow exploded with blood and he dropped the launcher. Clu
tching the hideous wound, he staggered backward against the low cliff.

  Fighting his way through the bushes, Lyons placed his next two shots with extreme care, going for the flesh of the thigh where there were no major arteries. They needed this man alive!

  With blood pumping from his wounds, the gunner fell to the ground.

  “Freeze or die!” Lyons growled, his finger tight on the trigger of the Colt Python.

  Snarling something in a foreign language, the gunner brought up the Uzi that lay beneath him. Lyons had only the briefest glimpse of the barrel of the dropped weapon blocked with mud before the breech of the weapon exploded. The chest of the gunner erupted into a ghastly spray of bones, blood and organs. Flopping sideways, the man sprawled on the ground, his exposed back offering a clear view to the crimson-soaked soil beneath him.

  A few moments later, Blancanales and Schwarz exited the bushes on top of the cliff.

  “What happened?” Blancanales demanded, looking down upon the scene.

  “He refused to surrender,” Lyons said, turning over the warm corpse. The man’s face was contorted in a grisly rictus of pain and shock. “Come on down and help me go through his pockets.”

  “Better hurry,” Schwarz warned, craning his neck.

  Down in the valley below, lights were bobbing along the sides of the access road leading to the ruins of Quiller Geo-Medical.

  “It looks like the military finally decided to come investigate anyway,” Blancanales observed curtly. “We have five minutes, maybe less.”

  Turning out the wet and bloody pockets of the dead man, Lyons found only breath mints, spare ammunition clips for the handgun and some loose change.

  He frowned at that. The guy carried loose change into battle? This was a real amateur, but also a fanatic who refused to surrender. That was a bad combination.

  Blancanales and Schwarz remained on watch from the top of the cliff as Lyons checked the ground for anything that might have been dropped. He was about to give up when something metallic crunched under his shoe. Shielding the beam of his flashlight with a cupped hand, he carefully looked under his foot just in case it was another booby trap like the ones set along the creek. Gold and silver winked back at him, and Lyons smiled as he pulled out a set of keys. The plastic fob carried the logo of a car-rental company, and as he pressed it, there was an answering bleep and headlight flash from the top of the hill.

  Instantly, the lights in the valley below stopped, and started coming straight up the side of the hill.

  “Let’s move,” Lyons commanded, blending into the darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Orkormev Plain, Eastern Russia

  Broken treetops marked the initial descent of the plane, then broken limbs, followed by smashed tree trunks mixed with pieces of wreckage. Manning and James held back as reserves as McCarter and the others went straight in with weapons at the ready.

  The crash site spread out for yards, wheels and debris scattered in every direction. Small brushfires burned out of control, but there was no general blast nimbus indication of burned aviation fuel. Following the natural rise and fall of the land, the team suddenly came upon the downed plane. The wings were crumpled, the fuselage bent at impossible angles, but the plane was mostly intact, some of the windows still intact.

  “One hell of a pilot,” Hawkins said in admiration as the hovercraft swung around the plane on a fast recon. Bodies lay on the ground, mostly men, and one rested against the cracked hull, a line of bloody holes across his chest.

  “Land,” McCarter ordered. “Unit Two continue the sweep, watch for enemy troops. A passenger has been shot.”

  “Shot? That’s a confirm. Roger, Unit One.”

  A woman’s scream came from the darkness, followed by a pistol shot.

  Revving the hovercraft to full speed, James swooped around the tail section of the aircraft, working the joystick even as he pulled a weapon. Bodies were scattered across the ground, oil lanterns adding a yellow tint to the orange light of burning debris. A suitcase was open on the ground, filled with wallets and jewelry, another with cell phones and in-flight liquor bottles.

  Two women were tied spread-eagle on the bare ground, ropes lashed around their wrists and ankles tied to wooden stakes jutting from the hard dirt. One was a young woman, no more than a teenager, the other a mature woman in her fifties or so. Both were naked, their clothing ripped away, the remains shoved out of the way onto their bound arms and legs. The older woman faced the sky with her head thrown back, her throat slashed open and blood pooled around her shoulders. The teenager’s head was flopped sideways, a gaping red hole in the middle of her forehead. Blood was smeared on their thighs and breasts.

  Manning worked the bolt of his AK-105 assault rifle and concentrated on the group of bearded men standing near the corpses. A bald man in heavy clothing was zipping up his pants, as another pumped a second round into the dead teenager. Standing nearby, several other men in civilian clothing were laughing among themselves, one of them displaying a pair of lacy panties. Working the joystick of the hovercraft, a cursing James slowed the craft as Manning cut loose with the Kalashnikov. The time for stealth was over.

  The first burst went wild from the moving hovercraft, and the men looked into the darkness beyond their lanterns with shock, and then anger as they drew an assortment of weapons from their clothing. As the craft landed firmly, Manning and James both cut loose with their AK-105 assault rifles, sweeping through the murderous group. Three of the men threw their arms to the sky as the hardball ammo punched straight through their chests, blowing red life out the front of their flannel shirts. The big man with the Tokarev pistol got off two shots, one of the bullets humming past James. In reply, the Phoenix Force commando stitched the killer from groin to face, the heavy-duty combat rounds almost cutting him in two.

  As the body fell, a fifth man stepped around the tail section of the plane firing an AK-74. The weapon jammed, and the gunner screamed vulgarities as he savagely worked the bolt to clear the ejector port. Centering his weapon, Manning put a burst into his adversary’s chest and the man went flying backward, his repaired weapon discharging into the uncaring sky. He landed on some wreckage, a sliver of metal piercing his throat completely, the needle-sharp end glistening with fresh blood. His fingers twitching, the killer dropped his weapon and went still, his own blood dripping down upon his lifeless face.

  “Stony Two to Big Dog, we have scavengers,” Manning said, dropping a spent magazine and slapping in a fresh one.

  “Roger, Two,” McCarter said crisply. “We heard. On the way.”

  Suddenly, two more men appeared at the gaping rift in the fuselage, firing Kalashnikov assault rifles, the fiery muzzle-blasts lighting up the night. Ducking behind the rubber gunwale of the hovercraft, James loosed a burst their way. The Russian lead ricocheted off the exposed struts of the body of the plane, and one man crumpled into a ball, his arms wrapping around the bleeding ruin of his stomach. His comrade ducked inside, then a gun barrel poked through a rift in the hull and started firing blindly.

  Leaping out of the hovercraft, Manning zigzagged across the debris-covered ground as James gave cover fire in short bursts from his assault rifle. There was a 40 mm round in the grenade launcher attached under the main barrel, but that was loaded with a Starshell. The aerial flare was useless for this fight, since there was more than enough light coming from all of the small fires.

  Passing the suitcase full of wallets and purses, Manning involuntarily flinched as a horrible smell hit him like a punch in the face, and he tried not to gag. It was vaguely like burned pork, but he knew better. A cold fury flooded the big Canadian. Roasting human flesh reeked like nothing else in the world, and once you smelled it, the odor was branded into your brain. He could only pray the passengers were already dead when the fires overtook them.

  There was a motion near a rent in the side of the crashed plane, and Manning fired. There was a flutter of clothing, but no cry of pain. Damn, it had to have missed
flesh by less than an inch.

  “Shoot no more! I have a hostage!” a man inside shouted in heavily accented Russian. “Come closer, and I kill her!”

  The accent sounded Georgian, and it took Manning a moment to decipher the words. German and Japanese were his specialties, but every member of Stony Man knew a little Russian from their long battles with the KGB and Moscow Mafia.

  Moving low and fast, McCarter and the rest of Phoenix Force appeared from the night, their hands full of destruction. Silently, James relayed them instructions with a few curt gestures, and the others moved into position.

  “Do not hurt my wife!” Manning cried out, pulling out a pistol with his left hand. “Here! I surrender!” Tossing the AK-105 into the twisted hatchway of the craft, Manning dropped flat and aimed his Tokarev pistol as the rest of the team assumed a firing stance behind the hovercraft.

  “Army fool!” The man chortled, stepping into view with the Kalashnikov level at his hip. “Time to die!”

  The entire team cut loose in an orchestrated barrage, the incoming hail of lead driving the killer backward until his riddled body crashed through the door to the lavatory. As he slid to the floor, his twitching hands released the assault rifle and it hit the ground, banging off a single round. Rushing forward, Manning grabbed his rifle and slammed his body against the bent fuselage of the jumbo jet alongside the hatchway. Keeping the pistol in his left hand, Manning listened hard for any motion inside the plane. He heard nothing, but the smell of death of was strong, almost overpowering. The coppery tang of spilled blood mixed with the reek of emptied bowels. Death in any fashion was always ugly.

  Darting along the ground, McCarter came closer, using the pieces of wreckage as cover. Going to a window, he pulled out a small plastic mirror from a pocket on the thigh of his fatigues and looked about inside. Turning to the others, he raised an empty hand to show it was clear, then slashed it sideways as the go code.