Capital Offensive (Stony Man) Read online

  Maybe it was the wind, Caramico thought, checking the 40 mm round in the grenade launcher. But she decided to move fast and get out of the town as soon as possible. The lieutenant didn’t like covert operations. They weren’t her style. Hit and git, as they said in the movies. She’d bust into the jailhouse, kill anybody there, grab the folder and go. Just like a bank robber in the Old West.

  Easing through the front door, Caramico slipped into the office and glanced about. There didn’t seem to be anybody lying in wait for her, but it was too dim inside to see clearly, so she lifted the tinted face shield of the helmet. The building seemed empty. She relaxed slightly. Excellent.

  Stepping to the wooden divider, the lieutenant saw the file lying in plain sight on the desk only a few yards away. Rushing through the gate in the divider, Caramico grabbed the folder and paused to take a fast look inside. In cold horror, the lieutenant felt herself go pale at the sight of only blank papers. She riffled through them all, sending the plain white sheets tumbling to the floor. There was nothing here. What the—This was a trap!

  Dropping the folder, the woman started to run for the door when she saw it, over by the file cabinets. Sitting on a wooden chair, where the wall hid it from outside view, was a small camera phone aimed directly at the desk, the display lid raised and a tiny red light blinking to show that the digital recorder was on and broadcasting.

  And my shield is raised so now they know what I look like! Acting on impulse, Caramico stroked the trigger of the FN-2000 and a hail of 5.56 mm rounds smashed the camera phone apart. She hurried to the door, then touched the second trigger and the grenade launcher spoke. The fat 40 mm round streaked across the room and hit the file cabinets placed along the far wall. The distance was short, but just far enough. A strident blast rocked the building, shattering the window and setting off the fire alarm. Water gushed from the ceiling sprinklers, and from outside the building an alarm started to clang.

  Leaving fast, the lieutenant knew that within a few minutes there wouldn’t be a building left standing from the hellish heat of the military compound. Much less any hidden cameras she might have missed. Nothing could put out thermite except time, which was why she always carried a round with her. It just too damn useful.

  Reloading the grenade launcher, Caramico heard a shout and turned, the FN-2000 pointed from the hip. A group of men were rushing her way from what had to be the local fire station. The distance was too far for the machine gun, so she launched the last shell. The HE round hit the street and detonated directly in front of the firefighters. Twisted bodies went flying and their shouts became shrieks of pain.

  Now several doors opened and people timidly peeked out to see what was happening. A couple of men rushed out carrying commercial fire extinguishers. Ruthlessly, Caramico gunned them down with the assault rifle, then randomly peppered the storefronts with AP rounds until every civilian had ducked into hiding.

  Satisfied that nobody else in town was going to hinder her departure, Caramico climbed onto the BMW slammed down her shield, started the engine and drove away, revving the purring engine to top speed.

  Arching around a deserted apartment building marked for sale, she checked her mask, then pulled a Kenwood radio from a sheath on the bike. Clumsily tapping the access code onto the small keypad, Caramico thumbed the transmit switch. “Louie to the Dog Pack,” she said loudly into the radio, the words shaky from the irregular road surface. “Abort and retreat. I repeat, abort and retreat. We’ve been made!” There was only a crackle of static so she boosted the gain. “Louie to the Dog Pack. Do you copy?”

  “Roger, we receive you,” a garbled voice replied. There was more, but the signal faded away.

  Steering with one hand, Caramico tried to fiddle with the frequency. Damn, the reception was poor around here. “Do not try to kill the DOD agents! Repeat, do not kill! Retreat to the rendezvous point.” There was no reply. “I said do not kill the Americans. Do you copy?”

  There was a crackle of static. “I copy,” the voice replied. “But we have a problem.”

  “What’s wrong?” Caramico demanded, leaving the road and heading into the cool greenery of a golf course.

  “Playtime is over, bitch. This is the FBI. Surrender, or die like the rest of your men!”

  Biting back a curse, the lieutenant released the transmit switch, terminating the conversation and any hope of the FBI triangulating on her signal. Leaving the golf course, Caramico drove into a copse of trees and throttled down the motorcycle to park beneath a shady pine. For a long moment, she reviewed the situation; the only sounds were the distant fire bell and the chugging syncopation of the lawn sprinklers.

  Lifting the radio once more, Caramico switched channels. “Louie to Top Kick, come in.” There was no answer. “Mendoza, respond!” But there was only silence. Which meant the sergeant was either dead or his radio had been broken. Unless the FBI was jamming their frequencies. The Americans were very clever in such matters, she knew. It would probably be wise not to use the radio anymore.

  Turning off the radio, the lieutenant scrambled the code on the keypad, then shoved the device into the recharging sheath built into the bike. The voice on the radio had claimed to be FBI, but that was obviously a lie. It would require Special Forces, maybe even the legendary Delta Force, to take out her troopers. The hunters had just become the hunted. Her troops were most likely captured or dead…no, they had to be dead. Why would they try to trick her into surrendering if they already had prisoners to torture in their secret dungeons? Thank goodness her men didn’t know enough details about the Great Plan to hinder its completion in any way. Wheels within wheels, that was how you won a war. What a soldier didn’t know, couldn’t be forced from him by any amount of brutal torture. This mission had turned ugly fast, but things were going to get a lot worse when the nuclear bombs finally started to fall.

  In the far distance, smoke was rising from the burning jail. Police sirens could be heard, or possibly ambulances, the wails too distant to ascertain.

  Then a black dot rose into the sky from the direction of the airport. Helicopter. The civilian authorities had arrived. Soon, there would be roadblocks and military helicopters on search-and-destroy missions. She had only a few minutes to leave the area. But where to go? Weeks ago the Forge soldiers had established a camp at a cave inside the western foothills. It held clothing, fuel, new identification papers, weapons, money…everything they needed to get back to Black Fortress mesa. She couldn’t use any of that now. After her men talked, the FBI would be waiting there with nets and stun guns to take her alive. Better arrange for a supply drop and reinforcements.

  With no choice, the lieutenant pulled out a cell phone and hit a programmed number. The connection was swiftly established, and the screen became illuminated with a swirling color pattern indicating the signal was being scrambled. If the pattern fluctuated, or went still for even a moment, that meant the call was being traced. Lord knew, the Snake Eater had his faults, but the hated little hacker was a genius with electronics, no doubt about that.

  “Report,” a stern voice commanded.

  There was no mistaking the person on the other end. General Calvano himself.

  “Sir, we have a problem,” Caramico reported crisply.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rolling at exactly the speed limit, Able Team’s unmarked van crested a low rise in the paved road. Shifting gear, Lyons saw that there was nothing ahead of them but a two-lane road slicing through the reddish landscape like an ebony sword thrust.

  Seated at the small electronics workbench in the rear of the armored vehicle, Schwarz gave a dissatisfied grunt and closed his laptop.

  “Anything?” Blancanales asked from the passenger seat. An M-16/M-203 combo assault rifle sat across his lap. The big weapon was expertly held below the window, just out of sight from any passing cars.

  “Well, I got a picture of one of them,” Schwarz answered, studying the crystal-clear JPEG of the startled woman, her features visible insid
e the motorcycle helmet. “A woman, a real beauty and there’s no denying that. But man, she’s crazier than a rabid snake. Blew up the entire building in retaliation.”

  “That means we can find out who she is with the photo,” Lyons rationalized. “No other reason to get that mad otherwise.”

  “Unless she’s insane.”

  “True.”

  “Try Interpol,” Blancanales suggested, watching an SUV roll by. It was full of civilians laughing and singing. A family on vacation. A little girl in the back waved her fingers, and Blancanales grinned back in reply. Kids, an endless source of new hope in a tired old world.

  “Already tried Interpol,” Schwarz replied, slinging the portable computer over a shoulder. “So I sent it to Bear. The cybersquad can do a global search in just a few minutes.”

  “Fair enough,” Lyons said, slowing a little to let the SUV get farther ahead of them and allow for some combat room. “I just hope the sheriff did as we requested and stayed out of town. He’s just the sort of lawman to take matters into his own hands and try to capture these assholes alive.”

  “My money would be on the sheriff,” Blancanales said, keeping a careful watch on the shadows alongside the larger sand dunes. When the expected attack came, it would most likely be from that direction. “I know the type well. He’s tougher than a boiled steak.”

  Adjusting his sunglasses, Lyons snorted. “Rousting Saturday-night drunks and arresting the occasional drug smuggler doesn’t train you for dealing with paramilitary operatives. And anybody trying to start World War III isn’t going to assemble an army of greenhorns and wannabes.”

  Resting an arm on the back of the two front seats, Schwarz started to speak when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Snapping his head to the left, the man cursed at the sight of four big BMW motorcycles speeding away from the roadway and heading deep into the desert. A moment later the men and machines dipped into a long depression and were gone from sight.

  “Nine o’clock,” Schwarz announced, pointing a finger. “There, just past that big copse of cactus plants!”

  “Yeah, I see them,” Lyons replied, already edging across the highway. The big van jounced across the low concrete median dividing the lanes, hit pavement, then raced over the berm, spraying loose gravel out behind. He’d been afraid of this happening. When they tricked one of the enemy into getting photographed, the rest decided to run. Okay, the ambush was canceled. Time to get hard.

  “Remember, we need them alive,” Blancanales said, checking the clip inside his Colt pistol.

  Instead of the usual .380 hardball ammo, he had loaded rubber bullets to try to take the terrorists alive. The vulcanized rounds hurt like the devil, but wouldn’t kill a man, even if delivered at point-blank range. However, all of the other clips in his ammo pouch held illegal Talon bullets, Teflon-coated, armor-piecing rounds that went through conventional police body armor like it was bare skin. Grimly, Blancanales worked the slide, chambering a round. One way or the other, the only way the terrorists were leaving Sonora was in the rear of the Stony Man van. Either wearing handcuffs or a body bag.

  Schwarz went back to the workbench to grab his own M-16/M-203 combo. Quickly, he thumbed a fat tear gas grenade into the 40 mm launcher, then tucked a star shell into a pocket. Normally, the round was fired into the nighttime sky to slowly parachute down, the magnesium charge throwing out an incredible amount of light. However, Schwarz had a different use in mind this day. There were a lot of caves in this area, and if the bike riders tried to take refuge inside one, the blazing illumination of the star shell, plus the reek of magnesium smoke, would force them out into the open again.

  Accelerating steadily, Lyons zigzagged the van across the irregular terrain, avoiding gopher holes and tumbleweeds. The ride was rough, but then the depression came into view, long and wide. A riverbed! The dust was still swirling along the bank where the bikes had crossed.

  “Hold on!” Lyons shouted as the van went over the edge at full speed.

  The vehicle was airborne for a full second, then it crashed hard onto the dried mud. A taillight shattered at the impact, the men rocked in their seats and some loose tools on the workbench went flying to clatter noisily. Fighting to regain control, Lyons tromped on the gas as the military tires dug into the ground and the vehicle raced forward with renewed speed.

  The sharp banks of the ancient river rose to about six feet in height on either side of the van. The bikes and van were trapped like water in a sluice until the slopes got smoother or a lot lower. Perfect for close-quarter vehicle combat. Lyons could simply ram the bikes from behind.

  “If we can just get close enough,” Lyons muttered, reaching down to check the position of his Atchisson shotgun on the floor. The automatic weapon could fire several times faster than the best military-model shotgun, and carried more 12-gauge shells. The recoil was mind-numbing, but in the right hands it could level a small forest in seven seconds.

  Reluctantly, Lyons reached up to open a hidden compartment in the ceiling and take down a Neostad shotgun. Built and designed by South Africa to quell riots, the oddball weapon had a pair of tubular magazines set above the main barrel. One of them carried stainless steel fléchettes, and the other canvas stun bags. A thumb switch on the stock allowed the gunner to switch from magazine to magazine, killing with this stroke of the trigger, but only stunning with the next.

  There was no dust rising behind the van, the hard mud firm and solid. Slowing to take a gentle curve in the meandering river, Lyons tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the four bikes came into view. The BMW motorcycles were in a loose formation and rolling along at under 50 mph. The riders obviously thought they were in no danger.

  “Hell, this is almost too easy,” Schwarz said with a worried grin, working the arming bolt on his weapon. “I don’t like it.”

  At that precise moment, one of the bikers turned to glance over a shoulder. The mirror-bright shield of his helmet hid the rider’s features, and the Stony Man commandos got a distorted view of their own van in the tinted Plexiglas.

  Jerking a weapon from a holster set alongside the frame, the rider started firing short bursts from an odd, futuristic machine gun. A hail of bullets peppered the front of the van, the 5.56 mm rounds bouncing harmlessly off the armor plating.

  “That’s an FN-2000!” Blancanales said in astonishment, returning fire out the side window with his combo. “Absolutely state-of-the-art. I didn’t even know that Belgium had those on the market yet!”

  “Who are these guys?” Schwarz demanded suspiciously, shooting out the other window as the rest of the riders pulled their modular assault rifles from holsters and began to hammer the racing van with converging streams of bullets.

  Savagely twisting the wheel, Lyons sent the vehicle veering wildly back and forth, the incoming rounds tattooing the chassis but failing to achieve penetration. A 40 mm grenade was launched and missed, violently exploding alongside the van and throwing a tidal wave of dirt over the vehicle. Cursing bitterly, Lyons hit the wiperblades, and one of the arms snapped off from a well-placed round. The sons of bitches are getting our range! The Able Team leader raged.

  Suddenly, the lead rider dropped back and sent a long burst from his weapon at the Stony Man commandos. The 5.56 mm bursts dented the chassis, smashing a headlight and punching straight through the Lexan plastic windshield. Loud bangs came from the aft as the armor-piercing bullets ricocheted off the rear doors and bounced around for a moment.

  “You okay?” Blancanales shouted over the wind whistling through the holes in the windshield. Dropping a clip, he hastily reloaded.

  “Nope, I’m dead,” Schwarz retorted, rubbing a bad bruise under his body armor. “Send flowers!”

  Sticking his head and shoulders out the left window, the angry man triggered the M-16 at the speeding bikes, but the rubber bullets were doing nothing to these men. Maybe they also had body armor? Not good news. Switching his grip, Schwarz gave them a taste of the M-203. The stun ba
g hit a rider, and he wobbled, almost falling off the bike from the impact, then turned and started blasting again with the FN-2000.

  Fishtailing, Lyons avoided the incoming 40 mm shells, fiery explosions bracketing the van. In ragged unison, Blancanales and Schwarz cut loose with their weapons, the cacophony sounding louder than doomsday inside the battered vehicle. As they reloaded, both men switched to standard hardball ammo.

  Now lines of hits spurted dust between the bikes and along the banks of the river. One of the bikers cried out, throwing his arms high as the rear tire blew. The bike veered out of control and smashed into the hard bank. Thrown over the handlebars, the man crashed through the windshield and smashed his face into the wall of dried mud at sixty miles per hour. He left a long crimson streak on the rough sandstone, and fell limply to the bed in a crumpled heap.

  Passing the corpse, the Stony Man commandos checked the body for a split second, then concentrated on the other riders.

  “Time to end this,” Lyons growled, feeding more gas to the powerful Detroit engine.

  Ahead of them, the three remaining BMW motorcycles were weaving back and forth, making it impossible to track on any of them accurately.

  These men are combat soldiers, not just some street muscle hired for a job, Blancanales noted dourly. Just who the hell are we up against, the Red Star? Would the Chinese Intelligence agency fire missiles on their own homeland? He knew the Red Star operatives hated America, but that kind of action bordered on insanity.

  Unexpectedly, two of the bikers went wide, exposing the leader, and he tossed a small canister over a shoulder.

  Even as it bounced along the riverbed toward them, Lyons started evasive maneuvers. Briefly, he wondered what it could be. Obviously that was a specialty grenade of some kind. But sleep gas or BZ gas would never reach the occupants of the speeding van, they would be long past any thermite or white phosphorous before it had a chance to damage the vehicle, and that only left…shit!