Maelstrom

“Yeah, Irons. Okay…no offense but I think we got this pretty much under control,” Roberson said.

“And no offense to you, sir,” Blancanales said, stepping forward. He knew Lyons would explode if he didn’t intervene, and Lyons knew that he knew, so he let Blancanales take the wheel on this one. “But exactly what control?”

“Complete control,” Roberson replied. “There are about six terrorists inside that bus, and we think some of them are wounded. We’ve got them pinned down to no more than one city bus, and I have two SWAT detachments clearing civilians out right now. They’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Blancanales replied. “But what intelligence do you actually have? Do you know, in fact, whom you’re dealing with? You have any idea who these people are, or what they want?”

“Well, er, ah—”

“That’s what I thought,” Lyons muttered.

Blancanales threw his teammate a cautioning look, then returned his attention to Roberson with the friendliest grin and calmest tone he could muster. “Listen, Captain, we’re not here to step on your turf.”

Roberson looked at his men, his face flushing, then said, “My people here agree that they’re either militants or religious fanatics. One of them tried to escape from the bus when it flipped, and we shot him dead.” Roberson turned and picked up a bloody armband from the table. He held it up and added, “The suspect didn’t have any ID on him, but he was wearing this.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re here. We don’t think these are either militants or religious fanatics. We don’t have any solid evidence yet, but we do have experience, and we think maybe we have some information you might not have.”

Roberson’s expression hardened some. “And just what is that? You guys just got here. How could you possibly know more about this than we do?”

“You’d be surprised what we know,” Schwarz said.

“Look, we just came from that slaughterhouse over in Brooklyn Heights,” Lyons interjected. “From what we saw there, we have reason to believe these are terrorists trying to make it look like some nut-group’s behind all of this.”

“Now what the hell reason would they have for doing that?” Roberson said, cocking back his hat and scratching his head.

Lyons jacked the slide on the AS-3. “Let’s go ask them.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rosario Blancanales converged on the bus in a cover-and-maneuver drill he’d practiced countless times before. He’d act as point while Lyons and Schwarz covered him by taking firing positions at the corners of opposing rooftops. The rest they could only watch play out and react accordingly. While it was possible Roberson’s intelligence was sound, and the good guys did in fact have the upper hand on the terrorist group, Able Team had no intention of taking unnecessary risks. They planned to play this one by the book, and they also had to account for maintaining appearances. Their alleged “covers” as U.S. Marshals had to hold up to any scrutiny.

Blancanales reached the rear of the school bus and knelt with his back to its belly. He yanked an AN-M83-HC smoker from the satchel on his hip, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb overhand in front of him. He retrieved a second one and let it fly.

Lyons couldn’t see the grenades from where he laid—the fixed sights of the AS-3 trained on the area just above Blancanales’s head—but he heard them clank and clatter along the side of the bus. A moment later he could barely pick up the faint sounds of them dropping through the open windows and the subsequent shouts of the occupants. Those last sounds caused him to smile. Naturally the terrorists wouldn’t know whether they were dealing with smoke or CS; for all they knew, it was poison gas. Regardless of what might be going through the terrorists’ minds, the grenades produced the desired effect.

Only a few moments elapsed before bodies emerged from the windows of the bus. Lyons and Schwarz began shouting for the terrorists to surrender. The group apparently figured it was better to stand and fight than to risk capture and interrogation. Only a couple of the terrorists went prone on top of the bus, others not bothering to get cover of any kind, and all of them began to spray the area with gunfire.

Lyons ducked behind full cover and quickly keyed his microphone. “Guys, we need to take at least one of them alive!”

The Able Team leader couldn’t tell if either of his teammates had received the response over the sudden cacophony of weapons reports, both that of the terrorists and the SWAT teams. Lyons cursed under his breath—this was no good! Roberson had promised he’d show restraint, but the guy’s word apparently meant nothing. Instead, he was letting his people shoot at will, and every round meant one less chance of taking a prisoner.

Lyons switched channels and cut into the N.Y.P.D. frequency. “Dammit, Roberson, tell your people to shut it down! Now!”

He got no reply, but after a few more seconds, weapons reports coming from their AO went silent. There were some scattered shots from the terrorists now on the bus, but there were no more return shots from the SWAT team members.

Lyons had a perfect view of the terrorists that had exposed themselves, and took a quick head count: seven. Okay, so that wasn’t too bad at all. He leveled the shotgun sights on the closest terrorist, took a deep breath, braced the shotgun tightly against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The AS-3 roared as the first specialty load rocketed from the muzzle and took one of the terrorist’s full in chest. The terrorist dropped the AK-47 as the heavy shell flipped him off his feet. The force of the blast landed him on his back and his butt crashed through one of the few unbroken windows.

Schwarz got the terrorist next to Lyons’s target a few moments later with a well-placed 3-round burst from his FNC. Two of the 5.56 mm NATO rounds punched through the terrorist’s throat and the last split his skull wide open. The guy’s head exploded in a grisly spray of blood and gray matter, and his body spun awkwardly. He dropped off the edge of the bus and disappeared from view.

The terrorists turned their attention in every direction above their heads, probably in realization they were no longer taking their fire from ground level. They began spraying the area with fresh autofire, and Lyons moved back as a few of the rounds chipped away plaster and stone from the edge of the parapet. As soon as there was a lull in the firing, Lyons returned to his position, sighted the next target and delivered another shell blast. This time, though, Lyons was gunning for a prisoner. The special shotgun load did a number on one terrorist, blowing out a large chunk of the guy’s knee. The terrorist dropped with a scream that sounded like combined pain and surprise to find he was suddenly unsupported by both of his legs.

BLANCANALES KNEW his chances of staying alive in this environment wouldn’t last. His mission had been to smoke the terrorists into the open, and he’d done that. Now it was time to get the hell out of the line of fire before the terrorists realized he was immediately below them and posed an easy target. The Able Team warrior yanked the Glock Model 19 from his shoulder holster, jumped to his feet and rushed for a corner drugstore with a square, brick support in front of it. He made it to the thick support just in time to avoid a hail of slugs fired at him by several of the terrorist goons. Blancanales waited until the firing stopped, then risked exposure in tracking for a target, pistol held in a Weaver’s grip, forearms braced against the support.

It didn’t take him long.

Blancanales quickly found his target and squeezed the trigger successively. Both 9 mm rounds reached flesh, the first punching through the enemy gunner’s stomach and the second cleanly detaching his left ear. The terrorist dropped his weapon, one hand clutching his gut while the other attempted to stop the sudden, violent flow of blood from his head. The terrorist dropped to his knees and began to moan, but it didn’t appear to Blancanales that either shot was lethal.

SCHWARZ WATCHED the terrorists fire on Blancanales as his friend sprinted for cover. The Able Team warrior found it interesting that they would focus all of their energies on one man. That wasn’t the typical discipline of terrorists, especially when they were the ones being terrorized. Then again, now wasn’t exactly the time to worry about it.

He listened for any further signals from Lyons, but the Able Team leader—his blond hair visible even in the twilight—wasn’t showing any sign of letting off the pressure on the terrorists below. He watched as Lyons took another one with a head shot. Schwarz followed suit. He aimed at one of the terrorists focused on killing Blancanales and squeezed the trigger. A trio of rounds rocketed from the muzzle of the FNC and drilled through the terrorist’s shoulder, continuing onward to blow out a good part of his chest wall.

The body of one of the terrorists they had wounded began to convulse and jerk. It took Schwarz only a moment to spot the reason for it. A lithe, shorter terrorist had managed to squeeze clear of one of the rearmost windows. A cascade of dark hair protruded from under the terrorist’s cap. The terrorist was a woman, her body lithe and shapely, even beneath the coveralls she was wearing.

Schwarz keyed his transmitter. “We’ve got one female party killing our wounded, guys!”

“Acknowledged,” Lyons replied. “Take her out.”

Schwarz nodded, sighted his target and squeezed the trigger. Milliseconds before fire from the Able Team trio reached her, the woman turned and dropped off the back edge of the bus. Schwarz was in motion even as he noticed movement from Lyons in his peripheral vision. His headset crackled with a burst of static and the sound of Blancanales’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He keyed his transmitter as he reached the fire escape. “Say again, Politician…I didn’t copy.”

“I said, ‘she’s headed eastbound on that side street.’ She’ll be closest to you, Gadgets.”

“Copy.”

“We’ll have to hold our position here, buddy,” Lyons replied. “You’ll be on your own on this one, so watch your ass.”

“Understood,” Schwarz replied as he slid down the ladder, then began to descend the steps of the fire escape three at a time.

It took him only twenty seconds to reach the sidewalk and he made it in time to see the woman duck inside a large club half a block down. Schwarz launched himself in the direction of the club, trading his FNC for the Beretta 93-R on the fly.

The Able Team commando came low through the club entrance, pistol tracking quickly and smoothly. It was comparatively cool to the muggy, outdoor air. He cleared the vestibule of the club, which was decorated with muted blues, grays and purples, and then proceeded into the main area. It was a pretty decent club, typical for middle-class clientele. The place was crowded, not surprising since it was a Friday and it was happy hour, and Schwarz kept his pistol low and behind him as he maneuvered between the tables. He smelled booze, food and cigarettes, and he also detected the fearful odor of his prey; she was very close.

So close that he nearly got his head blown off.

The female terrorist emerged from the shadows of an alcove Schwarz hadn’t seen and unleashed hellfire from her machine pistol. The Able Team electronics genius rolled to avoid being hit, came up near the bar and prepped to take his target. But pandemonium erupted after the shooting started and too many people scrambling for the exit made the job a bit too risky. One young woman caught a bullet that dropped her on the floor and left her screaming and writhing with pain.

Schwarz waited until the firing ceased with a click of a bolt locked back on an empty magazine, then exposed himself long enough to rush the felled bystander while simultaneously laying down a hail of fire in the terrorist’s general direction. It was meant more as a play to keep the gunner’s head down than to actually hit her. Besides, they still needed to take one of the terrorists alive, and Schwarz had no idea if any of the ones they’d wounded in the initial play at the bus were still alive after their cohort had turned her weapon on them.

Schwarz reached the wounded club-goer and dragged her behind a heavy, overturned table. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were closed. He checked her carotid pulse—it was strong and regular—and a quick check of ear to nostrils confirmed she was breathing. Okay, so she’d passed out from the pain, which was sure as hell better than being conscious for it.

Schwarz waited for a lull in the firing and then decided to take a risk. He had to neutralize this woman and fast. He reached to his belt and latched on to a flash-bang grenade. He pulled it from the belt with a quick turn of the wrist. A pop and snap followed, indicating the special mechanism he’d rigged to his belt had broken the plastic strap designed to prevent inadvertent dislodging of the spoon and simultaneously removed the pin. He jumped into view and hammered the area where he estimated his target had taken cover. While firing to force the terrorist to keep her head down, Schwarz released the grenade in a light over-hand toss.

The electronics whiz went flat, opened his mouth and plugged his ears. The grenade went off a moment later, then he was up and moving. He vaulted the table he’d been using as cover, Beretta in one hand and FNC in another. He quickly found his opponent writhing on the floor, her eyes and ears discharging watery blood. Schwarz holstered the Beretta and reached for her, but the terrorist surprised him with a judo circle throw.

Schwarz landed hard on his back, sucking down air to replace the wind knocked from him. He blinked several times and in one of those saw his opponent suddenly loom above him, her hands raised over her head as she wedged his skull between her thighs. Something kicked him into high gear and he brought both arms up in a cross block. Having stopped the combat knife from being buried in his chest, he then reached around and snagged her wrist. A quick sideways jerk and she landed on her right shoulder, facing him. He landed a rock-hard back fist punch on his adversary’s forehead and she dropped the knife, cried in pain and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

The Able Team commando rose, a bit winded from the encounter, but a quick physical inventory said he was still in one piece. He snapped riot cuffs on the terrorist, then returned to aid the bystander. He found the gunshot wound, a clean hole through the fleshy part of her thigh that exited the other side. He’d seen much worse and he knew she’d survive the physical scars, although the mental ones would have a more lasting effect. She was just becoming conscious as Schwarz removed two field compresses and bound them on the entrance and exit wounds, securing them with his belt.