Rogue Force Read online

  A bloody border incident could tip the scales decidedly in favor of the quasi isolationists, a fickle breed who balked at spending money to inhibit terrorism but were swift to call for economic sanctions aimed at friendly anticommunist regimes. In order to preserve "deniability" for Contra leaders and their sponsors in the CIA, Americans would do the dirty work in such a way that their involvement could be disavowed at any time. If one or all of Able's warriors should be killed or captured by the Sandinistas, they would be dismissed as mercenaries.

  It was the kind of job that Lyons and the others understood from past experience. By definition, Able Team had been organized to cope with situations where the Oval Office dared not show its hand. The war on terrorism was a struggle against stiff opposition, foreign and domestic. Certain "friendly" nations placed their own self-interests over those of threatened neighbors, stubbornly refusing to participate in any hunt for border-hopping savages. In Washington, too many cooks had damned near spoiled the broth, with every freshman senator and representative intent on personally scrutinizing classified material, debating every move until the opportunity for action had been lost.

  It was enough to make a warrior throw his hands up in frustration — or enlist with a contingent that was not afraid to bend the bureaucratic rules where necessary, shatter them entirely on occasion. Able Team was interested in results, and while they never viewed the ends as flatly justifying means, neither were the warriors sworn to honor any rules of parliamentary procedure.

  The jungle was a second home to Lyons and his two companions. All had served in Vietnam, and each had seen his war extended into urban jungles with the ceasefire. Lyons had been working LAPD's orgcrime beat when he'd first met the Executioner, Mack Bolan, and the brief encounter had changed his life. When Hal Brognola started shopping for additions to his strike force, based in Washington, the blue-eyed sergeant of detectives was among his first recruits. The move to Able Team had been a natural for Lyons. It had meant personal commitment to an everlasting war against the savages, a war devoid of any hope of lasting victory, but Lyons harbored no regrets. A soldier did his best with what he had, and in everlasting war the battlefront was everywhere.

  The men of Able Team had seen their share of action in Central and South America. It was a region that appealed to Lyons personally: the people poor but honest, for the most part working out their lives to make ends meet; the easy pace of life in Latin countries, where a man had time to think, to breathe; the macho men and doe-eyed women with their secret, inner fire. He loved the language, the cuisine, the climate, but he realized that there were serpents lurking in the garden. Of twenty-odd republics in the region, more than half were ruled by military juntas, left or right, and most were torn by some form of internal strife. Between the revolutionaries, death squads, Nazi fugitives and narcotrafficantes, there were enemies enough to go around, and then some. Communism had arrived at gunpoint and through "free" elections; some of its opponents, on the other hand, had proved themselves as ruthless and corrupt as any Moscow party-liner.

  There were snakes aplenty in the Latin jungle, sure, and Lyons knew the kind that he had dealt with moments earlier would be the least of their concerns in Nicaragua. Reptiles killed for food, or in their own defense; the human vipers he was stalking maimed and killed their own in the pursuit of ideology, or simply for the sport of killing. Either way, they were a constant peril to their neighbors, threatening to spill across their borders like malignant cells invading healthy tissue. If and when he saw the opportunity to cauterize one of those running sores, the Able warrior would not hesitate.

  The danger from patrols increased as they drew nearer to their target. Lyons took the point, his automatic rifle primed and ready to receive all comers. For their border crossing, Able Team had drawn Heckler & Koch G-11 caseless assault rifles from the Stony Man armory. Revolutionary in design, the weapons measured twenty-five inches overall and were constructed primarily from lightweight plastic. Because the rounds were caseless — 4.7 mm projectiles set into solid blocks of propellant, with no empty cartridges to be cleared and ejected — the outer casing was uniquely free of openings. The G-11's only outer holes, in fact, were the muzzle and an ejection port, the latter provided for clearing the rare misfired round.

  The plastic casing provided near-perfect protection for the firing mechanism against rough handling, immersion or fouling from outside contaminants. The weapon's single pistol grip was situated at the point of balance; its optical sight was built into a carrying handle mounted over the receiver. Utilizing "floating fire" to minimize recoil, the G-11 could achieve a cyclic rate of two thousand rounds per minute, ripping off a three-round burst before the gunner noticed any kick at all, but Able's weapons had been tuned to a more manageable six hundred rpm. As it was, a three-round burst departed from the barrel in the space of ninety milliseconds, and the 4.7 mm rounds could penetrate a combat helmet from five hundred meters out. The clincher had been portability and firepower: fully loaded with a hundred caseless rounds, the G-11 weighed in at a mere ten pounds.

  They would be needing every bit of that impressive firepower, Lyons knew, if they were forced to storm the Sandinista base camp. There were other plans, but Able Team had been committed to a mission, and they had accepted, fully aware of the risks involved. If there was no way to remove their man, or silence him, without a major confrontation at the compound, they would have to take their chances. And they would be thankful for the G-11s if it came to that. As backup, Lyons packed his favorite Colt Python, with the six-inch magnaported barrel. Any Sandinista "liberation fighters" who got past the G-11's rain of fire would have a grim surprise in store for them when Able's Ironman treated them to a 158-grain hollowpoint at point-blank range.

  Gurgling sounds announced the presence of a river just beyond his line of sight, and Lyons raised a hand to signal caution for his comrades. Anyone or anything might be discovered on a jungle riverbank, and if they clashed with Sandinista troopers here, their opportunity for a surprise assault upon the base camp would be lost forever.

  Lyons stood still, listening and sniffing the air, alert for any telltale scent of gun oil, military webbing, human scent. In Vietnam the VC had boasted they could smell the American imperialists coming from a mile away, with their mosquito sprays and war paint, their equipment sleek and glistening with oil. It might have been an overstatement, but in time Carl Lyons learned that enemies could be detected by their scent in certain situations — sometimes by the smell of fear, and he had also learned to trust his senses on the firing line.

  When he was satisfied that they weren't about to stumble over a patrol on bivouac, he pushed the clinging ferns and vines aside to scrutinize the river. It was narrow, nowhere more than fifty feet across, and Lyons's first impression was of shallow water moving rapidly downstream. Of course, he couldn't judge the depth with any accuracy; they would have a choice of gambling here, or wasting precious time in search of a better place to cross.

  He waved the others up beside him to let them have a look.

  "I'd figure three or four feet deep," he said.

  Blancanales frowned. "Unless the bottom's worn away, or full of potholes."

  "That current's fairly decent," Schwarz put in. "Without some solid footing, we could be in trouble."

  "Lifelines?"

  Blancanales scanned the opposite shore, eyes riveted on the encroaching tree line. "I'm inclined to go without," he said at last. "I'd rather take my chances with the river than be caught out there like mackerel on a string."

  "Sounds reasonable."

  Lyons ran a visual along the bank as far as he could see in each direction. "Zero crocogators visible," he said, grinning. "I know you love the scaly little devils, gentlemen, but I'm afraid we can't oblige this time."

  "With my luck, it's piranha," Gadgets grumbled.

  "Too far north. But there's a local variation on the needlefish you might be interested in. I understand it gets inside your shorts, and…"
r />   "Are we crossing here today, or what?" Blancanales asked.

  Lyons winked at Pol. "Just providing some enrichment for the tourists," he replied. "You know, many parts of a wader are edible."

  "Eat this," Schwarz growled.

  "I wouldn't want to rob the needlefish."

  Again Lyons led the way, descending through a screen of reeds to reach the river's edge. The water's temperature was brisk, despite the muggy heat of the surrounding forest; Lyons felt his testicles contract, the gooseflesh crawling on his arms when he was only ankle-deep. He clenched his teeth and held the G-11 ready, trained upon the opposite bank, as water reached his knees, ascending slowly toward his groin.

  They would be perfect targets now if hostile guns were waiting for them on the other side. A single burst of automatic rifle fire would chop them down like reeds before a scythe; they would be dead and swept away before they realized an ambush had been sprung. The water was around his waist now, lapping at his navel. He could hear the others at his back, resisting the persuasive current. It seemed warmer now, but Lyons knew that he was merely growing more accustomed to the water's temperature. Beneath his feet the silt and stones were shifting constantly, requiring him to think about each step before he was committed to the move. At midpoint Lyons longed to feel the relatively solid footing of the muddy bank that lay ahead.

  He had been right about the depth. Aside from taking spray each time he moved, the Python in its shoulder rigging would be high and dry. Likewise the contents of his pack, including two days' rations, ammunition and assorted other fighting gear. If he didn't encounter any unexpected potholes in the final fifty feet, he would be free and clear.

  The Able warrior found his footing on the far side and scrambled nimbly up the bank. Another moment and his comrades stood beside him, dripping wet, with Gadgets muttering about the river's temperature.

  "Another klick and you'll be wishing you could soak in there all day," Carl told him. "But remember, when you start to sweat, it's not the heat…"

  "It's the humidity," the others chorused back at him before he had a chance to finish. Scowling, Lyons plunged into the forest, following his compass south-southeast and picking up the pace. Within a hundred yards, the river's temperature was nothing but a fading memory.

  They marched nonstop for ninety minutes more before they reached their destination in the jungle. Lyons smelled the cooking fires at the base camp from a hundred meters out; at thirty, he could hear the sound of human voices, muffled by the forest but distinctly audible. They covered the remaining distance at a crawl.

  The Sandinista base consisted of a dozen corrugated huts inside a razor wire perimeter. The single gate was wide enough for flatbed trucks to pass, and there were lookout towers planted at opposing corners, east and west. Not that it mattered; from appearances, the towers were unoccupied just now, their mounted weapons unattended.

  Lyons brought the glasses up and made a sweep from west to east, the single pass enough to let him memorize the layout. Half the buildings would be barracks for the troops in residence, and Lyons estimated that the compound would accommodate no more than fifty men. Fifty would be ample to derail their mission, sure, but at the moment it appeared the camp was understaffed. They might be running short of personnel habitually, or the others might be on patrol… in which case they could be expected back at any time. With no way to be certain, Lyons knew that there was little time to waste.

  The other corrugated metal huts included a communications shack complete with tower, a generator shed supplying power to the camp, an armory and the commander's quarters. That left one, and Lyons knew instinctively that they would find their pigeon there, inside the smallest of the Quonsets situated in the center of the camp.

  He handed the binoculars to Blancanales. "I figure twenty, thirty guns in camp right now. There may be others on patrol."

  "That's it," Schwarz whispered from somewhere on Politician's other side. "Plan B."

  "Well, shit."

  "We've been all through it, Pol."

  "I know, goddamn it, but I hate Plan B."

  "Relax. You'll be a natural."

  "My ass."

  "We need the space."

  "I know, goddamn it! You don't have to tell me that."

  "They'll never know what hit 'em."

  Politician glowered. "I hate Plan B," he said again.

  2

  Politician had good reason to despise Plan B, since it put his life squarely on the line. In simple terms, Plan B used Blancanales as a decoy, dressed in peasant garb and speaking Spanish, to distract the sentries at the gate while his companions found another means of entry. If anything went sour, he would be glaringly exposed, compelled to shoot it out at point-blank range with no real hope of finding any cover. And if things went well… then he was still exposed, the guy most likely to succeed in getting blown away by hostile fire.

  Plan B was shit as far as Blancanales was concerned. But it was all they had. He had already shed his camouflage fatigues and replaced them with the faded linen pants and shirt that seemed to be the common uniform for farmers in the region. The serape would conceal his G-11 automatic rifle if he wore both items properly. His feet felt naked, painfully exposed to thorns and biting insects in the well-worn leather sandals that replaced his combat boots. He didn't bother trying on the tattered straw sombrero; it had never been designed to fit, although with luck it just might save his life.

  In costume, Blancanales figured he could survive a cursory inspection by the sentries. He would never pass a close examination with his well-fed fleshy frame, the close-trimmed hair and fingernails. Short-term, the Able warrior knew that he could pull it off, but if the others were a trifle slow in gaining access to the compound…

  He shrugged the thought away, prepared to confront that problem if and when it passed from theory into grim reality. Too many variables still remained: the empty lookout towers, roving guards, the nagging possibility that other troops might be returning from patrols at any time. So many possibilities for fatal error, but it didn't matter in the last analysis. Plan B was all they had.

  Waiting was the worst of it, no matter how you trained your mind to cope with empty time, imagined dangers. It had been the same in Vietnam, but every mission now reminded Blancanales that he wasn't getting any younger. Still a long way from retirement dinners and the gold watch kiss-off, sure, and yet…

  How many missions did this make? How many voluntary trysts with death? How many times could one man make that trip and count on coming back?

  No matter. There were other things that a soldier did because they were his duty, and if he was worth a damn he didn't count the cost.

  Lying outside the razor wire perimeter, they dined on jerky, waiting for the sun to set. The hour of dusk was minimal in any forest, with its looming trees and ever-present shadows; in the jungle this close to the equator, night literally fell as if a giant blackout curtain was briskly drawn across the sky.

  It was dark now, and there had been no sign of any late patrols returning to the compound. Blancanales made another scan with the binoculars, confirming that the towers were unoccupied, the gates manned by a pair of sentries, other roving gunners on erratic foot patrol inside the wire. He was about to set the glasses down when sudden movement caught his eye from the direction of the camp's interrogation hut. The door was open, spilling yellow light into the compound, framing two figures in silhouette. They left the hut together, slamming the door behind them and cutting off his view inside, but Pol was much more interested in the men themselves.

  One of them was Hispanic, dressed in olive drab and sporting tarnished captain's bars against a rumpled collar. His companion was a full head taller, blond and strapping, obviously Anglo. There were no identifying markings on his tiger-stripe fatigues, no way to eavesdrop on his conversation, but the very presence of a gringo in a Sandinista camp was ominous.

  "Hey, check this out," he whispered, passing the binoculars to Gadgets, listening to h
is grunt of consternation, waiting while Carl Lyons had a look.

  "You make him Soviet?" Lyons asked.

  Politician thought it over, then finally shook his head. "Uh-uh. I make him Anglo."

  "British or American?"

  "No way to tell without an introduction."

  "So let's introduce ourselves."

  "Plan B."

  "Don't rub it in, goddamn it!"

  As they watched, the camp commander and his tall companion crossed the compound to the CP shack, remained inside for several moments, then retraced their steps to the interrogation hut. This time the door was open for a moment longer; Blancanales saw at least two other men inside, both dressed in uniform.

  "They've got a party going on in there," Pol growled.

  "You want to bet we know the guest of honor?"

  Schwarz said.

  "Christ! How long have they been working on him?"

  "He went missing Tuesday week."

  "Eight days? They ought to know him better than his mama does by now."

  "So we'll just have to see they don't communicate whatever they've found out."

  "Plan B," Lyons repeated.

  "Plan B," Politician grudgingly confirmed.

  He got up slowly, knee joints popping, reaching for his G-11. With the sling diagonal across his chest, the weapon hung behind him, roughly in alignment with his spine but readily accessible. When Blancanales worked the poncho down around his neck, the piece was perfectly concealed and would remain so unless he was faced with more concerted opposition than the sentries on the gate.

  For them, the sleek Beretta 93-R would be enough. With fifteen rounds and the selective option of an automatic mode with three-round bursts, the lethal handgun could be easily concealed inside Pol's sombrero, carried in his hands to show the peasant's proper deference for Sandinista troops. He double-checked the weapon, snapped the safety off and worked its slide to bring a live one up beneath the hammer.

  "So let's do it."

  "Give us five to get in place," Schwarz said.