Close Quarters

“Tell Ironman I told him to bring his ass home in one piece. I don’t want to hear about anything like what happened a few years ago aboard the USS Stennis.”

“Will do.”

“Out here.”

McCarter broke the connection and then assembled his gear with the other members of Phoenix Force. Once they were settled in whatever temporary quarters had been arranged, he’d brief the team while they cleaned and double-checked their equipment. This news wouldn’t sit well with his teammates, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Phoenix Force had its mission and now Able Team had theirs. The stakes had gone way up and they couldn’t police everything at once, although they may have liked to.

A fresh-faced man met them outside the Gulfstream C-38. He had dark hair and skin, which would have made him fit in well among the local population save for the blue-gray eyes, which implied a European background. He wore tan slacks, loafers and a midnight-blue silk shirt with a crop collar. The figure looked almost athletic and although he might have been hired by the NSA due to his brains, McCarter could easily identify between men who couldn’t handle themselves versus those who could, and clearly Brad Russell fell into the latter category.

Russell offered McCarter a strong handshake and broad smile. “Mr. Brown, I presume?”

“You presume right.”

“I’m Brad Russell.”

McCarter grinned. “I know that, chap.”

“And I’m sure you know that I know your name isn’t really Brown, but I wasn’t supposed to ask questions, so Brown it is.”

“Touché.”

Russell acknowledged in turn the other Phoenix Force warriors ranged around McCarter’s flanks. “And these are Misters Gray, Gold, Green and White,” he said, referring to Manning, Encizo, Hawkins and James.

“Though not necessarily in that order,” Hawkins said with a laugh.

Russell returned the jest with a good-natured chuckle of his own before saying, “If you’ll come this way, gents, your chariot awaits.”

They hauled their tired butts across the tarmac as a muggy morning wind tugged at their exposed skin and flattened their hair. McCarter hoped they’d get the opportunity to clean up, although no guarantees had been made. Russell led them to what looked like an old airport shuttle converted into a private-use vehicle. The vehicle was beat up and unobtrusive—a good thing since it was similar to most of the vehicles in Paraguay. But thankfully it had air-conditioning and provided a surprisingly decent ride.

As they got under way, the vehicle driven by a man Russell assured them spoke about half a dozen words of English, McCarter said, “You’ve arranged accommodations?”

“Yes, a small place just outside the city as requested by your people. Completely out of the way. This is actually the off-season for tourists so you should have plenty of privacy there.”

“And the staff?”

“Every one of them cleared by my people,” Russell said. “Don’t worry, Brown, I’ve done my homework. I don’t know who exactly it is you work for but I do know how to secure an op. Lots of experience in that area.”

“I understand you’re also quite technically adept.”

Russell smiled. “You could say that.”

“That’s excellent. We’ll need your assistance getting everything set up at our new digs. My people have a decent comprehension of the technical aspects, but we could your expertise to fill in the high-level bit.”

“And leave the fighting to you?”

It was McCarter’s turn to grin. “That’s typically the way we like it.”

“I’ve already informed my people that you’ll have my full cooperation. I’m here to assist you in any way I can. Consider your wish as my command. I’m at your beck and call.”

“I got the picture, thanks.” McCarter fired up a cigarette and said, “What can you tell us about this camp that got overrun?”

“I can tell you a lot about the camp,” Russell said. “It’s the identity of the people that hit it I can’t seem to put my finger on, which is odd.”

“Why odd?” Manning asked.

Russell looked Manning in the eye. “I’ve spent most of my adult life using technology to detect and identify paramilitary and terrorist groups of every make and color. That’s one of the reasons the NSA hired me. I started as a crypto-analyst for the U.S. Navy and that eventually landed me this gig.”

“So you think this is odd because you’ve found a group that can stump you?”

“You’ve heard about the pattern-analyses programs being evaluated in both the commercial and defense contractor sectors that use fractal patterns and algorithms to identify patterns in terrorist activities.” Russell got five blank stares. “Okay look, there have been lots of studies done that prove with the right programming languages and algorithms we can derive detectable patterns in the way terrorists and other paramilitary groups operate based on historical data. We use things like what groups claim credit for what

incidents, weapons signatures, explosives and ordnance composition and so forth.”

“So if a bomb gets detonated in someplace like Israel or Afghanistan or even Europe, you can predict with a fair amount of accuracy who might be responsible,” Encizo said.

“I can go one better than that, sir,” Russell said with an exuberant wave. “I can predict it before it happens, potentially help to save lives and avert a full-blown disaster.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Manning said.

“Agreed,” Hawkins added.

“So we can assume that this pattern you’ve seen is odd because you couldn’t find a predictive analysis capable of identifying the doers,” McCarter said.

“In this case, yes,” Russell said. “It’s almost like the perpetrators did it purposely, as if they knew we had this technology and would try to use it.”

“Maybe they did,” Hawkins said.

Russell expressed puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got some new intelligence just as we landed,” McCarter said. “It looks like—”

The road ahead suddenly lit up like the sun and the windshield of the shuttle bus splintered and fragmented. A heartbeat later a storm of metal, wood, glass and plastic blasted through the forward interior, the driver—whose chair backed against a wide metal panel—took the brunt of the impact. The vehicle shimmied as the explosion shredded both front tires. Another moment and the shuttle bus rode only on its front rims.

“Hang on!” McCarter warned even as the rear end of the vehicle swung around.

With a bang and high-pitched squeal, the shuttle bus flipped onto its left side and continued down the gravel road for a hundred feet before it finally ground to a halt.

CHAPTER FIVE

A cloud of dust—acrid and lung searing with explosive residue—rolled through the interior of the shuttle bus.

Gary Manning knew that scent. The expended cordite stung his nostrils as he worked to extricate his body from beneath the legs tangled with his own. He did a quick physical inventory as he wriggled to freedom; he hadn’t suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. The Phoenix warrior turned to the nearest motionless figure. A quick check of the pulse at Rafael Encizo’s neck revealed a strong and steady rhythm. Manning confirmed rise and fall of the Cuban’s chest before producing a relieved sigh of his own.

“Roll call!” McCarter shouted in a raspy voice.

“Check,” Manning said. “Rafe’s out cold but stable.”

An all-clear came back from the remaining Phoenix Force members, including a quip from Hawkins about who got the license number of the truck. It seemed to take Russell a little longer but eventually he sounded off to indicate he was conscious and mostly in one piece. Even as they began to shift and attempt to right themselves inside the capsized shuttle bus, the first metallic pings against the body of the vehicle reached their ears.