The Chameleon Factor Read online

  “Must be one of the huts,” James said, controlling his breathing. “The electrical generator, the barracks or the storage.”

  “Barracks makes the most sense,” Manning suggested.

  Easing the safety off the military crossbow, McCarter scowled. “Yeah? And are you willing to bet the farm on that?”

  “Sure am,” James said, working the bolt on his AK-105. The Starshell round had been replaced with an HE charge, and he knew exactly where it was going.

  Another scream sounded from below, the cry changing into a wail of pain.

  “I agree,” McCarter commanded, cocking his Barnett military crossbow. “Okay, Gary plays God. Cal opens the door. T.J. blows smoke. Move!”

  Slipping into the bushes, McCarter, Encizo, Hawkins and James spread out and moved toward their targets while Manning stayed on the side of the hill. Scuttling into a bush, the big Canadian laid the Tokarev pistol on a nearby rock as backup, and slid the long barrel out of the greenery, snapping off a twig that was in the way. The Barrett had a range of almost two miles under ideal conditions, and the base was no more than three hundred yards away. But heavy foliage could turn a bullet as easy as a sheet of glass, so he needed a clear line of fire to the base.

  Watching the smoke drifting from the exhaust stack on top of the barracks hut, Manning checked the wind drift and adjusted the scope two clicks. Carefully sweeping the camp with the telescopic sights, he couldn’t see the rest of Phoenix Force moving through the underbrush, but he did spot the enemy.

  “Payback’s a bitch, boys,” Manning whispered, working the bolt on the massive rifle and marking his first target.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Merlyk Ravine, Russia

  Smoking Turkish cigarettes, the two guards were lounging near the gate of the base talking about the Chinese woman prisoner, and passing around a bottle of airline Scotch whiskey. Both were named Ivan and they were always assigned to work together as a sort of crude joke; aside from the mutual name, they really had nothing in common.

  “When it’s my turn she’ll be begging for more,” the elder Ivan said, winking.

  “More like begging for death,” the younger Russian said, sighing, then taking a swig from the bottle. “Here, fill your mouth with this and shut up.”

  “Certainly, my comrade general.” Ivan grinned, accepting the Scotch with a mock salute.

  The other man snorted. “If we were in the army, we would both have been shot long ago.”

  “And that is another good reason to drink the fine Scotch!” Ivan chortled.

  Raising the bottle high, the man started to chug the whiskey when he violently jerked backward against the wall. Dropping his AK-74 and the bottle, he clawed at his throat and started making gurgling noises.

  “Idiot! It might have broken,” the second guard scolded, retrieving the bottle.

  Wiping the neck clean, the younger Russian took a moment to finally realize that his friend wasn’t putting on an act. Then he stared in shock at the bloody quarrel sticking through his friend’s neck, pinning him to the log wall.

  “Mother of God,” he whispered, and threw the bottle aside to grab a whistle hanging around his neck. But before he could place it in his mouth, there was a blur of motion, and something white-hot exploded in his belly. Pain! Doubling over to clutch the quarrel jutting from his shirt, the guard tumbled sideways, his hand spasming on the grip of the AK-74. The assault rifle chattered a burst into the night, chewing apart the corpse of his partner nailed to the wall.

  Almost instantly, the door to the middle Quonset hut slammed open and a large man holding a 40 mm grenade launcher stepped into view.

  “What is happening?” he demanded loudly, squinting into the darkness. Wearing only boots and pants, his bare chest was covered with a network of scars from a hundred fights. Snapping open the breech, he thumbed in a fat brass shell and looked over the base.

  “Guards! Report!” he bellowed, then flew backward into the hut with a spray of blood. A split second later, the thunderous discharge of the mighty Barrett .50 rolled over the camp, shaking the windows.

  “Invaders!” a man shouted inside the sandbag nest. Slapping on a helmet, he worked the heavy arming bolt of the Finnish antitank gun and swiveled it about to started randomly firing at the hillside. The tracer rounds stitched across the air to punch through the camouflage netting and hit the trees in fiery detonations. The stark coloration of the shells proclaimed them white phosphorous rounds.

  The Barrett spoke again and a sandbag on the nest exploded, throwing loose dirt everywhere. Cursing wildly, the gunner grabbed his face and tried to clear his eyes. Then an AK-105 chattered in the darkness, and he fell over minus a throat.

  Shouting men were running everywhere in the small base by now, and suddenly the pole lights slammed on to full brightness.

  Unexpectedly, a canvas pack flew out of the bushes to hit the ground near the fuel dump. The U.S. Army satchel charge was still moving when the C-4 blocks cut loose and a strident blast ripped apart the gasoline tank, sending out a fiery spray that engulfed the vehicles in the garage and covered the front gate, making escape for anybody impossible. Charging out of the third hut came a group of men fully dressed and well armed.

  “Hell’s demons, we’ve been cut off!” a short man wearing an eye patch shouted. “Section two, go hard! Delta five, hike! Cover the points and squeeze!”

  From the hillside, Manning cursed at the bad luck to encounter somebody who knew better than to shout uncoded instructions in the heat of battle. That wouldn’t work with regular troops because it was too difficult to keep track of who knew what code phrase for retreat, or open fire. But in Special Forces teams it was the only way. This guy had to go away and fast.

  Turning aside, the short man heard something hum by and then a rolling boom echoed from the eastern hills.

  “Sniper!” he shouted, pointing. “All guns fire!”

  Aiming his own RPK-74, the gang leader braced himself and pumped a 40 mm shell from the attached launcher toward the densest group of shrubbery on the hill. If there was a hidden gunner, that would be the location. A full heartbeat later an explosion formed a fireball into the trees, throwing out a corona of branches and leaves.

  “You got him, sir!” a man cried, brandishing his AK-74 and shaking the weapon.

  “Shut up, fool. I see no body parts,” the leader said, adjusting his eye patch. He flinched as a secondary explosion came from the burning vehicles in the garage. “Have Ivan and Ivan get the smoke generator working! We need cover!”

  “They’re both dead, sir!”

  “Then you do it, but move!”

  As the hardmen scattered across the base, the door to the power shack was slammed open and a big man wearing NATO-style commando garb knelt in the doorway to fire an AK-105 into the camp. Three of the hardmen were cut apart before the rest dived for cover.

  As smoke from the fire blew across the camp, the leader charged for the sandbag nest and frantically scrambled inside. Swinging the 20 mm gun around, he started to aim for the stranger when a lance of flame stretched across the camp and slammed into the Finnish weapon with a doomsday clap.

  Inside the Quonset hut, McCarter ducked out of the way as tattered sandbags and body parts went flying. He dropped the nearly spent clip and slapped in a replacement just as the linked belts of 20 mm rounds started detonating in their ammo boxes like firecrackers. A hellish umbrella of shells streaked away in every direction, slamming into the ground, the gate and the huts, filling the camp with explosions and ricochets. One man started to shriek as his left arm was removed at the shoulder and tried to staunch the flow with a bare hand. Stepping out of the bushes, Hawkins aimed his AK-105 at the man, then started to turn away, paused and pivoted to put a burst into his chest. The screaming stopped instantly.

  The deadly sound of AK-74 assault rifles on full-auto filled the night, and a spray of bullets impacted on the sandbag walls with meaty thumps, sounding horribly similar to lead hitting flesh.
The AK-105 rifles answered with deadly force.

  Wasting no more time, McCarter turned away from the door and went back into the hut. The air reeked of exhaust fumes, and the wooden floor was dotted with barrels of diesel fuel. At the back was the humming generator, and to the side were several freezers, thick gloves stuffed inside the door handle. A work bench was filled with tools, wiring and a black-and-white television showing one of the Die Hard movies with Russian subtitles.

  Turning off the television, McCarter moved to a Russian lying on the floor with a quarrel through his neck. The razor-sharp tip was still dripping blood. Taking the AK-74 assault rifle from the hand of the dead man, McCarter shot the master control panel to pieces. A spray of sparks erupted from the panel, the ceiling lights winked out and the humming generator quickly died away until it was still.

  “Rabble, this is Rouser,” McCarter said into his throat mike, tossing away the empty weapon. “It’s midnight at the oasis. Time to rock and roll.”

  Now the rest of the Stony Man commandos came out of hiding, their shadowy figures distorted by their night-vision goggles. Avoiding the reddish light of the dying fires, the team swept through the encampment ruthlessly cutting down the enemy on sight. Most of the Russians fought back, diving for cover and tossing grenades. But a few threw down their guns and begged for mercy. However, each and every member of Phoenix Force still had the fresh memory of the dead and raped passengers from the crashed airliner fresh in their minds. Any desire to offer clemency was negated by recollection of the dead women tied spread-eagle on the filthy ground.

  The Barrett boomed once more and a man trying to operate a flamethrower was engulfed in a fiery blast. A human torch, he dropped to his knees waving both arms as he howled in anguish. The Barrett sang its song once more, and the burning man went silent.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, the men of Phoenix Force called in their status to their team leader, and it was soon obvious that the enemy had been neutralized. That left only the two remaining Quonset huts.

  Converging on the middle hut, Encizo chewed off the hinges with a long burst from his Kalashnikov. Hawkins kicked it open and charged inside as his teammate reloaded, and followed close behind. A few seconds later, the men appeared at the tattered doorway and ran a thumb across their throats showing the building was empty.

  Suddenly, the door to the barracks was thrown open and a half-naked Chinese woman came into view, her flight uniform hanging off in strips. Her bruised skin appeared golden in the reflected firelight, and her slim wrists were bound with black tape to her throat, her ankles lashed with rope. The combination effectively hobbled any effort to run. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but her head was held high, and defiance showed in her eyes.

  “Leave now, or we kill the hostage!” a man shouted, only the barrel of his Kalashnikov showing past the doorjamb.

  As if in response, the Barrett fired. The incoming round punched a hole through the roof of the hut and knocked over some of the sand bags from the front wall. The echo was still in the air when the Barrett fired again, and another hole appeared in the prefabricated metal structure.

  “Stop firing or the girl dies!” the gruff voice ordered.

  “Surrender the woman or you die!” McCarter answered in halting Russian. Then he worked the bolt on his AK-105 as loudly as possible, ejecting a live round. The rest of his team did the same several times, making them sound like a small army.

  “Do not shoot!” the man yelled, prodding the shivering woman with his rifle. “Perhaps we can make a deal!”

  A pistol shot rang out inside the hut, and the woman moved back as a big man with a beard stumbled into view. McCarter and the rest of Phoenix Force pointed their weapons at the man, but with the prisoner directly behind him they couldn’t shoot from this angle without endangering her life.

  Then the mysterious pistol fired again, and the Russian collapsed out the doorway and onto the ground. Now the team cut loose, the converging fusillade of rounds tearing him apart, the body twitching madly from the hammering blows.

  As the gunfire stopped, James appeared on the roof holding a 9 mm Beretta pistol.

  “Thanks for the gun holes,” the former Navy SEAL said into his throat mike, holstering the piece.

  “No problem,” Manning answered from the unseen hillside.

  With smoke blowing across the camp, McCarter and Hawkins entered the hut and checked for any other survivors while Encizo cut the Chinese woman free. James stayed on the roof as lookout.

  “Do you speak English?” the little Cuban asked, rubbing her ankles to help restore circulation.

  She flinched at the contact at first, then seemed to understand its purpose and relaxed slightly.

  “Yes, I speak English,” she replied haltingly. “All pilots know little.”

  “It’s clear,” McCarter announced, touching his throat. “Cal, keep an eye out for air rescue coming this way.”

  Then he gave the shivering woman a heavy coat. Gratefully, she pulled it on, covering herself. Then Hawkins handed her the .357 Magnum REX revolver he had taken off one of the Russians. Her eyes went wide at the action, then she sadly smiled and gave it back.

  “I understand you not hurt me,” she said. “No need gun.”

  “Keep it,” Hawkins said. “I’ll rustle up some clean pants and boots, too.”

  The pilot blinked at the unknown word, but nodded again in acceptance. However, she cracked the cylinder of the weapon to make sure it was loaded before tucking the massive revolver into a pocket of the coat.

  Yanking open several lockers, Hawkins found some suitable garments and gave them to her. Then the soldiers turned their backs to give the pilot a moment of privacy as she got dressed. There was almost nothing to hide as the men had already seen her nearly naked. Helplessly bound like an animal. So the gesture was more than mere courtesy; it was done as a psychological return to civilization. It would help her know that the ordeal was over, even though she would carry the mental scars for the rest of her life.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “You can turn now, please.” As they did, the woman started to cry, then stopped and stood up straight.

  “You’re a hell of a lady,” Encizo said, passing over a sealed bottle of vodka. There had been several liquor bottles from the airline in the collection, but he was sure those would only have upset the woman greatly. And they desperately needed her lucid. Every minute put them farther behind the escaping Chameleon.

  She gratefully accepted the vodka, unscrewed the cap and took a long draft that even impressed Hawkins. Damn, she could drink like a Texan!

  “Thanking you. I am Captain Lee Twan Su, pilot for China Air,” she said, wiping her mouth on a sleeve. “You are not air rescue.” Su didn’t phrase it as a question.

  “No, ma’am, we aren’t,” McCarter said, replacing his British accent with an American Midwestern twang. “But they’re near. But time is important. We need to know exactly when and where the hijacker left your plane.”

  “In here, Russia. Ten kilometers before crash,” Captain Su answered drawing the heavy coat tighter about herself. Then she frowned. “That would be eight American miles.”

  McCarter politely waved that aside. “Was anybody with him?”

  “A stewardess, yes. Gwenneth.” The Irish name was garbled slightly by the pilot. “They use parachute.”

  “Chinese?” McCarter asked pointedly.

  Su shook her head.

  No, he hadn’t thought so. An Oriental companion in Russia would make the thief rather noticeable.

  “Gwenneth, Hong Kong,” Su said. “Look American, but Chinese. You understand?”

  As a loyal British officer, nobody knew better than David McCarter. The island was owned by mainland China these days, along with its hodgepodge of international citizens.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Bald, but blond below,” Su said, gesturing below her belt. That rape had been canceled by rou
gh weather caused by an unseasonable squall over the Pacific. However, the other attacks…

  She violently shook the memory from her mind and stepped outside. The pilot was startled by the extent of the destruction done to the base in such a short period of time. The battle had only seemed to last for a few minutes! Spinning about, she stared at her rescuers. Who were these men? Soldiers, obviously, but from where?

  “His appearance, ma’am,” McCarter insisted. “Please. Time isn’t in our favor.”

  Ah! So they weren’t there to rescue her, but to capture the hijacker. All was made clear now.

  “Slim, many scar,” Su continued stoically. “Tattoo arm, blue eye, but contact lens make black.”

  “He had a tattoo?” Encizo said, frowning.

  “Yes, I saw it while he changed into the clothing of Lieutenant Ma Joong, my dead copilot.”

  “Can you describe it?” McCarter asked. “Was it an anchor, or a line of numbers, a bird?”

  “It was knife, with wings.”

  A dark frown creased his face, and McCarter removed some equipment and began to open his fatigues. Su thrust a hand into the pocket of her coat containing the gun, until McCarter lowered the sleeve off his shoulder and turned toward the nervous woman.

  “Like this?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Su cried. “Exactly like that!”

  Hawkins whistled. “Holy shit, he’s SAS?”

  “That’s not possible,” McCarter growled, getting dressed. “Must be somebody who got thrown out, or a recruit that never made it all the way through training. Or just a wanna-be with the tat.”

  Resting his rifle on a shoulder, Hawkins grunted. “Or a rogue SAS operative gone freelance merc. No wonder the guy was so good. SAS. He might even be ex-intelligence. Sweet Jesus!”

  “Pierre,” McCarter said, pointing at Encizo, “radio our friends about this.”

  The Cuban nodded and stepped outside for privacy.

  “Now you know about him,” Su asked softly, “what happens me?”

  “Texas to Canada,” Hawkins said, touching his throat mike.