Gathering Storm

Manning remained on full alert, watching the enemy vehicle. He couldn’t see any movement inside the vehicle and decided that his shots through the windows of the SUV had taken out any others still inside. He took a couple of steps back, freeing the magazine from the M-16 and feeding a fresh one into the receiver.

McCarter stepped up beside him. “Persistent buggers, aren’t they,” he commented.

“Were,” Manning corrected.

The Briton touched him on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the Santa Lorca militia decide to chip in.”

“This burg got a militia?”

McCarter shrugged.

They returned to the Jeep and Encizo moved off. He pushed the vehicle as fast as was safe on the dirt road. A couple of miles out from the strip, James put in a call to Jack Grimaldi.

“Crank up that crate, Flyboy. We’ll be checking in anytime now.”

“Ready when you are, ladies. Make sure you wipe your boots before you come aboard. I run a clean ship.”

ENCIZO TOOK the Jeep across the airfield and parked just behind the DC-3. The engines were already running, turning over smoothly. Grimaldi leaned out of the cockpit, waving at his passengers as they made for the open hatch. As the last man in pulled the hatch shut, the Stony Man pilot released the brakes, boosted the power and the aircraft began to move. Grimaldi coasted to the end of the runaway and waited until he had the engines balanced and trimmed. Then he upped the throttles and the DC-3 began to roll along the strip.

They lifted off into a sky that was darkening around them. Grimaldi banked the aircraft onto its correct heading once they were out over the Pacific. He settled back in his seat, enjoying the experience of piloting an aircraft like the DC-3. It was real flying as far as he was concerned. No digital readouts or satellite-controlled flight settings. Just his hands on the controls, a far cry from supersonic jets and even his beloved Dragon Slayer. For Jack Grimaldi this was a flight of pure indulgence and he was enjoying every minute of it.

KAMAL RASHEED HAD BEEN handcuffed to his seat with metal handcuffs. He resented Phoenix Force, making his feelings known whenever anyone came close to him.

“Do all the ranting you want, mate,” McCarter told the Iraqi. “When we reach the U.S. you’ll be handed over to the people who are going to be looking after you from now on, and I can tell you they aren’t as nice as we are.”

Rasheed glared at the Briton. “You should reconsider what you are doing. Do you realize who I am?”

“Don’t remind me. Kamal Rasheed. One of Saddam Hussein’s little helpers. We have a nice long file on you. And what a bloody charmer.”

“You dare to judge me?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Because I am Muslim you have decided I am your enemy.”

“Change the record, Rasheed. You people keep bleating on about your religion like it’s the reason for everything. I don’t care who you worship. This isn’t about religion. It’s about a bunch of bullies who held their own country to ransom, put everyone who wasn’t in their club in fear. You terrorized them, tortured them, kept them in ignorance and stole every bloody thing you could get your thieving fingers on. Kids died from malnutrition while you miserable bastards had gold taps fitted to your bathrooms, ran around in luxury cars and salted away billions of dollars in your personal accounts. That had nothing to do with religion of any kind, so don’t throw that one at me.”

“Because you have me, do you think it will stop what we are going to do? We have God on our side, and we will win.”

“See? You can’t open your mouth without using your religion as an excuse. Just for once talk to me man-to-man. Stop bloody hiding behind God.”

The expression in Rasheed’s eyes hardened. “You are not fit to speak of him. This is why we will destroy you. Maybe not this year. Or the next. But we will in the end, because we are chosen.”

McCarter backed off, shaking his head. “What the hell am I wasting my breath for? This bloke is on automatic pilot. Open him up, I’ll bet you find a recorder inside with a tape-loop quoting the phrase of the day.”

“Hard to communicate with someone tuned out of real conversation,” Hawkins said. “Hey, boss, what do we do with this?”

He held up the attaché case. McCarter reached out and took it.

“We sneak a look.”

He sat on one of the side benches bolted to the DC-3 deck. McCarter laid the case across his thighs and examined the locks. He tried one and the clasp sprang open. McCarter repeated the operation with the other lock. He raised the lid. Stacked inside the case was a thick layer of one hundred dollar bills. The layer was four deep.

“What have we got here?” Hawkins asked.

“My next month’s salary,” McCarter said. “Short a couple of bucks.”

He took out one of the banded stacks of bills and flicked the end with his finger.

“Man, you could buy all the cigarettes you’ll ever need with that,” Hawkins breathed, visibly impressed by the amount in the one stack of bills.

“And have change for a few cases of Coke.”

Hawkins raised his eyes to look across at Rasheed. The fedayeen had his gaze fixed on the case.

“I think we pissed him off lookin’ at his stash,” Hawkins said.

McCarter replaced the money as something else caught his eye. Resting in the leather pocket on the inside of the case lid was a grained-leather personal organizer. The Briton reached for it, pulling it from the pocket and turning it over in his hands.

Unable to conceal his panic, Rasheed lunged forward in his seat, coming to an abrupt stop as he reached the limit of the handcuff chain. The metal of the bracelet dug into his flesh, drawing blood. The Iraqi ignored the pain as he watched McCarter examining the organizer.

McCarter heard the sound as Rasheed fought his handcuffs. He realized it was the discovery of the organizer that had agitated the Iraqi, not the money.

“T.J., I believe we have Mr. Rahseed’s attention.”

CHAPTER TWO

War Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Hal Brognola was a worried man. He had reason to be. Things were happening that had given him sleepless nights for the past few days, and his recent visit to meet the President had only added to his concern. The incidents, occurrences, breaches in security and rising tensions—however they were wrapped up in diplomatic words—had spoken volumes to Hal Brognola. They had told him in no uncertain terms that the current status quo was about to be rocked once more.

And when those things happened, or threatened to happen, Brognola took on the full weight as head honcho of the missions that were carried out by Stony Man operatives.

Stony Man Farm was the President’s covert intelligence agency, a dedicated off-the-books operation used by the Man when other considerations had been rejected. Then SOG’s talents were brought on line and the combat teams given their orders.

There were times when objectives needed to be reached, situations brought under control and individuals prevented from executing their personal plans. In areas where the normal protocols had no valid acceptance, the Sensitive Operations Group’s commando teams were given their own mandate and sent out on covert missions. Brognola was waiting for his teams to join him in the War Room.

Separated from the relatively new Annex with its state-of-the-art Computer Room and Communications Center, the War Room sat beneath the original farmhouse that was the public face of the Stony Man complex. The house, the wood-chipping mill and sundry outbuildings were all that was visible to the casual eye. The vital sections of the SOG operation lay underground, concealed from prying eyes. Protected by thick concrete walls and surrounded by electronic sensors, the unseen heart of the complex was manned day and night, all year round. Terrorism and its associated threats didn’t operate on a nine-to-five basis, and neither did Stony Man. Everything about the Farm was covert, from buildings, equipment and personnel. It wasn’t supposed to even exist. Stony Man was the President’s secret weapon. A totally dedicated force ready to respond to any global threat aimed at America, her allies or simply a threat to stability. One of the problems with incidents in Stony Man’s remit was the probability of escalation drawing in other nations and the U.S. being caught in the ripples.

Stony Man had learned, through experience, that reaching out to stomp on a possible threat at its inception often prevented it developing into an out-of-control epidemic of death and destruction. The Stony Man combat teams were used to being handed missions that came out of scant information that grew and intertwined with alarming speed.

Able Team had arrived from different locations earlier that morning. The other group, Phoenix Force, was due to arrive within the next half hour. It had recently returned from a mission in Central America, where its members had infiltrated a gunrunning operation to identify the buyer. What the team didn’t know, but would soon become acquainted with, were the details included in one of the folders Brognola had on the War Room table. The players in the weapons-buying deal were one of the reasons the big Fed had called his people together.

What he was about to brief them on had the potential to be both wide-ranging in its implications as well as threatening to the security of the U.S. mainland. The situation was building to become disturbingly serious unless Stony Man did something about it quickly.

One of the telephones rang. Brognola picked it up and heard the gruff tones of Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s cyberchief. He was a big man, with a commanding presence that swamped the fact that he was confined to a wheelchair. He was capable of being hard on his cyberteam when the need arose, but they would work for him until they dropped, such was the depth of their respect for the man. Right now The Bear, as Kurtzman was known, and his team, were immersed in collating and analyzing information coming into their domain from varied sources. It all had to do with the matter at hand and the moment he recognized Kurtzman’s voice, Brognola knew things had gone up a notch.

“You want the bad news first, or the bad news?”