Rolling Thunder

Tokaido grinned back. “Hey, if you can’t root for the home team, what good are you?”

Wethers was in no mood for comic relief. He glanced across the room at one of the monitors depicting a sat-link photo of the mountainous terrain that stretched between Bilbao and Barcelona. He asked the others, “What have Hal and Barbara had to say about all this?”

“The chief’s back in Washington conferring with the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Delahunt responded. “Barbara’s back at the main house. She said she was going to go over the backgrounds on some of the blacksuits and see if we can patch together a backup team to send over.”

“Won’t be the same,” Tokaido said. “There’s no replacing the guys in Phoenix Force or Able Team.”

The cybercrew was interrupted as the door behind them opened a second time. This time, it was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed man who strode purposefully into the room. His face was pale and his forehead glistened with sweat.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he told Tokaido.

“Carl?” Delahunt called out, startled to see the Able Team leader up and on his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Carl Lyons snapped a salute and flashed a menacing grin. “Reporting for duty, what else?”

“You’ve got the flu, for God’s sake,” Delahunt protested. “Look at you, you’re sweating like you just came out of a steam bath.”

“Flu schmoo,” Lyons snarled. “I just got done talking with Barbara. We’ve got work to do, so quit gawking and track me down a jet so I can get my ass to Spain, pronto.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Facaros Pass, near Bilbao, Spain

Luis Manziliqua awoke with a start. He thumbed his wristwatch to light up the LED display. It was almost midnight, when meant he’d dozed off for nearly two hours. With a groan, he slowly rose to his feet. He’d fallen asleep sitting between two large boulders near the peak of Mt. Facaros and he was stiff. He stretched for a moment, then wearily grabbed a pair of binoculars from the ground and trudged a few yards uphill to his post atop the mountain.

Night had fallen over the area. There was a crescent moon overhead, and the cloudless sky was sprinkled with a scattering of bright, winking stars. It was cool up here at the higher elevations, and Manziliqua turned up the collar of his shirt to fend off the chill of a faint breeze. He was stationed thirty miles inland from the Bay of Biscay, and yet he could smell the sea in the air, a briny scent that brought to mind his previous life as a fisherman plying the waters near the coastal town of San Sebastian. How much simpler life was then, he mused. He’d found the daily routine stifling and couldn’t wait to leave it behind, but there were times now when he wished he’d never listened to the prattling of his cousins and got it into his head that there was romance and glamour to be found as a revolutionary. Hah! Where was the romance and glamour in pulling sentry duty night after night, first in the mountains overlooking the Gamuso proving grounds and now here atop the highest and loneliest peak of the San Madrillo Mountains? His job was to stay put and scour his surroundings for any noteworthy activity. Only once—last night at the proving grounds—had there been anything worth reporting. The rest of the time, from dusk to dawn for three weeks running, he’d had little to look at but the activity of wildlife and the occasional traipsing of planes through the heavens. His biggest challenge, night after night, was to stay awake and try to keep from driving himself crazy humming the same songs over and over as he tried to dispel the boredom. Some revolution.

Of course, it could be worse, he figured. He could have been among those who were killed earlier that afternoon twenty miles to the south. He hadn’t heard all the details, but apparently they’d lost nearly twenty men. That put things into perspective. He’d take boredom over death any time.

Yawning, Manziliqua put the binoculars to his eyes and lapsed into the tedious ritual of panning the terrain below. From his position, he had a view of two mountain roads leading inland from Bilbao. There was little to see of the first road; it was almost completely veiled by a blanket of fog, one of several cloudlike pockets obscuring much of the lower elevations. As he shifted his gaze, Manziliqua spotted a herd of elk crossing a dimly lit meadow valley. He wished he were down closer to them. He’d lugged a 50-caliber Barrett SWS up into the mountains with him, and with a rifle like that he could easily take out at least one of the elk once he was within eighteen hundred meters. True, it wouldn’t do much to advance the cause of the BLM, but at least he’d have something to show for his night in the mountains. And roast elk sounded a hell of a lot more appetizing than another ration of hardtack and canned meat.

Manziliqua watched the elk until they disappeared into the fog, then turned his focus to the second mountain road. A sudden curse spilled from his lips.

Nearly a quarter-mile stretch of the winding road was illuminated by headlights and taillights. Several dozen vehicles were idling in place, trailing clouds of exhaust into the night air. He traced the line of cars and trucks with his binoculars, then held his focus on the head of the line. There, two army transport trucks were parked off on the shoulder. Three armed soldiers blocked the road while more than a dozen other men circled the first two vehicles, searching the interiors and scrutinizing its occupants. After a few moments, the vehicles were waved through and the troops closed around the next two cars. Manziliqua was too far away to hear any of the activity, but soon he heard the faint droning of rotors and, glancing up, he saw the lights of a helicopter approaching the roadblock.

Lowering his binoculars, Manziliqua scrambled downhill to the boulders where he’d fallen asleep earlier. Next to the Barrett .50 was an AN/PRC-126 radio. He snatched up the transceiver and hurriedly patched through a call. He was wide awake now, pulse racing. The roadblock had clearly been in place for some time. How was he going to explain not having reported it earlier? Miguel was going to be furious. Manziliqua had seen him pistol-whip men for lesser transgressions. What would happen to him if Miguel figured out he’d fallen asleep at his station?

Think fast, Manziliqua murmured to himself. Think fast….

“IDIOT!” MIGUEL RIGO switched off his microphone and slammed it back on the cradle of a transceiver mounted under the dashboard of the Mack truck he was riding in. “He’ll pay for this!”

Zacharias Brinquel, a rotund Basque in his midfifties, was behind the wheel of the big rig. He’d overheard enough of Miguel’s angry exchange with Luis Manziliqua to know the problem they’d run into.

“We’re headed for a roadblock?” he said without taking his eyes off the narrow mountain road before him.

“Yes. Three miles from here,” Miguel muttered. The clean-shaved, thirty-year-old leader of the Basque Liberation Movement pounded his fist against the dashboard, then popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a well-worn topographical map. “He claims the fog kept him from spotting it earlier. Pah!”

Brinquel took a final drag on his small cigar, then flicked the cheroot out his window. “More likely the only fog was between his ears,” he guessed.

“I’ll teach him to fall asleep at his post!”

Miguel quickly unfolded the map across his lap and shone a small penlight on the area they were driving through.

“Slow down,” he told the driver. “There should be a spot around the next bend where we can turn.”

Brinquel frowned. “Turn? Up here in the mountains? Not with our load.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“I’m not a truck driver, Miguel,” Brinquel protested. “It’s hard enough for me to keep us on the road. I’ve never backed a truck up and turned it around.”

“Now is a good time to learn,” Miguel countered. “Put on your flashers.”

Brinquel shook his head wearily and switched on the emergency lights. He checked his rearview mirror, but it was impossible to see if there was any traffic behind them. The truck was hauling a forty-foot-long prefab trailer home, and the structure extended out more than ten feet on either side of the flatbed it was resting on, blocking Brinquel’s view, as well as taking up a good portion of the oncoming lane. Twice already the trailer had been nearly clipped by traffic coming the other way, and as he slowly rounded the next bend on the mountain road, he again took up both lanes.

As Miguel had predicted, once they’d cleared the bend, they came upon a straightaway where the road was flanked on either side by a good twenty yards of level ground. To their right, just beyond the wide shoulder, a flimsy guardrail marked the edge of a precipitous drop into a deep, narrow gorge. Turning the truck without going over the side would be a chore, even for an experienced driver. Brinquel weighed his predicament and shook his head again.

“I can’t do it, Miguel,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Miguel reached to his side for a 9 mm Walther pistol similar to the one his sister had used earlier in the day to execute the woman who’d been picked up near the BLM’s worksite in Barcelona. He pressed the gun’s barrel to Brinquel’s head and barked, “Try!”

Brinquel didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes went cold, as did his voice.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, Miguel?” he asked calmly.

Miguel held the pistol in place a moment, then slowly pulled it away. He averted his gaze from the driver and busied himself attaching the Walther’s sound-and-flash suppressor.

“I apologize, Zacharias,” he finally murmured.

“You and your brother. Such hotheads.” Zacharias sighed. He managed a faint smile. “Just like your father, rest his soul.”

“Don’t forget Angelica.”

“Yes, your sister, too,” Brinquel said.

“I guess none of the apples have fallen far from the tree.”

His point made, Brinquel dropped his smile and told Rigo, “Your father never pulled a gun on me.”

Miguel was given pause. His father and Brinquel had been best friends since the early years of the ETA, and Zacharias had been at Carlos Rigo’s side the day, just over a year ago, when he’d been gunned down by the Ertzainta. By all rights, Brinquel had been next in line to take over as the head of the Navarra cell, but power held little interest for him and after he’d helped avenge Carlos’s death in an assault against the Ertzainta, he’d turned the organization over to Miguel, his friend’s elder son, who’d promptly broken with the ETA. Still, Miguel continued to rely on Brinquel’s experience and quiet wisdom as a counterpoint to their impatience and hardheadedness. He looked up to the man and the more he thought about it, the more Miguel regretted having taken his frustrations out on him.

“It won’t happen again,” Miguel promised.

“No, it won’t,” Zacharias responded calmly. “Now, are you sure there is no other way around the roadblock? What about San Marcos Pass?”

Miguel inspected the map again and shook his head. “The road is too steep,” he said. “Besides, if the traffic is backed up as far as Luis says, we would be seen. No, we need to turn around.”

Brinquel chuckled. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”