War Tactic

Rhemsen took his hand away and looked at Schwarz, who was standing closest to the control panel.

“Uh…floor?” Schwarz asked, looking glib.

“The one labeled ‘P’ for ‘Penthouse,’” said Rhemsen.

Schwarz pushed the button. The elevator began to move, silently and swiftly. Quiet saxophone music began to filter in through the elevator speakers.

“I’ve never heard an elevator version of ‘Soul Finger’ before,” Schwarz commented.

“You still haven’t. I think that’s ‘Girl from Ipanema,’” Blancanales said.

Lyons glared daggers at them both. The elevator reached its destination.

“I assume this has something to do with my Thorn missile systems,” said Rhemsen. “I assure you, gentlemen, I am the victim of a smuggling ring. I’m very aware of export controls and other regulations that the government puts on restricted hardware.”

The doors opened. Blancanales was amazed to see that Rhemsen’s office was oval in shape. It was, in fact, a reasonably accurate replica of the office of the President of the United States. Framed on the wall were, not the paintings of the President and the Vice President, or even the President and the First Lady, but Harold Rhemsen dressed as some kind of Napoleonic general. On the desk, which was itself a replica of the President’s, was a gold placard. It read, The Buck Stops At My Bank Account. To say it was all a little megalomaniacal would be an understatement.

Rhemsen seated himself at his desk and opened a desktop humidor. “Cuban cigar, gentlemen?” He grinned that electric smile again. “Apologies. A bad joke. Cuban cigars are, of course, illegal to import. These are, somewhat regrettably, Honduran, but I assure you they are of fine quality.”

The members of Able Team looked at each other.

“Will you have a seat, gentlemen?” Rhemsen gestured to the quartet of leather-upholstered chairs arrayed in front of his desk. Apparently he was accustomed to entertaining visitors.

The Stony Man operatives sat. Lyons produced a sheaf of papers from inside his bomber jacket. “These are the particulars,” he said. “They detail the items recovered and what we’ve been able to determine about the provenance of the missile systems. They’re not counterfeit, before you suggest it,” Lyons said. “We’ve run into that excuse before. These are verifiably your gear, Rhemsen.”

“You don’t look like government agents,” Rhemsen said, still smiling. Something in his body language shifted. Blancanales didn’t like it. He saw Lyons tense and, next to him, Schwarz sat straighter.

“What makes you say that?” Lyons said. His hand began to inch toward his chest.

“Government agents wear suits,” Rhemsen said. “They also understand how to be polite. How to follow the rules. Obey the forms. You gentlemen…well. You’re not gentlemen at all, are you? You’re…thugs.”

“Now just a minute, pal,” Lyons said. He started to rise in his chair. Blancanales knew the action was intended to cover the draw from his shoulder holster.

“I wouldn’t,” Rhemsen warned. He pointed to the mirror on the wall behind them. When he spoke next, his voice was raised. “Lower it,” he said.

The pane of glass slid down on electric motors. Four of Rhemsen’s Blackstar guards were standing there, their tricked-out submachine guns pointed at Able Team. The green dots of laser targeting systems danced across Able Team’s foreheads.

“I’m going to have to owe you that twenty,” Schwarz said quietly to Lyons.

“Son of a bitch,” Carl Lyons said.

CHAPTER THREE

At The Edge of Puerto Galera, South China Sea

The retrofitted Sikorsky S-61R, mounting 7.62 mm belt-fed M-240 machine guns and a Mark 19 automatic belt-fed 40mm grenade launcher, had extra fuel pods, giving it longer range. At the stick, Stony Man ace pilot Jack Grimaldi held the combat-ready troop helicopter low over the waves. Through the open door of the fuselage, the members of Phoenix Force watched their target.

David McCarter held a high-tech monocular to one eye and adjusted the magnification. “Bloody hell. I hate waiting,” he muttered.

That drew some muffled snickers from the other members of the team. McCarter shot Calvin James a squint-eyed glare before returning to the monocular.

“Why do I get the stink eye?” James asked.

“You were closest,” McCarter replied without looking back at him.

“Figures,” James said.

Through the monocular, McCarter watched the Filipino naval vessel. It was relatively small as patrol craft went, but still more than large enough that a marauder would have to be insane to try to take it down. Yet the Filipino navy had lost two ships just like it to what was either pirate activity or, frankly, the covert action of the Chinese military, which of course was the source of all the tensions in the region. It was Phoenix Force’s job to figure out which…while putting a stop to all the fun and games in the South China Sea. At least, that’s what the Phoenix Force leader had taken away from the briefing. Sometimes the nuances were lost on him…mostly because he chose to ignore stupid nuances in favor of getting the mission done.

That was all part of leadership. Nobody had told him that; he’d had to figure it out on his own, ever since taking over for Katz. It wasn’t about the orders you executed. Any idiot could follow orders to the letter. Leading Phoenix Force was about knowing when judgment calls were needed in the field. Things changed and the best-laid plans of mice and morons went awry, or some such tripe. He didn’t dwell on it too much. He had too much work to do to be dwelling on such things. And then, too, there were the men whose lives he was ultimately responsible for.

“You think they know we’re out here?” T. J. Hawkins asked. His drawl made the question seem more casual than it really was. “If I was the captain of that boat I’d want to know what we were doing, shadowing them all day.”

“Hal has squared it with the Filipino authorities,” Grimaldi put in from the cockpit. Given the noise of the helicopter, none of them would be able to hear each other under normal circumstances. Grimaldi had patched in to the wireless frequency connected to the team’s earbud transceivers, tiny radios that sat in their ears like hearing aids. Through these, the team members could hear each other and also Grimaldi as clear as day. The transceivers were “smart,” too; they had noise-canceling software built into them that cut the noise from gunfire and other ambient sounds.

“Squared it how?” Manning asked. The big Canadian rarely took things at face value. He frequently acted as McCarter’s sounding board.

“You know,” Grimaldi said. “Did that thing he does.”

“That thing?” Hawkins asked.

“Vague promises of assistance and threats of reprisal,” James answered. “Followed by assurances that the government of the United States will remain within their territory for no longer than it takes to get the job done. And, of course, the implied threat that if they don’t cooperate, things might get a hell of a lot worse when whatever big bad force we’ve come to deal with gets out of hand.”

McCarter looked at James. He opened his mouth to say something.

“I mean I’ve heard,” James added.

In the distance, a pair of fast motor launches hove into view. They were swift enough, their engines powerful enough, that they threw up great sprays of seawater as they punched through the waves.

“That’s it, lads,” McCarter said. “Those are our targets.”

“Those dinky things?” Hawkins said. “That Filipino navy ship will tear them apart—”

Plumes of smoke erupted from the launches. The shoulder-fired missiles surged from the smaller craft to level the deck of the Filipino ship, tearing holes in whatever structures they encountered.

“Bloody hell,” McCarter muttered. “Jack! Get us in there, now!”

“Roger.” The Sikorsky roared as Grimaldi squeezed all available speed from the mighty craft, sending the nose dipping as the chopper threw itself toward the ship.

“T.J., Rafe, on the guns!” McCarter ordered. “Gary, get on that grenade launcher and stand by. Calvin, with me!”

There were grunts of assent from the others. McCarter rushed to connect his drop harness and made sure James had done the same. As the chopper picked up speed, the Briton could hear the pop of automatic gunfire from the targets below.

“In range,” Grimaldi announced.

“Hit them, lads!” McCarter shouted.

Vibration traveled from the deck up through McCarter’s boots as the M-240 machine guns opened up. Manning looked at McCarter expectantly.