Orbital Velocity

“Things are getting bloody serious if that’s the case,” McCarter muttered. “More riots?”

“We think that the riots and the orbital bombardment attacks are tied in,” Price said. “The Russian soccer gangs went wild in full force. We’re fairly certain that they’ve also been backed by the neo-Nazi movement in Moscow.”

“Neo-Nazis,” Manning muttered, listening in as the phone was set on speaker mode. “Now that there’s been an influx of other people from the Middle East and other countries, the Russians are putting aside the bad memories of the battle of St. Petersburg and embracing racial purity.”

“It doesn’t hurt that the Russian economy is in the shitter,” McCarter added. “White, young and jobless people tend to congregate and cast hairy eyeballs at the nonwhites who are taking jobs that the whites would normally turn their noses up at. It happened a lot in London with Jamaican, Indian and Pakistani immigrants. Bigots like picking at the edges of groups of disenchanted youth.”

“It just so happens that the Moscow neo-Nazi sympathizers are well-organized, and they have a lot to pick from on the streets,” Price said.

“Cal’s going to be bloody useless in that venue. Rafael, too,” McCarter pointed out.

“Cal’s not going to Moscow. We’ve activated an old friend or two to deal with Japan and China,” Price explained. “Hope you don’t mind if he’s hanging out with Mei.”

“No. You said or two…are we thinking of my favorite ninja?” McCarter asked.

“John’s going to be in action,” Price said. “Cal’s heading to Tokyo on a jet fighter right now.”

“And what about Lyons and the boys?” McCarter asked.

“Right now it’s all need-to-know. I’m just informing you of your teammates—”

“To keep my head straight, so I don’t worry over their problems,” McCarter finished. “Thanks, Barb.”

“Any potential information on where the kinetic darts came from?” Manning asked.

Price paused for a moment. “The only thing we can tell is that there was a scrambling signal that interrupted observation satellite feeds for forty-five minutes.”

“All of them?” Manning asked.

“We’re not certain for other governments, but looking at our own reconnaissance satellites, we’ve got most of an hour missing due to active jamming,” Price said. “From the tropic of Capricorn to the tropic of Cancer, it’s one big blind spot.”

“Equatorial satellites, meaning we’ve narrowed down the possible places where the enemy could have launched from,” Manning said.

“That’s still millions of square miles,” Price countered. “Who knows if it’s a land-based launch or someone utilizing a decommissioned submarine’s missile silos.”

“Or worse, converted a regular freighter to utilize such silos,” Manning added. “Some tanker ships have the room and the strength to fire Atlas rockets if they wanted.”

“No clue where the jamming signal could have originated?” McCarter asked.

“We’ve got our people on it. Whatever it was, it transferred from system to system easily,” Price said.

“An opposing force of hackers,” Manning surmised.

“We’re looking at that. The nature of the interference was such that we couldn’t tell if it was signal interruption or a viral computer program affecting satellite uplinks,” Price said. “Either way, the jamming hasn’t affected telecommunications.”

“No. Even though they could utilize local cell towers to keep in touch with their people, this Fist of Heaven group seems to want us to know the kind of horror happening in Moscow,” Manning said. “A sword of Damocles for the other seven member nations of the G8.”

“David, I just got a hit on the picture you took of the bag man you wrangled in that alley,” Price said.

“Something’s better than nothing,” McCarter replied. “What is it?”

“We’ve got his name, and he’s on Scotland Yard’s watchlist,” Price explained.

“Given that he’s on a watchlist, he’s probably in with a neo-Nazi group like Combat 18,” McCarter said. “Organizations like them see the soccer hooligan growth as a breeding ground for new recruits.”

“His name was Kent Hyle, and he’s part of the Jakkhammer Legacy,” Price provided.

“Jakkhammer Legacy,” McCarter replied, nodding sagely, his tone transmitting his understanding over the phone.

“What the hell is the Jakkhammer, and why are neo-Nazis holding it in high honor?” Price asked.

“Jakkhammer, in the ’70s, was a righteously brilliant punk band. When I was in a band, too young for signing up, I was a great fan of theirs,” McCarter replied. “Then around 1980, they became a part of the Rock against Communism movement, which just started a slippery slope.”

“Nothing wrong about being against communism,” Price noted.

McCarter shrugged. “I’ve seen communism’s failures, but the RAC was simply blowing smoke up arses. The RAC was formed to be a counter to the Anti-Nazi League’s Rock against Racism drive, because Jakkhammer was a pro-white power band.”

“All the little white boys were feeling edged out of their lowest rung on the social ladder by the addition of Indians and Jamaicans to the London population,” Manning added.

“Oh,” Price replied. “And much like American politics today, communism or socialism is a handy slur that can’t be used as the basis of slander by far-right extremists.”

“Bingo,” McCarter replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if certain U.S. news network pundits weren’t punk fans back in the late ’70s.”

“Regardless, Jakkhammer Legacy has a reputation with the British police,” Price said.

“I know that,” McCarter said. “When the whole team was in London a while back on holiday, we ended up having to teach a few of their number a lesson about accosting blacks and Latinos.”

“Good times,” Manning said, showing a rare grin at the commission of physical violence against anyone. “Punching a Nazi makes anyone’s day a little better.”

Price chortled. “You’re going to have an excellent evening with the information we’ll give you two, then.”

McCarter flexed his fists, tendons popping, a cruel grin on his lips. “Give us an address, and we’ll ask a few hard questions.”

Manning opened the pair’s “special” suitcase and pulled out two pairs of brown leather gloves. The gloves were designed for law enforcement and military, with reinforcement and padding to protect the small bones of the human hand when utilized for punches against people’s heads and faces. He tossed a pair to McCarter. They would, of course, go with firearms to meet with members of the Jakkhammer Legacy, but going in guns blazing was a hard way to get information. On the other hand, it would take considerable damage to the lips and nose to leave an opponent unable to talk after being thrashed.

McCarter received the files from Stony Man Farm as he prepared to head out, the leather of his fighting gloves creaking as he fit them snugly over his hands. He couldn’t help feeling a slight bit of guilt over taking such glee in laying abuse on a violence-and-racism-prone group of disenfranchised young men, nor could he dismiss the irony that he was going to become to the hooligans what the hooligans were to honest, law-abiding people.

McCarter glanced at Manning. “Let’s go teach some lessons tonight, Gary.”

“Be Afraid 101?” Manning asked.

McCarter nodded. “Class is now in session.”

CHAPTER THREE

Los Angeles

Carl Lyons was a man who had been born to hunt monsters. It had been apparent when he worked the rough streets of Los Angeles, patrolling neighborhoods in dispute zones between rival gangs with a determination that had earned him the title of Ironman. Hal Brognola had seen it after Lyons’s chance encounter with Mack Bolan, the Executioner, and had guided the young cop to put his unwavering courage and sharp mind to work in Brognola’s organized crime task force, going undercover against the most murderous of gangs. Finally, Lyons had found a home in the Stony Man Farm–based Sensitive Operations Group, alongside Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz as the leader of Able Team.