The Chameleon Factor Read online

“Hello, Stone House,” he said. “There may be new guests at the party.”

  As Lyons made a brief report to Barbara Price in Virginia, Blancanales crawled out from below the steering wheel, where he had been checking under the carpeting below the floor mats. Another zero. That left only one more spot. During the two-hour trip to Ungalik, the only spot that hadn’t been fully inspected was the driver’s seat. Now Blancanales expertly ran his fingertips over the leather and twilled cloth and stopped as he encountered a poorly glued seam near the back, where the driver wouldn’t be putting any pressure. Holding his breath, he pulled out a knife and carefully split open the material. Loose pieces of foam padding puffed out of the opening. Gently teasing them aside, Blancanales allowed himself a brief smile as he unearthed a clear plastic bag containing a wallet, a ring of keys and an airline ticket folder.

  “Eureka.” He exhaled, placing the bag on the front passenger seat.

  Avoiding the pressure seal, he sliced open the side of the clear plastic and extracted each of the items, checking for more traps before placing them aside.

  “The name was James Dunbar,” Blancanales said, flipping open the wallet. “Which was most likely as false as the names that we’re traveling under.”

  Schwarz looked down at his nametag of Shawn Lane. “Why?” he asked. “Don’t I look Irish?”

  “What else is in there?” Lyons asked, joining the others.

  Pushing the seat back to gain more room, the men gathered around the items and examined them. There were no markings on any of the keys, not even a manufacturer stamp, which meant they were illegal copies. Which was interesting, but not useful. The wallet was full of cash, nonsequential, large bills, well used, with a crisp hundred tucked behind the driver’s license clearly intended to be used as a bribe to a traffic cop. Lyons scowled darkly at the implication, but said nothing.

  However, aside from the money and license, the wallet contained nothing else. No credit cards, video store card, ATM card, family photos, dry-cleaning receipts, nothing.

  “That would set off alarms in any cop that sees it,” Schwarz said, scowling at the empty leather. Their own wallets contained an entire false history, including movie stub tickets. Details made lies believable, not a lack of them.

  “This guy was an amateur,” he continued. “Ruthless, and well financed. An MM-1 isn’t a Saturday night special. But he really didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Here’s the license,” Blancanales said, rifling through the wallet. “Sure looks like the real thing.”

  Accepting the card, Lyons barely gave it a glance. “No, this is a fake,” he declared. “Top-notch quality, but a fake. It’s too thick and the picture is too clear. This is better than the DMV of a state would issue to the governor.”

  “Carl, I can hear it in your voice,” Blancanales replied slowly. “We have gotten hold of the end of a rope.”

  “Maybe,” Lyons muttered, turning the license over and over in his hands. His ice-blue eyes glinted hard as any glacier. “Just maybe.”

  “Well, the airline ticket is real,” Schwarz said, holding up the paper to the dome light to check the watermarks. “Same name as on the driver’s license, James Dunbar, first class, open ended, good on any flight, final destination is Memphis.”

  “Any stops along the way?” Blancanales asked, chewing a lip.

  “Let me check.” He flipped the booklet open and thumbed through the flimsy vegetable-paper copies. China Air didn’t exactly use SOTA printers. “Yeah, there is a twelve-hour layover, O’Hare at Chicago.”

  “So that was his real destination,” Lyons said, tucking the license into his shirt pocket.

  “Yeah, makes sense,” Blancanales agreed. “He burns the extra fare to hide his hometown. Smart move.”

  “Must have been done for him, then,” Schwarz stated. “We’ve already figured out Dunbar was no rocket scientist.”

  “That’s the truth,” Blancanales snorted.

  Lyons started around the Jimmy. “Okay, with all of our equipment gone, we need to buy a high-density scanner to send a jpeg of this card to Bear to run for analysis.” He slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine. “Ungalik is too small for high-end computer equipment. They’ll have office scanners and such, but nothing like the quality we need.”

  “Fairbanks will have what we need,” Schwarz said, closing the door and buckling his seat belt. “They have a large enough tourist industry to carry what we need.”

  “Good.” Lyons slipped the vehicle into gear and drove off the berm. Reaching the highway again, he hit the gas and started building speed. The hunt was on at last, and he could feel the electric tension building. “Then we can charter a helicopter to Anchorage, meet with Grimaldi and fly to the Windy City.”

  “And start burning the rope,” Blancanales stated grimly.

  Feeding the Jimmy more gas, Lyons nodded. “With hellfire, my friend,” he stated, “and then some.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Russia

  Footprints in the soft ground, scuffed leaves and a cigarette butt gave Phoenix Force a clear trail into the forest. Using the hovercraft, the men circled the crash site once to scramble the trail and prevent anybody from air rescue coming after them. They needed to find the perps first for several reasons, not the least of which was getting the missing crew member back alive.

  Hopping out of the hovercraft, Encizo and Hawkins hit the ground and started into the woods, probing the ground with their pocket flashlights. The rest of the team stayed far behind them to prevent the wash from the belly fans of the hovercraft from destroying the faint trail.

  Killing their lights, McCarter and James kept the rumbling machines at their lowest setting, knowing that the noise of the rescue helicopters would mask the sound of their engines until they landed. Hopefully by then, they would be far enough away to not be heard. It was a gamble, but they really didn’t have a choice in the matter.

  Away from the fires and lanterns of the crash site, the stygian night ruled the land, the occasional breaks in the heavy cloud cover showing a moonless sky. Progress was slow, and McCarter said nothing as he watched the fuel gauge steadily descend. Unfortunately, the quiet hovercraft engines used aviation fuel, not gasoline. So unless they found an airport in the middle of nowhere, his team would be on foot a hundred miles away from the pickup point. Not good. There was probably some spare fuel cans on the rescue helicopters, but not enough to make a difference.

  “We lost a few packs in the storm,” McCarter said into his throat mike. “Any chance we still have those bags of civilian clothing?”

  “Negative,” James replied, his words marred by a soft crackle of static. “They went over the side.”

  “Damn. Any Russian money?”

  “That was with the clothing, David.”

  “Maybe the perps can loan us a couple of bucks,” Hawkins growled over the radio from the darkness. “I’m sure we can make a trade of some kind.”

  “Lead for green?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “Heads up,” Encizo whispered. “There’s a break in the trees ahead.”

  Easing down on the power, McCarter and James hung back as Manning jumped over the side to join the others in probing ahead. Floating above the ground, the two men felt oddly detached from the world. With the leaves rustling all around them from the wind of the hovercraft, it was impossible to hear anything nearby. The low hills and trees blocked any sight of lights from the crash site, and the radar screen showed only empty sky above. It was as if they were all alone on an undiscovered continent.

  Reaching the edge of a small clearing, Hawkins and Encizo paused to allow Manning to join them. Silence filled the Russian forest, and not even the muffled engines of the Navy hovercraft could be heard above the softly moaning wind in the treetops. Then the big Canadian appeared from the shadows carrying a Barrett Light Fifty rifle. The cap was on the telescopic sight, and the barrel was wrapped in camouflage-colored cloth to prevent any unwan
ted reflections.

  Giving the others a nod, they started forward in a search pattern while Manning stayed near a tree to give protective cover fire for the other two if it was needed. Pulling out the 9 mm Tokarev with his left hand, Manning thumbed back the hammer. His preferred weapon was the Barrett, a sniper rifle that fired .50-caliber cartridges about the size of a cigar. The weapon had a maximum range of two miles, punched through most armored personnel carriers as if they were made of balsa wood and at close quarters would literally blow the arms and legs off a man when the monstrous 750-grain slug hit. The Barrett was also louder than doomsday and would be kept out of any battle until absolutely necessary.

  With their AK-105 assault rifles at the ready, Hawkins and Encizo moved like smoke across the uneven ground of the clearing. Every sense was keyed to a combat pitch, but the area proved to be clear. Most the soil was gnarled with roots, or lumpy with rocks, but off to the side were a few muddy patches. Perfectly impressed into the material they found some tire tracks. Lifting up their night-vision goggles, the Stony Man commandos followed the tracks until finding an area near some bushes with oil stains on the rocks, a crushed cigarette butt and a woman’s black leather shoe lying on its side.

  “No heels,” Encizo commented, picking it up. “Exactly the same as the dead flight attendants wore on the China Air flight.”

  Kneeling on the ground, Hawkins ran his fingertips along the flat rocks. There were muddy tire tracks here, and another oil stain. “Two vehicles,” he said. “A truck of some kind and a small jeep. Damn me if it doesn’t look American.”

  “It is. World War II surplus,” Encizo added. “I’m surprised one of those is still running.”

  “Won’t be for long,” Hawkins added with a hard expression, studying the clearing. “They came from that direction,” he said, indicating the south, “but they went due west.”

  “Let’s go,” the little Cuban said, then stopped. There were footprints on top of the tire tracks. A bare foot and a shoe, then just bare feet. Looking off to the side, he saw the shoe under a bush.

  “They walked the prisoner behind,” he announced into the throat mike. “So unless they want her dead, their base is close by.”

  “Roger that,” McCarter replied crisply. “You’re on point. Let’s move.”

  Flipping down their night goggles, Hawkins and Encizo took off at a jog as Manning slid out of the bushes, his massive rifle held in both hands. A few seconds later, the two hovercraft were floating around a copse of trees. Instantly, their wash flooded the clearing, obliterating any trace of the tracks.

  Privately, David McCarter was unhappy about the close proximity of the raider’s base. There was no way this was a coincidence. The hijacker wanted the plane to crash in this vicinity so that the raiders would loot it and help destroy any evidence that might lead back to him. The man was good.

  The clearing turned into grassland, thick with bushes and cut by countless rain gullies and small streams. Wary of traps, the teams proceeded as fast as they could over the rough terrain, the hovercraft staying far away to not disturb any tracks. After a mile or so, a gentle dip in the ground turned into a small valley that rose to a ridge thickly crested with pine trees. A dried stream made a natural road leading to the top, and the men found traces of tire tracks, and traces of blood. And a single brass cartridge.

  “Not enough blood showing if they shot her,” Encizo stated, fighting a rush of anger. “The ground must be cutting her bare feet, is all. That’s just stupid. Leaves a hell of a trail to follow.”

  “They must have fired a round to keep her going,” Hawkins agreed. “We’re either going to find their base soon, or her dead in the bushes.”

  “Double time,” McCarter order brusquely. “We need that woman alive!”

  The men took off at a full sprint, eating the distance to the top of the crest. More forest filled the landscape, with black mountains rising high on the horizon. The team stayed on the dried stream, knowing their boots would make less noise on the hard-packed earth. They were also fully exposed, but the lack of bushes to push through let them move faster. The stream was a tradeoff. Speed for cover.

  “Radar check,” McCarter asked brusquely.

  “Screen is clear,” James replied. “But the radio is crackling with traffic. Air rescue back there is calling for everybody but the Bolshoi Ballet.”

  “How long till daylight?” Manning asked, squinting at the cloudy heavens.

  “Four hours.”

  “Good.”

  Suddenly, Hawkins raised a clenched fist and everybody froze. “Hold it,” he whispered. “We have a sentry, two o’clock, twenty yards.”

  “I see him,” Encizo said, pulling out a tranquilizer gun. Thumbing off the safety, he paused, aimed and fired once. The weapon only made a tiny spitting noise, but they heard a little gasp of pain from the darkness ahead of them. Then a body flopped over sideways out of a bush and rolled into the stream, landing face upward.

  With their weapons at the ready, Phoenix Force waited for any reaction to the hit, and when nothing happened, they moved in quickly. The man was dressed in rough clothing and used boots, but wore a Rolex watch. A Kenwood portable radio lay near the unconscious man, its power light off, probably to save the batteries until they were needed.

  “Bad move,” Encizo whispered, going through the man’s pockets, which yielded only cigarettes, chewing gum and a few speedloaders.

  Kneeling, Hawkins merely grunted in agreement as he removed an arsenal of weapons. There was a Red Army REX .357 Magnum revolver riding in a stained-leather shoulder holster outside the sentry’s heavy jacket. Emptying the weapon, Hawkins tossed the shells into the bushes and then returned the revolver to the shoulder holster. Just a little insurance in case of trouble later.

  The guard also had a rifle bayonet sheathed on his left side, and an old Soviet army flare gun at his right hip, with fat flares tucked into hand-sewn loops on the gun belt. On the ground was an RPK-74, the 40 mm grenade launcher and assault rifle both splashed with different color paint in a crude job of camouflaging.

  Inside the bush was a camouflage-colored tent, with a pair of binoculars hanging from the front post. A wooden chair was situated at the entrance, with a black-and-red-checkered thermos nearby, the cap balanced on top. Inside the tent was an antique cherry-wood dining table that was badly scarred, its top covered with American MRE packs, tin cans, a box of cigars, piles of sex magazines, boxes of ammo, a crate of grenades and a small cardboard container with a roll of toilet tissue.

  Closing the flaps, Encizo and Hawkins shared a brief smile. This was no temporary site, but a permanent sentry post.

  “I’ll take the bottom,” Hawkins said, grabbing the guard by the boots.

  Encizo took the shoulders, and they carried him inside the tent, draping the unconscious man over the table in what they hoped was a natural position. Now he merely appeared to be asleep on duty if anybody found him.

  Returning to the creek, the team spread out to do a fast recon until finding a wall of thorny bushes that cut off the mouth of a small ravine with steep hills on either side. Good enough.

  Retreating into the forest, McCarter and James moved the hovercraft out of the way, and then spent a few minutes cutting branches to hide the craft. Helping with the task, Hawkins noticed the fuel level, but made no comment. First things first. Get the woman. Then they could talk about escape.

  When they were satisfied that the hovercraft couldn’t be found by a casual search, Phoenix Force circled around the hills and crawled on their bellies over the top until they could see down into the ravine. It was filled with men and machinery.

  The ravine was more like a river backwash, almost circular in shape, and a double layer of camouflage netting was stretched across the top, the anchor cables set into thick tree trunks. Perfect cover against aerial recon. Dim lights on poles were set in steel bowls to shine downward and not reveal the base. Unfortunately, most of them were turned off. Taking cover in the shr
ubbery, the Stony Man commandos switched to the UV setting on their goggles, and the mountain base instantly became clearly illuminated, although an eerie black and white. Three Quonset huts spread out like a duck foot at the end. A barricade of logs and cinder blocks blocked off the only entrance. The steel-plated gate was padlocked shut and braced with a thick wooden beam. Thorny bushes were visible on the other side, effectively hiding the gate, and beyond was the dried riverbed.

  “Good layout,” McCarter said into his throat mike. “If we hadn’t already known it was here, it would have been a bitch to find this place.”

  “Nobody ever said the Russians were stupid,” James said, adjusting the focus on his goggles. Ah, better.

  The still of the night was broken as they heard the soft chatter of a motor from one of the Quonset huts. Electrical wires spread outward from its roof to the rest of the enclosure, clearly marking it as the power house. Set between it and the next hut was a sandbag nest armed with a belt-fed Finnish 20 mm antitank gun mounted on a swivel so that it could sweep the sky or the hills alongside the camp. An old but formidable piece of weaponry. More sandbags formed an open garage where a truck and two battered jeeps were parked, and, set off by itself, a third sandbag redoubt was piled high around a large tank clearly marked as the water supply.

  “That’s their fuel dump,” Hawkins stated. “That old water gag only works against green troops. Keeps them from hitting that first and setting the place ablaze.”

  “That wouldn’t work here,” Manning stated. “The dump is too far away from the huts. Blowing that would only block the entrance.”

  “Yes,” McCarter said slowly, almost smiling. “Yes, it would.”

  Laughter sounded from somewhere, followed by a woman’s scream.

  “David, someone’s being raped,” Encizo growled, his hands tightening on the AK-105.

  McCarter nodded, his sharp eyes sweeping the camp. “Yeah, but where?” he asked. “We go in blind, and they’ll be picking their teeth with our bones. And then go right back to finish with the woman.”