Sky Sentinels

“Where do we find them?” the Able Team leader demanded.

Umar slowly shook his head, and it was obvious that he really was getting dizzy now. “I do not know.” His words slurred like a drunken man’s. “Each unit knows only their own orders.”

Lyons straightened to his full height and turned away from the bleeding man, his thoughts returning to Iran and Azria and the nuclear program. American intelligence agencies all knew that most terrorist strikes against the U.S. were backed and supported by the various governments of the Middle East. But this was never admitted to by those governments. To openly send official troops—especially troops as identifiable as these men in the red scarves—was unheard of.

Carl Lyons knew that Iran had developed nukes. His gut assured him of that. But did they have missiles, too? Ironically, that was where nuclear programs in rogue countries such as Iran usually got stalled. Building nuclear bombs was relatively easy compared to developing their delivery systems.

Lyons continued to stare down at the bleeding man. Even if the Iranians didn’t have missiles to tote the nukes halfway around the world, there were many other ways to sneak them into the U.S. and then detonate them. And even if they didn’t attack America, Israel was barely a stone’s thrown away from Iran.

One nuclear explosion in Israel and a chain reaction could easily escalate straight into World War III. Such devastation was unthinkable to the average, sane man no matter what his politics or the country he called home. But to a madman like Javid Azria it might seem to be a perfectly logical step.

The Able Team leader turned back to Umar and saw that the man really had fallen asleep this time. “Pol,” Lyons said, “go get some cops to wrap this guy up and get him to an ambulance where he can be transfused.” He looked at the man in the chair who was still clutching his arm to his chest in his sleep. “And tell them he needs to be arrested and guarded. We may get more out of him later if he lives.”

Blancanales hurried out of the room.

Schwarz and Lyons walked out together. They had taken only a few steps down the hall back toward the sanctuary when Lyons’s satellite phone rang. Lyons held the instrument to his ear and said, “Yeah?”

“You learn anything worthwhile?” Hal Brognola’s voice asked.

“Just some general stuff. No specifics,” Lyons answered. “These guys claim to be official Iranian Pasdaran instead of terrorists, and according to the one who lived, there are several dozen bands of them scattered across the U.S.” He paused as Schwarz opened the outer door of the church. “But each squad appears to be autonomous. None of them know what the others’ orders are.”

“Well,” Brognola said, “I can tell you what at least one of them is doing at the moment.”

“What’s that?” Lyons said.

“I’ll brief you once you’re in the air,” said Brognola. “One of the local PD helicopters will take you to the airport, where Charlie Mott’ll be waiting for you.”

Blancanales joined them as they walked down the steps of the church. Almost as soon as Lyons had pushed the button to end the call, he heard the chatter of helicopter blades in the air above him. Looking up, he saw a blue-and-white chopper with OCPD markings.

The chopper set down on the grass in front of the church and the men of Able Team quickly boarded. A moment later the helicopter was rising again, headed for Will Rogers World Airport a few miles away.

D AVID M C C ARTER came wide awake as soon as the phone rang next to his bed. Before it could chime again, he had snatched it from its cradle. He glanced at the wristwatch on the table next to the phone and saw that he’d had four hours of sleep.

Well, the native Londoner thought, it was at least more than usual. “McCarter here,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Grab your buddies and gear up,” Hal Brognola’s voice said into the phone. “You’re on your way to Iran.”

McCarter yawned. “Iran,” he said. “Always wanted to go there.”

“Well,” Brognola said, “you’re gonna get the chance. I’m about to land outside and I’ll brief you and the other guys once you’re on board.”

“You’re going in with us?” McCarter asked.

“No,” Brognola clarified. “I’ll just be riding along to run down the situation for you. Jack will fly me back as soon as you’re on the ground.”

McCarter yawned again. “That’s going to cut into your own time,” he said, glancing at the wristwatch again.

“Not as much as you think,” Brognola said.

“Come again?” McCarter requested.

“You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes. Grimaldi’s got a brand-new toy.”

David McCarter saw no reason to keep questioning Brognola on the subject. So he changed it. “Anything special we need to bring with us?”

“Just your personal weapons and other gear,” said Brognola. “Kissinger’ll be loading the extras while you round up your men.”

“Affirmative,” McCarter said. Even as he spoke he was pulling open a drawer filled with BDU clothing. “Just give me five.”

“I’ll give you four,” Brognola said, and then the line went dead.

McCarter donned a clean blacksuit—the skintight, stretchy combat clothing of Stony Man warriors—and zipped up his boots. He reached for the large duffel bag that held the rest of his equipment. He had learned long ago that you packed before you slept in one of the Stony Man Farm bedrooms. Stony Man missions broke quickly, and tasks that required five minutes had to be completed in four.

Or less.

Leaving the room, McCarter walked along the hallway knocking loudly on the four doors he passed. The other members of Phoenix Force knew what the noise meant.

They were heading out again.

Two minutes later, the five-man squad walked out the front door of Stony Man Farm’s Main House and headed for the landing strip. Just in time to see a strange plane land on the runway.

“What in bloody hell is that thing?” McCarter said to no one in particular as they walked toward the aircraft.

“It’s a Concorde,” Gary Manning said. The burly Canadian was Phoenix Force’s explosives expert.

“We know it’s a Concorde, Gary,” said Rafael Encizo. “What our brilliant former British SAS man means is, what’s it doing here? ”

A moment later the five warriors had boarded the bird-looking Concorde, which was being flown by Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s number-one pilot. Brognola sat in the redecorated passenger’s area in a reclining chair that was bolted to the carpeted deck. The other men dropped down into similar seats around the plane.

“Okay,” said Thomas Jackson Hawkins in his South Texas drawl. “I give up. Where’d you pick up this monstrosity, Hal?”

Hal Brognola laughed. “Got it practically for a song,” he said. “When the Concordes went out of business. As you can see, we’ve completely redone the inside.”

“How come you didn’t tell us about it?” Calvin James asked. The former Navy SEAL was from the south side Chicago.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Brognola said. “These recliners are great to sleep in. It’s going to give you more rest before each mission.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” McCarter said as the Concorde took off down the runway again. “But first tell us why we’re heading for Iran.”

Brognola nodded, then looked at his watch. “A lot has gone on since you boys shut your eyes in the Main House a few hours ago.” He told the men of Phoenix Force about the murders of the newsmen and the hostages in Iran, as well as the attack on the church in Oklahoma City.

“The actual word war was never used when the Man was talking to the Iranian president,” he said. “But that ratty little bastard might as well have. He took personal credit for his men crossing into Iraq, killing two men from FOX in cold blood and kidnapping the hostages. As well as the takeover of the church.” Brognola pulled the remaining half of his cigar out of his front jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “And he promised there was more to come. He even insinuated a nuclear strike on both Israel and the U.S.”

“So what is it we’re on our way to do?” Manning asked.

“Rescue the remaining five Americans,” Brognola said solemnly. “And do your best to stop World War III.”

Calvin James reached behind his back and pulled out a twelve-inch Crossada knife. It resembled a mediaeval dagger, and James kept it sharp enough to shave with either edge. “I’d like about thirty seconds with Azria and this,” he said, staring at the huge knife in his hand. “Just the three of us.”