War Tides

A low rumbling emanated from the truck a moment later, the droning sound of hydraulics reverberating through the SUV’s cab. The thrumming sound hurt Philip Stout’s eardrums as the SUV began to tip forward and its rear wheels rose off the ground. Pandemonium erupted when the two agents seated on either side of him turned and began to fire their pistols at the truck. Unfortunately their efforts were in vain because the SUV continued to tip forward and soon they had to give up firing in favor of holding on to the rear seat.

Stout and the driver fared better than the rest of the occupants as they were still seat-belted in place. The two agents in back with Stout were soon clinging to their seats for dear life, their feet actually dangling in midair while they tried to hold on. Then the vehicle flipped off the steel bar of the garbage truck, the front end now providing a pivot point that dumped the SUV onto its roof.

The agent riding shotgun in the front seat screamed as his arm became pinned under the weight of the vehicle. The agents with Stout had ended up on their backs, and were trying to right themselves when the doors swung open to reveal a swarm of hooded gunmen. One of the agents reacted with incredible speed. He brought his pistol into view, snap-aimed at the closest gunman and squeezed the trigger. The report of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space, but it proved effective as the round struck the agent’s target in the chest and knocked him off his feet.

A heartbeat passed and Stout’s world suddenly came alive with the raucous, brutal cacophony of autofire. Stout shuddered amid the maelstrom of burned gunpowder, bright flashes and ear-shattering reports from a half dozen SMGs. But none of the rounds found his flesh. The firestorm of violence ended as suddenly as it had begun and left only ringing and dulled senses in its wake. Amid the searing odor of cordite, Stout detected just a whiff of blood. Lots of blood.

Before Stout could decide what to do next, rough hands cut free the seat belt and then dragged him from the SUV. Stout considered resisting but then realized it wouldn’t do him any good. Well-trained and armed FBI agents had been unable to repel these aggressors, so to even attempt such an escapade, being unarmed and unprepared, wouldn’t have been the act of either a wise or educated man.

And Philip Stout considered himself both above all else.

Stout looked into the eyes of the man he assumed to be the leader. They were dark eyes, eyes that burned with hatred and the fires of fanaticism. Stout had seen them before, eyes that belonged to men who were driven by something much deeper than mere political or religious conviction. That was a mistake so many Americans made. To think that terrorists were really interested in furthering the cause of any one group or religion bore inherent dangers. No, men like this were not driven by such trivial considerations. They considered the eradication or subjugation of those who did not subscribe to their same personal codes of belief as the paramount goal of their activities.

Before Stout could even inquire as to the man’s intent, another one of the terrorists grabbed his arm and held it out in front of him. The shiny steel manacles dangled in the streetlights for only a moment. And then, oddly, they were no longer visible and the burning sensation that followed seemed to take a very long time to reach Stout’s brain. That’s when it registered that the reason he no longer saw the cuffs dangling was that they were no longer attached to his wrist.

And that was because he no longer had a wrist.

Stout looked down and saw his hand, still twitching slightly, lying on the street directly in front of his shoes. He let out a scream even as he looked up and into the eyes of the terrorist one more time. His eyes had changed shape, crinkling at the corners, and Stout realized the man was smiling beneath that mask. Next to him, he held up a very long, sharp object—some kind of sword—coated with just a patina of sticky redness about midpoint along its length. Stout opened his mouth to scream again.

It would be his last scream.

CHAPTER TWO

The noonday sun had long cleared away the gray winter clouds by the time the three men of Able Team arrived on the scene.

Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s leader, stood with arms folded and studied the wrecked Ford Expedition with cold blue eyes. Lyons wore tan slacks and button-down shirt with tie beneath his brown leather jacket. On his belt he wore the badge of an FBI agent, visible to any of the real FBI personnel who might scrutinize him, but the .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver remained concealed in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Lyons gave the scene one more look and then ran his hand through his thin blond hair.

A shorter man with light brown hair, brown eyes and a mustache walked up and stopped beside him. Lyons glanced for a moment at the profile of Hermann Schwarz. Known among his colleagues as “Gadgets” for his wizardry in electronics, particularly countersurveillance technology, Schwarz had been friends with Lyons for more years than either of them could remember.

“Well?” Lyons inquired.

Schwarz shrugged. “I did an inspection of both the SUV and the surrounding area. Whatever did the damage to that vehicle wasn’t any kind of an explosive device. There’s all sorts of paint transfer along the back, like a neon orange color.”

Lyons furrowed his brow. “Like maybe on a city truck?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Before Lyons could ask any more questions, a third man joined their huddle. He had gray-white hair, black eyes and a husky build, but it was a mistake to assume there was any flab in that physique. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales exchanged glances with his comrades, and Lyons could tell just by the look on his face he didn’t have any better news. Given Blancanales’s unique talents for diplomacy, Lyons had let his friend handle the inquiries with the other agents investigating the scene, as well as the forensics team. A half dozen agencies were represented, and neither Lyons nor Schwarz had the patience to deal with all the red tape. That left Blancanales as the optimal choice.

“What is it?” Lyons asked Blancanales.

“I’m afraid it isn’t much is what it is,” Blancanales said.

Schwarz chuckled. “Sounds a bit like a Buddhist riddle.”

“Only not as easy to solve. I talked to everybody who’s anybody on this case. Nobody has the first clue what’s going on or why this happened.”

Lyons shrugged and splayed his hands. “Well, we already know that much. Hal and Barb gave us the likely motive in this morning’s briefing. Were you sleeping during that part?”

ABLE TEAM had been at Stony Man Farm for a training exercise when the call came from the Oval Office to activate them. It took only fifteen minutes to get from the training grounds to the War Room in the basement of the old farmhouse, where Hal Brognola opened the briefing with a chilling statement.

“It would seem that some unknown party has laid their hands on the plans for a new prototype submarine being developed for the United States Navy.” Brognola then looked at Barbara Price and prompted her with a nod.

The Stony Man mission controller fingered a strand of her honey-blond hair behind her ear before saying, “Approximately three hours ago, four federal agents and a military scientist from the Washington Naval Yard were ambushed in downtown D.C. on their way to the Pentagon. Aaron?”

The other man in the room, a big and burly type despite being confined to a wheelchair, was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. The Stony Man cybernetics genius tapped a key on the terminal board in front of him, and an overhead projector displayed the face of a young, wiry-haired man in a business suit.

Simultaneously the lights dimmed and Price continued her narrative. “That’s Dr. Philip Stout, a specialist in the construction of nuclear-powered naval ships. Six years ago he graduated with his doctorate from MIT, an education he’d won on a scholarship after almost twenty-five years as a submarine officer. The vessel he designed was under a direct nod from the Secretary of the Navy and the Department of Defense.”

Brognola interjected, “You should probably know that this vessel is more than just another submarine. It’s a superweapon designed to carry a very small crew complement, penetrate enemy waters and deliver a first-strike nuclear payload.”

“And according to the information we received from the President, Dr. Stout was on his way to a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon to present the plans for the prototype,” Price said.

“Okay, question,” Lyons said. “I thought America had entered into a strict policy of nuclear nonproliferation.”

Price nodded. “They have, but with the continuing threat from nations like Iran and North Korea, not to mention the increased terrorist activity around the world since we first invaded Iraq and Afghanistan, there are certain elements within the DOD that insist on a backup plan. And apparently the President has agreed to this.”

“But only as a backup plan,” Brognola added.

“What about this attack?” Blancanales asked. “We have any suspects?”

Price shook her head. “Not yet, but we’re working on it. It seems pretty obvious to us, though, that we’re dealing with a terrorist organization of some kind.”

“What makes you think so?” Lyons asked.

“First, the attack was extremely well organized. It was done very early in the morning in a place where there were no witnesses and no emergency services close enough to render timely help. Second, whoever coordinated this attack obviously knew a good number of details, not only about this meeting and the route the FBI had planned out, but also relative to Stout’s work on this new prototype.”

“When you say prototype, are we to assume that they’ve already built this thing?” Hermann Schwarz inquired.

“Not insofar as we know,” Brognola answered.

“I don’t get it,” Lyons said. He shrugged and added, “I mean, what’s so special about this particular submarine?”

Price said, “It’s called a Fast-Attack Covert Operations Submarine, or FACOS. Its crew complement is only six men and it boasts an underwater speed nearly twice that of any conventional submarine currently in use around the world. It can deliver up to four nuclear warheads at ten megatons each. Its size makes it nearly impervious to any antisubmarine defenses and its footprint is generally too small to trigger most surveillance systems presently in use.”

Blancanales let out a long, low whistle. “What’ll they think of next?”

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “This gives you some idea why we’re concerned. If the plans for this prototype fall into the hands of any terrorist organization with significant resources, such as al Qaeda, the show is over for the free world.”

Price continued, “Even if a terrorist organization didn’t have the resources to build the FACOS, they could easily sell it to the highest bidder in trade for nuclear material. That would permit them to create dirty bombs or even begin exploring techniques for manufacturing nuclear fission devices. We can’t let that happen.”

“No argument there,” Schwarz said.

“So what’s the mission?” Lyons asked.

“You’ll be posing as FBI agents attached to Homeland Security,” Price answered. “You are to learn everything you can about the incident this morning, pick up the trail of its perpetrators and follow that wherever it leads you.”

“And if we find out it is terrorists?” Lyons asked.