Drawpoint

“Bloody hell,” McCarter repeated.

CHAPTER THREE

Nongstoin, West Khasi Hills, India

The old Range Rover was scarred and even boasted a small-caliber bullet hole in one rear side window, but the engine had turned over smoothly and the tank had been full when they boarded. For small favors like those, David McCarter thanked whatever higher power likely wasn’t listening—fate, hope, karma, whatever—and brought the vehicle to a halt in front of the Deputy commissioner’s office. The humidity hit him as soon as he exited the truck’s air-conditioned cab. Across from the parking area, a low, round fountain—which was not running—sat full of stagnant green water. The fountain was surrounded by purple-red flowers that appeared almost to be growing wild.

The district headquarters squatted above them, a square, multistory, grayish-green building. An Indian flag fluttered on a flagpole jutting from the roof. In the distance, under gray skies and misty clouds, the hills for which the region was named loomed round and dark. McCarter paused to light a Player’s cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he surveyed the area around the squat building. The rest of Phoenix Force climbed out of the Range Rover behind him.

“Bloody wonderful,” McCarter muttered to himself, taking in the scene.

Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s ace pilot, waited with their plane at the airstrip, where Stony Man’s logistics wizards had also arranged for a helicopter, Hughes OH-6A Loach which was in superb condition and came with a single Hydra 70 mm seven-tube rocket pod. McCarter had no idea how Brognola or Price had managed to wrangle that on Indian soil, nor was he going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

“Easy, David,” Encizo offered, coming up to stand next to him. “It’s a necessary evil.”

“Don’t I know it, mate,” McCarter since, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “It doesn’t mean I like it any more. We should be moving directly on the first target.”

“Proper form, my friend,” Encizo said quietly. “Proper form must be followed.” The target to which McCarter referred was a cement factory outside Nongstoin. It had been identified by the Farm’s computer experts as belonging to an investor suspected of having ties to the Purba Banglars. It was too great a coincidence to ignore. Such a plant would be a great place to stage stolen uranium, it seemed to McCarter. He could not understand why they were wasting time appeasing bureaucrats, but Brognola had cautioned them against ignoring the district’s deputy commissioner. They would need the cooperation of the locals if they were to operate without interference from the Indian government. While relations between India and the United States were not particularly strained, the presence of armed American operatives on foreign soil was always a touchy issue. Phoenix Force had been issued false credentials identifying them, officially, as U.S. Military advisers operating as security consultants. Each man had retained his first name, as this was not exactly deep cover, but any check on their fake last names would yield a Farm-produced piece of biographical fiction that would lead nowhere.

In the truck, in specially loaded gear bags, were the team’s assault rifles. The Farm’s armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had supplied them with his latest prizes—Israeli Military Industries TAR-21 Tavor assault rifles, space-age bullpup rifles chambered in 5.56 mm NATO and accepting STANAG M-16 30-round magazines. The incredibly ergonomic, compact weapons were modular firearms comprised of composite materials, each specially tuned to Kissinger’s exacting standards. Each rifle had a cyclic rate of 800 rounds and was fitted with red-dot optics for fast target acquisition. James and Manning had been issued Tavors with the M-203 40 mm grenade launcher attachment, and their gear contained high-explosive, flechette and flare rounds for the weapons.

A padded, nondescript case in the truck also contained an M-24 Sniper Weapon System. The United States Army’s version of the Remington 700 rifle, chambered in 7.62 mm NATO and boasting a Leupold Mark IV 10 x 40 mm telescopic sight, was nominally for Gary Manning’s use, though any of the Phoenix Force commandos could deploy the rifle if need be.

Each of the men carried their pistols, nominally concealed in Kydex or leather holsters under the desert-tan BDUs each man wore. James, Encizo and Hawkins had opted for the standard Beretta M-9s. Manning carried an old favorite, his .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. For his part, McCarter could not forsake his Browning Hi-Power, which was as much a part of his identity as the pack of Player’s cigarettes he carried.

Each member of Phoenix Force carried a few other nasty surprises. Before they’d left, Kissinger had passed around a pile of long, black cardboard boxes, doling them out like candy. Each was marked with the slogan For Those Who Serve. McCarter couldn’t care less for marketing, but he knew serviceable steel when he saw it. Each man in his command was armed with something sharp and deadly as a result. All of them had opted for fixed blades. McCarter carried a Triumph neck knife under his BDUs, slung under his shoulder on a paracord harness, that acted like a makeshift shoulder harness and allowed the knife to hang handle-down under his arm.

The team entered the building, leaving Hawkins with the truck. At the front desk, McCarter introduced the team only as the “U.S. delegation.” They were ushered into the office of the deputy commissioner, Kamal Jignesh.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Jignesh said pleasantly in accented English, inviting them in from behind his desk. There were only two chairs. McCarter and Manning took seats, while the rest of the team stood behind them. “We of the West Khasi Hills district deeply regret the difficulty that the Consortium experienced. We will do whatever we can to cooperate in your investigation.”

McCarter nodded, studying Jignesh. He was a short, somewhat plump man, wearing a lightweight suit that looked a size too big. His hair was receding over a wrinkled forehead and plump, deeply set features. While his face smiled, his eyes held something else. Fear? Suspicion? McCarter couldn’t place it. He flashed his papers.

“Deputy Commissioner,” McCarter said, doing his best not to sit on the edge of the chair out of impatience, “my men and I have urgent business. We were informed by our government that you would be assigning us a liaison.”

“Yes, of course, of course.” Jignesh nodded eagerly, waving the identification away. “I shall call him in. I know you must hurry. We are very concerned, of course, and wish for a quick resolution to this as much as you do. Our own forces have been alerted to the danger and are even now searching the countryside.”

McCarter had no idea whether to take that seriously, but it didn’t matter. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Jignesh used the intercom on his desk and spoke a few words—if it was Hindi, McCarter didn’t know one way or another—before completing the call and looking at his office door expectantly. A second Indian man entered. He was tall and lean, with a beak of a nose and sharp, dark, darting eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Jignesh said, “this is Sankara Gopalan, my aide. He will accompany you. If you must interact with any of our armed personnel, he will make sure your…autonomy…is respected.”

The Briton noted that with interest. The Indians were either aware of just how potentially destructive the loss of the uranium fuel was, or they were getting heavy pressure from the State Department. Perhaps both. Brognola had definitely pulled some strings.

Gopalan nodded. “A pleasure to meet you.” His English was more thickly accented than Jignesh’s, but still quite good.

“This is potentially dangerous work.” The former SAS operative eyed Gopalan hard. “Are you armed?”

“I am not,” Gopalan replied, shaking his head. “Do not worry, sir. I am aware of the risks. But my government insists your activities be monitored.”

“Meaning no offense, of course,” Jignesh put in. “I’m sure—”

“Right, then,” McCarter said, cutting off whatever other blustering Jignesh might have been preparing to interject. “Let’s get a move on, ladies.” He waited as his teammates hustled Gopalan out of the room, following on their heels. Jignesh rushed from behind his desk and grabbed McCarter by the shoulder when the other men were through the door.

“He is not to be trusted!” Jignesh whispered. Gone was the mask of obsequious welcome. He was clearly terrified. “Your people were anticipated!”

McCarter nodded once, curtly, winking at Jignesh. Then he continued on so that none of the others, particularly Gopalan, could suspect that any words had been exchanged.

“Ears on, people,” McCarter said as the team, with Gopalan tagging along, reached the Range Rover. With a tap, each man activated the earbuds that would provide them with a secure, local, and hands-free short-range communications link with one another.

The Briton waited for Gopalan to climb into the back seat of the truck between James and Encizo. Hawkins managed to squeeze in, too, while the larger Manning took the passenger seat. As he walked around the rear of the Range Rover, he spoke quietly, knowing his words were being transmitted over the earbuds.

“Right then, listen up. Jignesh has gone squirrelly and says we’re headed for a trap. Keep a close eye on Gopalan. We’ve other targets to try, but I’m betting the most likely is also the deadfall. We’ll trip their trap and take the battle straight down their throats.”

He threw open his door and climbed into the vehicle. Manning was glaring at him, expressing what McCarter imagined was concern regarding knowingly charging a trap. He would get over it. He had before. He couldn’t argue, either, not with Gopalan there to hear. That was almost amusing. McCarter glanced at the others. James looked cool and collected, as usual. Encizo was unreadable, while Hawkins looked like he might be waiting to take a nap. Nodding to himself and knowing that his team was more than ready, McCarter fired up the Range Rover. The engine caught easily and the British-made four-wheel-drive—surely that was a good sign—lurched from its parking spot.

McCarter drove, following Gopalan’s directions to the outskirts of town, where the cement factory was located.

“There is parking near the supervisory shed,” Gopalan said.

“Familiar with the plant, are you?” McCarter looked up at the Indian in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, yes, it is my job to meet with the local businesses,” Gopalan said smoothly. “Encouraging trade and industry is the deputy commissioner’s highest priority.”

“I imagine it would be,” McCarter said insincerely. He stopped the truck well short of the main cluster of buildings, stopping to turn it around so it was nose-outward in the middle of the access road.

“What are you doing?” Gopalan asked mildly.

“Parking,” McCarter said. He motioned for Phoenix Force to exit the Range Rover. As they climbed out, Gopalan pointed up the road.

“You are blocking access to the factory,” he said. McCarter couldn’t be sure, but he thought the Indian was starting to look worried.

“Only for a moment,” McCarter said, smiling.

His grin suddenly vanished and his tone turned hard. “Gary,” he said. “Do it.”

Manning, his face stern, produced his .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. He cocked the hammer and shoved the massive triangular snout of the hand cannon under Gopalan’s chin, grabbing the Indian by the back of the head to hold him in place.

“What are you doing?” Gopalan squealed. “I am a representative of—”

“Terrorists and murderers,” McCarter finished for him. “Now, mate, you’ve got what I see as two choices. You can tell us what the ambush is all about, who put you wise to it, and who you’re working for, or you can stand there quietly and my friend here will splash your brains all over this beautiful countryside. How about it?”

“You cannot…I…This cannot…” Gopalan sputtered. Finally he started cursing in his native language.

“Gary,” McCarter said, “shoot him.”

“No!” Gopalan shrieked. “I will tell you! I will tell you!”

McCarter smirked. “That’s more like it.” He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it, feigning boredom as he took a long drag.