Citadel Of Fear

The men nodded and started to break up.

Propenko roared something Old Testament in Russian. The nine men snapped to attention.

McCarter gazed long and hard at his squad. The nine men absolutely refused to meet his gaze. McCarter suddenly pumped his fist and bellowed as only an old-school British Officer could. “Wolf Pack!”

The squad roared in return. “Wolf Pack!”

“Right! Fall out!”

The men fell out nodding and making enthusiastic noises. They seemed excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it.

Outside the warehouse a motorcycle screamed to a halt. A lanky, blond young man came running in breathlessly laden with two heavy, bulging, XL gear bags. Propenko already had a face like a skull. Filled with fury, it was a death’s head to behold. He rounded on the young VP soldier. He didn’t yell. The young man went pale as Propenko read him the riot act in a guttural hiss only the two of them could hear.

“Mr. Propenko!” McCarter shouted.

Propenko snapped around. “Dah!”

“Bring that man to me!”

Propenko escorted the man into McCarter’s presence. McCarter nodded at Gary Manning, who drew his pistol. Propenko shoved the man to his knees. The nine Russians stared in sudden shock and apprehension at their young comrade.

“Mr. Propenko. Who the bloody hell is this and what is he doing in my warehouse?”

“The late one.” Propenko glared bloody murder at the young man. “The…how do you say? The rookie!”

McCarter’s voice suddenly dropped to a frighteningly conversational tone. “And where have you been, my good man?”

Manning pointed his pistol at the young man’s head.

The young man gulped. “Ukov, Maksim. Reporting for duty! Regretting delay!”

“You weren’t talking to someone, were you? Perhaps telling them you were coming here?”

“No, sir. I am told we are perhaps performing raid. Perhaps snatch-and-grab. I was acquiring materials.”

“What materials?”

Maksim Ukov shrugged off his pack straps and opened one of the bags. “Gas masks and—”

“What the bloody hell do I need gas masks for?” McCarter thundered, though he was secretly grateful for them.

Ukov showed some guts and managed a sly look. “In case we use these?”

The young Russian opened up his other bag. It was full of light blue grenades the size and shape of tallboy beer cans and covered with Cyrillic writing.

Propenko squinted at the munitions and made a noise of approval.

“Mr. Propenko?” McCarter inquired.

Propenko showed a rare smile. “Blue Blitz.”

McCarter was aware of it. “Knock-out gas.”

Manning lowered his pistol.

Ukov grinned hopefully. “Thirty cartridges, if it pleases?”

McCarter gazed down at the young Russian. “Well, you romantic schemer, you.”

* * *

Gulf of Gdansk

ABLE TEAM WAITED, along with three members of Phoenix Force, for the imminent attack. Carl Lyons looked over their defenses one more time. The situation wasn’t as bad as it could be. Barbara Price had once again done very well for them with very little. The Polish duck-hunting lodge was more than a hundred years old. The walls were made of heavy stone-and-mortar masonry. The windows were narrow, could almost be described as firing slits and had heavy shutters to resist Baltic storms. The front, side and back doors were incredibly thick, iron-bound oak that looked as if they might be petrifying rather than weathering. Most of the house was bulletproof up to .30 caliber. The main approach to the lodge was a bit of raised single-lane road with wetlands overgrown with small trees on either side. The house sat on an acre or two of raised land with larger willows and alders forming a tiny forest. Behind the house the land fell away into a genuine fen that turned into a duck hunter’s dream of a swamp that drained into the gulf.

It was cold and wet and wretched, but it was defendable.

The lay of the land was in the Stony Man team’s favor, and out in the fen sat Jack Grimaldi in Dragonslayer. The chopper still wore her pontoons but she had machine guns slaved atop each one of them and rocket pods on stalks on either side of the fuselage. All of the equipment was mounted with explosive bolts and could be ejected into the marsh with the press of a button.

Encizo had built a cheery fire and his teammates chewed duck jerky and dunked black bread into steaming mugs of black tea with lemon and honey. Lyons lifted his chin as the wind moaned against the shutters. He almost felt bad for Calvin James. The Navy SEAL was somewhere out there in the wind, rain, darkness and muck watching the main approach to the lodge. It was a shit detail, but of course that was what SEALs did.

Lyons clicked his com unit. “How’s it hanging, Cal? Cold as a well digger’s ass?”

“Gdansk is God’s country,” James replied dryly. “I’m coming back.”

“Copy that.” Lyons looked to Schwarz and checked his watch. Schwarz sat by his laptop and a small array of communications and security gear. He’d spent the day putting surveillance gear and some unpleasant surprises for trespassers around the manse. “How are we doing?”

“We have two more hours of satellite window, then we are going to have a half-hour gap before the Farm can get eyes on us again. We’ve—” Schwarz sat straight as his computer pinged a message from McCarter.

Coming in hard

“We’ve got Wolf Pack on the way!” Schwarz announced.

Lyons strode over and messaged back.

Come and get it

Kurtzman’s window popped up on Schwarz’s screen. “Able. Be advised. You have major movement to the north and south.”

Lyons leaned over and looked at the satellite image. They had heat signatures, and a lot of them. “Wolf Pack is coming in from the east.”

“Affirmative.”

“Where the hell did these guys come from?”

Kurtzman wasn’t happy. The bad guys had snuck under his radar. “It’s like they popped up out of the earth.”

Lyons wasn’t happy, either. The bad guys had managed to get into the swamp behind them. “So we have to assume Wolf Pack has been compromised.”